The Dying of the Light (Book 3): Beginning (46 page)

“I will not reveal the names of my fellows. Do as you wish.”

“Oh,
we’re
not going to do anything to you, Ezekiel. But we’re going to put the word out through your people that you’ve come over to our side. That you’re spilling your guts.”

Ezekiel shook his head but said nothing.

“Your own people will hunt you down, you asshole. And the things they’ll do to you… Well, I can only imagine.” Mac grinned as Ezekiel’s eyes went wide again as he, too, imagined the consequences.

“Your own people are going to tear you apart, and we’re all going to laugh while they do it.”

Abandoned Costco

Carson swore as another Molotov cocktail—one with actual alcohol or gasoline in it this time—impacted the main roll-up door to the warehouse. They’d used them on both the north and south sides, and Carson guessed they were trying to soften up the metal or something before ramming the trucks through. All it had served to do, however, was make the metal glow a dull red briefly before cooling down as the flammable liquids burned away.

Some of the burning liquid leaked under the doors, of course, and his men were spending the bulk of their time just putting out fires. The fire extinguishers that remained in the building were long past their expiration date and had functioned for only a few moments before sputtering out, most of the stored CO2 leaked out through old rubber gaskets long ago.

Now they were down to using what little non-flammable liquid they could find, and a full search of the warehouse had turned up nothing. They were going to need the few drops left in their canteens in a moment, or else let the fire burn what it could get to, hoping that their rescue would arrive before the major onslaught.

“Romeo Six, Lima Three.” Rachel’s voice was clear in his ear over the noise of the firefighting efforts. “Heads up. I think they’re getting ready to make their move. They’ve circled the parking lot twice back here. I’m betting they’re working up some nerve.”

Carson yelled to one of the men fighting the fire. “Cruz, check the window!”

The soldier ran to the side of the smaller door and glanced out before drawing his head back. A single shot punched through the glass-and-wire window where Cruz’s head had been. “They’re doing something, Sarge. Looks like the trucks are moving, circling or something.”

“Fuck,” Carson said. That confirmed Rachel’s theory. “All teams, prepare for assault. Charlie, get the hell down here and help cover the north side. East and West teams, remain at your post and report any activity.”

He maneuvered himself into a more defensible position, forcing the foot of his wounded leg onto the railing at the bottom of his rolling chair. A little mobility might end up making all the difference, and he needed every chance he could get.

“Sound off. Ready check.”

“West team, ready.”

“East team, ready.”

“North team, ready,” Rachel said.

She and Powers were set in the Stryker, which had been moved to a position in the middle of the warehouse so as to give its REAPR gun maximum utility. The MTVs had been moved to sheltered positions in between several sets of shelves they’d been unable to move.

Carson could hear the REAPR guns spin up to ready state. “All teams ready. Let’s give ‘em hell, folks. Hooah?”

“Hooah!” The returning shout echoed off the concrete and steel walls.

They didn’t have long to wait. A sudden burst of gunfire at the doors and screaming engines that could be heard even through the thick warehouse walls announced the charge. The zealots’ truck-rams impacted the doors at nearly the same moment.

The right side door, blocked off with shelving and tires and now aflame thanks to the zealots themselves, buckled and folded inward around the truck as it was torn off its mounting. The churchmen hadn’t counted on the roll-up door being flexible, and both the men riding in the bed and holding on to the rollbar behind the cab were knocked unconscious by the heavy door.

The truck didn’t make it very far into the warehouse with the debris in its way, despite the ram on the front. The soldiers fired into the cab
through
the door, however, their more advanced rifles and ammunition tearing through both the metal and glass—not to mention the flesh of the men inside—with an ease that the zealots couldn’t match, ending the assault on that door.

The other door, left unblocked for an exit if need be and mined with spike strips, fared no better than its cousin. The same accidental impact took out its bed riders, but the lack of any shelving blocking the door meant the truck reached farther inside than the other.

It almost hit the scratch-built barricade, but the soldiers didn’t wait and filled the vehicle full of bullets anyway. They then reloaded as necessary and waited for the inevitable tide of crazies to follow, as did the men manning the other doors.

On the north side, much the same had happened at the one door left unblocked for the vehicles to exit. This truck had penetrated farther, being both heavier and larger, but the fate of its occupants was no different.

“Contact east,” said the report in Carson’s ear. “At least twenty zealots incoming. We are holding.”

“Contact west. More of ‘em over here, boss, at least a dozen.”

“Betty, concentrate main zones of fire east/west,” Carson said to the Stryker crew. “Hold fire until they penetrate. East and west teams, if it looks like they’re going to get in, fall back to Betty.”

Carson took aim at the smaller door, knowing they’d be coming through there instead of trying to clamber over the burning trucks. Sure enough, a furious series of shots cut through the door around the lock, and the door flew open. The first men through all died from headshots as the aiming soldiers pulled their triggers.

The next four made it a little farther, and the two after that a little farther still as the soldiers reloaded and their rate of fire declined. The zealots kept coming, and Carson knew it was time to call it. There was no sense risking themselves trying to stem the tide of walkers and zealots when they had Big Betty to back them up. Betty could take out all of them faster than any ten AEGIS soldiers. It was time to let her work.

“North, south, and east teams, fall back to Betty. West team cover the MTVs.” He stood up from his perch and motioned to Cruz. “A hand?”

“Yes, sir,” the soldier said. He raced over and threw the sergeant over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Cruz ran for the cover of the guns on top of the Stryker with Carson bouncing.

“Not… oof… exactly… what I had in mind,” he said. He tried to cover their retreat as best he could. The others fell back in staggered formation, still taking out the zealots who made it through the door, but they couldn’t hold.

“Hostiles have penetrated the facility,” Rachel said. “Activating REAPR in three, two… now.”

All the soldiers took the few seconds’ warning to smash their hearing protection into their ears. This close to the guns, they’d lose it completely if unprotected for very long.

Even through the earplugs, the noise was catastrophic. The guns tracked so fast back and forth that they became almost a blur. The system was set on “single fire,” Carson noted. Each flash and thump was accompanied by a zealot—or more accurately, a
part
of a zealot—exploding into a fine red mist. None of those who got hit got back up. In the spare few seconds that it took the guns to track to another target, the soldiers were still firing.

“Contact west,” the team covering the MTVs said. “Looks like random hostiles spreading out. We’ve got this, sir.”

The churchmen kept coming, though in fewer numbers, and Carson had spotted more than one come in, see the carnage, and flee back through the door he’d come in. Cruz had deposited him in a good defensive position with a clear view to the main doors, and Carson saw one churchman come in and decide not to stay.

The man turned to leave and was shot in the head by the man following him in, dressed in white robes and carrying what looked from this distance to be a very large handgun. The churchman looked around at the devastation wrought upon his men and closed his eyes. He folded his hands, and Carson would’ve sworn he was praying.

“Good fucking luck with that,” he muttered and lined up a shot with his rifle, leaning into the scope. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, the man disappeared—straight up vanished. He looked up from the scope to see a big set of holes in the concrete around the door, covered in what looked like red paint, and he smiled.

“Got him, sir,” Rachel said in his earpiece. “All targets neutralized. REAPR deactivating.”

“Romeo Six, Strike Actual, come in.”

Carson’s smile got bigger. “Romeo Six, go.”

“We’re all clear up here, sir.”

“Roger that. RTB. We’re done here.”

“Yes, sir, we are RTB.”

“All teams, secure the building. Set up a perimeter. Friendlies are en route, so verify your targets before firing.”

He pulled the earplug from his other ear and rubbed a hand across his scalp. He heard the ramp of the Stryker come down, and he turned to see Rachel walk over.

“We made it, Sergeant,” she said with a smile.

“Yes, we did, Lieutenant. I don’t wanna jinx it, but we might’ve just pulled this off. Roll Betty out front and have her start patrols. Get in touch with the rescue convoy and tell them to be careful coming in. We don’t know if there are other cells in the area.” He laughed and shook his head.

“What is it, Sergeant?” Rachel asked.

“Captain Anderson is gonna be
pissed
that he missed all the fighting.”

Bunker Four

They returned to the main level, and Eden saw that the crowd of refugees awaiting evac was far fewer.

“Get these people out of here as fast as possible, Captain,” Anderson said to Marquez.

The Hunter nodded and signaled for his people to disperse. “Let’s light a fire under these folks, Hunters.”

Eden took a step toward the refugees but glanced around when Anderson spoke.

“You’re with me, Blake,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she said and made sure she caught Marquez’s eye so that he would know where she was. The captain nodded again, and she followed her old friend toward Ops.

As they entered, Celero met them almost at the door. “Sir, I can’t get… uh, about that problem,” he finished as he noticed Eden standing next to the general.

Anderson waved a hand. “She’s cleared, go ahead,” he said and continued walking over to the monitor banks. “What’s our status?”

Eden’s brow wrinkled. “Cleared?” she muttered. On every screen were different views of a towering structure within a round room. She’d never seen anything like it. “What the hell? Are those the ICMBs or whatever?”

Celero ignored her. “We’re boned, sir,” he said, shaking his head. He’d sweated through the do-rag wrapped around his short hair and used it to wipe his reddened face. “We’ve tried everything. Whoever he got to lock us out is better than me, sir. I’d bet it’s the same guy who locked down the doors at first. There’s nothing we can do to get access to the missile itself or any of its systems. It’s going to fire.”

“How long do we have?” Anderson asked.

“It’s not exact, sir, and with all the diff—”

Anderson turned to the lieutenant and looked him dead in the eye. He didn’t raise his voice, but he didn’t have to. “How long?”

Celero’s shoulders sagged and his head drooped. “An hour, maybe an hour and a half. No more. It’s nearly fueled. Once it completes the automatic launch checklist, it’ll fire, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing
we
can do about it, sir.”

Anderson sighed. “That’s it, then.” He stood straight, and Eden didn’t like the set of his face when he looked around the room. “There is one other option, but I need you to do something for me, Lieutenant.”

Celero looked up. “Sir?”

“Get me a line to both Bunker One and Bunker Eight, please.”

“Yes, sir,” the tech said and walked over to another console.

“The rest of you, clear out,” Anderson said to the other men in the room. “Double-time it to the surface and assist with evac procedures. We are wheels-up outta here in twenty minutes with all hands.”

Eden started to leave to assist the men, but Anderson held her back once more. “I need you with me, Ms. Blake.”

He spoke into his mic. “Break break, urgent. This is Anderson. All teams report status of evac to Hunter One. You have twenty minutes. We are
di di mau
at…” He checked his watch. “. . . 1450 hours. No excuses.” He grinned. “Marines, we are
leaving
!”

When he got no reaction from anyone left in the room, he grumbled. “Fucking Philistines. Doesn’t anyone watch movies anymore? Hunter One, this is Anderson. What is our status?”

“We are ninety percent evacuated, sir. We’ll make your cutoff, if only just. I’ve told everyone to drop whatever they were carrying, there’s no more time.” Eden could hear the strain in Marquez’s voice. But she knew him well enough to know that if he said he would do something, come hell or high water, it would happen.

“Good. Any news on Dagger?”

“Negative, sir. Teams have scoured the bunker, sir, and there’s no sign of him anywhere. We did find something, though.”

“What was it?”

“Level Thirty-Nine, sir. I’d bet Celero can show you.”

“I’ll ask. You’re watching the civilians as they leave, I assume.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve got men stationed at all the exits, and we’re checking everyone who comes out. It’s a bit of a bottleneck for the main elevator for sheer numbers, but we’re making it work. No one matching the photos Celero sent us has come through, sir.”

“He’s here somewhere, but it won’t matter much longer. Stay alert.”

“Yes, sir. Won’t matter, sir?”

“Never mind, Captain. Once everyone is out, get you and your men clear. Leave one Humvee for our exfil.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sir,” Celero said from the other side of the room, “I have that patch-through you wanted.”

“Before we do that, can you tell me what the hell Marquez was talking about? What’s on Level Thirty-Nine?”