A Time To Run: The Turning Point, #2

By Mark Wandrey

A month has passed since the Strain Delta plague was unleashed on Earth, and most of mankind has already succumbed. All animals are carriers, all food is suspect, and nowhere is safe. Yet small groups still struggle to survive.

 

In Texas, Vance Cartwright and his band of survivalists try to ride out the swarm of infected while Colonel Cobb Pendleton and his men fight to cross 2,000 miles of badlands to reach safety.

 

In the Pacific, Air Force Lieutenant Andrew Tobin is a helpless bystander aboard a flotilla of civilian and navy vessels as survivors try to hold together the last vestiges of civilization. Food and fuel are running low, and more survivors join the group every day.

 

Lieutenant Pearl Grange, commander of Coast Guard Cutter Boutwell, heads north, searching for a haven in which the flotilla survivors can find respite, only to find armed aggressors willing to do anything to stop her mission, including killing her if necessary.

 

Just when all hope seems lost, a beacon shines forth. The President of the United States is alive and stranded aboard an E-4 doomsday plane. She could unite the survivors and give them direction if they could save her…but how many lives is it worth to save the president, when so few remain?

 

Mankind is on the ropes, fleeing from extinction. This is A Time To Run.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blood Moon Press
• Release date: Sep 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781948485173

Book preview

Prologue

Morning, Wednesday, April 27

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250 Miles Above the Earth

As the earth slowly turned, the three humans floated in their tiny spaceship and watched the extinction event unfold below them. The night side of the world, once lit with electric lights in every inhabited corner, was now dark, although patches of white held out against the darkness. There were also more than a few bright red splotches, vicious scars gouged out of the planet by nuclear fire.

The crew remained in silence. Alison McDill, an electrical and materials engineer along as an expert on the alien drive, continued to monitor every radio broadcast she could find, slowly putting the pieces together. They’d only been gone two days. Two days during which the planet had been devastated.

Lloyd Behm, the backup test pilot, had a tablet computer attached to his thigh with Velcro and was busily entering data from the ship’s systems. His concern now was endurance. After two days in space, how much time did they have left? Their captain, Alex West, kept his hands on the controls even though they floated in zero gravity, still drifting toward earth but slowly enough to have many hours without changing direction before they’d reenter the atmosphere. He’d been watching smaller flashes in the northwest Pacific Ocean, flashes that likely meant a battle underway. Even as the species faced eminent extinction, it appeared there was still time to settle old scores. It was finally Alex who broke the troubled silence.

Look, I have to say it. The others both glanced at him. Are we really talking about a zombie apocalypse? The walking dead? Brain eating monsters? The only sounds were the muted voices from Alison’s headset and the whisper of air circulating fans moving the atmosphere over the nearly saturated CO2 scrubbers. They thought of all those dying below. Do we have any images yet?

It’s harder to resolve the TV signals, Alison explained. I’ve tried repeatedly to reach OOE’s uplinks without luck. Oceanic Orbital Enterprises, the company that owned Azanti, their space ship, had contracts all over the planet to relay signals. It was unrealistic to think that they’d all be down at the same time...but they were.

Try NASA freqs, Lloyd said. Houston, alternate tracking, Launch Alliance, too, someone has to be out there. Right? The other two nodded, though neither really agreed.

Alison worked the controls of the radio for a time, what they used to call ‘spinning and grinning’ in the days of analog radio. There was still a dial, but now there were also several inputs and a USB interface from a laptop, which was what she used now. A program allowed her to analyze dozens of frequencies at a time for signs of radio broadcasts.

Two lights on the CO2 warning, Lloyd told them. They had less than 4 hours before the scrubbers were saturated, and they would succumb to CO2 poisoning. They were already feeling a little fuzzy-headed. At least they wouldn’t die from freezing when the fuel cell ran out of hydrogen. Not that asphyxiating was any better.

Holy shit! Alison said suddenly and held up a hand. I got something.

Where? Alex asked.

121.5, the old distress channel. She worked to fine-tune the station. It’s coming from an orbital source.

Satellite? Lloyd guessed.

No, she said as she shook her head, it’s voice modulation. Satellites wouldn’t use this frequency. Let me clean it up a bit... she said and played with the computer some more. There, she announced finally, and with a flourish she patched it over the cockpit’s speakers. A woman’s voice spoke mid-sentence.

—since 14:42 Greenwich, and are trying to reestablish contact, over. There was a short delay. This is the ISS, Colonel Faye Richardson calling in the clear for any NASA or JPL receiving station. We’ve been LOS groundside since 14:42 Greenwich, and are trying to reestablish contact, over.

The International Space Station! Alison crowed.

That’ll work, Lloyd agreed. We have a universal docking collar.

Agreed, Alex said. See if you can raise them. Alison grinned and set the transmitter to a matching frequency.

ISS, ISS, she called, "this is private spaceship Azanti, responding in the clear to your call."

This is ISS, the same woman replied almost instantly, did you say private spaceship?

"That’s correct, ISS. This is the Azanti, experimental ship owned by Oceanic Orbital Enterprises. We were on a... she looked at the others in sudden concern and they shook their heads emphatically, we were on a test flight outside the moon’s orbit."

We didn’t hear anything about that from NASA. Alex cursed and activated his headset.

"Commander Richardson, this is Alex West, captain of the Azanti. With all due respect, ma’am, does it really matter why we’re up here?"

I suppose not, considering.

Exactly, Alex agreed. We’d like to come aboard, if possible. Our consumables are in critical condition. We can’t raise our ground tracking station.

Neither can we. There was silence for a few moments, probably while she consulted with whoever else was on the station. "Okay Azanti, she said, I don’t see any reason not to let you aboard. At the very least, I’m curious about your ship. We’re transmitting you our orbital data; do you have the delta-V to match?"

No problem, Alex said without waiting for the data. When Richardson replied, the curiosity in her voice was unmistakable.

Now I really can’t wait to examine this ship of yours. See you soon, Captain.

* * * * *

Chapter One

Afternoon, Wednesday, April 27

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The Flotilla, 150 Nautical Miles West of San Diego, CA

When Vice Admiral Lance Tomlinson accepted his 3rd star from the President, he’d known his days sitting in the hot seat of a supercarrier were coming to an end. After 29 years in the Navy, he’d been one of a rare breed to make it into the admiralty after first serving as enlisted. He was a star of the service, beloved by the rank and file, but looked upon by Annapolis’ finest with a mixture of confusion and distaste. His prior service made him nearly a god among the fleet’s complement of chiefs, especially on that rare inspection when he stuck his head into their mess and shared a cup of joe.

Now his plans for a final tour at the Pentagon, maybe a shot at the Joint Chiefs of Staff, then retirement spent fishing in Montana had turned into a mountainous pot of steaming shit, in the form of an alien bug named Delta. A few hours ago, he’d been aboard a C-2 Greyhound on approach to Pearl when reality came crashing down. The base was overrun; they had lost Hawaii. Worse, Admiral Jenkins, COMPACFLT, had been lost there, and now he was stuck wearing the damned fancy hat.

He had headed east toward the only significant command element the spotty comms could identify. It was a crazy flotilla of private and military ships, moored roughly 150 nautical miles west of San Diego.

From the moment his Greyhound caught the hook on the deck of the Ronald Reagan, he’d been force-fed bigger and bigger shit sandwiches, until his eyes were brown. No national command authority. No link with any authorized members of the constitutional authority. Scattered and unreliable satellite communications which, after a brief time, had now completely failed. A shitload of Marines on their amphibious assault carriers and 26 US Navy ships were still answering the call, six of which were submarines.

Shortly after his arrival, Los Angeles fell. The Army Guard units couldn’t hold it, and, while attempting to withdraw, were completely overrun minutes before Marine helicopters could come in to relieve them. With nowhere to land, and only a few squads of their own, they’d been forced to watch helplessly as the defenders were swamped and eaten alive.

Only hours later, Lt. General Ross, in command of 3rd Corps, came flying in with C-17s full of equipment, troops, and dependents. What had seemed the bright spot, 3 carriers with their strike groups, turned to yet more shit as he’d been forced to all but wreck 2 of the flattops via the most jacked-up operation he’d ever had the misfortune to run. Amazingly, they’d gotten two of the C-17s down without killing anyone. Well, except for on the carriers. A third C-17 had come in much lighter aboard the Gerald R. Ford. No flight deck damage, but the ship almost destroyed her engines in the effort.

Tomlinson found himself in the Reagan’s main operations conference room, at the head of a big mahogany table, listening to an endless line of disasters—and everyone expected him to put this cockup on line for victory. The damned chair was one of those new thin-backed things, too. His ass had spread a bit in the last 20 years, and he dearly missed the old, wide chairs the Enterprise had sported.

I’m only going to say this once, he said, raising his voice over the cross-traffic in the room. I want this flotilla put into some kind of order so the Navy can be the Navy, without holding the hands of every sailing boat captain. They all looked like puppies who’d lost their favorite bone. Capt. Gilchrist?

Admiral? the big captain of the Gerald R. Ford growled.

Since your ship is currently in shit shape, doesn’t have an air wing, and has a big fucking plane blocking the flight deck ... Several people chuckled. On one of the screens was a view of the incredible sight. Tomlinson made a mental note to shake the hand of the crazy fucking flyboy who’d managed that feat. He understood the pilot was a fighter guy, not even a heavy pilot. You’re in charge of fleet logistics. Get it all put together. Requisition any staff not already in critical roles to work with the civilians. Start getting lists of any ex-military in the flotilla, their skills sets, and begin reactivation. The more of them in uniform, the better.

I’ll do my best, Admiral, he said and saluted.

Tomlinson grunted and dismissed him. Now, I understand supplies are the number one consideration. As Dr. Breda explained, this Strain Delta comes from fresh food and living animals, as well as water? His science expert nodded. Okay, we need to start getting food, or we’re going to be a ghost fleet in... he consulted a piece of paper, jumping Christ, only three days?! The officer in charge of their supplies nodded grimly. Fuck me, this just gets better. So this is global, and we’re starting to get distress beacons all over the Pacific. There are, at any one time, about 500 transports between the CONUS and China. A lot of those are container ships, but a lot are bulk transports, too, with wheat and such. I guess we start searching them.

Sir? a Coast Guard junior officer said, raising her hand.

Go ahead, Lieutenant.

"Lieutenant, Junior Grade, Grange, sir. I’m currently in command of the Boutwell, sir." The admiral looked inquiringly at his aide.

Sir, there just aren’t any other Coastie personnel here, so she’s been left in temporary command. Tomlinson gave a little shrug and gestured for her to continue.

Admiral, she said nervously, you were mentioning that you want to find shipments of bulk foodstuffs on the ocean? He nodded. Well, sir, all that data is kept on AMS, the automated manifest system that Customs and Border Protection maintains.

Lieutenant, Cmdr. Scott Bascom, the admiral’s aide, said, if you haven’t noticed, the internet is down, so we can’t access any government servers.

You don’t have to sir, she said, looking sheepish. He glared. "Sir, we have copies on the Boutwell. Sure, they’re a few days old, but we still have them. We routinely download that data because we might have to intercept a ship off shore, and our uplink isn’t reliable on those boats. She turned the laptop she’d had in front of her around, and the eagle logo of Customs was displayed there, with Automated Manifest System" in big black type.

The admiral leaned a little closer, glancing at the display, then at Bascom, who sputtered for a second then looked chagrined.

Lieutenant Grange? the admiral said.

Sir?! she gulped.

"Please get your people to start finding us candidate ships, then transmit that information to the Reagan here so the E-2s on patrol can start looking for them."

Sir! she said, beaming. Right away sir!

Good, you’re in charge.

Me, sir?

Of course you, he said. You’re a ship’s commander, and that’s a commander’s job. Unless you don’t think a Coastie is up to the task.

No sir! she bristled.

Good, then you’re dismissed.

After she’d bustled off, his aide looked after her with a dark expression on his face. I can’t believe you’re okay with a kid like that in command of a ship, sir.

In case you haven’t noticed, we’re a little short on experienced commanders, and a lot short of Coasties. When his aide didn’t seem to be convinced, he asked, Can you read manifests or know of any of our people used to boarding boats under potentially hostile conditions?

The Marines can handle that, the commander said.

If you haven’t noticed, they’re pretty busy here handling intermittent outbreaks. The admiral looked at the whiteboard that showed the National Continuity Coordinators list, those people who’d be qualified to act as Commander-in-Chief. Under a directive set up by then-President G.W. Bush, there were a series of coordinators whose jobs were to ensure that a Constitutional authority remained intact in the event of a national emergency. The act, called the Continuity of Government Plan, had been created with war or natural disaster in mind, not a fucking zombie apocalypse. Yet, here they were.

Six hours ago, there was a brief flash of traffic via satellite from Air Force One, from somewhere in the Midwest. Aboard, in direct violation of policy, was the President and almost all of her Secretaries. In all, 13 of the 18 in direct succession. The VP had been confirmed dead in an attack in NYC two hours prior. The other five were still unaccounted for. So the Continuity of Government plan had been put into effect, with no results. The country’s communication infrastructure appeared to have been shut down, and the admiral’s cyber warfare specialist suggested it may have been by Presidential authority.

What a total cockup, he said, shaking his head. A young ensign came in and laid a dispatch next to him. It was from the communications team on the carrier. They’d confirmed that news agencies all over the country were still trying to uplink to satellites, and civilian HF band traffic continued to be intercepted. Everywhere people were cut off from help. Without the President, or a successor with the access codes, he couldn’t do anything about it.

Another note was placed in front of him. He’d asked the Marine commander, Brigadier General Coleman, to come to the meeting. When he hadn’t shown, the admiral had instructed one of his comm people to call the Essex and find out what was holding him up. According to the note, Coleman had been killed in an altercation with an infected Marine. Colonel Tad Alinsky was now in command. The day went on.

* * * * *

Chapter Two

Evening, Wednesday, April 27

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East China Sea, 200 Miles West of Japanese Waters

USS Louisiana, SSBN 743, cruised along like a ghost in the dark East China Sea waters. She’d been diverted there as an obvious act of desperation 48 hours ago, when the USS North Dakota had failed to report in. The commander of the Louisiana knew full well that something was going on in the United States, just not exactly what that meant. That there was a disruption underway was of little doubt, since they’d been under Emergency War Orders ever since they’d been diverted from their operational area in the Bering Sea.

Any traffic? the COB—Chief of the Boat—asked as he watched the monitor showing a live feed from the periscope.

Negative, the comms officer replied. Some low-band traffic from that Japanese frigate. The COB nodded and ground his teeth, a habit that had cost him his 2nd wife a few months ago. Well, that and her inability to keep her legs closed when he was on deployment. But the teeth thing had featured prominently in their divorce case.

He hated having his boat in these relatively tight waters. The Ohio-class was most at home skimming along in arctic waters, under a thermal layer. Safe and invisible, awaiting the call to unleash nuclear hell. They could stay there for months at a time if necessary. The Virginia-class they were looking for was a nuclear fast attack. Unlike the Ohio-class, the Virginia-class was a hunter. They hunted enemy versions of the Ohio. Though that didn’t mean the Ohio was incapable of hunting if necessary.

Sonar, contact! The COB’s head came around. Register contact Alpha, the sonar supervisor said, and the computer board showed the approximate range and direction. "Looks like a Golf, sir." The COB nodded; that would be their boy. The North Dakota had been here to hunt and monitor an old Soviet-era Golf boomer, Golf-27, which had been given to the North Koreans and had just reentered service. They could carry and launch Scud missiles, and the Norks were supposed to have nuclear Scuds now. The Japanese were rightfully nervous about this development.

In the sonar section, specialists were running the sonar return through multiple computers, comparing them to old Cold War era recordings of Golf-27. It would have been Los Angeles-class fast attacks following them back then. The recording had likely been made on tape, and since converted to digital. It only took five minutes for sonar to report.

"We show a 95% probability that it’s Golf-27." That cut it. The COB grabbed the squawk box handset and punched the captain’s cabin.

"COB here, sir. We got the Golf."

Be right there.

A half-hour later the sub’s command center was bathed in blue light as they closed in on the nearly 30-year-old submarine. Sonar had continued to massage the data and reported that the sub ran quieter than it had when last in service. Likely it had been modified by the Norks, no surprise there. The old Golf-class, diesel electric instead of nuclear and with outdated everything, was no more a match for the Ohio-class than a WWII-era Gato-class would have been. Yet, a state of the art Virginia-class was still missing in action, and communications were down.

Sonar, con!

Go sonar.

She’s going shallow. I’m getting some transients from her. Sounds like liquid pressurization maybe.

Jumping Jesus, the COB said, are they fueling the fucking Scuds? The captain glanced at the big map. They were currently 150 miles South West of Kyushu, the southern-most Japanese main island. Well within range of a Scud.

Takes about an hour to prep one of those Scuds, the captain said. Take us to periscope depth and deploy the VLF antenna. Enough of this shit, we need orders. I’m not sinking that old tub without authority.

And what if they prepare to launch? the COB asked quietly.

I’ll deal with that when the time comes, the captain said. His stomach growled. We ever going to get some chow up here? As if on cue, a pair of crewman in white cook’s jackets carried in a rack of trays, and the smell of fish wafted through the compartment.

The COB snickered. Your powers are impressive, sir.

Stow that shit, the captain said with a chuckle. One of the cooks brought over a pair of trays. Nice big succulent chunks of cod in a light sauce, with broccoli and mashed potatoes. I thought cookie said we were out of the cod, the captain said to the cook.

He sends his complements, sir, the young man said, he got 50 pounds of fresh fillets from the tender we UNREPed from. The captain grunted and tasted the fish. It was great. He hated to do underway replenishment in rough seas, but they’d been critically low on supplies. Now he felt a lot better about it.

Tell him he’s a sneaky SOB and send my regards. The young man saluted and went off to see that the rest of the command crew was served. There were also hamburgers for those who didn’t like fish. The captain ate as his boat stealthily rose toward the surface.

* * * * *

Chapter Three

Morning, Thursday, April 28

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Kansas City, MO

Go, go, go! The MRAP’s engine roared as it mounted the curb and crashed against the stalled minivan. Hit it again! the lieutenant screamed. The driver backed up a few feet, ground the gears, and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The howls of their pursuers were audible, even over the powerful D9 diesel engine as the mine-resistant vehicle slammed into the minivan one more time and shoved it aside at last. Early morning sun made the flying glass glint.

The lieutenant turned in the turret to the line of big black SUVs behind his vehicle, nodding and throwing his arm forward to tell them to proceed.

Victor 2, we’re clear! he called on the radio. How much farther?

About a mile, the scout radioed, his voice hard to understand over the rattle of gunfire. Five seconds later, the gunfire echoed back after it had traveled the mile between the lieutenant and the scout. Be advised we’re engaged.

More of those things? the lieutenant asked.

Negative, it’s locals. The all too familiar whang! of small arms fire rattling off the side of Humvee armor came over the radio before the scout stopped transmitting.

Engage them if you must, the lieutenant said.

Negative! barked someone else over the frequency. Evergreen has said no lethal force is to be used against civilians. Of course Evergreen said that. Fine.

You heard them, the lieutenant told his detachment, no lethal force. Batten down and push through! He locked the .50 caliber mount and dropped back through the hatch before securing it as well. He just prayed that none of the gun-crazy locals had their own .50 calibers.

They rolled past two abandoned road blocks. The lieutenant kept looking back in the direction of Kansas City, the horizon a collection of smoke plumes. Helicopters circled wildly over the city.

Perimeter ahead, lieutenant, the driver called over the roaring diesel engine. Up ahead about a half-a mile was the back entrance to Kansas City International Airport, one of the air freight access roads. It looked like a bunch of semi-trucks were parked, their jobs interrupted by the crisis. But as they got closer, it became apparent that the trucks weren’t parked to wait; they were parked as barricades. There were thousands of people on their side of the barricade.

Civilians being kept back? the lieutenant wondered aloud.

No, the driver barked, not anymore, anyway! He brought the Humvee to a quick halt, still about 500 yards away, but it was still too close. Hundreds of heads turned toward them as the other vehicles in the convoy also came to a stop.

Oh shit, the lieutenant said. The radio was screaming for his attention from the security detail behind them. Those hundreds of heads became much, much more and a lot of them began moving toward the convoy. Turn them around, he said.

Where are you going? the security detail demanded.

This entrance is compromised, the lieutenant said over the radio. We need to find another.

We can’t, the answer came. The perimeter at the hangar is becoming unstable. The lieutenant ground his teeth. Evergreen says to just...push through.

That isn’t possible, the lieutenant said. Five hundred yards away they were now running toward the convoy. He felt his pulse start to race. There isn’t another way in that your vehicles can navigate. With the Humvees, his team could get onto the airport property in any of a dozen places, but the SUVs and vans behind him didn’t have that kind of off-road capability. And we can’t just push through a crowd that size. Now 400 yards away. They’ll overwhelm us.

Evergreen is ordering you to continue as instruct—

Fuck that, the lieutenant said, smacking the driver on the shoulder. We’re going hot, he said and keyed his team chat. Go hot, I repeat, go hot.

Hooah! the driver exclaimed and revved his engine.

Lieutenant! a voice yelled from the radio. He ignored it and popped the top hatch. He unlocked the M2 machine gun and yanked the heavy bolt back, then let it fly forward, charging the gun. The same thing happened in the other six Humvees behind him. Two hundred yards away, several hundred figures stormed toward them, arms outstretched, faces snarling. The lieutenant tried to ignore the howl that came from them, or how they looked so...normal. Other than the fact they wanted to tear him apart and eat him, of course.

Number Four, come up alongside, the lieutenant ordered. As it rolled up next to him, the crowd was just 100 yards away. The screaming over the radio was shrill. He knew how to drown it out. FIRE! he yelled and pressed the butterfly switch on his gun. Twin .50 caliber machine guns roared, their 700-gram bullets hitting with more than 10,000 foot-pounds of energy, blowing the enemy to pieces as they scythed through the crowd. The protective detail might still be screaming at the lieutenant, but he couldn’t hear it over the hammering machine guns.

There were far too many for even the .50 caliber machine guns to kill them all, but it was enough to punch a hole through to the line of semi-trucks. At that point they were out of luck.

Dismount! the lieutenant barked, and his team bailed out, instantly spreading out to create a skirmish line as the protective detail came roaring up in their big black SUVs and vans. He could see the leader of the detail jump out, yelling orders into his sleeve-mounted microphone as he ran to the lieutenant.

You were ordered not to use deadly force! The hundreds of yards of people chewed to bloody meat behind the agent created a stark contrast.

Yeah, well fuck those orders.

Clear the damned road, the man growled, the muscles standing out on his neck.

We can’t move trucks that big; get her over on foot.

The man quickly looked over to the roadblock before nodding; that, at least, was fact. He spoke into his wrist mic again. Get Evergreen out!

The security detail added to the Army perimeter, though they still refused to fire their weapons, and stayed behind in case the first line fell. The lieutenant’s men fired on single shot, carefully picking their targets and firing with deadly accuracy. The lieutenant could hear Evergreen screaming as she was bodily carried through the barricade by her detail.

She’s clear! the detail head yelled. We’re falling back. This was the hard part, the lieutenant knew, the moments it took to try and disengage from the enemy. This enemy was far worse than any they’d trained to fight. Got it, he said and then yelled to his men, Slow fall back, hold the line!

Even with single shots, they were going through ammo at a furious rate. The enemy doggedly refused to go down from single hits, or even respond to them for that matter. The human body was surprisingly hard to stop with a single shot from a 5.56 NATO round. They’d been trained for center mass shots, and those usually weren’t instantly lethal. Especially to these people. People, he thought, they were once people.

A woman came at him in a headlong rush, the remains of a nightgown all she wore. He noticed her blonde hair and wildly flying breasts as he put a round into her upper abdomen. The round punched through, spraying bright red blood, but she only staggered slightly. Her lips pulled back in a snarled scream, and he shot her again. This round punched through her sternum. She still took several more steps before realizing she was dead and crashing face-first to slide to within feet of him. He switched targets and his M4 trigger didn’t fire. Empty mag.

Reloading! he yelled and did a rapid magazine swap. The new mag found the well as if it had a will of its own and slid in with a perceptible ‘click.’ He jerked back down to be sure it was seated, released it, and brought the heel of that palm smacking into the slide release. It slammed forward, reloading the gun. It had taken about two seconds, and in that two seconds a man had closed to within a foot. He raised the rifle barrel and pulled the trigger once, twice, again, and slid to the side. The runner jerked and fell past him. The lieutenant backed, checking his magazine pouch and finding two left.

Move, move, move, he ordered, and they all fell back. The firing got more and more rapid despite the soldiers being as meticulous as possible. The enemy came faster and faster, and with unrelenting ferocity. His first man went down under the enemies’ clawing hands as the last of the protective detail cleared the barricade. Two more fell as they finally reached the semi-trucks, and three more as they scrambled over them.

Grenades! The lieutenant ordered, and the remaining seven men all pulled pins and threw before dropping over the other side and running. The explosives went off in a rapid string of krumps! Debris and gore flew as they raced after the protective detail in a semi-circle, all facing outward. The last pair through the gate pulled it closed and pulled heavy zip-cuffs to lock it closed.

Won’t hold for long, the corporal called as he jerked it taut.

Good enough, the lieutenant said. The hangar was in view. Let’s go.

Five minutes later they were jogging up to the hangar; the sound of big turbojet engines spinning up was easily audible from inside as the ground crew prepared it for takeoff. The head of the protective detail was waiting for the lieutenant by the side entrance.

You got us here, he said.

We said we would, the lieutenant said, wiping sweat from his face with his sleeve. We’ll hold the perimeter and board last.

Yes, the agent said, you’ll hold the perimeter, and keep holding it.

What do you mean?

The President orders you to hold the hangar. After we leave, as well. The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed, and the agent nodded. Yeah, you heard me. Think you can keep this order? The soldier came to crisp attention and saluted in perfect form.

"We do our duty, sir!"

You do that, the agent said and walked back into the hangar.

Lieutenant, bogies coming across the field!

Sir, what do we do?

The jet engines spun up and the huge blue and white E-4B taxied out and turned onto the runway.

Our duty, the lieutenant said and raised his rifle, shooting one of the infected as it ran toward the plane. As waves of infected raced toward the few surviving soldiers, the E-4B roared into the early evening sky and banked west, leaving the burning ruins of Kansas City behind.

* * * * *

Chapter Four

Afternoon, Thursday, April 28

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North of Austin, TX

We keep getting pushed south, PFC Colbert bitched from the driver’s compartment. It was hard to hear over the roar and growling of the Caterpillar C7 diesel, yet Colbert always seemed to make himself heard.

You think I don’t know that, private? Colonel Cobb Pendleton yelled back. He was in the open top hatch as they moved along highway 195 at just over 30 mph. Ever since they’d tore out of Fort Hood Army Airfield after the last C-17 had flown off, they’d wanted to head west. The fucking universe seemed to have other plans for them. First a police roadblock on Hwy 190. Cobb hadn’t wanted to risk hurting the cops; they were just doing their jobs. Then a huge pileup on Hwy 183 after they’d spent two hours cutting across fields. Dry cuts to either side made further cross-country impossible, so they’d cut back. Now they were only 25 miles north of Georgetown, a major suburb of Austin. A few days ago, he’d been enjoying his retirement