Unwilling

By Sean Schubert

Having learned to survive the zombie apocalypse in the wilderness of Alaska, a battle-weary cohort is called upon for help in this horror series finale.

A year into the undead apocalypse which has spread across North America and beyond, a group of survivors led by Neil Jordan are still alive against all the odds. Having escaped the horrors of Anchorage, they are still persisting on the Last Frontier, carving out a life for themselves far away from the legions of the dead.

Now they’re asked to plunge back into the tempest following a distress call from Anchorage. Having finally established a refuge for themselves, Neil and the others must decide what sacrifice they are willing to make for complete strangers. Will they now return to the very place where they once waited for help in vain?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Apr 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781682618745

Book preview

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Also by Sean Schubert

Alaskan Undead Apocalypse Series

Infection

Containment

Mitigation

Resolution

Fyre

A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK

ISBN: 978-1-68261-873-8

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-874-5

Unwilling:

Alaskan Undead Apocalypse Book V

© 2019 by Sean Schubert

All Rights Reserved

Cover art by Cody Corcoran

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

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To my loving family, thank you for a lifetime of support.

day 1

PART 1

Chapter 1

Sir. On our approach.

The sleek jet, a Gulfstream G650, a graceful bird of metal and glass, bounced slightly as the pilot, Major Tom Handlin, emerged through the doorway heading back into the cockpit. Bracing himself against the wall, the older man made a grand gesture of holding his breath impatiently, like a weary father might make to a child. He tried his best to contain the disgusted sigh before it escaped but failed miserably which made it all the more loud. He was finding it increasingly difficult to exercise any patience with this by the numbers kid sitting in the co-pilot chair.

Handlin had too many years behind the stick to find himself with such a greenhorn for a copilot. Sure, Handlin understood that things were…different now. It wasn’t as simple as requesting a replacement or a new assignment. The world…his world had been forever changed by recent events that were still unfolding in very dramatic and tragic fashion. No one knew for sure how bad it was going to get or if the nightmare would ever end.

Perceived reality had been stretched to the breaking point close to a year ago when, in Anchorage, Alaska, a little boy with a mysterious bite sickened precipitously and then died despite the best efforts of the medical staff at Providence Hospital. Something in the bite, a malevolent organism with ill intent, invaded the child corpse’s brain and reinvested life into his limbs. He rose with violence in his veins and unquenchable hunger in his stomach. Biting and clawing, the child monster attacked those around him, spreading the terror with each victim. Of course, all Handlin and everyone else in the world knew was that the undead plague had originated in Anchorage and were ignorant of the intimate details concerning the boy. The nightmare and its reach stretched from that morning, to days and then weeks and months. Seasons passed and still the storm raged.

Most of the Western Hemisphere was swept with the torrent, entire cities falling prey to the growing undead conflagration, which continued to spread unabated until natural geography finally interrupted the tide. Only tall mountains, wide rivers, or yawning canyons seemed capable of stopping the onslaught.

Now, Handlin found most of his flights were often over lands completely infested with the unspeakable vermin. The world was different, more harsh and less forgiving of mistakes. He understood the potential consequences of his every decision, and also understood the challenges and limitations imposed on Central Command which had replaced the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Despite those hurdles, he couldn’t help but wonder why they were unable to assign a flight officer with more experience for this mission. What if something were to go wrong? He needed someone on whom he could count in a pinch.

He wasn’t a fool, that much was true, and understood that the options available to those making the decisions were limited. Even keeping that in mind, he couldn’t help but feel he had been let down by the machine, the military, that he had served for most of his adult life. He couldn’t deny the resentment he felt toward his current assignment, but, like the good soldier he was, he committed himself to getting it done properly.

Disappointed at having lost his balance in front of the kid, Handlin was nonetheless able to swallow the comment that nearly escaped and instead said, Thank you. How we doin’? It was a question to which he already knew the answer. They were doing fine, were on course, and approaching their destination. This bird, one of the newest in the industry, could practically fly and land itself. It was an amazing machine; an aviator’s dream, really.

Steady and smooth. Well…except just now. Sorry about that. The younger man adjusted slightly in his chair and turned back toward the front. Slowing for our approach. Slight wind coming in from the west but nothing to worry about. I started us through landing procedures.

Sitting down heavily into the tight space allotted to the pilot, Handlin said, Okay. Let’s take her in. Into the radio, he said, Anchorage Tower. This is flight 77 out of Chicago. Requesting permission to land.

The copilot, who scarcely looked over at Handlin as the older man lowered himself into his seat, shifted slightly in his own perch so that he could hide the far side of his face but still cast a curious eye toward the pilot. The younger man couldn’t help but feel self-conscious about his face these days. He sported a scar, stretching from his eye to his neck, which still appeared pink and fresh as it slowly healed. It had been a ghastly wound and nearly claimed his life, but he had recovered and now sat next to a man who was either totally insane or had a horrible sense of humor.

Smiling, Handlin said, Just kidding. You should really try to lighten up a bit, kid.

Humor then. It was the copilot’s turn to air his disdain. While Major Handlin had spent time aboard an aircraft carrier in the Pacific during the first desperate weeks of the undead deluge, he, Flight Officer-in-Training Terrence Terry Cavuto, had been on the ground, spinning in the torrent with all the control of a leaf caught in a tornado. He’d stared into the violent maelstrom from the edge of the precipice and then had been pushed headfirst into the thick of it.

He forced a chuckle but barely cracked a smile, betraying his sentiment. Neither man liked the other, but they were both committed to doing the job; perhaps for different reasons but commitment was commitment.

Handlin’s smile growing despite Cavuto’s response, he keyed his microphone into the passenger cabin and announced in his best captain voice, Ladies and gentlemen, we’re on our approach to Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport. Please return to your seats and buckle your seatbelts in preparation for landing. And thank you for flying the zombie-free skies.

He turned off his mike and looked full at Cavuto, flashing his smile at the younger man as if it were a weapon. Before the older pilot could speak though, Cavuto turned in his seat to face the man. He wasn’t intimidated by the senior pilot’s manner or his words and was suddenly thankful for the sickening scar on his face. It was enough to end the exchange and the two men became all business again.

Handlin said to the window in front of him, Okay. I got this.

The jet skipped across another patch of rough air, shaking everyone slightly and hurrying them to their seats. Handlin shared another menacing smile with Cavuto as the cabin shook slightly. Hold on.

Chapter 2

Preceded by a resounding whine from its engines, the jet, like a prehistoric bird, banked gracefully and slowed as it descended back to the earth. The mechanical screech split the early morning, echoing and bouncing across the open fields surrounding the Anchorage International Airport and into the nearby neighborhoods.

Nary a soul was at the airport to respond. Whatever had happened close to a year ago had long since faded, its grisly actors having moved on to other environs. The once bustling airport was a ghost town unto itself; nothing stirred…at first.

The infection which transformed humans and their brains into undead cannibals affected other species differently. The organism, for instance, did not kill and reanimate dogs, cats, or other mammals into death machines. Instead, animals unlucky enough or unwise enough to come into contact with and, most typically, ingest any infected tissue became sick. The illness’ high fever and neural shocks twisted infected animals into ultra-aggressive, erratic predators.

Unfortunately, the same was true for fowl. From a field north of their runway, something dark fluttered in the tall grass. At first, the subtle movement was barely worth noticing. Then suddenly, an unkindness of ravens as black as darkest night rose into the air. Hundreds of birds took to flight, forming a nightmare cloud that drove toward the sound of the aircraft.

The angle from which the birds approached the jet all but obscured them from view until it was too late to do anything about it. The furious fowl threw themselves at the jet with utter abandon, attacking the fuselage, the wings, the nose, and finally the engines.

With a tremendous bark, the turbines protested and belched trailing contrails of dark, gray smoke. Pitching forward violently, the aircraft’s descent was abruptly too steep. The jet’s sudden change in velocity and balance forced it into an uncontrolled slide until it finally rolled over and started to spin. The large, metal bird screeched in pain as it slowly came apart mid-flight.

As the jet impacted with the tarmac and continued its violent roll, the aircraft was dismantled piece by piece like a primeval Roc portioned into servings. Its wings departed first, separated from their body and flung up and out away from the still-spinning body. The unspent fuel, stored in the wings, exploded in the fields to either side of this section of runway. The fire, black and yellow with rage, rose like an angry storm, the explosions lending a thunderous voice to the fiery tempest. The tail and a sizeable section of the bird’s waist were next to crack and break free, pitching end over end and spreading debris in every direction.

Miraculously, a large piece of the jet’s fuselage rolled and skidded to a stop in the soft soil and grass of the field. Although draped in a thick veil of dark smoke, the section came to rest upright and relatively intact.

In its death throes, the dismembered and decapitated body sparkled and ticked with waning residual power. Following the deafening roar of the crash, the silence that followed seemed just as immense and stunning. For several long seconds, nothing inside the shattered aircraft moved, as if nothing survived. But, really, how could anything or anyone be expected to survive such destruction?

Chapter 3

Anchorage’s streets appeared to be empty…deserted. There were no cars speeding to beat the next traffic signal, no buses ferrying people to their next destination, and no pedestrians moving from shop to shop and door to door. The only thing that seemed to show any signs of life was a tan-colored plastic shopping bag.

A relic of the world lost, the nearly translucent grocery bag caught hold of an inviting breeze and fluttered aimlessly through the silent streets. It lifted itself along its path, finding anima in the cool air blowing in from the rising tide of the Cook Inlet. Dancing in front of imposing department stores, small gift shops, the still new museum, and other impressive structures, the small brownish sack was snagged by an unruly branch on one of the many trees lining wide Fifth Avenue.

The tree’s woody claw clung tightly to its quarry as the next breeze threatened to free it from the trap. Flapping and protesting with its crackling, plastic voice, the bag caught enough wind in its billowy waist to lift it from the snare and continue its trek.

Embracing its chaotic trip, the bag shifted between crawling slowly along the sidewalk to rising up and flying confidently at treetop level. With freedom seemingly at its plastic fingertips, the sack once again caught itself on something that preempted its flight.

The bag’s captor appeared to be a statue, weathered and granite gray. It was the likeness of a man, though his features appeared to be tortured and far from human. Stretched across the figure’s frame were tattered shreds of cloth stitched together by a few, stubborn threads. The cloth, not horribly different in color or texture than the statue, seemed oddly at home hanging from the lifeless, gray body.

The bag fluttered and raged but it seemed as if it was inescapably stuck until something happened. From overhead, a high-pitched, mechanical wail pierced the quiet, summer air with its shrill voice. With that prompt, the gray statue shuddered slightly as if it had been struck by a tiny tremor and then its eyes opened. Murky and sad, the eyes lacked clearly defined irises. Instead, they were dull and milky throughout, though behind them a growing tempest raged. Then, with all the flexibility of stone, the statue began to move and, in so doing, the bag once again found its freedom. It scurried away as if afraid only to find itself trying to navigate a decaying forest of similar living effigies.

Reawakened from a cold slumber, a malevolent consciousness, driven by an ancient, forgotten infection, emerged slowly from the hibernation into which it had fallen several months prior. Acting on the stimulus of sound, the ravenous infection sent impulses into long-dormant limbs. Eyes, seemingly swelling with dark intent, opened and looked skyward. Tipping their heads to the heavens as they searched for the sound’s source, legions of decaying corpses, their skin stretched tightly over calcified and brittle bones, began to buzz. Slight at first, the vibration built and swelled until what appeared to be a single, collective spasmodic tick clutched the horde, sweeping through the crowds like a shared seizure. An entire city’s population of the living dead, a horrific affront to all things natural, slowly shifted on its feet and then began to shuffle toward the airport.

Moving slowly, inexorably toward the plume of dark smoke in the west, they neared their destination step by labored step, driven mad with hunger by the infection. Their veins boiled with electrified rage.

Chapter 4

Though only seconds, the time that passed following the jet’s violent impact and when the intact remnants of the aircraft’s body came to rest felt like an eternity. Light, dark, and then light again over and over as the jet came apart and assailed with a sound so oppressive it seemed to possess physical depth, it was a sensory assault that left the handful of survivors stunned and, in some cases, unconscious.

Mechanical ticks, the jet’s final heartbeats, rattled off a dying rhythm like a somber drum roll at a funeral.

At first, no one moved. Not a one of them had ever been in or survived a plane crash. Completely new, it was hard for any of them to know how to feel. Not many had their wits about them and those that did were having an exceptionally difficult time trying to wrap their heads around what had happened.

There was no warning. One moment they were descending toward an uneventful landing, and the next they found themselves rolling along the runway. It all had happened so quickly it was hard to summon any cogent memories from the chaos of emotions, sights, and sounds.

There had been sixteen people in the passenger portion of the jet, eight of which were trained soldiers and the other eight technicians. To be more precise, the eight technicians were scientific and medical staff dispatched to Anchorage to collect data about the opening outset of the outbreak, which was believed to be where the insanity had begun. They had been tasked to determine the plague’s cause. Once that was known, then maybe.… Well, no one was sure how to use that information yet; but until they knew more about its origins, the infection could never be stopped, only contained.

Can you open your eyes?

The sounds, barely intelligible through the clamorous din still echoing between her ears, sounded like they were rising up from the depths of a dark well. She could hear them but just barely.

I need you to open your eyes. Words, the sounds were words. Yes, she was convinced they were words with meaning. Unfortunately, she was still finding it difficult to clearly separate the words from the background chatter. Was it a question? What did he want?

I…need…you…to open your goddamned eyes! This time, the words were more pointed, demanding her attention. Complying with the command as best as she was able, her eyes blinked several times as they adjusted themselves to the aggressive light.

What’s your name?

Huh? she somehow managed, as still more came into focus for her.

What’s your name? the voice sounded increasingly impatient and frustrated.

Specialist Miller, Cathlyn R, Sergeant. Her voice, acting on its own accord apparently, answered for her while she continued to catch up to her circumstances.

What day is it? The voice had relaxed somewhat though still retained its singular focus.

Quicker this time, she answered, Wednesday. I think.

Date? What is the date?

Zed plus…plus. I can’t remember the date. I can never remember the date. Isn’t it enough that I know it’s Wednesday?

Realizing the soft, fuzzy images she had been seeing had coalesced into sharp clarity, Cate was suddenly and painfully aware of her unfortunate but opportune position. Unable to contain it, Cate was barely able to unlatch her restraints before she violently emptied the contents of her stomach through her nose and mouth. She choked out several waves of acidic, burning foulness into the space at her feet before it dawned on her that there should have been a seat back in front of her. And beyond that, there should have been the rest of the plane, but it had been sheared off cleanly so that Cate now sat in the most forward point on the aircraft which also happened to be wide open.

Swallowing hard and sitting up straight, she couldn’t help but vomit again, becoming a geyser of projectile granola chunks and yogurt. It took a few seconds, but she was finally able to get her dry heaves under control. Through all the unpleasantness, Cate searched her mind to try to remember who had been sitting in the seats in front of her. She struggled to remember faces but then dreaded her rising memories. It didn’t matter; not at the moment anyway.

Staring at the empty space in front of her, Cate couldn’t deny that the overwhelming emotion she was feeling was…relief. Regardless of who had been seated there, she was remorselessly thankful that it hadn’t been her.

Wiping the trails of slobber from her chin as she straightened her back, Cate’s mind struggled to keep pace. Her eyes finally able to focus clearly, she looked over her shoulder, fearing who she would and would not see.

Chapter 5

The Anchorage International Airport had, at one time, been surrounded to varying extent by fences and natural barriers. Primarily intended to ward off errant wildlife such as moose and bear, the fences also discouraged people from wandering aimlessly onto a busy tarmac.

In most places, the fence had failed in the early hours when the infection first swept through the city. Terrified refugees, some using automobiles, wrecked the fences in their bids to escape.

Now, the vast open spaces of the airport situated on the far western reaches of Anchorage stood open for passage by any visitors regardless of intent. The main terminals had been ravaged in the chaotic melee as people fought for their lives in and around the sizeable structures all those months ago.

The buildings themselves were in partial ruins, having fallen victim to flame and destruction. Their window frames, blackened from fire and missing their glass, stared blankly out across the chaotic tangle of abandoned automobiles stretched across the lanes in front of the terminal entrances.

Scattered amongst the tightly packed vehicles were the discarded remnants of people’s lives: suitcases and backpacks, miscellaneous articles of clothing, shoes and boots, toys, books, everything. When the only thing that mattered was getting away and staying alive, all the things that had seemed so important for so long were dropped and forgotten without a second thought. And now, those abandoned distractions were all that remained of the thousands who had died piteously in the buildings in which they hoped to find salvation.

Many of those who perished during the early hours were granted neither peace nor rest upon their deaths. Instead, they were wrenched violently from their moment of cold slumber by a seething rage fueled by an insatiable and unnatural hunger. Over the months, they had wandered and then come to a fitful rest in parks, around Lake Hood, and along streets as a dreadful quiet settled over the city. And that was how they remained until the jet arrived followed by a resounding explosion that disturbed their tormented hibernation.

Marching toward the fading memorial of man’s crumbling world, the wretched, decaying horde approached the airport. Their senses, heightened and alert, detected activity, movement, sound, man, prey. Their steps, at first inconstant and unsure, gained confidence and pace. They moved purposefully again.

The infection hungered, driving them mad…driving them toward the promised feast. Smoke, rising languidly above the tree line, served as a beacon, attracting their focus and stoking their rage.

Chapter 6

Can he be moved? The voice was desperate and short of breath.

Across a pile of debris that included seat cushions, backpacks, and blankets, a man with the bearing of a physician propped himself up on his arms and answered the question with a baleful shake of his head and then lowered his eyes.

Beside and partially beneath him was another, younger man whose head was wrapped with bandages and whose face was rapidly fading of color. Consciousness eluded the young man who appeared to have suffered a grievous injury.

Having checked his patient, the doctor shifted himself back into a more comfortable position on his back. He too was injured and appeared to have been robbed of the use of his legs. Finally back at rest, the older man let out a long, pained sigh.

Watching all of this, the man who had asked the question thought for a few moments, scanning the wreckage and then the buildings closest to them. He closed his eyes tightly and ran options through his head. To himself, the officer whispered, And comms have gone down now. He breathed heavily and said, Cut off, damnit. On our own.

Finally, his eyes still closed, he said authoritatively, Okay. Sergeant Daniels, gather any gear you can in the next five minutes. You’ve gotta move fast. We can’t have much time. Those things will be coming out of the woodwork at any moment.

Yes, sir, responded a serious-looking man with all the trappings and scars of a professional soldier.

The man continued, And then, Sergeant, you and the team will finish our mission.

Cracking his austere facade, the sergeant’s expression changed suddenly, as if he had been slapped by a cold, icy fist. But, sir? Captain?

The captain, a solidly built man with more than forty years in his rearview mirror, leaned against the jet’s broken fuselage and winced in pain. His right shin was fractured and swollen, the darkening bruise running the length of his skin practically shining through his shredded pant leg. He was also pretty certain the pulsing ache in the lower right side of his abdomen was serious too, though he wasn’t sure what the actual injury was. Regardless, he was convinced that it was serious enough to believe it was likely fatal because he had never felt this degree of pain from an injury like this in the past. This wasn’t a simple bruise or soft tissue damage which were all too familiar to him. He could feel himself winding down, like a battery burning the last of its juice.

He looked down at the unconscious young man lying on the ground at his feet and couldn’t help but shake his head. With his eyes still down and filling with tears, he said, Sergeant, that’s an order. Get the gear gathered and get your team back on mission. You’re the honcho from here on out. You need to finish our mission. Command is counting on us…

The captain had to pause to catch his breath. Wincing in pain and carefully massaging his side, he said, almost pleading, Just try to get everyone, yourself included, out to safety. They’re counting on you. I’m counting on you. Finishing, the captain fixed his glistening eyes on the sergeant for a long second.

That was enough. Sergeant Tyler Daniels nodded his head and said to the others, You heard the captain. Four minutes until we vacate. Let’s get to it. Bendtner, get us ready to go. Everyone is armed. Salvage what you can. Put ‘em to work.

Douglas Bendtner, a mountain of a man standing at a height closer to seven feet than six and with the frame of a linebacker, nodded and started into his task by sorting through backpacks and gear that was all still stowed beneath a cargo net. In his massive hands, the full-sized backpacks looked like children’s school book bags. He located name tags clipped to each bag, pulling those that matched their dwindling team. He also removed the captain’s bag and moved it to the front of the row.

Using the commotion and activity around him as a screen, Sergeant Daniels moved in closer to the clearly struggling captain. Sir. I never question orders but I’ve got to say that I think there’s time to move all of you still. You’re making a mistake, sir. You don’t have to do this.

The doctor lying next to the unconscious man had been attending the conversation all along. He finally said quietly, never taking his eyes off of the spot on the ceiling at which he was staring, "Sergeant, the captain is right. The boy can’t be moved. It would kill him. And the captain…his leg is broken in a couple of places. I managed to get the bone back into the skin and set a soft splint, but he can’t walk and you can’t carry him. Me…hmmm…my back is broken…I think…I’m havin’ a hard time keeping up…right now. The meds are starting to kick my ass.

There’s simmmplll…simmmm-ply…no… The doctor’s words trailed off and his hands fell slack.

Captain Knox, watching the older man slip into unconsciousness, sighed deeply and whispered to the wind, Goodbye, Doc. The captain then looked up at Sergeant Daniels imploringly and said, Ty, I can’t leave him.

The officer looked down at the boy lying next to the now still and lifeless surgeon. He couldn’t contain his emotion and let the tears fall from his eyes. I just can’t.

But, sir?

Sergeant, I know you can get our job done and get your team home. Reconnect comms with Central as soon as you are able. Proceed to the hospital and complete your mission if practical. You’re a good soldier and a good man, Ty. Take care of them and get all of you home safely. That’s an order, soldier.

Sergeant Daniels, his eyes filled with concern, answered only, Sir.

Never once looking up from the young man on the ground, the captain shook his head and said with a painful shudder that swept Daniels in its wake, He’s my son. He’s all I have left. He…he shouldn’t have come. Why did I let him?

Sergeant Daniels said nothing; there was nothing to be said. He stood at attention, respecting his officer’s space and his pain. He really didn’t know what else to do. That wasn’t his forte; managing emotions and feelings was not one of his strengths, which is precisely why he had become a soldier. He liked the structure and predictability of the military. Well, the former structure and predictability.

Things had changed dramatically in recent days. Once upon a time, there would have been no way that a father and son would have been sent on such a mission together. It went back to some brothers who all died on the same ship in World War Two. The name always escaped him but the story left an impression. His father had been in the Army too and had not yet retired when Sergeant Daniels enlisted.

That was, of course, many years ago, in a different time…in a different world. Remembering his father as he did…the old man’s face and its many lines, his teeth, yellowed from years of smoking and chewing on cigars, his big heavy hands and the powerful fists into which they could be made.… There were so many other images that came to mind in that flash of a second, but what truly mattered was that he understood the captain’s insistence.

He also understood the regret and loss which had infested the captain’s eyes. After all, his son’s inclusion on the insertion team had been one of the captain’s demands. This was going to be a quick and relatively secure mission. It wasn’t without its risks but aerial reconnaissance flights had shown that most of Anchorage appeared inactive, as if the multitudes of undead had migrated out of the city. It seemed as if Anchorage was largely dormant.

Now, facing the inevitable for both his only remaining child and himself, the captain was determined that his son would not be alone when he faced, even unconsciously, his final moments. He wouldn’t allow his child to slip into the dark by himself.

Understanding that the captain was resolved to his fate, Sergeant Daniels nodded to the officer, knelt into a pile of wreckage, and fished out an M4 assault rifle. Digging into the debris again, he produced a belt with pouches containing several thirty-round magazines. Checking the rifle first and then slapping in one of the magazines, the silent sergeant handed the weapon to his commanding officer as if presenting his firearm for inspection. Full of parade ground formality and gravitas, the gesture was crisp and exaggerated. When done, the sergeant held the captain’s eyes for a few seconds as the scavenging started to come to its end.

Sergeant Daniels returned his attention to the handful of crash survivors who were able to stand. There were four of them in total besides the sergeant. Cathlyn Miller, Alonzo Martinez, and Veronica Willets were all technicians comprising the balance of the medical research team. Bendtner was the only other member of the security detail still on his feet. They were moving about, some more enthusiastically than others, gathering equipment from the wreckage.

Sergeant Daniels warned them, Only grab what you can carry easily. We’ll be on foot unless we can find a vehicle to commandeer, so make it easy on yourselves. We’re outta here in thirty.

Martinez, slipping a small tablet computer back into his pack, stood up and protested, You can’t just leave them behind. That’s…barbaric!

Without so much as even looking at the excited man, the sergeant said calmly, It’s just the way it is.

But…?

Doc, I recommend you get to it. We’re about ready to evac and if you’re not ready, then you’re staying behind. Get your gear and anything else you need.

But…? Martinez was nearly sputtering in disbelief at the sergeant’s callousness.

That’s an order. Get me? The sergeant’s eyes could well have burned a hole in Martinez’s forehead as he spoke.

Utterly flabbergasted but unsure what else to do, Alonzo Martinez, who was a medical database administrator and not a doctor at all, shouldered his black, standard-issue pack and secured the straps around his waist. He was also carrying a smaller, dark purple pack that he slung casually over his right shoulder. The smaller bag sported a pair of silver lightning bolts on its side and across its face. In that bag he carried the non-standard issue Alienware laptop, his pride and joy. Under his breath, he muttered, I’m not a doc.

Sergeant Daniels heard the comment but decided he could deal with it later when he had more time and was no longer afraid he would go too far and kill the other man. All good things in time.

Chapter 7

Wiping the dripping slobber from her chin as she was pulled from the chair next to Martinez, Cate’s mind struggled to keep pace. Her feet, acting strictly on instinct, helped propel her forward as much as the strong hands which kept her connected to the rest of the fleeing herd.

Running. She wasn’t sure to where. Just get away. Danger. Footprints in the dust. Panting breaths. Doors. Locked. Fear. Desperation. Hallways. Echoes. Quiet.

When they finally came to a stop, Cate found herself utterly disoriented. Falling to the floor, she ducked her head between her knees and tried to find her breath, which continued to elude her best efforts. When she opened her eyes again, she nearly panicked.

She was greeted with close to total darkness; a deep gloom that swallowed and hid everything within it. Even her nightmares contained more light than…wherever she was. Worse still, she suddenly feared that she might be alone. Thankfully, she heard breathing but then was stricken with the terror of what could be breathing so near to her.

Hands on her and then a familiar voice, Cate? Is that you? It was Veronica, which helped Cate to control the fit that was threatening to break.

Instead, Cate asked all within earshot, Where…where are we? Her voice was broken by a series of pants as she continued to control her breathing. Her voice echoed quietly into the darkness and bounced back reluctantly, suggesting the room in which they stood or sat was fairly immense.

No one answered at first. She could still hear others breathing and could still sense someone standing near her, but she had no idea who was still with her. Veronica was near but, for all Cate knew, the two of them were alone.

Another voice, with the distinctive cadence and rising rhythms of a Mexican accent, asked, What happened? It was unmistakably Alonzo Martinez asking this question, but it was a question that circled in Cate’s head as well.

Cate was still having a hard time processing what had