Whitey went for his knife, but it was too late; blood jetted from Meyer’s neck. The muscles and tendons stretched. His neck was cranked beyond measure, and a second later, his head was torn from his body, the blood now a geyser. Meyer’s torso collapsed, the hands clenching and unclenching.
Hamilton scooped up Meyer’s assault rifle.
Mills looked up. Beams and girders crisscrossed the hangar’s ceiling. Beyond the beams he saw more tentacles lowering toward the ground. A large, dark shape was visible up there. The big beastie that had destroyed Arnie. “Light ‘em up!”
The squad raised their weapons and fired into the ceiling. The creature shrieked as the bullets tore into it.
“Keep moving. Follow me,” Mills said. As he darted ahead, a tentacle whipped in front of him. He dodged left; glanced behind to ensure the squad was following.
A scream.
A tentacle had wrapped around Chomski’s leg. The man fell to the ground as the tentacle tightened, and Chomski was snatched up, screaming. In a matter of seconds he was twenty feet in the air, too high to reach. Mills took aim through the scope, tried to shoot the tentacle, but it was too thin to risk the shot. Chomski was carried into the rafters. The resulting screams churned Mills’ stomach.
Chomski was gone. Nothing Mills could do to help him. Their mission was to get Hamilton to safety. He hated this part of the job.
He signaled the squad to keep moving.
They made it to the other end of the hangar. Steel groaned and shifted above them. Was this unseen horror making its way down to come finish them off?
The squad double-timed it back to the breach in the ship without incident. That concerned Mills. Was something worse coming?
Mills felt the cool air on his face, breathed sweet air and was never happier to see daylight in all his life.
As he stepped out of the ship, Chan and Ramirez had the DREAD gun set up on a tripod; a long ammo belt snaked out of the weapon and ended into a steel case.
“Pack that thing up,” Mills called as he jogged toward Chan and Ramirez. “We’re going back to Zulu.”
Chan said, “Do we have to?”
He sounded like a kid who’d been told to put away his toys and come for dinner. “Sorry Chan, you don’t get to blast anything today. Pack it up.”
“Where’s Meyer and Chomski?”
“Some big bastard got them. Hurry up and stow that thing. We need to go.”
Mills heard the now-familiar chatter of parasites rise from inside the breach, and turned to see three crewmembers shamble out. More shapes were visible in the dark behind them.
“Okay Chan. Do your thing,” Mills said.
Chan took the controls of the DREAD gun and opened up, the gun pumping out deadly rounds in a fan-shape. The crewmembers were vaporized. Still more came. Chan cut them down as they poured from the breach.
The DREAD gun clicked. It was effective as hell, but reloading was a bitch.
“Fuck it. Get in the APC,” Mills said.
They made it to the APC and got the ramp up. Bronson swung it around, the undead crew scraping and scratching at the vehicle. He looked around: six of his people left, plus Hamilton.
“Hope Zulu has some hot chow waiting for us,” Whitey said.
Zulu One Three reminded Mills of a castle: thirty-foot high, reinforced concrete walls, gun turrets at the corners, and a foot-thick steel gate. The military had learned quickly to build sturdier bases after the uglies had overrun base after base, tearing through chain link and barbed wire like it was nothing.
The squad headed to the mess hall. Hamilton stayed with them as the group grabbed mess trays. Mills chose not to eat; his stomach was still queasy.
His people were eating in silence, most of them looking at their food or staring straight ahead.
Hamilton was nibbling on a donut. “What now?” she said.
“Well, an airship is supposed to arrive at twenty-one hundred hours to pick you up.”
“What about your people?”
“There’s room for one extra person on the ship,” Mills said. “You’re it. Besides, they’re probably going to use us for the offensive.”
“Offensive?”
“Command’s sending reinforcements here. Canadian troops, too. Going to take back Denver first, from what I hear.”
“I want to stay and fight,” Hamilton said, determination in her gaze.
“I admire that, but they need you elsewhere.”
“I’m glad you admire that, Sergeant, but if I want to stay and fight, I will. I’m not the property of the USCI.”
“Fair enough. You can take that up with Command.”
Mills heard the familiar click of boot heels approaching; the sound of someone moving with a purpose. A moment later Lieutenant Colonel Murphy approached the table. Murphy had ink-black hair and a mustache to match. He was dressed in camo fatigues, and his boots had a high shine to them. Probably never saw a lick of combat.
“On your feet, boys,” Mills said.
They all stood and saluted as Murphy neared.
Murphy returned the salute. “As you were. Ms Hamilton, good to see you. The Sergeant did his job, I see. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Murphy.”
Hamilton nodded and gave him a thin smile.
“Hamilton, Command has big plans for you. A full press tour, going out to build morale for the offensive.”
“No disrespect, Colonel, but I’m not much for PR, I do my best work in the field.”
“I would think it would be a nice break for you. I heard you kicked ass in Baltimore. Drove them back to the ocean. The public needs to hear from you. This offensive is crucial.”
“I’m sorry, but I want to stay and fight.”
Murphy ignored the request. “Your airship will be here in two hours. Sergeant Mills and his team will secure the airfield and see you off safely.”
Mills said, “Secure the airfield?”
“We’ve lost three airships this month. Those slimy bitches keep hitting the airfield. You’ll keep the area clear while Hamilton takes off.”
Wonderful. “You got it, sir.”
Murphy opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the ear-piercing wail of an air raid siren. For all their new technology, the air raid siren dated back to the Third World War. That hadn’t changed, at least.
“Mills, get your people and meet me on the wall over the gate,” Murphy said.
Mills gave Murphy a quick rundown of the mission while they stood on the wall looking out at the plains. In the distance, the ruined hulk of the ship taunted.
An infantryman approached Murphy, assault rifle slung over his shoulder. “Colonel we have approximately a hundred to a hundred-and-fifty life forms about four clicks out. Moving slow and steady.
“Visual?” Murphy asked.
“They appear to be reanimations,” the soldier said.
“That would be the crew from the ship,” Mills confirmed.
“Is the rail gun up and running?” Murphy said.
“We might be able to get one blast out of it,” the soldier said.
“Hit them with it. Let’s see what it does.”
Mills looked past the colonel to the EMP gun mounted on the wall. He’d never seen one in action so far. It would fire an electromagnetic pulse and hopefully rip the approaching crewmen apart.
He noticed Hamilton had slid up next to him. She was carrying an MP-29 assault rifle with a smart grenade launcher mounted under the barrel.
“Where’d you get the toy?” Mills asked.
“The colonel gave it to me. It’s an early Christmas present,” she said.
Mills flipped down his goggles. The crew shambled along. They wouldn’t be hard to take out, and even if they reached the walls, he didn’t think they could climb.
The crew was getting the EMP gun ready to fire.
“Is that ready yet?” Murphy said. He was slinging an assault rifle of his own, and had also thrown on a pack with extra magazines.