Most of those clothes were torn, shredded, ripped, or even half off. Something else struck him as odd about the approaching crowd, but he could not put his finger on it; the night vision revealed only so much.
Gant turned to his new science officer and said, "Doctor Stacy."
She did not respond. Her eyes — through the night vision goggles — remained fixed on the approaching horde.
He tried again, a little firmer, "Annabelle Stacy, are you awake over there? What do you make of this?"
"Huh? Oh, I don't know. I left the ECAM outside with our packs. But look, it's safe to say whatever it is isn't airborne," she replied and glanced at Costa, who, despite his panic from having spent all day on the run, was obviously uninfected by any disease or toxin.
Gant agreed and took off his gas mask. The air felt fresh for only a moment; too much heavy humidity for it to feel like a relief. Still, he appreciated being able to discard the thing. He planned to remove the bulky overgarment when time permitted.
"Damn, I'm onboard with that," Wells said as he removed his own mask. Stacy did the same a moment later.
"You say these things attacked you?"
Agent Costa answered the major, "Tore two of my men to shreds and took the senator. But look, why are we talking about this right now? We have to get going," he said and tried to lead them out the back by moving across the cottage toward the rear door.
Wells approved of the idea: "Hey, Major, I think they know we're here. The idea of sneaking out the back sounds pretty good to me."
Gant knelt near the open front door with his eyes and weapon pointing out. Studying. Analyzing. Weighing his options.
He preferred simple solutions, even to complicated problems. The simple solution here was to blast away the approaching threat and leave the analyzing for the autopsies. That, however, had been Costa's choice and in the end he had lost both men, his charge, and all of his ammunition.
Stacy broke into his thoughts, "If this is some kind of disease or virus, it's possible these people can be cured."
Costa insisted, "Bullshit, lady. They're already dead! Look! They aren't breathing!"
Wells nearly spit the word: "Zombies? You have to be kidding me."
"We kept shooting them," Costa said. His voice grew more panicked with each word; with each step closer the mob came to the cottage. "Some of them went down with one shot; others kept coming until we blasted them to pieces. They aren't alive! Nothing alive could keep moving!"
"Agent Costa," Gant said, forcing his voice to remain steady and even, "calm down."
"Calm down? Are you crazy? Look at them!"
Clearly unnerved, Wells growled at the agent, "Man, shut the—"
"I'm not getting ripped up like Barnes. No way!" Costa stood and took a step in retreat. "Are you coming or do you want to be eaten alive?"
Gant did not like having his hand forced. Traditional tactics would point to staying inside the cover of the bungalow and engaging the approaching mass at distance. The area was wide open out front, the perfect killing zone.
If bullets actually work.
Then again, the very existence of Task Force Archangel revolved around nontraditional tactics to fight unconventional enemies.
Costa made his own decision: "Screw you. I am out of here!" He turned and withdrew at a fast walk to the back of the cottage.
"Costa! Get back here!" Gant ordered.
He did not listen to Gant's order, disappearing out the back of the bungalow.
"He's been here all day," Wells stated the obvious, "and he thinks it's a good idea to run. I'm just sayin'."
The advancing tide of lumbering creatures moved to within thirty yards of the front door. While most of their features remained hidden, he could now see broken and missing limbs as well as heads hanging at awkward angles. The idea that these creatures were animated corpses gained ground in his mind.
"Major," Stacy said and then, a little more forcefully, "Thom?"
"Damn it. Okay. Withdraw, people. Out the back and make for the beach. We'll circle toward our drop zone from there. We'll worry about the gear we left outside later."
They retreated to the sliding glass door at the rear of the home and exited to a backyard that was nothing more than a few square feet of neatly trimmed grass around a stone patio adorned with white wicker furniture.
Agent Costa was nowhere to be found.
The group headed for the cover of the tall grass separating the bungalow from the beach. Wells led the way, using his night vision goggles to find the best path through the brush.
"Slow down and stick together," Gant said. He tried to sound calm as he brought up the rear, covering their backs.
Just as they reached the wall-like patch of tall grass that served as the backyard's perimeter, that grass parted. Two islanders came barreling out, practically falling not from speed but from clumsiness, as if walking were a recently learned skill.
One was an older, roundish man with a gray beard and bent spectacles dangling from a badly mauled nose. The other a middle-aged woman in a blood-splattered sundress hanging just above what had once been sexy legs.
"Major!" Wells nearly screamed in the face of the foul-smelling and gory-looking pair.
Gant understood that Wells sought permission to fire.
"Engage!"
Wells fired his battle rifle at nearly point-blank range. The silencer muffled the rounds but even so the soft thump-thump-thumps seemed like cannon fire that echoed over the grass, the forest, the bungalow, and even the Pacific Ocean.
Sound aside, the first round penetrated the head of the man with the mauled nose. The skull fractured and biological bits — almost colorless in the soldier's night vision — flew away.
Stacy let slip a noise that came from a gray area between scream and gasp.
The sundress-wearing woman reached for agent Wells, momentarily grabbing his arm before he wrenched it free. At the same time, the tourist who had just been shot in the head seemed unfazed save for his balance being greatly disturbed by the impact.
Gant stepped to the side and drew a bead on the two blocking their path. He saw bite marks on the man's neck and noted that the woman's fingernails were mangled and bloated and covered in gory mess. The sight horrified Major Gant, but as with every other emotion and reaction, he managed to take that feeling and push it aside.
Night vision often failed to grasp details but even with limited visibility Gant noticed something even more out of place than the man's mauled nose or the fact that he remained upright despite having suffered a bullet wound to the skull.
A growth of some kind bulged from the tourist's neck and tiny fibrous tendrils covered a wound to his throat — possibly a bite wound — like fine netting.
"Get clear!" Gant ordered.
Wells retreated a step and opened fire with his SCAR-H, thump, thump, thump. The shots hit the man square in the chest at a few paces from point-blank range. The man's body vibrated as if jolted with electricity. Then he advanced again with arms dangling and his head cocked to one side, even while bits of blackened blood and rotting brain trickled down his disfigured face.
The woman reacted to the shout and lunged at Gant. He met her with a rifle butt to the jaw. Her head snapped side to side. She staggered back … then lunged for him again.
This time he opened fire. A series of silenced three-round bursts hit the walking cadaver in quick succession. Blood erupted from her chest while the rounds continued through her body, exiting out her back and slicing into the wall of tall grass behind.