On the other side of the large specimen containment chamber — past Dr. Waters and his goons, beyond the open door, down the corridor, and around the bend — walked Dr. Annabelle Stacy, having left behind the mysterious museum pieces in the storage area.
The sound of gunshots reached her ears. While she did not guess the commotion to be Major Gant's work, it provided something to hold on to in the face of indecision. Where to go? What to do next?
Simple. Follow the sounds of the firefight.
Dr. Stacy did just that.
22
Master Sergeant Franco leaned forward between the two pilots and took in the sight ahead. The first thing he noticed was a column of oily black smoke rising from the weather deck. The second thing he noticed was that the small freighter bore no markings. No name and no flag.
"That's gotta be Wells's boat," Franco said to the two pilots, his loud voice managing to carry over the constant thump and shudder of the chopper's twin rotors. "Take us in. And you," he tapped the copilot on the shoulder. "Radio back that we've got it in sight and are boarding."
He turned around and approached the men gathered in the passenger area of the Sea Knight.
Sal Galati sat with a sniper rifle over his back and a G36 in his hands, seemingly prepared for a variety of threats.
Dave Roberts — the hardened soldier with the boyish face — stood with one hand on a cargo strap and the other over his belly. His eyes were nearly half-closed and his complexion appeared a little pale, suggesting a bout of nausea.
Finally there was Archie Van Buren whose name and thick sideburns had earned him the sobriquet "Mr. President." Van Buren manned the .50 caliber side-door-mounted machine gun.
"We've got a target," Franco told the group. "Got some smoke on the deck and it ain't moving, so we're going in for a closer look."
"Say, Biggy, did you try radioing it?" Galati asked.
"Holy shit, Sal, what a great idea. I didn't think of that. Or maybe I did and they decided not to answer. Maybe we've been trying to radio them since we first picked up the contact."
Sal turned away from the sergeant and focused on the scope mounted on his G36.
Franco muttered, "ass hat," and then moved back between the two pilots as the Sea Knight banked, slowed, and descended toward the drifting freighter.
"Movement on the deck," one of the marine aviators said. "Damn, looks like two fires going."
The man was correct. Franco saw two distinct lines of flames, one to either side of the superstructure.
"You know, Sergeant," the copilot said, "it almost looks like those fires were intentionally set. Look," he said and pointed with one gloved hand. "Both burns are right by the stairs leading toward the bridge."
The other pilot added, "Yeah, um, looks like they poured something out of those barrels and lit it up. Jesus … are they trying to keep those other people away from the bridge?"
Franco tried to follow the men's words. He saw the fires and, yes, they looked like streams of liquid ignited right on the steps leading up toward the stern-mounted bridge and superstructure. In front of those fires was a mob of people standing about so placidly that they made him think of a crowd gathering for some kind of speech or maybe a concert.
"Well, yeah," Franco finally said. "I mean, no shit. That's kind of obvious, isn't it? Fucking marines. Just take us in. And lower the rear ramp so we can rope down there."
"Holy shit," the co-pilot pointed again. "That guy is — I mean — is he on fire? Shit, yeah."
One of the gathering crowd stepped too close to the flames and his clothing went up. Yet the burning man did not seem to react. He sort of stepped side to side, bumping into someone else before collapsing first to his knees and then facedown on the deck.
Franco slapped the pilot on the shoulder and ordered again, "Get us down there. Maybe drop us right on top of the bridge. Then do an orbit."
He turned around and moved to the rear once again, unaware that his constant shuffling back and forth and terse attitude made him seem anxious, no matter how hard he tried to come across as in control.
"Roberts, hook up the ropes. The two of us are dropping in. Mr. Prez, you cover us from the side. Ass hat," Franco said, looking directly at Galati, who, for all his boasts and brags, tended to go sheepish when in Biggy's crosshairs, "latch on to something and cover us from the ramp."
A minute later the rear cargo hatch opened to the sound of groaning hydraulics. A gust of wind brought the foul smell of burning fuel into the helicopter along with a puff of black smoke that caused Roberts to hack, although his airsickness probably contributed to the reaction.
Beyond the edge of the ramp and below waited the flat top of the mysterious freighter. The marine pilots managed to lower the big chopper to within fifteen feet of the roof, expertly staying clear of an antenna tower and away from a small radar array.
Franco peered over the edge. The whirring helicopter blades pushed the smoke off, revealing the rusting paint of the superstructure's metallic roof.
Without looking away, Franco called back, "Okay, Roberts, let's get going."
"Right, Sarge," Roberts replied, sounding oddly muffled.
Curious, Biggy turned around to see the soldier's teenybopper face hidden behind a respirator mask.
"What the fuck?"
"Lots of smoke—"
"Pussy. Let's go."
But Franco stopped again as he saw Galati unsling his sniper rifle after attaching himself to a tether.
"Hey, ass hat, didn't you hear what Wells said? Don't you listen? He said head shots won't do the trick. If it's those walking dead things down there, then you need to blast the fuckers to pieces, like this," and Franco held aloft his USAS-12 automatic shotgun.
Sal paused, put aside the sniper rifle, and grabbed his G36, sacrificing precision for rate of fire.
Franco shook his head and lamented, "You guys are a bunch of dumb asses. Now Roberts, bring your little moon suit and let’s go."
The two men approached the rear of the chopper and the open hatch. Two ropes were attached overhead, one for each soldier. Franco and Roberts grabbed hold and pushed off the extended ramp, twisting somewhat as they descended with the friction of the thick rope acting as a brake.
Three seconds later their boots hit the roof of the small superstructure with a thud that echoed in the vibrating metal.
While the temperature on the freighter could not compare to that of the surface of Tioga Island these days, the burning fuel did create a wall of heat as well as smoke that rose up in front of the bridge and was carried off by the wind into the sky. However, the dual rotors of the Sea Knight pushed, twisted, and turned the black smoke, allowing Franco and Roberts a good look down at the crowd.
"Sarge, are you seeing this?" Roberts asked through his mask.
"Yeah … yeah, I'm seeing this," Franco said and stumbled as he tried to control his revulsion. "Wells wasn't full of shit."
The things gathered on the deck of the freighter matched the description Jupiter Wells had provided. A description of zombies. Walking corpses. The living dead.
Franco and Roberts clearly saw pasty white eyes and rotting skin.
Most of the reanimated cadavers wore splashes of blood, several were missing limbs, and black soot from the oily fire smudged the faces of a few more. Most of their clothes were covered in layers of dirt and bodily gore, but a few colorful beach shirts, straw hats, and bathing suits could be seen among the mob. These were the bodies spirited away from the scene of the crime, most likely to hide that crime.