Authors: Stephen Knight
He turned up 86th Street and headed toward Second Avenue. As he crossed the intersection of York Avenue, a zombie appeared right in front of him. It turned toward him and its eyes widened when it saw him in the darkness. There was no opportunity to do anything else but shoot it. Gartrell blew its head off with one shot, then jumped over the carcass and ran up 86th Street. The AA-12’s loud discharge captured the interest of every stench in the area, and before he knew it, the intersection behind him was filling with moaning, walking corpses. And ahead, more stenches appeared, hurrying down the street from Second Avenue. Gartrell was caught between two waves of oncoming zombies.
There was only one thing left to do. Hide.
Gartrell dropped to the ground and slid beneath a car parked at the curb. He flipped up his night vision goggles and unstrapped his AA-12 so he could fit beneath the car; with his body armor and the rest of his gear, it made for a very, very tight fit. He reached down with his right hand and drew his Heckler & Koch Mk 23 SOCOM pistol. It took some effort, as he could barely move. Even with the pistol in hand, if the zeds discovered him he had no doubt how he would fare.
Sure gives a new meaning to the term close-quarters combat.
He then remembered that if McDaniels and the civilians made it to the Coast Guard cutter, it would make a lot of sense to contact the major and let him know Gartrell was still alive. He cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner, and he keyed his microphone button twice.
Click. Click.
“Gartrell! Terminator Five, is that you? Over.” As hyper-alert as he was, McDaniels’ voice sounded louder than usual in Gartrell’s ears.
Gartrell keyed his microphone button.
Click. Click.
Two clicks for yes, one click for no—that was how they’d been trained to communicate when voice contact wasn’t possible. And with a thousand zombies advancing on the area where Gartrell lay, having a nice easy chat with the major wasn’t going to happen.
“Five, this is Six. Can you speak? Over.”
Click.
“Five, this is Six. Are you somewhere on 79th Street? Over.”
Click.
“Five, are you injured? Have you been bitten? Over.”
Click.
“Five, stand by.” The radio fell silent, and above the distant pounding artillery, Gartrell listened to the moans of the dead. He heard their footfalls as they shuffled along the street and sidewalk, and from the corner of his eyes he caught vague glimpses of them as they shambled past the car. So far, so good.
Something grated nearby, metal on metal. Gartrell turned his head toward the sound. One of the ghouls had kicked his AA-12. The weapon lay on the street only a few feet away, but the zombies ignored it. Of course, how could they know one of the keys to his continued survival lay at their feet?
“Five, this is Six.” McDaniels didn’t sound happy. “The Coast Guard won’t allow us to come ashore and rescue you. You have to find a place and hole up, over.”
Gartrell shook his head.
Are you fucking kidding me?
Click. Click.
“I’ll be back, Gartrell. As soon as I can get some fellow legionnaires or even lightfighters, we’ll be back for you. Over.”
Click.
It was stupid for anyone to come back to New York City just for him. If Gartrell couldn’t find his way out, then there was no way anything less than an entire Army Corps was going to be able to rescue him.
“Five, this is Six. We’ll be back for you. I’ll bring you back to your wife and kids. I swear it.”
Apparently, McDaniels didn’t see things the same way. Gartrell hit his microphone button once.
Click.
“Gartrell…we’ll be back, Gartrell. You know the code, we never leave our own behind.”
Well, you’re going to have to this time, major.
Gartrell knew McDaniels would continue preaching the party line and espouse Gartrell not to give up hope. Then and again, McDaniels was apparently safe and sound on the Coast Guard cutter, so he could spout those kinds of platitudes and not really know just how ridiculous they sounded to someone on the receiving end. To avoid that, Gartrell switched off his radio.
He flipped down his night vision goggles and slowly checked the territory to either side of the vehicle. Dozens of legs stalked back and forth as the zeds cast about in the darkness, looking for him. Gartrell was completely surrounded, and as soon as the sun came up…
He looked at the Mk 23 pistol in his right hand, and wondered when he would finally have to use it—on himself.
Three loud, long horn blasts cut through the air. The stenches all turned as one to the east and faced the East River. Gartrell wondered what they saw, but his feet were pointed toward the river, and there just wasn’t enough room under the car to turn around. But over the rumble of the distant artillery, he heard something else—the rhythmic throb of big diesel engines. The horn blasted again, and the zombies shuffled toward the river. Gartrell knew it was the
Escanaba
getting underway. Had the horn blasts been intentional on the part of the Coast Guard, or McDaniels? An attempt to draw as many stenches to the shoreline as possible, and give Gartrell a chance? Or was it just Coast Guard procedure?
Whichever, it didn’t matter to Gartrell. The horn blasts kept sounding, and the zeds practically fell all over themselves trying to get back to the river. Soon, Gartrell saw no pacing feet on either side of the car. He was, for the moment, alone.
He crawled out from under the vehicle and picked up his AA-12. Keeping to a crouch, he took a moment to make a long scan of the immediate vicinity. He was half a block from Second Avenue, and perhaps four blocks from East River Drive. Looking in that direction, he saw the
Escanaba
was indeed underway; she’d turned around and was heading back to the sea. All along East 86th Street, apartment buildings and small shops stood silent watch over the dark street. It would be dawn soon, and Gartrell knew he had better find some shelter or risk becoming something’s breakfast.
Or, more likely, forced to eat his gun and put a bullet in his own brain.
A Starbucks was across the street. He hurried across the traffic-clogged artery, keeping to a crouch, avoiding contact with the zombies wherever possible. Indeed, they were quite fixated on the
Escanaba
’s bleating horn, and that was curious. It seemed anything that might lead them to a food source was worthy of 100% attention.
The door to the Starbucks was, miraculously, unlocked. Gartrell stepped inside slowly, panning his AA-12 from side to side as he walked down the flight of three steps to the main floor. The coffee urns sat silent and cold behind the counter. Pastries were still inside the refrigerated display case, though it had stopped running quite some time ago. Gartrell eyed what he thought were cinnamon coffee cakes with some intent, regretful now that he had abandoned his rucksack and the several Meals Ready to Eat it contained. Not that MREs were even remotely palatable, but a man on the run from the zombie horde needed something to keep him going. The offerings from Starbucks would make a suitable substitute, even if a trifle stale.
And Lord knows the coffee cake’s gonna taste better than Meals Rarely Edible…
He turned away from the display case and took a long look around the shop. The NVGs revealed everything in stark, green-and-white detail. To his right, a short hallway that led to a single restroom. Beside that, another door—probably to the utility area. Next to the door he had entered through, an elevator for disabled patrons—not that anyone would be using it in the near future. To his left lay the dining area. Moving slowly, Gartrell stepped around the counter and looked down its length, toward the barista’s area. He raised his AA-12 immediately when he saw a figure crouched on the floor there.
It was a woman. A
live
woman, not a zed. He doubted she could see him clearly, but she must have heard him enter the store; while Gartrell had moved as stealthily as possible, the coffee shop was as silent as a tomb, and even the small noises of his movements stood out. She was dressed in clean, faded jeans, Nike running shoes, and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. Her hair was on the short side, short enough for Gartrell’s NVGs to pick up the glitter of the diamond studs in her ears. Her eyes scanned from right to left as she tried to separate his outline from the dark background of the wall behind him. Gartrell cataloged all of these details automatically, but filed them away as tactically irrelevant under the current circumstances. Only one aspect of the sudden encounter commanded his complete attention.
That was the fact she had a gun pointed right at him.
Excerpt:
CITY OF THE DAMNED
By Stephen Knight
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004Q3RIHK
PART ONE:
SEPULCHRE
[Prehistoric man] knew that life was uncertain and sometimes short, that death was inevitable and sometimes abrupt. Every time he set out for the hunt he was aware that some day...the end would come with a slash and an outpouring of blood. It is not difficult to understand why...he should have come to the conclusion not merely that blood was essential to life, but that it was the essence of life itself.
—A
NTHROPOLOGIST
R
EAY
T
ANNAHILL
CHAPTER 1
“Ellenshaw says he’s coming with us.”
Mark Acheson looked up from the map he had spread across the Humvee’s hood. Four rocks pinned it to the sheet metal, preventing the dry breeze from carrying it away. Julia McGuiness’s eyes were unreadable behind her dark sunglasses.
“Really.” Acheson wiped a hand across his forehead. It was damp with sweat, which wasn’t surprising, given that they were in the middle of Bumfuck, Arizona. “Did he say why he wants to violate the rules of engagement?”
“He just asked me to let you know he’s coming along,” Julia said.
Cecil Hayes grunted and shuffled his feet. Rivulets of sweat ran down his bald head, making his black skin glisten in the hot Arizona sunlight. “Man should be in the TOC, havin’ himself a stay-cation.”
Acheson pushed his sunglasses up on his thin nose, and glanced back at the big GMC RV that served as the team’s tactical operations center. The windows were tinted, so he couldn’t see anyone inside.
“I’ll talk with him,” he told Julia. “Sharon, you continue with the brief.”
Sharon Thompson nodded. “Roger that.”
“Acheson walked away from the Containment Team and headed for the RV. His boots kicked up dry dust that was snatched away by a breeze so arid it could have come from a hair dryer. A large German shepherd trotted across the desert, and it bounded toward Acheson when he separated from the group. His tongue lolled from one side of his mouth as he pranced about Acheson, sniffing and huffing. Acheson patted the dog’s head.
“Keep cool, Zeke,” he said.
Zeke huffed again, then bounded over to a nearby Saguaro cactus and baptized it with a stream of urine. As Acheson stepped into the RV’s shadow, the door opened.
“Hello, Mark.” Robert Ellenshaw stepped out of the RV. He wore the same dun-colored Army battle dress utilities as Acheson. He closed the door behind him and looked out across the desert, squinting against the harsh light. He slipped on his sunglasses.
“Did Julia give you my message?”
Acheson nodded. “Yeah. You’re not coming with us, Robert. It’s against the ROE.”
Ellenshaw smiled tightly and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I authored the rules of engagement, Mark. You don’t need to remind me of them.”
“Apparently I do. I lead the containment team in the field, while you stay behind and monitor things from the tactical operations center.” Acheson slapped the side of the RV with one hand. “Right here. You don’t go any further.”