Graunch Solution Part 7

Ow, my head hurts,” Dale said, rubbing a gash on his temple.

“I’ll make your head hurt more, you dumb ass,” Tanner said, taping his glasses back together. “Now the truck is busted, what’re we going to do now?”

“It’s not my fault, you shouldn’t have poured piss on me!” Dale said, rubbing his head.

“I wouldn’t have upended the pee jug on your dumb ass if you hadn’t been sleeping at the wheel!” Tanner fumed. He pushed his glasses back on and adjusted his duck-hunting hat, pulling down the flaps to cover his ears.

“I’m not the dumb ass, you’re the dumb ass, and besides, I wouldn’t have been falling asleep if you’d taken your turn driving when you were supposed to!” Dale kicked at the front of their Ford, which now had steam coming from it, as the front was tangled around the back of the abandoned Humvee. “Ow,” he yelled, grabbing his foot and then promptly managing to fall over.

Tanner narrowly resisted a sudden urge to kick Dale while he was down, “I couldn’t very well take my turn, and I was doing one of the side quests. How do you expect Link to get where he’s going if I don’t do the side quests?” Tanner asked indignantly.

“God forbid,” Dale muttered, dusting himself off and rising to his feet. “What the hell do we do now?”

“I dunno,” Tanner said, recovering his Game Boy and shoving it into one of the side pockets of his pants. “Keep going I guess,” he added, removing his Ruger Blackhawk from the quick draw holster he carried it in. The gun was actually in .357 Magnum, but like all .357s, it was capable of firing the less powerful .38 Special cartridges as well. Tanner opened the loading gate and checked the load in his cylinder. “I hate to go on foot, but I don’t see us walking back,” he muttered.

“We’re closer to where we’re supposed to go than back I reckon,” Dale said, “But then we lied about how long we needed to get extra food…” he scratched his head. “If we do a hard day’s walk, we’ll be right there, but how we going to get back to get the rest of our payment?”

“Don’t know,” Tanner admitted. He tugged his M16 from the cab and checked the magazine, pulling out a green cotton bandolier containing seven additional 20 round magazines and slinging it over his chest. He also grabbed two loose 30 round mags and jammed them into his side pockets. “Better grab some iron,” he suggested.

Dale pulled out the last of their spliffs and fired it up with one of their modified BIC lighters. “Need to dull the pain,” he explained, leaning in and picking up two of the shotguns, one of the sawed off doubles and a Mossberg pump. “You going to take a gauge too?” he asked.

“Yeah, guess I’d better,” Tanner said, slinging his M16. He picked up a double handful of the loose shells now scattered around the cab and selected the other sawed off double barrel duck gun. “That gives us three scatter guns and my sweet sixteen, think we’re set?”

“Hell no,” Dale said, taking a long drag, “This was some good reefer though.”

“No shit dawg, no shit,” Tanner agreed, reaching over and taking a hit. “We going to burn the truck or leave it?” He gestured towards the several partial cans of diesel still attached to the back.

“Not like we can call triple A,” Dale said sourly. He grabbed a roll of duct tape from the toolbox, and selecting a reasonably clean looking rag, taped it over the cut on his head.

“No, but if we find another truck, maybe we can come back and get our stuff,” Tanner said. He made a face, coughed, and handed the spliff back to Dale. Tanner cocked his head and held a hand to his ear. “It’ll be light soon, but sounds like something is coming up from behind us.”

“We did pass a lot of houses that weren’t burnt, getting nearer the burbs and running out of farm country, could be a lot of nests hid out here,” Dale said. He popped open his duck gun and dropped in two shells, beginning to fill one pocket with .38 shells and another with shotgun shells. “I’m glad I’ve got deep pockets,” he said, patting his Browing hunting coat.

“We’d better move,” Tanner said, clicking off the safety on his own shotgun. “This could get messy bro,” he added.

“Count on it,” Dale agreed.

“Man, I’m glad I’m high,” Tanner said sagely.

“You and me both bro,” Dale said.

“Guess we’d better start wearing out these boots,” Tanner said.

“If you’re gonna die,” Dale sang, using one hand to play an imaginary guitar on his shotgun.

“D-d-die,” Tanner echoed.

“Die with your boots on,” Dale continued as they walked forward toward the still darkened tree line.

“I hate getting up early,” Mac said, rubbing his nose and wishing he had a drink.

As if reading his mind, Molly handed him one of the bottles of Budweiser. “Here, better get drinking, you might have to do some shooting today,” she said. Then she leaned in and rubbed Mac’s head.

Mac grimaced, but opened the beer and took a drink. “Maybe we can find some hard liquor while we’re out,” he said hopefully as he took a long drink.

Molly shrugged, “Could be,” she said with a smile.

Much to Mac’s chagrin, Molly was already up and dressed. She was wearing a pair of black denim jeans, a grey sweater, and already had the Ruger stuffed through her belt. She even had her .30-06 sitting against the top of the futon.

“Aren’t you the chipper one this morning,” Mac grunted, as he eyed Molly’s preparations. “It isn’t even first light yet,” he protested.

Molly shot him a look and drawled, “Come on now Mac, you promised. And we’d best get an early start.”

Mac nodded. He’d promised Molly that they’d go out and see what kind of condition the helicopter was in. Despite his earlier assurances to Molly, Mac was no longer so sure that leaving was the best idea. Leaving the chopper sit out there for months, with no maintenance, he had some serious doubts as to what sort of shape it would be in. Let alone how to find gas to fly it out. Still, he reflected, a promise is a promise. Thinking back on it, there was also at least one item on the helicopter that he thought they could use, assuming that it was still there.

The truck speeding by previously had gelled Mac’s thoughts to other potential means of escape and evasion which might present themselves. A vehicle capable of going cross-country might allow them some mobility, the problem was that what little knowledge he had of the surrounding area was months out of date. The numbers of revenants, single or in groups, that he and Molly had either seen from the windows, or had to shoot while moving around the curtilage, had seemed to be increasing again.

“I cleaned and oiled the Thompson last night,” Mac said. He’d used up the last of his Scotch burning the midnight oil while doing it. “I’ve still got two full drums, and a half dozen twenty rounders. After that, I’ve still got another two hundred rounds loose.” Mac had had the chopper loaded with two .50 caliber ammo cans full of loose .45 ammo. Originally they had an ancient M3 Grease gun on board, scavenged from one or another armored vehicle. They’d lost the Grease gun and it’s operator along the way, but Mac had held on to the ammo. When the rest of his group had split up, no one else had bothered to take it.

“I’m going to take your shotgun too,” Molly said. Already she had the stove going, which was driving out some of the chill, which had crept into the room. She was warming a skillet full of beef stew. “I see you don’t have many shells left for it though.”

Mac had a long out of production Smith and Wesson Model 3000 police riot gun, which had been left behind by some of the sheriff’s posse that had once been guarding the Army Reserve Aviation Depot where Mac had worked. Mac had used the machinery he had available at his disposal to do a rather professional job of cutting the barrel down to lay flush with the magazine tube, reducing the barrel length to around a foot. This resulted in some loss of velocity, but made the weapon easier to swing onto target. Of course, the recoil and muzzle blast were also much more punishing now. The weapon did still have it’s stock, and a canvas sling Mac had scrounged from a broken M16.

Molly now had the shotgun lying across her knees, and was thumbing rounds into the magazine tube. “Watch the stew for me, will you dear?” she asked, as she reached back into a silver colored Winchester box, and removed two more red-hulled rounds.

“Got it,” Mac said, still finding some of the things that they did domestically to be a bit odd.

“How many does this hold, by the way?” she asked.

“Four,” Mac said, “plus you can keep another in the chamber,” he added nonchalantly as he stirred the stew with a wooden spoon. “Breakfast is on, Larry,” he called.

“Coming,” Larry said, looking up from his backpack. He’d already placed his four favorite Joes, a handful of the green army men Mac had gotten him, and his teddy bear into his backpack. Larry never went anywhere without them, and refused to not go out with Mac and Molly this time. His .22 was already leaning against his bag.

Mac nodded and listened to Molly chamber a round in the shotgun. “Ah, mornings,” he whispered.

“Here it comes,” Whitey whispered, adjusting his grip on a bucket. They’d found an old Ford Astro Van up on blocks down in the garage, painted a commercial white and still bearing US Government plates. It had been up on blocks, but the tank had still yielded enough gasoline to fill two buckets when drained.

“I’m ready,” Stavros said, holding the other bucket. They’d both kneeled down on opposite sides of the abandoned van, using it for concealment. Stavros had her hair tied back with a sweatband across her head. Whitey noticed a light sheen of sweat on her.

“Nervous?” he asked.

“I’ll be okay,” she answered.

“Just in case we are all about to die, I have to ask, why were you and Finley stripping down with me in the room?” Whitey whispered.

Much to his surprise Stavros winked and said, “If we survive this, maybe you’ll find out, and we’ll show you,” she said flirtatiously.

Whitey chewed on his pipe stem and considered what the logistics of the “we” part of Stavros’ statement might involve, and looked over to see if Finley had heard, and whether he’d winked too. “So long as I don’t get it in the end,” he muttered. He wished that he could light his pipe, but given that he was holding a bucket full of gasoline, he had to admit, it was probably best to just chew on it for the time being.

“What are you two talking about?” Jenny whispered. She had one of Whitey’s remaining road flares in her hands, the cap already unscrewed. All she’d have to do was wait for Stavros and Whitey to douse the creature with their buckets, then the plan was to light the flare and throw it.

Whitey hoped that when the creature went up, that he and Stavros didn’t go up with it. “How about you kid?” he asked Finley.

“I’m ready, ready as I’ll ever be,” Finley whispered. He was perched behind the engine block of the fan, ready to take a shot over the hood with Hardigan’s rifle if the creature gave him a target.

No one wanted to tax the generators of the complex by keeping the access corridors lit at more than a basic level, so they had to deal with only dim emergency lights. An orange haze seemed to linger as a scraping noise announced the arrival of their pursuer.

Whitey studied it for an instant in the light, wondering just what the hell he was dealing with. The form no longer looked as human as before, and most of its clothing was now gone. Despite the massive trauma that they’d inflicted on it, it was able to half crawl towards them, making a surprising pace. It paused for a moment at the entry to the garage, it’s tongue flicking out, seeming to taste the air.

“On three again,” Whitey whispered, quickly removing his pipe and stashing it in his shirt pocket.

“One,” Stavros counted.

“Two,” Jenny muttered.

“Two and a half,” Finley croaked.

“Three,” Greer said, “I see three fingers, does that mean my headache will go away?” she added, rubbing her temples gently.

Doctor Kaufman smiled slightly, and put her hand down. “I’m afraid that might last a bit longer, but by keeping you under sedation, you should be mostly out of the woods now.”

“Mostly, eh?” Greer asked. She was sitting up in her bed, and was well enough to wish that she had more than a hospital gown to wear. She wondered what had happened to her clothes. “How is…” she paused, her hand unconsciously going to her abdomen.

“It’ll be fine,” Kaufman reassured. She was unwilling to smoke around Greer, both because of the baby and the presence of oxygen bottles in the room. “We were careful in what we administered as soon as your father told us about your condition,” she reassured.

Greer nodded, “And where is my father?” she asked, looking around. He’d been there earlier, she was sure of it.

Kaufman grimaced, “I’m afraid Steiner is monopolizing his company right now,” she said. “But I’m sure he’ll be back here as soon as he’s able.”

“And Hardigan?” Greer asked, whispering.

Again Kaufman grimaced, “I’m afraid Steiner has him cooling his heels right now.” Kaufman paused and squeezed Greer’s hand, “but I think I can arrange something along that end soon.”

Greer blinked, her vision still blurry, and tried to nod, but the pains made her grimace and say a simple “Thank you.”

“How much do you remember about what happened?” Kaufman asked.

Greer sighed and drew reassurance was Kaufman’s squeezing her palm, “Some things that I would prefer I didn’t,” she admitted, squeezing back.

“Why did bypass the security codes to get into the German’s quarters?” Kaufman asked.

“I didn’t bypass anything,” Greer said tiredly, “I had a pretty good idea what code they’d use and I was right.”

“You knew the code?” Kaufman asked, surprise evident in her voice.

“I didn’t know it, but I suspected I knew what it was,” Greer corrected, “I just punched in the digits of Dr. Lang’s old phone number.”

“Why did you have that?” Kaufman asked.

“My father knew him, a long time ago,” Greer said simply, “They used to work together.”

“I see,” Kaufman said, chewing on her lip.

“Is something wrong doctor?” Greer asked.

“No, it’s nothing,” Kaufman said, shaking her head. “Why did you shoot –“ Kaufman looked at a chart – “one, Dieter Auerbach? Who happened to be wearing Dr. Lang’s coat and ID badge. You shot him in the face and the stomach.”

“Because of what I found when I walked through those doors,” Greer said.

“Did you know that there was an egg sack gestating in Auerbach’s stomach?” Kaufman asked.

“Are you asking for yourself, or for Steiner?” Greer asked. Steiner would have been yelling by now, Greer reflected, so it was a mercy that he wasn’t the one asking the questions.

“Both,” Kaufman said. “Do you know why the Germans were here?”

“No, and I don’t want to know,” Greer said. “I just knew I had to stop them.”

“And what convinced you to do that?” Kaufman asked, her curiosity being obvious.

“You didn’t see what was in that cage, Doctor,” Greer said, her eyes focusing on Kaufman’s and locking. “I did. I also saw what it was doing to Auerbach, if that was his name.”

“And what was it doing?” Kaufman asked.

“It had… it had a tentacle or a feeler…. And it was going inside of him… You’ve got to tell Steiner about it, make him believe you. Something isn’t right around here.”

“Shhh, I’ll tell him, I’ll get him now,” Kaufman said soothingly. “You just rest now,” she added, as she withdrew a syringe and medicine bottle.

Greer saw Kaufman inject something into her IV line out of the corner of her eye. “What’s that?” She asked.

“Just something to help you sleep a bit more,” Kaufman said. “It’s nothing to worry about, nothing at all.”

“They said there’d be nothing to worry about,” Mac said conversationally as he slowly looked around the corner of an abandoned bank building. A few loose bills were still scattered about the parking lot. It looked as though someone had wrenched the ATM machine on the side of the building out, as a large vacant spot now sat where it once had. A wrecked Camaro was steered into the drive up lane; the windshield pockmarked with what looked like bullet holes. Mac saw rust colored stains on the interior as he passed it.

“People lie,” Larry said simply. He was staying close to Mac, with Molly just behind. He had his .22 rifle slung over his shoulder, along with his backpack. “They say things they know won’t come true,” he added, frowning.

“Sometimes people don’t mean to lie, Larry,” Molly said, sweeping the area behind them cautiously with the barrel of her shotgun. “They don’t understand what might happen is all, so they end up being wrong.”

“Or sometimes they don’t want to face facts,” Mac said, briefly covering a movement behind an overturned cab with the muzzle of his Thompson. It proved to be just a loose piece of plastic sheeting blowing in the wind.

Mac was wearing his skater helmet, favorite pistol belt and rig, and the Thompson, along with all the spare magazines he had. His boots crunched on the remnants of a Styrofoam food container. The sun was just coming up, burning off the fog from the night. The chopper was going to take the better part of the morning to reach, especially because they had to be more careful now than ever. Mac had landed it in the parking lot of a Wendy’s up by the express way on-ramp, he’d never bothered to check on it, as he hadn’t had any plans to move it. Maybe not even to move in general, as he’d actually gone out of his way to avoid thinking about any potential future.

“Did someone rob the bank?” Molly asked quietly, looking over at the damage.

“Wouldn’t surprise me any,” Mac admitted. “Not sure what good the money would have done them.” He’d been giving Larry real hundred dollar bills to play with. Otherwise they made okay kindling and lousy toilet paper. Even lighting cigars off of bills had lost its appeal, and the ink might burn toxic for all Mac knew.

“Maybe it made them feel better,” Molly said. “You know, like a security blanket.”

Mac tapped his index finger along the grip of his Thompson. “I have mine right here,” he said.

“I had a blanket, when I was littler,” Larry said, incongruously, and then he became quiet again, removing a lollipop from his shirt pocket and beginning to suck on it.

“I hate this part,” Molly said, “walking around out here. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. The not knowing of it all.”

“Wish I could say that you got used to it,” Mac said. He’d been lucky during a large part of the crisis he supposed. Working on helicopters had given him a skill set much in demand. So much so, that he’d been spared the rigors of being turned out to control the swirling riots, crowds of refugees, and general mayhem. “The first time I had to shoot one, I was pulling guard outside one of the aviation hangers. I think they were more worried about people stealing the parts or even an entire aircraft by then,” Mac continued. “There were sheriff’s deputies, part of a posse really, that were supposed to be helping secure the perimeter. A lot weren’t hanging out any more by then. About a dozen revenants got through, fortunately I’d picked up that shotgun from one that ran off-“ Mac paused and motioned for everyone to stop as they rounded another corner.

“What is it?’ Molly whispered tersely, sinking down to a crouch behind Mac. “What’s out there?” she edged up a bit, trying to get a view.

“Quiet,” Mac warned, holding a finger up to his lips.

Standing and milling about in the intersection just in front of the bank was a living mass, packed with revenants, all heading east. Some were still dressed and looked almost alive, except for their hollow eyes and vacant expressions. Others were half rotted, scarred and half burnt, nearly or completely naked. There were children, adults, men and women, old and young, tall and short. Bumping against each other, and marching with a type of unison, they swayed and advanced.

“What the hell is going on?” Mac whispered, backing away slowly.

Larry shuddered and carefully hid behind Mac, “Scary,” he said simply.

“Convergence,” Molly muttered.

“What?” Mac said, surprised.

“Convergence,” Doctor Lang said, speaking in English now, precise and unaccented. He was lying on back, still sweating a bit, but seeming otherwise little the worse for wear. Despite his calm voice, his hands were fumbling nervously with a gold cigarette case on top of the sheets. He removed one and tapped it, settling the tobacco.

“You need to start making more sense Lang,” Steiner warned. “I’ve already been down to your freak show of a lab that you’d set up.”

“Everything we did was necessary,” Lang said solemnly.

“Just what have you been doing Doctor Lang?” Kaufman asked, her arms were crossed and she was wearing her fedora. She’d pulled a blue USAF sweater on over her long sleeved t-shirt, complete with a nametape and her captain’s bars.

“I was told you were here to help Doctor Lang, that you’d have an answer,” Steiner said, running his hand along his scalp. “I never would have let you and your people on sight if I’d known what you were bringing in here.”

“We had no way of knowing how far it had progressed,” Lang said, staring past them. “Doctor Auerbach was a friend of mine, I never would have risked his life were it not necessary.” He placed the cigarette up to his lips and reached for a Bic lighter lying next to it.

“You have an odd way of deciding what is and isn’t necessary,” Kaufman said sourly. “And there’s no smoking in here,” she added, grabbing away Lang’s cigarette. “None at all,” she added, taking away his cigarette case as well, dropping it into her pocket, she hoped that whatever Lang smoked was better than the Victory cigarettes.

“Your world is a small one,” Lang sneered, “you know nothing of what goes on outside these walls.” He wrung his hands now that he was deprived of his cigarettes.

“That might be the case,” Steiner said, making a deliberate effort to control his voice. “But I do know that I have the responsibility for the lives of these people here. They are what I know about Doctor Lang, and you’ve put them in danger. I can’t have that.”

Kaufman let her hand drift along the edge of the holster she’d belted on before coming to Lang’s room. She wasn’t sure if Steiner wanted her to play good cop or bad cop, she’d stopped at her living quarters to pick up the M11 pistol she’d been issued. The same pistol had been sold commercially as the Sig Sauer P228, and the 13rds of 9mm full metal jacket ammunition she had in the magazine might or might not prove useful.
What she did know was that she wasn’t taking any more chances on the good grace of others. “You still haven’t told us anything Lang,” she said.

“I’m still in contact with Cheyenne Mountain Lang, as soon as I can get a clear channel, you can be assured that I’ll be informing them of your activities here,” Steiner said, leaning forward. “Look at me Doctor, what did you bring onto my compound, it certainly wasn’t the medical supplies you had manifested, or I’d never have let you off the plane.”

Lang smiled and said calmly, “I don’t think you’re going to find your superiors to be much help.”

“And why’s that Lang?” Steiner asked.

“Unless I’m horribly wrong, and I assure you that I hope I am, I don’t know if they are still there for you to talk to,” Lang said, dropping the smile.

“WHAT?” Steiner blurted. “THAT’S BULLSHIT, WE TALK TO THEM ALL THE FU-“

Kaufman reached over and pinched Steiner’s lips, pointing towards her ears with her free hand. “Why are you really here Doctor Lang?”
“I’ve said too much already, if you can still reach your precious Cheyenne Mountain, they might have your answers,” Lang said.

“WHY YOU SANCTIMONIUS SON OF A BITCH, THE LAST BULLET I PUT IN YOU WAS AN ACCIDENT, BUT I-“

“Swear to God that thing better damn well be dead now,” Whitey said, coughing, as he felt his way up the stairs.

“Just be glad the sprinklers apparently don’t work any more,” Jenny said, coughing as well. “And hope that we don’t die of smoke inhalation.”

“I swear it was still moving,” Finley said, still covering the stair well behind them with the carbine. “I popped it once in the head, but I don’t know if even that did any good.”

“What, you wanted to wait around and find out? Maybe go back and poke it with a stick?” Stavros cut in, pausing for a moment to wipe her face.

Whitey remembered an old monster movie that used to play around Halloween each year, where the crew of an arctic outpost was fighting some kind of alien. They’d tossed buckets of flammables on it and tried to light it up as well. For all the good it had done them, Whitey couldn’t remember how the movie ended, but he remembered being scared by it as a kid. “We burned the place up pretty good down there, that ought to have someone coming down here to check things out, but where the hell is everyone?”

“I don’t know, I was just wondering that myself,” Jenny said, “We’ve been down here for hours.”

“Steiner had pulled the rest of my team before any of this even happened, maybe something is going on outside,” Whitey said, securing a door behind them as they entered another level.

“Why didn’t you say that before?” Finley asked.

“I had, when I came down to the rec room before the lights went out,” he said, “Remember, when you and Stavros were going whatever the hell you were doing and I was doing the puzzle?”

“No, but I was distracted,” Finley admitted.

“Keep that up and you might not be distracted again for a while,” Stavros warned.

“Did Steiner tell you anything at all?” Jenny asked.

“Nothing, just pulled my people plus a couple of his goons, and said he was sending them out to do a perimeter check, which he does from time to time. I was scheduled for down time, so sent word that I can stay back. I didn’t think anything of it until now,” Whitey admitted.

“Great, this just gets better by the minute,” Jenny said sourly, “And I’m starting to run out of shotgun shells.”

“I’m starting to run low here, bro,” Dale said as he snapped open the breech of his duck gun and ejected the two spent hulls. He started rummaging around in one of his pockets and added “Real low.”

They’d run into over forty revenants in the woods so far, either singly or in groups. So far they’d been lucky, and had avoiding getting themselves pinned down, but they seemed to be marching against the tide. The trees gave them concealment, but also made it harder to see where the revenants were as well.

Tanner triggered a three round burst into the chest of a bald fat man who was crouching near a tree stump. The revenant staggered and fell further forward, allowing Tanner a clearer head shot as he stitched a second burst into the revenant’s head and neck. “I hear ya, bro, and I can feel your pain,” he said, dropping the spent magazine and tearing another one free from his now half empty bandolier.

“I’m feeling mighty small in the face of these bad boys- ON YOUR LEFT!” Dale warned, cutting loose both barrels into a group of four women still wearing torn cheerleader outfits and an octogenarian wearing a stained hospital gown. The wide swath of pellets flew in a donut pattern because of the way the shotgun had been sawn off. A round of double ought buckshot normally contains nine pellets, each of .33 caliber. Dale had just let fly a total of 18 of these projectiles. Unfortunately, pain wouldn’t slow deadened nerves, and only one of the cheerleaders was felled, a single flyer going up through the roof of her mouth and into her brain.

Tanner spun and pulled the trigger of his rifle as fast as he could, triggering a series of bursts. As the recoil made his rifle’s muzzle rise, his shots moved from belt level to head level, with rounds impacting both in the advancing bodies and in the trees. The elderly revenant fell, a round clipping off the side of his skull. One of the cheerleaders slowed, her intestines now dropping out from her skirt.

“Die already,” Dale yelled, drawing his Colt Diamondback and thumb cocking the hammer. The Colt was a slightly less expensive version of the famed Colt Python, only chambered in .38 special. It was a weapon famed for its accuracy, and Dale didn’t plan on missing. He drilled the remaining revenants through before he clicked empty.

“She-it, that was a close one,” Tanner admitted as he dropped another spent magazine. “What was that you said about feeling small, bro?”

Dale dumped the spent shell casings from the cylinder of his Colt. If he’d had more time, he might have picked them up in order to be able to reload them. “I was just thinking that I feel like how Mario must have felt in the first Super Mario Brothers, like in the beginning, before he gets all powered up and can stomp some ass,” Dale said, dropping live rounds from his pocket into the charge holes.

“Well, it’s funny you ought mention that,” Tanner said, smiling. He slammed his palm on his rifles receiver and the bolt snapped forward. “Remember how Mario used to power up?”

Dale holstered his Colt and snapped his duck gun open, reloading it as well, “You used to have to hit those funky blocks and the big ass magic shrooms would pop out, then you could power up and stomp those evil turtles.” He nodded, pleased at the recollection.

Tanner smiled even more broadly and adjusted his glasses momentarily, then removed his hat and pulled out a medium sized plastic baggy. “I got just the thing then, bro.”

“That what I think it is?” Dale exclaimed, his eyes going wide.

“Sure is, the last of Uncle Mark’s special blend magic shrooms,” Tanner beamed proudly.

“The ones just like he took before he wet ape shit and killed and at the mail man after cornholing him?” Dale asked, his voice atwitter in anticipation.

“The same,” Tanner said solemnly. “You down with a power up?”

“Them poor dead things ain’t going to know what him them,” Dale said, holding out his hand to receive the sacrament. “I feel a whole powerful load of killing coming on.”

“Christ, how many do I have to kill?” Mac asked, cutting loose another burst from his Thompson.

“They just keep coming,” Molly said, pulling the bolt back on her Remington and forcing it forward again.

“They must smell us,” Mac said, climbing over the hood a car blocking their way, and snapping off two rounds into the nearest of their pursuers.

“I’m scared Mac,” Larry said, his voice unusually quiet, as he scurried quickly to the rear, pausing only for an instant to take a shot himself.

“We’re all scared kid,” Mac said, letting loose a long burst, draining the last of his first 50 round drum. “Just keep shooting, you’re doing fine.”

Molly slid a fresh round off of her the nylon web cartridge belt she wore around her waist, and forced it into the chamber, there was no longer time to top up the magazine. “There’s so damn many of them,” she cursed as she brought the rifle up to her shoulder and sighted down the barrel, snapping off a quick head shot on what had been a paramedic, now only a few yards away. Immediately she threw back the bolt with the back of her hand and repeated the maneuver, hitting a priest the jaw and blowing out the back of his head. He’d been wearing only shirt and collar; his trousers were long since gone, revealing him to be priapic in death.

“Some big cock on that priest,” Mac commented, locking his reserve fifty round drum in place. They made the weapon heavy, but also kept the muzzle rise down. “Come get some,” he mouthed, triggering a long burst at chest level, sending several revenants down. The heavy .45 slugs, especially when fired from the Thompson’s longer barrel, worked well at breaking bones and penetrated deeply enough to sever and damage spines. They also worked wonderfully well at ripping through the already rotting and damaged organs of the revenants. That produced less immediate, though sometimes spectacular results, as the heart blowing out the back of a now topless soccer mom revealed. “Yeah, that’s it,” Mac mouthed, swinging the Thompson on an arc, forcing the closest of their pursuers to dance like marionettes on a string. “Come to papa Mac,” he said.

Molly hustled Larry around in front of her and propelled him forward as they picked up a near job, leapfrogging their way across debris, heading ever closer to their apartment fortress. She had the bolt of her rifle open, thumbing in fresh shells as quickly as possible while she ran. The scope mount made it a bit harder to access the magazine, and the rifle had been designed for shooting deer, not for combat. Still, for all that, the Marines had once used the same basic rifle as a sniper weapon. Molly certainly wasn’t a trained sniper, but she’d been on the run long enough, and survived long enough, to have learned enough of rough and ready close quarters shooting to have done many a veteran proud.

Molly wound the sling along her forearm for better support and began firing as rapidly as she could work the bolt, covering Mac while he ran forward, reloading the Thompson while he ran. After the firing the last round in the magazine, Molly slung the rifle and unslung her Smith and Wesson Model 3000. It still had a round in the chamber, and she flicked the safety off with her index finger and fired. The recoil was punishing, worse even than her .30-06, especially since Molly was a slight woman to begin with. She knew that her shoulder would likely be bruised the next day, but right then she didn’t care. Instead, she was intent on emptying the magazine as fast as she could pull the trigger.

Mac joined in again, firing single shots now, a 20 round magazine locked into his receiver. “Move,” he yelled at Molly over the din as he covered her. He watched Molly run along, the butt of her .30-06 slapping against her side as she ran, loading rounds into the tube of her shotgun at the same time. Suddenly, a hand shot out from under an abandoned car and tripped her. “NO!” Mac yelled, and Molly fell to the pavement.

How Molly did it, Mac wasn’t sure, but she broke her fall with the butt of her shotgun, just like they’d shown how to do in basic training. She rolled to the side as not one, but two revenants scurried out from under the abandoned Lexus. One of them grabbed at Molly, missing her but grasping the barrel of her rifle. She rolled to the side again, avoiding the lunge of the second, but losing her rifle in the process.

Mac swung his Thompson, tracking but afraid to take the shot. “Get clear damn it!” he yelled.

“No, Molly!” Larry yelled and started to run toward her.

“Larry! Wait!” Mac yelled, then seeing that Larry wasn’t stopping, he yelled “God damn it!” And ran forward himself.

Molly meanwhile smacked the revenant that was now standing over her across the shins with her barrel of her shotgun, knocking it off balance. She pulled her Ruger lose with her other hand and swung it to the side, pulling the trigger as she lined it up. Four rounds went into the chest of one of her assailants, and a fight into the head, dropping it back to the pavement. She quickly scampered back from the other, noticing even as she did so that the rest of their pursuers were closing fast. She pointed the Ruger at her other attacker and focused on the front sight, getting the head with the first shot.

“Molly!” Larry yelled, throwing himself into arms.

“We need to move!” Mac yelled, arriving an instant later. He immediately engaged the crowd rushing towards them.

Molly nodded and scooped Larry up in her arms, slinging her shotgun and replacing the Ruger in her waistband. “Come on, it’ll be okay,” she said, soothing Larry. She cast one brief look back for her rifle, but saw that it was now wedged under the Lexus, the scope broken, and that the remaining revenants were too close. Abandoning it she began running again.

“That was close,” Mac yelled, reloading as they paused by gutted Burger King.

“Too close,” Molly admitted, setting Larry down and changing the magazine in her Ruger. The knee was torn out of her jeans, but otherwise she looked to be unharmed. “How much farther do you figure it is?”

“Not much farther,” Mac said, hopefully, as he fired another burst. “Let’s just hope we get there before we run out of ammo.”

“There’s thousands of them, how can we kill them all?” someone whispered in the hallway outside of Kaufman’s office.

“I don’t know, some are already inside aren’t they?”

“Why don’t they set off the alarms?”

“How long with that wire hold?”

Hardigan heard the voices, and realized that whatever was taking place, that it seemed to have resulted in him being forgotten. He slid the 9mm Beretta pistol he’d found in the drawer into the back of his pants and pulled his shirt out to cover it. There had been a spare 15 rd magazine in the box with the pistol, it was a rather nice stainless Beretta Model 92, almost identical to the army issue M9 Hardigan had first used as an MP. After loading both magazines, Hardigan had simply poured the remaining rounds lose into his pockets. He remembered what he had told Dale earlier, and hoped he wouldn’t have to be reminded himself of how slow it was to reload with loose rounds from a pocket.

He flattened himself against the door and then slowly eased it open, using Kaufman’s keys to unlock the door. Leaning his head out, he saw that the guard was gone, but he heard more footsteps, so he ducked back inside. Suddenly conscious of what one of the voices in the hallway had said about some of the revenants being inside, he flicked the safety off on his pistol and brought it to his side.

The door swung open, and he brought the pistol up, only to find that he was pointing it at a fedora and a familiar face.

Kaufman froze as she entered the door, staring at the pistol barrel. “Well, hello to you to,” she said finally. She inhaled from the cigarette in her mouth.

Hardigan slowly released his breath and lowered the pistol. He noticed that Kaufman was wearing her USAF sweater, her hat, and also had a pistol belt on. She was also wearing a backpack and had a large black bag in her left hand. “Packing?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Kaufman admitted, setting the bag down. “I need my keys back.”

“What’s going on?” Hardigan said, “I’ve heard people talking in the hall, are we under attack?”

Kaufman nodded, “There’s thousands of those things out there now.”

“There were always thousands of them milling around out there, outside the fences they threw up,” Hardigan said, doubtfully, “So what’s changed?”

“What’s changed,” Kaufman said, shaking out a fresh cigarette, “Is that now those things out there are charging the wire, and lots more are coming from all over.”

“Jesus,” Hardigan exclaimed, replacing the Beretta behind his back. “Will it hold?”

“I don’t know,” Kaufman admitted, “But even if it does, we might have other troubles, which is the other reason I came back for you.”

“Other troubles?” Hardigan asked, suddenly worried about what else could possibly go wrong, “What other troubles, what can be worse than being over run?”

“I’ll tell you what’s worse,” Kaufman said, her face growing dark, “We think that Cheyenne Mountain might not be there to call any more. And what’s more, one of Dr. Lang’s experiments got away from him, and it’s loose. Inside the complex.”

“What experiment, who’s Dr. Lang? The guy who flew in? And Cheyenne’s gone? How?” Hardigan blurted, his thoughts coming in a rush.

“Look,” Kaufman said, “you said you could get manage out there, if I help you, can we get out of here?”

“We’d need supplies, and I’d need my team. Do you know where my people are? And Lisa, how is she?” Hardigan asked, his thoughts still racing.

“Greer is going to be fine, I doped her up so that she could rest,” Kaufman reassured. “As for your team, I don’t know where they are, but we can try to find them. I think we need to hurry though. I really don’t think we’re safe here.” She opened her black bag and reached in, producing a black tanker rig holster with a .45 still in it. “I think this is yours,” she said, handing it over to Hardigan.

“Thanks,” he muttered, slipping it back on. “Steiner know about any of this?”

“Steiner is trying to keep this ship from sinking so to speak,” Kaufman said.

“How bad is it?” Hardigan asked, adjusting the straps on his holster.

“Bad, very bad,” Kaufman said. “I need my Beretta back,” she added, waiting while Hardigan handed it and the spare magazine over. Kaufman clicked the safety back on and pushed both into her bag. “I’m going to give that to Nellie, we’re taking her with us.”

“Who’s Nellie?” Hardigan asked, “And where do you plan on us going?”

“Nellie is my nurse, and my… friend.” Kaufman paused for a moment, then adjusted the brim of her hat, “And to answer your second question: Anywhere but here, the plane the Germans flew in on is still out at the airstrip.”

“The airstrip is five miles from here,” Hardigan said, dubiously. “Even assuming no one else has taken off in it, how do you plan on getting us there, and where are we going to go? Not to mention the little matter of who’s going to fly it.”

“I really wish you’d learn to ask one thing at a time,” Kaufman said, grinning slightly.

“Sorry,” Hardigan admitted, “But you’ve thrown rather a lot at me.”

“We can steal a truck, shoot out way there, hell, I don’t know,” Kaufman said. “Would you rather a slim chance or no chance?”

“I’ll take slim over none any day,” Hardigan said, starting to warm up to Kaufman. “I like your style Doc, and nice hat by the way,” he added.

“Thanks,” she said, taking a mock bow. “As to who’s going to fly it, you’re looking at her.”

Hardigan felt his eyes widen a bit, “I thought you were a Doctor for the Air Force, where did you learn how to fly a plane?”

“Correction,” Kaufman said, “I’m a Doctor who was IN the Air Force. I used to fly C130s. I went to medical school after I got out, and still flew on weekends for the Reserves.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Hardigan laughed, “You’re full of talents aren’t you Doc?”

“Call me Laura,” Kaufman said. “And yes, I am.”

“Okay then Laura,” Hardigan said, “I’m almost starting to believe this might work, but where do we fly to?”

“Norfolk, if we can land there, the German’s still have a submarine and a ship off the coast. There was still an airstrip and a bunker like ours there, working, at least as recently as a week ago. If we can make it to that sub, we might just have a shot