Day by Day Armageddon: Shattered Hourglass (33 page)

“Go on.”

“This is what we know. We lost communications with the carrier and we’ve been unsuccessful in using any of our tertiary HF freqs. We can prove that our comm gear is a known good quantity.” Larsen nodded in agreement. “We know that Crusow’s comm gear is working. One other thing we know, but that you might not be thinking about, is that Task Force Phoenix at Hotel 23 is part
of the effort in some way. The only long-range comms capability they have is with the carrier. If the carrier is overrun or has bent comms, Phoenix is a mission kill. What we don’t know is the status of the carrier at this time. What I think is the simplest reason for the comms blackout is the most likely and that is atmospheric interference. Sunspot cycle disturbance is most probable.”

Larsen sat back in his chair, mentally processing what had been said. “What do you know about Phoenix?” Larsen asked reluctantly.

“I know that I was ordered by the admiral to provide information to support them before coming on this little field trip, leaving what’s left of my family and my girlfriend, a woman pregnant with my baby, onboard a carrier that’s gone dark in the last forty-eight hours. I also know that I had to surrender my ID card, the only card capable of launching the last Hotel 23 nuclear weapon that still remains secured in its vertical launch bay.”

“Noted,” Larsen said. “Follow me.”

Kil followed Larsen to his stateroom and the captain closed the door. “I’ll just skip to it. Phoenix was initiated to provide a kill switch for the Hourglass mission. If things were to go terribly wrong at the Chinese facility, Hotel 23 could initiate a launch against it, effectively destroying any dangerous materials or biologics.”

“What?! Didn’t the leadership learn anything the first time, Captain?!” Kil yelled. “You saw on Oahu what radiation does to them and to us!”

“Relax, Commander. Phoenix would not be ordered to launch with the goal of undead attrition. We all know that won’t work. The Phoenix directive would be to completely destroy the Chinese facility, rendering it neutral, if we are not successful.”

“Okay. First, why didn’t you tell us that before, and second, what do you define as
success
?” said Kil.

“I didn’t tell you because I had orders otherwise. Secondly, I define success as the location and extraction of a Patient Zero, also known as CHANG.”

“But why? I don’t understand the significance of retrieving the . . . whatever it is, assuming the fucking thing even exists. So far all I’ve seen are a bunch of old black and white crash photos
and a few hundred top-secret PowerPoint slides and other heavily redacted classified documents.”

“That’s a fair question, Commander, but the COG communications I’ve received, coupled with previous fireside radio chats with military leadership, have made me somewhat of a believer. If we can retrieve the specimen, we may be able to engineer something, a vaccine, some COG scientists say. That won’t solve any immediate problems, but it sure would be nice knowing that a scratch or minor bite might not be a death sentence.”

Kil was frustrated with Larsen; he avoided asking about CHANG. He didn’t want to know. The thought of John’s cryptic last message almost changed his mind, but he held back, biding his time. He waited for Larsen to finish so he could get back to radio for more troubleshooting.

“You know we lost two special operators in Hawaii?” said Larsen.

“Yes, of course I know. I watched one of them blow himself to pieces and the other dropped into the ocean, wrapped in a sheet. Why?”

“I’m just saying that the team is down two men and we’ll be in the Bohai soon, heading upriver,” Larsen declared reluctantly, as if easing into his point like it was scalding bathwater.

“No!” Kil said sharply.

“Hear me out.”

“Fuck, no. I’m no special-ops guy and I barely survived the past year on the run, bumbling about like an idiot on the mainland. If you’re asking me to go feet dry with Rex and Rico, you’re asking too much. Didn’t I just tell you I have a woman who I love and a child on the way a few thousand miles east?”

“You did.”

“Did it ever cross your mind that I might want to make it back to see them?!” Kil yelled.

“Keep your voice down, Commander. Just think on it for a minute. Do you want your child growing up in this shit world? Ask yourself this: Would the child be better off growing up without being afraid of the undead the rest of its life? I’m not saying we are going to fix all this, I’m just saying that there may be a chance. Think about it—a chance.”

“Is that—”

“Yes, that is all. Dismissed.”

Kil departed Larsen’s cabin asking himself,
How stupid could I be?
He knew the admiral expected Hourglass would lose men and he had suspected Larsen would spring this shit on him on the last leg of the trip. They would be in what were Chinese waters soon;
Virginia
was moving at a fast clip. Kil checked his watch, noting that they’d be surfacing shortly for a communications check. The sub’s retractable VLF long wire was useless without an airborne relay, meaning communications was only possible when surfaced. Kil felt the bow rise and marched uphill along the passageway to radio for his checks.

He would not reach the USS
George Washington
today.

The men slept soundly in their racks in the last warm living zones at the outpost. Crusow cut off the heat to the other zones, as diesel fuel was a commodity now literally more valuable than gold.

To combat the circadian rhythm challenges caused by months of prolonged darkness and light, they were all issued sleeping pills by one of the company physicians. Crusow had given his ration of pills to Mark in exchange for the other man’s ration of go-pills. Crusow didn’t like how deeply the pills put him under. Really, Crusow just hated the way the drug robbed his ability to wake himself up from the nightmares that haunted him—ghastly visions of his family’s death, and other things that scraped the back of his mind during sleep.

•   •   •

Mark’s sleeping pill–induced slumber had been successful in keeping him rested and capable. He dreamt of odd things tonight. One of his visions brought him high over the outpost, looking down on the facility. The sun shone brightly, illuminating the ice and snow. He saw off-white dots surrounding the outpost, and then he heard the howls. The thousands of dots surrounding the outpost in his dream were wolves.

The outpost was quiet now; earlier, Larry’s rasping could be heard by everyone.

Before sleep, Mark remembered that Crusow had shut Larry’s door, muffling the coughing noises. They all took some comfort that Larry agreed to tether himself to his rack before going to
bed—a prudent precaution. His pneumonia sounded particularly horrible the past few days.

•   •   •

A broom fell outside Larry’s quarters, landing softly against his bunk.

Larry passed through the door and began his search.

The first door he came to was Crusow’s. He turned the knob with no success. After hitting the bulkhead in protest, he moved to the next door.

Larry’s right foot left behind peculiar footprints; marks that didn’t look like feet, but more like sponges dipped in red paint. The 550 paracord tether that Larry had used to secure himself to his rack had pulled much of the skin from his ankle and heel during the escape from his bunk room.

Mark always slept with his door cracked open out of habit. It was little trouble for Larry to find his way inside.

•   •   •

Mark was now dreaming of a great swamp.

He trekked in the direction of a large tower looming in the distance. He slogged through the ankle-deep muck for some time. He was closer to the tower now. The water was deeper, swirling all around him; reptilian tails broke the brown water’s surface. Mark moved more quickly through the swamp, the tower’s details becoming more intricate. At the moment he began to realize what the tower really represented, massive dark clouds suddenly filled the sky and violent thunder rocked the dreamscape.

The tower was the gulch, and everyone in it. The fallen faces grimaced, surged, and pressed against the walls as if tightly masked in fine black silk. Mark saw Bret’s face clearly; it smiled with life for a moment. Another flash of lightning seemed to transform Bret into the undead. Like the others, it fought for space on the tower wall.

Taking another step into the putrid waters, he felt a crunch under his booted foot.
A piece of glass.
Pain shot up through his
leg, cutting through the dream, and he immediately woke to the sound of gunshots.

•   •   •

“Get back!” Crusow screamed. “It’s Larry, he’s gone!”

Mark’s right foot throbbed in excruciating pain, causing him to instinctively reach for it and apply pressure.

Crusow flipped on the lights.

Larry lay twitching in a pool of bodily fluids. Crusow had been successful in taking out Larry before he was able to bite Mark, but Mark’s foot had been penetrated by Crusow’s rifle round.

It was dark, and I had to take the shot,
Crusow thought, panicking.

He had taken three shots with his rifle, two passing through Larry’s chest and one passing through his head. Kung barged into the room as both Mark and Crusow met the reality of what had just happened. Every one of Crusow’s rounds had passed through Larry’s infected body, including the round that penetrated Mark’s foot. The round had Larry’s blood on it.

Mark was now infected.

•   •   •

Mark died in considerable pain just before midnight. The infection crept up his gunshot-wounded foot until he eventually succumbed to cardiac arrest. Mark was Crusow’s last real friend in the world, and the last person on the planet who had spoken to his wife before she was murdered by the likes of Larry. Another link to Trish was gone forever. It would be difficult for Crusow to explain that meaning to anyone that who had not lived it.

Kung took on the task of dealing with Mark’s corpse. Crusow did not have the heart for it. The specter of a thought to join Mark passed through his mind more than once.

Crusow said his good-byes to his old friend and went back to his bunk room, catatonic.

•   •   •

After ensuring Mark wouldn’t return, Kung tossed the body into the gulch. Returning to the shelter, he found Crusow in his room, staring off into space.

“Crusow, we get out here!” Kung insisted.

“I don’t know, man. Where do you want to go?” Crusow said, thinking of the easiest way off this rock and of whether that ceiling beam might be made of stronger stuff than 550 paracord.

“We go south, dummy!” Kung yelled, punching Crusow hard in the shoulder.

“I don’t know. Just let me be for a bit.”

Kung did not relent. He lay down on the floor near Crusow’s rack for the next couple hours, keeping a close eye. Crusow didn’t object. After Kung was certain that Crusow was sleeping, he hid Crusow’s carbine behind a locker and went to work rigging the Sno-Cat for departure. Kung fought frostbite forty-five minutes at a time in seventy-below temperatures and Arctic darkness to prepare the Sno-Cat.

Needing some tools, he entered one of the environments previously cut off from life support. He turned on the battery-powered backup lights. It was so cold inside that his breath seemed to crystalize and fall like snow. Thick frost covered the room. Kung thought that the facility would have been a block of ice by now. He scavenged the hacksaw he was looking for and departed.

He moved the biodiesel drum tank inside the living area, gathered more supplies, and readied the dogs and their small trailer for the journey south to nowhere.

As the USS
Virginia
entered the outer boundaries of formerly Chinese waters, Dean, Tara, Danny, and Laura hid, terrified, in the back of Dean’s stateroom—the door barricaded by their bunk beds and other belongings.

The dead punched and slapped a stateroom door across the passageway. There was no way of knowing how many were outside the door.

They said prayers, thanking the Almighty that the creatures were bludgeoning the other doors and not theirs. They all knew that this could change with a sneeze or the shifting winds of chance.

They’d been trapped now for twelve hours, awaiting rescue. How far could this have spread in twelve hours?

Laura sat in Tara’s arms, halfway in shock. “Why don’t we open the door and just shoot them?” she asked.

“We don’t know how many there are, honey. We’re going to have to wait it out.”

They all knew that the ship was still under military control. They had felt it turn numerous times in the past few hours, turns too systematic and incremental to be random.

At least the navy still held the bridge and the reactor spaces,
Dean thought.

Somewhere inside the massive ship’s superstructure, Admiral Goettleman keyed the 1MC announcement system: “This is Admiral Goettleman speaking, infection has broken out onboard, and we are currently mobilizing teams to neutralize the threat. If you can hear this, remain quiet and a team will work its way to you
shortly. That is all.” The sound blared throughout the ship, ironically causing marked undead frenzy.

They all heard the announcement clearly, and so did the undead outside in the passageway.

The door began to bend, straining in protest to the noise intrusion in the creature’s new territory. Danny squinted in the low light, watching the middle of the door flex inward slightly. He sat next to Laura, telling her that everything would be fine. The boy in him believed his words were honest, but a competing voice said he’d no doubt be dead soon—the two of them reduced to small appetizers.

The door bulged inward still, nearly to failure, and death began to wrap its dark wings around the survivors. They all closed their eyes just before five small holes appeared in the door above the handle in nearly a straight line. Bodies fell with an audible thump.

“Back away from the door and get down!” a familiar voice screamed from the other side.

More suppressed 9mm rounds penetrated the door and surrounding bulkheads, causing ricochet injuries to Danny’s shoulder. He cried out, and more bodies fell.