Deadrise (55 page)

He leaned back into his seat and took a deep breath, trying to shake off the blanket of fear. He ran a quick scan of his flight instruments, letting his training take over. But despite his training, he still wasn’t prepared when Striker-3 exploded into a ball of flame one hundred yards to his starboard side, the flames lighting up the night. He put even more power into his climb and peeled away to port in an evasive maneuver, but the blast wave still caught Striker-4 and it took all of Capt. Hendricks skill to keep control of the bird.

"Good flying Ge-" began his co-pilot and gunner Captain Shane Travis, but was cut off when a pair of green balls of energy, several feet in diameter passed beneath the landing skids of Striker-4 and impacted into the side of a large high rise building half a mile away with a huge explosion that would bring half the building tumbling down. A fraction of a second later something black and incredibly fast streaked by fifty yards to starboard.

"TARGET THAT BOGIE!" Hendricks screamed to his gunner.

"He’s not registering on radar." Replied Captain Travis. "Switching to manual laser targeting… Missiles away!"

A pair of hellfire missiles streaked away from the Apache with a trail of fire and smoke. The stealth bogie was fast and agile, already over two miles away and circling around over the city for another pass, making it difficult for Capt. Travis to keep the targeting laser manually locked on. Only his night optics kept the black hull of the alien craft from blending completely with the darkness. The gem shaped craft completed its turn and let loose with a pair of green energy blasts into the downtown city with another huge explosion. Just then the pair of Hellfire missiles slammed into the front starboard side, engulfing the craft in fire.

"IT’S A HIT!" Travis whooped with joy at the results of his handiwork. The alien craft was not destroyed, but a large, jagged chunk had been blown out of the front end, and it was trailing black smoke. Captain Travis’ joy quickly evaporated as he watched the alien craft lose altitude and nose dive into the center of down town Park City at just under 600 MPH. It drilled through a pair of ten story hotel towers at a 45-degree angle before smashing into the ground just outside the Park City Resort. It exploded into a giant, expanding fireball, laced with crackling green energy that rippled out hungrily, leveling buildings, pulverizing vehicles and houses and living creature in a two-block radius and bathing the entire city in its light…

Pvt. Samson watched downtown erupt in fire and green electricity, laughing with glee. It was just as Master Necrotura had said it would be: chaos, fire and death. Again, the prophetic words of the Master were borne true, reaffirming the blind, fanatical faith of PVT. Samson.

'Now my faithful Templar, now is the time for you to embrace your destiny.'
The Master’s voice whispered into his mind, his psychic presence allowed access via his Third Eye.

"Yes Master." Pvt. Samson said aloud, taking one last, longing look at the carnage down town and the increasing throngs of people now taking to the street, some to gawk in mute shock at the fiery horror that had fallen into their lives, but most fleeing away from the core of the destruction as fast as they could; some carried what personal possessions they were able to grab, others had young children and infants in tow, all of their faces locked in screams of horror.

He was honored with the task bestowed upon him, knowing that his sacrifice was the will of Satan for the greater glory of Master Necrotura, the Son of Satan reborn! It was Master Necrotura who would be the savior of humanity, gathering the faithful to him, until
Armageddon
was at hand, at which time Master Necrotura, the Holy Son of Satan, would lead the righteous and faithful into
Jihad,
The Final battle, against the Krylok parasites as well as the
Unbelievers
of humanity who had turned their backs upon The Savior, Mordecai Necrotura, and in doing so had sealed their fates in the fieriest pits of Satan’s dungeons.

Within a minute he found himself standing before a small bakery and pastry shop. The front door was open, and standing in the doorway was a large, burly man with a thin, receding hairline, narrow, suspicious eyes and a snaggletooth scowl. He wore a white baker’s apron, and cradled a pump shotgun in his hands, which he aimed at Pvt. Samson. The two men locked eyes, and through their Third Eye implant their minds touched one another, bonded, and exchanged the formal, telepathic greeting used between fellow
Chosen.

The baker stepped aside, allowing Samson to enter the store. It smelled of sugar and fresh bread, but Samson paid it no attention, moving across the customer service area, behind the counter and into the back kitchen area. There were six other people there, four men, three Caucasian and one African American, and two women, both Caucasian, every one of them Templar’s.

"It is a glorious time Brothers and Sisters." Samson said, smiling to each one of them in turn. "The moment of our calling is upon us. We have been chosen for our purity of belief, our devotion to the faith. Though we are about to sacrifice our lives for the greater glory of Master Necrotura, we die knowing that our souls have earned an eternal resting place in the Palace of Lucifer, while the
Unbelievers
shall forever burn in his fiery pits, their souls tortured for all time while their earthly shell is cursed to walk the earth, a rotting, unclean,
Abomination!
" Through his Third Eye Samson could feel the righteous power coursing through every one of his fellow Templar’s as clean and pure as it coursed through himself.

As the spirit flowed through his veins, Pvt. Samson found himself overcome with memories of how he had been but a lost, confused soul, headed down the path of damnation, until he had come home to Kittewa on leave from the Army in the fall of 1998, and his girlfriend took him to a meeting of Mordecai’s flock at his mansion estate up on Rainbow Lake. As soon as Samson had locked eyes with Mordecai, he could feel the mans power, like an ocean tidal wave, sweeping over him, enrapturing his mind and showing him the true way. The problems that had made his life a wreck were petty and mundane compared to the future that Mordecai prophesized. The very survival of the human race was at stake, but not the tired, corrupt, unfaithful dogs of humanity that existed in the world today. The New Humanity, born out of the fires of Armageddon, the
Chosen
children of Satan, bound by their faith, guided by the Prophet, the Antichrist, Mordecai Necrotura, would reclaim the earth as their own.

Less than a week under Mordecai’s wing and Pvt. Samson was reborn a new man, telepathically indoctrinated to be focused, pure, and absolute in his devotion to The New Humanity and Mordecai Necrotura; the Order was everything, it was the all. Even his very life was secondary to the greater glory and power of The New Humanity and Mordecai Necrotura. A week before he returned to duty he was honored with participation in the ritual of
Communion
and blessed with the implanting of his Third Eye; a quick, painless procedure performed while under sway of Master Necrotura’s telepathic Rapture.

He had come to Mordecai Necrotura a broken, destitute, shell of a man, he had returned to the United States Army a Templar of The New Humanity.

Two years later, in the summer of the year 2000, the dead began returning to life and attacking the living, just as Mordecai Necrotura had predicted. And just like Mordecai had preached, the New Humanity had been ready. The flock was spread far and wide, and Master Necrotura had been preparing for this day for thirty-five years, making contacts, acquiring bases of operation, stockpiling supplies and ammunition.

When he had returned home just after the deadrise had began, Lord Necrotura had telepathically contacted Templar Samson
personally
, ordering him to enlist with the Park City militia. There he would serve as a spy and covert agent. And he was not the only one. Samson knew the amount of trust the Master placed in him by the number of other "sleeper" agents he was made privy to.

And now he was here, about to fulfill his destiny.

Templar Samson stripped away the military fatigues of his "cover" life, standing naked and bare, and accepted first the Martyr’s vest
,
loaded with twenty pounds of military grade explosives and wired to a button trigger strapped to the wrist, he then took the white robe of the Templar from Templar Mel, one of the females. She too was naked, and Samson noted with some delight that she was large breasted and voluptuously proportioned with long, flowing red hair and deep, emerald green eyes. There were tattoos on her body as well, dotting her arms from wrist to shoulder, her legs, belly, back and buttocks, mostly a collection of demons and monsters, witches and blades, with the occasional name or word or other arcane writing.

"I go to meet my destiny." Samson chanted aloud, echoed by all six other Templars as they donned their Martyrs vests and white hooded robes. Next came their AK-47’s and shoulder pack of ammunition and grenades. Each had been given a separate, primary target location and a secondary target should the first prove inaccessible. All were chosen for massive casualty rates and critical damage to the Park City infrastructure. Samson’s own primary target was the Military Command Center…

Chapter 55

Tuesday, June 26, 2001

Rainbow Lake, UT

6:45 PM

Pvt. Irving held his ground at the top of the stairs in the second floor hallway, blasting the deadfucks one at a time with his M-16 as they tried to ascend to the upper floor, but it was more out of fear than duty.

He had run back up to the second floor when Cordoba had pushed him, the sound of gunfire below giving him extra speed, and he had expected Cordoba to be right behind him, but when he looked back, Cordoba was nowhere to be seen.

Scotty had been stationed at the top of the second floor landing, and he looked at Irving with confusion and fear. Moments later there was an explosion downstairs in the living room. A few seconds after that, the deadfucks began pouring into the foyer from the kitchen. Scotty turned and ran up the stairs to the third floor, leaving Pvt. Irving alone. Several zombies passed the stairway and stumbled into the living room, but just as many turned their attention to the stairs, looking up at Pvt. Irving with dead, glazed eyes, raised there arms, moaned with the sigh of the damned, and advanced. The stairwell was wide enough for two zombies abreast, and Pvt. Irving easily shot them down, the first dozen quickly piling up near the bottom of the stairs, creating a logjam for the mob pressing below.

Irving heard pistol fire from downstairs, followed by Pvt. Cordoba’s panicked screams of struggle. When the screams became bleating cries of slaughter Pvt. Irving began to unload his M-16 wildly into the mob below, if for no other reason than to drown out Cordoba’s awful screams. His clip ran dry and he had to reload, his heart racing and his fingers trembling in fear.

At the base of the stairs, the pressing mob of zombies began to clear away, backing out of the foyer into the kitchen and living room in a tangled, undisciplined rush. Looking down past the logjam of dead zombies, Pvt. Irving wondered what the hell was happening?

"Cordoba?" He bleated like a scared sheep, knowing Cordoba was dead; torn apart and devoured by zombies.

Past the logjam, a superzombie stepped from the kitchen into the foyer and faced him. It was wearing battle-damaged armor, its helmet dented and pushed back to reveal a smashed and bullet riddled face. Only one eye was still intact, but it looked up at Irving, burning with evil hatred. It raised its M-16 and Pvt. Irving could see its blackened, claw tipped finger wrap around the grenade launcher trigger. Irving felt his bowels and bladder let loose simultaneously as his death zeroed in on him.

"Oh shit!" was all he had time to mutter before the superzombie fired. The grenade struck him square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and sending him flying back three feet before it exploded. Pvt. Irving was literally blown to pieces as the high explosive shrapnel grenade splattered blood, organs and body parts across the hall while the better part of Irving’s shattered torso landed in a burnt, bloody heap at the base of the third floor stairs ten feet down the hallway…

Mac had just gotten to his feet, with the help of Norris, and was about to return to the fight when a muffled explosion sounded outside in the hallway.

"You better get your gun Norris, this could get messy." Gritting his teeth against the pain, he took three hobbling steps and propped himself against the doorway, M-16 clutched in his right hand.

"That's Irving," Norris pointed to the pile of splatter a few feet away.

Mac barely gave a passing glance to Pvt. Irving’s because movement in the main stairwell caught his attention. He spotted a dented and battered military helmet strapped atop the smashed and blasted head of a superzombie. Its mouth and nose had been pulverized inward and only one of its hot, glaring eyes remained, but somehow, it still seemed to be smiling at him. It ascended to the top of the stairs, clad in the chewed and torn remains of battle armor, an M-16 with a mounted, still smoking M-203 grenade launcher in its dead hands.

Mac unloaded his own M-16 on full automatic, the hail of hot lead ripping the remainder of the superzombies battle armor to shreds, as well as its chest and the better part of its already mangled head. The foul creature fell backwards under the gunfire, tumbling halfway down the stairs where it smashed into the mob of zombies that had pushed past the pile-up of corpses and was trying to make their way up to the second floor. Mac's gun clicked empty but he wasn’t done yet. Pulling a grenade from his web gear, he pulled the pin with his teeth and lobbed the grenade across the hall in a perfect arc that carried it right down the stairwell.