Finest Hour (30 page)

“This is about as good as it gets,” he said, glancing over at Bowie.

The dog yawned and placed his head back down on his paws. While he looked like he might fall asleep at any minute, Mason suspected that Bowie was as hard to sneak up on as Argus, the all-seeing Greek guardian with a hundred eyes.

“Thirty-four magazines with seven rounds each gives us…” He worked the numbers in his head.  “… an extra two hundred and thirty-eight chances to ruin someone’s day.”

Bowie whined softly.

“I know it’s not enough. But it’s a lot more than we had a few minutes ago.”

Bowie said nothing more as he took deep sniffs of the air blowing in from outside.

Hoping that there might be another prize worth finding, Mason returned to searching the building. The label on a crate near the back of the room concerned him as much as it surprised him.

30 Grenade, Hand

Frag Delay, M67

M213 Fuse, 4 sec

Composition B

He retrieved the claw hammer, this time using it to snap four metal bands that held the crate’s lid in place. Inside were two layers of fifteen grenades, each separated into individual compartments. The spherical steel grenades were stuffed with six and a half ounces of Composition B explosive, a castable mix of RDX and TNT. Equipped with M213 fuses, they had a time delay of between four and five seconds from the moment the safety lever was released to the time they detonated.

Mason gently lifted one out. Even though the grenade weighed no more than a can of corn, there was a heaviness to it that went beyond mere grams or ounces. The M67 had a fatality radius of sixteen feet and an injury radius of three times that. Under the right conditions, those zones of death and destruction could stretch even further. A fragmentation grenade was the last thing he needed. If a grenade were to go off inside the building, not only would it kill him and Bowie, it would also very likely collapse the entire structure.

Still, he thought, it was better to have a weapon and not need it than the other way around.

Determined to set up a solid defensive position, he dragged the inspection station, ammunition, and grenades to within fifteen feet of the high-bay door. Once everything was situated, he stuffed ten of the freshly loaded magazines into his pockets and spread the remaining twenty-four across the inspection table. Sidestepping along the back edge of the table, he practiced reloading the Supergrade. During competition, he could drop and replace a spent magazine in under a second. With the magazines spread across the table the way they were, Mason thought that time was now closer to a second and a half. Still, for all intents and purposes, he could fire almost continuously, with only the briefest pause between magazines. Of course, that assumed that he didn’t fumble a magazine or encounter a jam or misfire. Experience had taught him that nothing ever went according to plan, and that rule certainly extended to firefights.

With his firing position established, Mason rolled several of the ammunition carts in front of the service door. The door pulled outward, so the carts wouldn’t completely block entry. They were, however, heavy enough to at least slow any potential breach. He tried to shut the sliding door but found that the gearing mechanism had been completely destroyed when it was forced open. If there was any consolation to be had, it was that the enemy would have to belly-crawl in.

It occurred to Mason that if he engaged in a firefight from inside the building, it was going to get awfully loud. Makeshift earplugs were definitely in order. He walked over and picked up a small handful of the packing grass that he had pulled from the crates. Using his fingers, he rolled out two tight plugs, each about the size and shape of a cigarette butt. He stuffed them into his ears and snapped his fingers several times to each side of his head. The plugs weren’t perfect, but they should be enough to prevent any permanent hearing loss.

Having nothing left to do, he carried a tall stool over behind the inspection station and sat. It was either going to be a long quiet night or one filled with noise, fire, and the smell of burnt gunpowder. Looking down at the pile of loaded magazines, he had the nagging feeling the universe was about to test him.

They came for him just before midnight. The first warning Mason received was a low growl rumbling in the dog’s mighty chest. Bowie lay beside the sliding door, staring out as steam rose from the grassy field.

“I hear you, boy,” he said, standing up from the stool.

Bowie got to his feet too, and the rumble became a snarl as lips curled back to show his fearsome teeth.

Mason drew his Supergrade and brought it to the low ready, the pistol fully extended with the muzzle pointed down at forty-five degrees. He heard the soft clopping of footsteps as someone made his way up the ramp.

Bowie inched forward, growling.

“Wait for them,” he cautioned.

The dog stepped back from the sliding door and lowered his head, ready to bite anything that dared to crawl under.

A single pair of legs appeared at the bottom of the sliding door, and a moment later, swollen hands reached under to pull it up.

Bowie lunged forward, clamping his jaws around the man’s shin. The intruder shrieked and kicked wildly, bracing himself against the door to keep from being pulled inside. The screaming echoed into the night, and Mason accepted that their chances of going undiscovered had now gone to zero.

Bowie shook his head from side to side. Even with his powerful bite, however, he was unable to pull the man into the room. It became a violent tug of war, with the man’s leg serving as the rope.

Mason brought his pistol up but hesitated to fire with Bowie so close to the target. As he inched his finger onto the trigger, the infected man’s leg suddenly tore free at the knee. Blood spurted onto the concrete floor, and Bowie stumbled back into the room, the leg still in his mouth. He turned to Mason as if to ask:
What do I do now?

“That one’s done. Better get ready for the rest.”

Bowie dropped the severed leg and turned back to face the door.

Less than a minute later, more footsteps sounded on the ramp, this time hurried and heavy. Two infected men dropped to their hands and knees as they tried to slither under the door, pushing bayoneted rifles ahead of them. Mason shot both, a quick tap-tap sending bullets punching through their skulls.

Bowie stepped closer and sniffed the two fallen men. Their faces were disfigured and scarred, artifacts of their battle with the Superpox-99 virus.

Without warning, the bodies were suddenly dragged backwards, and four more of the infected began to scramble under the door.

Bowie caught one by the face, mauling him as he lay half in and half out of the room.

Mason turned his pistol toward the others, and five shots later, they all lay still. As the last man hit the ground, the service door bumped open. An enormous infected woman squeezed through, pushing against the heavy carts. Mason swung left and shot her in the throat. She struggled for a moment before collapsing headfirst into the cart, her bright red blood pulsing out over the shiny brass.

The Supergrade’s slide locked to the rear, and Mason did his first reload. He didn’t bother trying to count rounds. During a fierce firefight, it became nearly impossible to do so. Instead, he allowed muscle memory to send his dominant hand to the magazine release button while the other reached for a fresh magazine.

Bowie had just finished killing the man he’d dragged into the room when two more came sliding in, feet first, like they were going for home plate. They had barely managed to get to their knees before Mason shot them both.

Bowie let out several loud barks, a warning to others outside. His message was clear.
Enter if you dare.

Screams and shouts grew louder as more of the infected gathered in front of the building. Why they hadn’t attacked as one giant mob remained a mystery. There was no doubt in Mason’s mind that if they chose to do so, he and Bowie would be quickly overrun. The rule of numbers rarely failed.

A man charged through the service door, scrambling over the fat woman only to slip on her blood and fall to the concrete with a heavy
thud
. Bowie whirled around and latched onto his shoulder, shaking and dragging him across the floor. Lying on his back, the man tried to fight back, flailing about like he was on fire. Bowie seemed unfazed by the blows, biting his way ever closer to the man’s throat.

Four sets of hands grabbed the bottom of the sliding door and heaved it upward in unison. The metal crumpled even further, collapsing some of the joints and raising the door another six inches. Mason took aim and walked four shots across the door. All but one of the men fell, screaming as they clutched their guts. The one who hadn’t been hit dropped to his knees and scrambled under the door.

Mason shot him in the face, the Supergrade’s slide once again locking to the rear. Before he could reload, another man dove in through the service door, nearly landing on top of Bowie. Mason dropped the magazine and slapped in a fresh one. By the time he brought the weapon back on target, the man was on his feet charging the inspection table. Two quick pops to the chest put him down, but he had managed to get closer than any of the others.

Another man rushed in, this one immediately turning to attack Bowie. The dog now had two men on him, one with a huge gash in his shoulder, and a second who was pulling at Bowie from behind.

Mason brought the Supergrade up and fired. The man pulling at Bowie collapsed, his spinal cord severed at the base of his skull. He swung left and fired again, this time hitting the man on the ground in the forehead.

Bowie seemed confused for a moment but reluctantly released the dead man and turned back toward the sliding door. More hands were reaching underneath, pulling at the bottom. A portion of the metal gave way, and the door once again inched upward.

Mason rapid-fired four more shots into the door, and several of the hands dropped away. He reloaded and fired another entire magazine, clearing the final stragglers who had refused to let go.

As he pressed in a fresh magazine, two men darted through the service door and shoved past the crates. Before he or Bowie could stop them, they raced into the room, their grotesque faces contorted with rage. Bowie leaped forward and pulled one down as Mason winged the other in the shoulder. The bullet slowed him, but he dove ahead, crashing into the inspection table and knocking several of the magazines to the floor. Mason stayed focused on his target, firing at point-blank range. The bullet punched through the bridge of his nose, blasting off the crown of his head as it exited. A huge spray of warm blood misted across Mason’s face.

It was then that he accepted that they weren’t going to win the fight. Just like the battle on the Richmond Hill overpass, numbers and brutality would eventually win out.

He took a deep breath and swung his pistol up, ready to fight to the very end. Surprisingly, no one was at either door. He could still hear movement outside, but it appeared that none were willing to put themselves in his line of fire.

Before he could make sense of the situation, a garbled voice called from outside.

“Who’s in there? Identify yourself.”

Mason lowered his pistol slightly.

“Deputy Marshal Mason Raines. Who am I speaking with?”

“Colonel Thaddeus Dixon, Retired, US Army. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Marshal.”

“Are these your men I’m killing?”

“They are.”

“Mind if I ask why you’re so damn set on violence?”

“Believe it or not, my orders were for them to take you alive.”

“Like you did with the Commandant?”

There was a slight pause.

“He was the one who brought violence to our side of the river. Up until then, we’d left them alone.”

“And now?”

“Now we’re doing what we should have done in the very beginning. There can be no peace between us and them.”

Mason squatted down and retrieved the magazines that had fallen to the floor.

“Did you kill the Commandant?”

There was another pause.

“That wasn’t something I could stop. These poor devils feel a hatred hotter than any flame.”

Mason made a mental note that he was no longer on a rescue mission. The goal now was to get the hell out. Of all the missions a soldier could have, it was the one that made the most sense.

“From your voice, I can tell that you were infected too. I’m curious. How’d you manage to keep your mind?”

“I have the constitution of a war horse. That’s how.”

“Is that why they accepted you as their leader?”

He laughed. “You have to understand. They’re like angry little children. Deep down, they want someone to step in and establish order and discipline.”

“So, you’re their father now?”

“No, Marshal, I’m their god.”

Mason shook his head. Men who stepped up and took charge in times of crisis were to be saluted, but not when they allowed that power to corrupt their very souls.

“What is it that you want from me, Colonel?”