The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure (25 page)

Before disembarking, Michelle helped Matt angle the motors out of the water. As their feet sank into the sand, the two exerted what little energy they could summon to pull the craft a few feet onto the shore. A hurried escape might be needed and they could not risk the boat drifting out to sea on the tides.

A mile hike lay ahead of them and she feared her body would refuse to carry her the distance. Even with the threat of enemies lurking in the shadows, her mind still did not signal another release of adrenaline. She wondered who leaned on the other more as they both aided each other along the way.

“How you doing?” Matt whispered softly.

“Super,” she replied with a hushed lie.

“Maybe we should take a break.”

Shaking her head, Michelle tried to make her voice sound stronger. “We can’t. Duncan said the Til army was moving against Mike and the others. That was hours ago. They can’t afford for us to take a break.”

Catching her as she stumbled slightly, Matt stated a truth she had been ignoring. “We don’t even know if your idea is possible.”

“I know. But it’s the only chance we have. It’s the only chance they have.” While her voice may not have displayed any renewed strength, the stubborn determination in her tone guided Matt away from further attempts of dissuasion.

“Who’s out there?”

Instinctively, Matt threw his hand over Michelle’s mouth and pulled her to the ground. The action was more startling than the unexpected voice, but she found his concern gratifying.

Pressing his lips almost to her ear, Matt rasped a command. “Stay here.” He slipped beyond her reach before she realized the risk he was about to take. His shadow faded into the moonlight, and Michelle eased the hunting knife from its sheath. She presumably had more experience tracking and stalking, but Duncan’s pummeling had left much her vision blurred through swollen skin.

A heavy boot snapped a twig a pace to her left. She tensed, gripping the blade’s hilt tightly as she shifted low on the ground. With much more ground to cover before reaching the facility, the sound of gunfire might prove disastrous. It’s gotta be a fast kill, she reminded herself. She prayed her weariness could manage such a feat. Readying herself for a pounce, Michelle waited for the interloper to advance another step.

The foliage suddenly rustled loudly and Matt emerged from the darkness. Swinging a gnarled length of tree limb, he aimed the blow at the surprised guard’s head. After a sickening crunch of skull shattering, the unknown man crumpled in the dune grass.

Once the corpse was relieved of any useful weapons, Matt dragged the body a short distance and proceeded to disguise it with fallen branches and leaves. Michelle felt a shift in her mind, almost imperceptible at first, but staring at the body she felt its presence. And understood its meaning.

“We need to move quickly,” he told her once the gruesome task was completed. “There’re likely more of them out there.”

The much needed rush of adrenaline finally coursed again through her veins. Keeping low, the two dashed across the land by the light of the moon. Several minutes later the tree line thinned and revealed the outskirts of the military base.

Dozens of Tils, long, heavy chains running from thick collars around their necks, were tethered to stakes at regular intervals around the visible perimeter. Beyond them, several guards, armed with assault rifles, walked alertly.

“Now what?” Matt asked.

“I have no idea,” she answered truthfully.

Initially questioning how effective the motorcycle cavalry would be, Lisa’s opinion altered drastically when she saw the many corpses lining the outer edge of the Til army. Some two hundred bikes, headlights forming a snaking line, wove in and out of the fray, dealing death in a speeding flurry.

Eager to rejoin the action, she directed Hal the driver to travel another hundred yards before coming to a halt. Peering once again out the vision blocks, Lisa took stock of the tank’s exterior. To her eyes, limited by the blocks’ positions, no living Tils had accompanied the Bradley and its crew during its exit from the battlefield. Lifting herself through the hatch, Lisa found surer footing with the vehicle being stationary.

Whether the Til blocking the missile launcher had been crushed during the gunner’s efforts to raise it, or instead had fallen to gunfire, Lisa could not tell. She was quite sure, however, that the creature had managed to wedge itself so tightly that it took several minutes of shouting to the gunner to raise and lower the launcher before she was finally able to wrest the body free.

Beyond the congestion of the bloodshed, a much clearer view of the field manifested. Years-old training returned to her as she stared out with the cold calculation of a grandmaster. The pieces moved, bishops and rooks, Horde and Til, in slow exaggeration. To her well-studied mind, ideal targets seemed to glow brighter than their surroundings, tight clusters of Tils which would feel the greater impact of bombing.

Scrambling back into the Bradley, Lisa delivered the locations to the gunner. Only six missiles remained to them, but from the current vantage point, she was determined to make those strikes costly for the enemy. “Fire,” Lisa said while her eyes pressed into the rubber edge of a periscope. A whirling sizzle slashed through the air, a triangular tail of propulsion streaming like a comet. The anti-tank missile almost appeared to stop and hover above the target before exploding in a ring of fire and debris. Before the dirt settled, the tank’s turret turned several degrees and aimed for the next target. Sizzle and stream preceded the second explosion.

When all remaining missiles had been loaded and launched, Lisa could see the pockets of death the projectiles had cleared. Tils avoided the limb-strewn circles, running around the blast zone.

“Hey Hal,” she called over to the driver. “How ’bout we clear the path for our friends on the bikes?” With no artillery left to deliver, the only remaining war power the tank possessed was brute force. Linking with the mechanized cavalry seemed the best way to maximize the damage of both efforts.

“Sounds good to me,” the man replied before accelerating the tank. Following the eastern perimeter of the enemy force, it was only a matter of brief minutes before the Bradley pulled alongside the lead bikes. Raising the hatch, Lisa was not shocked to see Erik among the forerunners.

“How you doing, Big Mama?” he shouted with a wave.

“You better be talking about the tank,” she warned him through a raised brow and smile.

“Uh… of course,” he replied with an impish grin.

Lisa explained the offer of assistance, which was quickly accepted, and returned to the metal hull of the Bradley. The night ahead would be long, she knew, and it would most assuredly end with a Til claim to victory. But, I’ll be damned if we make it easy for them!

The situation was quickly deteriorating. The second volley of grenades had already been used and any semblance of a front line had dissipated. Mike had tried shouting commands to reform the line, and close the widening gaps, but the unnerving infinity of the enemies’ numbers was taking its toll. Men and women began to panic, either firing without targeting, or in some cases completely abandoning their post. He wanted to fault them, but too often he had heard the fleeing defenders shout about rescuing their loved ones. Exactly what Paul feared, Mike thought while shooting at the nearest Tils with his Glocks.

Even those that remained stalwart were shaken by the sight of their comrades in arms deserting the defense. Mike still had no word from Paul. How long has it been? An hour? Two? Three? He had hoped to receive instructions, or at least an update, from the Horde leader. The lack of both fostered ominous worry. With easily twenty percent of the line gone, and the rest crumbling quickly, the decision needed to be made.

“Abandon the line! Fall back! Fall back!” he commanded with what little remained of his voice. Defenders ran backwards, continuing to fire as they did, and then wove through the maze of tents and huts. Mike thought he heard renewed vigor in the Tils’ howls, as if knowing victory was close at hand.

As the infected pressed forward, he reloaded and continued to retreat. He watched as the archer battlements were abandoned, the pumps had long since ceased raining gasoline. Once among the tents, Mike cut a direct path for the first Stryker vehicle he found. Hopping aboard, Gazelle at his heels, he ordered the small fleet to roll out. Paul had ordered three of the armored trucks to be placed beneath canvas. Tent poles and coverings flew as disguises were rejected. Defenders on foot cheered the passage of the eight Strykers.

Weapons loose, the metal behemoths blasted at the Tils who were just reaching the camp proper. Limbs and heads were ripped from infected bodies and the ground became soaked in the poison blood. A ringing cry of defiance rang up, and Mike turned to find most of the defenders who had fought at the pike line were now following the Strykers back into the battle. For a moment the wave of rebellion, uplifting shouts of a people who would stand and fight, swept over him. They know this is the final push, a calm voice said in his thoughts. And they’ve chosen to die fighting!

Adding his voice to the chorus, Mike fired his weapons in detached awareness. Inch by inch, the Horde advanced, pushing the Til line back. He knew the victory would be brief. Eventually ammunition would run out, bodies would fall to fatigue, and Tils would crush forward once again. Yet, he felt no sense of fear for the inevitable.

Seven years. Seven years he had fought against the devils of mankind’s darkest hour. He had buried friends and strangers, watched many twist and contort as the venom raced through their veins. He had led men and women in both battle and relative peace. Decisions had fallen to him, the weight of which he had been sure would crush the life from his body. But most of all, he had persevered. He had unflinchingly seen the tasks of surviving through to completion. This night would not be any different. Looking towards the east, to the black, indistinguishable line of the hidden horizon, Mike Allard mourned but one thing. I would have liked to see the sunrise one more time.

The Tils were no longer being pressed back. As defenders paused to reload, the infected saw the opportunities to lunge forward. Screams of pain and violence had replaced the Horde’s battle cries. Moving quickly, the enemy spread their disease, biting and gouging indiscriminately. One defender, his leg the site of his infection, spasmed and contracted the fingers still gripping his weapon. A line of bullets arced wildly and tore into as many Horde as it did Tils.

Stryker operators were being pulled from the vehicles as the Tils climbed and clawed their way onto the metal giants. Mike was having difficulty swinging his arms to each side fast enough. The infected now swarmed, too many of those faces he vaguely recognized as Horde members. He realized, with blank acceptance, his Stryker had stopped moving. Only the three men standing astride the vehicle kept the Tils from enveloping them.

With Gazelle at his side, as she had always been, Mike knew he would spare her from the belly of a Til. He continued to fire down into the outstretched arms and snarling scowls that sought him. Mindful of his depleting ammunition, he would continue his defense until two bullets remained to him. One each for dog and master.

“I’m thinking the direct approach is out of the question,” Matt whispered in the darkness. The two had spent the last several minutes studying the scene before them. While not impenetrable, the security perimeter posed a difficult obstacle. Michelle could feel frustration building inside her as time slid past. Their goal was in sight, yet reaching it alive seemed near impossible. The guards continued a pacing patrol while the Tils strained against the thick chains holding them in place.

“What did that guard have on him?” Michelle asked.

“An M16, a 9mm, extra rounds for each, one grenade, and two medium sized knives.”

“Give me the grenade.”

“It’s only one. There are too many guards and Tils to take out,” he replied.

“I don’t intend to use it. Least I hope not,” she told him cryptically. Once he handed her the weapon, Michelle instructed him to stay hidden.

“What are you doing? Duncan’s had his guys hunting you for weeks. They’ll recognize you on sight!”

“I’m counting on it.”

Rising into view, Michelle mimicked a stumble, easily done given how tired she was, and cradled her stomach with her right arm as she walked towards the guards.

“Halt!” one of the men shouted and leveled his machine gun at her.

“My name is Michelle Lafkin. Councilor Duncan has been looking for me.”

“Stay where you are,” a second guard called out to her. Michelle immediately obliged the request and waited as four men approached her. When they drew within arm’s reach, she cautiously lifted her right hand and exposed the armed grenade it held.

“Shoot me and I drop it. Run and I throw it,” she threatened, surprised by the passion in her tone. The men stood frozen, eyes wide in faces showing deliberation. “Duncan is dead,” she continued before they decided to combine their options and shoot and run. “The Ira Project is over. I need you to let me pass. Duncan sent an army of infected to wipe out innocent civilians. I have to… we have to end this nightmare before anyone else dies. I lost my father, my brothers, my friends… and my fiancée. Who have you lost? How many people are gone from your lives because of the virus? Please. Please help me end this. Help me save the ones that still live.”