The Zone: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Infection Chronicles Book 1) (12 page)

The truck roared down Norfolk Avenue, then turned on Vermont Street. If they kept heading in that direction they would pass right by the scrapyard.

Steele slid down the conveyor to the base of the machine. He leapt down to the concrete, his boots splashing in a puddle of rainwater.

“What’s up?” Parker asked.

“Routine traffic stop.” Steele grinned. “Black 4x4 is heading our way. You take the driver, I’ll take the gunner. Leave the passenger alive. Feel free to cause him pain though. And keep it quiet.”

Steele attached a Bauer SD2, quick-detach suppressor to the barrel. He switched the RK 709 assault rifle to silent operation. Then dashed through the scrapyard to the street.
 

Parker followed.

The special forces had adopted the RK 709 because of its covert and stealth capabilities. Combined with smart ammunition, it was a state-of-the-art killing machine with surgical precision. The microprocessor in the weapon was more powerful than a room of supercomputers from the turn-of-the-century.  

Most of the sound a rifle makes comes from the sonic boom of the bullet as it breaks the sound barrier. But the RK got around that. With polymer cased ammunition and microprocessors on each round, the propellant charge of the bullet could be altered. In stealth mode, a reduced propellant charge kept velocity under 1100 feet per second, keeping the bullet subsonic. In this mode, the loudest sound the weapon made was the click of the trigger.

The DOD had spent a lot of money making sure the rounds were as accurate and as reliable as traditional rounds. The trade-off was a bit of distance, but the technology kept the rounds just as accurate. And the polymer casings kept the guns from getting gummed up and jamming.

Steele blazed through the heaps of rusted and twisted metal until he reached Vermont Street. He positioned himself at the corner of the front office building. Parker crossed Vermont Street and crouched behind a dumpster at the mouth of an alleyway.

Steele could hear the diesel engine clattering toward them. From Steele’s vantage point, Vermont Street curved and sloped slightly downhill, obscuring the 4x4’s approach. Steele kept his sights fixed on the street. A moment later, the truck rambled around the corner. The driver accelerated up the incline.

The gunner stood in the truck bed leaning against the mounted .50 caliber. He was casually glancing from side to side, scoping out rooftops and alleyways. But he didn’t seem too concerned. He was close to home and a little too comfortable.

Steele kept the RK’s crosshairs on the man’s head. He waited, his finger wrapped tight around the trigger. Just a little closer. The driver was babbling on about something. The passenger was lighting a cigarette. When the truck was about 50 yards away, Steele squeezed the trigger. 

Parker heard the barely audible click of the trigger mechanism. The bullet ripped through the air. This was her cue to fire. She burst a flurry of rounds.

Steele’s bullet split the gunners head in half. His body fell back, clanging into the truck bed. As the driver craned his neck back to see what the commotion was about, three bullets pierced the windshield. His face turned into a bloody soup.

The passenger’s face went pale, and the cigarette dropped from his mouth. He frantically fumbled for his weapon as the cigarette was burning his crotch. He looked frazzled and ridiculous.

Steele rattled off another several rounds into the right front tire, blowing it to shreds. The rim ground into the concrete, and the truck swerved. The black beast bounded onto the sidewalk and smashed into a telephone pole. Metal crumpled, and the hood buckled. The back of the truck lifted from the ground and spiraled around into a brick building. The truck bounced on its springs a time or two before resting motionless.

The windshield on the passenger side was cracked and webbed. The passenger obviously hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt and smacked it with his skull. It was splattered with blood and a tuft of hair. Steele hoped the passenger was still alive. He needed to talk to him.

The whole thing had taken less than 30 seconds. Aside from the sound of the impact, the assault had barely made more than a whisper. Steele hoped that the crash wouldn’t have alerted anyone back at the compound. But someone could be coming. They had to act fast.

Parker and Steele crept to the lifeless truck. The passenger was still motionless in his seat. Steele pulled open the door. The guy was moaning and groaning, regaining consciousness. Steele grabbed the man’s shirt and yanked him from the cab. He smacked the concrete with his face and blood spattered on the ground. It mixed with the rainwater and oozed away.

The man groaned in agony. Steele rolled the man onto his back. His leg was broken from the crash. It dangled at an unnatural angle. This was the same guy who had grabbed Chloe. 

Steele had no sympathy for him. He jammed the barrel of his RK into the man’s face. “Keep the pain to yourself.”

Parker pulled the dead driver out of the cab and hefted his body into the truck bed. Then she dashed back and hopped in the driver seat. She tried to turn the engine over, but it wouldn’t go. She tried again, but the engine just slurred. Parker pumped the gas pedal a few times, then she twisted the ignition key—the engine clunked to life. 

Barely. 

“Pull it into the scrapyard. We’ve got to get it off the street,” Steele said.

Parker reversed back from the telephone pole, then dropped it into gear. The truck hobbled to the scrapyard, engine sputtering.

“Come on, buddy. Let’s go for a walk.” Steele grabbed the man by his collar and drug him down the sidewalk. The man screamed in agony with every bump. 

“What did I tell you about making noise?” Steele asked. 

“Please, man. I didn’t do anything,” the thug cried.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Norman,” the man stammered.

“Do you have a high pain tolerance, Norman?” There was a devilish glint in Steele’s eyes.

Norman’s face grew pale with fear, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. 

“HOW MUCH FERTILIZER do you have?” Steele asked.

Xavier and his men huddled around Steele in the basement below the storefront. Xavier looked perplexed.

“You’ve got a garden, how much fertilizer do you have?”

“We’ve got ten, maybe fifteen, fifty pound bags of ammonium nitrate. Why?”

“That’s more than enough,” Steele said. 

“Enough for what?”

“ANFO. Mix the ammonium nitrate with fuel oil, boost it with C4, and we’ve got enough explosives to take out the south wall of the compound,” Steele said.

“Where are we going to get fuel oil?” Xavier asked.

“Diesel will do,” Steele said. “That shouldn’t be too hard to find. If you can find some nitromethane, even better.” 

“What’s that?”

“Racing fuel. Some remote controlled aircraft use it.” Steele said.
 

ANFO had a long and infamous history of use in improvised explosive devices. It also had plenty of legitimate uses in mining and quarrying. It was cheap, easy to use, and readily available—which made it a favorite among terrorists and insurgents. You could even find ammonium nitrate in cold packs at the local drugstore.  

ANFO was used in the embassy bombing in Madrid in 2032. Ammonium nitrate enhanced with powdered aluminum was used in the Berlin bombings of 2029. A thousand pounds killed 169 people and destroyed a twenty story state building. 6000 pounds of ammonium nitrate mixed with nitromethane was used in 2027 to destroy the Palace of Westminster in London. 500 pounds would be more than enough to cripple Raddick's stronghold. 

Steele activated his projection disc and surveyed a map of Raddick's compound. It was updated with the recon drone’s recent data. Steele zoomed in and pointed to the display. “There are two guard turrets on either side of the main door. We’ll have a sniper in position at the scrapyard to take out the west guard towers. Another sniper at the paper mill on Providence Street will take out the east towers. That should give a window for the driver of the car bomb to park the vehicle at the gate and get away. Who’s your best shooters?”

“Andrew is a former Marine.” Xavier said. “Cole was Airborne.”

The two men stepped forward. Andrew was a tall, lanky guy with shaggy brown hair and brown eyes. Maybe 27 years old. Cole was short and stocky and built like a tank. He was early 30s, had light eyes and sandy blonde hair with a buzz cut.

 “You two feel comfortable in sniper roles?” Steele asked. 

“Yes, sir,” they both said in unison.

“Good. People’s lives are going to depend on you.”

“What good is this going to do?” said Finn. “We’re still outnumbered.” This was the second time the nerdy guy had given Steele grief.

“The explosion is strictly a diversion tactic. The compound will be in utter chaos. All of their attention will be focused toward the front gate. Nobody is going to be watching the back door.”

“Back door?” Finn said, incredulous.

Steele swiped the display. “Here,” he pointed a hundred feet to the north of the compound. “This is an escape tunnel that leads down to the bunker. At the end of this tunnel is a metal blast door. We’ll burn through it with some S9 gel. Parker and I will infiltrate the bunker. It’s a massive, multi-level structure. The captives are held on level three. Over time, they are brainwashed and indoctrinated into Raddick's cult.”

“And how do you know all of this?” Finn said.

“Let’s just say an informant volunteered some useful information,” Steele said.

“And where is this informant?” Finn demanded.

“He reached the end of his useful life.”

 Parker smirked.

“You kidnapped and tortured one of Raddick's men?” Finn asked.

“We had a friendly conversation.” Steele smiled. He had introduced his captive, Norman, to pain he never knew he was capable of feeling.

“How can you even be sure the information is reliable?” Finn snapped. “If you torture someone long enough, they’ll tell you anything you want to hear.”

“If you have a better plan, I’m all ears,” Steele said.

Finn didn’t have anything to say to that.

“When the patrol that we ambushed doesn’t return, Raddick is going to get suspicious. Were going to need to act fast.” Steele looked at his watch. It was just after 3pm. “We’ll have an unrestricted approach to the compound if we use the black 4x4 we captured. It needs a new tire, but it runs. By the time they figure out it’s not their men returning, the south wall will be a pile of rubble.”

No one said anything.

“We’ll strike after sundown,” Steele said. “Parker, start prepping the IED.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Who gets to drive the truck?” Xavier asked.

“Any volunteers?” asked Steele.

The room fell silent. It was practically a suicide mission. So many things could go wrong, and the driver would be a sitting duck. Plus, getting clear of the blast would be a challenge—even in the best case scenario.

 Xavier looked around the room at the blank faces. He took a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”

“No,” Sarah blurted out. Her face went pale with fear. 

“I’ll be fine.” Xavier tried to comfort her.

“Please, don’t.”

“Major, tell her I’ll be fine.”

“As long as our snipers do their job, and you get yourself out of there.” 

Sarah didn’t look relieved. “So, Xavier will detonate the bomb when he’s at a safe distance?”

Steele shook his head. “No. Too risky. He could be killed before he has a chance to detonate the device. We’ll have an observer in a secure location detonate remotely.”

“I volunteer to be that observer,” said Sarah.

“Absolutely not,” Steele said. “You’re biased. Your judgment may become clouded.”

“So, you’re willing to detonate the device whether he’s safe or not?”

“If you want to recover those hostages, this is your only shot.”

“Sarah, it’s fine,” Xavier said. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Sarah stormed away in tears. 

“I’ll talk to her,” said Xavier. “She’ll calm down.”

“The only way this is going to work is if we’re all on the same page and committed,” Steele said.
 

“What about me?” Delroy said. “I don’t want to sit this one out.” He was like a schoolboy who didn’t get picked for the team.

“Save your strength Delroy.”

“But… I wanna blow stuff up,” he whined. He looked sad and pathetic. “I can walk, I swear.”

“Take a step,” Steele said, challenging him.

Delroy pushed up from a storage crate he was sitting on. But the instant he tried to put pressure on his wounded leg he cratered. He winced with pain, but tried to play it off.

“You can stay in the rear with the gear,” Steele said.  

“So, you and Parker are going to sneak into the compound alone?” Finn said.

“Taking on a mission of this complexity with a group of untrained civilians is not something I’m comfortable with,” Steele said. “Parker and I can handle it.”