The Departing (The End Time Saga Book 4) Read online

  The Departing

  The End Time Saga

  Book Four

  Daniel Greene

  Copyright © 2018 by Daniel Greene

  Cover Design by Tim Barber

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters are fictional and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is completely coincidental. All names, organizations, places and entities therein are fictional or have been fictionalized, and in no way reflect reality. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

  ISBN: 978-0-9976096-5-3

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  For Jen. You’ve rescued me more times than I can count and you’re more amazing than you’ll ever know.

  Table of Contents

  MAUSER

  GWEN

  KINNICK

  STEELE

  GWEN

  KINNICK

  STEELE

  THE PASTOR

  KINNICK

  STEELE

  GWEN

  KINNICK

  STEELE

  GWEN

  KINNICK

  STEELE

  GWEN

  KINNICK

  STEELE

  GWEN

  GAT

  STEELE

  KINNICK

  STEELE

  MAUSER

  STEELE

  TESS

  KINNICK

  TESS

  GWEN

  STEELE

  KINNICK

  GWEN

  STEELE

  TESS

  KINNICK

  GWEN

  AHMED

  KINNICK

  STEELE

  KEVIN

  TESS

  STEELE

  GWEN

  KINNICK

  GWEN

  STEELE

  GWEN

  KINNICK

  GWEN

  STEELE

  KINNICK

  MAUSER

  THE PASTOR

  STEELE

  MAUSER

  STEELE

  MAUSER

  STEELE

  KINNICK

  GWEN

  STEELE

  KINNICK

  A Message from the Author

  A Note

  Special Thanks

  About the Author

  Books by Daniel Greene

  MAUSER

  West Coast of Michigan

  A perfect clear magnified circle formed around the man below. The man inside the scope’s sight picture smiled, unknowing of the projectile violence about to explode his existence in a fraction of a second.

  A cross with small hashes on each arm hovered over the man’s tattoo-covered head. The tattoos ran down his neck and disappeared beneath his clothes. He raised a beer to his lips and took a long swig between laughs. A black eight of spades tattoo ran from the middle of his skull down to the center of his ear so that it would look like he had it wedged under a ball cap even when not wearing one. Nice artwork.

  Mauser shifted the M24 sniper rifle to the man next to him, letting it rest on each individual as he scanned them in search for his elusive prey.

  The small town crawled with bikers, each club displaying different patch-laden leather vests. Motorcycles roared on side streets. Civilians in their mismatching gear appeared almost leisurely as they came in and out of buildings. They smiled and laughed as they drank and ate in the streets like they were throwing an apocalypse block party. Their ignorance disgusted Mauser. They had no idea of the wall of humanity that marched their way nor of the firepower that could be brought down upon them at any moment. Two things that they should respect but were too ignorant to know any better.

  He slowed his sweep and reversed back where he had just scanned. His crosshairs settled on a single man in the town below. “Bingo,” he said under his breath.

  He knew it was him because of the scar running along his head. The man would stick out like a sore thumb anywhere with that nasty, puckered, shoddily treated wound. His beard had grown longer, making him look almost like a castaway on a forgotten island. His shoulders were still strong. His gaze showed little exterior emotion. He knew the man always held his cards close and never let on what he was calculating in his mind. Steele.

  Mauser let his finger tap the trigger slightly and softly. The trigger moved the smallest fraction beneath his finger as if it wanted it so bad but didn’t dare. “I could take you now, brother. Send you home where you belong,” he whispered. Not yet, though. Someday we will see who has the better shot.

  He tracked Steele in his sights. His former friend limped through the town with a crutch wedged under one armpit and the other arm dangling in a sling. “Got banged up now, didn’t we?” he said to himself. “What happened to you?”

  A voice whispered beside him. “Sir, is that him? Do you see him?” The helmeted soldier laid prone next to Mauser staring at him, holding his binoculars in one hand.

  “Shut up, Private. No one asked you.”

  Private Vaughn blinked russet-colored eyes. “Sir, we are to report back immediately if we find our target.”

  Mauser pulled his eye away from his scope. Private Vaughn’s Adam’s apple moved up and down as he gulped.

  “What are you going to do? Call an airstrike? Give me a minute, Vaughn. Trying to figure out what he’s up to.”

  Mauser placed his eye back to his scope, feeling an odd sense of elation as he watched the people below without their knowledge. He was playing a grim reaper and he could take any of their lives at any moment. With a small press of his finger, their souls would disappear from earth, never having known that their lives were in jeopardy of being snuffed out.

  A woman with short black hair talked to Steele. She reached out and touched him. Her hand lingered. Got ourselves a new friend I see. Where’s Gwen?

  He scanned building to building looking for the long blonde-haired Gwen. He settled on one blonde woman, but she looked too old. He rubbed his eyes. Even with the magnification of his optic, it still wasn’t clear. Where is that crazy girl?

  He shifted his optic back to Steele. Now, he spoke with a fat biker. Made some new friends? He wanted to smile at his old friend, wondering what he was saying. He wondered if Steele was acting all serious like everything was business as usual. He shook the emotion away and remembered why he was there. The sight left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “Sir, what should we report?”

  Mauser pulled his head back. “Jesus, Vaughn. Fucking settle down. We’re running a reconnaissance op, not running home to tattle to daddy.”

  A group of six bikers rolled their motorcycles toward the edge of town. Mauser tracked them. What better report than from the cat’s mouth itself?

  Mauser tapped Vaughn and they both crawled, elbow over elbow, until they had sufficient tree cover. He stood up and slung his M24 then picked up his Special Operations Forces Combat Assault Rifle 17, also known as a SCAR-H or SCAR heavy, that shot 7.62x51mm NATO rounds. He brushed himself off.

  The six soldiers of his squad stood about in a wooded clearing. His men wore helmets and the brown, green, and gray camouflage of the Army Combat Uniforms. Specialist Brown’s ACU jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a surprising gut. He held his M4 carbine casually across his shoulders. Corporal Jarvis was over six feet tall and fiddled with a necklace of rotting, graying fingers around his neck. Claimed it was some sort of good luck charm, but all Mauser got from
it was the putrid stink of decomposing flesh.

  Two Humvees sat parked nearby on a two-lane track that had taken them up onto the tiny hill and provided them a small vantage over Pentwater. The Humvee doors were open, his men leaning outside. Private First Class Campos sat in one turret. His jaw worked as he chewed the same piece of gum he’d had for weeks. Private Low stood in the other turret, his head tilted downward and his chin on his chest. He appeared to be napping with his M2 .50 caliber machine gun pointing toward the sky.

  Red-haired Sergeant Yates leaned against a Humvee, his M4 carbine resting on the ground. His massive forearms crossed his chest.

  A single low moan drifted up through the trees behind the Humvees. Yates peered over his shoulder in its direction. Neither concern nor excitement registered on his face.

  Mauser’s gunmetal-colored eyes darted to the movement in the trees. The others glanced casually around them. Jarvis grabbed his M16A4 and Campos trained his .50 cal in its direction.

  “Sounds like one,” Yates grunted.

  “I got eyes on,” Campos called down. “It’s by itself.”

  “What we got?” Low said from the other turret.

  Mauser gave him a nasty glare. “Infected, you lazy sack.”

  “I got it,” Yates said. He sliced the pie off the Humvee, taking an angle that would maximize his eyes on target while minimizing his exposure to enemy gunfire. Mauser wasn’t sure of its usefulness against the dead, but it never hurt to keep your tactics sharp. The lone infected emerged from the trees.

  When it walked, its right shoulder dipped lower in stride with its mangled gait. Its head bent to one side and a skeletal mouth hung open. Pieces of gray skin were peeled off its face and replaced with black rotting flesh, and its hair was mostly gone with only stringy clumps remaining. Inky blood oozed through its t-shirt and soiled sweater, a line of bullet holes draped raggedly across its chest.

  “No guns, Sergeant,” Mauser said. Yates gave him a glance over his shoulder.

  “Pussy. You think we couldn’t take that rabble down there with just this squad?”

  “Sack up, boss,” Brown laughed at Mauser. “You got no faith in us?”

  Mauser smirked. “If I didn’t think Jackson would lock us up, I’d charge down the hill right now and end this.”

  The infected raised a tattered sleeve of its sweater, a bony hand saluting the soldiers.

  “True,” Yates said. He released his straight bladed Ka-Bar from its MOLLE sheath on his vest. “Come on over, baby,” he cooed. He waved, extended his hand, and goaded the infected on. “Let daddy release you from your misery.” The infected dragged closer and Yates struck quick like a viper, jabbing a black steel tongue inches into the top of the infected’s skull. The dead hung for a moment, suspended by his blade. With immense strength, Yates twisted his torso, whipping the dead body to the side, removing it from his blade.

  “Low, look alive up there,” Sergeant Yates called up at the soldier in the turret. He bent down next to the body, still yelling at the other soldier. “At least face outward or something. Where there’s one, there’s always more.”

  “Yes, sir,” Low said, the tone of timid irritation in his voice. Low turned his stubbly chin and faced the rear of the squad.

  “Is that our boy down there?” Yates asked, standing up.

  Mauser looked back down in the direction of the town. “That’s them all right.”

  Sergeant Yates smiled beneath his reddish beard and pulled his carbine back in front of his body.

  Mauser turned to Vaughn. “Get Jackson on the line. Tell him we got a hit on the target. Saddle up, boys. We’re about to make some new friends.”

  A wicked grin crossed Jarvis’s lips and he gave Brown a fist pound.

  “You heard the man. Get ready for a fight,” Sergeant Yates said. He marched back to the lead Humvee.

  “Let’s see what Steele’s friends are up to,” Mauser said. He tossed his sniper rifle to Brown. He caught it and placed it in the lead Humvee. Mauser pointed down the road. “We’ll meet there.”

  ***

  An hour later they rolled into Forward Operating Base (FOB) Persistence of Colonel Jackson’s mixed National Guard force. The tent city was contained inside a barricade of Humvees in an abandoned state park in a forested clearing for camping.

  A soldier with the red keystone of Pennsylvania waved them inside the base. A big segment of the soldiers in the base came directly from Colonel Jackson’s battalions from his original unit in Pennsylvania. Most were known as the Bloody Anvil Boys for their steadfast courage in World War II.

  The remnants of sixteen National Guard units had all joined together under Jackson’s command. The tree and stars of Tennessee, the sword and sunburst of New York, and the circle and star of Ohio decorated soldiers’ sleeves inside the base. They were the soldiers left behind in the military’s hasty retreat west. Now, they had formed their own unit, forged together in the heat of battle and the crucible of survival.

  Mauser’s Humvee screeched to a halt in front of a large tan tent. He hopped out of the passenger side and slammed the door. He pointed at Jarvis. “Keep them nearby. He’ll want to see them.” The rows of tents were not uniform, but still held a level of conformity to them.

  Mauser nodded to two soldiers standing outside the tent. He opened a flap and ducked inside. What would normally house screens, computers, and monitors, now only held tables with paper maps spread over them.

  A short bald man stood on the far end. Other officers stood nearby. Major Ludlow from the Ohio National Guard looked up as Mauser entered. He was more like a fly than an officer with his bug eyes. Captain Ogden of the Tennessee National Guard was a small man with an apparent Napoleon complex and gave Mauser a look like he wanted to fight for dominance. Lieutenant Colonel Davis from the New York National Guard pointed at a map with a long arm, looming over the other officers.

  The light shone off the top of Jackson’s head. His hands leaned on the table as he studied the map. He wore ACUs, but the jacket was unbuttoned and relaxed. His face was taut and his skin tight like someone had tightened a drawstring on the back of his skull. His lips were thin and would sometimes quiver before he spoke.

  “I received your report from sector six. The only sizable town in that area is Pentwater. Do you agree?” Jackson said.

  The colonel’s voice was steady and he seemed calm today. For that, Mauser was thankful. Anything else and he would need to tread lightly to avoid an outburst from the man. “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Good. And you saw him? Agent Steele?”

  Mauser shifted on his feet a bit. It was one thing to not be with him, but working against his former best friend and fellow counterterrorism agent still stung on the inside. He got past it by remembering the murders Steele’s renegade allies had committed against the military in what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Mauser nodded. “I had positive identification by his facial scar.”

  “Did you also see that two-faced traitor, Kinnick?” Jackson’s thin lips twitched with the mention of his enemy. His mouth stretched across his skeletal head in a wide frown.

  “No confirmation on rebel military forces.”

  “Did you see any military units with Agent Steele?” Ludlow asked. His wide-set eyes almost didn’t blink.

  “No, sir. Most of his people were dressed in civilian attire. With an oddly large contingent of motorcycle bikers.”

  “Interesting,” Jackson said, frowning. “Why would he abandon the aid of Kinnick and his Special Forces lapdogs?”

  “Maybe they abandoned him?” Ogden said from below.

  “Maybe.” Jackson considered his map once more.

  Mauser waited a moment before he spoke again. “Sir, we were able to capture some of his followers.”

  Jackson looked up and a smile crawled over his skull-like face. “You are a good soldier, Mauser. One of my best. Finding you amid the wreckage of this earth was a rare find.”

  Mauser nodded aga
in. “Thank you, sir. Not all of their party made it.”

  Jackson smiled. “Surely, we didn’t need all of them.” He waved at Mauser. “Bring them in.”

  He stepped back to the entrance, flipped open the tent flap, and hollered, “Corporal Jarvis, bring them in.”

  After a moment, Jarvis swatted a bald biker in a long sleeve leather jacket, driving him inside the tent. He was followed by a fat biker with a brown beard and a woman in her fifties with long brown hair. Their hands were tied and bound behind them. Metal snakes were sewn onto their outer garments.

  Jackson smiled. “Gentle people of Michigan, welcome.” He was a shark that bared his teeth, begging others to believe that he was only an angelfish. “Tell me about Agent Steele.”

  The bald man’s eyebrows narrowed. “Who the fuck is that?” he spat.

  The woman’s brow furrowed. “We don’t know nothing and fuck you, pig.” She spit at the colonel. The colonel followed the spit down to the ground as it landed harmlessly on the floor.

  Jackson’s smile widened. Mauser was sure he was amused now. “Such vigor. Such angst, and for what? We haven’t harmed you.”

  The colonel nodded to Jarvis. The corporal half swung the stock of his M16A4 into the female’s face. Her nose cracked as the butt connected. She bent forward in pain.

  “Ow! My nose!” she cried. Bent over, she spit blood and teeth onto the floor of the tent.

  Jackson bent down close to her face. He put his thick fingers on her head and squeezed her hair in his hand, pulling her closer to his face. She moaned as he forced her face closer to his. Blood dripped out of her mouth, forming a crimson red lipstick atop her lips.

  He spoke softly. “Now you can be angry with me.” He kept his face close to hers, drinking in her pain.

  After a moment, she stood up straight, breathing hard. She spit more blood from her mouth.

  Jackson smirked, genuine mirth settling on his face. “I don’t have time for your stupid pride.” He blinked at Jarvis. He struck the woman in the stomach. She cried out in pain. He slammed the butt of his gun on the back of her shoulders. Her body hit the floor. She struggled onto her shoulders as she tried to get her knees under her.