The End Time Saga (Book 2): The Breaking Read online

  I’m lucky the perpetrator wasn’t a better shot or I would be dead. Or I should be thankful that bullets do weird things sometimes after you fire them. This thick fucking skull of mine finally paid off. Gwen will get a kick out of that. The thought of her made his gut grind.

  “Please God, let them be alive,” he said to his horrible reflection. Only his destroyed face stared back. No answers, only pain in his eyes.

  “They would have taken you with them.” He looked away from his reflection. “Or at least buried me.” Unless Gwen was trying to break up with me. Damn, couldn’t have just sent a text or something?

  “They left me naked on the side of the road.” No, they wouldn’t have done that. Tears welled up in his eyes. They couldn’t have. He crushed the counter in his hands to reassure himself.

  “They are still alive. I will find them,” he muttered. No time for feelings. Can’t find them if I’m dead. He snagged a worn washcloth out of the linen closet.

  “We will get out of this shit,” he said, as he prepared himself for more pain. You are already dead, the back of his mind whispered.

  Steele cracked open the bottle of whiskey and took a few pulls. The fiery liquid singed his throat all the way down to his belly. He dabbed the washcloth with water and as tenderly as he could, cleaned the wound.

  Although a dirty scab was forming, the skin around the wound was frayed and puckered. Pain shot through his body over and over, and soon the wound leaked blood on his face. He shoved gauze into the wound, and when it was as clean as he could make it, he took a long pull of whiskey and poured a bunch over his head: the most painful pull he ever took. He puked in the toilet, water and vomit splashing. His abs contracted into small orbs of muscle over and over. The sight and smell of the chili and whiskey coming up made him retch again.

  For three horrible minutes, he stood over the toilet, about to pass out, staring down at his own filth. Not as good coming up. He composed himself and wrapped his head with the white bandages. Now he had to try and keep it clean so he didn’t die a horrible feverish death from an infection. His stomach rumbled again. So he made his way to the pantry, this time opting for a can of chicken noodle soup. He slurped the soup down. The broth eased his troubled stomach, and his body immediately fell into exhaustion.

  He made for the bedroom with only one intent. He sat on the bed. Not bad, he thought, bouncing up and down, but he didn’t really care. Anything was preferable to outside or the hard cushions of the mobile lounge. He crawled under the covers and snuggled in. He was out before he could think about how tired he was.

  Fevered dreams plagued him, but they weren’t dreams. They were nightmares. The dead came for him, except they were his friends. They came in waves. First, an almost unrecognizable Jarl came for him. Most the flesh from his body was gone like he was a giant bleeding heap of bones and muscle. His squad mate, who had died in their escape from Mount Eden, snapped Steele’s bones one by one like twigs. Wheeler came next, pale as a ghost. He was shirtless and his chest was collapsed on one side from where a terrorist’s knife had punctured his lung. Bandages hung off the wound as if they’d been ripped away in a crazed attack. He stuck his hands deep into Steele’s guts as if he tried to see what Steele was made of.

  Gwen, along with the other survivors, came for him at once. Gwen wore a blue prom dress, her skin the color of a porcelain doll. Her eyes showed nothing for him aside from death. She let out an unholy wail as she led the rest of his friends for him.

  They beckoned him to join the ranks of the unhallowed. They reached for him and, through tears, he fought and pushed and shoved them. Nothing he did deterred his army of undead friends. They reached with bloodied arms, smiled with crimson grins. Their decaying bodies pressed forward, and he retreated backward until he could go no further, his back against a fiery wall.

  “No. Stay back,” he screamed at the them. Haze filled his dream and all his friends were gone. A booted man in tactical gear walked closer to him. Reddish hair. Tattoos running down both his arms. A swagger that only a seasoned warrior could carry successfully.

  “Mauser,” Steele echoed. Mauser stepped closer out of the fog. His face pale. He was like a ghost.

  “Are you okay?” Steele said into the nothing. Mauser was silent and only stood, facing Steele. His eyes never left Steele’s as if his friend waited for him to say something.

  After a moment, Mauser brought a hand to his chest and his fingers revealed bright cardinal red that popped out in the cloud of gray that surrounded them. Steele blinked and when he opened his eyes, Mauser was closer. He thrust his bloodied hand into Steele’s, bloody stickiness locking the two together.

  “What happened?” Steele said, his voice echoing into nothingness. Mauser’s grip was like iron. Steele wanted to pull his hand away but couldn’t. A grave smile spread on Mauser’s lips, gradually baring bloody red teeth, his eyes pale and white. He nodded and disappeared.

  Steele shot awake, gasping for air. His body was on fire as it shook to stay warm. Both ice and fire at the same time. His clothes dripped with sweat. Every muscle in his body was sore and his old sports injuries flared up the worst. He gingerly made his way back to the bathroom and ingested every fever reducer and pill that looked like it might be an antibiotic. He bent down under the faucet and guzzled water and lay back down. Thank God for wells. His head pounded out a rhythm with his heart, each thundering blow like Thor’s hammer striking the top of his skull.

  The door latch clicked as it was slid open. He held his breath. It clicked softly as it closed. His mind was a heady fog. He lay in sweat-filled sheets unsure of reality. Another dream? Or was that real?

  Steele peered in the dark, using his ears for any affirmation that what he heard was real. The back slider rolled on its single track. Wood scratched metal. Fuck.

  He needed a way out. Moonlight glowed through the window. Only death awaited him outside. Fever, exposure, the infected would ensure his demise. Footsteps clopped closer to the bedroom door. Steele sprung up out of the bed and dashed for the closet. He squeezed the flimsy accordion door closed.

  Seconds later, the door opened and was replaced by a beam of light. The flashlight scanned the room, searching for an intruder. Steele clutched his knife, his hand knuckling white. His blade was black, jutting out from his overhand grasp. A shotgun was pointed in a corner held by a single hand. Steele shifted his feet and his shoulder brushed a wire hanger. It swung loose and teetered back and forth, creaking.

  The shotgun leveled at the closet, steady and flat.

  Blade versus shotgun. No good. He gritted his teeth. Footsteps echoed over the floor. The man stopped. Both men knew the other was there. The man inhaled through his nose. The oxygen whistled in. Steele tensed his legs, ready to spring into action. Offset and close the distance. Must be fast. The lightweight door crashed open and Steele lunged into action.

  JOSEPH

  Southern Pennsylvania

  Joseph’s radio clock emitted a soft green 2:00. He rotated his steering wheel with both hands as he took it to the side of the road. His small car rolled to a stop, the gravel crunching beneath his tires. He ducked his head to get a better view. A reflective green sign read PITTSBURGH 13 in white letters.

  He eyed his dashboard. The gas gauge needle lay diagonal to the side. I need to find more fuel before I attempt whatever is left of Pittsburgh. He covered his mouth as he yawned. Some sleep couldn’t hurt either.

  He snatched up his atlas. His finger bounced from south of Pittsburgh, tracking a route north and west. His finger traced all the way to the west coast of Michigan and stopped at a tiny circle representing a small costal town on Lake Michigan. A town that had the infamous distinction of housing the last known whereabouts of Patient Zero. If I can average twenty-five miles per hour, I can reach Grand Haven, Michigan in five days on the backroads. He exhaled deep. What will you do with him when you find him? Go to a nearby lab and begin tests? Perfect. Find a lab. Hunt for food. Fight the undead. Study the virus.
Make the vaccine. Distribute to the remaining population. No problem. Definitely a one-man operation.

  Joseph turned a knob on his dash. The lights went dark. He didn’t switch the car off. The engine idled a soft, muted hum. Weariness wore him down into sleep. He dozed in and out of consciousness.

  A gray-skinned woman’s face pressed itself against the passenger window, jaw working open and closed. Black slime oozed between her teeth. Filth streaked down the window as her nails clawed the glass. He stared dimly, his mind draped in drowsiness. Nightmares or reality, there was no difference.

  Thumping on the window gradually tugged him free of his twilight. She was joined by another infected, whose ribcage was partially exposed. White ribs folded over holding in the remains of a maroonish-gray lung.

  What an awful dream, he thought. Within moments, the first two were joined by more, beating the car with broken hands, bent fingers, stumps where arms should have been. They beat the car like a drummer would a bass.

  It’s real, his mind whispered. He jumped up in his seat. Cloudy white eyes glared at him. Their eyes lacked any substance, showing neither empathy, hatred, nor recognition that he was to do anything other than die. He watched for a moment, trying to understand them. The infected woman clanked her teeth into the glass. Pieces of brown enamel stuck to spittle dripping down the window. If the woman had a soul, it was no longer within her.

  He pressed the pedal and gassed the car straight ahead. Bodies fell to the side as his wheels spun gravel and dirt alike. Miles dragged by. The undead reached for him in passing. They followed him down the road until he lost them in the night. Packs of infected swelled near trees and cars. More and more of them prohibited him from stopping again, so he drove on.

  The die had been cast. He would have to run the Pittsburgh gauntlet without making sure everything was planned out, prepared or ready. Not being prepared gave him anxiety. If I get trapped in the city with no gas, I am dead for sure. I can’t change a tire. A horde will swallow me whole.

  Joseph followed an entrance ramp onto a highway. Dormant traffic stood quiet. Lifeless taillights faced him. So many vehicles are headed toward the city. Why? He meandered through the vehicles. His car whined as the mirror caught on another car and snapped off.

  “Damn it,” he said. He inched the car back the other way. The back end dug into the front end of another car and he cleared it.

  Ahead of him, early morning sun shone from behind a mountain. Stunted greenish yellow trees climbed over the mountain, covering it like a multi-colored shroud. Darkness retreated downward near the tunnels, pressured by the growing sunlight.

  The tunnels called to him, and forbid him from entering their domain at the same time. That must be the Fort Penn Tunnel. The tunnels themselves were carved straight into the rock, and the front entrance was layered with tan brick. A windowed control center faced outward, the windows lightless. It will lead me straight into downtown Pittsburgh. Metro area home to over two million. Mostly dead. The rest infected.

  He tapped the gas pedal, and even when he saw the blockage he didn’t stop. Huge shipping containers towered to the top of the tunnel entrance. A smattering of faded red, blue, and green containers were stacked on top of one another with a base of earth and debris. He threw the car into park in front of the blockade.

  Joseph pulled out his atlas. A lost skill in a world with the modern convenience of GPS and the Internet. There had to be another way to get through Pittsburgh. Joseph traced his thumb around the city. He would have to backtrack thirty or forty miles to go around the city. Shit. That added a good chunk of time to his journey. Time he didn’t have. Every moment he didn’t have Patient Zero, the chances for stopping the virus diminished.

  Joseph nervously inched his glasses up his nose. He’d really screwed this up. What was I thinking, trying to go through the city? It had been quarantined, and now abandoned. He threw the car into reverse and checked his rearview mirror.

  A tan Humvee stuck out into his lane on the left. Where did that Army truck come from? That wasn’t there before. He looked in his side mirror. Neither was the camouflage-clad man quickly approaching his door with a gun. The man stopped short.

  “Put your hands on your head.”

  Joseph put his hands on his head and turned to look at the man over his shoulder.

  “Are you infected?” the soldier screamed. His gun hovered a foot from the back of Joseph’s head. The door ripped open. Joseph found himself facedown on the ground. The soldier frisked him and flipped him over.

  “Please, let me go,” Joseph eked out. He covered his face. The soldier grabbed his hands and zip-tied them together. The soldier patted him down and shoved his hands in Joseph’s pockets.

  “Why are you here?” the soldier asked. Another soldier’s back was to them. Both men were young. The partner’s gun bounced from angle to angle as he checked for threats.

  “Let’s hurry this up,” the other soldier said. He glanced nervously over his shoulder.

  “Give me a minute, will ya?” Joseph’s captor said.

  Joseph turned his head to the side so he could talk without eating the concrete. “Official business. I am trying to find a vaccine.” Hands dug into his shoulders and the soldier rolled him over onto his back.

  The soldier was a plain kid with big ears. “Did you come from Colonel Rossman’s camp?” The soldier’s eyes darted around the area. His name tag read Henderson.

  “I don’t know who that is.” Joseph said.

  Henderson rammed a hand into Joseph’s pants pocket, fingers grasping around.

  “I am on official government business. You must release me.”

  “We all are, aren’t we, Pope,” Henderson quipped. He smiled at his partner.

  “We sure are. I’ll check his car,” Pope said. He opened a back door and dug through Joseph’s meager cache.

  “You must listen,” he started. “I am a doctor.” The soldiers stopped digging through his car. Henderson gave him a sidelong glance, his ill-fitting helmet sliding to the side of his head. His ear seemed to hold the helmet in place.

  “A doctor, huh?” Henderson said.

  Pope raised a lip at them both. “Colonel will want to see him.”

  A burst of machine gun fire erupted from the Humvee’s mounted gun.

  Henderson’s radio buzzed. “We got a lot of Zulus coming our way.”

  “Not the first time we’ve heard the doctor story, but the colonel will set you straight one way or another. For your sake, you better be telling the truth.”

  Joseph squirmed in his zip ties.

  Gunfire reverberated off the front of the containers. Joseph had no choice but to let himself be pushed for the Humvee. Dead flesh paraded through the abandoned vehicles, every step bringing them closer. Joseph stole a final glance at his small car, all alone, missing its driver.

  Henderson shoved him into the backseat of the Humvee. A soldier in tan boots shuffled his feet in the middle as he rotated his turret. Brass shells tinkled down inside the Humvee as the man fired.

  “Hurry up,” Pope yelled from the driver’s side, slapping the door of the Humvee. Henderson hustled to the other side of the vehicle.

  The fifty-cal lit up again and punched bullets with a blazing fury into the infected. Bodies jolted and jerked as they collapsed, and the Humvee lurched into motion.

  KINNICK

  Pentagon, Arlington, VA

  Kinnick jogged down a dark stairwell of the Pentagon lit only by the greenish glow from the exit signs. It brought him back to his first experience with the Zulus. His heart rate sped up as the trauma played out in his mind. It was only by mere chance that Kinnick had made it inside the famous five-sided building. Luck and blood are the only reason I’m here.

  Weeks prior, Kinnick had been sitting in his office in the Department of State’s headquarters known as the Woodrow Wilson building, mulling over rebel leader Colonel Kosoko’s personality profile. Unstable. Psychopathic behaviors. And he reveres his son.
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  Alarm bells started blaring, high-pitched dings echoing throughout his office. The alarms were accompanied by a white flashing light, as if the wall was taking his picture.

  “Great, just what we need,” Kinnick said. His tone was harsher than he intended. It had been an extremely stressful few days as the Administration had attempted to rectify numerous situations under the radar.

  He closed the report and flipped it onto his rich wooden desk. “Jackie, I don’t have time for this,” he shouted out at his personal aide. She peered at him worriedly over the wall of her cubicle. She was a timid mouse peering from her hole.

  He ignored the alarms and picked up another report.

  “You hear me?” he shouted again.

  She nodded and ducked below her cubicle wall.

  His mind was on auto-pilot now. He had been over these documents multiple times and still could not put all the pieces together. What is this guy doing so far from his home base? He can’t possibly think he would be successful in a coup. Unless the government is weaker than our analysts are reporting.

  Pictures of Kinnick’s family were stuck on the wall, along with a series of photographs of him in a jumpsuit in front of C-130s. Smiling faces, looked down on him.

  Over the sirens, he could hear his Deputy Officer, David Hollern’s voice.

  He opened a vanilla folder holding the last report on his mission. He read it for the one hundredth time: “The CIA agents are unaccounted for. The embassy staff are on a flight bound for McCone International Airport with Counterterrorism agents providing security.”

  I should be breathing a sigh of relief, not fucking losing my mind. Something was very wrong.

  The fire alarm’s bright white flash clamored for his attention. It’s as if they know I have things I need to do.

  He grabbed his sport coat from the back of his chair and threw it over his arm in preparation to leave the building. Deputy Officer Hollern ran into his office. His graying hair glistened and he breathed heavy as if he had been running a race.