Rend, p.13
Rend, page 13
Halsey didn’t understand what was happening. Specialist Brunson had identified personnel on the target building’s roof and then the crew chief was cursing into the radio. “What’s wrong, Sergeant?” he asked as he glanced over his left shoulder where the crew’s senior enlisted man sat.
“Jesus fucking Christ! Craig’s head is lying in the fucking crew compartment!” Sergeant Helms screamed into the radio. “They fucking shot him!”
“What the fu—” Halsey never finished his question as the windshield spider-webbed around a tiny hole and the bullet tore the pilot’s throat away. Brahma Two-Three’s co-pilot released the cyclic and threw his hands up to clear the red smear from his goggles.
Halsey thrashed wildly as he began to aspirate blood into his lungs and he yanked erratically on the cyclic. The helicopter shot up and banked drunkenly to the left. The left-seater reached frantically for the cyclic control, but the bird was already beginning to flip as it crashed into the side of a building several blocks from the Archives.
The crumpled Blackhawk slid violently down the side of the building and came to rest upside down on the engines. The loud noise of the crash made every zombie within earshot turn and begin moving toward the sounds of chaos.
*****
08 March, 1032 hrs local
The National Archives
Washington, D.C
“Say again, Agent Campbell?” Kestrel said into his radio.
“They just shot down a helicopter!” Campbell blurted over the net. “We saw the shooters over on the roof of the National Gallery of Art and called in a helo. Then they shot it down somehow.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Kestrel mumbled. “Hold on, we’re getting a call from headquarters.”
He switched his radio up to the higher command frequency that Allyson was talking on. “Yes, satellite imagery shows the helicopter crashed into the south side of a large building in the four hundred block of G Street NW,” Alistair Reston said over the radio. “Wait, details coming in that the building was the old Government Accountability Office headquarters before the zombie war.”
“How did they shoot them down?” Allyson asked in alarm.
“The satellite imagery is fairly poor due to the brown fog inside the city, but we were able to register two heat signatures on the roof and two larger heat signatures which appeared and then abruptly vanished so we assume that those were shots from a large caliber rifle.”
“Are there any survivors?” Kestrel cut in.
“Unknown at this time,” the deputy director replied. “Brahma Two-Three did not explode and it is not currently on fire so there may be survivors.”
“How far away is the helicopter’s location from the Archives?” the old operator asked.
There was a pause as the headquarters personnel physically counted the streets. “Kestrel, the crash site is four blocks north and three blocks east.”
He switched off his radio’s microphone and told Allyson, “I’m going to the site. I can get up there in less than ten minutes and—”
“I’m going too,” Caleb Campbell cut him off from the stairwell. “I knew those guys.”
“Your job is to take out those shooters on the other roof,” he answered.
“We did,” Campbell replied as he walked over to the two of them. “As soon as they shot the helicopter one of them stood up to watch it and the other showed too much of the top of his head. Positive ID on one kill, the other one is definitely full of holes and won’t be a factor. I have two snipers in position watching that roof in case any more of them show up.”
Kestrel frowned but then decided that it would be better to have assistance in case things got tight. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Wait a goddamned minute,” Allyson said. “I’m in charge of this mission. You’re not going anywhere unless I say you can.”
“We agreed that I’m in charge of the tactical situations,” Kestrel retorted. “This is a tactical decision and you need to get those documents to the roof.”
“Don’t do this, Asher,” she pleaded and grabbed his arm.
“I’m taking responsibility for this decision, not you.”
He started to turn, but turned back to her and leaned his head in close. “I’ll be back. This is what I’ve spent my whole life training to do; I know what I’m doing.”
In the low light he could see tears streaming down her cheek. She physically checked her radio to ensure that it was off and said, “I know we only had last night, and it may have been nothing to you, but I want you to stay safe and come back… come back to me.”
He placed his other hand on her shoulder. “Last night meant more to me than you would believe,” he replied. “I will come back to you, but those men’s family need me to help bring them back.”
She nodded quietly and unconsciously tried to wipe the tears away. They both chuckled as her glove made a clinking sound when it hit her facemask. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes,” he said. Kestrel gently pulled his arm from her grasp and jogged toward the stairwell.
*****
08 March, 1047 hrs local
The National Archives
Washington, DC
Kestrel and Campbell patted the man guarding the southeast doorway on the shoulder as they passed through. Even with the shifting murk of the radioactive fog the brightness of the outside made the older man squint. The mass of creatures could be heard over the occasional helicopter rotors.
The radio crackled in his ear, “This is Reston. We can see your heat signatures and IR beacons on the south side of the Archives, but visual is still a negative.”
“Alright,” Kestrel replied. “I need you to kick those sound buoys into high gear. We’re moving along the southern side of the building. Where do we go from here?”
“Cross over 7th Street and take Indiana Avenue. It runs northeast for two blocks until it merges with D Street. At that intersection, turn left and then head north on 5th Street for three blocks. Then turn right on G Street and you’ll see the crash site.”
“Do we have any support?” Campbell asked as they skirted 7th Street and jogged onto Indiana.
“There are two helicopters hovering above the crash site,” Reston replied. “They’re shooting the incoming zombies. There’s not too many of them right now, but when the mist clears and we can get a visual the satellite shows a huge group beginning to form as they move toward your location.”
“Great. Any good news?” Kestrel huffed as the two men slowed to a brisk walk. It wouldn’t do them any good to arrive so out of breath that they couldn’t accurately fire their weapons.
“Looks like the ones who had surrounded the north side of the archives are slowly beginning to break away and head toward the crash site.”
“That’s not really good news for us, but thanks for the update,” Kestrel grunted. “Can you pass that info along to Agent Harper?”
“I’m on the net, Kestrel,” Allyson replied.
“Good. I hope we can continue to relieve the pressure on the team at the Archives.”
“Thanks. Stay safe and get your ass back here with those pilots,” she said.
“WILCO, boss. We’re gonna go silent for a while and concentrate on getting to the crash site safely,” Kestrel replied.
The two men made it safely across 6th Avenue before they saw any zombies that were a threat. They were almost to the Y intersection that came in from the north when a group of creatures stumbled from behind the trees in the median. It happened so fast that Kestrel didn’t even have a chance to raise his weapon before the crush of bodies were on top of him. He kicked and pushed with all of his might, but the zombies didn’t let up. They continued to rip and pull at him, all the while trying to bite into his flesh.
FIVE
08 March, 1131 hrs local
The National Archives
Washington, DC
The helicopter hovered above the roof of the building steadily while the crew chief worked the controls on the winch, slowly raising their precious cargo. The men and women standing below the huge helicopter held the ropes attached to the canvas bag loosely to ensure that they didn’t tangle and risk jamming the motor. After they’d taken up enough slack, the bag began to lift into the air. The straps protested the heavy load, but thankfully held secure.
Allyson watched helplessly as the canvas slipped from her reach and continued upwards toward the open door of the Blackhawk helicopter. The crew chief took it slow and she had a moment of panic as the bag shifted slightly in response to the swirling rotor wash. The man in the doorway reached out and caught the ropes, steadying the load below and then resumed the slow ascent.
Once the bag was clear of the lower lip of the door, the crewman muscled the nearly five hundred-pound bag inside and released the pressure on the ropes from the winch. His head and one shoulder appeared back in the doorway and he gave a thumbs up to the recovery crew on the roof. Allyson waved in excitement as the helicopter lifted up higher and then slowly banked toward the west where the Bureau would temporarily store the Declaration of Independence at the Marine Corps Base at Quantico until they could determine how to decontaminate the document.
Keith Eubanks assured her that the documents themselves were probably unharmed. Each of the three documents that they were sent here to rescue was placed in specially designed encasements made of gold plated titanium and aluminum in 2003. The glass was bulletproof, shatter- and impact-resistant and the space that held the document was filled with inert argon gas to keep the parchment from drying out. Given all that, he believed that all the artifacts team would need to do was remove the encasements and place the documents in new cases.
She hoped he was right. Even though it would be a major triumph for the nation to recover the Charters of Freedom from behind The Wall, what good would it be if they could never be displayed again? Allyson shook her head at the errant thoughts. That wasn’t her concern right now. What she needed to do was to accomplish the mission and keep her people safe. That thought made her wonder about Asher; she hadn’t heard from him in over half an hour. He said that they were going to go silent on the radio so they could pay attention to their surroundings, but she wished that he’d check in with her.
They must be getting close to the crash site by now. He said that they would make it there in about ten minutes. She decided that as the overall lead for the mission, she had a responsibility to know the whereabouts of her people so she clicked her microphone on and called Kestrel.
“Kestrel, this is Agent Harper. What’s your status?”
There was no response. If he truly went silent, then he would have turned off his radio. That must be it! she laughed to herself. Of course he wouldn’t leave it on and risk getting distracted by my chatter with headquarters.
Allyson wasn’t happy that she couldn’t reach him, but she understood why. She looked westward where the helicopter carrying their first document sped away from the hellish conditions inside The Wall. The murk had already swallowed the aircraft, but she could see the glint of sunlight off the windows. She smiled at the knowledge that she’d taken a major part in preserving the nation’s history and turned back toward the roof access door.
“Good job, Keith,” she said as she slapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go back downstairs and bring up the Constitution encasements next. It’s going to take a little longer than we’d planned since we lost a bird and our third helicopter is providing overwatch for Kestrel and Campbell, but we’ll have to make it work. The sooner we can get all the documents out of here the sooner I can get out of this damned diaper.”
The curator chuckled good-naturedly and replied, “That’s one statement I can honestly say that I’ve never heard anyone say before.”
“Get used to it buddy, because if I do end up going to the bathroom, I won’t stop complaining about it!”
*****
08 March, 1138 hrs local
Corner of Indiana Avenue NW and D Street NW
Washington, DC
Kestrel struggled under the crush of zombies lying on top of him. He could feel bruises beginning to form under the sharksuit as the goddamn things bit into the protective mesh. Somehow, both his arms were trapped and he was quickly losing his strength against the constant pressure. He could hear Campbell screaming from nearby and wondered if his suit was compromised.
That made him pause in his fight. Could these things break through the suit? Fuck, he thought as he pulled his head up to try and lift his shoulders off the ground enough to free his hand. The back of his head exploded in pain as a pair of teeth slammed into the face shield of his mask and forced him back down. Even in the low light and disgusting mass of zombies he could see the mouth opening and clamping shut. Its teeth locked together on its own tongue and a piece of it fell away as it continued to press its attack. The ballistic glass of his mask was already starting to show shallow scratches where the teeth slid across the surface and Kestrel began to get worried that the constant pressure would eventually breach the mask.
He tried to kick out, but the creatures had him pinned down. His mind searched frantically for an option and he came up with the only thing he could think of to free his arms. He pushed downward with one leg and rolled onto his side, freeing his firing hand and the pistol that he had strapped in a drop leg holster. He barely had enough time to pull the large .45 out of the carrier before the creatures crushed his arm to his side once more. Then he allowed himself to be forced onto his back again so he could rest for a moment.
“Alright, motherfuckers!” he bellowed and thumbed the safety. The explosion of a large caliber round exiting the barrel of his pistol shattered the relative silence of the street. The bullet buried into the face of the creature beside him, dropping it instantly. Kestrel knew that every shot had to count, but he was under extreme pressure to move his arm at all.
Kestrel pushed up onto his side again and created a split second of space. He took the opportunity to fire the weapon again and the bullet tore through a zombie’s neck. The damned thing’s head fell backward onto its back as the spinal cord and vertebrae were shattered, but he didn’t think it was dead.
He fell back again and tried to take stock of the situation. There were at least four more tearing at him, but he felt confident now that he was going to survive the situation. His mind returned from the precipice that it had threatened to jump from and the old operator once again became a cold, calculated killing machine. He took a few deep breaths and ignored the constant clamping of teeth against his skin through the suit.
When he was ready, he pushed upwards onto his side with all his might and rolled completely over onto his hands and knees. Kestrel’s body was instantly set upon again and he tightened his abs to help ease the pressure of the four bodies pressed into him. His hand slid out between his chest and neck and he fired into the head of another zombie. It crumpled like a bag of shit on top of him.
He used the space created by his huddled and hunched body to drop the pistol to the ground and pick it up with his non-firing hand. He slid it out and dispatched another one of the creatures. He pulled the gun back inside and switched hands again, grateful for the hours and hours of training that he’d went through as a SEAL and a CIA operator to fire a weapon in his non-dominant hand. It was easy to imagine scenarios where an operator lost the use of one of his hands in combat, but fighting from a semi-prone position underneath a massive pile of zombies had never crossed his mind during those exercises.
He flinched as a zombie clamped onto the back of his neck, but the sharksuit’s hood held firm. Kestrel pushed with everything he had left and surged backward. His momentum carried him on top of the thing that had him by the neck, but it created the space he needed to shoot the fifth creature in the forehead, then he rolled and pushed away from the final zombie. He leveled the pistol from his back and the creature’s face sunk inwards as what remained of its brain flew out the back of its head.
Campbell continued to scream as the creatures tore at his body and Kestrel scooped up his rifle to assist the agent. He didn’t want to risk shooting Campbell, so he reached down to his belt for his giant KA-BAR knife, but came away empty-handed. He risked a downward glance. The uniform he’d been wearing was in tatters and had giant tears where the zombies clamped down with their teeth. One of them must have chewed the sheath away or inadvertently pulled the knife out and it lay with the zombies he’d just killed.
He didn’t have time to ponder where the knife was as he rushed to his teammate’s aid. There were eight of the damned things on him, so Kestrel went to work. He butt-stroked the nearest one in the back of the head with the stock of his MK-17 SCAR, collapsing its skull inward and driving fragments of bone into the brain. The creature fell to the side twitching slightly and he shifted his weight to meet another threat.
He had to use the SCAR as a shield when one of the zombies twisted away from the feast on the ground and came at him. He held the rifle horizontally across his chest and pushed the creature away. It staggered a step backward and then lunged at his hand. He adjusted his grip on the rifle and swung it across his body. The stock carried firmly across the creature’s face and ripped its jawbone away. He reversed the trajectory of the rifle and smashed it directly into the face of his attacker. Kestrel felt its skull sink inward under the pressure of the blow.
Another creature staggered toward him and he quickly retreated three steps and brought the rifle to his shoulder while he unconsciously dropped into a half-crouch that brought his cheek against the stock of the weapon. The close combat optics on his SCAR showed the red dot directly in the center of the zombie’s forehead and he squeezed the trigger. The creature dropped instantly as the 7.62-millimeter round burst through the back of its head.
Three down, five to go, he told himself. Another target presented itself when a zombie pulled its face away to stare at him with dead, milky eyes. He fired rapidly at the creature before it moved back in front of Campbell. Four.
