Beyond Green Fields #5 - Survive: A post-apocalyptic anthology Page 5

  “Well, maybe not me personally—” she protests, but I cut her off, needing her to understand.

  “Trust me. This is not a rescue operation. They didn’t even waste a minute negotiating.”

  We continue on. I hate wasting time but still halt at every intersection to check that all directions are clear. I can tell that she’s nervous again, which leads to her prattling on and on. “You’re sure about this?”

  I nod—and because she deserves the truth, I add, “I’m starting to have a really bad feeling about this.”

  “You don’t say?” she snarks, earning herself a glare from me that should have made her shut up. She doesn’t, but I can tell that the severity of the situation is finally catching up with her. “Define ‘bad feeling,’ please?”

  “I’ve been part of my fair share of rescue missions. This doesn’t feel like one,” I explain. Even if I had the time, I wouldn’t comment on just why that is, and what exactly is going on. Not even if we had an hour of lounging in plush leather chairs, drinking scotch, would I go that far. I’m not sure she’d understand.

  An explosion rocks the building, coming from the western side where none of the clusters is set up that will turn the building unstable—so it’s not one of ours going off prematurely. I can hear the telltale bark of assault rifles slowly drawing closer. What are the idiots shooting at? There shouldn’t be any of my people stationed there, not with the atrium about to be overrun. I push Bree down one of the crossing corridors, deciding that this is not a mystery I need to solve right now. The slight detour won’t cost us more than twenty seconds. Any confrontation will slow us down well beyond that.

  “What do we do if we run into a search party?” Bree hedges, continually looking over her shoulder even when I urge her to speed up.

  “We try to evade. If that fails, we shoot our way out.”

  Her brows draw together at my statement, but she doesn’t protest. I’m a little surprised, seeing as she’s been so vocal about any and all protestations, but maybe there’s hope yet… until she opines, “Couldn't we try to talk our way out of it?”

  I’m spared from giving an answer when what must be left of one of the fireteams that are responsible for the detonation run toward us. Army, but cobbled together from several branches, it looks like from the insignia I see at a glance. My first impulse is to scoff—you’d think I’m worth more than that—but I don’t have time for vanity. Not all of them being deep black ops means I have a better chance of survival—fine with me.

  I pull Bree through the next best door, hoping they are far enough away that they haven’t noticed us yet. Unlike what I’ve expected, all three of them looked scared rather than prepared for what might turn into one nasty firefight. I know I have a reputation, but not that much of one. Unease spreads through my gut as I try to decide what to do. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter—if they are coming for me, I have a very good idea who is in command, I know what their destination is, and I will not let them fuck up the ultimate goal of my mission. Considering the time constraints, the only thing they’d manage is to get infected—if that’s even possible—and to disarm exactly enough of my detonators so that not everything inside the shell of the lab is vaporized. Can’t have that.

  I hate needing to use Bree as a meat shield—for so many reasons—but I need a distraction, so I shove her into the corridor and duck around the corner right behind her, out of sight. I hear them accost her, and my stomach cramps until enough seconds have passed to alleviate my fear that they will gun her down on principle. As soon as I’m out of earshot, I run full out back to the corridor leading down into the BSL-4 lab. In my haste, I miss the panel I’m looking for, needing to pry two wrong ones free until I find the right one. Like the detonators in the lab, this one is primed as well, but unlike those it has a second control circuit. Two codes are all that’s needed, and the blinking red light turns on permanently.

  Thirty seconds are more than enough to run like hell and make sure I’m well outside the radius of the explosion. The tunnel caves in perfectly, the detonator setting off not just one but an entire ring of charges hidden in the floor, walls, and ceiling. The dust hasn’t settled yet when I turn away and head back to where I can hear Bree still arguing with the soldiers. Her voice is getting increasingly frantic, which I hope is scripted hysteria more than her believing that she’s about to die. I’d never have done that to someone so obviously innocent, and since they’re pretending to be the good guys, they can’t very well act any worse than me. If it had been who I suspect they have sent after me, she’d already be dead, but then I wouldn’t have used her as a distraction.

  An eerie howl wavers down the corridor as I round the last corner. I ignore it in favor of grabbing Bree and pulling her behind me, giving the distracted soldiers something else than her to focus on. And distracted they are, no question. Face to face with them for the first time, I get a chance to read their name tags—which I don’t need, since I recognize Martinez and Smith immediately. Only the lieutenant with them is a stranger, but he looks ordinary enough that I immediately discard him. Martinez is actually a welcome sight; Smith is not. Nothing personal, but he’s exactly the kind of opposition I’ve been waiting for and didn’t want to see here. He looks surprised to see me, which makes no sense whatsoever if Hamilton is in charge, his mission to—

  Whatever. They are still pointing their guns at Bree—or where she used to be a second ago—and that’s not something I will tolerate. “Trust me, you don’t want to do that,” I tell the LT.

  He’s fidgety as hell, and also has no clue who I am, further adding to my irritation.

  Another howl rings out, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It cuts off in response to a salvo of rifle fire, but then starts up a lot closer—right down the corridor from the intersection where Bree and I are standing. Bree starts muttering my name, first with fear, then panic. Against all training I’ve ever received, I take my eyes off the immediate danger in front of us to glare at her—

  And then I see it. A woman, covered in dust, vomit, and blood. Her motions are haphazard and uncoordinated, but when her attention centers on us, she suddenly lurches into a lumbering run, dragging one leg behind but that barely slows her down. Her expression is twisted in rage, way beyond what I’ve ever seen on anyone’s face—except, that’s not true. I just didn’t expect to see it on a civilian. I hesitate, thinking for a second that she must be a decoy, but I can’t make sense of dressing black ops soldiers in sundresses. She howls. Instinct takes over and I shoot, hitting her squarely in the chest. A second rifle opens fire next to me as Martinez aims for her head, a lot less circumspect than I would have expected. No shit, Martinez is as capable a soldier as he is a medic, but his heart is firmly in the second profession. If he shows no hesitation or remorse gunning someone down, then they had it coming, no question.

  The LT and Smith are still being stupid, but Martinez has wised up, squinting at me but with his M16 pointed down the corridor. “What the hell are you doing here, Lieutenant?” he asks.

  I grimace, for a million reasons. First, did he really not hear of my promotion—years ago? Second, I don’t deserve that rank anymore—which puzzles me even more that he doesn’t know. Third—and this is the foremost reason—because he sounds sincerely astonished to see me here, as if we’d run into each other at a pool bar in Cabo. “Saving your ass, as usual, Martinez,” I offer with a smile. I can’t help it—I’ve always liked him. And if he’s part of Hamilton’s strike force, maybe there’s hope yet. I’m a hundred percent sure that Hamilton is here to kill me, but maybe that’s on a much more personal level than spanning the entire operation. It would have been too good to be true to finally be rid of Decker’s hold on me for good, but maybe I can spare my people the same fate. I consider for a moment, but I have little left to lose, so I decide to trust Martinez on a knee-jerk decision. “Whatever you came here to do, forget about it. We need to get out of here.”

  Smith eases up at my words, but the LT is still strung-up scared, and I’m an obvious target he can focus on. It’s obvious that he’s less scared of me than of the corpse on the floor a few feet away from us. “Just because you—“ he starts, but I spare myself whatever inane bravado he’s about to spout.

  “The building’s gonna blow in less than seventeen minutes,” I inform him, and make it very plain for them that there’s no sense in trying to go for the BSL-4 lab. Neither of them blinks in confusion at my explanation, confirming that this must have been their destination. Smart, in theory—breach the HQ in a full-on assault, and send your strike teams in from the back. Only that when they must have breached the back of the building, something went very wrong, the corpse stark, confusing evidence of that.

  My radio goes off, confirming what I’ve already been expecting—that corpse wasn’t the only one. Because that’s what Spencer is referring to with “unidentified hostiles incoming.” Shit.

  Martinez and Smith trade glances, then look at their LT for guidance. I’m annoyed by their inaction, but of course they won’t follow my orders.

  “Sixteen and counting,” I remind them. I decide to give them another ten seconds. Then, I’m out of here, with them or without, I don’t care.

  The LT hesitates and fixes me with a glare, but there’s also an unspoken plea in his eyes. I give him an almost imperceptible nod—I won’t cause trouble for him. All I want is to get out before we all get blown up. “Screw it,” he mutters, then calls in to report that they are retreating—and prattles on that we’ve already set the charges. It doesn’t really matter, but hopefully makes the imbecile in charge realize that his mission has failed.

  I’m happy to let the guys take point on the way back to the atrium, until they walk right past one of the convenient shortcuts. They fall in line without a hint of protest, reforming so that we keep our semi-willing civilian in our midst. Bree looks like a nervous mess, but if her stunt in the BSL-4 lab has shown me one thing, it’s that she performs excellently under pressure. I curse when Zilinsky’s latest status report isn’t looking good, making me switch routes again. At least now I know where I need to go. Explaining all that to Bree is a distraction, but like before, she continues to follow along when my words make sense to her.

  There’s definitely still fighting going on in the atrium, evidenced by the odd weapon barking as we get close. As I step out into the gallery, it’s obvious that the breach is more serious than I thought at first, but it doesn’t matter now. I ignore the armored vehicle stuck in the hole in the wall and instead concentrate on the two opposing forces. Maybe fifty soldiers face off with half that many of my own people, but Zilinsky has everyone in good cover. The ground between them is filled with corpses, and very few of them are in military gear. Three of them—still up and tearing chunks out of the bodies of two slain soldiers—are on the gallery, too close to sneak past. I gun down two, with Smith taking care of the third. Of course, that attracts the wrong kind of attention, and I barely manage to pull Bree out of the line of fire before the imbeciles down below shoot at us. I bark at Martinez to tell his people to stand down, which he does, looking slightly shell-shocked that they didn’t check who they were aiming at.

  I’m just about done explaining to Bree how we’ll get to the elevators when a bunch more of the civvies come spilling onto the gallery. Either they must have been following us, or the shots fired drew them—it doesn’t matter. As soon as they are taken care of, I pull Bree toward our exit. This time, I have to drag her along as she keeps staring at the corpses, horrified. Just in time to remind me that this isn’t even my worst problem, the ten minutes to Kingdom come alarm blares at me. Perfect.

  The idiots are still shooting at us, but I don’t have time to deal with them anymore. I hurl an incendiary grenade at them, smirking when the LT next to me keeps screaming at his radio to get them to stand down. If I’d been in charge, things wouldn’t have come undone like this. Together, we pry open the elevator doors. I go first, hoping that Bree will be more afraid of being left behind than whatever makes her lock up—likely fear of heights. But then I realize it must be worse than a flight of fear because she’s still standing there, still as a statue, her expression frozen in fright. On impulse, I grab her face, forcing her to look into my eyes. “What you did down in the BSL-4 lab was crazy. Crazy, and crazy dangerous. This? This is just like climbing on the monkey bars at the playground. You've done great so far, and I know you will take this in stride just like everything else. Okay?”

  She keeps shaking, but a spark lights up her eyes as she whispers, “Okay.”

  We’re on borrowed time and I don’t have any more of it to waste, so I climb into the elevator shaft. She follows, sticking to exactly where I’m putting my hands and feet. I know she’s close to hysterical, and I hate that I can’t help her, but with more of the corpses up on the gallery, pushing to follow us, she’s holding up the party. The assholes have finally wised up, joining Martinez and his crew, but it’s almost too late. I mean it as a joke when I tell Bree I will catch her if she falls. Just my luck that, as soon as my feet hit the ground and bodies start dropping all around, she loses her grip and comes crashing down on me. I push her off me as I pull my Glock with my other arm, making sure that none of the corpses will be a problem for us anymore. Romanoff is ready to help her out of the shaft, and I quickly follow so that the army assholes can get out as well.

  I try to assess the situation from behind where my people have barricaded off the area between our workstations and the elevators. Unlike with our new opposition, everyone is calm and knows what to do. Zilinsky is quick to give me an update—including on our rapidly closing time frame. “Seven minutes. Cutting it a little close, aren't you?”

  “You know me. My life is so bland and boring, I always have to find ways to make it more interesting. Who’s in charge?”

  “Old friend of yours,” she jeers.

  “Ah. No surprise there,” I acknowledge as I see the asshole himself come walking toward us, going for maximum parade efforts. I check that my people have in the meantime barricaded the elevator shaft, making sure that our position is as secure as it will get. Martinez, Smith, and their LT are standing around rather uselessly, unsure whether they should surrender to us, or simply walk across the atrium to their people. Bree is still glued to my side, clearly having decided that I have the most skin in the game where her survival is concerned—which is right, but since she’s missing the intel on why that asshole is glaring daggers at me, it explains why she hasn’t run off yet.

  I expect some verbal abuse from Hamilton, but all I get is a gruff, “Miller.” With him, the utter lack of rank or anything else is an obvious insult. I do my best to ignore it, but of course my ego is screaming. Down, boy—I’ve got no business being offended by him not even giving offense, technically. It helps knowing that I’ve completed my mission while his has failed.

  But where are my manners? “Bucky,” I call back, doing my very best to make it a genuine, gleeful smile. With an exaggerated turn, I clarify for Bree, “That would be Captain John Hamilton, but you know how the guys are. Some need the nickname for the ego.” She just blinks at me stupidly, not only missing the heap of insults—how could she?—but also the entirety of the context. I have to admit, I’m doing this as much to bitch-slap the asshole as to let him see just how clueless the intrepid Dr. Lewis really is. The last thing I want for her is to end up in some interrogation room and never, ever see the light of day again, just because she happened to be in the same building as I.

  I can see I’ve accomplished at least some of that when Hamilton barely taxes Bree with a glance before focusing on me again. I know he must be building up a speech inside his head, but we don’t have time for that. “What do you want? Twenty words or less, we’re kind of on a schedule here,” I inform him.

  The rage in his eyes tells me his real answer is my head on a silver platter, but he grates out, “The vaccine.”

  I’m hard pressed not to laugh at first, but decide to give an honest answer instead. “There is no vaccine,” I tell him—and I know my tone adds, “I wish there was one, but we’re out of luck, bud.”

  Hamilton still protests. “I know that they were working on it. It has to be…”

  “There is no vaccine,” I insist. “They never managed to develop a working version of it. Before you ask, we have video footage of the lead scientist of the project getting infected after being dosed with their most promising candidate. Curious side detail, the one who infected him killed herself earlier last night. Besides, what stocks there were kept in the viral vault were manually destroyed.”

  His expression is stoic, but then his eyes narrow as his attention snaps to Bree. “Her?” he suggests.

  “Just my technical advisor.” Let him make of that what he wants. “We’re out of time. The first charges will blow in just under a minute, and then we have exactly enough time to get out of the blast radius if we run like hell.”

  Hamilton does some brooding but cuts it very short when he realizes how ready my people are to get going. Everyone loves it when the brass gets into a shouting match. It’s telling when they are over it. “What a shame,” he mutters, then looks to the three amigos still loitering in the background. “Anyone still deeper in the building?”

  There isn’t, and Hamilton is quick to give his people the order to move out. I turn to do the same with mine, but Zilinsky already has that covered. We still have a few moments before we need to run, so I check in with Bree. “How is your arm?”

  She looks at me, confusion plain on her face. It takes her scrutinizing her left arm to realize that there’s blood seeping into her scrubs and lab coat from the bullet graze. “I’ll live,” she tells me after flexing her fingers.