Read Online Omega Days (Book 3): Drifters by John L. Campbell - Free Book Online
Authors: John L. Campbell
Tags: Zombies
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lying facedown.
It reeked.
And then it moved.
The drifter’s head snapped up, yellow eyes and teeth gleaming in the flashlight beam, and it let out a snarl. Then it scrambled to its hands and knees and began quickly crawling toward her.
Skye’s M4 was equipped with a suppressor, something she had taken from the pile of gear left on the
Nimitz
by the dead Navy SEALs, but so was the pistol under her arm. She chose the rifle, dropping prone and sighting on the snarling thing, squeezing off a round. It clipped the top of the thing’s head, digging out a chunk of rotten gray meat and making a
spang
sound in the tunnel beyond, but the drifter kept coming. She took a breath, held it a half second, and then blew it out slowly, squeezing.
The 5.56-millimeter round punched a hole next to one of its eyes and blew out the back. The creature flopped limply onto its face.
Even with the suppressor, in this tight metal space the shots had been loud, and she shook her head to clear it before crawling forward. By the time she reached the corpse she had her knife in hand, and she plunged the blade through what turned out to be a soft, giving skull, just to be safe. Up close, the corpse was pungent, flesh starting to slough off its hands. It had been a man, maybe in his seventies and dressed in overalls. Not Dean, she was sure of that.
Skye bit her bottom lip and crawled over it, her knees and one gloved hand sinking into the fermented rot with a squishing sound. She hurried and was quickly past, crawling faster to get away from the smell, knowing it was now clinging to her. Then she realized it might not have been down here alone, and she slowed her crawl to let the flashlight probe ahead.
After what seemed like an hour, a crescent of light appeared in the distance, the far hatch, partially open. She still needed the flashlight, but in short order she could see that nothing else had crawled into the escape tunnel. When she reached the end, she found another wheeled hatch, again capable of being locked down from within, the exterior a smooth steel face painted brown and green to blend with the forest. She pushed it open and saw pine trees all around, a carpet of brown needles underneath.
In the light spilling through the opening she saw something on the curving, ribbed steel wall to her right. It was a single word, spray-painted in black. She reached for her Hydra radio to tell Angie what she had found, ask her what it meant, and realized the radio was back with her pack.
“Damn,” she muttered, crawling out into the forest and straightening, stretching her back for a moment and breathing untainted air. The forest was quiet around her.
Then she started crawling back.
• • •
W hen Angie finally emerged from the bunker her eyes were red and puffy, and she was holding her daughter’s blanket close. Vladimir had since shut down the Black Hawk’s engines to conserve fuel. Angie saw that the Russian and Carney were using entrenching tools to dig a hole in the front yard, a figure wrapped in a green poncho on the ground nearby.
The crucifix had been pulled down and was now empty.
Angie began to cry again, torn between running at them, demanding to know which one of them had shot her dad, and just curling up on the ground to weep for the people she had lost. Instead she simply stood near the helicopter and watched them finish digging, then carefully lower the wrapped figure into the earth before covering it quickly. When the dirt was tamped, the men looked at each other, then at Angie.
Skye came out of the bunker then, walking to them and taking it all in. Telling her friend about the word on the tunnel wall could wait.
The pilot, towering over Angie, put an arm around the woman and lowered his head. “I do not have the words. I am sorry.” Carney just looked at the sky.
Angie nodded, hugged the Russian, then did the same to the former inmate. She looked down at the fresh dirt for a long moment. “I wish Xavier
It reeked.
And then it moved.
The drifter’s head snapped up, yellow eyes and teeth gleaming in the flashlight beam, and it let out a snarl. Then it scrambled to its hands and knees and began quickly crawling toward her.
Skye’s M4 was equipped with a suppressor, something she had taken from the pile of gear left on the
Nimitz
by the dead Navy SEALs, but so was the pistol under her arm. She chose the rifle, dropping prone and sighting on the snarling thing, squeezing off a round. It clipped the top of the thing’s head, digging out a chunk of rotten gray meat and making a
spang
sound in the tunnel beyond, but the drifter kept coming. She took a breath, held it a half second, and then blew it out slowly, squeezing.
The 5.56-millimeter round punched a hole next to one of its eyes and blew out the back. The creature flopped limply onto its face.
Even with the suppressor, in this tight metal space the shots had been loud, and she shook her head to clear it before crawling forward. By the time she reached the corpse she had her knife in hand, and she plunged the blade through what turned out to be a soft, giving skull, just to be safe. Up close, the corpse was pungent, flesh starting to slough off its hands. It had been a man, maybe in his seventies and dressed in overalls. Not Dean, she was sure of that.
Skye bit her bottom lip and crawled over it, her knees and one gloved hand sinking into the fermented rot with a squishing sound. She hurried and was quickly past, crawling faster to get away from the smell, knowing it was now clinging to her. Then she realized it might not have been down here alone, and she slowed her crawl to let the flashlight probe ahead.
After what seemed like an hour, a crescent of light appeared in the distance, the far hatch, partially open. She still needed the flashlight, but in short order she could see that nothing else had crawled into the escape tunnel. When she reached the end, she found another wheeled hatch, again capable of being locked down from within, the exterior a smooth steel face painted brown and green to blend with the forest. She pushed it open and saw pine trees all around, a carpet of brown needles underneath.
In the light spilling through the opening she saw something on the curving, ribbed steel wall to her right. It was a single word, spray-painted in black. She reached for her Hydra radio to tell Angie what she had found, ask her what it meant, and realized the radio was back with her pack.
“Damn,” she muttered, crawling out into the forest and straightening, stretching her back for a moment and breathing untainted air. The forest was quiet around her.
Then she started crawling back.
• • •
W hen Angie finally emerged from the bunker her eyes were red and puffy, and she was holding her daughter’s blanket close. Vladimir had since shut down the Black Hawk’s engines to conserve fuel. Angie saw that the Russian and Carney were using entrenching tools to dig a hole in the front yard, a figure wrapped in a green poncho on the ground nearby.
The crucifix had been pulled down and was now empty.
Angie began to cry again, torn between running at them, demanding to know which one of them had shot her dad, and just curling up on the ground to weep for the people she had lost. Instead she simply stood near the helicopter and watched them finish digging, then carefully lower the wrapped figure into the earth before covering it quickly. When the dirt was tamped, the men looked at each other, then at Angie.
Skye came out of the bunker then, walking to them and taking it all in. Telling her friend about the word on the tunnel wall could wait.
The pilot, towering over Angie, put an arm around the woman and lowered his head. “I do not have the words. I am sorry.” Carney just looked at the sky.
Angie nodded, hugged the Russian, then did the same to the former inmate. She looked down at the fresh dirt for a long moment. “I wish Xavier
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