HAYWIRE: A Pandemic Thriller (The F.A.S.T. Series Book 2) (18 page)

They wouldn’t reach halfway across the atrium before the hostiles rolled over them.

Myers had no sense of making a decision.

One moment he was preparing to withdraw, and the next he was charging back into the atrium.

‘Get back!’ Myers hollered at the woman and the boy. ‘They’re coming.’

The pair reacted instantly.

The woman aborted her attempt to cross the atrium. She changed directions in a heartbeat. She swung sharply toward a different corridor.

They weren’t heading toward the lifeboats anymore, but they weren’t charging into certain death now either.

The boy looked about fourteen or fifteen years old.

He peered over the marble service counters. He spotted the approaching hostiles. His eyes opened wide in shock.

‘Go, Mom!’ he shouted. ‘GO!’

The boy grabbed the handles of his mother’s wheelchair and pushed for extra speed.

Myers halted.

They needed a head start.

Every extra second he could give them would improve their chances of survival.

‘Crack - crack - crack!’

Christ!

The close, unexpected gunfire came from directly behind Myers.

Myers spun in surprise.

Craigson stood right behind him.

He hadn’t withdrawn.

Myers felt guilty and relieved. Relieved because he wasn’t alone, but guilty because he might be getting them both killed.

‘What are we doing?’ yelled Craigson.

The hostile pack began swarming around the service counters.

They’re splitting up
, thought Myers.

Half charged after the healthy passengers racing for the lifeboats. The others swarmed over the service counters toward Myers and Craigson.

They resembled a nest of disturbed ants.

Myers felt a shudder run down his spine as a woman in her seventies leaped over the service counter as sure-footed as a street urchin.

The old people moved as quickly as the rest.

Myers had seconds before the swarm of corrupted humans reached the boy pushing his mother’s wheelchair.

He found the white canister strapped to his body armor.

Printed on the canister, large black writing warned:

FOR TEST PURPOSES ONLY

DEPLOY ONLY ACCORDING TO REGULATION 223B

This was a less-lethal weapon.

Sort of.

The Mobility Denial Device wasn’t really a weapon in the traditional sense.

Myers wasn’t sure what regulation 223B said about being overwhelmed by a bloodthirsty mob of deranged cruise passengers, but he was out of options.

He pulled free the arming pin and slid the canister across the tiles.

The canister slid right among their feet...

...and detonated.

The canister became a spinning blur.

Liquid sprayed everywhere.

Someone had turned on a supercharged garden sprinkler.

Developed by the Southwest Research Institute for the U.S. Marine Corps, the canister contained a super-slippery gel. Once activated, the spinning canister coated every surface within thirty feet.

Every surface became three times as slippery as wet ice.

Myers watched the entire front row of hostiles drop.

More piled in from behind.

They slipped and hit the deck just as quickly.

In seconds, the hostile onslaught became a squirming, thrashing mass on the atrium floor.

None could get up.

The harder they struggled, the worse it got.

They just keep coming
, thought Myers.

More hostiles sprinted into the chaos. They dropped and slid into the crippling substance, colliding with other hostiles.

A giant wrestling match broke out.

‘Holy crap,’ swore Craigson quietly. ‘Look at them.’

They thrashed like fish out of water. None stopped their wild gyrations for even a second. They convulsed so violently they injured each other.

‘They’re completely psycho,’ said Craigson. ‘What happened to these people? What the hell is happening on this ship?’

Myers couldn’t think about it.

Not now.

He needed to focus on survival. If he started seeing these people as anything other than hostiles, he might end up like Easterbrook.

‘Myers!’ pointed Craigson.

Not all the hostiles had charged into the gel slick. A dozen had missed the area.

Both Marines lifted their weapons and fired.

With conventional weapons, the Marines would have dropped the charging hostiles in seconds.

But they didn’t have conventional weapons.

Myers’ weapon only held five rounds.

At this range, all five shots found their targets before Myers rushed to reload.

Craigson’s weapon held more ammunition, but sometimes took two shots to drop an attacker.

But Craigson’s weapon wasn’t firing. He began walking backward and cursing.

‘I’ve got a jam!’ he yelled. ‘I can’t clear it!’

Myers heard panic in Craigson’s voice.

Seven hostiles still charged toward them.

Myers glanced over his shoulder. A florist’s shop blocked their retreat. A padlock secured the tall glass double doors. There was nowhere further for the Marines to retreat.

Myers had a desperate idea.

‘Follow me!’ he shouted.

Please let this work,
he prayed.

Lowering his helmet, he turned and charged the glass doors. Two steps before he reached the glass, he fired his weapon. He wanted his shot to smash the door into a thousand tiny pieces.

That didn’t happen.

His projectile punched a fist-sized hole through the glass, but the door remained standing.

Oh, shit.

Myers was fully committed. He raised his rifle to cover his face and launched himself at the glass.

He’d either smash through or bounce off.

Breaking his neck also seemed possible.

He leaped just before the impact, angling his body to protect all his vulnerable parts and hit the glass with all his armored parts.

He struck the glass with his armored knee, his shoulder, and his weapon at the same time.

SMAAAASH!

His body crashed through the door and careened through a flower display.

Miraculously, even with his eyes shut, he kept his footing.

He waited for the pain, praying he wasn’t cut too deeply.

His prayers seemed answered. He felt stinging cuts on his face and neck, but no blood was spurting. No glass was in his eyes.

He spun as Craigson jumped through the door’s empty aluminum frame and into the store.

‘Holy shit, Myers!’ said Craigson. ‘Are you crazy?’

‘We needed time,’ replied Myers, scanning the flower shop. ‘We can bottleneck them through the door. Clear your weapon!’

Myers could smell the fresh flowers. Orchids and roses and carnations and lilies were all packed together in vases. Refrigerators lined one wall. Beside the service counter on one side stood a tall perfume display cabinet. On the other side stood two greeting card stands.

Craigson wrenched the magazine from his weapon. He struggled to clear the jam with his fingers.

One weapon won’t hold these crazies back long,
realized Myers.

He needed to buy Craigson time.

‘Just clear the jam!’ Myers yelled as two crazies leaped into the florist shop.

A man landed first. A crewman wearing a steward’s uniform.

A woman landed behind him. She looked about thirty, and probably quite beautiful had she not been a raving lunatic. She had Barbie-straight hair, tanned skin and a black slinky dress. She landed barefoot on the broken glass.

A normal person would collapse as glass shards sliced into their feet, but not this woman. She just ran straight through the broken glass.

Both crazies charged.

Myers fired twice.

Bang
.
..shuck-shuck...
Bang!

Both hostiles went down in convulsions.

Before they landed, two more came leaping through the doorway. Two women this time.

The bottleneck was working.

I can hold them
, Myers reassured himself.
As long as I don’t miss a single shot.

The women landed side by side.

Myers had to stop them reaching Craigson.

He fired as quickly as he dared.

His first shot hit a woman dressed entirely in denim. Gold rings covered her fingers. Messy red hair concealed her face. His electro-bolt struck her thigh. The charge disabled her legs and then her entire body.