Riposte (The Redivivus Trilogy Book 2) (15 page)

As General Montes stared at his friend’s unmoving body, he felt certain they were overlooking something. Mulling the situation over in his mind, he repeatedly came up nonplussed.
What the hell happened to him? That injury on his neck seems minor compared to his condition. The worst that could happen after being shot in that location would be a spinal cord injury, and I’ve already seen him move all of his extremities. It’s as if he was suddenly stricken by meningitis and is now stuck in some fever-dream world—neither awake nor asleep.
The more he considered the issue, the deeper his confusion became.

With the speed of a lightning bolt, the pieces that had been swirling through his mind as though taunting him with the answer began to come together. General Montes’ thoughts flashed back to the pink blur he had seen out of the corner of his eye as he slammed the truck door before speeding away from the unseen assailant for the second time. He recalled the distinct
ping
of something ricocheting off the door despite having heard no shot fired, just as he heard no shot before Corporal Rocha was hit. Nothing. Not even the muffled sound of a suppressed rifle or the delayed report of a shot taken from a great distance. The next image was that of Corporal Rocha staggering around the front of the truck, drunken and ataxic. Montes had seen far more people shot than he ever wished to admit, and not one of them had exhibited the type of gait disturbance that Rocha had. It looked like the man had been drinking at a bar all night.
No. He had to have gotten into some toxic plant or been exposed to some chemical. He looked like that bull after my dad hit it with…

Overcome with the nostalgia of a childhood spent on the cattle ranch with his father, his thoughts slipped away to an experience that had left a significant impression on his seven-year-old mind. He had seen his father loading a small syringe filled with a sedative agent into the bore of a strange looking gun. It looked more like a toy than a real gun, and he had wanted to play with it at first. Taking aim, his father lined up the gun’s sights with the large cow in need of medication and vaccination. A faint hiss preceded a vibrant, gently arcing blur as the dart, with its brightly colored tailpiece, soared through the air. It was so fast and quiet that the huge animal’s abrupt reaction startled the young Montes. The enraged bull bucked immediately, and then broke into an unsteady run. It made it less than twenty feet on wobbly legs before sagging heavily to its knees. Staring at the formerly strong and imposing beast, now rendered completely helpless, the young Montes had felt sick to his stomach. He no longer wanted anything to do with the strange-looking gun.

Breaking free from his reflection, Montes moved briskly to where Lin sat tending to Corporal Rocha. “I think I know what happened to Rocha,” he said with an excited edge to his voice. “I think he was shot with a tranquilizer dart. That could explain his condition, the lack of any report, and the relatively minor appearance of his injury. I also think whoever shot him with it tried to shoot me as I was getting into the truck.”

Incredulously, Lin responded, “A tranquilizer dart? They were trying to put him to sleep? Why?”

“That’s the thing. I’m not sure
what
the shooter was trying to do, or why. A tranquilizer dart is just a syringe that can be fired from a weapon. They can be filled with anything. South American Indians used a poison called
curare
to paralyze victims, ultimately causing death by asphyxiation. If that’s what happened, there’s no way to know what it contained—could be anything I suppose,” General Montes said.

A gloomy shroud descended upon them as they watched Corporal Rocha struggle for his life. At one point, Lin pleaded with General Montes to load the infirmed man into the truck so they could try to get him to a hospital.

Having seen suspicious movement outside the store, Montes vetoed the suggestion.
As bad as he needs medical attention, I can’t risk taking Dr. San outside until I know it’s safe. If there is any chance that she can cure this plague, then her life is worth more than the rest of ours combined. Besides, who knows if there are even any hospitals left?
Not wanting to place such a heavy burden upon her shoulders, General Montes kept his sentiments to himself. After all, he was a soldier the same as Corporal Rocha, and he knew they would both lay down their lives readily for the success of this mission.

The setting sun soon painted the sky in foreboding shades of crimson red, making it seem as if the edge of the earth was ablaze as the fiery orb sank below the western horizon. As majestic as the sunset was, Lin could not deny the sickly feeling it left in its wake. Whether it was due to the horrors she had seen as a result of the plague or something more, she felt certain that the worst was yet to come.

* * *

Sliding like a snake through the tall grass, the shooter crawled through the field adjacent to the derelict convenience store. Exasperated by the situation, he was having an increasingly difficult time keeping his cool as the group of survivors had evaded him not once, but twice thus far.
At least two of them had anyway. Of course, that may have changed by now…

His men had radioed the location where the truck stopped several hours earlier. Approaching the building from an angle, he could not see the truck but had witnessed a hint of movement inside the building’s darkened interior. Once, he thought he saw a figure staring directly at him through the cracked glass of the storefront window.
Shit! Slow down, you’re causing too much movement.
With nightfall rapidly approaching, he knew that the subtle movements of the grass overhead would soon be far less noticeable. That, however, would not matter if he were already spotted.

Unbeknownst to the shooter lying prone amidst the dull gray stalks of gently swaying grass, the movement spotted by the man in the store was not caused by him at all. In fact, that which General Montes noticed was about seventy-five yards beyond the shooter, and was caused by a less skilled figure approaching along the same vector. So focused on the target ahead, the shooter paid little attention to the rear of his position as he stalked toward the survivors huddled inside the dilapidated building.

Now, barely visible in the scant light filtering in through the lens of his scope, the shooter saw the seated form of a man that looked broken. Head bowed and face in hands, the foreign military officer was painted with weakness and defeat. At less than fifty yards, every tired crease in the old man’s weathered skin looked like a canyon carved in stone through the rifle’s optic. The shooter’s lips curled downward in disgust as he readied himself for the shot. As much as he would have liked to use the Teledart rifle, the fact that his target was behind a pane of glass made that impossible; his Steyr .308 would have to suffice. He inhaled deeply, letting the cool evening air percolate through every inch of his lungs before exhaling slowly. With smooth, gradual pressure, he squeezed the trigger, barely able to contain his excitement as he waited for the shot to break.

BANG!

The roar of the gunshot was deafening, scattering the silence like a pack of vultures in oncoming traffic. As the last echoes of the blast faded into oblivion and the silence returned to its rightful place in the dying world, he sagged to the ground in shock.

10

October 4, 2015

Cobb County, GA

He peered through the riflescope with confused, disbelieving eyes. His target, the old man, stared directly at him through the intact glass of the widow. The pain screaming through his left shoulder made it nearly impossible to keep his rifle trained on the officer’s equally startled face. The shooter watched the old man’s expression transform from confusion to concern, as his attention shifted toward something inside the building.

No longer capable of supporting the fifteen-pound weapon, his injured left arm let the rifle fall to the side. Blood, hot and coppery, flowed like an aquifer of molten metal underneath his sleeve before dripping from the ends of his fingertips. When he raised his hand to his eyes, however, the blood seemed cold and black in the dim light of the cool evening, and he wondered if cold and black was all that remained inside of him now.

The sound of rushing footsteps pulled the shooter’s thoughts back to the present. Rolling onto his back, he prepared to face his attacker. Unable to draw his sidearm, he struggled to raise the unwieldy rifle despite the pain in his arm. A man so caked with dirt and grime that he blended almost seamlessly with the starless sky, emerged from the shadows like a raging bull. The shooter fired wildly from the hip in the direction of the charging man who sidestepped as the shot went wide.

Undaunted by the gunfire, the man shifted his angle of attack and continued forward. Seeing his attacker’s rifle barrel come up, the injured shooter lurched forward, slamming into the man’s legs, and sending him flying past in a blur. All of a sudden, a shrill, terror-soaked scream rent the air in the distance. Just like that, the fight was over as the attacker tore off in the direction of the woman’s mortified screams.

* * *

Tired.

That was really the only word that came to Montes’ mind. Tired of death. Tired of sickness. Tired of fighting.

Despite his military career, which spanned more than three decades, he felt as though the entirety of those years paled in comparison to the insanity of the last several weeks. He thought about all the people he knew and wondered if any of them were still alive. Truthfully, he had no way of knowing. All he could say for sure was that he was alive, Dr. San was alive, and Corporal Rocha…he was barely alive. If he were honest with himself, he didn’t hold out much hope that the younger soldier would survive.
If anyone is tough enough to pull through, it’s Rocha.

His dark musings were suddenly interrupted by the sharp crack of a rifle fired close by. He ducked instinctively as the round ricocheted off the side of the building, causing him to swear at how careless he had been to allow someone to get that close to their position. Staying low, he scurried over to where Lin held vigil over Rocha. He was surprised that the sound of the gunshot had elicited no reaction from the woman as she stared vacantly at the still form of his friend on the floor.

“Someone took a shot at me but hit the outside of the building. We need to take cover and think about getting the hell out of here,” General Montes said in a forceful tone that was still miles away from sounding panicked. The General scuttled around the cashier’s counter, hoping the meager barricade would offer some degree of protection against any further incoming rounds. Turning, he saw that Lin had not followed him. Alarmed at the thought that she may have been hit, Montes hastened back and found her just as he had a moment earlier—unmoving, as though she were a statue.

In a ghostly voice, void of expression and possessing just enough volume to allow it to be distinguished from an errant draft of wind, Lin said, “He’s dead.”

Uncertain he heard her correctly, Montes started to ask for clarification, but one glance at his friend made his throat seize like an engine left idle for far too long. A chill surged through his body as he processed the reality of her words. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, to tell her she was not a medical doctor, and she did not know what she was talking about. As hard as he tried to deny it, the image of Corporal Rocha’s face, with skin the color of the winter sky at dusk, told him the truth. Intermingled with the stale smell of dust and rotting cardboard was the subtle odor of death. Pre-death, really, like the scent often found in a nursing home or hospital right before the coroner is called. The cloying, sickly sweet odor was not that of death and decay, but more the smell of the absence of life.

Rooted to the spot, General Montes found himself every bit as immobile as Lin. As if he had been punched in the solar plexus, all the air seemed to rush out of his lungs leaving him shaken, panicked, and gasping for breath. The faint grunting and growling of a distant struggle was like an antidote to his immobility, pulling his mind back into the game. Abandoning his moment of grief, Montes grabbed Lin by the arm and dragged her forcibly around the counter.

“Someone’s outside. I don’t know what’s going on, but we’re not safe here. You’re not safe. I need to get you out of here. Do you understand?” Montes said, now back in full control. Although she nodded, the hollow, shell-shocked look never left her eyes.

A minute passed in what seemed like an eternity as they huddled silently behind the counter. Judging from the sounds coming from outside, it seemed as though there was still some sort of ongoing altercation. Montes listened intently, waiting for the right time to make his move. As he did, he caught a glimpse of Lin’s stoic, expressionless face and wondered if the woman would ever recover from all of this.

A noise like a rat moving across the cold tile floor shattered the eerie quiet within the room. So intent on what was happening outside the building, Montes hardly heard the sound initially.

Lin imagined some furry scavenger already moving in to claim a piece of the man that had fought so valiantly to protect her. Without warning, her face transformed from the expressionless mask to one of unadulterated anger. She popped up from behind the counter, intent on shooing the little beast responsible for the meddling noise. Instead, all of the blood instantly drained from her face, giving her a ghastly, cadaverous appearance in the pale moonlight seeping in through the store windows. A discordant shriek rived the air in the tenebrous room, dividing it into equal halves horror and confusion.

Montes leapt to his feet, unsure of what elicited such a response from the woman that barely reacted to Rocha’s death. His uncertainty died instantly when he saw the nightmarish thing sitting on the floor where Corporal Rocha’s lifeless body had been only moments before. Its head turned in jerky, uncoordinated movements, like a gear with its teeth worn flat, as though searching for the source of the screams. When it finally faced them, they got their first glimpse of its inhuman eyes.

The opaque, lifeless orbs adorned with black, reticular lines like nightmarish gossamer draped over frosted pupils, caused Lin to let out another plaintive cry. The infected Rocha rose to his feet ready to lunge in the direction of her screams, as though using the sound to echolocate them.

Stunned by the fact that the man they thought to be dead was moving in their direction, neither Lin nor Montes raised their weapon. Although something was not right about Corporal Rocha, their first reaction was one of joy, as their friend was now on his feet—standing just as Lazarus stood after his demise.

Lin knew that was impossible, that she had been wrong when she pronounced the soldier dead. There was simply no other explanation.

Their initial joy was short-lived as Rocha continued forward, undeterred by their cautious retreat and repeated requests to halt. As though he were a coiled snake preparing to strike, Rocha lunged toward Lin.

Having pieced everything together in the split second before, Montes knew what needed to be done. With the speed of a gunfighter in the Old West, he drew his pistol from the holster at his hip. As he brought the weapon to his chest and began to punch out toward the advancing Corporal, he realized he was not going to make it in time.

Out of the corner of his eye, General Montes saw Lin’s frightened face at the same time he heard the deafening blast resonate through the small store. A pulpy aerosol of dark crimson and gelatinous gray flecked with shards of white bone spattered both Lin and Montes. The vile mixture was like sandpaper as it peppered their skin, while the concussion from the close quarters shot felt like being slapped with an open palm. Eyes clamped shut reflexively, neither wanted to open them for fear of what they would find. When they finally did, they were greeted by Rocha’s nearly decapitated body lying in a crumpled heap at their feet—and the rifle barrel of a breathless Sergeant Garza.

With his pistol still raised, General Montes said, “What the hell?”

Lin, on the other hand, ran full bore toward the man as she bellowed, “Garza! I thought you were dead! How did you catch up with us?” She threw her arms around him and pulled him into a tight embrace, neither seeming to notice how filthy the other was. Pulling away slightly, she continued, “It was horrible! We aren’t sure what happened to Corporal Rocha, but… Oh my God! Thank you for saving us!”

After pausing to lay a hand on the shoulder of his fallen comrade, General Montes crossed the room briskly toward the two standing in an awkward embrace. When he reached Sergeant Garza, he gave him a solemn look before reaching out to shake his hand. “It’s good to see you, soldier. You showed up just in time, as you can see,” the General said.

The firm grip and the reassuring look in Montes’ eyes told Garza the older man did not harbor any hard feelings about the fact that he had just put a round through the brainpan of his longtime friend.

“Yes, sir. It’s good to see the both of you as well, but I don’t think this is the best time for catching up. The man I trailed here is still outside, and while he is injured, I don’t think he is completely incapacitated. He’s some sort of sniper, or at least has some military training. Any idea why someone is trying to kill you guys? Regardless, we need to think about getting out of here in a hurry.”

* * *

Groaning, the shooter rolled onto his back, the ground cold and damp beneath him. Although he was able to control his left arm somewhat, the movement was crude and accompanied by excruciating pain that sent blinding flashes of white-hot light searing across his vision, like so many tiny fireworks bursting in the night sky. A dozen bone fragments, created by the bullet tearing through his shoulder at high velocity, shifted with every movement; they ground and locked against one another at random intervals. While not pulsatile, blood poured freely from the wound in his shoulder, intensifying dramatically whenever he moved the arm. The metallic smell made him nauseous, and he surmised his apparent hypothermia was due to the heat lost concurrent with the blood.

With a great deal of effort, he tore several strips of cloth from his grimy shirt, which he used to fashion a pressure dressing and sling to support the useless extremity. Throwing his pack over his good shoulder, he tucked his rifle under his arm and turned toward the rundown convenience store. Silhouetted against the night sky, the dark structure sat quietly, as if goading him to try something. His lips twitched with unbridled rage before twisting into an angry scowl.

So many thoughts and emotions swirled through his corrupt mind that, had he been able to speak, they would have come out as a savage yell as each vied to be the first to escape. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of something light against the otherwise dark ground. Shifting his attention to the object at his feet, he bent down and scooped it up. Holding it at an angle to catch the dull moonlight, his malicious scowl quickly transformed into an equally malicious sneer that would not have appeared dramatically different to an outside observer.

“Sergeant Hector Garza,” the shooter said in a hushed tone that resonated with the subtle sibilance of an inland taipan. With one last sidelong glance toward the ramshackle store, the injured man slid the object into his pocket and slinked away into the darkness.