The Tide: Deadrise (29 page)

The crack of gunfire sounded over the howls of Skulls and the deep bellows of a few Goliaths. As a low explosion rocked the bridge, Rory’s question still echoed in his mind.

“What now? We kill some Skulls,” Shepherd said.

***

A
pounding agony stabbed behind Lauren’s eyes, and the back of her skull throbbed. Blinking, she adjusted to the harsh lights. Indistinguishable voices started to filter through her muddled hearing. The pain ebbed and flowed in time with the pounding of her pulse. She tried to reach up to the back of her head, suspecting she would find a bleeding wound or large knot. But her arm didn’t move. A slight pressure caught her wrist, and, through her dizziness, she realized she’d been cuffed. Plastic zip-ties secured her wrists to the bedrails.

She blinked again, clearing the buildup in the corner of her eyes. The scent of gunfire and blood contrasted harshly with the sterile smell of cleaning solutions and filtered air. She forced her eyes to stay open even though it felt as if she was suffering from the worst hangover in her life. She looked to her right, where the voices were coming from. Terrence’s cheeks were red. Not with blood, but aneurysm-inducing rage. Vessels bulged along his forehead, and he was lashing out like he was possessed by the Oni Agent. But his eyes weren’t bloodshot, and the words coming out of his mouth were far too coherent for him to be a Skull. He too had been cuffed to a bed.

“You assholes!” he yelled, straining against the cuffs. His balled-up fists turned white. “You killed them! You killed them in cold blood!”

It all came back to Lauren like a forty-ton, fully loaded semi-truck barreling straight at her. Ivan and Scott were dead. The guards had woken them from the medically induced comas and shot the Hunters.

She tried to speak, but her jaw ached. It clicked when she opened it, and pain radiated through the bone and tissue. She guessed she’d suffered a concussion when one of the soldiers knocked her out. Her face would no doubt be an ugly mess, but nothing compared to the pain or ugliness of the sight before her.

A pair of white sheets, stained with crimson blossoms of blood, covered the bodies on the floor. She wanted to cry. She wanted to yell. She wanted to hurt the men who’d played judge, jury, and executioner in
her
medical bay.

Emotions battered her mind like a relentless squall, but her medical training helped her fight them back. It wasn’t always easy, nor was it pleasant, but it oftentimes became necessary to be detached and rational when treating and operating on her fellow crewmates. No amount of cursing would bring Ivan and Scott back to life. She let the heat of her anger dissipate. A couple of tears still traced their way down her cheeks, but she ignored them and tried to sit up straighter.

Terrence continued yelling, but the soldiers and guards disregarded him. They were conferring outside the hatch of the isolation ward. His voice would hardly be heard out there through the acrylic windows and thick partitions.

“Terrence,” Lauren said. The word was barely a whisper through her cracked lips. “Terrence,” she tried with a bit more force. The Hunter either didn’t hear her or didn’t care, lost in his rage. This time she mustered all her strength and, ignoring the blazing pain in her jaw, shouted, “TERRENCE!”

The man’s eyes caught hers. Veins still pulsated in his temples, and his cheeks were still brilliant crimson. But he had stopped screaming. Through gritted teeth, he muttered a single syllable. “What?”

“I’m angry too,” she said. “I will not forgive them. And I will not forget Ivan or Scott.”

Terrence stared at her. His chest rose and fell in quick, staccato breaths.

“But we can’t help them now. They’re gone.”

His nose scrunched into a snarl, and he appeared ready to levy a whole new batch of insults at her. Lauren shot him a cold stare. She said nothing until he calmed himself.

“We can’t help them,” she repeated, “but there are others who need our help.” There was no way the soldiers outside could hear her, but she lowered her voice anyway. “Dom needs us.”

“But—”

“Just be quiet and trust me,” she said, a note of irritation breaking through her calm façade. “We are going to get out of here, and then we are going to save our crew and the Hunters in the field.”

Terrence nodded. The color in his cheeks started to return to normal. His breathing became steadier, but his fists remained balled and his jaw clenched. “What do we do first?”

“We wait.”

A look of disgust traced itself across Terrence’s face. His nostrils flared. “For how long?”

Lauren looked around the ward. Ivan and Scott’s remains hadn’t been touched since the shooting. The wetness in her own hair at the back of her head told her the soldiers hadn’t even bothered giving her rudimentary medical care. Spent bullet cases rolled along the deck with the gentle sway of the sea. Through the acrylic window, she saw Smith holding a white cloth to his jaw. It was stained red.

“They aren’t done in here,” she said.

The hatch to the med bay opened, and Peter came out. Deep wrinkles were etched across his brow. Lauren could practically see the anger seething through him. But like her, he was a trained medical professional. She trusted him to keep his cool as he confronted Smith. They exchanged a series of inaudible arguments and a multitude of wild hand gestures. Eventually, Smith slammed his hand on a button near the isolation ward’s hatch. The sterilization chamber hissed open, and Peter stepped in. After waiting for clean air to refill the chamber, the inner hatch unlocked.

“Lauren, are you okay?” Peter asked, striding toward her. He shook his head. “Of course not. Stupid question. Sorry.” He gently helped raise her head enough to examine her wound. “I probably don’t need to tell you that there’s a nasty bump back here. Likely concussion. Going to clean this up.” He started dabbing it with gauze and sprayed an antiseptic solution into her matted hair.

“When do I get back to the lab?” she asked. The computer in the lab was her only link to the Hunters—and a vital part of her plan to take the ship back.

“You won’t be,” Peter said, not bothering to look up from his work. “Going to need some stitches. Hold on.” He left the isolation ward to get supplies.

“What does he mean you won’t get back to the lab?” Terrence asked.

Lauren lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. She watched Peter talking to Smith again. He moved to a cabinet and took out a prepacked suture set, showed it to Smith and the others, and returned.

“Are they going to hold me here?” she asked as Peter applied a local anesthetic.

Peter caught her eyes and gave her a meaningful stare. “Look,” he said. “This may have worked out for the best. I managed to get through to Renee. She told me what they planned to do.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Smith and Tucker. One had begun the routine entry process to enter the isolation ward. “Don’t have much time, but you’ll know when and how to use this, right?” He placed a small, flat plastic package in her right hand. Her fingers curled around it as the inner door to the isolation hatch unlocked. “Remember, I’ve got emergency gas masks stowed in the decon chamber.”

She had a thousand questions on her mind. But as the inner hatch opened and Smith, cradling his weapon, stared over Peter’s shoulder, she knew she wouldn’t have a chance to ask any of them. Lauren would have to take her own advice: trust and wait.

––––––––

S
hepherd climbed a short wooden ladder over a wall of corrugated sheet metal. He stood on top of a makeshift catwalk beside Rachel and Rory. All around, the clamor of cracking gunfire, shouting soldiers, and screaming Skulls rent the air. No one questioned him as he found a spot looking over a gate draped in barbed wire. Blockades made from parked cars and salvaged materials were set up along the length of the bridge like some kind of Mad-Max-style maze.

The blockades were crude but effective. The defensive walls forced the churning Skulls through bottlenecks where they could be brought down by gunfire. Those that managed to trickle through fell at the hands of sharpshooters.

A trio of Goliaths bellowed. One of the behemoths swiped at a parked truck that had been reinforced with sheet metal and railroad spikes. The armored vehicle toppled over the side of the bridge. Another Goliath picked up two smaller Skulls and tossed the creatures at the main wall. One of the Skulls screamed as it flew through the air. Its body slammed against the wall, cracking and splitting. The second made it over.

A soldier next to Shepherd yelled into his radio, “One inside the gates. I repeat, one inside!”

Before he finished barking the warning, Shepherd watched four soldiers quickly subdue the thrown Skull with rapid gunfire.

“What do we do about the Goliaths?” Rory yelled.

“You mean those big fucks?” another soldier shouted. “Where you been? We got a procedure.”

As the Goliaths plowed through the smaller Skulls, another voice barked over the radio. “Open up on the thirty mils.”

The distinct whine of miniguns winding up caught Shepherd’s ears. Then he spotted the soldiers manning the guns at points along the wall. The minigun barrels spun, blurring. 30 mm rounds tore into the Goliaths. Each bullet bore through their armor, sending fragments of flesh and bone flying. The bullets staggered the giants, their bodies shuddering until they were beaten back. Soon the miniguns were chewing through their armor and ripping through muscle. One of the monster’s arms was torn clean off.

It wasn’t long before all three of the Goliaths fell. A victorious cry spread through the soldiers’ ranks. Shepherd, Rachel, and Rory couldn’t help but join in. This was how defenses against the Skulls were supposed to work. This was how they should’ve been cooperating all along—military, government, and civilians joining together to save what remained of the United States.

“We’ve got the all clear,” one lieutenant cried from atop a catwalk. “Cleaning crews, out!”

Soldiers scurried down the ladders to the bridge. Chains clanked as the gate was raised. Men and women rushed among the corpses. Gunfire rang out as the snipers finished a few Skulls still fighting against debilitating injuries. The bodies were loaded on waiting trucks.

“Still burning them, I bet,” Rachel said. “Good.”

“Yep,” a soldier near her said. He pointed at a cluster of trees near where the bridge reached the mainland. “Same spot every day. Can’t say I like the smell though. I mean, we’re shooting, moving, and burning these bastards two, three times a day now. Makes me think we should just blow the bridge.”

Another soldier chimed in, shaking her head. “You blow the bridge and you cut off land access. We can’t afford to keep flying supplies in.” She waved a hand at the island behind them. “Half the people here came in cars. Not enough boats to run supplies.”

“One of these days, the walls won’t hold. We’ll run out of ammo, or maybe we’ll face a horde of those giant fuckers. Then you’ll be wishing we blew the bridge.”

Shepherd stopped listening to their conversation. Although he was intrigued by the military’s strategies to defend these people, he couldn’t risk offering his own insight and experience from his time in Detrick. For now, he wanted to lie low and find the damn radio. “Rachel, got any clue where to search next?”

“No, not yet,” she said. Her eyes scanned the crowds of dispersing civilians and soldiers.

“Looking for someone?” he asked.

“No one in particular.” She stood on tiptoes. “But anyone I recognize, anyone I might be able to trust would be nice.”

Rory scanned the troops. “Hey, there’s Lee. Lee!”

A younger man in civilian clothes turned. His expression was grim until he saw them. “Rachel, Rory! I didn’t think you guys made it back! What happened?”

Rachel raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? What happened to you?”

“I mean, we were all taken,” Lee said. He summarized how the other midshipmen had been led to the waiting Hueys the same night Rachel and Rory had been abducted. They had all been questioned about the Hunters and their involvement with the Oni Agent until they were finally cleared and dropped back off at Kent Island. They’d been ordered to defend the stronghold with a special detachment of military units sent by General Kinsey. “I wasn’t exactly a fan of that prison, but at least those cell doors kept us safe when it was breached.”

Shepherd remembered the prison and the breach all too well. But they didn’t have time to swap survival stories.

“Yeah, Lee, that was pretty crazy,” Rachel said. “But now I need your help. Do you know what happened to my stuff?”

Lee’s head bobbed emphatically. “Sheriff Cowles kept all our things under his watch when we were taken. I think Maureen has it all now. She took your stuff when you didn’t come back with us.”

“She stole my kit?” Rachel asked, perplexed.

“No, no. More like she didn’t want it thrown out. We were all worried you two had died in the breach at that prison. But she didn’t think so. Kept saying you would come back.”

“Well, she was right,” Rory said. “Where is she?”

Lee led them through the barracks. “Maureen!” he called over the others milling between the cots, packs of supplies, and wall lockers. Their fellow midshipman turned and waved, and then her eyes bulged when she saw Rachel and Rory. She sprinted toward them and hugged Rachel.

Rachel embraced her friend but kept the reunion brief. “We’re kind of in a rush. Do you have my stuff somewhere?”

“Of course! I just knew you’d make it back.” Maureen opened her footlocker and moved aside a bundle of clothes. She took out a plastic bag and handed it to Rachel. “Everything is in here.”

Shepherd felt a twinge of sympathy for the plucky midshipman. All her remaining earthly belongings fit in a plastic shopping bag. He watched her dig through it until she found a small radio.

“Thank God,” she said. “Want me to hail the open comm channel, sir?”

Shepherd nodded. “That’d be best.”

She twisted a dial on the radio and held it near her mouth. Depressing the call button, she spoke slowly and clearly. “Hunters, this is Midshipman Rachel Kaufman from Kent Island. Do you read?”