By the time I reached the upper floor there were far more bodies. The floor was soaked in blood, and in the middle of the room lay a torn-apart corpse as if a pack of wild animals had shredded it. The colonel sat at the table by the comms station; at his feet lay the body of an infected, and a pistol was clutched in his bloodied hands. His pupils fixed on me he was alive.
"Anyone else make it?" he rasped, forcing his gaze to focus on me. "It's you. Of everyone at the base, you're the one who survived. Looks like you weren't infected."
He coughed, spat blood. His hands were bitten; there were also bite marks visible on his shoulder.
"The situation's shit," the colonel continued. "Food… that's the main source of the infection. Everyone who ate the civilian rations got infected. Command traced it the source was the flour. By the time it became clear, it was too late. Some of the personnel had already eaten it. Those who lived off military rations weren't infected. Who would've thought because of some damned doughnuts we'd be defeated."
The colonel smiled bitterly and coughed up more blood.
"Can I do anything to help?" I asked, though I already knew he was infected and there was nothing I could do.
"Not anymore," he answered, breathing hard. "I've seen what the infection does. I can't be helped."
He tried to stand and failed.
"My body won't obey me; I feel like I'm losing control. Listen carefully, soldier. I've got an order for you. Help me relay new commands to the city's military forces. Command didn't get the order to the units in time looks like the infected reached them too."
"What do you want me to do?" I asked.
"Take the headset from the table. Switch it to channel two," the colonel murmured, barely audible.
I grabbed the headset, put it on, tuned into the comms and switched to channel two.
"Command to HQ… order all units to fall back," the colonel croaked, his lips moving with difficulty. "An airstrike will be carried out on the city. At exactly nine o'clock. I repeat the order… everyone fall back…"
As he finished, his voice dwindled and his head slumped, lifeless.
I watched him, feeling the cold spread through me. Then I glanced at the clock six a.m. Three hours until the strike.
How had everything in the city gone to hell so fast? Printed reports and dispatches from the units lay on the table. I scanned through them. Almost all the units had been forced to retreat; the infected had broken the lines. Those who ate from civilian supplies rather than rations turned out to be infected.
Panic among civilians had become madness. People attacked those trying to protect them, seized weapons, killed soldiers. The survival instinct had stripped them of everything human, leaving only chaos and bestial despair.
And how do you hold a city when even your comrades turn infected and lunge at you? The military tried to stem the flow of refugees, but the barricades didn't help. The city had become a nightmare panic, blood, screams, gunfire. Sanity crumbled for everyone still breathing.
I had to leave. It was the only right choice.
"Arkha" the colonel, motionless, gave a faint sign of life. I didn't hesitate: I shouldered my rifle and fired several shots into his head.
I slung the assault rifle across my back, pulled my pistol, checked the magazine, and headed for the storerooms. I needed to restock: food, ammo, anything I could carry. Three hours was more than enough.
I ran to the warehouse and opened the door. Inside I hit the switch the lights came on. The place was almost empty. Most of the supplies and weapons were already gone, for obvious reasons. I found a couple of shotguns in the weapons lockers. I picked up a Benelli M4 Super 90 the same shotgun I'd used to storm the lab before; I'd returned with it once, and it had been taken from me, there'd been no time to look for it again.
For close-quarters combat with the infected, it was the perfect weapon: reliable, powerful, and simple to handle. I grabbed several boxes of twelve-gauge shells, packed everything into my backpack, and laid a spare set of clothes on top. There wasn't much space, but I managed to fit as much as I could.
I needed transport. Going on foot was too dangerous. Circling around to the side of the garage, I stepped through the service door and to my surprise, found three vehicles still standing inside.
"Better than nothing," I muttered, running my hand over the seat of one of the bikes.
It was an HDT M1030B1. I'd been briefed on almost every piece of hardware used by the military and special units. This motorcycle was based on the Kawasaki 650 a rugged enduro, reliable and easy to maintain. A beast that could run on almost any kind of fuel. The model had been modified for military use: redesigned muffler, reduced noise level, camouflage paint. It didn't care about dirt or dust.
*image*
I secured my backpack to the rear rack, attached an extra jerry can of fuel, and made one more run to the supply room for whatever was left. By the time I finished strapping everything down and checking my gear, a good chunk of time had passed.
At the gate, I pressed the button on the remote. The heavy doors started to rise with a metallic groan. Lost in thought, it took me a moment to realize what I was seeing. First, a pair of legs appeared on the other side and then, as the doors lifted higher, an infected lunged straight at me. What probably saved me was the rifle hanging across my chest. Instinctively, I jerked it up. The creature's teeth clamped down on the barrel, and I fell backward, wrestling with it.
"Son of a bitch," I snarled, mustering all my strength to shove it aside. I yanked my sidearm from the holster on my thigh and fired several rounds into its head.
Another infected was already charging at the sound of the shots. I brought the pistol up, aimed, and squeezed off a few rounds. The thing dropped right at my feet. My heart was hammering I started to relax for just a second, and that almost got me killed.
I couldn't afford that anymore. Not here. There was no safe place left every moment had to be spent on guard, ready to fight.
Slowly, I got up and scanned the area. I holstered my pistol, kept the rifle at the ready, and checked the perimeter. Most of the bodies were still where they'd fallen. Looked like none of the infected had gotten back up. I stood there for a few minutes, listening to the silence, then my gaze drifted to my watch. Like most soldiers, I wore it face-inward. There wasn't much time left.
Back at the bike, I did a quick calculation: the fuel in the tank should last around six hundred kilometers maybe less, considering the load. Still, it would be enough.Time to move.
I kicked the starter. The engine coughed to life, growling hoarsely, as if it resented being woken from a long sleep. I gave it a little gas, and my mood shifted instantly. Riding a bike is a different kind of feeling. I didn't use two wheels often, but that sensation is impossible to forget the speed, the rush of wind slapping your face, the way your whole body moves with the machine.
I shot out of the garage and headed for the gate. James was lying by the checkpoint, mauled to death. Looked like he'd fought to the very end. I went inside, hit the button to open the outer gates they began sliding aside slowly. On the table, I spotted a box of 5.56 rounds. Took as many as I could; my backpack was nearly full.
Mounting the bike again, I turned it toward the outskirts, keeping to dirt roads, away from highways and main routes. After a few minutes, I slowed down on a hilltop. From there, I had a full view of the city.
It was burning. Thick black columns of smoke rose from dozens of points, climbing into the sky. The glow of the fires shimmered in the windows. Somewhere in the distance, there were flashes gunfire. When I looked closer, I realized it wasn't the military shooting. It was civilians. People trying to fight off the infected… and some shooting at each other.
In the streets below, the infected ran wild, drawn to every sound, attacking anything that moved. The military was almost gone now only small groups retreating toward the outskirts.
*image*