ARISEN, Book Twelve - Carnage (46 page)

He could also see Baxter, who looked like he was digging down for everything he had to get back on his feet. But he wasn’t going to make it in time. Warchild turned toward the undefended cockpit. Even staggering, even leaving a blood trail… he’d be there in a matter of seconds. And the plane would be lost.

Darting his eyes further back, Fick was witness to, by far, the most horrifying thing of all: Misha lifting up Predator’s head, about to slit his throat.

And no one was going to be able to stop it.

Any of it.

Redemption

Dash 8 – Back of the Cabin

As Misha brought the knife in to cut first Predator’s windpipe and then Handon’s, he heard a loud crack – and only then felt the pain in the top of his hand. His head darted to the right, watching the knife fly half the length of the cabin.

Then he looked left.

It was the fucking scientist – barely taller than he was when squatted down. And he was holding a crowbar, which he had just used to whack him. Misha took it from him and hurled it at the bulkhead.

And then the mousy little son of a bitch stabbed him in the neck – with a fucking syringe.

* * *

Okay
, Fick thought.
Maybe I do have a couple of seconds to work with
.

No longer able to resist Badger’s full weight behind the knife anyway, he let it go – but angled the strike downward. Instead of his throat, the plunging blade stabbed into a pistol mag in a pouch high on his vest, and got stuck there.

Badger tried to yank it free.

Not giving him time, Fick pulled his right hand away, then brought it back – palm-striking the knife with everything he had. The blade broke and Badger found himself holding a pommel. Fick pulled the orphaned blade free in a flash.

And he stuck it up through Badger’s throat.

“No more Mr. Knife Guy,” he said, rolling the choking, sputtering, bleeding smart-ass off him.

* * *

Even as Badger gurgled and died, Baxter had gotten himself upright with sheer willpower – and now started walking forward with purpose. Warchild, who’d been delayed beating up on the wounded, and was still half-dazed, was only just pulling himself up the aisle between the seats, headed for the flight deck. He was oblivious as Baxter walked him down from behind.

Baxter looked down at the knife still in his hand – and looked up at Warchild, remembering his front and rear plates, which had made both of his knife strikes worthless.

“Fuck it,” he said, dropping the knife and pulling his M9 from his holster. When he reached Warchild a second later, he jammed the pistol into the man’s clavicle at a forty-five-degree angle, and he pulled the trigger.

The single high-velocity 9mm round bounced around back and forth inside the Russian’s torso, ricocheting between the front and rear trauma plates three times, turning his vital organs to sausage.

As he crumpled to the deck, Baxter sucked air and said:

“Dude – you’re dead, bro.”

That was all the wind he had, so as he turned back to the rear, he just thought:
Ceramic plates work in both directions, asshole. And next time make sure it’s really not a gunfight before you bring a shovel…

* * *

Yodeling with rage, Misha put his hand around Dr. Park’s throat, with the intention of tearing it out. He knew who this man was – he just no longer cared. Russia had its own scientists. But before he could squeeze and pull, something extremely heavy – and hairy – landed on his back.

It was Juice – not only awake again, but in possession of the Mercworx Vorax knife that had just been knocked away. Misha whirled, but couldn’t get the hairy commando to come loose. Facing forward again, he could now see a Marine and a frat boy advancing on him. Both were armed, covered in blood, and looking like they were done fucking around. Their eyes blazed with righteous anger, but also with love – love for one another, and for everything that Misha was trying to destroy. Scanning ahead, then back, Misha realized there was no one left to rally to him. His men were all dead. He had spent their lives.

And then he felt another pain, this time on the inside of his arm. Looking down, he saw a long gash, all the way to the bone. Juice had just cut his brachial artery.

His blood splashed out of him and onto his boot tops.

* * *

As Noise came level with the rear hatch in the blasting air, he was surprised to find himself face-to-face with both Predator and Handon – lying on top of each other, eyes closed, heads sticking out over the tarmac.

He didn’t have a lot of time for confusion, though, because the Humvee he rode in was approaching its top speed, and this plane was not long for the surface of this world. Taking care to avoid stepping on their faces, Noise hoisted himself in through the hatch.

He did spare a glance and a wave of thanks back at the nice young Russian who had driven him.

Once inside the plane, things were equally insane and confusing. As best he could tell, Juice, Fick, and Baxter were trying to bring down a mastodon – one that had been speared a dozen times, and streamed and sprayed blood, but wasn’t going down without dishing out every last ounce of fight it had. Juice was on the bull-sized Russian’s back, being slung around into bulkheads, but hanging on doggedly, as the other two circled, stabbing and punching.

This was not a safe place for two unconscious casualties to be. Waiting for a safe moment, Noise mustered his strength and dragged Predator around behind the DNA sequencer in back. As he did so, he saw Dr. Park going the other direction, grabbing Handon’s boots and dragging him back there as well. Noise checked the breathing of both men – both were alive. He shrugged out of his pack, and dug out an aid kit.

“Wrap up these bleeders,” he said. Park nodded. Noise then pulled out the bite-tube from his CamelBak. “And try to revive the big man. We may need him.”

Park nodded and took it.

But as Noise turned back to the fight, Park grabbed his sleeve. “Wait. He’s infected.”

“Who – the gigantic Russian?”

“Yes,” Park said. “I stabbed him with a virus sample. You can kill him – but then you’d better get rid of him fast.”

Noise nodded. He got it.

Park was worried he’d just created the most dangerous zombie in the history of the ZA.

* * *

Hiding behind the rear stabilizer from Vasily, and making herself as tiny as possible to dodge airburst shrapnel, Ali realized this was also a fucking catch-22. The goddamned sniper had Kate pinned. And Ali couldn’t hit him because the helo had her pinned. And, completing the circle, Kate couldn’t hit the fucking helicopter because of Vasily. And they were all out of time.

Something had to change.

Taking her already forfeit life even more in her hands, she edged around the back of the rear stabilizer – where she found she could get a look at the tower, without exposing herself to the helo. And she found Vasily was still out of sight behind that concrete pillar. She couldn’t even see the son of a bitch.

But as he fired at Kate, Ali could actually just make out the glint of his ejecting shells – sparkling in the last beams of the setting sun. And from those, she knew where he was standing.

She hit her radio. “Here’s your last look. Courtesy of Don—”

* * *

“—Hollenbaugh,” Kate finished.

She popped out again. If she died, she died.

She lined up her shot.

* * *

Vasily realized the one at the front hatch was also a woman.

And now she was his. He squeezed his trigger.

* * *

Ali swapped out mags in a blur, stood up behind the stabilizer – and she emptied the entire magazine into the back wall of the air traffic control tower, in a broad but controlled spread.

The entire mag – every round but one.

* * *

Something crashed into Vasily from behind like a dozen hammers, pummeling his rear plate.

He tumbled forward out onto the observation deck.

* * *

Hailey hauled on the yoke for everything she was worth, the entire aircraft trembling, straining, and screaming around her. She squinted straight ahead into the setting sun – in front of which, that fucking Black Shark was still staring her right in the face.

But there was no stopping this time.

They were either taking off – or crashing into the buildings at the end of the runway, without question killing everyone aboard. This was chicken with a blindfold on.

Hailey couldn’t stop now even if she had to.

* * *

Noise only entered the fray when he got hit with Juice – Misha finally managed to buck him off, and the 220-pound commando piled into Noise like a twelve-point buck at full gallop. They both tumbled to the deck. Spinning the other direction, Misha snatched up Park’s dropped crowbar. With inspired, desperate, eleventh-hour strikes, he managed to pop Fick and Baxter, both circling, penning him in, but now causing both to withdraw. Before they could rally, Misha charged with both forearms out, exploding into them, and knocking both back ten feet and down onto the deck.

Now he stood in an empty circle.

Blood covered virtually every exposed surface of his body, soaked every part of his uniform – and that damned hypodermic needle was still sticking out the back of his neck, right where the scientist had stuck it. Looking down, Misha saw his life pouring out of him, and knew this was his last rampage. Glancing behind him, he could see Noise and Juice untangling. Looking forward again, he saw Fick and Baxter regaining their feet. Well beyond them was the cockpit. But the body language of the two ahead said:
None shall pass.

And Misha believed them. He wasn’t getting by.

Huge torso heaving with deep, labored breathing, he dropped the crowbar. Both his hands went to his belt – and each unclipped two grenades. He pulled two pins at a time with his teeth.

And he hit his radio. “Nina. It’s over. Destroy this bitch.”

Then he heaved two of the grenades forward with his full arm strength – and two aft, tossing them over his shoulder.

And then he started doing his Predator laugh.

“
Ha ha ha ha ha ha…!!!
”

* * *

Gladly
, Nina thought.

This had been a lot of fucking around, and way too little conquering and destroying, not to mention killing. She didn’t relish seeing the great Misha fall. But she honored his fearlessness, his contempt for death, the way he waved his dick at death. He would die in fire, destroying the enemy, a hero of Russia.

A warrior.

She armed her last two
Vikhr
missiles, and instantly achieved missile lock on the plane. She flipped the cap up off the firing trigger.

And she squeezed it.

* * *

Kate put her target reticle on the bent and exposed missile under the Black Shark’s stub wing.

It was so close now, it filled her scope.

She summoned the spirit of Kwan, and prayed for his icy coolness – and his awesome accuracy. She knew that, after the hit to the rifle’s receiver, either it would fire or it wouldn’t.

Either way, this was the shot of her lifetime.

As she squeezed off the round, she muttered:

“Smile, you son of a bi—”

* * *

The mastodon hunt quickly became a grenade festival – or, rather, a grenade Easter egg hunt.

Of the two Misha had tossed over his shoulder, Noise actually snatched one out of the air – years of cricket – and side-arm bowled it straight out the rear hatch. The blasting plane was long gone before it exploded.

* * *

One of the two he baseball-threw forward hit Baxter in the chest. His arms clutched at it, but it bounced off and skittered away. Fick dove after it, his bleeding body laid out flat and sliding along the deck. Misha stepped forward to kick him in the face – but he ran into Baxter, who came in trying to tackle him. He failed – Misha just stiff-armed him back the way he came – but it bought Fick two seconds to palm the grenade…

And wrist-flick it out the rear hatch.

* * *

The second grenade to the rear hit the back of the cabin, then bounced and rolled forward again – nestling up against Predator, whose impassive face Park was pouring water on. Park’s eyes went wide when he saw it. But then he knew what he had to do – he threw himself on the grenade.

It didn’t explode.

And while it wasn’t exploding, Park remembered two things. One, it would probably blow a hole in the bottom of the plane, dooming it. Two, his own death would doom humanity.

So he grabbed the grenade, crawled around the sequencer at high speed, and slam-dunked it out the hatch. It exploded a quarter-second later, peppering the fuselage with shrapnel.

Lying on the deck, trying to breathe, he heard another muted explosion from up at the front of the cabin.

* * *

The last grenade had zoomed right between Fick and Baxter, flown the length of the plane, hit the bulkhead on the back of the lavatory, then skittered back under the seats, coming to a stop against one of the metal struts that held them to the deck.

Master Sergeant Jake Redding, covered in blood and lying on the deck, his chest a pulpy mess, an empty plasma bag between his arm and ribs, heard someone shout: “Where the fuck is the last grenade!?”

He tilted his head back – and he saw it.

Struggling to breathe, never mind make his body respond to instructions, he reached up and behind him – and found his fingertips brushing its surface. He curled them and got the grenade rolling toward him. Now he could grab it. He pulled it in and started to roll on top of it.

But then he remembered what was beneath him – airplane – and what was likely to be running through the crawlspace down there. He looked to his right and saw al-Sif. He was still wearing his vest. They both were.

Jake clutched the grenade to his chest with one hand, rolled on his side, reached out, and rolled al-Sif onto his.

And he hugged the Somali fighter to him.

With this, al-Sif came awake and his eyes opened. For a single beat, he recoiled and tried to pull away. But Jake had a death grip on him.