Stone Soldiers 6: Armageddon Z (5 page)

"But before you do," Kenslir said. "You need to know one more thing. You need to be able to tell me how to stop this. You need to be able to tell me where it all started."

"Where?"

"St. Louis."

CHAPTER EIGHT

OUTBREAK, DAY 6

High over the United States, a sleek black shape tore through the thin atmosphere. A long, dart-like triangle of black, the aircraft was pushed along at several times the speed of sound, massive engines producing flame like a rocket ship.

In the cockpit, the pilot eased the nose of the aircraft down, following the waypoints on the head-up display in his helmet. As always, he was struck by how surreal it was. Modern avionics and next-generation helmet displays in an aircraft that was older than he was.

The pilot lined up with his waypoints then watched as a beacon flashed green, indicating his payload had just been successfully ejected from beneath his MA-12 Raven. He swung the nose back up, easing the plane back toward the blackness of spac
e. He had just completed his mission—his payload was on its way to St. Louis.

Several thousand feet below the retreating Raven multi-role aircraft, a long metal cylinder steered itself along with small guidance fins, letting gravity and momentum carry it
toward the ground and the large Midwestern city so far below. When the aerodynamic cylinder finally reached thirty thousand feet, a huge parachute billowed out behind it and the cylinder broke apart. Sections of the front half of the cylinder peeled away from each other—connected to the main body by strong cables.

From within this suddenly decelerating transport cylinder a man emerged.

Arms tucked against his sides, dressed all in black fatigues, Colonel Mark Kenslir plunged headfirst toward the ground. The wide tactical goggles he wore shielded his eyes from the wind tearing at him, while an oxygen mask covered the Colonel's face—connected to a small bottle on his back, under the parachute he wore. The head-up display goggles quickly scrolled down his altitude and a beacon marked his landing zone.

When he reached fifteen thousand feet, Kenslir extended his arms and legs, making himself as wide as possible. He used his body and limbs to correct his course, following the waypoints on his tactical visor the s
ame as the pilot of the Raven had done.

St. Louis was rapidly approaching
—a sea of twinkling lights on the dark face of the earth below, rushing up to meet him. From this altitude, the city looked peaceful. Kenslir knew that today, it was anything but.

A
t three thousand feet, he pulled his ripcord, and a huge parachute billowed out behind him. He was jerked around, his feet swinging down, the backpack strapped to his waist bouncing against his knees. Once he was steadied, he reached up for the risers of the parachute, then began to steer it toward his landing zone.

He slowly sailed down on his rectangular parachute, gently touching down on the roof of a six-story office building not far from the riverfront and the Gateway Arch. He kept his footing when he
touched down, walking to a stop as the parachute deflated and settled to the rooftop behind him.

Kenslir quickly turned and began reeling in his chute, rolling it into a huge ball of silk and nylon. He slipped out of the harness he was wearing, then lowe
red the parachute bundle and his backpack to the gravel covered roof of the building.

"Freeze!" a woman's voice rang out.

He turned slowly, hands out, at waist level.

A blonde, her hair back in a ponytail, was staring at him, her service pistol aimed di
rectly at him. Her police uniform was dark and stained in places—mostly with blood.

"Are you injured?" Kenslir asked, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask.

"What?" the woman asked. Her name tag read RICHARDS.

The Colonel pointed to his own head with one
finger.

"Slowly," Officer Ann Richards said. She was trembling with fear, her gun wavering slightly as he she held it out. Six days into the plague and she had seen far too many terrible things.

Kenslir wore an all black uniform that consisted of cargo pocket pants, boots, a tight-fitting, long-sleeve shirt and a combat vest covered in pouches. On both thighs, carriers hung strapped in place—the right supporting a large, holstered pistol, the left what Ann guessed must be ammo pouches.

The Colonel reached
slowly up to his oxygen mask with one hand. He removed it, then smiled reassuringly at her.

"Are you in
jured, officer?" he asked, dropping the mask. It dangled by a hose connected to the oxygen bottle still in a pouch on his back.

"Who are you? What are y
ou doing here?"

"I'm Colonel Mark Kenslir, Joint Interior-Defense Task Force." He slowly reached up and pushed the goggles he wore up on his forehead so Ann could see his eyes.

"You got any ID?" Ann asked, still pointing her gun at Kenslir.

"In my vest."

Ann nodded and the Colonel slowly reached across to a pouch. He opened it with the sound of tearing velcro—making the policewoman twitch. Once he had his wallet out, he opened it—displaying dual ID cards inside.

Ann walked over cautiously, releasing her
left hand from her pistol, but still keeping the pistol aimed on Kenslir. She snatched the ID from his hand, then stepped back. She held the wallet just below eye level, so she could read it while still keeping the Colonel in view.

The IDs looked real eno
ugh. Colonel Mark Kenslir, U.S. Army, and Department of the Interior, Special Agent. A Fed. Ann sighed in relief and holstered her weapon.

"Where are the rest of you?" she asked.

"I'm sorry?" Kenslir asked in return, raising an eyebrow.

"The Army—where's t
he rest of the troops? You're here to retake the city, right?"

Kenslir took his ID wallet back from the officer and tucked it back inside his vest pocket. "The Army will enter the city at first light."

"That's too late!" Ann declared, her eyes wide with fear. "They go back inside at sun up. You have to catch them out in the open!"

She suddenly looked around in fear and dropped her voice to a whisper. "Over here."

She led the Colonel to the shadows of the rooftop, between a large elevator house and a cooling tower for the building's air system. There was just enough room for both of them, sheltered from the wind and the view of anyone passing overhead.

Kenslir noticed as they passed the elevator house that the door leading into it was secured with handcuffs.

"How long have you been up here?" he asked.

"Shhh! They'll hear us!" The police woman looked around, clearly scared. She checked her watch. "Twelve hours. I made it up before dark. I was lucky. My partner wasn't."

"What can you tell me about the infecte
d?" Kenslir asked, now almost whispering.

"Infected?" Ann laughed. "They aren't infected
—they're zombies!"

She waited a moment while the Colonel regarded her quietly. "Why are you here if the Army isn't coming until later?"

"I'm getting eyes-on the situation," Kenslir said, tapping the goggles on his forehead. "CCTV camera in these lets Command see what I see."

"You are going to kill them all, right?" Ann was clearly worried. She might even be in the early stages of shock.

"We're assessing the situation."

The Colonel turned to leave. "A chopper will be here in the morning for you
—just stay put 'til then."

"You can't go out there!" Ann said, grabbing his arm. "They're all throughout the building. I hear them every now and then. They just don't know where I a
m."

"Don't worry, I'm not taking the stairs," the Colonel said. He crossed the rooftop, back to his backpack and bundled parachute. He dug inside the pack and pulled out two energy bars and two bottles of water.

"Here," he said, offering them to Ann. "You need these."

The officer grabbed the food and water and quickly began drinking as Kenslir pulled a small submachinegun from his backpack and assembled it. Richards recognized it as a UMP-45
—a .45 caliber SMG used by many SWAT teams.

"I thought you weren'
t leaving?"

The Colonel slipped on his black backpack, then the SMG, letting it hang across his chest. He screwed a large silencer onto the end of the compact rifle. "I said I wasn't taking the stairs."

Pulling down his goggles he walked to the edge of the roof and peered over. "Stay out of sight—you'll be fine until the chopper arrives. "

Then he jumped over the side of the roof.

Officer Richards dropped the water bottle she was drinking from and ran to the edge. When she looked over, she was shocked to see the Colonel running across the street, apparently uninjured from the six-story fall. As she watched, he melted into the shadows and vanished.

***

St. Louis was a wreck. It had been six days since the plague swept through the city and the region. In th
at time, hundreds of thousands had been killed—many rising back to some twisted semblance of life. At first, the government had assumed it was some kind of mass rioting in the wake of the previous Sunday's football game. Then the first reports of the dead rising up had come in.

It had started on a Monday, with hospitals flooded with the sick. Many complained of intense headaches. By mid-morning, thousands were dead. By noon, nearly two thirds of them had come back to life.

At first, it had appeared as though some kind of brain infection had taken hold—driving the infected into a horrible, animal-like rage. But when they began ignoring physical injuries like being struck by cars and being shot by police, suspicions were aroused this was something more.

Wor
se, not all the infected had sought medical treatment. Many had stayed home, or even tried to go about their daily business. They collapsed where they were, then rose up and attacked those around them. Others hid inside, out of the light of day.

Then the f
irst night came.

The scope of the infection was fully realized then, as thousands of infected poured into the streets, forming murderous mobs that attacked citizens wherever they could find them. The police were quickly outnumbered. Bodies were everywhere.
The National Guard was mobilized.

By morning, the infected retreated, leaving behind tens of thousands of bodies. By noon of the second day, many of those bodies rose up. As did countless other infected
—somehow exposed to whatever plague had descended on St Louis. Smaller outbreaks flared up all around the Midwest—particularly in Chicago.

The National Guard began patrolling the streets of St Louis, assisting in the clean up, and searching for more infected. The State Police began closing down the highways
into and out of the region. Media was everywhere, trying to figure out what was going on.

When the Guard and police began going house to house, they discovered the infected were adverse to daylight. It didn't stop them, but they seemed to dislike it
—not enough to hold back from attacking those that came close, though. Casualties continued to climb.

It was then that Colonel Kenslir's unit was tasked with investigating the situation.

Detachment 1039 had existed for over five decades—responding to supernatural and paranormal threats to America at home and abroad. The detachment based in Miami had many specialists, including psychics who could leave their bodies and scout remote locations from the astral plane.

The Ghost Walkers had at first been doubtful mag
ic was at play. But when night fell they were able to detect the faint sign of magic hanging in the very air of St Louis. The outbreak was of supernatural origins.

Colonel Kenslir wished they had caught it sooner. Now on the evening of the sixth day of th
e outbreak, it seemed as though St Louis was lost. Chicago wasn't much further behind.

Aerial surveillance had shown that the infected who were killed seemed to decompose quickly
—growing a kind of mold on their bodies that blossomed into fungal growths. Growths that released spores into the air. And with the infections showing up all across the Midwest, many cities and towns were quickly becoming overrun. The government had no idea how to stop this fungal plague. They didn't even understand it.

That left C
olonel Kenslir scurrying around in the dark, searching for clues.

The streets of St. Louis were empty now. The business district downtown was mostly abandoned. Citizens had either fled the city or were hunkered down in isolation. Or infected. Here and the
re, green-yellow masses of rotted, fungal-covered bodies lay out in the open, covered in the strange, mushroom-like growths that released spores every few hours.

The Colonel crept along silently, his UMP pressed tightly to his shoulder, ready to fire.

Reaching the end of an alley, Kenslir peeked around the corner, checking both directions. The street was empty and damp. Then a flash of light played across the road in a nearby intersection, and he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle.

Dashing out fro
m the alley, Kenslir crossed the street, slinging his rifle around behind him as he ran. When he reached the other side of the street, he vaulted into the air—his leap carrying him up nearly thirty feet. He landed as lightly as he could on the roof of a small dry cleaner's and kept on going.