CHAPTER 1
Stanley Fletcher held back as Commander Stipple blew his whistle in sharp blasts, sending the Scabs ahead of him tearing into the entrance of the old Titan II missile silo.
Fletcher grabbed Stipple by the elbow, spinning him around. “Remember, I need some alive. Don’t fail me.”
“No worries. I’ve got it covered,” the man replied, pulling free with a twist of his arm. He took a step back toward the threshold, while the horde of Scabs behind him continued its advance, scrambling around a ninety-degree corner.
The cannibals and their collective motion reminded Fletcher of an invasion of army ants, with fists raised and mouths drooling as they searched for their next kill. The sea of skin looked like a shimmering blanket of ugliness, rippling under the inevitable control of rage.
Fletcher shook his head, knowing that somewhere inside the residents of Edison’s wonderland were hunkered down and praying they could withstand the wave of teeth coming at them.
Soft targets always thought that way—that somehow their dreamworld, their nirvana, would magically rise up and protect them when the shit hit the fan. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth, not when the weak and unarmed were the easiest prey. Cannon fodder was a better term, betting their lives on nothing more than hope.
Only those with the wherewithal to get prepared and stay that way would survive in a world ruled by force. Well, that and keeping their options open. As in maintaining the high ground and fortifying a defensible position. This underground complex was neither of those.
“On me,” Commander Stipple said to Dice and Fletcher, giving them a momentary head nod before following the last of his hunger gang into the silo.
Fletcher half-expected the commander to once again use the whistle hanging from his neck to bring him forward, much like the man had done to unleash his battalion of cannibals.
It was fortunate for Stipple that he didn’t decide to use that shrieking noisemaker on him. Not here. Not now. Not within the walls of this hardened Air Force facility. Such a screech would have been enough for Fletcher to raise his weapon and unleash a hail of 7.62 rounds at Craven’s right-hand man.
In truth, Fletcher knew it would happen eventually, both the annoying whistle and his lethal response. But he also knew this wasn’t the right time to take action. Not when he was on the verge of completing one of the greatest leadership coups ever—at least in his mind.
Fletcher moved ahead, with the stock of his rifle pressed into a firing position against the soft of his shoulder. He sharpened his focus, knowing that every foot plant mattered. So did his position relative to everyone else.
Situational awareness is key in any threatening situation. More so when you are in proximity to hundreds of Scabs, whether they are running loose or contained.
Once Fletcher was through the last bulkhead protecting the entrance, he spun to survey the damage caused by the C-4. The silo’s inner vault door hung in twisted clumps of metal, its massive hinges holding on in what he could only describe as a desperate attempt to remain attached.
The results of his demolition team were impressive, planting the charges with precision. Even so, one fact seemed clear—if his men hadn’t used the sheer amount of bricks they did, the heavy steel would have withstood the detonation and kept this silo free from this incursion.
Fletcher pushed ahead, passing through the cloud of spent explosives, its distinctive odor still lingering in the air. But that wasn’t all he smelled. There was something else. Something ripe.
Dice must have noticed it too, turning his head away when he came near, wearing a pinched look on his mug. “Talk about some seriously nasty swamp ass.”
“You got that right, brother. Stipple’s gonna have to hose them down when this is over.”
“Or run them over.”
“That’ll work, too,” Fletcher replied, seeing the Scabs pound their fists on the walls down the corridor. None of this was how he would have ordered the attack to proceed, but it wasn’t his place to question. Stipple knew his cannibal force better than anyone. After all, he trained them.
Perhaps their non-stealth approach was designed to drive Edison’s people in one direction, corralling them into a central area of the facility. It would certainly make Fletcher’s job easier and more efficient, versus having to perform a methodical search using a skeleton crew—of humans, that is.
“Holy shit, look at this place,” Dice said in a charged whisper. “Must have taken them years to pour all the concrete.”
“Soon to be red-colored concrete,” Fletcher quipped, listening for screams ahead. So far there hadn’t been any, but he knew the carnage would soon start, once the Scabs found their blood-filled targets.
Even so, Fletcher found the facility equally as impressive as Dice—its stout construction obvious. From what he could tell, the Air Force and its engineers had designed everything for a singular purpose—strength. Oh, and longevity. Okay, that was two things, but it didn’t matter. The silo was remarkable.
If this first visit to a bunker like this had been under different circumstances, he might have stopped and taken photos. Hundreds of them, documenting their remarkable achievement.
Fletcher scoffed after another few moments of reflection, figuring the old military brass had never planned for an invasion like this. Certainly not by a band of genetically engineered meat-eaters, hell-bent on killing everything that moved and doing so in a snarl of drool.
After two more turns and a climb down a wall-mounted ladder, Fletcher stopped on the deck plating below.
Dice was right behind him, finishing his trek down the same eleven rungs. “Where the hell are they?”
“Good question. I thought we’d have our first kill by now.”
“I’m getting one of my weird feelings again, boss.”
“Roger that. Starting to wonder myself.”
“Did they evacuate?”
“Not sure,” Fletcher said.
“If they did, they left the lights on.”
“And the ventilation system.”
“You and I might do that, but not Edison’s crew.”
“No, they’re all about saving energy and everything else,” Fletcher said, taking a moment to think it through.
“God-damned tree huggers.”
Fletcher agreed with Dice and his assessment about the doves Edison had taken in as his own. All of it predictable. All of it expected, given who and what Edison was. “No, they’re here somewhere, Dice. Just need to find them.”
“Must have had some advance warning to pull back,” Dice said, his eyes scanning the walls and ceilings.
“And dig in,” Fletcher added, noticing the overhead recess and how it had been packed with cable runs and piping. “Don’t see any cameras, though.”
“None outside in the stairwell either.”
Fletcher held for a moment, letting his mind ponder the situation. “Maybe our cloaked friend had something to do with it?”
“Nomad?”
Fletcher nodded but didn’t respond.
“You think he tipped them off, boss?”
“It’s possible.”
“We did water down his fuel,” Dice said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Some kind of payback?”
“It would explain a few things,” Fletcher said, holding for a moment. He shook his head. “But how could he have communicated with them so quickly?”