Wayward Pines- Genesis Collection Page 9

  With little progress made on day one, Marcus convinced Alan to mount the M230LF chain gun systems on two of their armored Humvees and line the vehicles along the hatch’s ledge. Firing 30mm projectiles at a rate of three rounds per second, the camera-operated cannons kept the abbies at bay while Marcus’s team deployed a tight, one-hundred-and-eighty-degree perimeter to keep the threat at bay.

  Despite the devastating effect of the chain guns on the abbies, multiple groups approaching from different directions quickly overwhelmed the weapons’ system operators. Marcus’s boundary security team provided a layered defensive approach that complimented the heavy firepower and, most importantly, kept the construction crew working.

  Several distant percussions echoed through the trees, followed by sliding sounds a few hundred yards directly in front of him. He didn’t see any movement, but knew from experience that the abbies observing him had taken off in pursuit of the acoustic signatures created by several 40mm grenade impacts.

  “Movement at three o’clock, tracking east,” announced Bravo One, the squad leader positioned to cover the southern approach to the perimeter.

  Marcus turned his head right and squinted. Shadows raced through the trees, away from his teams. They couldn’t resist. No matter how many times Mustin deployed the same diversion, the abbies took off running. It was the only way Black’s crew managed to make any progress at all. He checked his watch and raised his rifle, searching through the scope for any obvious lingerers. Nothing. A sharp, metallic clanging sound bounced between the trees, signifying the start of the construction crew’s work. Could they be any fucking louder?

  Several minutes passed before the first shriek pierced the valley, drifting through his perimeter from the north. Checking his watch, he noted that they were early. Good thing this was the last section of fencing—for now.

  “Bravo units, this is Bravo Lead. Stay sharp. Abbies inbound ahead of schedule,” he said.

  Once all of the units had responded, Pope’s voice broke onto the tactical frequency.

  “Marcus, keep the perimeter intact until Black is ready for your retreat. We only have one more fencing section to complete, plus the electrical hookup. They’re estimating thirty minutes.”

  “I can’t guarantee thirty minutes,” said Marcus, rising to one knee to get a better view of the forest in front of him.

  “Pilcher wants to wrap this up,” insisted Pope.

  “I don’t control our friends out there.”

  “Just do your best. We’re running out of diversionary grenades,” said Pope.

  Marcus shook his head and let Pope’s comment go, rolling his eyes at a bearded man squatting next to a tree several feet to the right. Murray Wagner, Bravo Two’s squad leader, smirked—never taking his eyes off the forest in front of them. Spread among the trees, in a fifty-yard line to Marcus’s left and right, the rest of Wagner’s squad peered over their rifles. They formed the vanguard of Marcus’s boundary perimeter team, fully expecting to take the brunt of the abbies’ fury. Twelve men and women, supported by two belt-fed M240 machine guns, would fire as rapidly and accurately as possible—until the abbies stopped or it became clear that the line would fail.

  “Overwatch reports significant movement a few thousand yards south of Bravo One’s position,” said Mustin from his perch in the rocks high above the valley.

  Chapter 27

  South? He’d just watched several abbies sprint away from Bravo One’s sector. Shit. They might have attracted a new herd.

  “Wagner, redeploy your squad one hundred yards behind Bravo One’s current position, facing south. Prep the Claymores!” he yelled, rising to a crouch.

  “Marcus, this is Pope. What are you doing? We need one-hundred-and-eighty-degree protection,” he heard over the frequency.

  “We might have a herd inbound from the south. I don’t have time to explain the rest. Clear the frequency,” he said, scanning the forest due east of them before turning to catch up with the rest of Bravo Two.

  A new herd was bad news. No way Black would get his thirty minutes. These things moved too damn fast for his team to fire accurately against large numbers. Each twelve-member team had three or four former military or law enforcement types. The rest were drafted from a very limited pool of “noncritical” job sets. They’d trained nonstop for several days at the superstructure’s sophisticated firing range, which improved accuracy but did little to prepare them for what waited outside of the hatch.

  After three days of repetitious combat, each squad’s performance had drastically improved—but they still had a tipping point. His most important job was to read the signs and predict when the line was about to collapse. With the exception of the disastrous first day, he’d managed to successfully pull the boundary team into the protective envelope of the chain guns, preventing a massacre. Today was different. With most of the twenty-foot-tall fence in place, the chain guns would remain silent. The ledge outside of the hatch was only ten feet off the ground, and the guns couldn’t engage targets without shooting through the steel grated fence. One badly placed 30mm steel projectile could destroy it.

  “Bravo One, hold your position until Bravo Two is in place. I want the rest of Bravo to collapse the perimeter to the one-hundred-yard point. Bravo Three, you have Two’s sector,” said Marcus.

  He’d just caught up with Wagner’s squad when the first string of bad news hit.

  “Marcus, this is Ken,” he heard, Bravo Four’s voice barely a whisper through his headset.

  “Give me some good news, buddy.”

  “Negative. I have movement to the north. Moving fast in my direction,” he said, pausing before sharing the worst part. “We haven’t repositioned yet.”

  “How far have you moved?”

  “We haven’t moved. I saw the movement and stopped the group.”

  What? Shit. Now they had a real problem. With Ken’s squad a hundred yards further away than the rest of the squads, one of their three sides was extremely vulnerable. He needed to make a quick decision about the overall formation. They were less than a minute away from making contact, possibly seconds.

  “Bravo Three, form up one hundred yards behind Bravo Four. Ken, get your people out of there!” he said.

  “Marcus, you’re collapsing the perimeter too tightly around the construction site. One hundred yards doesn’t give us a lot of breathing room!” yelled Pope.

  “Stay off the frequency,” he said, watching the men and women of Bravo Three make a run for their new position.

  A series of staccato shrieks pierced the trees from the east, stopping several members of Bravo Three in their tracks.

  “Keep them moving, Dana! I need you behind the iron curtain,” he ordered.

  “We’ll make it!” she replied.

  Marcus heard her scream at the squad, urging them to keep running—a tall order given the pack of translucent beasts pouring through the trees less than two hundred yards away. Spotting Bravo Three’s movement, the abbies frenzied—closing the distance with frightening speed. Marcus did a quick mental calculation, not sure if he had given the withdrawal order in time to save Dana’s squad.

  “Give me a hand with the Claymores!” he yelled, grabbing one of Wagner’s men from the line.

  They scrambled to a small, waist-high foxhole and jumped inside, quickly grabbing the “clackers” sitting on a pine plank along the eastern side of the hole. The M57 Firing Devices, or “clackers,” were attached by insulated wire to a series of outward-facing, daisy-chained Claymore mines at the one hundred and fifty yard point.

  “Reach out and take one in each hand. Follow my orders,” said Marcus, gripping the clackers in front of him.

  To keep things simple in the heat of battle, Marcus arranged the Claymore firing devices for quick, “fuck up” proof deployment—or so he hoped. Glancing up from his occupied hands, he saw the lead abbies pass a string of trees marked by yellow reflective tape. The monsters were now within the effective range of the directional min
es—along with half of Dana’s squad. Gunfire erupted from all sides as Marcus focused on the life-and-death race less than a hundred yards away.

  With the deadly creatures screaming in close pursuit, most of Dana’s team turned in place and opened fire, regardless of their positions relative to the Claymores. The abject fear of being eviscerated and shredded from limb to limb forced them to abandon logic. When the abbies tore into the first member of Bravo Three, Marcus screamed, “Right hand!” and rapidly squeezed the clacker, generating an electrical charge that detonated half of the antipersonnel mines. The other security officer replicated his action, exploding the rest of the devices a fraction of a second later.

  The simultaneous firing of six M18 Claymore mines obliterated a swath of forest two hundred yards long by fifty yards deep in front of Bravo Three, saturating the air with four thousand steel balls—Marcus’s “iron curtain.” The scene beyond the line of trees marked by green reflective tape disappeared in a blast of fire, smoke and debris—instantly halting the abbies’ eastern attack and unceremoniously erasing four of Dana’s security officers. Marcus peered through the smoke, searching for a second wave of abbies. Mercifully, none appeared, or he would have been forced to detonate the second string of Claymores, killing the rest of Bravo Three.

  “Bravo Three, this is Bravo Lead. Fall back to the hatch. I say again. Bravo Three, fall back to the hatch.”

  He heard a muffled response over the tactical frequency before automatic gunfire crescendoed on both sides.

  “Dana, get everybody on their feet and moving!” he yelled.

  “Trying to—” she responded, her transmission cut off.

  “Bravo One withdrawing. I’ve got a shit ton of inbounds. Definitely gonna need both lines of Claymores. I’ll call it out.”

  Marcus turned to the man next to him in the foxhole. “Can you handle both sets of Claymores for Bravo One?”

  “Got it,” he said, turning to the firing devices.

  Marcus patted him on the shoulder, shifting his attention to the north. Ken’s squad was on the run, well ahead of a gray pack of hunters, but distances could be deceiving—particularly with abbies in pursuit.

  “Ken, let me know when you’re behind the curtain,” said Marcus, organizing the clackers on the northern side of the foxhole.

  “Almost to the first safe zone,” said Ken, Bravo Four’s leader.

  “Push all the way through both blast zones. Don’t stop for any reason. I can’t let any of those things through.”

  “Moving as fast as we can,” said Ken.

  Several tense seconds passed before simultaneous detonation requests hit the tactical frequency, garbling the transmissions long enough to delay Marcus’s order. By the time Marcus yelled, “Right hand, detonate!” the lead abbies had crossed safely through the first blast zones on the north and south sides of the perimeter.

  The near simultaneous blasts expunged the last of Marcus’s situational awareness, leaving him unprepared for the radio reports trying desperately to punch through his muffled hearing. He pushed his right earpiece deeper into the ear canal until he could clearly hear a desperate plea over the dampened gunfire.

  “Hit blast zone two! Hit blast zone two!”

  Unsure which squad leader had screamed the request, and knowing that he didn’t have time to figure it out before the surviving abbies sailed through the “iron curtain,” Marcus squeezed the firing device in his left hand and yelled to his partner.

  “Left hand! Left hand!”

  The second set of closer detonations shook the ground and trees, loosening a shower of pine needles that blanketed Marcus and the dirty slush surrounding the foxhole.

  “Squad leaders, report!” said Marcus.

  “Close fucking call, Marcus. Bravo One intact, but I hear a lot of abbie chatter further out. Recommend immediate withdrawal to the hatch,” he heard, the words slightly distorted over the ringing in his ears.

  “Roger. Move your team to the construction site. We’ll bring up the rear. Dana?”

  “Moving between you and Bravo Four. Headed to the hatch with eight.”

  Marcus raised his rifle and scanned the north, spotting Dana’s squad sprinting through the trees. The smoke created by the Claymore explosions had drifted south, obscuring his view of Ken’s squad. A few strips of green reflective tape fluttered from the trees in his magnified view, disappearing just as quickly in the haze.

  “Dana, can you see Bravo Four?”

  “Negative. Were they in the first or second safe zone?” she said.

  Marcus shook his head slowly, an unthinkable realization sliding into focus.

  “I don’t know. Can you see any of the safe zone markers?” he replied.

  “I have one set of green markers clearly in sight. No sign of Ken’s squad. I can divert a fire team to check on him. Did you set off both sets of Claymores on his side?”

  Both. Jesus. He’d killed Ken’s squad. Or had they been as good as dead anyway? He’d heard gunfire from both directions, and if Ken’s squad had been firing from a position short of the safe zone, it meant the abbies had almost overtaken them. Unless the first set of Claymores killed most of the abbies, leaving a few for Ken to mop up. There was no point in trying to figure it out. If Ken’s squad wasn’t on this side of the green markers when the second set of antipersonnel mines exploded, they were dead. Simple as that.

  “Go directly to the hatch. Ken is gone,” he said, climbing out of the foxhole to rejoin Wagner.

  Wagner met him halfway, putting a hand on Marcus’s shoulder and staring him in the eyes.

  “Not your fault, brother. Ken should have been well clear of the blast zone. We all know the deal. These things cannot be allowed through.”

  Urgent screeches punctuated Wagner’s statement, followed by the last voice on the planet he wanted to hear after losing an entire squad.

  “We still have an entire section of fencing down. I need you to regroup and hold the line,” said Pope.

  Marcus motioned for Wagner to move his squad back to the hatch, following closely behind.

  “I think it’s time to move the construction team back inside,” he said. “I’m hearing a lot of unfriendly noises from the south.”

  “Pilcher wants you to hold the line. That’s why you’re here.”

  “I know exactly why I’m here. We’re en route. I’ll reassess when we reach the fence.”

  Marcus was forced to make his assessment on the way to the hatch. The number of abbies emerging from the smoke along the southern side of the perimeter was pushing the combined firepower of Bravo One and Bravo Two to the tipping point. In less than a minute, they would have no choice but to withdraw into the mountain…sooner if a large herd materialized.

  “Dana, what’s your status?” he said, firing his suppressed .308 rifle at an abbie that appeared less than a hundred yards behind them.

  “I’m outside of the fence, covering the northern approach to the hatch and your right flank. Looks clear.”

  “Roger, we’re about thirty seconds out. Bravo One should be there already,” said Marcus, huffing from the pace.

  “They just arrived. Setting up to cover the south,” she said.

  “We’ll cover the east until it’s time to withdraw,” said Marcus.

  Chapter 28

  He slogged across the muddy, blood-soaked ground, navigating around clusters of abbie carcasses and occasionally stopping to take out a stray monster dashing toward Wagner’s squad from the left flank. The four M240 machine guns working the southern perimeter fired sustained bursts of tracer-linked ammunition at the abbies. Red streaks cut through the monstrosities, ejecting bright crimson sprays across the creatures that followed. They showed no fear. No hesitation. This had to be a new herd with no experience facing human weapons. This represented a worst-case scenario, which threatened to undermine the entire construction effort. Was he the only one that could see this?

  “Marcus, this is Pilcher. If this is a new herd, they’ll
destroy the fence pursuing us into the mountain. We’re working on something, but it’ll take a few minutes. I need every second I can squeeze out of you. It’s a matter of life and death for all of us.”

  Pursuing us? Who the fuck is us? He’s transmitting from the Operations Center. Pope is probably standing next to the hatch with his sweaty palm pressing against the emergency override button as we speak.

  “Sir, we’re about to be overrun. I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation on the ground. Bravo Four is gone. Bravo Three is mangled. We don’t have a strong enough force to hold the line. Not against a herd.”

  He watched an abbie break through the tracer fire and race toward one of the security officers. Wagner stood and leveled his rifle, tracking the movement through his scope. Three shots from his suppressed rifle dropped the abbie a few feet from the man. Another creature broke through the maelstrom of bullets and piled into a woman on the left flank, knocking her down before sliding into a tree behind the firing line. Marcus crouched, centering the glowing green reticle of his ACOG scope on the abby’s thrashing body. The rifle kicked twice, spinning it against the tree. A third bullet from Wagner’s rifle exploded its head.

  “Withdraw immediately,” Marcus yelled. “Bravo One and Three provide cover fire. Mr. Pilcher, we’ve lost this one. Evacuate the construction crew.”

  The crackling, uneven sound of gunfire increased as Wagner’s line bolted for the fence line less than fifty yards away, heading uphill through a bloodied, boulder-strewn stretch of bullet-riddled pines.

  “Marcus, I can see you approaching. Move your teams inside the fence line. I repeat, inside the fence line,” said Pilcher.

  “The fence won’t hold!” said Marcus, even more pissed thinking about Pilcher sipping tea in the superstructure.

  “We’re working on that. In the meantime, I brought you some reinforcements,” said Pilcher. “I’ll meet you just inside the fence.”