Page 21 of Redemption (Devil Dogs of the Apocalypse #4)

Dare

“Alright, on three. Jones, you’re gonna open the hatch while I take point.

Diaz, you’ve got the rear. Keep the ducks together while we make our way over in the direction of the Staff NCO Club.

Stay in formation, and maybe we’ll all make it out of here alive.

See a hostile ? Take 'em out as quickly as possible and then get your ass back in line. Remember. It’s us or them. Now, let’s move out!”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

Diaz pushes the hatch open, allowing Waverly to charge out, gun at the ready.

We’re not even fully out of the bunker when bullets start to fly.

To the left. To the right. Straight ahead.

And to the rear. We’re surrounded, the infected base personnel closing in around us as we race as a unit to the next bunker.

“AAAAH!!!”

“Fitz!”

I turn at Stevens’ cry, letting the others continue their mad dash to the bunker as I follow his horrified gaze.

Fitz, a PFC fresh out of boot camp with barely a hair on his chest, is fighting for his life just a few feet away, an Infected crawling over his flailing body after having dragged him down to the ground.

I lift my gun and shoot the attacker, but it’s too late.

In less time than it took for me to even fire a round, the hostile managed to open its mouth wide, latch onto Fitz’s throat, and viciously rip it away.

I already know he’s as good as gone as I look into his vacant, clouding eyes, and the blood gushing out from his gaping neck wound.

He’s not even convulsing anymore. Other hostiles rush to join the melee, practically rejoicing at the blood spilled as they take their share, covering Fitz with their bodies.

Stephens doesn’t give two shits about that, though. He dashes towards Fitz’s downed body, determined to save him and leave no man behind, regardless of their status. Unfortunately, we have no choice unless we want to join him.

“WE GOTTA GO!” I shout to Stephens as I wrap my arms around him and pull, practically dragging him across the bloodied pavement as we sprint away from another one of our brothers and struggle to catch up with the rest of our squad down the road.

A second later, a loud, heart-shattering screech fills the air behind us as Fitz transitions, joining the horde’s ranks.

My heart pauses mid-beat in a solemn goodbye for the man but resumes its pounding cadence when I look at the rest of our grouping just ahead.

Still alive and fighting to remain so. They’re who I need to focus on at the moment.

There will be time to mourn the lost souls later.

Pushing ahead as a team, we clear the way with guns, fists, and knives.

Power and determination guide us as we take down the infected one by one.

Sweat, blood, and all manner of substance cover our bodies, making us look like a band of devils straight out of Hell. Looking around us, we might as well be.

We’re halfway to the new bunker when Waverly stops and leads us all through a doorway on the left.

I look around, dazed as I stare at the unfamiliar surroundings.

I’ve lived here for years, but I can’t, for the life of me, recognize this building.

Especially not through the haze currently occupying my brain now that I have a second where we’re not running for our lives.

Fitz...

That makes seventeen. Seventeen guys that have been personally confirmed dead or transitioned from my unit.

I have no idea if any of the rest of the platoon is alive and in hiding, but I hope they are.

That’s all any of us have anymore... Hope.

But even that is drained to the last drop as we collectively fall to our knees, out of breath and in need of a miracle.

“We’re only halfway there,” I heave out on a gasp, shaking my head dejectedly, my body doubled over as my indisputable mortality rears its filthy head.

But what do I expect? There are simply too many out there.

There’s no way we can go up against that.

Not with the sorry number of guys we have left.

There’s no fucking way. We’d all fall or succumb to the contagion before we even managed to see the bunker’s entry point. Every last one of us.

“I know,” Waverly groans at the floor as his hand comes up to brush the sweat from his forehead.

He takes a steadying breath and looks around quickly before his eyes land on a large wooden desk.

Standing, he clenches his jaw and grunts behind the weight, maneuvering it to the opposite side and pushing it against the door, barricading us in.

∞∞∞

Collins lies restlessly on the ground as he lifts a round glass paperweight and throws it into the air, catching it upon its descent before repeating the motion.

Over in the corner, Balor has an elbow propped up on his raised knee, his palm cradling his face as he stares both lovingly and fearfully at a picture of his girl.

Baker, Campbell, Torres, and Hughes are huddled together on the far side, playing spades with the deck Campbell swiped from the bunker.

Then there’s Walker—a Lieutenant from the Air Wing who, for some unlucky reason, was on this base instead of his own across the river the day we were invaded and was already bunked up in this building before we raced in—pacing restlessly in front of the window.

He’s been there for over an hour, the sunlight glinting off the golden aviator wings on his chest. The others are asleep, scattered about the room, too exhausted to even keep their eyes open to defend themselves in the event of an attack.

My back is against the only door leading to this room, a secondary barricade in case the infected suddenly realize where we’re hiding. It’s a cool bit of reassurance: the fact that they’d need to get through me before they stood a chance at getting to any of them.

I’ve been thinking the past few hours of how to get out of this mess.

We’re on the third floor—safe, for now—but there’s no food, no supplies, nothing to sustain us beyond what we have in our pockets and the few packs we managed to find in the bunker.

Being unmanaged due to being out of commission, there wasn’t enough for everyone to get a personal supply, so we filled the packs with what we could and put those carrying them in the middle of our formation—Myers, who’s by far the smallest of the bunch, and Foster, who broke his arm that first day.

Painstakingly, we reset the limb as best we could, but he’s far from recovered, and as such, needed the extra cover on the trek over here.

Waverly saunters over, dropping down next to me against the door.

He lifts a protein bar in front of my face, offering it to me.

I sigh and take it, but instead of eating it as he expects, I walk over to the guys, giving each of them a small piece until the bar is gone before I return to my original position on the floor.

He lifts an eyebrow at me. “You should have eaten that, Cruz.”

I lift my chin, indicating to the others.

“They need it more than me. Even if it’s just a little.

An empty stomach creates poor morale. I’m ok for now, but after what we all just went through, they’re gonna need every little bit they can get.

” My little stint of anxiety-induced mania back at the bunker wiggles its way into my mind.

While I was out of sorts there, mentally overwhelmed by everything and forced to stay in a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare, I’m a little better now.

Not great.

Just better.

Processing. Reflecting. Taking the time to ground myself in the reality that I’m still alive and safe for the moment.

That although I lost men on the battlefield, I still managed to help get these guys to safety.

Honestly, it’s probably just because I’m exhausted and don’t have the mental capacity for anything at the moment, but I’ll take what I can get.

“Your loss.” His shoulders rise in a shrug as he takes out another bar and eats the entire thing himself.

I shake my head, exhaling a breath as I look over the guys again. “We need to move. We can’t stay here.”

He nods in return, wiping the crumbs from his shirt that’s still covered in blood and grime. “Yeah... You’re right.”

I turn to him, determination firing on all cylinders. “Well, then, let’s regroup and get the hell out of here. Head to the airbase or...shit... anywhere but here. It’s only a matter of time before this place resembles a tomb, just like the bunker did. What are we waiting for?”

He palms the wrapper, chucking it into an empty corner, before turning his gaze directly on me. “A miracle.”

I’m taken aback. “A miracle? You’re waiting on a fucking miracle? Some sort of divine intervention? Hate to break it to you, but take a fucking look outside. God has abandoned us. It’s up to us to figure a way out of this.”

Pointing a finger at me, he agrees excitedly. “Exactly! Which means we need to make our own destiny. Become our own Gods. Make happen... what we need to happen.”

I squint my eyes at him. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means... the ends justify the means . If it gets us out of this shit, it’s worth it, right?

” I don’t say anything, not sure where he’s going with this.

“I have a plan... but the others might not like it. Hell, you might not like it. But these are dire times, and we need to do what’s best for the group, right? ”

“Riiiight... Look, uh, I don’t think I’m completely following you. Gonna need just a bit more information on this one, man.”

“We need to create a diversion.” At my silence, he continues. “This is one of the buildings used by 8 th Communication Battalion. The huge antenna on the roof has the capability to send a long-range distress signal.”

Ok. So far, it sounds like there’s potential in what he’s thinking. I’m listening.

“And what? We’d wait on the roof for a helicopter evac to show up?” I ask.