“Good,” Beckham said.
His thoughts turned toward the men, women, and children who were too young, old, or sick to defend the base. Those who could carry a rifle were scattered on the wall with more experienced soldiers or helping to guard the civilian shelters. Even Horn’s oldest, Tasha, had been given a pistol, in case things turned especially ugly.
“Do we need to make another loop to ensure all civilians are at their designated shelters?” Beckham asked.
“It’s already done,” Jacobs said.
Beckham nodded. He thought of Kate and her team, set up at the former University of Texas Medical Branch Hospital. They were some of the best protected people on the island, along with the engineers running the SDS equipment.
“Any reports of seismic activity?” Beckham asked.
“Nothing to indicate any tunneling Variants yet,” Jacobs said. “We’re keeping a close eye on everything.”
One of the soldiers in the bunker near them called for Commander Jacobs.
“Excuse me,” Jacobs said.
Beckham turned back toward the west where Houston lay beyond the increasingly cloudy horizon, wondering where the New Gods would start their attack.
Wherever they did attack, he was confident his people had prepared the best they could with the resources they had.
Jacobs returned a few minutes later.
“Just got word the first three teams reporting successful anthrax injections into the network are less than five minutes from the bridge,” Jacobs said.
Beckham checked his watch. “Good. We’ve got another five hours before dawn.”
“Still plenty of time for Horn, Timothy, and Boyd,” Ruckley said.
“More than enough,” Jacobs agreed.
Beckham nodded and started to speak. “We can—”
Suddenly, the buzz saw whine of the modified Phalanx CIWS turrets erupted from the Ocean Star Offshore Drilling Rig just off the pier. Fifty rounds per second exploded from the weapon in a series of bursts from its rapidly rotating barrels.
“What the hell are we firing at?” Jacobs shouted.
“The CIWS detected something,” an officer replied.
“Rockets? Missiles?” Jacobs asked.
Another burst of fire spat from the Phalanx, modified rounds piercing the black of the night. A series of smaller explosions glowed red and orange amid the low-hanging clouds.
“Bats!” Beckham shouted.
From the northern most point of the base and the southern, the other two Phalanx CIWS systems roared to life.
“All spotlights on!” Jacobs said. “Scramble anti-air units! Shoot anything that flies!”
The lights speared into the dense clouds, sparking around the base, and air-raid sirens wailed to announce the beginning of the battle for the survival of the Allied States.
Two of the soldiers in the barricaded tower handed out shotguns filled with all the buckshot, birdshot, and other munitions they had scraped together for just this purpose. Beckham strapped his rifle over his back and took one of the shotguns.
“Get down,” he said to Ruckley.
She ducked near a wall with a pistol. The weapon was all but useless against the small bats.
Raising the shotgun, Beckham waited for the explosive-laden little devils. The horror they were capable of made his heartbeat accelerate in anticipation. Each grotesque, genetically modified bat carried only a small amount of explosives, but the rain of hundreds or more of those suicidal monsters over any outpost or base was devastating.
The radar-guided point-defense system guided the firing barrels toward unseen targets masked by the clouds. More explosions rolled through the sky, followed by miniature rumbles of thunder.
The fog slowly covering the base made it damn near impossible to get a good visual on any potential targets. Beckham roved his shotgun wherever the Phalanx aimed, waiting for the first of the mutated beasts to descend like miniature demons from hell.
A couple of soldiers got antsy and fired.
“Hold your fucking fire until you have a target!” he yelled over the noise. “Ammo doesn’t grow on trees!”
“I thought we had until morning!” Ruckley shouted. She held the pistol in a shaky hand and aimed it at the sky. “This is way earlier than the Prophet said they would attack!”
“Did you really trust that beast?” Beckham yelled back.
More booms rocked through the sky. Beckham could smell the odor of burned flesh and explosives.
The first of the CIWSs suddenly stopped firing. The second followed soon after, and less than a minute later, the third went silent. The sirens continued to blare but Beckham could hear conversations over the noise.
“Is that it?” a soldier in the tower called. “Did we stop them?”
“I think so!” another said.
Jacobs had his hand pressed against his ear, listening to his radio. “Negative! The Phalanxes are out of ammunition! The bats are still coming!”
A small silhouette flickered underneath the clouds, caught in a spotlight.
Beckham twisted, adjusting his aim, and fired. His shotgun kicked back against his shoulder, and the bat disappeared in a spreading fan of flames that illuminated the clouds. The small explosion revealed an entire flock of bats.
More booms of shotguns rang out in a deafening chorus. Each shot cut through the beasts, setting off chain reactions of explosions as the bats flocked together.
All Beckham could do was aim, fire, pump in new shells, and repeat. He blinked past the sweat trickling over his face. The smell of burning flesh growing stronger and closer.
Heat washed over the guard tower platform, as the bats advanced their relentless attack.
The first explosion rocked one of the buildings behind the walls. A scream filled the night, followed by a radio transmission calling for medics.
Other explosions ripped through buildings, former hotels and restaurants and offices bursting into flames from the blasts.
Firefighters scrambled throughout the base, desperately trying to put out the spreading infernos.
Nearby, a cloud of bats rocked into a section of the western wall. A chain of blasts kicked up clouds of smoke and fire. Razor wire, soldiers, and weapons disappeared in a blinding flash.
Beckham tried to keep his aim on the bats above his position, but each resonating blast stoked the images of Javier and Kate and Tasha and Jenny in his mind.
He tried to turn off the tide of emotions and become the machine he had once been in battle, but never had that been more difficult. Adrenaline pumped through his
