“KEEP RUNNING!” Horn yelled.
Timothy took off again.
Images of Tasha flashed through his mind. She was waiting for him back in Galveston. If he didn’t make it back, he wouldn’t see her again. He wouldn’t be able to help her from the incoming army of monsters descending on their base.
And if he didn’t save her dad, they would both be screwed.
He skidded to a stop and aimed to take out the closest Variants, buying the big man some extra time.
The creatures bolted into the fire, not even trying to avoid the bullets.
Horn stopped to send a burst of rounds into the enemy’s ranks, taking down two of the lead beasts, but the Alpha never stopped.
“Come on!” Horn yelled.
They reached the street where they had left the Humvee, and Timothy spotted the truck. By the time they made it there, the Alpha was halfway down the street with a pack of Variants flocking around it.
Horn opened the driver’s door as Timothy dove into the back seat. He didn’t even have time to shut the door before Horn pushed down on the pedal. The vehicle lurched forward, but then jolted to a stop.
Timothy looked back to see the Alpha had grabbed the back bumper, water sluicing over its diseased flesh.
“Come on, baby!” Horn said.
The Humvee growled, tires squealing. Timothy pulled out his pistol and fired at the back windshield. Glass burst outward, and bullets punched into the meaty flesh. The Alpha held on until a couple rounds smashed through its snout.
The vehicle tore away, ripping out of the Alpha’s claws. The beast ran after them with the entourage of smaller monsters and the collaborators, bullets slamming against the back of the Humvee.
Horn navigated out of the neighborhood and onto the highway, leaving their pursuers behind, never letting up on the gas.
“Jesus Christ in Heaven,” Horn said. “We clear?”
“I think so,” Timothy said, still gasping. “So… does this mean I got your permission to date Tasha?”
“We’ll see,” Horn said.
Water fell in sheets over the windshield, the wipers swishing back and forth. Horn dodged past a wrecked vehicle, and Timothy climbed into the front passenger seat.
Horn picked up his radio. “Command, Recon Sigma One. We got the anthrax injected. Headed back to base now.”
“Copy that,” the comms officer replied. “Good work, Recon Sigma One. What’s your ETA?”
“Fifty minutes if we press it.”
“Better hurry up or you will be cut off,” the comms officer said.
“Copy,” Horn said. He slammed the radio down.
“Cut off?” Timothy asked.
“The bridge,” Horn said. “They’re going to blow it.”
“If they do, we’re stuck on this side of the bay with all those monsters.”
“My girls are on that island, Temper. You sure as shit know I am not letting us stay on this side of the bay while those beasts try to take Galveston.”
Timothy checked to make sure his belt was secure.
“Yeah, better hold onto your ass, kid, because tonight, this mountain is a fucking volcano, and I’ll fly this fucking Humvee if I have to,” Horn said.
— 24 —
Ringgold stood on the ten-yard-wide watchtower platform atop the roof of the Harbor House Hotel in Galveston. Beside her stood Cornelius, Souza, and Soprano.
She had insisted on being outside the confines of her bunker to stand side-by-side with the troops sworn to protect this country.
As a concession, Festa was inside the hotel, coordinating with a team of military officers and the representatives from Canada and Mexico. Festa would serve as the designated survivor, taking control of the defenses in a secure underground headquarters should something happen to Ringgold.
In the middle of the platform, two armed communications officers had laptops and radios set up on a table behind a steel enclosure. Three snipers were situated in nearby watchtowers and two-person teams manned M240s set up behind sandbags on the catwalks above the steel walls.
A reinforced steel roof protected them from the light drizzle of rain. The fog had mostly lifted, and the storm was retreating, providing sightlines to both the I-45 bridge and the Gulf of Mexico. They had lost radar in the bat attack, rendering them otherwise blind. To watch for the First Fleet, Souza had deployed two 25-foot Coast Guard Response Boats.
For the first time in her career serving her country, she carried an M4A1. She had spent every spare minute training with the weapon.
She was not the only one holding a weapon like this in combat for the first time.
Their defenses were filled with individuals who had been drafted days ago. Refugees and even the injured stood on the walls. Soprano was armed with a shotgun that he carried awkwardly. Ringgold wondered if he was more of a threat with it, than without.
“The Variants are closing in,” Cornelius reported. “ETA forty-five minutes.”
“How far is Recon Sigma?” Ringgold asked.
“They’re expected to arrive around the same time.”
“That’s cutting it too close.”
“We’ll have to blow the bridge before the monsters arrive, whether they’re here or not.”
Ringgold could not imagine giving an order that would condemn some of her closest friends to almost certain death, but decisions like this were part of the burden she faced as president.
“Delay blowing the bridge as long as possible,” she said. “But I would like—”
“Madam President, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Souza said. “I just heard from Festa. The First Fleet was reported just under twenty klicks out by one of our Response Boats.”
Ringgold let her rifle fall on its strap and picked up her binoculars. She looked toward the east. Sheets of rain blocked any chance of seeing the distant fleet emerge over the horizon.
“How many ships?” she asked.
“Without radar, hard to say, but the scout reported seeing the USS George Johnson and three other First Fleet ships. They were preparing to launch dozens of smaller boats filled with collaborators, Variants, and Chimeras.”
“They’re preparing for a full-on beach invasion,” Cornelius said.
“Begin our aerial attack,” Ringgold said.
The general relayed the order, and moments later, the first few jets took off from the
