Arisen, Book Six - The Horizon Read online

  Eli nodded his agreement. “Someone screwed up,” he said. “Someone in charge, and I’d severely love to get my hands on them and wring their damn necks.”

  Rebirth

  JFK - Alpha Berths

  Ali awoke in the dark of the early morning – alone again, somehow still alone.

  Last night’s weird but welcome visit from Handon had definitely eased her loneliness. But, like Homer before him, and Pope before that, he had gone.

  And now the compartment she had once shared with Pope was as quiet, and nearly as dark, as the grave. The only illumination was from the tritium night sights on a weapon stowed away in the corner. It barely lit even a quarter of the room, giving off a feeble and spectral orange glow.

  She lay still on her bunk for a while, staring at the blackness above her face. On her first night back here, she had almost climbed into the bottom bunk, just because it was easier. But then she found she couldn’t do it. It wasn’t superstition. It was that up here she could pretend that Pope was still sleeping down below her.

  That he hadn’t gone.

  In reality, of course, he had gone, and he was now sleeping forever, at the center of their last mission objective – and his final one. At least, Ali hoped he slept. She chose to believe that he did. She had to.

  She sighed into the near blackness before her face. And her thoughts returned to Homer.

  Last night, hours before Handon’s visit, he had come by and spent a couple hours with her – after putting the kids to sleep. But he too had ultimately left – to sleep in the same room with his children. Of course he had insisted on doing so; it was a point upon which he would not negotiate. So the three of them were now off in some dead officer’s berth, one Homer did not have much trouble qualifying for, considering his new, and unique, family situation.

  After over two years of sleeping a million miles away from his two young children, the flesh of his own flesh – not to mention believing they were dead, or worse – now he didn’t want them any farther than arm’s length from him. Anyone would understand that.

  And Ali did understand.

  But it meant she was here. In the dark. On her own again.

  In their short time together, the two had a great deal to talk about. About his disappearance, then miraculous reappearance, as if he’d descended from heaven. About how it was that his children, but not his wife, were still alive.

  And Ali had much to tell him, as well – about the big show, the Battle of the JFK, which he had missed. And about how she had miraculously been reborn herself, emerging from that diving and disintegrating bomber – and then rising out of the implacable sea, which had tried to eat her, along with Park and Emily, in at least two different senses. They had come within minutes of drowning – and perhaps closer to being devoured by the multiple layers of dead that had spilled off the continent and were filling the very ocean.

  So it had been a great deal to share, so much catching up, after what had been a pretty short separation. And now it left a lot to think about, too much really, a riot of thoughts chasing one another around in her head, all the ramifications and conclusions and contradictions colliding and tangling up.

  Ali decided she had to put a stop to it.

  So she got up, got dressed, and headed down to Alpha’s makeshift team room. The others had agreed to meet there first thing, to start a weapons, ammo, and gear manifest. This would be the necessary first step of their work-up for the new mission – Somalia.

  She found the hatch open and slipped in quietly. Inside, Predator, Juice, and Henno were already at work. Maybe they couldn’t sleep either. They were all knee-deep in crap, amidst great piles of gear, up to their elbows in paperwork, and roaring with laughter as they shot the shit. Ali had just missed whatever it was that was so funny. But it didn’t matter.

  It was very nice to see them all smiling.

  * * *

  On the same deck, a few frames away, Sarah walked away from the cabin she shared with Handon, after a brief morning parting, now putting one foot in front of the other as she walked away from him. Looking down at her hiking boots, she wished she’d taken a moment somewhere along the line to clean the damned things.

  She wore technical hiking pants, a long-sleeve synthetic t-shirt, her dark hair no longer pulled back, but loose on her shoulders. The clothes weren’t the same ones she’d worn fighting her way out of the cabin in Michigan. Those had gotten trashed, and probably should have been burned, during her adventures with Homer. But they were an identical set, which had come out of her wilderness cache of supplies.

  Unfortunately, she’d only had the one pair of boots.

  And these ones had seen a great deal of punishment – a lot of miles trod, a lot of soil, mud, blood, and worse – all in that odyssey she and Homer had shared. They’d somehow traveled from the shore of Lake Michigan, all the way across North America to the Virginia coast – and finally back to some kind of safety on the wide ocean, and on board this awe-inspiring ship.

  Sarah had never seen a nuclear supercarrier in person before, never mind lived on one. And now she already felt guilty about mucking up their nicely swabbed decks, as molded bits of dried mud still flaked off her bootsoles. Then again, she had been feeling several varieties of guilt lately, and figured she’d just better start getting used to it.

  Reaching the end of the companionway, she couldn’t resist turning and looking back at Handon, catching a last glimpse of his broad, rippling back as he disappeared up the ladder.

  Goddamn, that’s a sexy man, she thought.

  And it wasn’t because of his powerful, lean body. It was because of his confidence, and his capability, both of which just made her swoon – and she had never been one for swooning. Then again, maybe it had just been a long time since she’d been allowed to act or feel particularly feminine. After two years of wearing the mantle of leadership, battling every day to keep herself and her family alive, now she was reminded of what it felt like to be taken care of. The strong, independent woman in her recoiled at this.

  But she couldn’t deny what she was feeling.

  Of course, it was her family, whom she had failed to keep alive in the end, that was the source of her deepest guilt. Right now, her ecstasy and excitement at being with Handon were all twisted up with terrible remorse about the death of her son, as well as that of her husband. She had been unable to prevent their deaths – or, if you took a less charitable view, she had been implicated in causing them. After all that had come and gone, she had been unable to save them in the end.

  Or had she been unable? Maybe she had just chosen not to. She knew there was no good in lacerating herself with thoughts like these, even as she did just that.

  She also knew, or at least had a strong sense, that at least one of the Alpha operators judged her for what she had done. The decisions she had faced back at that cabin were impossible ones, an inconceivable choice for anybody to make: to sacrifice a child. Deep down, Sarah knew her actions had been necessary, to save the rest of them – and, by saving Alpha and Dr. Park, to keep alive their hope of saving humanity.

  She couldn’t doom the whole world to save one boy, could she? Even if he was her own flesh. But it was more complex than that. She had never felt maternal toward her son, nor devoted to her husband – not to the extent that she should have. Certainly not after… after what had happened during their escape from the fall of Toronto, two years earlier. But that was a long time ago.

  And there was no changing any of it.

  In any case, necessary or not, justified or not, she knew one thing: that she was going to be rehashing and second-guessing those choices for a very long time.

  She reached what she believed was the correct stairwell, and started down the ladder, heading deep into the bowels of this hulking, massive ship – a floating city really. As she descended, she continued to excavate through the layers of her own feelings. Aside from her family, there was also the guilt, potential or actual, about having a relationship w
ith Handon at all.

  The two of them did have a terrifying chemistry – which had kindled to a white heat in the few hours they’d spent together in the forest, and exploded in consummation upon their reunion here. They had tumbled into bed in minutes. Both had wanted it, and neither had doubted for one second the other was of the same mind. They had been like two magnets crashing into each other, after flying across the surface of the Earth, each in thrall to the other’s field.

  But Sarah also understood the seriousness of Handon’s responsibilities. And she knew a little, or could sense or intuit it anyway, about the special burdens of being a combat leader. She knew that the chemistry of his unit had to come first – and that its cohesiveness, and effectiveness, were immeasurably precious resources, which could not be jeopardized. So she was exquisitely sensitive as to how the others on that team regarded her.

  Basically, she had zero interest in becoming the Yoko Ono of Alpha team.

  And she also intended to pull her own weight around here – to prove herself in this world, and stand on her own. She would never be a mere wife, or helpmeet, or accessory, not to any man.

  But, her own independence aside, she also now knew, or thought she knew, that Handon actually did need someone. Someone outside of his chain command, someone to soothe his brow and be on his side and to hear his confessions. To help carry the burden. And to palliate the loneliness.

  Sarah was also pretty sure that if Handon even knew about this need of his, he had never acknowledged or admitted it – perhaps not even to himself, and definitely not to anyone who worked for him. He had to be the immovable bedrock his team operated upon. And his resolve had to be unquestioned.

  And with that last thought, she reached the deck she needed to be on. She exited the ladder, straightened up her expression, and strode out confidently, with her mind focused, on the way to her duty station.

  * * *

  Handon turned a narrow corner, ducked into a stairwell, and took the steps of the ladder one at a time, but fast. He had eight flights to climb, all the way to the top level of the island. He was still getting used to the feeling of being able to walk around unarmed, unarmored, and out of danger. It still tasted strange. Even after hundreds of missions, and making the transition from front line to rear echelon more times than he could remember.

  If there was any real rear echelon anymore.

  Making it back to the Kennedy had delivered him and his people from immediate physical peril. And delivering Dr. Simon Park, the man with the plan for saving humanity, had taken some of the weight of the world off their shoulders. Hell, a shower, a hot meal, and a change of clothes had made him feel like a new man.

  But the stunning return of Homer, and for him, Sarah… well, that small prop plane landing had changed everything.

  Handon and Sarah had brushed fingertips as they parted, outside the berth they now shared. He could still feel her touch on his hand. Then she’d gone one way, and he another, both to get started with what was definitely going to be a long day.

  Reaching the top of the ladder, Handon pushed open a hatch and swung into the Flag Bridge, which was a hive of measured activity, and marched across it to the briefing room in the back. When he stepped through that hatchway, he found that he wasn’t the last to arrive, nor the first.

  They were there to plot the next stage of their long journey, and the final act, they might dare hope, of this sacred and perilous drama. Failure was unthinkable. But the story of humanity was not yet written. And Handon knew that a happy ending was very far from guaranteed.

  Command

  JFK - Alpha Team Room

  In the womb of the team room, Ali let the mindlessness of the work soothe her. There was a lot to do – they were all going to have to jump through their own asses to get ready for this next mission in time. But it was damned good to be back with the team – safe, relaxed, out of danger, kitted down, and cleaned up. Even in silence, Ali enjoyed the warm familiarity of their company.

  And while they were happy to see her, too… they were also giving her a certain look. She obviously wasn’t going to get much of a grace period as regards answering their questions about the Great Homer Mystery.

  Ever since his dramatic deck landing the day before, with his kids and Sarah Cameron on board, he had been regarded like some sort of Christ arisen. And, since then, he’d been tucked away with his family almost the whole time. And nobody knew where the hell he had been, what had happened, nor how his two small children had survived two-plus years of zombie apocalypse on their own.

  Almost nobody.

  “C’mon,” Predator said, finally voicing what they were all thinking. “Put us out of our misery.”

  Henno put a tablet down on a big plastic Tuff-Box. “Aye. You two were stowed away for hours last night. He must have found a few minutes somewhere in there to tell you what the hell happened to him. Spill it.”

  Juice looked more tentative, but still curious. He said, “It’s got to be a hell of a story.”

  Ali held their gazes levelly, and just sighed out loud.

  * * *

  One deck down, and a few frames back, raucous music leaked out of the MARSOC team room. Outside the open hatch, Emily, the civilian girl Alpha had rescued from the pirates on Lake Michigan, knocked on the bulkhead, to no effect. So she walked on in.

  All around the room, standing, or sitting on boxes or down on the deck, half-dressed Marines busied themselves doing mission planning and prep work. Some cleaned or maintained weapons systems, others packed or unpacked cases and assault packs. One flipped through a thick printed packet.

  Three of them, led by Sergeant Coulson – the lean, blond-haired Marine who had teamed with Handon in the flight-deck battle – were huddled up over a map on a folding table, pushing plastic pieces around. They were tabletop gaming their likely next op. On the wall beside them, a whiteboard had been covered with black, blue, and red marks – diagrams, lists, maps, and indecipherable scribbles.

  There was only one actual chair in the room, and Master Gunnery Sergeant Fick was in it, his back three-quarters to the room. He had a small desk in front of him, with a laptop open upon it. The computer was doing at least two things: running a spreadsheet, and playing the rap-rock stylings of Limp Bizkit. Fred Durst was roaring something about somebody getting knocked the fuck out – perhaps straight the fuck out. Asses, checks, and mouths seemed to be involved.

  It was through this scene, and this serenade, that Emily padded over to Fick, her small and lean form, long and thin blonde hair, and air of petite femininity a total contrast to virtually everything else in the entire room. Most of the Marines saw her enter, and just watched her cross the space over to Fick and tap him on the back.

  He rolled his shoulder, as if trying to shrug off an unwanted intrusion, or buzzing insect. He was chewing on the mangled stub of a cigar, and staring daggers at the laptop screen. What was on it clearly held his attention, but not in a good way. Emily could see his left cheek and ear, both still red and peeling from being splashed with flaming aviation fuel back on Beaver Island. But it had been worse, and would be a lot worse right now, if Emily had not taken it upon herself to salve it for him on their flight back.

  When she tapped again, he grabbed the top of her right hand with his and reversed it into a very uncomfortable wrist lock. Emily yelped in pain – a high-pitched noise that practically caused Fick to tumble out of his chair. He immediately released her hand, then dialed down the volume of the music.

  “Em,” he said, looking like he had startled himself by remembering her name.

  “Gunny,” she said, smiling beneath huge eyes, and rubbing her wrist. She nodded at the laptop. “Don’t turn it down on my account. I like classic rock.”

  Fick was already opening his mouth to ask if she was okay, but now he shut it again. Classic rock? Jesus Christ, I must be getting old…

  “One nice thing about the end of the world,” she said.

  “Yeah? And what’s that?” />
  “When you write your war memoirs, you can include all the song lyrics you want – without any frivolous lawsuits from the dumbasses in the music industry.”

  Fick opened his mouth again, then closed it. He squinted, and just looked at her like she was some kind of alien visitor to their team room, which was pretty much the case. Finally he thought of something to say.

  “In the Battle of Fallujah, the enemy blared prayers and religious songs over their loudspeakers – while we blasted Drowning Pool and Metallica over ours, twenty-four seven, just to fuck with them. Everyone started calling it Lalafallujah.”

  Emily laughed. “The music festival from hell.”

  Another awkward pause. Fick finally said, “Was there some actual reason you came down here?”

  She hesitated, but then plunged ahead. “Well, um, Ali told me maybe you guys could use some help?” When Fick didn’t respond, she coquettishly crossed one ankle in front of the other. “Is there… anything I can do?”

  Fick retrieved his cigar stub from where he had dropped it, and stuck it back in his piehole, seemingly just for the purpose of talking around it. “I don’t know,” he said, chomping. “Is there anything you can do?”

  Emily smiled, because she actually got the reference. Fick was channeling Sergeant Apone from Aliens. Despite him being white, it was a nearly perfect fit. She played along, pointing at his screen. “Well, I can drive those spreadsheet macros.”

  Fick’s eyebrows went north. He looked skeptical.

  “Temp work. Plus computer classes at the community college.”

  Relief washed over Fick’s face, as paperwork was just about the least favorite activity of every Jarhead whose job description included it. These team manifests, tab after incomprehensible tab, were making Fick really miss their lost and lamented Lieutenant, who as an over-educated officer type used to do all that crap for them.

  “Be my guest,” Fick said, stepping away from the desk to make way for her. She sat down and adjusted the screen. After spending a few minutes explaining to her the tasks that needed doing, Fick happily moved across the room, looking forward to picking up something heavy.