Impact
Authors: Adam Baker
Table of Contents
Before writing his novels, Adam Baker worked as a gravedigger and a film projectionist.
Impact
is his fourth horror novel.
www.facebook.com/adambakerauthor
http://darkoutpost.blogspot.com/
Find Adam on Twitter:
@AdamBakerAuthor
Outpost
Juggernaut
Terminus
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Adam Baker 2014
The right of Adam Baker to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Trade Paperback ISBN 978 1 444 75588 6
Ebook ISBN 978 1 444 75589 3
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
For Ceri
The limo approached Vegas from the east, high speed down the interstate, kicking up a dust plume. V8 turbo roar. A marine stood in the sun roof like he was manning a gun turret. Face masked by sand goggles. Shemagh wrapped round his mouth and nose bandit style. He held an AR-15.
Frost and her companions in the passenger compartment. Zebra upholstery. Blue floor lights. Jolt and sway. Clink of bottles in the mini-bar.
One of the grunts in the driver compartment turned and leaned over the partition. Full flak and K-pot.
‘We call these trips Thunder Runs.’
‘Yeah?’
‘First journey was tough. Hotwired a Peterbilt and bulldozed our way down the nine-five, shunting vehicles aside. Hung out the side door providing cover fire. Tore up my shoulder like tenderised steak. Stuffed tissue in my ears. Had to rotate weapons in case my barrel started to melt. Long fucking day.’
Frost nodded. She looked out the smoked glass window. Bleak desert.
‘But now we got a route. A clear path in and out the city. Pedal to the metal. Don’t stop for anything or anyone.’
She nodded.
‘Mind you, it’s never pretty. Infected folk hear us and walk into the road. Don’t have the smarts to jump aside. Women, children. God awful mess. Sometimes it gets so bad we have to run the wipers.
‘That’s why we take turns to drive. Doesn’t seem fair to put it all on one guy. Sight of them hitting the fender. Sound of them going under the wheels. Preys on your mind.’
She turned her attention back out the window hoping, if she broke eye contact, the guy would shut up.
‘You don’t have to look. Guess that’s what I’m saying. When we reach the city. Might be best just to close your eyes.’
McCarran International Airport, Las Vegas.
Sentries manned the wire.
A two-man sniper team stationed in a squat watchtower. Faces striped with zinc cream like war paint. A crate of ammo and a piss-bottle. A portable sound system pumped Motörhead. Forty degree heat. Crazy boredom.
Rotted revenants, shambling skeletal things that had once been human, scrabbled at chain-link, anxious to reach aircrews they glimpsed walking between hangars and geodesic living quarters.
Scope reticules centred on a forehead. Focus/refocus. Distance-to-target calibrations.
‘Check out the fat guy,’ said Osborne.
‘Which one?’
‘Construction dude. Tool belt. Keeps looking up at the razor wire, trying to remember how to climb.’
‘Hope he doesn’t remember how to cut. If these bastards figure how to use clippers, we’re all fucked.’
Osborne set his rifle aside. He drained dregs of Cuervo Gold and hurled the bottle towards the fence. Smash of breaking glass.
He picked up his Barratt once more and rested the bipod on the planked wall of the sanger. Eye to the scope.
The infected man climbed chain-link. Shirt streaked with blood and pus, face knotted with metallic tumours.
‘Look at him. This guy’s fucking Nijinsky.’
The rotted construction worker reached razor wire. Barbs tore his flesh.
‘Give me some red tip. I want to light this fucker up.’
Standard full-metal jacket rounds swapped for a clip of incendiary cartridges.
Crank the charging handle. Cross-hairs centred on the bridge of the guy’s nose. Black eyeballs. Pitiless like a shark.
The guy hissed as if he could hear the sentries seventy-five yards distant.
Lower the cross-hairs. Centre on his open mouth.
Gunshot.
Skullburst. Head blown apart. Blood-spray and magnesium fire. The guy’s hard hat span and landed in the grass.
‘Give me a drink.’
‘All we got left is Bud.’
Tab-crack. Head thrown back.
‘Fucking piss. We need to hit the supermarkets again. Liberate some fucking cigars and shit.’
Can-crunch. Belch.
A fresh survey of the crowd pushing at the fence.
Cross-hairs centred on a young girl, couldn’t be more than seven. Ragged party dress. Metallic scalp tumours pushing through blonde hair.
‘We should hose these fuckers in aviation fuel and toss a match. Save some ammo.’
‘How many rounds we got left?’
‘Couple of days. After that we better get the hell out of Dodge.
Trenchman climbed the ladder. The shooters hurriedly threw a jacket over their beers and killed the music.
‘How’s it going, boys?’
‘Pretty good, sir,’ said Osborne.
Trenchman could smell booze-breath. He ignored it.
‘The Hummer should be with us in five, ten minutes. Cover fire, all right?’
They listened. A silent city.
Distant engine.
‘Any word when we might get out of this place, sir? Munition running low, and more of these fuckers every day, pardon my French.’
‘Twenty-four hours and we’re done with this shithole. Pack our gear and hit the road.’
‘Can I ask where we might be headed?’
‘Yet to be determined. But anywhere is better than here, right?’
‘Fuckin’ A, sir.’
‘So stay sharp. You got our backs until then.’
‘Gonna get bumpy,’ shouted the grunt.
Elevated freeway. Blurred glimpse of incinerated storefronts and wrecked automobiles. Crooked phone poles. Burning billboard for a magic show at the MGM Grand.
A swerve down the off ramp like they were heading for The Strip, then sharp left and jump the kerb into the grounds of Bali Hai Golf Club. Manicured fairways turned to meadow. They tore across the grass, spraying turf. They skid-swerved sand bunkers and an ornamental lake, flattened a couple of marker flags, whipped a dead irrigation hose. The driver ran wipers to clear mud.
‘Stay in the vehicle until we get through the gate. Gonna be plenty of shooting. Just sit tight until it’s over.’
They jolted across Vegas Boulevard and slammed through a tear in the airport’s old perimeter fence.
They headed for the inner compound. Razor wire, floodlights and watchtowers. Troops corralled like POWs.
The shooting began. Distant crackle of cover fire. Infected mown down so the compound gate could be pulled wide.
A belt-fed .50 cal opened up close by. Concussions like hammer blows. Frost covered her ears.
The limo skidded to a halt. Frost almost thrown from her seat. She gripped the stripper pole for support.
‘Remember,’ said the driver. ‘Just sit tight.’
Sporadic gunfire. Troops eradicating a bunch of infected that managed to infiltrate the compound when the gate pulled back.
A gum-smacking marine knocked on the side window. All clear.
Frost opened the door and climbed out. She shielded her eyes. Emerged from a bubble of smoked glass into brilliant sunlight. Heat radiated from baked asphalt.
‘Watch your step,’ said the grunt.
Bodies sprawled on the ground. Men, women, children, felled by precise headshots.
She kicked through scattered shell casings. Skull fragments crunched underfoot.