The Flood (2 page)

MICHAEL STEPHEN FUCHS
, in addition to co-authoring the first eight books of the bestselling ARISEN series with Glynn James, wrote the bestselling prequels
ARISEN : GENESIS
and
ARISEN : NEMESIS
(an Amazon #1 bestseller in Post-Apocalyptic Science Fiction and #1 in Dystopian), as well as Book Nine (#1 bestseller in War, #1 in Military Science Fiction) and Book Ten. The series as a whole has sold nearly a quarter-million copies. He is also author of the D-BOYS series of high-tech special-operations military adventure novels, which include
D-BOYS
,
COUNTER-ASSAULT
, and CLOSE QUARTERS BATTLE (coming in 2016); as well as the acclaimed existential cyberthrillers
THE MANUSCRIPT
and
PANDORA’S SISTERS
, both published worldwide by Macmillan in hardback, paperback and all e-book formats (and in translation). He lives in London and at
www.michaelstephenfuchs.com
, and blogs at
www.michaelfuchs.org/razorsedge
. You can follow him on
Facebook
,
Twitter
(@michaelstephenf), or by
e-mail
.

ARISEN

BOOK TEN

THE FLOOD

MICHAEL STEPHEN FUCHS

For all the ARISEN readers who have served

“Raging waves of the sea, foaming out their own shame; wandering stars, to whom is reserved the blackness of darkness for ever.”
– Jude 1:13

“There is in every heart a chamber dedicated to the impossible.”
– Havelock Ellis

Devil On His Shoulder

Somalia - On the Coast Road to Berbera

The MRAP, a hulking and gigantic MaxPro International XL, sat motionless in the middle of the sand-strewn road, with the eleven operators of Alpha and MARSOC standing, sitting, or kneeling in a wide circle around it. On the seaward side, a low rocky crest led down to a red-sand beach. On the landward side was more scrubby sand, almost desert really, dotted with small groves of spindly trees. There were no structures in sight, only a handful of abandoned vehicles on the road in the distance – and zero dead.

The sun beat down, but a breeze from offshore made it tolerable.

The operators were waiting for an ammo top-up by helicopter, staged off the carrier. This was an excellent spot for it. They could practically see the
JFK
out on the Gulf of Aden, which lay spread out before them. There was plenty of open space here for the Seahawk to touch and go. The area was equidistant between population centers on the Somalia coast road – and pretty damned distant from both of them. They’d also held out for a spot that was free of those abandoned and crazily parked cars, doors thrown open, that dotted the world’s highways now.

So no cars nearby, and zero dead visible. But that was only with the unaided eye. Ali was on her stomach on top of the very high roof of the MRAP, getting her snipe on. Every minute or so, her suppressed Mk12 special purpose rifle would chug quietly, signaling the end of the afterlife of another stumbling corpse somewhere way out on the road in one direction or the other.

With her taking care of security, the others were free to spread out in a loose circle and attend to pre- and post-combat tasks. Getting some water down, getting sand and dust out of weapons or boots, redistributing mags and other combat load. Wrapping up minor wounds, tightening existing bandages. Debriefing on the fight in a casual hot wash, or just shooting the shit.

They were only planning to be here for a few minutes.

“Dude, that sucked,” Reyes said. He actually had his pants and boots off, wearing only skivvies and socks below the waist, and was sitting on a rock while tightly wrapping gauze over the bandages on his thigh. The wounds he’d taken on Beaver Island had started to seep through with blood again in the struggle to keep the gate to Thunderdome closed in the debacle back at Camp Lemonnier. He obviously wanted to complete this procedure before the helo flared in. Nobody liked being in public without pants.

Graybeard, standing over him, asked, “Which part?”

“All of it. All of it sucked. But mainly that assclown sergeant major, and his brigade of Big Army dead guys stored in that oversized circus tent.” He looked toward the MRAP. Handon had left CSM Zorn inside, presumably to let him sweat.

Graybeard looked unmoved. “Hey, the ref’s part of the court,” he said.

Reyes looked up. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s from basketball. If the referee gets in your way, if your pass hits him in the back, too bad. The ref is understood to be part of the court.”

Reyes got it. Obstructions were part of the mission.

You just worked the hell around them.

* * *

“Henno, mate.”

Henno looked up from where he sat on a rock cleaning his weapon to see Noise, the ebullient Sikh warrior, standing above him. He’d had to go out of his way to get there, as Henno was sitting some distance from the group. Maybe he was keeping his mind on the job. Maybe he was externalizing his alienation from the team, making it visible and literal. Maybe both.

“All right, Noise?” Henno said, curtly.

“Very well.” He took a knee. “I saw you during the battle, from the guard tower.”

Henno didn’t look up but carried on with what he was doing.

“Rarely have I seen such bravery or badassery as what you did back there.” He was referring to Henno’s one-man holding action against the undead garrison of the base, including a precision-shooting masterclass, and then coming out of the whole thing with a bagged-up Zulu for their virus sample – which was later vindictively destroyed by Zorn.

Henno just shrugged. “It needed doing.”

“You fought like a warrior saint. Like Baba Deep Singh, who said, ‘Once you step onto this path, you may as well give up your head rather than the cause.’”

Henno looked up. “Who was that, then?”

“Singh was a mighty warrior. He put the smack down on the Afghans in the sixteenth century. According to legend, he kept fighting with his head half-severed – until he had retaken the Golden Temple of God in the holy city of Amritsar.”

Henno grunted. “Then he got what he deserved. Nobody but the daft or the dim fights in Afghanistan, that mountainous death trap. And that usually includes the British Army. Getting our arses kicked there since 1839.”

Noise laughed. “And more recently. Which includes both of us, I gather.”

Henno nodded. He’d done his time in Helmand Province, like everyone else.

Noise squinted. “I’ve seen Homer with his children. And I’ve felt the strength of his faith. So I understand why he fights so fiercely. What about you?”

Henno considered telling Noise about Captain Ainsley’s two boys, Aiden and Luke. But it wasn’t really his business. Instead, he said, “Homer bores me with the God-bothering shite. Nobody with half a brain believes it. Just look around you.”

Noise did. “I see the same world as you. I draw different conclusions.”

“You and me are different, you got that much right.”

“And yet it’s all the same. Guru Gobind Singh says, ‘The temple and the mosque are the same; all men are the same; it is only through error they appear different.’”

Henno actually agreed with that, as far as it went – all the God people sure as hell looked the same to him. He slightly wanted to tell Noise that it was only the resolute actions of those who saw the world for what it was that ever made things better. But he was, as he said, bored with it all. Plus he was done cleaning his rifle.

He snapped the upper and lower receivers back together, pushed the rear takedown pin into place, charged the weapon, stood, and left.

* * *

“Quick word,” Fick said. “On me.”

“Aye, skipper,” Reyes said, betraying the Marines’ nautical roots. He’d just finished getting his pants back on and now quickly tied his bootlaces.

The two of them found Brady in front of the MRAP – still trying like hell to get the windshield cleaned. Just reaching up to it was one problem. Another was that it was covered with infective black gunk that could kill him. Fick took them both thirty paces off the nose of the truck, out of hearing of the others. The look on his face was unfamiliar to them.

“I’m thinking of sending you two back,” he said. “On the Seahawk.”

“What!?” Brady said.

“That’s loco talk,” Reyes added.

Fick squinted more deeply, then gestured at Reyes’s leg and Brady’s arm. “Look at you. You two are more fucked up than a one-legged cat trying to bury shit in a frozen pond.” Both of them opened their mouths to protest. Fick didn’t give them time. “You told me you were mission-capable for this. And as a result the whole team almost went down back there. That shit at Thunderdome.”

Brady and Reyes closed their mouths. This shut them up – and shamed them.

“I can’t afford to lose either of you. But I will put both of your asses on the bench, or leave you on the side of the road to die, before I endanger this mission again.”

This was about the most deathly serious either of these two had ever seen Fick. It sobered them in their response.

Brady said, “Okay. We were lied to and tricked by Zorn about Thunderdome. Maybe that could have happened to anyone – but, yeah, it happened to us. So that’s on us.”

Reyes nodded, also contrite. “Agreed. We screwed up. And our injuries were part of that. But my leg’s already better than it was. Moreover…” and with this he looked Fick square in the eye, “I swear I will not endanger the team or the mission again. I’ll put a bullet in my own head before I let that happen.”

Fick paused to consider this – for exactly one second. He still had to trust his people. Even when they’d strained his trust. Maybe especially then. He nodded, spat in the sand, and spoke: “Okay. No more of this shit, then. If you aren’t combat effective, you don’t tell me you are. And you don’t fucking tell me you’re up to an assignment when you’re not.”

“Check.”

“Roger that.”

“Because if you do… I’mma skull fuck botha ya’ll. And then you’re both gonna have to swim back to the flat-top. With no eyes. Because you’ve been skull-fucked.”

Fick didn’t smile when he said this, but Brady and Reyes sure did when they heard it. It meant they were still on the team.

And it meant Fick was still the same irrepressible son of a bitch they knew and loved.

* * *

Noise was still on the rock Henno had abandoned, admiring the stark scenery around them, when Homer came by. He’d clocked their earlier conversation mainly through body language. “Don’t let Henno get to you,” Homer said. “He’s all right really. And you did a good job on the fifty back there. You didn’t hesitate.”

Noise shrugged. “The dead must die. As for Henno…” He exhaled, then stood up. “I don’t think he likes your faith very much. Or mine.”

Homer shrugged. “He’s entitled. But my faith is all I’ve got. That and my children. Those get me through. God protects me, and I protect them.”

Noise nodded. “God protects all of us. And I can see that your children are why you fight.” His expression grew even more serious than usual. “But I tell you now, Homer. If God should call you home, if you should fall… I will care for your children. If you allow it, I will be their guardian, for whatever hours I have.”

“That sounds like a pretty good offer. What are your qualifications?”

“I have eight nieces and nephews.”

“They still alive?”

“Every one. Back in London. I fight for them, and for their future.”

Homer put out his hand. “Then I see why you fight, as well. Deal.”

In Noise, Homer was starting to see someone like himself. At peace. Because he knew it was all happening for a reason, just as it was meant to.

And they were instruments of that divine intent.