Strong Will Vol 3: A Warfighters Tale of the Plague Apocalypse: The NOSOI Virus Saga World: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series - Companion Series, #3

Prologue

The odor of the Hawaiian blend lifted from the coffee mug in little swirls of vapor. Shutting down the small Esbit pocket stove, Allen placed the camping mug to his mouth. The mixture was still too hot, but it was satisfying to suck in the aroma; smelling, tasting, and anticipating the brew. A little slice of heaven brought to him by Sargent Damien and his Marines.

The sun would break the horizon soon, and the older man liked to wake early when all was quiet, and the world was still sleeping. From the windows of the beach house, he’d planned to watch the gentle glow rise on the waters of the Puget Sound. A breath-taking sight, regardless of how many times or different places he had witnessed it. The snowy peaks of the Olympic Peninsula would light up first, then the world would come into view from top to bottom, revealing the picturesque vista layer by layer. It never looked the same way, each new day displaying some unique effect, a trick of the light and weather, but always stunningly beautiful.

Allen’s peaceful morning watch was instantly shattered.  A shotgun blast blew shards of glass into the great room of the beach house. Scattering glass like diamonds onto the slumbering survivors as they slept on their pallets.

Shocked into submission, the old hunting guide stood frozen as he watched the attackers vault in through the opening. Wearing heavy waterproof coats, it was easy to identify the garb of deep-sea fishermen.  Heavyset features combined with red, round faces, and ponytails confirmed the identity of the raiders.

It’s the tribes. The realization shot through Allen’s mind like a lightning bolt. Many of the North West’s tribes fished the waters of the cold pacific nearby.

The old guide’s immobility was broken as he watched the figure raise a hatchet high above his head and strike downward against one of the survivors. Helpless, the woman screams pierced dim light as she pushed her hands outward, trying to fend off the impending blow. They failed, and the blade struck deep, sending a crimson spray arcing through the air.

Allen grabbed the lever-action rifle that he’d laid against the kitchen’s cabinets, bringing it to a sight picture with practiced ease. Taking up the slack in the trigger, he began his press as the axe hand fell again. A hard cast 150gr. bullet left the barrel and stopped the hatchet from falling a third time. The darkened figure in the great-coat stumbled backward from the impact. Allen cycled the action, pressing the lever forward, ejecting the empty brass casing. He reversed his motion and brought the lever home, loading a fresh round. The figure still stood ominously in the darkness, so Allen squeezed off another bullet. This one sent the invader tumbling to the floor.

One of Will’s guardsmen burst into the room, M-4 rifle in hand. He was part of the night’s watchmen from upstairs come to aid him.

WATCH THAT WINDOW! Allen screamed as he pointed to a freshly opened breach. I’LL GET DAMIEN.

Breaking into a trot, the old guide worked his way through the maze of hallways looking for the Marine Sargent. He found him rising from a cubby where he had been sleeping, still a little dazed.

DAMIEN, He yelled at the Marine. LET’S GO, IT’S FUCKING COWBOYS AND INDIANS.

With the Sargent up and moving, Allen continued down the hallway raising the alarm throughout the house. His destination was a large den on the opposite side of the home, more survivors had bedded down there. His fears were realized when he reached the end of the hall. This room had large glass sliding doors that led to a deck outside. It was much more accessible than other parts of the beach house. The Indian fishermen had broken in the sliding doors and were slaughtering the survivors in the den where they slept.

As Allen stood at the entrance of the room, the raiders were oblivious to his presence.  Lethal and deadly with their blows, but cumbersome and slow, almost lethargic. No such trance held over the old man, he shouldered the rifle and began to pound .30 caliber bullets into the attackers. He had driven two to the floor before the third figured out what was going on. The Indian turned and ran for the opening, but it was too late. Allen placed a slug right between the fleeing man’s shoulder blades, dropping him like a rock.

Other raiders now stood just outside of the opening, trading shots with the old hunting guide, fighting for control of the room. Survivors lay in the den’s floor, unable to move as bullets flew overhead. Another pair of rounds exited the bore of his 30/30, and the rifle fell silent, hammer dropping on an empty chamber. Allen switched to the big .44 Smith at his side. He’d dabbled in some cowboy action shooting over the years, and running the old west guns was fluid for him. But, he still needed to get the rifle back into the game.

He was about to have a major problem. The massive revolver was running dry, and reloading these buggers was a slow process. The big Marine Sargent showed up just in time. Allen fired off the last round of .44 and yelled, COVER ME.

As Damien traded shots with his Glock, the old man slammed six fresh rounds home in the pistol and shoved it back into the holster. He heard screams of pain as he started stuffing 30/30 cartridges into the side of the Winchester, his fingers flying as he topped off the rifle. Damien had scored a good hit.

The Marine was providing cover fire as the survivors crawled for the entry. Allen began pulling the women and children into the protection of the hallway.

Once they were clear, Damien had sent the survivors for the other side of the house. Allen was covering the sliding glass door now, back to trading shots, while the big Marine sprinted for the back bedrooms. The Sargent was looking for the last of their people. The firefight had lost its steam; no one was willing to get shot. Now a price had been established for the territory. The old man could see the bodies of survivors and raiders mingled on the room’s floor. Friend and Foe twisted together in death’s throes. The old hunter had seen a lot in his days, but this made him physically sick, he had to refocus his mind to keep from vomiting. Those weren’t animal carcasses decorating the floor.

Return fire had ceased, and he could tell that the raiders had left the deck. Damien came sprinting back across the den, holding a little girl in one arm and a bloody hatchet in the other.

WE’RE GETTING OUT OF HERE! GET IT IN GEAR, YOU’RE DRIVING!! The Marine yelled, and Allen followed him back through the house...

ALLEN PUNCHED THE ACCELERATOR, pressing it into the floorboard, causing the van to crash through the closed garage door, dragging ripped and torn pieces of it well out into the center of the cul-de-sac. Stopping momentarily to allow several of the survivors to jump on. He didn’t know how they did it, but there must be twenty people crammed inside or hanging on to the mini-van. He took off at a slow pace, Will’s soldiers racing behind. They would have to run, there was no more room. His driving was hampered by the four-year-old sitting in his lap, making it hard for him to steer and control the pedals. The child was scared to death and held on to the old hunting guide with a vice-like grip.

Fighting to keep the speed down, feathering the gas just above an idle. The older man had adults hanging onto the roof rack with their feet on the small baseboards that lined the vehicle’s undercarriage. The soldiers trudged along beside the van, slowing down now that the adrenaline was wearing off. The attack had been unsuspected, so far, they’d only had to fight the infected. Allen felt guilty, he knew there was a lot of hatred on the reservations. He should have seen this coming, should have anticipated it.

If Will had been here? His worries for the Lieutenant ran deep. We would have been better prepared. The entire group had been consumed with Hope’s kidnapping. Everyone had come to love the Paramedic. She was the unofficial leader of the civilian survivors. Will, the Lieutenant, well he led the military guys, and Hope loved him. Everyone had known of their romance, long before the pair had realized it. It was plain to see in the way they looked at each other.

Allen had fallen in love with Hope too. Not romantically, no, she had become like a daughter to him, the one he had always wanted. Embodying the traits, he felt so strongly about. The girl was smart and practical but kind and compassionate. He had only known her for a few short weeks, but the end of the world had a way of making relationships much more intense. When you depended on each other for life and death, it had a strong effect. It was a catalyst, not unlike the forming of a diamond under pressure.

Damage from breaking through the door had caused the front bumper of the van to come loose. Now, it dragged on the pavement, sending out a cascade of sparks and making a horrible racket. Allen was afraid it would draw out the infected. The area along the beach had been evacuated, but he didn’t know how far inland that would hold true. They had traveled far enough that there shouldn’t be any pursuit. Allen hadn’t seen any signs of the Indians that since they pulled away from the beach house. Gently he let the vehicle roll to a stop.

GET OFF. He yelled to the adults hanging on the sides. Take a break, looks like we lost them.

Damien and his troops were catching up. Most were severely winded, hands-on their sides, looking at the ground, heaving for breath. But not Damien, the Marine looked indestructible.

What’s up? The Sargent asked Allen.

I need to get the front bumper off, it’s making a hell of a racket.

Yeah, I heard it. I guess we’re far enough to take a break.

The sun was beginning to rise in earnest as Allen watched Damien put his guys into a defensive perimeter surrounding the van. He drafted a couple of the women to help him pull the front bumper free. In the end, it took Damien and some of the boys to get it to separate from the frame.

Where we headed? He asked the Sargent as they threw the plastic and metal sheeting to the side of the road.

Honestly, Allen, I don’t know. We need a building, something with solid walls, something that’s defendable. I’ll know it when I see it.

He looked in on Ajax, the young soldier was in bad shape. Unless they got him to a hospital, the kid wasn’t going to make it. He’d known the guardsman since they’d all been stuffed into the arena together. He was a good kid. Allen had seen him fighting the infected when they made their escape from that place, he’d fought at the ferry terminal, buying the civilians enough time to get away from the horde that was breathing down their throats. He’d fought on the beach when they had been attacked while trying to make their way up the island. He hated seeing the kid suffer like that.

Soon, they were on the move again, looking for someplace safe. The old guide let the van idle slow enough so the boys could keep up without having to run.

His mind turned back to the Lieutenant and his pursuit of Hope. He couldn’t believe it when he’d heard that Kenneth had taken her, kidnapped her at gunpoint. He knew that son-of-a-bitch was serious trouble from the moment they’d met. At the time, they’d all been trapped on the ferry, with no way to escape.

He’d cheered Will on when he’d forced him get out of the lifeboat, marooning him on that floating derelict. It should have been a death sentence, but somehow the shit head had found a way off. Allen looked back at that time now.

I should have killed him. Just bashed him in the head and thrown him overboard. He found himself praying again, he’d been doing that a lot lately. Please, please, Lord,  help Will find her. Find her and bring her home.

He’d wanted to go to help with the tracking, but he was too old. He’d never have been able to keep up. All he could do was help the rest of the survivors. That is what Hope would want him to do. That brought his mind back to the attack.

It had to be driven by hate, there was no other reason. We didn’t have anything worth taking. They tried to butcher us, just like the war parties my great grandpa told me about.

The old hunting guide had killed a few of the Indians, but there was some significant guilt creeping in. He had been in the kitchen, preoccupied with making some coffee when they’d gotten hit. The realization sunk in now. He should have been upstairs, looking through the windows, or better still, up on the roof. It wouldn’t happen again, he wouldn’t let it.

His mind fumed over the events as the van crept inward on the island. They had done nothing but lose people ever since the flight from the Arena. There had to be close to a thousand survivors in that place then. The evacuation turned into a disaster as they got overrun, only a few dozen escaped. They had lost more ever since.

The haggard group passed a general store, then traveled a mile further. This led them to an intersection of country roads. He could see the place from here, it was perfect, an old-style, stone-built Fire Station...

Hope woke up for a moment and wasn’t sure where she was. Then it all came back to her. She