Dead Team Alpha: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller Read Free Page B

next to TL Mills’ corpse. Chinn is tossed aside as a figure drops into the pitch blackness of the corridor, nearly slipping on the blood that is slowly stretching from wall to wall.
     
    ***
     
    “Not good,” Delaney says, as she checks her M-4’s magazine and slams it back into place. “That was TL.”
    “Where the fuck is Lazzar?” Blackmore asks. “She should have been back here by now.”
    “Morrissey? I want you to go get Lazzar and Miller,” Delaney orders. “Blackmore? You stay here with Cook. If none of us return in five minutes, I want you and Cook to get the fuck out of here and head for Fort Collins, got it?”
    “Roger that,” Blackmore says. “But do me a favor and come back before five minutes, okay?”
    Morrissey shoves the heavy door open and then stops. Delaney glances over at him and frowns.
    “Morrissey? Get moving, man. We need every hand back… Oh, fuck…”
    Morrissey turns around slowly, his hand clutching a large knife buried in his belly. He looks down at the blade, and the blood leaking from his guts, and then up at Delaney as he falls to his knees. Before anyone can say anything else, his head goes tumbling from his neck and a gust of wind whips into the control center from the outside corridor, blowing out the beeswax candles that illuminate the room.
    “NVGs!” Delaney shouts as she reaches up and yanks hers over her eyes. At the flip of a switch, the LCC is all shadows and green light. A grunt and a splashing sound to her left makes Delaney spin in that direction, her carbine up. “Blackmore? Blackmore, speak to me!”
    The man stumbles into her view, his hands gripped to his throat. He lurches towards her and reaches out with his right hand. As he does, a fountain of blood gushes from his neck. He reels and turns, and the fountain sprays Delaney’s NVGs.
    “Fuck!” she yells as she yanks the goggles from her face. “Blackmore! What the fuck? Blackm-!”
    Everything goes numb as her spine is severed just below her ribs. She wants to reach back and pull out whatever has done the damage, but her arms won’t obey. Helpless, she collapses to the floor, her cheek resting in a pool of warm, slick blood. She wants to speak, wants to scream and shout at the attackers, but all she can do is gasp and struggle for breath. Before it all ends, she hears a loud grunt and cry of pain, and then the hurried slapping of feet.
    Cook , she thinks. Run, you marvelous bastard, run your ass off.
     
    ***
     
    The ground under his feet is nothing but slick mud as the rain pours down from the sky. Cook doesn’t give the horror behind him a second thought, using all of his faculties to concentrate on keeping his footing. The storm rages about him, lightning striking the ground in the distance, then only yards from him. The air is rocked by ear shattering thunder. He can taste the electricity in the air, which to him is horrifyingly similar to the tang of blood.
    Hitting a rise, Cook clambers up a small hill, then slides his way down the other side, letting the mud and gravity do the work for him. He hits the flat ground and his legs keep pumping, not missing a stride. He focuses on the terrain ahead whenever a flash lights up the landscape. In the best of times, navigating the monotonous country that makes up the Silo Park is difficult, but at night in a thunderstorm? Cook is glad for the years of experience he has as a Runner. A rookie would already be lost or have snapped an ankle slipping in the mud.
    His lungs burn and he can feel a cramp sta rting to stab into his side, but Cook doesn’t stop. He has too many miles to go before he can even think of slowing down.
    So many miles.
     
    ***
     
    Cook crests the final ridge before the Fort Collins outpost, his heart sinking as he sees the flames licking the sky as the outpost’s building s burn, burn, burn.
    His first thought is to hurry down and look for survivors, or at the very least, salvage some supplies. But the shapes on the ground that