Silo - Nomad's Revenge (Frozen World #3) - Jay J. Falconer

CHAPTER 1

Stanley Fletcher held back as Commander Stipple blew his whistle in sharp blasts, sending the Scabs ahead of him tearing into the entrance of the old Titan II missile silo.

Fletcher grabbed Stipple by the elbow, spinning him around. “Remember, I need some alive. Don’t fail me.”

“No worries. I’ve got it covered,” the man replied, pulling free with a twist of his arm. He took a step back toward the threshold, while the horde of Scabs behind him continued its advance, scrambling around a ninety-degree corner.

The cannibals and their collective motion reminded Fletcher of an invasion of army ants, with fists raised and mouths drooling as they searched for their next kill. The sea of skin looked like a shimmering blanket of ugliness, rippling under the inevitable control of rage.

Fletcher shook his head, knowing that somewhere inside the residents of Edison’s wonderland were hunkered down and praying they could withstand the wave of teeth coming at them.

Soft targets always thought that way—that somehow their dreamworld, their nirvana, would magically rise up and protect them when the shit hit the fan. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth, not when the weak and unarmed were the easiest prey. Cannon fodder was a better term, betting their lives on nothing more than hope.

Only those with the wherewithal to get prepared and stay that way would survive in a world ruled by force. Well, that and keeping their options open. As in maintaining the high ground and fortifying a defensible position. This underground complex was neither of those.

“On me,” Commander Stipple said to Dice and Fletcher, giving them a momentary head nod before following the last of his hunger gang into the silo.

Fletcher half-expected the commander to once again use the whistle hanging from his neck to bring him forward, much like the man had done to unleash his battalion of cannibals.

It was fortunate for Stipple that he didn’t decide to use that shrieking noisemaker on him. Not here. Not now. Not within the walls of this hardened Air Force facility. Such a screech would have been enough for Fletcher to raise his weapon and unleash a hail of 7.62 rounds at Craven’s right-hand man.

In truth, Fletcher knew it would happen eventually, both the annoying whistle and his lethal response. But he also knew this wasn’t the right time to take action. Not when he was on the verge of completing one of the greatest leadership coups ever—at least in his mind.

Fletcher moved ahead, with the stock of his rifle pressed into a firing position against the soft of his shoulder. He sharpened his focus, knowing that every foot plant mattered. So did his position relative to everyone else.

Situational awareness is key in any threatening situation. More so when you are in proximity to hundreds of Scabs, whether they are running loose or contained.

Once Fletcher was through the last bulkhead protecting the entrance, he spun to survey the damage caused by the C-4. The silo’s inner vault door hung in twisted clumps of metal, its massive hinges holding on in what he could only describe as a desperate attempt to remain attached.

The results of his demolition team were impressive, planting the charges with precision. Even so, one fact seemed clear—if his men hadn’t used the sheer amount of bricks they did, the heavy steel would have withstood the detonation and kept this silo free from this incursion.

Fletcher pushed ahead, passing through the cloud of spent explosives, its distinctive odor still lingering in the air. But that wasn’t all he smelled. There was something else. Something ripe.

Dice must have noticed it too, turning his head away when he came near, wearing a pinched look on his mug. “Talk about some seriously nasty swamp ass.”

“You got that right, brother. Stipple’s gonna have to hose them down when this is over.”

“Or run them over.”

“That’ll work, too,” Fletcher replied, seeing the Scabs pound their fists on the walls down the corridor. None of this was how he would have ordered the attack to proceed, but it wasn’t his place to question. Stipple knew his cannibal force better than anyone. After all, he trained them.

Perhaps their non-stealth approach was designed to drive Edison’s people in one direction, corralling them into a central area of the facility. It would certainly make Fletcher’s job easier and more efficient, versus having to perform a methodical search using a skeleton crew—of humans, that is.

“Holy shit, look at this place,” Dice said in a charged whisper. “Must have taken them years to