He turned back to Smith’s group and Polk emptied his Bravo at the hero. St. George could hear brass and links from the ammo chain falling like metal raindrops. He tried to brace his foot behind him, slipped, and stumbled back. Polk sprayed another hundred rounds at St. George, then threw the heavy rifle at the hero for good measure.
Smith swung through to the pilot. “Take off.”
“Sir, I’m not sure if we have enough fuel,” he said. “We’re going to have to leapfrog if you want to make it all the way to Groom Lake.”
“Are you able to get this damned thing in the air or not?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Then do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hayes forced Stealth down onto the bench. It was awkward with her arms twisted behind her, but he pushed her back and strapped the seatbelt across her hips. He reached over her for the flight harness. She glared up at him.
*
St. George dragged himself out of his panic and doubt. He could hear the pitch of the engines changing. And below it he could hear shouting.
The exes had expended their meager weapons, but Jefferson had been hit twice in the firefight. He was down, trying to hold up his rifle. The trio of soldiers was pinned down as the exes marched closer. And they were marching in perfect sync.
The Black Hawk lifted off.
He threw himself at the exes. He grabbed one in each hand and used them as flails to knock down a dozen others. Legion glared at him through their eyes and turned to fight.
They grabbed St. George at his wrists and tried to pin his arms. Some wrapped themselves around his legs. None of them wasted time trying to bite. Five bodies had hold of him. By the time he’d crushed three skulls there were ten. He threw off four with a shrug of his shoulders and there were fifteen. They piled on, using sheer numbers to hold him down.
“Gotcha this time, Dragon,” whispered one of them.
“Gotcha good,” said another.
St. George snorted. “You think you can hold me?”
A musty arm wrapped across his throat. A hand slapped over his eyes. Fingers grabbed at his hair and ears and clothes.
“There’s a concrete truck just a little ways from here,” said one of the exes. “What if we dumped the whole thing on us? Bury you under all these corpses. What do you think?”
“I think you’re still an idiot,” said St. George.
He focused between his shoulder blades and shot fifty feet into the air. Over two dozen exes came with him, clutching his body too tight for their own good. Legion had enough time to grunt with surprise and St. George dove back down, flying head-first for the tarmac. At the last second he shifted direction and hurled himself back into the sky.
The exes rushed past him in a flurry of limbs and bodies. They smashed into the helipad. Some plowed through other undead that hadn’t been carried into the air. Skulls shattered, bones snapped, and gore splattered across the blacktop. Close to thirty exes ceased to exist.
St. George hung in the air for a moment over the pile of corpses. A few of them still writhed in the heap. He landed and wrenched their necks the way a regular man would open a twist-off bottle. The last one glowered at him and was taking in a breath to speak when he broke the top of its spine into three pieces.
Monroe and Truman snapped off bursts at the last few exes. “Sir,” shouted Monroe. He pointed down the road where another mob staggered toward them.
“Get your man back to the main gate,” said St. George. “We don’t need to stay here any longer.”
“What about Smith? He’s still got your partner, right?”
He looked up. The Black Hawk was already a quarter mile away and six or seven hundred feet up, climbing fast even as it tilted away to the north. A body flew out of the side and plunged toward the ground.
*
“Wait a minute,” shouted Smith. He’d swung himself into one of the chairs and started to struggle with the harness until something caught his attention. He looked across at Stealth. “I thought you handcuffed her arms in front of her.”
Hayes was still leaning over her, adjusting a last strap. He glanced down at his captive and her empty lap.
“We are now on the helicopter,” Stealth said in a loud, clear voice.
Her hands slashed through the air, the left arm still trailing both handcuffs. The open palms slammed against his ears and the super-soldier felt a wave of pain and dizziness as his eardrums ruptured. Her legs whipped up and back as she drove her heels into his kneecaps. As he staggered back she grabbed his jacket and pulled herself up to crack her head into the bridge of his nose. The floor tilted and Hayes was pitched out the Black Hawk’s open door.
Polk tried to shrug off his harness and stand up. She slammed both heels into his chest. Before he recovered she spun on her hands and circled his head with her feet. The chain of her shackles pulled tight on his throat. She jackknifed her body up and drove four punches into his forehead one after the other. He tried to block them but she was too fast and her calves were in the way. By the fourth one Polk was hanging loose in the harness. She swung back down, untwisted the shackle chain, and flipped back to her feet.