Free Day by Day Armageddon: Shattered Hourglass by J. L. Bourne Page A

accurate. You couldn’t tell with Billy behind the gun—he was dropping them at two hundred plus meters with iron sights.
    The creatures were closing fast, hundreds, perhaps a thousand of them now.
    Billy noticed a shadow flash by in front of him and jumpedaway from the group. Both Hawse and Doc were knocked to the ground, the wind pushed out of their lungs—the creature they had just captured and sent up to the helicopter had fallen one hundred feet to the ground, free from the netting, with Hammer in its grip.
    Hammer’s left arm was clearly broken, a piece of bone jutting from his forearm. Doc couldn’t tell if the break was from the fall or the creature’s grip. The thing had bitten him severely. His neck was leaking blood in cadence with his rapid heartbeat.
    Hammer reached down to his waist to retrieve the only weapon he had on him when he fell—his tomahawk.
    The radiated creature wrestled with Hammer.
    The NOLA swarm was a hundred yards out.
    Tears of fear and rage flashed in Hammer’s eyes when he gripped the Micarta scales of the handle and swung the hawk, driving the spike deep into the creature’s cranium, dropping it instantaneously. Hammer’s mask had been torn off by the creature before he fell—mortally wounded, already exposed to lethal doses of New Orleans radiation.
    As Doc and Hawse recovered and pulled themselves off the ground, Billy grabbed clotting agent from his med kit and quickly slapped it on Hammer’s neck. He applied a bandage to put some pressure on the wound. It would at least buy him some time.
    Before anyone asked, Hammer laboriously held his neck wound and said, “They’re strong and fast. Ripped . . . right through the net.”
    Some blood dripped from Hammer’s mouth as he spoke.
    Hammer looked over to Billy. “Trade me.” He handed Billy his bloody tomahawk and Hammer took Billy’s AK. “We still got a mission. I’m not gonna last long. I’ll let one through so you can bag it. Reload that net gun and let’s go.”
    Doc was shaken by Hammer’s ghostlike appearance. He had no clue as to how Hammer kept conscious. Doc compartmentalized the horror of seeing his teammate’s life force fade in front of his eyes. He’d somehow save the emotions for later.
    The three hugged Hammer and shook his hand before saying good-bye. There was no time for more. Hammer nodded to all three and turned to engage. He managed to get to the nearest front of undead and began shooting.
    Doc reloaded the net gun and radioed up to Sam, “Bring her down or we’re all dead!”
    Sam didn’t bicker. Inside of thirty seconds, the helicopter was hovering ten feet above the team, kicking dust, debris, and walking dead everywhere.
    Hammer fought with everything that was left in him, emptying his magazine, allowing one creature through to attack the others near the hovering helicopter. Doc bagged the creature and all three men hurriedly dragged it inside the flying machine. Hammer was right—these radiated abominations were stronger than anything he’d encountered. It nearly breached the fresh net in the time it took the three of them to throw it in the steel cage. It was now no mystery how the second specimen got through the net; it had a hundred feet of winch ascent to rip and claw before getting to Hammer. Doc estimated that the strength of the second specimen must have been many times that of the first from the causeway.
    The rest was a blur. They had both their snarling, powerful specimens securely stored in the hardened, partitioned steel cages. The helicopter gained altitude. Doc asked Sam to hold at two hundred feet. The team watched the scene below as Hammer was making his last stand against the undead with only his knife. He stabbed and slashed and killed three more before they rushed him. Doc moved to the rack, grabbed the scoped LaRue 7.62 and went prone. Through the glass, he confirmed that Hammer was dead, the creatures viciously feeding on his warm, radioactive remains. Anger shot