Go Loud (The Molting Book 4) Read online

  GO LOUD

  C.A. GLEASON

  Text copyright © 2021 C.A. Gleason

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover art by Elartwyne Estole

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER 1

  Death never cared about rank once. Nor was it concerned with operational security. It especially disregarded mission objectives.

  Every battalion was armed to the teeth. The depth of the echelons didn’t matter. Almost every battle tactic and strategy was irrelevant. Relying on what was useful during past wars to fight them was like using the same plans against a flood or a tornado. Or an erupting volcano.

  What they should have done was avoid them from the start of the war, allow them all to pass by, and attack them from the rear. If only their movements were knowable. Their hunger and ferocity could not be determined by even experienced veterans.

  Civilian casualties were unknown. Uncountable. Those without uniforms were warned to evacuate days ago. He hoped everyone did as instructed; by television broadcasts, newspaper headlines, word of mouth, and bullhorn by air.

  But there were no safe areas for any humans. Not until the war ended. If it ever did, and if it did, hopefully in their favor.

  It no longer mattered how many high-speed soldiers were activated. Or how well armed they were. What kind of destructive weapon systems were at their fingertips. The ground assault was being slaughtered.

  Even the many expert pilots who flew the airspace coordination area were irrelevant at this stage of the battle. Every one of those men and women out there, who were still fighting, were elite. Doing the one thing they were all good at.

  Except this time, the enemies were creatures of unknown origin. And it wasn’t one country losing this war, but the entire human race. The first to fight, the tip of the spear, was broken. Destroyed.

  All who remained were the rear of the spear and the rear was quickly crumbling.

  Which was why formally illegalized weapons were reintroduced into combat, namely incendiary weapons. It was either change the laws, or ride the right thing to do into a nosedive toward extinction.

  The decision made remained abundantly clear by the endless firebombing of the hills in the distance. He definitely approved. At least the command to avoid those grid squares were acknowledged by the soldiers under his command.

  Current intel suggested the animals attacked at night. And Marty was tethered to Barry. It was reported happening throughout the rest of the world before comms with the other countries went dark. Current being the important word of the report.

  Maybe the enemy attacking at night and Marty tethered to Barry, was what was happening elsewhere on the planet, but differed here. Marty is attacking independently of Barry.

  But also, Marty is attacking surviving well-trained humans as an army. No singles, or packs, but as a single unit. This was established by the view from the air.

  Barry already did enough damage during the beginning of tonight’s battle anyway, knocking over tanks, launchers, and howitzers, going after the weapon systems with fury, like bees going after someone stomping on a hive.

  Before tonight’s battle, the predictability of the enemy allowed them to position launchers around the city. But anticipating where the enemy would advance on the offensive changed nothing.

  The positive of relying on the enemy hunting at night was that it gave them the opportunity to establish an offensive during daylight. The negative was everyone still alive was pinned down until dawn.

  The proof of friendlies’ immobility was that danger close missions were no longer being called in. The last of the rockets splashed the area of operation hours ago.

  Still, he liked the idea of those bloodthirsty creatures looking up as they tried to identify the threat of steel rain pouring down on them moments before the artillery annihilated them within the target area.

  The last of the burn squads were extinguished. Every soldier with a flamethrower on his back was KIA. It was reported and confirmed, when none of the soldiers made it to the areas of the offensive where they’d been ordered to reach.

  There weren’t even any more grenades being thrown. It was likely all soldiers on the ground expended all small arms, ammunition and explosives. And any soldiers who were still armed were KIA with guns in hand.

  The current ongoing missions, that he was aware of, was by air. Chain gun barrels glowed red with continuous firepower from helicopters. Lone eyes brave enough to peek over the battlefield.

  It was obvious even from his perspective; peering through binoculars behind the presently intact windows of the tactical operations center, helicopters couldn’t remain airborne much longer.

  Even with the predictability of enemy movements, mistakes were made. Not just by himself, but also higher.

  Fueling stations were heavily guarded. This inadvertently drew in the creatures. Now there were no more personnel guarding what kept aircraft airborne, and far too many Molters to be handled.

  There would be no more refueling opportunities. Pilots were briefed, and they no doubt briefed their crews.

  Also, the enemy seemed to be guarding these positions. It was seemingly impossible that they could plan on their own, given current intel, but they were definitely hindering mission objectives before the sun could rise.

  Drone strikes continued to deliver ordnance; but their payloads would soon expend to zero. And there was no comms with drone pilots. Their missions were independent of his mission objectives.

  Even if backup missions involving drones could be coordinated, doing so was a negative by the result of zero comms with higher command. He was alone in his commands.

  Another chopper crashed in the midst of the battle.

  Rescue those at the crash site or keep fighting? It was a decision preoccupying him hours earlier. There were too many downed aircraft for any rescue missions now. There wasn’t one rescue team left to send. Not anymore. They were all already out there.

  The downed helicopters exhausted their fuel. The radio transmissions, the maydays, were out of habit and training, to update higher, which was himself. Pilots and personnel knew there was no one coming for them except those creatures. Message sent and received.

  The officer’s last order had already been given by radio, and there were no more RTOs left in the tactical operations center—they’d all been sent out to fight—so he allowed the hand mic to finally release from his iron grip.

  Seconds later the hills were engulfed in flames once again, and the jets responsible for dropping the napalm shrieked through the sky and reverberated over the tactical operations center, vibrating the floor and walls with their power.

  At least there were still some aircraft, which were airborne. But they too wouldn’t remain airborne much longer. At least no one was going down without a fight.

  Too many targets. Too many enemies. The enemy numbers wouldn’t reduce on their own. Nearly everyone who wasn’t fed upon was joining their ranks by being infected and made into a fellow monster.

  It didn’t matter if this was the United States and every weapon system was at their disposal, or how high a ranking official was involved in the battle—like himself with all those stars representing the rank of General—the Molter War was a world war.

  All military personnel were stripped of rank. Everyone with skin on their backs was the same now: human. And now every human was fighting to keep a place on this earth.

  Overrun. He’d already heard it too many times over the net in the last few hours. Radio chatter�
�the current lack of it, other than from aircraft—confirmed it. He was ready to join his comrades. Whoever was still alive.

  There were no more orders to give. No more new orders to give. Everyone received a final order. He’d given it minutes ago before dropping the mic, to anyone who might be listening: fire at will.

  Mankind was doomed. Pulling the bayonet from its scabbard, he brought the blade parallel to his neck. Spying how sharp the edge was, he carefully angled the tip.

  Then he sliced through the stitching on both sides of his lapel holding down all those sown stars representing decades of achieved rank. He would judge himself and his entire life by his next actions, not what he’d done in the past. He tossed the bayonet onto the desk.

  Sliding the chin strap of his Kevlar helmet securely over his chin, he shoved extra loaded magazines into the flak jacket draped over his comfy office chair. It was where he’d sat day after day, also many nights, since being stationed here.

  Then he removed the armor plates from the front and back of the flak jacket and stacked them neatly over top-secret briefings. The papers should have been shredded or burned already, but the mission detail was irrelevant.

  He threw the flak jacket over his shoulders and eyed the weapons on the desk. Automatic rifle, pistol, and bayonet. They were all the weapons he required for the last minutes that he would be alive. He grabbed the bayonet and secured it to the end of the barrel of his automatic rifle.

  He would see how those monsters responded to rounds being fired by a man who could shoot forty out of forty with his eyes closed.

  There were rumors that spread, the evolution of the enemy, was slower in other countries. Where climates were colder. He hoped it was true.

  The Molter War began long before anyone knew about it. Militaries definitely weren’t informed. Or prepared. Militaries were always preparing for the next human threat, not one comprised of bloodthirsty creatures.

  Worldwide, any pockets of resistance were on their own. Hopefully, survivors could live at least a few more happy years.

  The best of luck to them, he thought.

  As he left the sanctity of the tactical operations center for the final time, using his thumb he flicked the selector switch of his automatic rifle from safe to fire.

  Five Years Later

  CHAPTER 2

  Former Army grunt Jonah Browne was fought and despised. Argued with and detested. Even by those who cared about him, buddied with him, and claimed to have loved him throughout his life. Who actually did love him.

  Arrogant. Manipulative. Burnout. And many variations of curse words because he used to be a man who drank too much alcohol.

  And too often, too many drinks caused his fists to do the talking. So—pick an—expletive “that guy” was a common response after a night out with him.

  Jonah wasn’t always the man people wanted by their side in the past. Even he knew it. He was a different person back then—before he got sober—and he wasn’t even the best man to have around during normal circumstances.

  Except for one major exception; when the shit hit the fan.

  Even when he was out of control, when he was either high or drunk—or both at the same time—or hung over, when something went wrong, people remembered him differently.

  When life got squirrelly and dangerous, he was described as focused, dependable, strong. Once as heavy-handed, by someone he punched after a fistfight.

  Throughout his brief military career, he was even called a crack shot—twice—by two officers. Both would have sooner gambled with their pensions than given out compliments.

  Before Jonah was discharged from the military for selling drugs, when he slid and became the type of soldier even he despised, someone he never thought he’d be, his section chief mentioned wanting to clone him.

  When everything went bad, he felt his life was over, because who would hire him?

  After being shipped back to the states, the incessant thought often kept his eyes open at night, his view painting the ceiling.

  So there had never been a better time for him to go on a vacation.

  Then something cataclysmic happened to the world. A new species evolved, seeming to come out of nowhere. But they didn’t come from nowhere. The animals metamorphosed from human beings to feed on blood. And they were worldwide.

  No one ever knew the origin, never discovered subject zero, if there ever was one, and the men and women responsible for the investigation, who knew best, likely died fighting.

  Jonah survived the beginning of the Molting, the vacation becoming a nightmare. Having lost friends he convinced to go along with him to Germany, it prompted him to take unnecessary risks in his personal war against the new enemy.

  Depression anchored his thoughts and he believed it was his own wretched behavior that got his friends killed. He believed it for so long, he felt he deserved to die too.

  But another part of him knew something. And knew it well, because of similar experiences to compare to. Rigorous drilling, training, and experience in a war theater had created a warrior.

  The part of him not dominated by depression won out by being stronger, so he decided to contribute himself to the war against the monsters. The decision kept him alive, and while surviving, he battled them any chance he got.

  Then by the same chance he went to Henrytown and met Doreen, the woman who became the love of his life, and being with her changed him. Changed everything about his life. She sparked something in him so deeply, it began to burn his depression away.

  Hotter and hotter until the flicker of flame Jonah once was, who was nearly snuffed out by regret and depression and unnecessary risks during his self-appointed missions, once again roared with the will to live.

  Enough will to endure the horror which came next. Molters attacked Henrytown. An epic battle took place. It was shortly after surviving the battle that they drove to the cabin. But their troubles didn’t end there.

  While exploring and intent on finding a safer place to live, Jonah encountered survivalists, a well-armed and determined group who intended to use him—and others—as a sacrifice to their extremist ways.

  Jonah survived the ordeal. Survived the architects of the barbaric Draw. And returned to the cabin. Except he wasn’t alone.

  Jonah accepted his role in the present world; he was a pillar of the war against bloodsucking monsters.

  He evolved from being alone, depressed, and driving himself—literally and figuratively—to a planned and imminent suicide, to someone who had everything to lose. He used to be a fuckup, but today he was a man reborn, someone who would do anything to protect his people.

  Jonah would rather die than devolve into who he used to be. Serving his side, human beings, and protecting others have become his choices.

  The alternative means failure, which would mean his death. Then the pillar he represented would crumble, and the opposition to the Molting would be much weaker.

  With everything mankind has done while living on Earth, some have said Molters are Earth’s revenge, a defense mechanism, viewing human beings as a plague, and similar to how antibodies fight off an infection within a being.

  Molters are nature’s last resort to wipe out the human race so that new life can begin because earthquakes, tornados, floods, hurricanes, wildfires, disease after disease after disease, have not succeeded.

  Nature has bumped it up another notch. Nature is going to take human beings out and start over. No matter the cost.

  That’s what some say anyway.

  But Jonah disagreed. He disagreed with every ounce of his being. Hunted or not.

  Molters are just another enemy we will conquer.

  CHAPTER 3

  They were safe. Worrying during the drive couldn’t be helped, and Jonah wasn’t sure what he’d find when they drove up the long dirt road leading to the cabin.

  He’d felt a tickle of pride seeing Doreen aiming the rocket launcher before—thankfully—setting the weapon system down on the porch after see
ing recognizable faces.

  He took a mental snapshot because he wasn’t sure he would ever experience something like it again. Not while dealing with Frox and Perry and the rest of the nefarious, brainwashed, and indoctrinated people who implemented the Draw.

  But Jonah was especially worried that he’d never see them again during the epic battle.

  What a moment, Jonah thought.

  “Hello, Daughter.”

  Doreen looked to Jonah, then to Henry, then to him again. It was as if she couldn’t believe the reunion was actually happening.

  Until she burst into tears, transforming into a little girl right before his eyes. When she went to her dad, Henry embraced his daughter and granddaughter both—Heike was already mashed against him.

  Practically at the same moment, Heike broke from her embrace of her grandpa and crashed against Jonah.

  Heike wrapped both arms around his waist. “I told her you’d be back!”

  “You’re so smart.” Jonah flattened a hand on her head. “Wow, you’ve grown since I left.”

  “Really?”

  “I think so.” He smiled down at her. “Thanks for believing in me.”

  “Of course!”

  “Your face?” Doreen said.

  Henry clearly wasn’t concerned about his wounds. “I’m OK.”

  “I’m so happy you’re here at our ho—I mean the cabin.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jonah agreed. “I mean, Henry. Sir. Old military habit.”

  “It’s all right. I like the sir stuff.”

  Doreen slowly walked her way toward the man she loved, and it was obvious he’d been in a fistfight and lost too, like her dad.

  She placed a hand against Jonah’s bearded cheek, stared into eyes mirroring love for her, and gave him a kiss on the lips.

  Then Jonah hugged his woman. “I love you. So much.”

  “I love you, too. Thanks for bringing him home.”

  “He brought me, Doreen.” When she leaned back, he said, “Tell you later.”