Survival by Daniel Powell Read Free Book Online Page A

they struggled toward their goal.
    All around them, the battle was
losing steam. Bryan thought the surprise of their attack had led to an
advantage, but he knew soldiers were converging on them from other parts of the
brewery.
    The bull, their hero, looked back
at them. “I’m going to blow the door. You’ll have to fight your way in. His
name is General Creen and he’s in the basement.”
    Fausto nodded, his face deathly
pale. He’d lost a lot of blood.
    “Listen to me. Please. My name
was Ryan Butler. The Authority took me when I was eight years old. Eight
years old . I’m so sorry…” he said, pausing to gather himself, “I’m so sorry
for what I’ve done.”
    With that he peeled the adhesive
strip from the face of the grip charge he’d been holding and threw it toward
the fortified door of the brewery. The charge buzzed through the air, drawing
shouts of surprise from the guards stationed there. They dove for cover but it
was too late; the explosion obliterated concrete and flesh alike, leaving a
gaping hole in the side of the facility.
    Butler was on his feet before the
charge had found its mark. He ducked the burst of debris and, when the smoke
had cleared, filled the space with gunfire. Stunned bulls returned fire,
cutting the man down, but his bravery had better than evened the odds for Ruiz
and Norton, who easily cleaned up the few remaining bulls.
    Norton was unnerved by the
stillness inside the brewery. The three of them had killed at least ten
bulls—maybe more. He scanned to his right as Verlander guided a group of about
twenty remaining soldiers through the campground. Verlander fired single shots
from his sidearm into injured bulls along the way.
    “Unbelievable!” he said, joining
them in the brewery. “I knew you two were something special. Let’s move, men!
The basement!”
    Enormous vats stood rusting on
the warehouse floor. The Authority occupied offices against the far wall but,
if anyone remained inside of those rooms, Norton couldn’t see them.
    The remaining fighters formed a
loose phalanx, Stump and Verlander and Ruiz and Norton in the center. They
crept toward the offices. Verlander stopped them; he motioned silently for his
company to make their weapons ready.
    Then, as if cued from some
producer backstage, armor-clad bulls funneled into the distillery, fanning out
behind the vats. Fresh rounds of automatic gunfire erupted in the confined
space and Norton understood, in that moment of perfect fury, what the end of the
world would sound like.
    Norton gulped air as the
firefight raged all around them, but they were outnumbered and outgunned.
    When the smoke cleared, the room
fell silent. “Alain Verlander!” called one of the bulls. “The general requests
a conference. We guarantee your safety.”
    “Don’t do it, V,” Stump warned.
“Shit in staggering amounts is what these ones are full of.” Bryan thought he
could detect the lilt of an accent—Irish, maybe?
    “General Creen guarantees my
safety?” Verlander replied. “Is he here? Is he here now?”
    “The general is close, Verlander.
We can take you to him. Show yourself. Your men will be spared.”
    In that moment, Norton was all
but assured that they would all be slaughtered. The bull’s words dripped with
treachery. Norton bit his lip, suddenly heartsick for his wife and parents.
    “Ha!” Verlander shouted. “Ha, ha!
You open, weeping, godforsaken sores ! You stains upon the face of the
good goddamned Earth! You abortions of justice and nature!” He spat the words
in a guttural snarl.
    “Have it your way,” the bull
replied calmly. “Archers.”
    The room went still again, and
then Verlander was shrieking at his men. “Cover yourselves! Take cover,
men—move!”
    There was a flurry of activity
and Norton felt Fausto’s arm on his shoulder, and then they were sprinting
toward a storage closet, the air around them filled with a buzzing like a great
swarm of locusts.
    Norton didn’t know the weapon,
but it