Day by Day Armageddon: Shattered Hourglass
J. L. Bourne
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The acclaimed military thriller of the zombie apocalypse from the author of Day by Day Armageddon and Day by Day Armageddon: Beyond Exile!
In a desperate bid to take back the continental United States—where hordes of undead now dominate the ravaged human population—a Navy commander leads a global mission to the heart of the pandemic. Task Force Hourglass is humanity’s final hope, and his team’s agonizing decisions could mean living one more day—or surrendering to the eternal hell that exists between life and death.
another call from Deep Sea. “More reaction to your noise, Hourglass. Haul ass to the facility, it’s not far from you now.” Kil reached breakneck speeds; the undead vectored into his rearview mirror, chasing the noise signature of the truck. They slung around a dogleg corner at sixty kilometers per hour, back wheels in a power slide. They were at the facility. Kil backed the truck into the fence and shut it down. The men tossed their packs and a heavy Halligan bar over before traversing the
chimed in, “We’re still working on a plan to restore carrier operations, but only a reconnaissance capability at this point. Fuel and aircraft are a problem. The jet’s maintenance schedules can’t be met; we only have a handful of mission-capable Hornets, and we need to reserve those for any possible incoming UCAVs. We still have a respectable number of helicopters, but we’re short on pilots. The catapults and arresting gear all need depot-level maintenance and we’re down to our last four
used it. Move fast in the open. Protect your eyes—face splatter probably means infection.” The team listened politely, but Kil felt as if they were humoring him to an extent. “If you have no choice but to take shelter on the ground level, do so on top of a hill and inside of a car or truck with your hand on the e-brake. That way if you get overrun, you can pull the brake and roll down, away from the threat. In small numbers they’re no challenge, but when you start looking at numbers over ten,
movement caught their eyes as a small group of survivors armed with baseball bats were weaving around the creatures and between abandoned cars. The orbital mechanics of the reconnaissance satellite above New York caused the viewing angle on the screens to skew oddly. Both men silently watched the survivors. Doomed. The phenomenon was spreading too quickly and there was nowhere to run. The Lincoln Tunnel billowed smoke from both ends. Fighter aircraft had already destroyed the bridges in a
past few days. • • • A broom fell outside Larry’s quarters, landing softly against his bunk. Larry passed through the door and began his search. The first door he came to was Crusow’s. He turned the knob with no success. After hitting the bulkhead in protest, he moved to the next door. Larry’s right foot left behind peculiar footprints; marks that didn’t look like feet, but more like sponges dipped in red paint. The 550 paracord tether that Larry had used to secure himself to his rack had