The Genesis Plague (2010)

contaminated by anthrax, with a shot preacher lying on the floor, would qualify as romance. But I’m looking for a safe bet. So yeah, let’s call it a date.’

75
IRAQ
    Ramirez blazed like a thunderbolt through the cave, determined to return to the outside world in record time. Doing his best to keep the light directed towards the dodgy ground, he pumped his arms and legs like pistons, remembering how it felt to sprint the fifty at high school track meets. Normally he’d be looking over his shoulder for anyone sneaking up in his wake. For this race, however, he wasn’t looking back.
    He could barely stomach the idea of his niece’s caged gerbil, Felix. The hell with Felix. Felix was nothing but a pimped-out mouse.
    But rats? A cave full of huge, filthy rats? Repulsive. Made his nuts pull up into his stomach. And these rats seemed to be out for blood. The way they came at him like that? Pursued him? That couldn’t be normal. Rats didn’t eat live meat, did they? he wondered. But they sure liked the taste of Holt. The poor bastard was covered in the things. And there was nothing Ramirez could’ve done about it. It’s not like he could’ve swatted them away or shot them off Holt’s chest. There were so many of them.
    There was only one option: run … hard .
    Back in the cave, when he’d discarded his M-16, he’d barely glimpsed Hazo marooned on top of one those sadistic breeding kennels where some twisted psycho nurtured those flesh-eating-rodents-from-Hell. He’d be sure to send some guys with flamethrowers and grenades back inside to fry the critters and pull Hazo out - assuming he didn’t die from demon pestilence first.
    As Ramirez tore through the tunnel, the squealing din faded and he became confident he’d make it out from the mountain unscathed. In fact, it sounded as if the rats had stayed inside the cave.
    Ramirez’s relief, however, instantly withered when up ahead in the tunnel’s dark throat, a series of bright flashes coincided perfectly with the metallic hammering of automatic gunfire delivered at point-blank range.
    The bullets struck him low - one shattering his left kneecap, six more to the groin and thighs. His legs instantly went out and his face slammed into the ground like a pile driver. It was so fast, so shocking, that he didn’t even scream. With all the adrenaline pumping through his system, even the pain was slow coming.
    But when the gunman emerged into the glowing cone of his fumbled flashlight, the sting of treachery came instantaneously.
    ‘Crawford?’ he groaned, blood streaming into his right eye from a ragged gash that split his forehead. ‘Wh - why?’
    There was no answer. The colonel simply pressed the M-16’s muzzle against Ramirez’s head and delivered the kill shot.

76
    The huge rodents - bodies as large as eggplants - were teeming over Holt, clawing their way up his legs, chest and back. Hazo watched in horror as the marine flailed his arms violently, flinging rats in every direction. Blood covered dozens of tattered holes in his sleeves where he’d been bitten (though his flak jacket had protected his torso). A sickly-looking thing squirmed up on to his shoulder and sank its teeth into his ear. Holt screamed in rage, tore it free, hurled it into the darkness like a football. By then, another horde of rats was grappling up his pant legs. Trudging through the knee-deep brood, it looked as if Holt were slogging through wet cement.
    ‘Up here!’ Hazo screamed again. ‘Up—’
    The coughing seized his voice again. Spitting up more blood and bile, Hazo watched helplessly as Holt tried to quicken his pace. Then desperation and frustration got the better of Holt and he raised his knees to try to run. It was a costly mistake.
    Trampling the spongy rats underfoot caused Holt to lose his footing. He faltered, caught himself, faltered again. The rats piled on to him. He got back up again and shook some of them free, before slipping and going down a final time.
    Hazo shined his light on the spot, praying that Holt would get up.
    He didn’t.
    The rats swarmed over their prey.
    Holt’s arms thrashed a few more times, as if he were drowning. Then he disappeared beneath the roiling current.
    ‘Hazo!’ a voice called out over the maddening squeals.
    Hazo turned and saw Shuster pulling himself up over the edge of the neighbouring container. He’d lost his helmet and his pant legs were torn up and bloody. Otherwise, he seemed unharmed. ‘Are you all right?’