CHAPTER ONE

CHIHUAHUA DESERT, TERLINGUA, TX

E'HEYTA

When E'Heyta finally regained consciousness, she had a screaming headache and what was probably a bruised rib. She forced herself to sit up, groaning in pain, and looked around at her ship to see how bad the damage was. Immediately, she knew that it was going to be a hard few weeks of repairs.

The ship's hull was intact, and she thanked Paya for that stroke of good fortune. But unfortunately, she knew from the sparks flying from the control panel that it was completely fried–and she'd used her spare parts fixing the damage done when a Bad Blood tried to booby-trap her ship. Fortunately, the equipment that really needed replacement could be cobbled together from ooman parts. However, stealing the parts required would be exceedingly difficult without drawing attention.

Not that she had any doubts about her skills. She just liked to be cautious.

She rose to her feet, massaging her temples to ease the pain in her skull. Then she staggered through her ship to the sleeping quarters and checked the closets. She breathed a prayer of thanks when she found her armor, still intact and in working order. She quickly donned it over the short top and loincloth she wore when on her ship–when she had crashed, she hadn't worn her armor, but now she was in potentially hostile territory with Cetanu-only-knew what kind of climate and dangerous creatures.

"Of all the planets I had to crash on…" she grumbled to herself as she grabbed her weapons. She had four main weapons–a Yautja bow and quiver full of arrows, a longsword (al'nagara in her language), and a pair of plasma pistols (taun'dcha) passed down from her mother's line. These were the specialty weapons she trained for proficiency in.

Besides these, she had the usual weapons every hunter carried–a combistick (ki'cti-pa), wrist blades (dah'kte), smart disc (chakt-ra), speargun (brahk-chei) and a shoulder-mounted plasmacaster (sivk'va-tai). She had achieved a level of mastery with all of her equipment that even some of her peers hadn't reached. She was well-respected by her female counterparts and had become a desirable prospect for mating on her homeworld. However, she preferred to focus on the hunt–there would be time for mating and bearing children later on.

E'Heyta was truly beautiful by many races' standards. She stood a good seven and a half feet tall, which placed her in the average height range for her people. She had a curvy, yet muscular figure that many of her people envied. Her scaly skin was the color of driven sand crossed with black stripes, and her armor was a brushed bronze that gleamed in the dim light of her damaged ship. The feature she took the most pride in, however, was her head of flowing tresses, which jingled from the red and gold ornaments that were hung in it–clasps, beads, and piercings that symbolized successful and honorable hunts.

She drew one of her taun'dcha, checked the safety, and lowered the entrance ramp to her ship, absentmindedly twirling her weapon on her finger as she waited for the ramp to open fully. As the sunlight flooded into her ship, she was hit with a blast of dry heat and sighed in ecstasy. She came from a region of her homeworld, Yautja Prime, that was mostly arid desert. Perhaps her luck wasn't so bad after all.

She stepped off her ship with her taun'dcha at the ready, looking around to see if there were unfriendly eyes on her. There weren't any lifeforms that she could see, but she did take a moment to enjoy the heat of the sun on her skin. Then she suddenly looked at the hull of her ship and groaned in a mixture of fury and anguish.

The Hellstreak was more than just her ship–it was her pride and joy. Where other females her age were sizing up males back home, she was out caring for, flying, and modifying the Hellstreak. To many, it could be considered her child.

Right now, however, it was a mess.

Though the hull was intact, her long-range communicator had been completely torn out of its housing. The Hellstreak's paint job had special properties that allowed it to avoid radar detection, blend in with its surroundings, and just look amazing. E'Heyta wasn't usually one for aesthetics, but she did enjoy painting the Hellstreak. It was supposed to be the antithesis to her coloring–black with tan stripes–but the paint had now been scraped off completely in several places to reveal the steel underneath. She still had some of the tactical paint left, but it would take a long time to redo the paint job and fix the communicator.

"Focus," she told herself. Right now, the priority was to find sustenance. Her ship's primary systems (life support, climate control, etc.) were undamaged and would last a long time, but she had to find food and water in order to capitalize on that small favor.

She scanned the horizon with her biomask and spotted a large settlement about twelve klicks to the east. She immediately set out for it, hoping to find some prey to kill along the way.

MICHAEL

The sun beat down on the corrugated roof of the auto body shop as the men worked. It was a hot Friday afternoon, and most of the guys inside were more than ready to get home, go to the fights the next day, and enjoy the weekend.

One of them, a young Mexican male whose face was covered in tattoos, turned to his companion as they checked the brakes on a Chevy Silverado. "So, you think about my offer?"

His companion, an African-American man with a black and white bandana around his forehead, lowered his wrench and looked at him. "Uh, not really, man. Haven't had much time."

The Mexican man sighed. "Dude, come on! You haven't broken the monotony in a month! It's always work, home. Work, home. Work, home." His eyes opened wide and he said, "I am Michael Santana. I am a robot. Humans will be enslaved. Resist and you will be destroyed."

"Shut up, Chato!" The Black man replied. He faked anger, but couldn't hold back his laughter.

Truth be told, 21-year-old Michael Santana knew his cousin, Chato, was right. He was a diligent worker at Matthew Brazos' shop, but he didn't really get out much. Since he got back from his tour in Urzikstan with Operation Deadbolt, he hadn't really felt up to socializing with other people. Although, that was probably for the best…considering what he'd seen out there.

Before Michael could stray too far down Memory Lane, he heard Matt Valdez, the owner of the body shop, yelling, "¡Oye! Quitting time, boys! Come to the office and get your pay, then you can all go home."

Michael sighed in relief. "Finally!" He slid out from underneath the truck and climbed off his car creeper carefully–he didn't need everybody in the place laughing at him like the other Dogs had when he fell off his creeper in the motor pool. As he bounced to his feet, wiping off his head with his black and white American flag bandanna, he helped Chato to his feet.

Michael and Chato were a recipe for disaster when they were together–which was often. They were related on their fathers' side of the family, and since their fathers had been close friends all their lives, Michael and Chato had maintained the same relationship. When they'd graduated high school, they both opted out of college. Michael went into the military, becoming the youngest member of the US Army Special Forces ever. Chato decided to join ATF–as he'd put it on the day he received his first assignment, "You hit 'em overseas, I'll mop up the scum at home." They'd both dodged a fair amount of bullets in their careers, but what Michael had been through was very different from Chato's experiences.

The two young men collected their pay and left the shop. As they went, Michael overheard two of their coworkers mumbling to each other.

"...yeah, Ana said she could see a sand cloud from that far away," said one, a muscular Black welder with a tattoo of a heart on his shoulder. "First, she thought it was a sandstorm."

"I saw it too. But since when do sandstorms have blue lightning in 'em?" asked the other, a slim white man with red hair.

Immediately Michael's head snapped to look at them. "Hey, Dewey. Leo. What's going on?"

Dewey, the slim one, jumped. "H-hey, Mike," he stammered nervously. "Uh, Leo and I were just shootin' the breeze. You know."

Michael shut Dewey up with a glare, then looked at his companion. "Leo?"

Leo looked at Dewey, who gave a microscopic shake of his head, then shrugged and said, "Some kinda comet crashed in the desert about seven miles out. Ana could see the impact–said it looked like a sandstorm, but there were blue lightning bolts in it."

Michael didn't react overtly, but Chato noticed that he clenched his fists tightly at the mention of blue lightning bolts. He only knew of one thing in the world that emanated blue energy.

Horrible memories flashed through his mind–memories of a foul stench clogging his nose, gunfire in the air all around, the screams of the dying…and the harsher shrieking and roaring of the undead. He gritted his teeth, willing the noises to fade away, and said, "Any idea where it landed?"

"Northeastern side of Big Bend, I think," Leo said. "The park rangers cordoned off the site."

Michael sighed. "Okay. Cool. Have a good weekend, guys." He walked away, Chato following closely.

"Hey, Mike," Chato said. Michael kept walking toward their Ford F-150.

"Mike, c'mon."

Michael didn't answer as he climbed into the truck. When Chato clambered in after him, he slapped Michael's hand away from the radio.

"Chato, what the–"

"Michael, listen to me!" Chato said. The tattooed skull on his face rippled as he glared at his taller cousin. Michael started the truck and drove, pointedly avoiding Chato's stare.

"Listen to me," Chato said again. "You never fully told me what went down in Urzikstan, but I always knew there was more to it. So I…" His voice caught in his throat, but Michael's eyes widened as he pulled the truck over.

"You didn't," he whispered.

"Look, I talked to Tío D-Day, all right? He told me about Operation Deadbolt. About…the zombies."

Michael barely contained a laugh–of fury, not mirth. "You know…I thought you would trust that there were some things you didn't want to know. I know you went through some bad stuff with ATF, but I've never gone to your battle buddies–behind your back–and asked questions about events YOU DIDN'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT!" Michael's voice rose to a scream as he pummeled the steering wheel with his fists, honking the horn a few times. When he'd finished beating the wheel, he rested his head on his hands, breathing heavily.

Chato put his hand on Michael's shoulder. "Look…I'm sorry, Mike. Okay? But we both know how you get when you try to keep things hidden. It doesn't end well."

Michael raised his head and nodded. "You're right. I'm…I'm sorry. It's just–"

"Well, you were legally obligated not to tell me," Chato said jokingly. "So you kinda had to keep it secret unless you wanted to see the inside of Fort Leavenworth."

Michael let out a hoarse laugh. "Yeah, good point." He sighed. "Let's just go home."

"Yeah," said Chato. "We're gonna need our energy, anyway."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Dude, we're just watching recaps of the

weigh-ins and stuff. That hardly counts–"

"No!" Chato shouted. "Meteor hunting."

Michael gave Chato a small glance. "Really?"

"Look. If it is an Element 115 meteor, then it needs to be destroyed, right? Otherwise it'll reanimate every dead creature in a large radius?"

Michael nodded.

"Well, then it's up to us, because I can get us past the rangers, and you're the only one who knows how to destroy it. So I'll, set the VCR to record ESPN tonight–"

"Thank God we still have that thing," Michael said with a chuckle. Chato nodded in agreement and continued, "-we go home, get some food, suit up and grab a few explosives, and send this whatever-it-is to Hell the hard way."

Michael sighed. "Sounds fun, but I can't. I got patrol."

Chato nodded. "Okay. You want me to check it out solo?"

"No. Let's get out there tomorrow–during the day."

Chato nodded as the truck drove down the road.