Everyone knew what they had to do, and setting out turned into a surprisingly orderly procession. Like the cars before, we spaced out the fireteams to ensure that there was enough distance between us that if one group drew unwanted attention, not everyone else would die the very next second. Nate, Hamilton, and the rest of my people went first, with Scott’s marines next. We were the second-to-last group, and by that time, Nate had turned into little more than a spec down the road, a good mile ahead of us. I’d been afraid that we would have over forty-five miles of duck-and-dash in front of us, but at least for now, as long as we went as silently as possible, we could walk, until someone roused a shambler out of its heat-and-sunlight-hours stupor. I’d debated for hours which main weapon to take with me and had finally settled on my shotgun, figuring that I was fucked anyway if I had to use it, but then close-quarter damage might buy me a few more seconds. I also had two handguns, and ammo for assault rifles, which, should I need it, I could likely pick up from someone else who couldn’t use his any longer. The shotgun was on its sling now and my tomahawks were in my sweaty hands. I was praying that, like in the past, I would be able to use them moderately silently and efficiently.
I had the distinct feeling that, should I be wrong, I’d have very little time to regret my decisions.
Hours passed, the heat of the day getting worse and worse—and with the slowly dwindling distance to the city, the stench increased exponentially, soon making breathing difficult even when I covered my nose and mouth with the scarf. I’d expected it to get bad, but it was much worse than that. The tornado that must have created the roadblock where we’d left the cars must have done more cleanup than had been apparent, because once we traipsed into relatively undisturbed territory, I soon felt like we were trudging through a garbage dump. It wasn’t even the stench of the dead so much as everything else and the terrible mixture that cacophony of stench created. More than one of our merry band ended up hunched over, retching as stealthily as possible. The heat and latent dehydration only added to that.
In short, before long, getting ripped apart by zombies didn’t sound that horrible anymore. At least then I’d be rid of this misery.
During the worst of the afternoon heat, we hid wherever we found shade for brief intervals. As much as the hot daytime hours were safest for us from a getting-eaten perspective, none of that would help if we ended up dying of heatstroke instead. While feeling miserable, I was happy to realize I was doing moderately well, as were the other girls. One of Scott’s marines collapsed mid-stride, forcing that team to take a somewhat longer break—which was easily facilitated by shuffling them to the very end of our procession, buying that poor guy another twenty minutes extra from that alone. Since we were making relatively good progress, Nate ordered everyone to keep hydrating, but to make sure not to end up puking from too much hot water sloshing in our stomachs. Even if we ran out and couldn’t find a moderately clean source to replenish, we stood a good chance of running on fumes for a good two more days after the last drop was spent, but collapsing for good before that would be a death sentence—Scott’s guy was a good warning for that. He was still looking queasy but was able to resume the journey after that little extra respite.
At least for the first ten miles, things looked moderately doable. A few times one of the teams met with some sluggish, rotten-down-to-the-skeleton opposition but overall, the highway was blissfully free of shamblers. The area surrounding the highway was more rural than I expected, with lots of free space. Beyond, homes and single-story stores started to cluster closer together—and I had no doubt that the ever-thickening maze of buildings was home to critters, particularly of the two-legged kind—but our route was, if not clear, passable on foot. Enough obstacles were piled up or haphazardly strewn across the lanes and surrounding area to make walking in a straight line for a minute or longer impossible, but there was no need to climb over or squeeze under anything. It was impossible not to notice that looting had virtually not taken place, making me guess that the outbreak had hit the city hard and fast, the only wave of looters present becoming food for the first zombies to spring back to life. Of the few doors we could see, most had been busted open—or were next to broken windows—typical of escaping undead ready to go foraging after devouring everything they’d been able to find wherever they had been locked in. While I was sure they had in the years since then scoured every inch of the city for edible things, there must be tons and tons of other things left that enterprising assholes like us could have put to good use. Maybe in a decade or two from now enough of the undead would have been killed or wandered off to reclaim some of those treasures.
Staying alert got hard past the six-hour mark, and impossible at eight. The sun was still blasting down on us, the hottest hours of the day just about over but leaving us no less miserable for it. Ahead, I could see an interconnected web of roads rise up at an intersection—that of the turnpike crossing our highway. A light level of trepidation started up at the back of my mind—shamblers loved tunnels—but as we drew closer, I realized that while there was inviting shade, little of it was permanent. I was so fucking glad to realize that Nate called for a stop once they reached the middle of the first overpass that I could have whooped, and almost did until my mind cut down on my accidental, suicidal impulsiveness. Right.
Scott’s group behind us reached the rest just a minute after we arrived. I was honestly surprised that we were still at full strength, but our trip had, so far, turned out rather anticlimactic. I sure hoped it would continue like that, but doubted that would happen. Nate—having spent the twenty-five-minute rest wisely that he got until we caught up with them—was already on his feet while most others lounged on the dried-up grass or against a car wreck. Vain little me expected him to at least give me a smile but he went straight over to Cole, the two of them conversing in hushed tones. Cole looked less than happy from whatever he was told, but after stalling for a second he dropped his pack and, using slow and deliberate motions, extricated something from the very top of it. A small drone, I realized—what must have been one of the last still in existence. Or not; for all I knew, the army had bunkers full of them stashed away somewhere. They must have had that one along when they met up with us to storm the camp, but the terrible weather kept it from being useful. Now, in the heat without any noticeable wind blowing, it was much better suited for reconnaissance.
I silently watched as Nate, Cole, and Hamilton moved first away from us, then saw them climb one of the overhead passes of the intersection. The single lanes were split from each other, giving the entire intersection a futuristic feel—or the parts that were still standing. Two of the upward ramps lay in smashed hunks of concrete across the roads branching off from our highway, and the trio had to walk a good mile to get to an overpass that didn’t look ready to join the others. I still didn’t like having to watch and hope that I’d soon be a widow thanks to some static oversights. On the highest point, they stopped, partly hidden between yet more wrecks, and about a minute later I saw a speck zoom away toward the city, the drone doing its thing. The barely audible whine of its engine made my anxiety spike, but nothing around us burst from hiding spaces. I had no idea how fast that drone was flying, but sure didn’t mind getting a little more rest for every moment that it was underway. A good thirty minutes passed before it returned, landing right up there on that overpass. Nate waved at us, signaling us to join them where the ramp on the other side touched down on the ground once more, so up and forward it was.
Using the mud-splattered hood of a car to unfold a map of the city, Nate gestured the fireteam leaders to gather around him. I knew that technically meant Richards, but nobody protested when I joined them as well. Pitching his voice to barely above a whisper, Nate explained the situation. “We’re here,” he pointed at the intersection, “and the roads are more or less clear until Glencoe park, here.” He traced the thick line of our highway until close enough to downtown that my heart skipped a beat. It couldn’t be that easy, right?
Of course it wasn’t. “It’s only seven miles to our destination from there, but that will be one grueling stretch, even if we best it in the daylight and manage not to alert any squatters. We should start that stretch in the morning, as soon as the shamblers go underground, and hope for the best.”
That didn’t sound so bad—until I realized the implications. “You mean, tomorrow morning?” I whispered back, absolutely not liking a thing about this.
Nate briefly glanced at the others before giving a curt nod. “We can make it if we walk through the night.”
I was already shaking my head, although less in denial than pure exhaustion. “We’ll be too tired to run.”
Hamilton, of course, had to interject there. “If we need to run, we’re already dead.”
He had a point there. Still…
“What’s the rush?” I whispered. “We’ve been making good progress so far. A day won’t make a difference.”
Nate grimaced, but instead of answering he laced his fingers next to the car, nodding for me to let him boost me up onto the roof of the SUV. I hesitated but then accepted his offer, confused—until my focus fell on the stretch of road behind us. I’d missed it from where we had been squatting in the shade, but there was unmistakable movement behind us, enough to churn up dust. My immediate instinct was to jump down, but I accepted the binoculars that Nate handed me. Sure enough, a mass of zombies was drawing closer, stretched out across both the inbound and outbound lanes. They were still too far away to see details, but I didn’t need to count them to know trouble when I saw it.
Back on ground level, Nate leaned in, murmuring into my ear. “Not sure whether they can smell us, or whether that’s a pattern they follow on their own, but they are coming after us. We could hunker down in a building away from the road and hope it’s the latter, but if it’s the former, we’re in deep shit. Still think my suggestion to walk us all into the ground is a bad one?”
I shook my head, gnawing on my bottom lip to keep from giving a verbal answer that was absolutely unnecessary.
Nate gave me a moment, then turned to the others. “Get your people ready. We move out in five.”
Those five minutes felt more like five hours. It took a lot for me to try to remain calm and collected. Somehow, the knowledge that the only way now was forward, with likely no rest in sight until we had reached our destination—and cleaned it out, too—wasn’t exactly comforting. I knew I could do it; I had pretty much spent a week twiddling my thumbs and sitting on my ass, and my body had plenty of reserves to burn. But guessing we might not get much rest was a different ball game than knowing we’d be lucky if all we needed to do would be more walking through the entire night. I tried to do a quick calculation in my head—if we continued at this speed and nothing got in our way, we’d reach our destination by late morning tomorrow. Somehow, the sea of undead building up behind us made me doubt it would work quite like that. Considering we’d already walked the ungodly distance of a marathon today, I wasn’t even sure whether the shamblers would be the variable in this.
Nate hadn’t explained to the others what was amassing behind us, but I was certain that by the time we set out, everyone knew exactly what was going on. He still had us leave in a staggered procession, but no longer were we spread out over more than a mile—more like a few hundred yards. The sun was in rapid decline now, sending long shadows onto the road ahead of us as the sky turned all shades of yellow and red. With maybe two hours until sunset left, and every fiber of my being screaming for a longer rest, even adrenaline wasn’t quite enough to keep me alert and moving at a brisk pace. It wasn’t long until I felt a new rush of energy flood through my body as the damn serum did its thing, mobilizing reserves I absolutely needed. Before Hamilton’s big reveal I would have welcomed the rush; now, it made me fidgety, and not just because of my possible demise coming from that very sensation. If any of the others happened to turn now, a few guttural screams would likely be enough to send the entire resident population running for us. Gee, just what I needed.
I didn’t protest when Nate signaled Richards that we would be group two, with Blake taking point. Scott remained our taillight, but a little bit of rest seemed to have been all his guy needed to not become a true liability. The first mile or two, it was hard to keep myself to an even pace as all I wanted to do was run. Every time I looked back, I thought I could see movement with the naked eye, but knew that was impossible—unless a different group had found our trail. With my body gearing up for a fight—or a long night of playing hide-and-seek with the undead—I dug into my pack and forced myself to wolf down some of the provisions I was carrying. With luck, it would be an hour or more until I’d have a reason for more adrenaline to leak into my bloodstream, either from fight or flight, and I wanted some extra energy available by then—and me not ready to puke it all up from exhaustion. I couldn’t exactly claim that I’d grown accustomed to the stench or that it had lessened in any way, but survival proved to be a great motivator. I wasn’t the only one going for that option, and while the odd grimace appeared on a sweat-soaked face, nobody complained out loud. We were heading almost true south now with the sun disappearing to the west, the temperatures dropping a momentary relief—but not exactly welcome.
There was still the need to squint when looking to the right into the setting sun when the first growls and howls echoed through the dusk, reminding me awfully of the time we’d spent in Sioux Falls, way back when Bates was still alive and my skin had been pristine without a single tattooed mark on it. Only that city had been small enough to walk from one end to the other in hours, and we had been safe up on top of the hospital building. We’d also been stupid enough to catch super-juiced zombies to find out how to best kill them—not some of my proudest moments. Apparently, similar patterns were going on here with the zombies keeping a nocturnal lifestyle.
Just how much that was true was proven at our next waypoint up ahead—the junction of US-75 with US-635, a good six miles after our longest rest. We reached it around twenty minutes after sunset, only a few of the highest lanes far above our road still illuminated. I had no trouble seeing in the lengthening shadows—and that included what was lurking in said shadows, coming stumbling, crawling, and running into the lanes from the surrounding urban sprawl. I didn’t need Red’s warning signal to duck behind the next barrier, a small car so rusted that its previous paint job was impossible to guess at. Hill squeezed in behind me, with Richards, Gallager, and Cole disappearing behind a slightly larger limousine. The impulse to stay hidden was strong, but I forced myself to creep alongside the car to get a better view, and then skip on ahead to the next vehicle, and the next. While most of my body enjoyed the momentary stop-and-go, the soles of my feet didn’t, and my mind wasn’t too happy about the reason, either. As we kept inching forward, more and more shamblers came flooding in from all sides, making one thing obvious: if we waited much longer on this side of the intersection, it was anyone’s guess how long we’d get bogged down. The next two groups were already catching up to us, our stragglers not far behind them, and Nate did exactly what I would have gone for: he gave us the signal to move forward, if need be on our own, without waiting for the rest of our team. I had no intention of abandoning Richards and his men, but signaled Red to spread out further. That way, a one-in-two chance of getting caught easily turned into one-in-five, or even one-in-twenty-five, if I considered all the others as well. Somehow I doubted Hamilton would run into a sudden lack of luck and be that one, but a girl could hope.
The last hints of light in the sky died as I reached the first lane splitting to the right which seemed to be the start of the zombie thoroughfare. Cars were crammed bumper to bumper everywhere, a lot of them closer as they’d turned into joint scrap-metal sculptures, but that didn’t slow the shamblers down at all. The stench increased the closer I got, making me guess they loved to mark their favorite routes by defecating all over them—or maybe that just happened after years and years of following the same tracks. I felt mys
elf gag and it took a lot not to start retching for real. To regain complete control over my body and senses, I paused, letting Gallager overtake me—which turned out to be a wrong move. For him.
I had just about time to tense when I caught motion from the side as Gallager stepped out of hiding behind one car to move to the next. Then, he suddenly wasn’t there anymore. Growls and a cut-off gurgle came from farther to my left, mercifully out of sight. My mind screamed for me to back away and disappear, but instead I inched forward to where the zombies had tackled the young soldier. Sure enough, there was an empty patch of pavement, created by a truck slamming into several cars and pushing them aside, the gridlock around them preventing others from moving in. Roughly in the middle of it lay Gallager, back bent grotesquely over his pack, with one shambler tearing into his face, the other his neck. Already, three more were coming in, vaulting over the cars. Gallager’s body was shaking but I doubted that he was still alive. The scent of blood that hit me was strong enough to be noticeable over the stench. The newcomers reached the site of slaughter and joined right in, effectively tearing the fresh corpse apart. More and more came, pushing through the group that had already found their hunk of fresh meat. In less than twenty seconds, there wasn’t enough left that could have reanimated and fought, independent of whether Gallager had been inoculated with the serum or not.
Green Fields Series Box Set | Vol. 4 | Books 10-12 Page 58
