The shot stunned the animal. It came from a smaller caliber bullet, not enough to stop him, but then another shot came. Colt laid his body against cab, away from the loud burst and the angle of attack. Then another shot, until finally the beast fell from the tailgate.
Dylan shifted into drive and drove away from the property, leaving the animal to limp away. Colt watched until the beast finally laid down. He tapped on the window to alert Dylan to stop. Colt walked off the end of the tailgate and stared at the animal in the distance. The lion’s chest rose and fell. He waited there until its final breath, then turned and entered the truck, driving away for good.
11
The click of the blinker resounded inside the cab of the truck as Colt stared ahead at Highway 285 that crossed in front of their truck. They could either turn right and head back north toward Denver or turn left and make their way toward Colorado Springs. Dylan wondered why his father lingered in the silence after Jake made their path clear, at least that’s what Colt said back at Walter’s house.
“Dad, what are we doing?” Dylan asked.
Colt shook away from his thoughts, then glanced to his son.
“I was waiting to see if there were any passing cars.”
Five minutes had passed since they’d stopped, and with Highway 285 being a busy highway that led deep into the Rocky Mountains, it seemed peculiar that no other vehicle had driven by as they waited to turn.
Dylan whipped his head to the right, then all three Maddox men looked left. No movement.
“Huh,” Colt said. But what had he expected?
He spun the wheel left and sped south. It wasn’t until they reached the outskirts of Fairplay that they came upon the first of many abandoned vehicles. From a mile off, as they descended from an elevated decline, they could see cars stopped in the middle of the highway. Colt slowed as he approached the first sedan. It was not an older sedan, either—one you wouldn’t figure to see broken down.
The car was stalled in his lane, and as they passed, all three looked inside. It was empty. Why would someone abandon their vehicle in the middle of the highway? Colt returned his attention out the windshield and approached another vehicle, one facing him. He swerved back into his own lane, and as they passed, again all watched, and again the vehicle was empty.
Ahead was a jackknifed eighteen-wheeler that blocked visibility of the city they were approaching, and the only way around was to drive on the shoulder. Colt proceeded slowly and stared into the back end of the semi. The hatch was wide open, and it was dark inside. A knot formed in his belly as he held onto Wesley. Anyone could’ve easily hunkered down for safety or made in a new home in this empty trailer.
“Dad, what do you think that thing was hauling?” Dylan asked.
“No idea.” Colt said, but as they moved beyond the backend and drove onto the gravel of the shoulder, Dylan’s question was answered. Pictures of produce—apples, oranges, bananas, cucumbers, peppers and onions—were displayed on the side. At the sight of the food, Colt touched the brake and slowed to a stop.
“What are you doing?” Dylan said.
Colt threw the truck into park, knowing the value of what could’ve awaited them. With the lack of food available to them and unsure of how long it would take them to make it to Colorado Springs, Colt needed to stockpile as much food as he could find. “That’s a grocery truck. Did you see any contents toward the front of the trailer as we drove by?”
“No, why?”
“Because if there is food in there, we’re going to take it.”
“Won’t that be stealing, Daddy?” Wesley’s innocence shone through.
He grinned at his son. “No, son. Not this time.” Colt stepped outside, then reached into the backseat and lifted his Browning. “I’ll be right back. Be on alert. If you see anything suspicious, honk the horn.”
Colt opened the chamber of the rifle, making sure a round was loaded. He hunched over as he walked, keeping his ears perked at the presence of an unwanted sound. He glanced left as he crossed the backend of the semi, back toward the first abandoned car. He hadn’t noticed it as they passed, but it was glaring now as he looked on. The sedan had a crumpled front end. From the looks of it, the accident didn’t appear fresh, maybe one from a different time, perhaps that was the reason for the abandonment and not the current state of things.
Casting the thought aside, Colt peered into the hollow cavity.
“Damnit,” Colt said at first, but then something in the back corner caught his eye.
He moved forward, squinting, doing his best to see, but couldn’t make out the contents. He needed to step inside, but before he jumped on board, he checked on his sons. Each boy caught the eye of their father. They were fine. Colt smiled, then disappeared from their sight, pulling himself into the trailer.
The fifty three foot walk felt like an eternity. With each step, he couldn’t help but think about his sons and that he no longer had a visual on them. He started into a jog and once he got ten feet into the trailer, he could make out a stack of apples pushed against the wall.
He pulled the bottom of his shirt out and piled the fruit on top, the cotton acting as a cradle. His left hand held onto the apples, and his right gripped his rifle. Once he turned around, he waddled toward the opening, making sure none of the fruit fell to the floor and bruised.
His smile widened. These five apples could last them a day, maybe two if they needed.
But that smile disappeared as quickly as it came at the sight of an infected man.
In his own shock, Colt released the bottom of his shirt and let the apples fall. The infected man was in the distance, behind the stalled vehicle. He hadn’t seen Colt, not yet. It wasn’t until the first piece of fruit hit the wood and metal on the floor of the trailer, that the infected man shifted his deadpan gaze and caught a glimpse of Colt.
With the apples rolling on the floor, Colt lifted the stock of his Browning and peered through his sights. But the infected man didn’t wait there, instead, in a straight sprint, he ran for Colt. Once again, it was decision making time. With no idea what was happening with his boys, Colt considered leaping from the trailer and retreating for the truck, but that would just lead the infected to his sons. Knowing the risk, and the improbability of making it back to the truck, Colt stayed put, dropped to a knee, and guided the barrel of his rifle to the moving target. He sucked in, then slowly let his breath out while he followed the running man.
The first shot swirled through the air, narrowly missing the mark. Colt loaded another round, knowing this next shot would be the deal maker, or breaker. If he missed, it was unlikely he’d get another opportunity as the runner approached. He was fast, faster than Colt had anticipated with the first shot. He hadn’t led him enough.
With his finger hugging the trigger, time slowed. It had to, because if his focus slipped, even for a second, he, and his sons, were dead. Colt fired another shot. A perfect shot—one marked for death. The bullet cut down the infected man in the middle of the street, fifteen feet from the edge of the open container.
Colt looked up from the end of his smoking gun and found his mind beginning to wander. What’s the point? What are these things trying to accomplish? Is it only death they crave? He didn’t hesitate to run. It’s like . . . it’s as if . . . as if, something was controlling him.
Colt didn’t know why those thoughts crept in. But before the infected man’s advance, he was stopped there. In the grassland, he wasn’t nomadic, wandering aimlessly without direction. His mission was calculated. Once he’d locked onto his target, he’d attacked, and nothing, no outside force was going to stop him from completing his mission.
Only the honking of the truck’s horn could shake Colt from his thoughts. Colt leaped from the trailer and sped for his sons. It was when he rounded the corner that he realized why Dylan was laying on the horn with such urgency.
As he ran, his eyes widened. Beyond the hood of the truck, no more than fifty yards off, hundreds more infected were bar
reling down on their position.
Colt reached the back door and ripped it open, tossing in his rifle without looking. Just as he jumped into the driver’s seat and shut the door, the first infected contacted the front end of his truck, slamming into the hood without care for the consequences to his body.
Another infected man followed suit, but this time, he leaped over the first, and was flying toward the windshield just as Colt yanked the shift lever into reverse. The tires struggled to grab on the rocky shoulder, and as they did so the soaring man landed hard on the hood and led with the crown of his head as he headbutted the windshield. A spiderweb crack broke across the glass. As the tires spun, and two more infected worked their way around the driver’s and passenger side windows, Colt yelled, “Dylan! Scoot toward your brother!” It wouldn’t take more than one or two hits to the windows before the infected broke through. Colt had witnessed first-hand with Walter how easy it was for them to break glass.
Squishing into his brother, Dylan pushed Wesley into their father. In his movement, Colt jarred the wheel to the right. The tires grabbed, and the truck pulled itself away from the approaching enemy, but didn’t lose the man from the hood.
As multitudes of other infected gave chase, Colt drove in reverse. He couldn’t continue on that path long in fear of getting the truck caught up on another rock, much like he had in Walter’s driveway. When Colt felt far enough away from the lurking danger of the running army of infected, he waited for the infected man on the hood to rear up again, and when he did, Colt touched the brakes to bring him in closer, moving him off balance—preventing him from making a powerful strike.
With the lopsided infected off-balance, Colt shifted into drive, but waited to accelerate. Dylan lifted the Glock from his lap and aimed it at the man. Colt was quick to say, “No! If you miss, the windshield will be useless, and he’ll tear us apart in seconds.” Colt watched the man lift his arms high. When he did, Colt spun the wheel left, and floored the gas, sending him rolling off the hood.
When they reached the shoulder of Highway 285, Colt looked behind him. The others were still giving chase as they were blasted with dust and rock. But once he got far enough away, he stared in his rearview mirror. They continued running until . . . something peculiar happened. Just as Colt and the boys ascended the hill, every one of the infected stopped running in unison.
It was as if they knew they’d been defeated.
12
Travelling back north on Highway 285, Colt leaned on his hand, and pulled at his hairline. His heartrate rose, and he couldn’t calm his breathing. What are those things? What is this? How can I make them stop? He’d never experienced a panic attack before, but he found himself sucking in air, trying to find relief, but there was none to be had.
In between blinks, his eyes glazed over, and he could no longer see straight. Rocking in the driver’s seat, he couldn’t get comfortable and started to pull over. But should he? That would put them in immediate danger.
Colt stopped driving in the middle of the road, leaped out of the driver’s seat, bent over at the waist and vomited. With little food in his belly, the vomit didn’t last long, but bile came next—the disgusting taste of stomach lining.
What’s happening? he thought, calming himself. Then he held his breath at the sound of a snapping branch that brought him upright. He retreated to the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and drove on as if nothing happened.
“Uh, you want to tell me what that was about?” Dylan said.
Colt didn’t want to lie, but he had to. He couldn’t have Dylan or Wesley knowing he was so nervous, so helpless he couldn’t contain his bodily functions.
“Must have been something we ate.”
Colt caught eyes with his sons. Neither bought his line.
“But I’m better now.” He smiled and ruffled Wesley’s hair.
“You sure?” Dylan asked.
Truth was, Colt did feel better. Throwing up had seemed to calm him back down. “I am.”
Dylan shifted his attention outward and asked his Dad, “Are we going back to Denver?”
“No. Taking a different track. It’s longer by time, but only a little. Besides, I say the more we can avoid busier, more populated areas, the better.”
“And what do you call Colorado Springs?” Dylan asked.
Colt paused a moment before he spoke again. It was true, Colorado Springs was more densely populated than Fairplay. And they were sure to run into multiple more infected if they stayed on that path, but they didn’t have a lot of options. Sooner or later, they would need to make a play, a move for survival. “Our way to safety. And a way to see Uncle Jake.”
“If you say so,” Dylan said when they passed the entrance of their ranch.
As they turned right onto a country road, Colt glanced down to his gas gauge. The needle had dipped below a quarter tank. Usually when that happened, the fuel capacity of the truck was around 100 miles until he needed to refill. With Colorado Springs being almost exactly 100 miles away, there was risk of running out.
As they travelled down the dirt road, the truck kicked up dust. The road was bumpy, and the loose gravel kicked the back end out every time they hit a pothole. Colt could only maintain a speed of twenty miles per hour. With over twenty miles to reach US 24—the main road that travelled east to Colorado Springs—Colt suggested they play a game where they might find normalcy.
“You guys want to play I Spy?” Colt said.
“Dad. No!” Dylan was adamant.
Wesley remained quiet but peered up from the middle seat. “C’mon, little man, what do you say?” he said as he nudged him.
Wesley grinned.
“Alright, I’ll start,” Colt said. “I spy, something . . . green.”
Wesley looked through the windshield. “Um, that house.” Wesley pointed out the driver’s side window.
“Nope.”
“Um . . . that sign over there.”
The sign listed the name of the county road.
“Nope. Try again.”
“How about that car down there?” Wesley asked, then pointed to a broken-down old pick-up in the middle of an open field.
“No.”
“Argh.” Wesley’s shoulders slumped. “Gimme a hint.”
Colt smiled and said, “No way, Jose.” He was never one to let his sons take the easy way.
“Ah, Dad! There.” Dylan pointed out the side of his window. “Up ahead.”
“Hey, no fair, you didn’t want to play,” Wesley interrupted.
But Dylan wasn’t playing. Instead, he was alerting them of an approaching threat.
Colt dipped his head low, vying for an angle, but his eyeline was cut off. “What is it? I can’t see.”
“It looks like another one of those . . . those things.”
“Just one?” Colt knew they could outrun one easily enough.
“Yeah, it looks like it. Can’t tell though. He’s standing on the ridge.”
“Okay, just keep your eyes peeled and let me know if he starts to run after us.”
Dylan didn’t answer, just stared at the infected as they passed by. Peculiar thing was, though, the thing didn’t move a muscle, only its eyes.
“I think we better put our game on hold, little man.” Colt paused momentarily. “On second thought, let’s not. Instead of spying random things, why don’t you help your brother keep look out. Would you be okay to climb in the back seat, and look out the back window for us?”
Wesley turned over his shoulder. “I . . . I don’t think I can. I’m scared.”
“I know you are, little man. And it’s okay to be scared. It’s your body’s way of warning you when it feels threatened. But right now, in here, nothing can hurt you, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Besides, I’m here to protect you.”
He stared to the floor, then reluctantly said, “Okay.”
Colt watched as his youngest son climbed over the bench seat and into the back. “Still there?” Colt asked Dylan.
&n
bsp; Dylan had his head turned around, watching as they drove on. “He is.”
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s not moving, just staring. Like he’s . . . he’s—”
“—scouting,” Colt interrupted his sons’ thoughts.
At that, Dylan recaptured his father’s gaze. “What do you mean?”
Colt sighed, again trying to keep things from his sons, trying to protect them. But after all they’d endured today alone, he realized keeping things locked inside wasn’t helping anyone, not if they wanted to survive.
“I had the same thought you did when I shot that infected man who ran at me while I was in the semi-trailer. What he was doing wasn’t random. He was scouting, perhaps hunting for his next kill.”
“So, what, you think these things are connected somehow? Hunting in packs? Like animals?”
“Maybe. Hard to say.”
“So, what you’re saying is, where there’s one, there’s bound to more?” Dylan asked.
“If I had to guess . . .” He stared at his son, not meaning to keep him waiting. “Yes.”
Now it was Dylan who sighed and turned his attention back out the windshield, then said, “Well that makes this thing a whole hell of a lot scarier.”
Colt nodded and said, “Tell me about it.”
13
Cheyenne Mountain Complex
Colorado Springs, Colorado
The vice president stood in the center of a control room deep inside the mountain. He was surrounded by multiple men dressed in blue. Each man waited upon his order. He’d summoned them there for a special mission.
“Look, men, I’m gonna give it to you straight. That’s the way I would want it if I were you. This order comes from the top, down from the president himself.” The vice president started to walk in a circle around the men, getting a look at each of them. He loved looking each man in the eye. “There’s a family, we believe a man and his two sons. The president tells me they are an integral part of this operation. Now that we’ve lost communication with the president, at least for the time being, we need to assume nothing’s changed since the last time we spoke. When we did, he mentioned this family was mission critical. He advised me to send out a search party for them today.” The vice president paused there to think.
Uncivil War: Infected Page 6
