Last Pandemic (Book 2): Escape The City

by Westfield, Ryan

  “Shit, you’re probably right. Then what do we do?”

  “I don’t know,” said Matt. “But I’m going to try something.

  “What? You can’t.”

  Matt stood up. He was tired, exhausted even.

  But at least he didn’t have any more gear to carry with him. He left it there, at the tree’s trunk.

  He just had his handgun with him. And his knife. A couple of essentials like that, the little things that weighed down his pockets.

  “Matt!”

  “Matt, wait!”

  They were both calling for him.

  All he did was put his hand out, palm forward, facing them, giving them a clear signal to stop in their tracks.

  But he knew they wouldn’t.

  So he went fast, heading away from them, running at a pace fast enough where he knew they couldn’t keep up.

  He turned around. It was a dirty trick he was pulling. Getting away from them so that he could put himself in danger.

  But he had to do it.

  They understood. When he looked back, they hadn’t followed him. It would have been too dangerous, having two people running across the open area like that.

  Matt’s eyes were scanning. Moving around. Looking. Searching for something useful.

  But they kept coming back, resting on that homemade tank, that thing that looked like the sculpture of a madman, a once-famous sculptor who had spent the last few decades away from the public eye, producing finally the insanity that was in his mind.

  A gunshot popped off. Not that far away.

  Matt knew he was still out of range. Or at least out of the range where the shooter could have any accuracy at all.

  Shit. So he’d been spotted.

  No point in throwing himself to the ground. Not yet. He wasn’t likely to get hit.

  This was going to be a game of percentages, a game of statistics.

  There were no more sure things in the world. And he certainly couldn’t count on sure things today.

  He was going to play to his strengths.

  He just wished he knew what they were.

  Shit.

  He had no plan. No idea what he was doing.

  He took a breath. A deep one.

  Well, first things first. He needed a plan.

  How could he get one? Maybe not “how” but “why?” That’s what he should have been asking himself.

  Off to the right, not too far away across the uneven terrain, there was one of the little structures. It looked like a crazy little shed that didn’t even have four walls. More like two walls.

  There was no doubt it was Judy’s cousin’s work.

  Maybe there was something in there that would help him. Give him an idea.

  At the very least, it would buy Matt time.

  He felt like a fool, rushing away from the only two people in the world now who cared at all about him, insisting bullheadedly that he had the answer, that he, the great big man, was going to do something about it and save them all.

  It seemed preposterous. It seemed silly.

  But he couldn’t turn back now.

  There really was a reason to push on. Time wasn’t on their side. Matt knew that the longer they waited, the weaker they’d get and the less time they’d have to prepare for the next crop of invaders on the property.

  Matt knew that those who came later, those who wanted the property for themselves, would be possibly even more dangerous than this lunatic in the homemade tank. Those who came later would be the ones who’d managed to fight their way out of the cities, who’d managed to keep themselves alive and above ground, uncontaminated by the virus. They’d be deadly people. Intensely dangerous. Matt knew they’d need a lot of time to prepare for such an onslaught.

  He needed to act. He needed to think of something. And fast.

  Moving quickly across the terrain, he made it to the little sculpture and got himself inside it.

  There, he had a bit of shelter. One of the two solid walls was between the tank and himself. The wood of the wall probably wouldn’t stop a bullet, but at least he was hidden from view. He was out of range, anyway.

  He had to keep his ears perked, listening to see if someone was approaching. But he doubted it was a real risk. Whoever was in that tank seemed intent on just sitting there, in that strategically chosen spot, right in the middle of the carnage, right in the middle of where Matt needed to be.

  “What’s all this?” he muttered to himself, looking through the junk in the shed. All of it was partially protected from the elements and mostly hidden.

  There was all manner of stuff in here. Old hoses. Old gardening shears. Rusted-out tools. Hammers. A big pile of mismatched nails and screws. A bunch of old scrap metal.

  “Hmm,” said Matt, using the toe of his boot to push his way through some of the trash.

  Maybe he could do something with this junk.

  He got down on his knees and started going through the scrap metal. There were many pieces, some of them fairly large. It seemed that a lot of it was just aluminum.

  But some of it was steel.

  And that got Matt to thinking.

  His mind was churning. Coming up with a plan.

  Why was it so hard to get to that guy in the tank? Because he had armor all around him. He was protected by steel.

  Well, why couldn’t Matt do exactly the same thing?

  Thumbing through the metal, with flecks of rust rubbing off onto his hands, he found a piece of what must have been steel that looked as if it would be large enough.

  It was heavy. It’d be hard to carry, hard to push in front of himself. Hard to drag it even.

  But heavy was good. Heavy meant thick. It meant strength in the metal.

  He looked at it more closely, getting his hands around it, trying to bend it.

  No way would it bend.

  It was steel. It was strong.

  Would it be enough to stop a bullet? Would it be enough to stop a round from an AK-47?

  He thought it would be.

  Reasonably sure. That’s how he would have put it, if someone had pressed him for an answer.

  “This is crazy,” he said, muttering to himself.

  But was it?

  What was that crazy about it?

  All he really had to do was push the piece of steel in front of him, using it as armor. The bullets wouldn’t pierce it. They’d just either flatten or ricochet off, and he’d be safe.

  Then, once he got close enough to the tank, he’d be able to do some serious damage to the man inside of it. He could just get his face right up against that narrow window and shoot the man point blank. Or, even better, he could find his way to the door.

  Once he was up close, or actually inside the tank, he felt like his chances were about as good as those of the guy inside the tank.

  A fifty-fifty shot. That wasn’t great, but it was as good as he could hope for.

  The tank was designed to keep people at a distance. That was the whole point.

  But he’d be up close. Very close.

  Of course, hadn’t people back at that intersection managed to get up close?

  Maybe. He couldn’t quite remember.

  But if they had, they probably hadn’t been armed. Or prepared to fight to the death.

  “No turning back,” he muttered to himself. “Don’t try to talk yourself out of this.”

  Matt knew he had to do it. He knew he had to do it soon, too, or else Jamie and Judy might just get desperate enough to do something stupid themselves.

  It was time to act.

  He didn’t need anyone else’s help. He didn’t need anyone making a distraction for him.

  If this worked, it would work on its own, without any outside help. And if it didn’t work, then he would die.

  He was ready to face that consequence.

  He grabbed the piece of steel with his hands. It was large enough. Thick enough. Long enough to cover his whole body.

  But how would he hold it? If he held
it on the sides, part of each hand would be exposed. And, given the amount of rounds that the guy in the tank was capable of pumping out, it seemed likely that his hands would be hit.

  That wouldn’t work.

  Matt cast his gaze around again, searching through the junk and the old scraps of metal that lay around in the structure.

  It took him a little while, but he found something. Another piece of metal. Some kind of rusted-out platform.

  It took a bit of playing around with it, but Matt found that if he took his original large piece of steel and sort of jammed it into the old platform that he’d found, it created what he was looking for.

  He surveyed his work. The piece on the bottom lay flat on the ground. He could push on it and by leaning forward, the other piece of metal would form a shield in front of him.

  “Just go for it before you realize how stupid this is,” he said to himself.

  It was either now or never.

  Matt checked his handgun in its holster.

  Hopefully it wouldn’t be long before he could use it.

  Matt didn’t wait.

  He just went for it, pushing the crazy little contraption out of the hut.

  It was surprisingly heavy and difficult to push. It didn’t help that he’d thoroughly exhausted himself, barely resting at all except for a few hours here and there, since Albuquerque.

  “Shit,” he said, tripping and falling flat on his face behind the improvised shielding.

  It wasn’t a good start.

  But he got back to it, put his hands on the rusted metal and dug in, pushing hard, keeping his hips low and close to the ground, keeping a slight arch in his lower back.

  It was just like he was in the empty lot near his apartment, doing his exercises with improvised equipment constructed out of Home Depot purchases. The only difference was that here the ground was more uneven, making it much, much harder to push his contraption.

  Back at home in Albuquerque, he’d dragged his homemade sledge out to practice pushing and pulling. And while it had been somewhat rough compared to normal gym equipment, it still wasn’t rusty scrap metal.

  This was far harder and after a couple of minutes, just trying to get into range essentially, Matt was already sweating.

  It was hard, hard work. The improvised shield would get stuck and he’d have to sort of grip the whole thing and pull it up, while also pushing it forward, getting it over little snags, rocks, and dips in the ground.

  “Getting closer,” he muttered, sweat dripping off his forehead.

  He wondered briefly what Jamie and Judy were doing, hoping that they weren’t going to do anything stupid like come after him.

  But he didn’t have much time to wonder, because the shooting started. Little pops in the distance. Burst of gunfire. As if the shooter was testing the waters.

  Most of the rounds just landed around him. Little puffs of dirt shot into the air.

  Matt just kept pushing forward. He couldn’t see straight ahead, but he could guess his position by looking to the sides, checking the surroundings.

  Now the bullets were striking the shield, making a tremendous noise as they struck. The first came, as if testing the waters. Then another. Now a dozen.

  And another dozen.

  It was deafening, the bullets smashing into the steel. And the impact resulted in a tremendous force, making it even harder for Matt to keep his grip on the metal, to keep pushing forward.

  But he did it.

  Despite the sweat, despite the pain in his hands, despite everything, he kept going. He kept pushing.

  The bullets were concentrating on the steel now. A couple here and there landed in the dirt, making strange little noises. But the majority hit the steel.

  The steel was shaking. But it didn’t break. Just vibrated like crazy.

  “Shit,” said Matt, noticing that the steel was coming loose from the bottom piece of metal that he’d shoved it against.

  It was about to fail. If it did, he’d die.

  So he shoved his left shoulder against it, as if he were tackling one of those dummies in football practice.

  The metal vibrated violently against his shoulder, causing pain to shoot through him.

  He grunted against the pain, pushing forward more with his right hand and his left shoulder. His body was contorted, stretched somewhat sideways and he was worried that his left leg was out from behind the shelter of the steel.

  But he didn’t have to worry long.

  Before he knew it, the tank was looming up over him.

  He’d made it.

  He was drenched in sweat, caked in dirt. Pain shot through him.

  Unable to rely on the metal shield to protect him, he had to make a move. And fast. The gunman might be able to fire down at him from where he was.

  For now, the gunfire had stopped.

  Matt’s ears were ringing so intensely that if there were other noises, he didn’t hear them.

  Thrusting down with his left hand against the ground, he pushed himself up and toward the east, while his right hand reached for his gun

  He took it out of its holster, his finger sliding into the trigger guard.

  Half bent over, his torso at a 45-degree angle, he rushed across the ground, moving rapidly. His right side brushed up against the crazy metal of the tank.

  There had to be a way into the tank.

  Where was it? He needed to find it as soon as possible.

  The longer he was outside the tank, the higher the risk of being shot. Matt either needed to get inside, or he needed to be actively shooting at the gunman.

  Among the crazy scrap metal, Matt’s hand found a normal car handle. He seized it, yanked it.

  Of course it was locked. He’d expected as much. Still had to try.

  What now? What was his next move?

  The answer was simple. Well, simple to think of. Hard to execute.

  If Matt couldn’t get into the tank, then he needed to kill whoever was in the tank.

  He only had seconds to spare. It was likely that his maneuver with the door handle had been heard. Any moment now, there’d be a gun barrel protruding from the narrow window slit, looking for him.

  What was the plan?

  It came to him in a flash.

  Matt took the butt of the gun and slammed it against the metal side of the tank. It made a loud, resounding noise.

  Good. The noise was just what he wanted.

  If the man in the tank hadn’t heard him with the door handle, he definitely heard that.

  And, now that the enemy knew Matt’s position, it was time to move. Matt moved rapidly and silently, keeping his body low, well below the sight line from the window.

  Matt could hear movement in the tank. Maybe it was footsteps. Maybe not.

  In the span of maybe ten seconds, Matt was around the other side of the tank.

  It was now or never. It was time to act.

  His grip involuntarily tightened on his handgun. His finger was already pressed against the trigger, ever so slightly. Maybe it wasn’t perfect form, but his body was acting on its own now. Everything was just instinct and muscle memory.

  His mind was occupied with strategy, with the overall plan.

  But it wasn’t a complex plan. Shoot the bad guy. That was pretty much what it involved.

  Hoping that the gunman had moved to face Matt’s old position on the opposite side, Matt stood up suddenly, exposing himself to danger. His eyes were about level with the tank’s narrow window.

  Matt only had to stand a little higher, getting up onto his toes, to see into the tank.

  He couldn’t see much. Just shadows and some darkness.

  His eyes were adjusted to the sunny day outside, not the dark interior of the tank. Shit. He hadn’t counted on that.

  Where was the gunman? Where was the enemy?

  Matt had his handgun pressed to the window. His trigger finger itched. He was ready to fire. But he couldn’t see where to shoot.

  A noise. A shad
ow moved.

  Matt saw it now.

  Aim at the shadow, he told himself. That was the best he could do.

  Matt’s finger moved like lightning. A strong, quick pull. The gun kicked.

  He pulled the trigger again. He wasn’t sure what was happening. His eyes weren’t adjusting.

  Had he killed the man?

  There was no response to his shots. No gunfire echoing back at him. No screams of pain. No grunts.

  Just nothing.

  Matt dropped back down to the ground, his back sliding against the uneven metal of the homemade tank.

  Unsure if he’d killed the man, injured him, or missed entirely, Matt decided to take shelter under the tank itself. He found himself crawling under it, working his way around the pieces of protruding metal that protected the wheels and the undercarriage, flattening himself on his back, so that he faced upward.

  And he waited.

  And waited some more.

  He kept his handgun clutched tightly, his finger never straying far from the trigger guard.

  Gradually, the intense ringing in his ears died down and he was able to hear things again.

  Eventually, the sound of his own heavy breathing returned to him.

  And another sound came along as well. The sound of someone groaning in pain. A low sound. Almost like a rumble.

  Was it the man he’d shot? Had he hit him?

  Matt didn’t know what to do.

  It seemed like a strange end to his extra-dramatic little adventure, a strange end to the rushing intensity of what had just happened. But that was the way it was. Matt didn’t want to move, exposing himself once again to fire. Because, as he reasoned, his trick had worked once, but it was unlikely to work again.

  If the man in that tank was dying, he’d likely do anything he could to kill Matt.

  So Matt just stayed there. Waiting.

  The minutes passed and they felt like hours.

  Gradually, Matt’s breathing began to slow. His system began to calm itself down.

  “It’s almost over,” he said to himself silently, not daring to speak the words out loud. “It’s almost over.”

  He knew it wasn’t true, however. There was always going to be more. And more.

  But it was a mental trick. A way to get himself somewhat calm.