by Dave Lund
“Hammer, go west. We need to get back to Del Valle and then go north … head for the airfield.” Aymond keyed the radio. “Stay weapons hot. We’re dashing for the airfield to regroup.”
Both of the following vehicles acknowledged the radio transmission as the convoy rattled north at a blistering sixty mph, the vehicle-mounted weapons occasionally firing at groups of undead that were too close for comfort.
Westbound I-10
Jessie squinted into the setting sun. Should have looted some sunglasses too. The time of day snuck up on her—not having a working watch will cause that—but Jessie knew she needed to pay better attention to the sun’s position. Even though I-10 had been completely clear so far, she could not risk driving at night and she definitely couldn’t risk charging headfirst into another town like before. Just the thought of half of a corpse clawing its way up her legs made her heart rate jump and gave her a shudder. The ones she could see she could manage, but she’d never thought about half of a body crawling its way across the ground. Who am I to think I should bring a baby into this world? Jessie shook her head. No, she absolutely could not afford to think like that. She had to survive, she had to be tough, and she needed to be somewhere safe to give birth. There was nothing more to say. If it was safe enough to give birth, then hopefully it would be a safe enough place to live, at least for a while, free from the threat of the undead. Area 51 was her last hope. The only place in America that she knew to be safe. You don’t know that it’s safe, you’re just assuming it’s safe because of that guy on the radio. What if you’re wrong? What if it’s a trap? Jessie frowned at the thought. No, she had to believe. She had to believe that there were good people in this world still, that Cliff was who he claimed to be, and that refuge could be found there.
Passing the exit for another Business I-10, this one in Sierra Blanca, Jessie chose not to drive into town. She needed a spot for the night, even if she slept in the FJ; she needed to be safe, hidden and safe. Glancing at the gas gauge, she realized she also needed to put more fuel in the tank from the gas cans on the roof. After passing the ramp back onto I-10 from the business spur, Jessie glanced in the side-view mirrors and didn’t see anything coming up the ramp, so she stopped in the middle of the Interstate, put the FJ in neutral, and set the brake, leaving the engine running. Her belly was just barely starting to show in her pregnancy. Climbing up the side of the FJ to retrieve the fuel cans was still a doable task, but in a few more weeks it would be more difficult; a few more weeks after that and it would be nearly impossible.
The now-empty gas cans were placed back on the roof rack and tied down again. I need to top those cans off before I get to El Paso. For El Paso, I need full fuel and no stops. I can’t imagine that it could be safe, or even sane to drive into that damned city. Jessie stared straight ahead. A few miles later, I-10 turned sharply to the left and off the Interstate. Suddenly, a rest stop came into view. With all the signs pushed over, she’d had no idea she was near one. Slowing the FJ, Jessie turned and drove up the exit. It was more of a picnic area; there were no buildings or restrooms, just sheltered picnic tables with small grills available for families wanting to stop for a couple of hours to throw a party. Who in the hell actually stops on a trip and goes to the trouble of lighting a grill with charcoal they just happened to have with them to cook burgers or chicken or steaks or whatever in the hell they have in the cooler?
Jessie drove over the curb and onto the grassy area, driving slowly past five vehicles parked in the picnic area. None of them appeared to be occupied. She stopped in the middle of the drive and got out to check the vehicles. All of them had been abandoned, all were locked. There was no sign of any people, alive, dead, or otherwise, in the area. Climbing back into the FJ, she drove across the field to the truck and RV parking where there was a lone RV. Jessie pulled alongside the front of the Winnebago and peered through the windshield into the dark interior. Setting the parking brake, Jessie climbed down and knocked sharply on the windshield before quickly getting back in the FJ. A moment later, with a thud, a small corpse slammed against the windshield of the RV with enough force to cause it to crack. Holy shit! The small girl, wearing a Princess t-shirt, looked like she could have been five or six years old when she died and turned. Jessie closed her eyes. If I leave her alone, she will beat on the windshield until it breaks, and then she’ll be loose … fuck it.
Jessie leveled her AR to fire a single shot through the windshield and through the little girl’s skull, its contents exploding backwards into the interior of the RV. The now-dead corpse of the little Princess slumped over the dash of the RV, black pus oozing out of the large hole in the back of her skull.
Jessie climbed back into the FJ and drove across the field, across the parking lot, and past the picnic tables, stopping near the fenceline on the north side, where she parked the FJ facing the escape to westbound I-10 and then began to sob. Wave after wave of grief crashed through her; she couldn’t control it, she couldn’t breathe. Her body shuddered so violently in sorrow that everything else vanished. She hadn’t shed this many tears since they’d lost Keeley.
US-287 near Decatur, TX
They rested long enough for everyone to take a piss, and for Chivo to swap places with Apollo, then the merry band of rescuers were on their way again. Everything was calm, although Lindsey declined Chivo’s invitation to snuggle before he fell asleep, and Apollo refrained from punching him. The sun hung low against the western sky, enough light outside for Apollo to see without using his NODs. Bexar tried to rest his eyes and maybe even get some sleep, but he couldn’t. Every time the Defender rocked slightly as Apollo drove around an abandoned vehicle or a walking corpse Bexar’s heart rate would jump and he would sit up, ready for the threat, but there would be no threat. Well, there were many threats, but it was their directive to ignore as many as they could along the way.
The shattered windshield lost more glass fragments and had begun to whistle softly in the air passing over the SUV.
“OK, guy, what do you know about Decatur?” Apollo looked over at Bexar.
“Umm, it’s a smaller town and that’s about all I know. I think I’ve driven through it once or twice and that’s about it.”
“Great, thanks for the hot intel.”
“Dude, you asked and now you know more than before … and knowing is half the battle.”
“Seriously, stop talking,” Apollo said with a straight face before flashing a big grin at Bexar.
The handful of roads that crossed 287 in the small town went under the highway, so they didn’t have to worry about any suicidal undead landing on their ride again. Apollo didn’t tell Bexar the story about Odin; he figured it would only rattle the guy more, and he was right. Apollo could sleep anywhere. He’d had to be woken up to fight in an active battle before, sleeping through the initial explosions and gunfire. To Apollo, and to Chivo, war was a way of life. They were warriors and had been their entire adult lives, from the time they enlisted in the Army after high school to when they’d fought with Delta; the job titles didn’t matter, they went to war. Some wars the American public knew about, but most they didn’t.
“I can tell you this, Apollo, these nice freeway overpasses come to an end soon. Most of this highway is rural, but it also becomes the main drag for a lot of the small towns we’ll bump into.” As if on cue, the freeway changed. The overpasses were gone and were replaced with cross-overs in the medians and intersecting roads with stop signs.
“Well shit, man. Guess I don’t get to relax like you tonight after all.”
The last bit of sunlight fell beneath the horizon as the sky turned from red and purple to the dark blue of twilight. Apollo flipped down his NODs. “Try to get some rest, dude. We’re going to have a fight at some point, and we’ll need you there; you won’t do us any good if you haven’t slept.”
Bexar nodded. He knew Apollo was right. Trying again to relax, Bexar curled up against the side of the door and closed his eyes. Soon his body gave in to the
exhaustion of the day and he fell into a sleep full of dreams about burying Keeley and seeing his wife before the explosion. Dreams are the realm where warriors are built or destroyed through victories and pain.
Twentynine Palms, CA
At the gate to the airfield, Ski quickly cut through the fence to make a hole just large enough for him to slip through with his gear on, then jogged to the control box for the sliding chain-link gate. Inside the box, he flipped the lever and pulled the gate open to allow the three M-ATVs to pass, then shut the gate behind them and locked the lever back in place. Before driving off, Ski used a handful of zip-ties to secure the hole in the fence; he didn’t want any of the Zeds getting lucky and falling through the hole.
Relatively secure, the convoy drove away from the gate and the horde of Zeds possibly close behind, and towards the flight line and maintenance hangars. The first hangar stood open and appeared empty. The second hangar was ringed with Hesco barriers, full of rocks, sand, and dirt. A front-end loader sat nearby, as did a Humvee.
Aymond signaled Hammer to stop and keyed the radio. “Davis—stay on the Mk-19. Everyone else dismount to clear the hangars. Rally on me.”
Hammer shut down the M-ATV and climbed out, along with all but Chris Davis, who swung the grenade launcher towards the hangars, providing security to the rest of the dismounted MSOT. Aymond walked to the far side of the third M-ATV and knelt. The other six men stood around him as he used a gloved finger to draw in the sand.
“Snow and Kirk, take the eastern hangar, the rest of you are with me for the western hangar. Someone lived long enough to erect the Hescos. Hammer, take the M-ATV around towards the front of the barriers …”
“Uh, Chief?”
“Yeah, Kirk.”
“We don’t have to do anything.” Kirk pointed west.
On top of the Hesco barrier stood two men in badly worn utilities, waving their hands above their heads. Aymond keyed his radio. “You have eyes on, Davis?”
“Roger that, Chief.”
The two men climbed down the front of the barriers and walked towards the M-ATVs.
“Thank God you came. We didn’t know how long it would take for a QRF to arrive from San Diego, but we figured it would eventually happen.”
Aymond eyed the two Marines. “You two are the only ones here?”
“Yes, Master Gunnery Sergeant, we’re the only two left on the airfield.”
“Relax Corporal, some things have changed in the last few weeks. We’re not a Quick Response Force. We were at the MWTC when the attack came, and we’re trying to get to San Diego. What were your orders?”
“Secure the field and wait for replacements. Those two 18s over there were the only two aircraft not ready to fly when the sprayers came overhead. Everything else flew out.”
“What’s wrong with those Hornets?”
“No idea. We’re motor pool guys—we don’t touch those things. A team from their squadron was supposed to be en route with parts, tools, and techs, but we haven’t seen them yet.”
“Great. Hate to tell you this, but you two are the first living persons we’ve found since we left the MWTC.”
The smiles fell from both of the corporals’ faces.
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do we, Corporal, but we’re going to find out.”
The sun began to set as the MSOT enjoyed some physical fitness time. Some of them jogged up and down the runway, while others improvised a pull-up bar in the empty hangar. The two maintenance corporals brought a fuel bowser around from the tanks to the north and topped off the M-ATVs’ fuel tanks. The evening was relaxing, the first chance the MSOT had to wind down since leaving the MWTC, although that also entailed swapping stories with the two E-4s. From their perspective, the fight for Twentynine Palms had been absolute hell. The surrounding civilian communities flooded the base after the attack; some of them were already bitten and infected. No one understood what that meant in the first couple of days, and by then it was too late—the base was overrun with Zeds from both outside and inside the gate. Secure behind the inner airfield fence, the E-4s stayed hidden, though Zeds would trickle in occasionally. One of the men constructed what could best be described as a machete on a stick, using spare F-18 parts. It was quite possibly the most expensive improvised weapon ever made, but according to both of them, it kicked ass.
CHAPTER 21
March 6, Year 1
Cortez, CO
Night finally came and Cliff’s watch beeped softly in his ear. As part of his training, Cliff had learned how to transition from sleep to awake smoothly without a “start,” and without moving a muscle. The beeping stopped and Cliff remained perfectly still, his head resting on the table, the blanket covering his form and the spotting scope. Even under the blanket it was quite cold; the open window allowed the cold breeze to filter into the room. Barely breathing, Cliff listened for any changes outside of his blind. Confident that everything was as it should be, he pulled the blanket back slowly, exposing the front element of the spotting scope. The school was still in view. The bus wasn’t there, but an old Jeep sat idling with its headlights on by the front of the school. Two men, dressed as the others before, in surplus military clothing, climbed in the Jeep, made a U-turn and drove north away from the school. That must be the night patrol. Cliff wrote the details in his notebook. It was time to move locations, but with a patrol driving through the streets he didn’t want to chance using the truck he had stashed nearby. By now, surely the group would notice that two of their own were missing, as well as their vehicle; not to mention the others that he had killed prior to those.
The spotting scope went into his book bag and the blanket became his poncho once again. Cliff dug through the bathroom cabinet until he found what he was looking for: black shoe polish. Dry as a bone. Cliff took a sip of water then spit into the tin of polish, working the saliva in before smearing the polish on his face. Luckily, the bathroom mirror had survived the zombie apocalypse. In short order, every portion of Cliff’s exposed skin—face, ears, neck, hands, scalp—was covered in polish. In simpler times, before the attack, Cliff would not have dared use all black shoe polish as face paint, even if it was for camouflage, but simpler times these were not. The shoe polish tin went into the book bag with the spotting scope, wrapped in a small towel so it wouldn’t clank as he moved. After jumping up and down, followed by a hard wiggle, Cliff was satisfied that his noise discipline test was complete and his gear silent. Out the door he went, stepping over the bloated, fat corpse he’d left in the living room.
Cliff traveled south across the parking lot of the apartment complex, keeping the row of buildings between him and the road by the school. Reaching the main east-west road, Cliff crouched behind a telephone pole next to a short picket fence. No headlights in either direction, but he couldn’t count on the cult members always using headlights. He had to assume that they had NODs. If they had a FLIR Thermal Sight rifle scope or any advanced device, he would be in serious trouble. All the undead he had killed had been about whatever the ambient temperature happened to be. Somehow they didn’t freeze solid, despite the brutal temperatures. In any case, he would be the only non-cult, warm body in all of town, unless there were survivors still being held prisoner nearby.
Letting the seconds tick by into minutes, Cliff felt confident he could cross the road. Two deep breaths, and he was up and running the fastest forty-yard dash he could muster. He dropped into the drainage ditch at the edge of the green space across the street. Cliff was now angry; angry for being wet, angry for being cold, angry for being wet and cold in March in Colorado. Lying flat on his belly, Cliff slowly slid up the rocky surface until his head barely poked over the top. He counted off the seconds silently while watching for any reaction to his dash across the road. When there was none, Cliff crept along the bottom of the ditch to get farther away from the road before sliding up the side to watch again. Two deep breaths, and again he was on his feet, dashing across another road, vaulting over
a split-rail fence, rolling to a stop, and lying flat in the scrub bushes. Again he froze, watching to see if there would be any reaction to his movement. Inching away from the thorny stems, Cliff was now even angrier; angrier for being wet, cold, and pricked everywhere with thorns.
Cliff rolled to his back and pulled the thorns he could find out of his skin. Ten minutes later, he slowly crawled across the field towards a trailer park. Each movement revealed thorns he had missed. Reaching the edge of the trailer park, Cliff waited once again. He had time, all the time he needed; what he didn’t have was any help if he was detected. It could have been worse, much worse. At least he wasn’t worried about enemy air support showing up, and at least he wasn’t in a swamp. Cliff hated swamps. Piss in the water and a virus swims up your urethra to kill you. No, this was much better than a swamp.
Two deep breaths and back on his feet, Cliff dashed between the single-wide trailers of the park. Slowly, he made his way across the back of lots, as far away from the road as he could be. Jumping two fences, Cliff found himself under the back porch of a manufactured home, staring at a building across a field to the west. The building looked a bit like a church; in the parking lot was the small yellow bus he had seen the day before. Cliff pulled out his notepad and made notes about the scene. With the porch overhead, distance and darkness his allies, Cliff sat up, rifle across his lap, spotting scope in his hands. Using the graduated reticle, he estimated the distance, made more notes, including the number painted on the front bumper of the bus, just in case there was more than one. He waited.
Three hours later the two bodyguards exited the church with a third man, who Cliff assumed was the driver because he climbed into the bus and started it. One of the bodyguards nodded and the man with the beret walked out of the church to the bus by himself. The church might be where the women stayed and maybe the children were there; Cliff had no idea, but with the bus leaving and traveling west again, he didn’t have time to investigate the church. Obviously, the man was the more important target. Sunrise was coming quickly and the bus traveled away from his location; if he was going to have a chance to get home, eat, and rest, he had to go back to the truck now.
