by Tony Baker
Both men were back-to-back, Harry facing forward and Derrick facing the rear. The moaning and pounding from the infected on the Bearcat made normal conversation almost impossible. Harry shouted, “Derry, take three to nine and I’ll focus on nine to three. Let’s take out what we can but keep it single-round-fire to conserve ammo. We just need to keep the Bearcat clear enough to move. Headshots kill but shooting out a hip or center mass for spinal damage will at least put them down. Let’s execute this with extreme prejudice.” Harry had not intended a pun but grimly thought it appropriate for the situation.
“Copy that,” Derrick replied and immediately fired his first round as he began clearing his sector.
Harry brought his own rifle into firing position and aligned the EOTech electronic sight on the first infected: a woman who might have been beautiful before the outbreak. The right side of her face was a smooth, creamy-soft complexion. Long, reddish-blonde hair fell slightly over her right eye, obscuring what Harry momentarily envisioned as an iris of ice blue. That image of beauty was instantly broken as she turned and he took in the left side of her face. Skin, hair, and muscle were ripped from the skull, and a yellowish white eyeball dangled against her cheek by the optic nerve, swinging from side to side as the woman shuffled toward the truck. “Head in the game here, Harry,” he muttered as he pulled the trigger, sending a round through her head and obliterating it from the body. Quickly taking a deep breath, he realigned on the next target as the Bearcat began to move slowly through the mass of infected.
24
Harry found his rhythm moving from target to target, blocking any thought that the rancid things surrounding the Bearcat had once been human beings. Now they were just an impediment to his goal. Putting the red dot on the next target he fired, reacquired a new target and fired again, continuing through this process and his first 30-round mag. Ejecting the empty and letting it fall to the floor, he reached into the field bag and removed a full mag, tapped it twice to seat the rounds, inserted it into the AR, pulled back the charging bolt and resumed firing.
Harry knew Derrick was going through the same process. They were both in their zones. He desperately tried to ignore the horrific stench being emitted from the putrid near-dead carcasses that ran, walked, or crawled toward the Bearcat. Any lingering doubts that Harry might have had in regard to what the infected were, or more specifically were not, had finally been laid to rest.
With what he had been forced to do in the apartment building and during his excursion to the police station, he had still held onto a fine thread of hope that these people, these things, were salvageable. A cure could be found and the infection reversed. What he was witnessing now, however, clearly delivered the indisputable truth that these things were nothing more than monsters made real. These mangled, mutilated, and rotting near-dead things that infested the City, the world, would not be cured by some miracle vaccine or divine intervention. It was far too late for that possibility, and the only thing left for Harry to do was survive.
The infected could not be reasoned with, only pitied momentarily for their lost humanity. Destroying them, completely eradicating them from the face of the earth, was the only logical path to take. Harry now fully accepted that they were nothing more than blight, a horrendous scourge that had to be pushed into oblivion if the rest of what remained of mankind were to survive. He had a long way to travel and knew if he did not keep that fact clearly in mind his family, his friends, and others he might encounter would perish. This final acceptance drove steel into Harry’s very being as he continued to fire relentlessly into the horde surrounding the Bearcat.
Frank continued to drive down Powell Street, maneuvering around obstacles when possible or pushing them from the Bearcat’s path with the ram. The infected were converging on the moving truck in ever-increasing numbers, and he knew he could not slow the progress being made. Up to this point Frank had tried to avoid hitting as many of those things as possible, but he felt the truck slowing under the onslaught. If the truck lost forward momentum the men would be in serious trouble, so Frank applied pressure to the gas pedal and started plowing straight through them. The Bearcat’s matte-black finish had become slick with all manner of gore. He had to use the windshield wipers several times to clear the blood and unidentifiable bits and pieces of body parts that flew over the front of the truck as he drove through groups of the infected.
Finally reaching Columbus, Frank made a hard left-hand turn and accelerated down the surprisingly obstacle-free street. The infected were still evident, but he was able to push the Bearcat up to almost thirty miles per hour. He slowed at intersections but did not stop, and fortunately was only required to go around a few vehicles that had been abandoned on the street.
Frank reached the Bay Street intersection within minutes, then made a sharp left turn, knowing they were at about the half way mark to the marina. Although vigilant, he continued to push the speed as much as possible given the current conditions.
Bay Street remained relatively clear until the Bearcat reached the intersection at Fillmore where Frank needed to make a right turn for the final leg of the trip. The intersection was blocked by two ladder trucks from the San Francisco Fire Department, a bus, and several cars. Quickly determining that he could not get the Bearcat around that mess, Frank brought the truck to a complete stop, put it into reverse and floored the gas pedal to back the truck up to Webster. The quick stop and reversing of the truck tossed both Harry and Derrick around in the open roof hatch.
“Hey! What the hell’s going on?” Derrick yelled in annoyance.
Frank could not hear Derrick’s protest nor would he have bothered responding since he was intently watching the cab monitor view from the rear-mounted camera. He saw the truck collide with a mass of ten or twelve infected with jarring results. He braked once he had backed up just past Webster, moved the gear shift selector to drive, then turned right and raced down the street.
“Damn it, Rookie! If you can’t drive this fuckin' thing, pull over and let someone who can!” Derrick bellowed after being thrown into Harry for the second time.
Harry leaned back, pushing Derrick off and said, “You know he can’t hear you, right?”
“Yeah, I know. Makes me feel better to vent though,” Derrick replied while bringing his rifle up and sighting in on another small group of infected converging on the truck from behind. “I hate rollercoasters and this is what it feels like!” With that he fired, bringing down six of his targets with as many shots.
Harry and Derrick continued to fire their weapons until the Bearcat was about three blocks from making the left turn onto Marina Boulevard which would take them to their destination – the marina entrance. Harry began to notice that the infected had thinned considerably. Stepping down and off the platform, Harry tapped Derrick on the leg, waving him in. Derrick nodded his reply and also stepped down, then pushed the switch next to the hatch to close it.
Harry made his way back to the passenger seat while looking intently through the windshield. Frank asked, “Left on Marina Boulevard?”
“Yeah, then drive over to the Green so we can get a closer look at the docks,” Harry replied. The Marina Green was a strip of grassy land used for flying kites, jogging, football, picnics and other general public use.
Frank followed Harry’s instructions, making the turn and bringing the truck up to a good clip down Marina Boulevard. They covered the short distance to the eastern edge of the Marina Green very quickly. As he rounded the slight curve of the street, however, he stomped on the brakes before he reached the beginning of the Green proper, throwing Derrick into the center console.
Derrick had to pull himself off the center console and prepared to remind Frank that he still had a long way to go before receiving his NASCAR license. As he looked up through the front windshield he changed his mind. “Oh my God!” was all he could manage. What had once been a beautiful green oasis in a city otherwise covered in asphalt had been transformed. It could best be described as a v
ision of Dante's epic poem, Divine Comedy; what Dante surely would have seen on his journey through Hell.
“Frank, shut us down now!” Harry commanded, and Frank immediately turned off the Bearcat.
There were several things that stood out very clearly for Harry, all of which he took in at the same time. The first was the dead bodies, and as many body parts, carpeting the area with what appeared to be dozens of all-too-active infected milling around. Several creatures at the rear edge of the horde had noticed the Bearcat’s arrival, turning toward it. Fortunately they seemed to be more interested in what was in front of them, and quickly turned away once the truck stopped moving. Harry was also interested in what held their attention.
The Marina Green was rectangular in shape, with Marina Boulevard on its south side and Marina Green Drive on the north, closest to the edge of the Bay waters. The infected appeared to be moving toward the marina harbor area which lay to the west side of the Green.
“Frank, get us moving and head toward the harbor entrance but go slowly. Let’s not attract any more attention than we have to,” Harry said while gazing at the scene before him.
Frank started the truck and drove slowly toward Yacht Road, which would take them to the main entrance of the Marina Harbor and the docks where the boats were berthed. The truck drew some attention from the throngs of infected, with a few closest to the outer edges breaking off to investigate, but for the most part the truck was not what held the horde’s interest. Although moving fairly slowly, Frank was able to outdistance any curiosity seekers from getting too close.
Once the truck had travelled about halfway between the Green and Yacht Road, Harry said, “Pull us over here, Frank. Let’s see what has these things so interested.”
Frank brought the truck to a stop and shut down the engine. Looking out of the passenger door window, Harry had a fairly clear view of the area. This side of the harbor ran parallel to the shoreline and was where the heaviest concentration of the infected appeared to be amassing. Because the truck sat high, he not only could see the infected that were lining the shore facing the dock, he could also see just about all of the boat slips.
Approximately thirty feet from the water’s edge were several dozen boats of various types; Harry could just make out from his vantage point that many of those boats had live survivors aboard each. They were staring back at the crowd of infected as if some divine intervention would bestow itself upon the situation to save them from the horde. Some sat on the edge of their boats with feet casually dangling over the sides. Others paced back and forth with blunt weapons in hand – everything from bats to hammers – as if they were waiting for the infected to commence their assault on this small flotilla. Harry could only make out a few of the details.
The last thing that Harry noticed was sitting just to the east of the remaining docks and boats: the SFFD Fireboat Phoenix II. He knew the boat immediately, as he had been invited to the christening of this awesome vessel. He was also privileged to have been among a few to tour the fire department’s newest addition to their fleet that day. The particular boat that Harry now saw sitting in the Bay waters had replaced another bearing the same name. The original Phoenix had been constructed in the mid 1950’s, and had been instrumental in saving the Marina District in the aftermath of the 1989 earthquake when the entire area lost water pressure. The old boat was able to pump water from the Bay, charging fire hoses and refilling tankers which helped to save many structures. After much debate it was determined that the Phoenix had serviced the department well, but with age came deterioration. The cost of hull repairs and the needed modifications to update the electronics of the old boat was nearly as much as the cost of a new one. It was finally decided to retire the Phoenix. Realizing the boat’s vital contribution, the fire department spent millions of dollars on what was then christened the Phoenix II.
At nearly ninety feet long and twenty-five feet wide, painted bright red with white trimming, the Phoenix II was very impressive. It had six fire monitors, sometimes referred to as water cannon, and twenty-six manifold valves used to connect hose line. With massive onboard pumping capabilities, it could deliver more than sixteen thousand gallons of water per minute with enough pressure to put water on target from a distance of over three hundred feet.
Boasting a steel hull with a main deck and forward-positioned pilothouse, it could accommodate three crewmembers, four firefighters, and up to sixty rescue victims. It also had forward-looking infrared (FLIR) to aid with search and rescue, along with a fuel capacity that allowed the boat to remain on scene and pumping water for up to thirty-six hours without refueling.
Harry could not understand why the Phoenix II was sitting idle and not attempting to assist the people on the other boats. He could detect movement but it was too far away to see anything clearly; he hoped the movement he saw was a good sign.
“Frank, can you get the fire department frequency on the radio and see who answers the phone?”
“You’re on, LT,” Frank replied almost immediately, having anticipated Harry’s request.
Pulling the radio mic from the dash clip, Harry said, “Phoenix II, do you copy this frequency?” Waiting a few moments without a reply he tried again, “Fireboat Phoenix II, this is the San Francisco Police Department unit off your port, do you copy?” There was still no reply from the radio, but there did seem to be increased activity. “Did we pack long eyes with the toothbrushes?” Harry asked.
“Try these,” Derrick said, handing him a pair of tactical binoculars.
“Okay, let’s see what these guys are doing,” Harry muttered as he focused in on the boat. What he saw made him sit up in the seat. Without taking his eyes from what he was observing, he said, “Derry, time to go to work; get eyes on that boat.”
“On it Harry,” Derrick responded without question, turning back to the rear compartment to retrieve his Remington 700P sniper rifle from the wall rack. After hitting the switch which opened the roof hatch, he stepped up on the platform. Glancing around the truck to make certain there were no unwelcome guests, he quickly unfolded the front bipod, setting the sniper rifle on the roof and uncapping the scope. Derrick scanned the fireboat that was brought in near and clear through the scope, immediately seeing what Harry was looking at below.
“Harry, what’re we going to do here?”
What Harry saw on the boat, and Derrick was now focused in on, was a heavily tattooed white male with a shaved head. This individual was standing in the pilot house holding a handgun directly to the head of a man who appeared to be a firefighter standing behind the controls of the boat. There were two other people on their knees in the rear of the boat with their hands on top of their heads.
“Phoenix II, we see that you have company and we certainly do not want to appear rude, but it would be nice to have a little chat,” Harry said into the mic without moving the binocs from his eyes. The thug in the pilot house obviously screamed something at the fireman. Harry saw the crewmember lean forward slightly, picking up a radio mic.
Before the firefighter could say anything, the thug grabbed the mic from the firefighter and shouted, “YOU BETTER GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE BEFORE I START WASTING THESE DUDES! You got no right to be harassing me. I know my rights! I ain’t gonna let them things get me! I got to get outta here and this here boat is doing just that! You hear me!” With some alarm Harry saw the thug push the gun into the back of the crewmember’s head, emphasizing his point.
Harry took the binocs away from his face enough to rub his eyes. He leaned back in the seat, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. “Listen,” Harry calmly said into the radio mic after giving the thug a moment to calm down from his rant, “there’s enough going on without adding to it, friend. We are all scared but we need to work together to get through this.”
That was all Harry was able to say before he heard the sound of a muffled shot. Even through the thick armor of the Bearcat the sound was unmistakable. Quickly raising the binocs to his eyes again, he w
as in time to see one of the crewmembers slump to the deck at the rear of the boat.
“That nut just shot one of those people!” Derrick said, peering intently through the scope of the sniper rifle, his hands gripped tightly around the stock.
Harry had known anger in his life, especially over the past few weeks, but what he felt at that moment was pure animalistic rage. A rage so powerful that it began in the pit of his stomach and radiated throughout his being. His hands trembled slightly as he held the binocs to his eyes.
“Harry …” Frank began, but a radio transmission from the fireboat interrupted any further discussion.
“YOU SEE WHAT YOU MADE ME DO! I’m serious SO BACK THE FUCK OUTTA HERE before I waste more of these guys!” It was the thug, and the tone of his voice was nearing the point of being panic-stricken.
Without removing the binocs from his eyes, Harry reached down and picked up the radio mic that had fallen into his lap. Depressing the transmit button he very calmly replied, “Okay, take it easy buddy, we’re leaving.”
“Frank, back us up. Very slowly,” Harry instructed.
Frank started the big truck and put it in reverse, smoothly backing up as instructed. This garnered the attention of several infected again on the outer edge of the group, who immediately turned toward the sound of the heavy engine and started in the men’s direction.
25
Continuing to watch the activity on the boat, Harry saw that the thug had moved slightly away from the crewmember he had been holding the pistol on during the radio exchange. Apparently the thug thought he no longer needed a shield.
“Derry, do you have the shot?” Harry asked, knowing that Derrick would still be looking through the scope of the sniper rifle. Training would have taken over and he would be prepared to take out a target of opportunity. In this case, one heavily tattooed white male with a shaved head standing in the pilothouse.
