by Ben Reeder
“Do you know what caused it?” I asked.
“No,” she laughed. “I don’t have nearly enough data for that. But based on the results of the tests I ran, I think it would take a little longer for the Asura virus to turn you.”
“How much longer?” Amy asked from her seat at the back.
“Maybe six hours,” Dr. Parsons said with a shrug. “Though that is the most optimistic guess. Four hours would be more likely. All I had was equipment that was outdated in the Sixties. There were no living cells left in the samples I used, and I don’t know what the effect against a stage one or two bite would be. But I do have to ask, have either of you been exposed to the virus in another way? Scratches, blood splatter from infected or even close physical contact?” We both nodded.
“This morning was a pretty good example,” I said.
“That might explain it. You both have elevated white blood cell counts, indicative of an immune response. I don’t know if it’s your body’s response to limited exposure to the Asura virus, or if it really is something in your genetic makeup that is causing the response. Either way, it’s intriguing.”
“You say intriguing, I say scary as shit,” Amy said.
“I suppose so,” Parsons said. “Once we stop, though, I’d like to get some more blood samples.” I shrugged. If Morris gave the word, technically, I didn’t have a choice. My oath of enlistment was less than forty-eight hours old, and it was already becoming a bigger pain in my ass than I liked.
We headed west from Niobara, taking side roads to Highway 25, until we were back on the vast empty plains, bare of all but the scarcest signs that mankind had even walked the world. For once, we rode safe and secure, and I wasn’t driving. But relaxing was not the first thing on the agenda. It was time for me to do what I’d been trained for. The comm-sat’s interface was pretty intuitive, and before long, I was able to tap into Homeland’s signal again. For half an hour, I monitored radio traffic, but nothing seemed to have them too concerned. With nothing out of the ordinary to worry about, I sat back, pulled The Fuzzy Files from my right cargo pocket and took advantage of the first chance to read that I’d had for almost three weeks.
I barely noticed when we skirted a little town called Wheatland, and only emerged from Piper’s world of Zarathustra when we pulled to a stop at the junction of state highway 287. The rear end of a blue sedan stuck up from the far side of the railroad tracks, leaving a trail of tire ruts and debris where it had left the road.
“Okay folks, let’s stop here for a few, stretch the kinks out and grab a bite,” McGregor said. He turned to me and gestured for me to lean closer. “Can you use that sat-comm to see where their drones are?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah, I can pull up their individual feeds and ping a GPS position from their telemetry,” I said. “But they’re always moving, so anything I get is going to be a rough guess.”
“We just need to find out if they have anything moving our way.”
“That, I can do,” I said. It only took a few seconds to tap back into the network while the rest of the team secured the area to find what he needed. He frowned when he saw the expression on my face.
“Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like what I’m about to hear?” he asked.
“Because you’re right,” I said as I brought up the feed. “There is a drone headed this general direction. If we try to head west and go through the National Forest, odds are good it’ll pick us up. But…” I showed him the drone’s camera feed. Clouds piled high on one another, and the view shifted as the camera focused on something else.
“They’re heading west to avoid the weather,” he said. As if to agree with him, a low rumble of thunder came from the south. “So we’ll head south to take advantage of it. Grab something to eat and then get your gear under a tarp or in the truck.” Everyone was lining up at the back of the truck, and I went to check it out. Caldwell and Armstrong were handing out box lunches. Amy was near the front of the line, and I saw that she grabbed two, then came back to me.
“There’s ham and cheese or cheese and ham, take your pick,” she said, thrusting one of the boxes at me.
“So much for the kosher menu,” I said as I took the box. “Damn, this is cheese and ham…I wanted the ham and cheese.” Amy took a big bite out of her sandwich then looked at me with her mouth full.
“T’ff rookk,” she mumbled around her food.
“Big bully,” I said.
“You know what I’d love more than anything right now?” she asked as the wind picked up and chilled our exposed skin. “A bowl of Mom’s chili.”
“I’d settle for just seeing her again,” I said as I looked west. We ate quietly, then went to the vehicles and made sure our packs were under the tarp before we loaded back up. Half an hour after we had stopped, we were headed south on 287 toward Laramie. Ahead of us, the sky was getting darker, and we could see gray sheets of rain angling toward the ground. Lightning turned the clouds yellow inside, only occasionally escaping to lance toward the earth.
As the leading edge of the storm got closer, we started to see bright points of light that started to resolve themselves into headlights.
“What the hell?” Armstrong said as they got closer. I punched the radio to the citizens’ band and started scanning. Seconds later, channel nineteen blared to life.
“..head south. Do not head south. This is Uncle Fester on highway two-eight-seven. If you’re anywhere near Laramie, Wyoming, you gotta head north, east west, it don’t matter. Just don’t go south.” I handed Armstrong the mic.
“Uncle Fester, what’s going on?” he asked.
“There’s a fuckin’ wall of fuckin’ zombies headed north. I was in Denver, and I never saw nothin’ like it. They’re all just walkin’ north, even the fast ones. If you know what’s good for you, get the fuck outta here. That ain’t the half of it. They flushed a prison gang outta Greeley, bastards got a shitload of guns and rocket launchers from some damn place.” By then, we could see the first of the vehicles coming toward us. Wet with rain, it passed us without slowing down. Further ahead, we saw a flare of yellow and then the black and orange blossom of a fireball floated up.
“Copy that. Listen, there’s a safe zone north of here, little town called Niobara. Head to the Women’s Correctional Center on the northwest side of town. You might be safe there.”
“Ten-four,” Uncle Fester said. If there was anything else on his mind, Armstrong didn’t seem interested, since he switched to the Secret Service frequencies.
“Stagecoach One and Three, break west on…County Road 51. We have incoming tangoes, dead and alive. The live ones are well armed and willing to fire.”
“Acknowledged, Stagecoach Two,” McGregor’s voice came back. “Break west on county five-one. All vehicles go weapons hot.” Inside the vehicle, the agents reached for the black vests under their seats and grabbed P90s. Armstrong pointed to a sign on the right, and the driver pulled wide to the left and stopped with the truck across the road, nose pointed to the right. The turret servos whined as the gunner traversed left to cover the approach from the south. Through the small window in the door, I could see the supply truck and Stagecoach one turn down the road we had just passed.
“Stagecoach Two taking Halfback,” Armstrong said as he leaned across the middle of the front seat. “We have-“ he started, then the ping of bullets hitting the side of the vehicle cut him off. “Incoming,” he finished .Overhead, the machinegun chattered, and we rolled forward again. The turret spun again and the grenade launcher thumped and more rounds smacked against the hull. I could see the other two vehicles pulling away from us, the dust kicked up from their passing also starting to obscure them.
“Saunders, whattya got?” Armstrong asked.
“I can’t see anything behind us…wait…they’re cutting across the field…two behind us…lighting ‘em up!” Ma Deuce opened up again, and Saunders muttered “Gotcha!” under his breath. Then I heard bullets spang off the hull on my side, and I looked out to
see an Escalade pull up beside us. The driver had his hand out the window, pulling the trigger on a small SMG. Behind him, another gang member in a blue bandana was leaning out the window with an AK in his hands, emptying the mag at the front window. A flame blossomed inside, then someone popped up on the far side with a Molotov in hand.
Not one to miss an opportunity when it presented itself, I opened the firing port and stuck my P90’s stubby barrel through it, then pulled the trigger and angled it from left to right. Silver edged holes traced a ragged line just below the door handles, and the big SUV veered right as the driver slumped over the wheel. The top of the truck caught fire as it bounced, then the inside erupted into flames as well. Across the vehicle from me, another agent was firing at something, and I closed the firing port on my side so I could change mags. The Guardian was knocked forward, and the driver hit the gas.
“Contact rear,” Saunders called down from the turret. “Trying to get a man on top!” Armstrong looked at me, and I headed for the rear door before he could utter a word, popping the magazine down on my SMG as I went. The rear door didn’t have a firing port, so I had to unlock the upper hatch. It swung open on a beige Cadillac bearing down on our rear end. Another guy in a blue bandana was crouched in the open area where the windshield used to be, and the passenger pointed an assault rifle at us over the dash. The temptation was to spray a line of bullets across the front of the car, but McGregor’s training stayed with me, and I put a short burst into the guy pointing the gun at me. Shots spanged off the hull all around me as he managed to squeeze the trigger, but I was already moving my aim to the driver. He got a longer burst, and the car started to slow and veer left. That left the guy on the hood, and he was showing a sudden dedication to the mission as he took two steps across the hood and tried to leap across the widening gap between our vehicles. As I brought the P90 to bear on him, we both realized that he wasn’t going to make the jump. His mouth opened in a terrified scream as he fell a couple of feet short of the rear of my vehicle. He bounced once when he hit the dirt road, then disappeared under the front tires of his own car. I felt a moment of pity for him until a blue Lincoln swerved around it and tried to catch up to us. I put a long burst through the front grill, then a couple of short bursts into the front windshield, and it fell back. Nothing else came out of the dust cloud at us, so I pulled the hatch shut and dogged it again.
“That looks like the last of them,” I called out as I made my way forward.
“Roger that,” Saunders said. We sped up, and a few minutes later, we were catching up to the rest of our little convoy, and for the next hour, we drove with our eyes to the south and to the east. Our back trail to the east stayed clear, but the wall of clouds slowly rolled up on us.
When the rain hit, it came in almost vertical sheets that buffeted the vehicles on their shocks and left slowly spreading layers of frost on the windshields. When the supply truck nearly slid off the road, McGregor ordered us to a stop in the lee of a hill. We sat there for hours, pummeled by rain and ice as the sky slowly darkened. I checked my map, and fought to keep my cool as I traced out the distance to Nate’s place. Less than twenty miles away, and all that stood between Maya and me was some water and cold air. That, and miles of ice slick roads.
I read more of The Fuzzy Files, and finally forced myself to close my eyes and catch a little sleep, since I couldn’t do anything productive. When Armstrong finally said my name, I came up from dreams of desolate lands filled with the dead.
“Yeah,” I said, bleary eyed and grateful to be awake. The Guardian’s diesel engine rumbled to life and the interior lights went red.
“Storm’s over. We’re moving,” he said. “There’s a campground a couple of miles down the road. Mac says there might be a ranger station or something there we can rack out in.” I grunted something that sounded like an agreement and rubbed the grit from my eyes as we started moving. Twenty minutes of slow, careful driving later, we were pulling into what I assumed was the campground. Two large buildings loomed on either side of the road, with a broad parking lot in front. One was a visitor’s center, with a glassed in waiting area. Most of the glass was broken, and we could see bodies inside. The other building was a rectangle of cinderblock with only a couple of windows that I could see. A Park Services truck was parked beside it, the driver’s door open.
“Stewart, you’re with me,” McGregor’s voice came over the radio. Armstrong looked at me with an apologetic shrug.
“You’re too good at what you do,” he said.
“Work, work, work,” I said as I grabbed my gun and popped the side hatch. A blast of cold air hit my lungs like an icicle, and I pulled the tail of my shemagh around in front of my face and caught it between my teeth. McGregor was waiting for me with Landry and Amy behind him. Amy carried the Mossberg and tried not to look cold, but even in the dark, I could see her shoulders hunch as she fought to keep from shivering.
“She insisted,” he said over the wind and engine noise when I looked from her to him and cocked my head. In the light of the Guardians’ headlamps, I could see a slight mist still falling, but no other movement aside from us.
“Alright, but she’s with me,” I said. He shook his head and started to say something, and I cut him off. “Fine, you tell her to stick with Landry.” He held up a hand and turned to Landry. They fell in step, and Amy settled into a spot just to my right. As we came closer to the building, I felt the familiar pressure building at the back of my head that meant more infected were close by. Amy’s posture changed as we crept closer to the door, her shoulders dropping and her head inching forward. McGregor and Landry went to either side of the door, then Mac looked back at me.
“Infected,” I said with a nod toward the door.
“See if there’s another door,” he said. We headed right and found another door on the other side of the building. I turned the tac light on my P90 on and shone it on the knob. A dark brown smear ran down the wall beside the door, and thin streaks of congealed blood were on the doorknob.
“We have a door. Keys in the lock,” I radioed.
“Copy. Get ready to move in.” I looked to Amy and nodded, and she slowly chambered a round while I switched the P90’s fire selector to burst. From the other side of the building, we could hear a fist pounding on the door. Seconds later, a loud thump sounded against the same door, and we moved in. I kept my barrel pointed down to keep the light on the floor as we stepped into the doorway. A hallway led to our right, and a room opened up to our left. I got a vague sense of appliances along the wall that stretched out in front of us, and furniture off to my left as I focused on the sound coming from across the room. Rapid impacts against a door and a raspy growl told me where the infected was in general, and I brought the SMG up. The tactical light fell on a man in a park ranger uniform with the right half of his face missing. He was turning to face us, his one eye wide and rolling.
Amy’s shotgun boomed, and I felt the overpressure against my body as the shot caught the infected in the sternum and threw him against the door. I stepped forward and put the sight on his nose, then pulled the trigger. With his skull perforated and his chest shattered, I was pretty sure this one wasn’t going to pull through, so I gestured with my right hand for Amy to cover the hallway to our right.
“Front room is clear,” I said as I moved to the other side of the room and pointed down the other hallway. Nothing moved, so I nudged the dead ranger away from the door with my foot and reached across my body to open the door with my right hand. McGragor and Landry came in as I sidestepped to make room for them. At a gesture from Mac, Landry went to Amy’s side. Mac moved in front of me and advanced down the hallway. We all came out in a bunkroom. Trash littered the floor, and one of the beds was stained with blood, but no other infected seemed to be waiting for us.
“This’ll do,” Mac said. “Saunders, Armstrong, clear the other building. Caldwell, get the package inside.” He grabbed the bloody bedding and folded the mattress on itself, then picked th
e whole mess up. I led the way to the door I’d come in through, and he tossed the bundle off to one side. We hurried back and dragged the ranger’s body out, taking it as far as we dared in the dark before we jogged back to the lodge. By the time we got back, Caldwell had Morris and the other civilians ushered into the bunk room. Another agent had brought a lantern in and I could see a fireplace against the far wall with wood and newspaper piled next to it on the stone hearth. The front room had an open kitchen that looked onto another fireplace that was surrounded by heavy chairs. Couches were set on opposite walls, and a boom box shared space with a TV on a low table against the same wall as the fireplace.
As more people started to file in, Mac took me to one side. “I know it’s been a long day for you,” he said. “But it isn’t over yet. I want Amy to stay near the President tonight. You, me and a couple of other agents are going to stay in Stagecoach One and take shifts on watch.”
“Can I at least eat before we bed down in the RV?” I asked. He gave a brief laugh at that. I tried to glare a hole in his back as he left me to tell Amy where she was going to be spending the night. Twenty miles, I told myself. Twenty miles from Maya. It might as well have been twenty light years.
An hour later, I found myself on watch in the Guardian’s turret. A warm fire, a comfortable chair and a good meal were pleasant memories. I had tried to teach Amy how to play checkers, and ended up getting my ass kicked after the fourth game. Now she was asleep inside, and I was counting down the minutes to the end of my watch. Saunders and Landry were racked out on the floor below me, and McGregor was snoring in the front seat.
In this weather, it wasn’t people we had to worry about, it was the dead. Mac’s choice to have Amy near the president and me in the truck made a ruthless sort of sense. Both of us would know if infected were nearby long before anyone could see them, and we had a lot more experience in dealing with them than anyone else in the detail. It was the kind of brutal practicality I figured a Secret Service agent needed, and I had to respect it, even if I wasn’t thrilled being on the pointy end of it.
