Pausing for just a moment longer--the horror of what he had just done, what he had to do, affecting each of them in turn, and then they were off again, dodging cold, famished arms and hands reaching for substance.
"Are we going to talk about that arm of yours? How in the hell were you able to do that?" Jelks asked, forcing his gaze away from the mother and daughter.
Polk glanced at her bionic arm. "How should I know--we're alive, aren't we?"
"Yeah, but aren't you concerned? That wasn't normal. Doc?"
Doctor Ahuja looked at them, his eyes darting away, staring at the undead coming towards them. "This isn't really the time."
"Doctor?"
Ahuja exhaled loudly, "The nanotechnology within the device is evolving."
"What does that mean?" Jelks fired and shot two more wandering dead.
"Nanotechnology is a manipulation of matter on an atomic, molecular, and supramolecular scale. The device--the arm has adapted to Ashley on a subatomic level, improving her."
"Improving how?" Polk asked, turning to face the doctor, concern and anger in her voice.
He gazed at her with an expression of frustration and confusion. "You've seen it, felt it. Your strength has increased, that much we've all seen. Reflexes too, I imagine. What else? I don't know, I told you it was highly experimental. Why do you think I've wanted to stick around this whole time? My actions have been no secret. I've been observing, collecting data."
"Jesus..." Jelks whispered.
"What's the plan, folks?" Collins shouted.
Polk glared at the doctor and then started up the hill toward a dark house.
"There's a car," she huffed, trying to catch her breath.
"Don't suppose you know how to hotwire it?" Collins said to Ahuja, laughing breathlessly.
"No--I'm afraid not. I don't even drive. My sister drove me," the doctor reported, still sounding put off by the short interrogation.
"Seriously?"
He shrugged.
"The keys are inside," Polk said, "I checked last week. Just in case Karen and I needed to get away quick. I wanted to have options in case things got bad."
"I'd say this is one of those occasions," Jelks said.
"Yeah." Polk came to the back of the house and followed the brick to the edge. A rotting woman stumbled, rounding the corner on her. She poised, ready to strike the dead thing.
A gunshot went off and the rotting woman fell back into the grass.
Polk glanced at Jelks, still aiming his rifle.
"Save your strength," he said.
"Save your bullets," she quipped.
"Fair enough."
In the driveway, Doctor Ahuja gazed around, muttering under his breath. The siren must have been going off longer than they thought--obviously they waited too long. The sound seemed to have attracted every biting rotter in a ten-mile radius. Up the backyard they shuffled towards them. From the road, more were coming from all directions.
"We need to hurry," the Doctor said quietly, too terrified to raise his voice.
"No shit, doc," said Collins, moving to take point. "Which one?" he asked, gesturing to the two vehicles in the drive.
Polk pointed to the Dodge Caravan.
They rushed toward it.
Firing.
Punching.
Pushing.
Kicking.
Within seconds, they climbed inside.
And a moment after that, the cooing, moaning dead surrounded the van. Slapping the windows, smearing stains of congealed blood and muck. Eyes vacant and unfocused. Worms squirming and maggots festering in the small spaces of their ruined bodies. Mouths ajar with protruding grey tongues.
"We need to go. We need to go. We need to go." Doctor Ahuja danced on his knees on the floor of the van, holding hands to his ears, trying to shut out the sounds of the dead. The back seats had been lowered into the cargo holds, three duffle bags piled in their place.
Jelks glanced back from the passenger seat and then looked at Polk.
"Small provisions might last us a week," she said, rummaging for the keys in the pull-down sunglass case on the center console. Finding them, she fired up the engine and slowly backed out of the drive, illuminating the dead in red brake lights and bumping them out of the way.
On the road, she shifted into drive--staring out in front, she froze. Forest Avenue was overflowing with dead. Many aimless, many more moving towards them, from behind them and ahead.
"No choice, we've got to try," Jelks hissed.
Polk swallowed and pushed on the gas. The Dodge nudged several out of the way. Those it didn't went under in a bumping wet crunch.
She sped up, nudging more, and knocking others away.
The van jerked with each bump.
And with each thud, she held her breath, terrified they were going to stall out, or worse.
On and on they went until finally she turned left and then right back on to the main road. Faster and faster and soon Shoreacres was behind them. White car headlights and red brake lights littered Highway 146. Traffic was at a standstill.
They kept to Shoreacres boulevard and then Choat Road, passing refineries. As they came to Bay Area Boulevard, Polk stopped.
"What's the plan?" Collins asked, peering through the back windows into the dark.
No one said anything.
Doctor Ahuja cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should entertain Fort Hood as a possibility? They will have shelter in place by now, security, food."
Jelks shook his head. "Not an option."
"Can I ask why?" the doctor scoffed.
"We have our reasons."
"What reason could there be? Clearly the city is no longer safe. The obvious thing to do would be--" the doctor started.
"Hey, we're more than happy to let you out," Collins snapped.
Ahuja looked to say something else but stopped.
"We ain't going to Hood, you can if you want. How about we find a boat, get to an island somewhere safe, uninhabited." Collins asked.
"Uninhabited would mean no food or water--how would you survive?" the doctor asked.
"We'll make do--as long as we're careful we'll be okay."
"That is not a viable plan."
"Better than Hood--too many people, too many ways things could go bad."
"Better than stealing a boat."
Collins laughed drily, "What do you think we're doing here, Doc? Do you think Polk owns this van? Taking a stroll through the neighborhood?"
"We did what we had to..."
"That's right--we did what we had to, face it doc, we're thieves and we're bad guys." Collins rested his head against the back-passenger headrest, closing his eyes.
Jelks cleared his throat loudly. "Polk--what about you? What do you think?"
Polk shifted into drive and turned the van left. "I'm going north."
"North?" Collins coughed.
"What's north?" Jelks asked.
"Somewhere not here," she said.
Collins scowled into the back of Jelks's head.
Jelks glanced back at him and shrugged. He nodded at Polk. "We're good with north."
Collins exhaled, obviously unhappy with the decision but not enough to argue.
"And what if the roads are blocked?" Ahuja asked, unsatisfied.
"Then we find another way."
"And what happens if we can't?"
"We have to escape--we have to try. And we've got to stay out of big cities. If they're anything like Shoreacres, we may never get out alive," she said, accelerating the van.
"What about fuel?"
"We've got a full tank."
"And when we need more?"
"We'll find more."
"Wouldn't that be dangerous?" the doctor asked.
"We may never get out of any place alive. We almost didn't get out of here," Jelks added, staring out the window, almost to himself.
"This is insane," Ahuja chirped. "We don't know where there is no outbreak, if we can make it to somewhere safer, som
ewhere like Fort Hood, there are soldiers that can protect--"
"We gotta stay in the sticks," Polk interrupted. "We've got to keep away from highly populated areas. We've got to survive. Somebody's got to survive."
"Amen," said Collins. He patted his pockets and produced a pack of cigarettes. He took one for himself and offered them to Jelks who in turn offered one to Polk.
Using a passed around Bic from Collins, Polk puffed and exhaled smoke, rolling her window down an inch. Relaxing somewhat, she felt perhaps what she had said was true and not some desperate daydream, maybe they could survive--what worried her was what it would take to do that. She had already lost so much; failed too much. Could she keep the people with her alive? North wasn't a plan, it was a direction.
Too many unknowns.
Maybe all I really need is a positive attitude, she thought, and then glanced at her prosthetic, flexing the fingers on the steering wheel as if they were real flesh and bone.
And a bionic arm.
And a gun.
General Rusk
Part III
Fort Hood,
Texas
He read through the reports from Operation Continental once more. Captain Morton stood by the maps of States spread out on the wall, marking lines and designating names in various colors. The Capitol was in ashes--they had succeeded, but now some of the Generals were drawing their own lines in the sand. Claiming that they had agreed something had to be done with POTUS but never agreed with General Rusk assuming command of the armed forces.
"Idiots," he spat, tossing the report across the large conference desk.
Morton glanced back and then turned to his task.
Sure, there were higher ranking officers still alive.
Rusk was on his way out when the outbreak started.
But none of them had the vision nor the balls to take control from that sniveling politician and his rubber spine cronies.
Sad the entire city had to burn.
Such a waste.
Perhaps when these little blips get sorted, we could clear out the dead and start over. Erect new monuments. But not like before. The system failed. Too much debate and not enough progress. Didn't George Washington warn us when he said political parties 'are likely in the course of time and things, to become potent engines, by which cunning, ambitious, and unprincipled men will be enabled to subvert the power of the people and to usurp for themselves the reins of government, destroying afterwards the very engines which have lifted them to unjust dominion?'
Fine man, George Washington.
That's what America needs.
Another Washington.
I could be like George.
I can guard this Nation against the impostures of pretended patriotism.
Who else?
There is no one.
There's only me.
"General Rusk?" Morton called, his pen poised over a map of Alabama.
"Yes?" Rusk said, blinking away from his thoughts.
"Colonel Taylor stationed in Birmingham, how should I mark him on the board, sir?"
Rusk pushed away from the table and came to stand beside Morton. He gazed thoughtfully at the large map of Alabama. "He was an early supporter--mark him as green, for now. Send him orders to move a division of troops north west. We need to cordon off Memphis so that the infected move into Arkansas."
Morton looked at the map and blinked. "Sir?"
Rusk smirked, his eyes wide in a sort of twisted excitement. He gestured at the map. "If Colonel Taylor can get those walking corpses to move into Arkansas, and Major Lozano from the 71st Infantry up in Dallas can wrangle the dead there east, I believe that'll put that damn One-Star in a right tight pickle, don't you think?"
Morton looked at the map and nodded slowly, "Yes, sir, but why? He had agreed to Operation Continental--why attack him now?"
"Because I don't trust him, Captain. Yes, he agreed to the Operation insomuch as listening to what we had to say--but someone tipped off POTUS. I reckon he waited until the last possible moment, playing both sides for whomever walked away the victor. And now he's chiming in with those northeastern, yank Generals." Rusk stood ridge with his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
"Very well, sir. I'll notify both Colonel Taylor and Major Lozano." Morton about-faced and strode out of the conference room.
Rusk watched him leave, noting mentally that he would need to keep an eye on the young Captain, and then he turned his attention to a blown-up map of Texas. Numbered circles in different colors were drawn around Fort Hood designating the various checkpoints and zones. Out the windows he could hear the mewing of refuges as they moved along Center Street, herding into several checkpoints before finally coming out into a large open field. Glancing out the tall windows, he was now glad that he had given the order to fence in the area.
Yes, Fort Hood was to be a haven--for those who followed the rules.
But he couldn't fathom risking having strangers walking around his base of operations unguarded. Control was the name of the game. Another thing those yank Generals or those pompous politicians couldn't grasp. Control was something that needed to be seized by the balls. Give people hope, show them the reality of a worse situation without rules, and most fall in line without thinking twice.
Deserters had been a problem.
But he'd dealt with that.
AWOL was to be considered an act of treason.
Subject to immediate execution by firing squad.
He had already witnessed the first and hopefully last, earlier that day, shortly following the conclusion of Operation Continental. Several soldiers, National Guard he believed, were found attempting to acquisition a civilian vehicle outside of Austin. His own guard had lined them just outside these very buildings, placed on their knees in front of a newly built memorial honoring soldiers killed in action serving OIF. The volley of 5.56 mm rounds crackled coldly across the evening sky, putting everyone, including Rusk himself, into a strange somber mood.
This was real.
And people needed to get on board.
There was no surrender.
No middle ground.
No grey areas.
No escape.
Too much had already been lost.
He brought his attention back to the maps. Rusk ran his hand along a traditional map of the United States. Among the green and blue lines and circles and names of commanding officers, there were a few cities, like Seattle, Los Angeles, New York City, Chicago, Phoenix had all been marked through with a large red X.
"Nuclear weapons--what were they thinking?" Rusk hissed to himself, glaring at those red X's. "Millions of lives--snuffed in a blink of an eye. And what about fallout? Depending on prevailing winds we're looking at a significant square mileage that could be impacted. Radioactivity? We could return, rebuild in five or seven years, but who would want to live there? Radiation takes eons to dissipate."
"General?" a soldier stood at the door.
"Yes?"
He looked confused. "Sorry, I thought you were talking to someone."
"No, Private--just thinking out loud."
"Okay, sir. Let me know if you need anything." And with that, the soldier disappeared to his desk just outside the conference room.
General Rusk went and stood gazing out the tall walled windows. "Private?" he called.
"Yes sir?" came the voice a moment later, standing inside the door again.
"What happened with Private Murphy?"
"Who, sir?"
"You know, that mousy looking soldier."
"Oh--him. He was found in the latrine, sir. Dead."
"Dead?"
"Yes, sir. Suicide, apparently."
"Really? Hmm. Was his body disposed of properly?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good."
"Anything else, sir?"
"Yes, do you know where this new batch of refugees is coming from?" Rusk asked, turning to look out the window, squinting against the dawning sun as it rose in the
east. He could almost make out the main checkpoint on Clear Creek Avenue.
"Let me check, sir." The Private vanished to grab some papers from his desk. Returning to the door, he reported, "Looks like we're still getting folks from Georgetown and Round Rock. Some from Temple. But the majority from this morning are coming from Houston, sir."
"Houston?"
"Yes, sir--I think they were concerned after what happened to those cities...you know, those that got...nuked." The private was obviously uncomfortable talking about it.
Rusk smiled. "Yes, of course. I imagine Houston was probably on the POTUS's list of targeted cities--and God knows who else."
"Thankfully you put a stop to that, sir."
Rusk glanced at the Private, nodding approvingly. He turned back to the window. "Do we have any units in Houston yet?"
The Private seemed to think for a moment. "None that I know of, sir."
Rusk crossed his arms over his UCP combat uniform. "Have that new regiment that we goggled up from Louisiana send a couple detachments. I want infantry and engineers to set up several checkpoints along the major roads and interstates that connect to Houston. Anything dead and walking needs to be put down."
"Yes, sir," the Private remarked.
"And--make sure they are checking IDs of folks passing through. I want any AWOL soldiers discovered to be shot on sight, do you understand, son?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Send out the word--I want them on the move ASAP."
"Yes, sir, right away, sir."
And with that the Private was gone and General Rusk was alone with his thoughts and plans for a better tomorrow.
Surfer Dude
Somewhere off the coast of Georgia,
Atlantic Ocean
He sailed as close to the coast as he dared to get. Winds were picking up, stronger than before, pulling him further out to sea. The twenty-year-old MacGregor he was lucky enough to acquire from one of the abandoned docks at the Shoreacres yacht club was easy enough to manage by himself, the headsails operated on a winch pully system. But after weeks of searching for a safe place--he was growing tired, and his rations getting scarce. Before the outbreak he was a scrawny guy, no matter how much he ate he never gained a single pound. Now, his skin was tight, and his ribs showed more than he cared to see, his cheek bones looked hollow, and blackish blue bags under his eyes. His long blonde hair looked more stringy than normal as if it were severely dry and thinning.
Planet of the Dead (Book 2): War For The Planet of The Dead Page 15
