by David Rogers
The pair of people manning the registers didn’t look like the usual sort who were stuck handling that task. In fact, if Lauren was any judge, she thought they might even be the owners. They were almost certainly married, and to each other was her guess, and were each at least into their fifties. That caused her to raise her eyebrows a little, but she didn’t say anything as the woman tore her attention away from the radio and started ringing up the drinks.
“Eight forty-one.” she said in a thin voice that sounded like she was about to be sick.
Lauren produced Todd’s ten and handed it over. The woman started making change – manually – as the radio deejay listed some familiar Atlanta neighborhoods that were overrun with the outbreak.
“Where are you headed honey?”
Lauren blinked as she reached for the change the woman was trying to hand her. Her gaze shifted, and she saw the man behind the counter was the one talking to her. She blinked again, then shrugged with most of her usual cheerful coyness. “Not sure. My ride is looking into taking on some haulage for FEMA.”
Whatever answer the man had expected or hoped for, this clearly wasn’t one he agreed with. His face twisted into a frown, but not a malicious or angry one. Instead, she saw concern behind his expression. Lauren was wondering why he seemed so interested, and upset; maybe she should ask exactly where the FEMA pickup point was before she kept hitching with Toss. But before he could say anything in response, everyone’s attention was wrenched outside.
It was the screech of tires that drew Lauren’s eyes first. She spun toward the windows just in time to see a yellow school bus careening across the empty expanse of asphalt between the road and the gas islands. She just had time to think – distantly, in the back of her mind – that this was not good before the bus slammed into the leading edge of the second row of pumps.
The screech of tires was replaced by a tremendous crunch as metal twisted and snapped. The front bumper of the bus sheared the pumps right off, but the concrete support pillar holding up the awning stopped the big vehicle cold. The bus crumpled and folded up around the concrete, additional sounds of pained metal echoing forth. Glass was shattering and cracking all along the length of the vehicle, but the most dramatic was the front windshield.
Not only did it break, but a trio of figures – humanoid figures – catapulted out from inside the bus. One of them slammed into the concrete pillar in a spray of blood and gore that was far too shocking to really appreciate, while the other two continued on for over twenty or twenty-five feet before hitting the ground and skidding. They left bloody trails behind them that were sickening.
Lauren started to flinch and huddle protectively against the floor, but there was no explosion.
Chapter Two – Hot Load
“Jesus Christ!” blurted the guy behind the counter. Lauren ducked behind the closest shelf fast enough that she stumbled and sprawled in the aisle. She ignored the impact, instead curling herself into a tight ball with her head sheltered beneath her arms. Her heart was hammering away in her chest as she flinched in anticipation of the explosion.
“Oh my God.” She heard the counter woman moan. Lauren stayed where she was. Seconds ticked by. “Hank, call nine-one-one.”
“Right.” Lauren heard a pretty loud dial tone, then the beep of phone keys being pushed.
“Honey, you okay down there?”
Lauren uncurled just enough to peer to the side, between her arms. The woman was leaning over the counter with a drawn, pinched expression that looked concerned. She met Lauren’s eyes and spoke again. “You okay?”
“Is it going to explode?” Lauren asked weakly.
“What — no!” the woman blurted. “Is that why you’re down there?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to . . . just standing there didn’t seem like a good idea.” Lauren offered, feeling faintly silly.
“It’s not going to explode.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Hank said shortly, pushing a button on the flip phone in his hand. “There are shutoff valves that seal the pipes if the pump is taken out. Plus we’ve got a top notch fire suppression system in the island awnings.”
Lauren started to uncurl, but didn’t get up just yet. The woman studying her read the expression on Lauren’s face and smiled a smile that lacked more than a hint of actual warmth. She didn’t seem like she was laughing at Lauren, but rather that she didn’t have the attention to spare more than the brief amount of reassurance she was offering. “It’s fine. You can stay down there if you want, but the floor is . . . look we mop it, but even so, it’s a high traffic surface.”
Lauren knew truckers weren’t always the biggest on hygiene. Some of them were downright filthy, and even the neat ones walked through all sorts of stuff when they weren’t sitting in their trucks. Then they came in here and tramped across the floor in their quests for coffee and cigarettes. She glanced down at the floor, then her bare legs, and started scrambling to her feet. Her awkward dive for the floor hadn’t left her any time to arrange herself or her clothing for propriety, and the short skirt had ridden up enough to leave her quite exposed. She tugged quickly at the hem, her eyes moving to Hank reflexively.
He wasn’t enjoying the view her position offered; namely, that of her panties. Instead, his attention was focused outside at the bus. Lauren rose as quickly as she could manage and got her clothing back into a semblance of order. When she was back on her feet and decently covered again, she looked outside.
The bus was wrapped around the pillar that supported the awning, and backed the fuel pumps. The pumps that had been hit were nothing more than a scattering of wreckage on the concrete, mixed in with glass and debris the bus had shed in its high-speed impact. Amid those debris were the bodies she’d seen catapulting out through the windshield. It was at least thirty feet from where she stood to the wreck, but even from here she could see there was no chance the people on the concrete were still alive. There was a lot of blood surrounding where they lay, and their bodies were . . . missing parts. Parts like limbs, and chunks of torso.
She shuddered and shifted her gaze to the bus itself. It looked like it had held up pretty well considering how fast it had been going when it impacted. Most of the glass was shattered or gone, but other than the front end having split back past the driver’s seat where the pillar had successfully resisted the vehicle’s arrival, she didn’t see a whole lot of damage to the body of the bus. And there were people moving around inside. She could see them through the windows, or at least where windows had been before they’d disintegrated.
“Hank?”
Lauren glanced at the people behind the counter just in time to see Hank scowl ferociously at the woman. “Vera, I’ve dialed it twice. They’re not picking up.”
“How is nine-one-one not picking up?” Vera asked, sounding worried.
“Hell if I know.” Hank muttered. He stabbed at the phone again, and the dial tone sounded briefly before the key press beeps replaced it. He lifted the phone back to his ear again as the doors on the opposite side of the store from the wreck slammed open. Lauren let out a little squeak of startled surprise, turning as a pair of drivers burst in.
“What the hell is going on over there?” one of them half shouted.
“Wreck.” Vera offered, gesturing in the direction of the crumpled bus.
“Fire and ambulance on the way?”
“If people don’t stop asking me that I’m gonna get pissed.” Hank muttered.
“Well, ain’t you calling nine-one-one?”
Hank glared at the driver balefully, and Lauren was glad that look wasn’t directed at her. Hank was either really ticked, or he’d had plenty of opportunities over the years to practice the expression, because it glowered and dripped with flat, hostile scorn.
“Save it for the ladies and kids.” The second driver shot back in response to Hank’s dour glance. “They’re gonna need some help. Come on Sam.”
Both drivers ran across the store and slamme
d out through the doors, headed for the bus. Lauren watched as they hastened to the bus and started trying to open the rear emergency door. It was resisting their efforts, though Lauren couldn’t see any signs of obvious damage from where she was. The bus’ front door had merged with what was left of the engine and front end in a solid mass of twisted and warped metal. A few moments later Sam and his buddy were joined by three more drivers, one of whom had brought a truck sized tire iron, and a tool box to boot. The tire iron was quickly employed to start prying the rear door open.
“Fuck, the call ain’t going through.” Hank said in frustration. “Try the counter phone. Maybe it’s a problem with the cell tower.”
Lauren tore her gaze away from the wreck as Vera bent and reached beneath the counter. She hauled an office style phone out, one that had a long cord trailing out of sight. As the woman lifted the receiver and began dialing, Lauren dug her own phone out of her purse. She swiped the lock off the screen, then tapped in three numbers and hit send.
The call didn’t go through for several seconds, long enough that she was just about to redial in case she’d somehow done it wrong. Then it began ringing, and she waited some more. There was a tortured sound of bending metal from outside as the drivers leaned on the tire iron together, levering the bus’ rear door open. It looked like they almost had it open enough to get in, or to get people out. The phone continued ringing, and Lauren began frowning. Nine-one-one should just pick up. At least to an automated message, even if all the operators were busy. It was nine-one-one; it was supposed to work.
But it wasn’t working. She looked at the phone’s screen, which showed ‘911’, then put it back to her ear. Still ringing. But not picking up.
A bloody arm reached out of the rear of the bus. The drivers left off their prying efforts and began to help the crash victim out of the wreck. Lauren listened to the call to nine-one-one ringing without being picked up as an older woman was brought out of the bus. She seemed to be having a seizure or something; she was quivering and shaking in the drivers’ hands as they eased her down. She was most of the way out and down when two more figures emerged from the door. They tumbled out without concern for the bodies already in the way, crashing down atop the woman and the men trying to get her out safely.
Lauren just had time to change why she was frowning before fresh blood began flowing. She blinked stupidly at the scene beyond the windows as she saw several of the drivers begin yelling in pain. The pile of bodies at the rear of the bus turned into a thrashing mass of punching and grabbing arms, and kicking and stumbling legs. Jets of red fluid were spurting in several directions, up and across and out from the tangle of people. The blood was rapidly coating them.
She remembered her phone when it slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers. She didn’t even react as it bounced off the floor with a sharp sound that surely foretold of a cracked screen. Nor did the surprised yelling from the counter pierce the veil of fixed attention. She just stared at the fighting at the back of the bus in stupefied shock. Why were they doing that? She found her voice just to ask the question.
“Why are they doing that?”
“Lord save us.” Vera moaned. “They’re sick.”
“What?”
“Like on the news.” Vera insisted. “Like in Atlanta.”
“Oh hell.” Hank snarled unhappily as he put his phone back in his pocket.
More people were emerging from the bus, piling into the group on the ground behind it. One of the drivers had managed to fight his way clear of the fracas, stumbling to his feet and staggering drunkenly toward the store. He was clutching at the curve of his neck and shoulder, with an arm that was bleeding almost as much as his shoulder seemed to be. His entire front, and most of his jeans down to his knees, were bloody enough to glisten wetly in the washed out truck stop lighting.
Behind him, the pile of bodies was starting to spread out as the scuffling combatants rolled away — or in one case under — the bus. One of the drivers looked quite dead, with a man kneeling on his chest as he worried away at his victim’s neck. Lauren could see blood spurting beneath the teeth that were chewing on the driver’s flesh. The same flesh that was being bitten off and swallowed. Two more drivers were still fighting, but they were already outnumbered by the people pouring out of the bus, and each was in the grasp of at least four hands.
Lauren heard the shots before she saw them. Bodies were in the way at first, and she was distracted by the horror of the scene. Her wide eyes homed in on the pistol that had appeared in the hand of the fifth driver. It was a big one, gleaming silver beneath the awning’s lights. It went off again as she locked on to it, then a third time. The bullets were slamming into the chest of one of his attackers, the one who was closest to the driver’s head. His legs kicked at two more that were trying to seize hold of him, as he fended off the one he was shooting with his left hand while his right fired the gun.
“Christ Almighty.” Vera breathed unhappily. Lauren didn’t look away, too stunned by what was going on outside. The wreck, the attack, the blood . . . now gunfire that seemed to have no effect. The person the driver was shooting looked to be an older man, maybe into his fifties, and slightly built. At least one of the bullets had gone straight through him, judging by the spout of gore that erupted out his back. The others were definitely hitting him, rocking him with each impact. And the man was ignoring them as the driver kept pulling the trigger.
The pistol pumped two more rounds into the man — both still without effect — then the driver changed tactics. He jammed the muzzle at his target’s face. Lauren just had time to find a new depth of shock within her before the pistol went off twice more. The middle aged man’s head just shattered in a thick gush of blood and tissue and bone. It mostly went back, towards the driver’s legs, but enough went up and sideways to spray him. Lauren saw him spitting to clear his mouth even as the now headless man slumped and finally went limp.
Lauren heard footsteps beside her and startled badly as Hank went past. He ignored her shying from him as he hustled across the store and locked the doors. She stared at him as he not only turned the deadbolt, but also reached up and slammed the locking latches at the tops of the frames home before leaning down to close two more on the bottoms.
More shots sounded beyond the doors as the armed driver shot his other attackers, while Lauren stood caught amid shock and disbelief. Hank rushed past her to lock the doors on the far side of the store, while Vera finally returned her attention to the store phone.
“Why . . . what . . . locking them out?” Lauren got out weakly in a voice that was barely audible, even to her own ears. There was so much destruction and damage outside, so much blood. The armed driver was on his feet now, backing rapidly away from the bus that continued to disgorge people who weren’t people. Not anymore. Now they were something else. He fired several more shots, then his pistol clicked empty. Lauren watched as he backpedaled until there was at least fifteen feet of space between him and the nearest attacker before he dropped the magazine out of his weapon and tucked it into a pocket.
“Why are you locking the doors?” Lauren asked again, more loudly.
“Maybe it’ll keep them out.” Hank answered as he finished locking the opposite side doors.
“Glass.” Vera said frantically. “Probably not.”
“Worth a shot.” Hank said. “Speaking of which . . .” He went back behind the cashier island and ducked down, rummaging around beneath the counter.
“Don’t they need our help?”
“Honey, from what the news been saying, ain’t no one who can help them now.” Vera shook her head as she continued stabbing at the phone with shaking fingers.
“They were trying to help . . . why is this happening?”
Hank rose up with a short shotgun in his hands, which were moving with calm assurance over it as he checked it before breaking it open. Lauren didn’t know much about guns beyond what she’d seen in the movies, but she recognized his was a double barr
eled version. And she was pretty sure the way he had to bend it to open both barrels meant each held just one round before needing to be reloaded.
Based on what she’d seen outside with the driver and his pistol . . . she wasn’t so sure two rounds at a time were going to be very good. Though . . . shotguns were supposed to be very damaging weapons. Even so, the driver outside had shot for a long time without needing to reload. And not gotten much done with all those bullets either.
“So what’s the plan now?” Lauren asked as Hank slid shells into his gun and snapped the barrels closed again. Gunshots sounded from outside, and she looked to see the driver had gotten his own weapon reloaded. A trio of figures were staggering toward him, apparently unable to find space on or around the other would-be rescuers. Those were covered in blood, and by bloody bodies, all apparently chewing and eating them.
“Well for starters, ain’t none of them bus bastards getting in here.” Hank said firmly as he pulled a box of shotgun shells up atop the counter and started stuffing them into his pockets.
Lauren didn’t say anything to that, but her attention shifted from the pistol wielding, wounded, driver outside to the windows themselves. The truck stop store was a standard commercial truck stop. The walls on the pump facing sides, which were two of the four sides of the building, were mostly glass. And mostly meant almost entirely. Even the doors were floor to ceiling glass. It made for excellent visibility both ways – so customers could see inside and be tempted to come buy something, and for employees to keep an eye on the pumps – but that visibility was now vulnerability. She wasn’t an expert, but surely the glass wouldn’t survive anyone determined who began pounding on it. And if guns started going off . . .
Scarcely had that thought flickered through her still panicked thoughts when the driver outside was pounding on the doors of the store. He was half turned, gun in his right hand and leveled at the pile of horror at the back of the bus as his left smacked palm first into the glass with a loud reverberating thud. “Hey, help me!” he called as he glanced inside. “I need help.”
