by Jeff Olah
Running his hand over his face and attempting to make sense of the multiple voices pinging off the interior, he slid the Remington 700 from between his legs and cut his eyes to the right. Cora sat in the passenger seat staring back as their view of the outside world had begun to fade.
“We getting out?” Cora asked.
Frank kept his voice low and leaned in. “No, just me.”
“What?”
Motioning toward the rear of the vehicle, he handed Cora the keys. “They need you here, do not leave them. If we don’t make it back, you drive away… got it?”
Frank reached for the door handle and stepped out. He moved quickly around the rear of the vehicle and stopped near the right front wheel. The asphalt beyond was rapidly dissolving into a mostly white jigsaw puzzle as three backlit individuals stepped out of the blue SUV fifty yards away.
They appeared to solely focus on the trees where his friends had left the sidewalk and had yet to notice as he dropped to one knee and shouldered the rifle. Partially hidden behind the passenger side front fender, he took in a deep breath, closed his left eye and brought his right in behind the scope.
Peering into the scope, he cursed as he tried to bring the three individuals into view. The night sky, combined with the falling snow, was playing havoc with his senses. He was able to catch quick glimpses of two of the silhouettes, but only for a moment at a time. They were moving toward the side of the road and each carried a weapon.
Unable to track the third individual, and with the glare from the mystery SUV’s headlights casting phantom shadows, he attempted to calm his breathing. That wasn’t going to work, he didn’t have enough time. And adjusting the scope was also useless; the three silhouettes had become a blur behind the driving snow.
Turning away from the blinding light originating from the opposite end of the street, Frank once again attempted to bring the scene into focus. He took in another slow deep breath, closed his eyes for a beat, and upon returning to the scope, the world beyond instantly sharpened.
Ethan had run off without any explanation. His mother had begged him not to go. She nearly hyperventilated as he and Griffin trotted off toward the unknown, ignoring the pointed questions about his father. She’d followed Shannon into the SUV ahead of the others, but even as he moved out of sight, her uncontrollable sobbing continued. He still had to walk away, even if she was unable to understand why.
He’d deal with the colossal burden of sharing the details of his father’s murder once he and his friends were safe. Only after he and Griffin ended what was left of Josie and her men. If that’s the way it actually played out.
Partially blinded by the headlights of the mystery SUV, Ethan crouched near the base of a thick pine with Griffin less than ten feet to his right. Both men armed and ready, they waited as the three slamming doors turned into distant footfalls that grew closer with each passing second.
“I can’t see a damn thing… you?”
Standing with his back to a second sizeable tree and craning his neck toward the street, Griffin shook his head. He stared back at Ethan, held his hands out and shrugged his shoulders. They’d run off without much more than their anger and three handguns. They hadn’t accounted for this turn in events. They weren’t ready and as the footsteps stopped four feet from the treeline, and a familiar voice broke through the night.
“If you drop your weapons and come out now, I’ll only kill two of your people. That will even the score for Maddox and Vince. But if you make us come in there after you, I’ll kill all of them. I’d prefer not to, but I’ll let you decide. Ten seconds… and then I have my boys come in and bring you out.”
Ethan leaned into the tree, turned back to Griffin, and spoke just loud enough for his friend to hear. “We aren’t doing this; you know she not going to let anyone live.”
Griffin nodded. “How you wanna play this?”
Ethan turned and peered into the darkness, to where the trees faded and the sporadic flakes of white powder drifted from the low hanging branches. “Any way we can go deeper into the trees and circle back around?”
Following Ethan’s eyes, Griffin rubbed his temple with his free hand. “I have no idea. We may not make it—”
From somewhere beyond the trees her voice interrupted. “Time’s up… but instead of coming in to get you, I think I’ll just have my boys go up the street and take apart your shiny black SUV. You two both stay put, we’ll come back.”
As Ethan turned, Griffin began to step away from behind the tree. Holding his hand up, he asked that his friend hold tight. Slowly twisting his head back toward the illumination cutting through the trees, Ethan caught a glimpse of her silhouette and raised the pistol in his left hand.
Before he could squeeze off a round, the dead silence that had followed her last statement was broken. A quick and familiar crack preceded the explosion of the tree only inches above Ethan’s head, as tiny pieces of bark and fragmented slivers rained down on his face and neck. Flinching, he turned away and slid down into a seated position.
As his heart began to pound in his ears, he searched for a way out, but very quickly realized there wasn’t one. Ethan thought about what he was about to lose and also what he’d lost over the last seven days. Their faces flickered through his mind. The atrocities they’d faced in their final moments were an absolute contradiction to who they were as people. They were here and then just as fast, they were gone. The two men he needed most were now merely a memory.
His best friend, infected less than thirty feet from where he stood, and he was unable to do a damn thing about it. Vivid images of David’s final moments flashed before his eyes as he pushed back into the tree and attempted to focus.
His father, the horrific details too fresh to fully comprehend, was also gone. He could only watch as the man who taught him to ride a bicycle was murdered just feet from where he stood. Ethan had already failed the two men he admired more than anyone. He wasn’t about to also fail the only family he had left in this world.
With his hands on his legs, Ethan pushed to stand as a second shot rang out from beyond the trees. He didn’t flinch, although this one seemed to strike the tree even closer to his head than the first, if that were even possible. It was also followed by a voice… her voice.
Unmistakable. It was the woman from the university. She’d introduced herself as Josie, although her name no longer mattered, only on what side she’d chosen to stand.
“Okay,” she said, “I guess you wanna do this the hard way.”
Involuntarily holding his breath, Ethan closed his eyes. He clamped them down tight and just listened. For what he wasn’t exactly sure, although with the flood of illumination weaving its way through the trees, he may as well have been fighting blind. Josie’s strategy was simple, yet undeniably effective.
Other than the gentle crackling of the upper branches under the growing weight of the new snow, not much else existed. He focused his attention toward the street and could hear the crunch of Josie’s boots as they ground the larger than average flakes into the sidewalk. After four quick steps, she stopped and he imagined her turning back to her men. Her voice came through much louder now. She was nearly shouting.
“You stay here with me. Shoot them when they step out, and they will step out.”
She paused as if collecting her thoughts. “And you… get up there to that SUV and kill everyone inside. We’ve got a plane to catch.”
Almost immediately, another more distant set of footfalls quickly scampered off into the distance as Josie appeared to chuckle.
Twisting toward Griffin, his friend was slowly shaking his head, however Ethan could see he had the same thought. They needed to do something, anything, and they needed to do it now. He wasn’t going to allow another one of his friends to meet the same fate as his best friend and his father, and he especially wasn’t going to allow Josie, or anyone else for that matter, anywhere near his mother.
Beginning to step out from behind the pine, Ethan was gr
eeted with a third gunshot and reflexively grabbed for his head.
He’d tried to make sense of the two previous shots and rationalized what was taking place fifty yards away. Frank didn’t figure that the woman had actually shot his friends as she was still shouting from the sidewalk, and although he couldn’t make out her exact words, she appeared to be negotiating. At least that’s what he’d hoped.
Before firing the shot, Frank had already concluded that he could not kill the man charging toward him. He’d seen many things over the last several hours—including a man gunned down in cold blood—however, he was determined to hold on to what little humanity remained in this world. Once he crossed that line, he knew there would be no going back to the man he was, the man who valued life, and most importantly, the man who he promised his dying wife he would always remain.
Unable to target the man who’d begun running toward him and his friends, Frank’s vision crystalized. He wasn’t ready kill, no matter the price. Although there was something he could do to help his friends. Instead of doing the unthinkable, he’d use what little advantage he had to even the playing field. Slowly nodding, he knew what needed to happen.
Back through the scope, he was now able to make out the three individuals and the source of the blinding light. Although the shot wasn’t ideal, he placed his right index finger atop the trigger and eyed the edge of the first headlight. It was now or never.
Exhaling slowly, he pulled back once. The round momentarily disappeared into the darkness and a fraction of a second later, he watched as the front of the dark vehicle exploded in a hailstorm of fragmented glass and twisted metal.
Still focused through the scope, he swallowed hard as the man running toward him quickly passed through his field of vision. And as Frank lined up his second shot, Josie had turned her attention away from the trees and began shouting. This time her voice could be heard for miles.
“I WANT THEM DEAD, ALL OF THEM!”
With the next round already chambered, he adjusted for distance, sighted the second headlight and fingered the trigger once again. As the projectile ripped through the falling snow and found its target, Frank held his breath.
Pulling away from the scope, he watched as a second, nearly identical explosion rocked the mid-sized SUV. Breathing a sigh of relief, the immediate area again fell into darkness. He’d done what he intended to do and now only prayed that it would be enough.
11
Pulling alongside the Gulfstream G280, Dalton peered out the driver’s window toward the area they’d just driven away from. At least three dozen walking corpses had begun to change course and were now stumbling in their direction, one awkwardly stilted step at a time. He was more than pleased that it played out the way it had, and that they were able to draw the horde away from the jet, but it wasn’t nearly enough. They’d given themselves an extra sixty seconds; unfortunately, the work they still needed to complete would take much longer.
Nervously clutching the weapon sitting in his lap, Dalton turned back and rubbed his hand over his face. “Mr. Goodwin sir, how do you want to do this?”
“Mr. Osborne is going to get us refueled.” He paused, pointing over Dalton’s shoulder. “And you and I are going to manage that crowd.”
Dalton looked back over the darkened tarmac once again, furrowing his brow. “I’m not so sure I’m really the man for—”
“Get over it, Dalton; this new world we live in isn’t going anywhere. You’re going to have to fight at some point. Why not start now?”
“I’m just not too good with one of these things. I’ve maybe shot a gun twice in my entire life.”
Goodwin cocked his head and reached for the door handle. As he pulled up, the unnatural grin from minutes before began to once again form at the corners of his mouth. “You’ll be fine… just aim for the head and keep moving.”
Watching as Goodwin stepped out on the opposite side of the truck, Dalton hesitated. He wasn’t ready for this. Not now and maybe not ever. He hated violence nearly as much as he despised the two-and-a-half-pound weapon he held in his right hand. He’d also lied to Goodwin; he hadn’t ever fired one.
“One… Two… Three…” Dalton checked the window one last time, squinted into the darkness, and opened his door. “Here goes nothin’.”
Slamming the door and quickly raising the pistol, his hands shook as he scanned the private airfield. Glancing right, left, and then to the rear, he was somewhat relived to see that the majority of the crowd was concentrated at the south end of the tarmac. The only problem now was that those out in front had already covered half the distance and would overtake the jet in less than sixty seconds.
Dalton quickly ran through the many scenarios in his head and couldn’t come up with one that ended with him back in the sky without having to do the unthinkable. Goodwin was right—they would have to fight, and as much as it terrified him, there really wasn’t another choice.
Slowly turning back, he stepped aside as Walter ran from the stairs of the G280 to the compartment at the side of the truck. He watched as the co-pilot pulled free the large diameter feed hose and started back the way he’d come.
Dalton again backed toward the truck as the world around him began to slowly close in. His vision narrowed and the familiar white noise filling his ears forecasted yet another episode. Next the nausea would set in, he’d lose the feeling in his hands, feet, and knees, then his body would go limp. If he didn’t get his respirations under control in the next few seconds, he was sure to lose consciousness.
Neurally-mediated syncope. This is what the general practitioner called it, although as he later learned, it was little more than a fainting spell brought on by severe anxiety. To date, he’d awoken four separate times, weak, light-headed, and unaware of his surroundings. With each of the past four events, he experienced little to no lasting effects, but this would be different. If he were to slip from consciousness tonight, he wouldn’t live to see another sunrise.
“Dalton!” Goodwin shouted from the stairs to the jet. “Get your ass over here!”
Fighting the urge to run, Dalton moved back to the driver’s door, took a deep breath in through his nose, and closed his eyes. He blocked out Goodwin’s voice and focused only on the outcome, on what he needed to do to survive. He was no good to them flat on his back, and would be a liability if he were injured.
Taking in a second breath, the buzzing in his ears began to subside as another voice came from the opposite direction. It was Walter. He was holding the end of the fuel hose where it connected to the G280. He spoke quickly, and without a hint of desperation. It was as if he was sitting in a booth ordering lunch.
“Mr. Goodwin, we have a problem. A very big problem.”
The nausea had begun to subside and the buzzing in his ears was now just a minor annoyance. Dalton pulled a third deep breath in through his nose, expanding his chest, and turned his eyes back toward Goodwin.
Perched at the foot of the stairs to the G280, Goodwin shouldered the shotgun and swept the barrel from left to right. His eyes narrowed and the muscles of his upper arms tensed. He took a step toward the approaching crowd even as the co-pilot called out for a second time.
“Sir, this is not going to work. We’re going to have to find another—”
Without turning to face the man requesting his attention, Goodwin cut him short with an outstretched arm and a wave of his hand.
The light-headedness now almost completely faded and his legs once again solid beneath him, Dalton checked the advancing crowd and calculated that they had maybe another fifteen to twenty seconds before they were overrun. Stepping to the left and now even with Goodwin, he tilted his head to the right and motioned to the rear.
“Mr. Goodwin sir, I think that Walter needs—”
Goodwin took another step forward, the pounding of his heavy footsteps pulled Dalton from the moment. What was he doing? It didn’t make any sense—in just a few seconds he’d essentially be committing suicide. The man who brought th
e world to its knees was about to be overrun by his own creation… and he didn’t appear to care.
As time slowed to a crawl, Goodwin swept his shotgun across the crowd, finally looked over his shoulder, and began to speak. But before the first syllable crested his lips, Walter Osborne shouted him down.
“MR. GOODWIN, WE HAVE A PROBLEM!”
Attempting to steady his breathing and remain in the moment, Dalton stepped around the front bumper of the fueling truck. He moved quickly to the passenger side and watched as Walter dropped the hose, pointing back toward the cylindrical tank of the massive truck.
Unfazed, Goodwin again stepped toward the crowd, closing the gap to less than twenty feet and sighted his first target. A forty-something groundskeeper from the neighboring country club stumbled out from the horde and extended his arms.
The muzzle flash from the pump-action shotgun lit up the night only a fraction of a second before the back of the groundskeeper’s head exploded into a fine pink mist. Goodwin began to nod as he took another half step forward and fired a second, third, forth, and finally a fifth shot, each spaced less than a second apart.
Beginning to slide back toward the passenger door, Dalton flinched with each new explosion, and tried to make himself as small as possible. He watched as the bodies dropped in quick succession, but it wasn’t enough. He’d have to get involved. He’d have to do more than just watch. He’d actually have to use the weapon hanging from his right hand; otherwise, the man who’d kept him alive for the last seven days was as good as dead… and so was he.
Having reloaded, Goodwin twisted right as another quick moving Feeder stumbled out away from the pack. He dropped the shotgun four inches and took his sixth shot, almost cutting in half a nearly faceless man dressed in a blood-soaked three-piece suit. The close range shot impacted the still flailing corpse along its left hip, throwing it off balance and into Goodwin. And as the world went silent, both bodies crashed to the cold wet tarmac with an audible thud.
