by D. J. Molles
Harper’s own gut was a clenched ball. Even though he was at rest, his pulse was still pounding in his head, beginning to make it ache. It was urgency that pushed him. Made him uncomfortable. What he’d seen on his little foray into Eden was not in itself something to panic about—just two or three of them wandering around. A few more on the bridge that crossed the Smith River. Scuttling along and searching for food. Alive or dead. Anything that their body could digest.
But where there were a few, there would be more.
When they’d first arrived at Eden, they’d watched the town from a nearby water tower. The infected were all through the eastern side of the town in surprising numbers. Though they were numerous, there were not so many of them that Harper dismissed the possibility that they were “locals,” so to speak.
But over the following few days, waiting in this house and sending out scouting parties as they held their breath and hoped for help, they’d seen the number swell. Now there was no argument to be made. In a town the size of Eden, even if every single resident had become infected and stuck around, it would still not even come close to what was on the other side of that damn river.
Everything was coming true.
Everything Jacob had told them.
And now they’re coming across the river, and I don’t know if there is anything I can say to Kensey that is going to stop that from happening.
Harper rubbed his face, his fingers scratching through his beard. He took a big breath and looked up at Kensey. “Sergeant, has your Marine command taken any steps to recon into Virginia or any other northern state?”
Kensey considered the question for a moment. Like it might be a trick. “Some.”
Harper waited for him to elaborate.
Somewhat annoyed, he did so: “Couple of flybys of the capitol, attempting to establish short-range comms with anyone that might be left behind. Same through Richmond, and up and down the coast. Negative results.”
“Pilots ever report seeing anything?”
“Besides shit-tons of infected clogging up the beltway? No. Not that ever reached my ears, anyways.”
Harper nodded, took a gulp of the coffee that burned his mouth and everything on the way down. He stood up from the hearth. Grabbed his rifle, then went to the door, speaking to Kensey over his shoulder. “Sergeant, why don’t you come with me? Maybe I can help you make an informed decision.”
FOUR
THE SHAPE OF THINGS
THE BOTTOM OF THE water tower was a mess of weeds and shrubs that had flourished in the summer without the regular trimming of the utility crews, but now sat brown and dead after the first frosts had crippled them. The grass was matted and laid down, particularly where Harper and his crew had been through it several times, and Harper could see the tracks from his vehicles when they’d been parked there a few days ago. The clearing was a circular swath of open area, about twenty yards wide all around. Inside the circle, it was gravel, surrounded by an eight-foot chain-link fence. Three strands of barbed wire on top.
Harper stood at the wood line closest to the water tower, squatting down and leaning against a tree. His rifle was tucked into his shoulder, but the barrel was low. His eyes scanned the open area and all around the base of the water tower where the thick steel girders and pylons embedded themselves into concrete blocks. They’d had some infected contact near the water tower two days ago, but it had only been a pair of them. One had died and the other one ran off, perhaps to die a slower death at another place.
Right now, though, it seemed clear.
To Harper’s right was Julia, glassing the area with the scope on her bolt-action rifle. On Harper’s left was Sergeant Kensey, eyeing Julia, though not in the same way as his troops had. More in a manner that said, Does she actually know how to use that thing?
Julia had proven herself incredibly accurate with the weapon. Harper himself was no slouch, but he tended to be more capable in close-quarters shooting, when the shots were reactive. The slow, deliberately aimed shot always seemed difficult for him.
Behind them were two more Marines. One was a dark-haired, pimple-faced kid that Harper swore wasn’t old enough to be in uniform. The other was a light-skinned black guy with a lanky form. A boonie-hat shadowed his eyes, and a wispy mustache clung to his upper lip. Not exactly steely-eyed killers, Harper thought. But then again, he supposed that Kensey thought the same thing about Julia and himself.
The fact was, neither party knew the other.
Hold judgment until the shit hit the fan. See how things shake out.
Though the two younger Marines had not said more than “aye, ser’nt” a few times, Harper had taken a glance at their nametags. The white kid with the acne was Reilly. The light-skinned black guy with the floppy hat was Baker. Baker had his back to the group, watching behind them. Reilly was looking off to the side. Their leader, Kensey, was just sitting there trying to see what Harper was looking at.
“We looking for something in particular?” Kensey whispered.
Harper shook his head once. “Looks clear.”
He stood up with more effort than he would have liked to admit, and stepped out of the trees and into the clearing that surrounded the water tower. They were coming in from the back side of the water tower. A gravel utility road led up to a gate, but it was on the opposite side of the fenced-in section. This was the way they had come and gone for the last four days, and they’d made a wide cut in the fence that they could easily slip through.
Julia held the cut open as Harper eased through, followed by the three Marines. Baker held the cut for Julia and then the whole group stood at the base of the water tower. Harper looked up the large-diameter steel pipes that made the thing’s legs. Then at the rusty ladder that led up to the catwalk.
That damn thing again.
Harper looked at Julia. “I suppose you’re coming up with us?”
Before she could answer, Kensey looked up with a clear expression of discomfort. “We climbing that thing?”
Harper smirked, glad that he wasn’t the only one a little uncomfortable with the heights. “Best vantage point around.” Then he added, “You’ll be okay.”
Kensey gave him a flat expression. “Thanks.”
“And yes,” Julia said, taking the rusted metal ladder in her hands. “I’m going up.”
Harper just waved her up the ladder. “Yeah, I figured. Go.”
She began to climb. The ladder creaked and groaned treacherously, bits and pieces of rust trickling as she put her weight on it. But it held steady. Just some surface rust, Harper reassured himself.
Baker spoke up. “Sergeant, you want us to climb that thing?”
Kensey slung his rifle. “No, I want you stay on the ground and keep a lookout.” He shook his head. “No sense in all three of us dying on this fucking contraption.” He gave Harper another, less-than-pleased expression. “Live through the fucking collapse and get taken out by a rusty ladder.”
He began to climb.
Harper waited for some headspace, and then started up after them.
He refused to look down. He’d made that mistake last time.
Just keep climbing.
At the catwalk that ringed the water tower, Harper climbed up to find that Julia had already taken her rifle off her back and was scoping north, in the direction of Eden. Kensey stood a few feet back from her, one hand on the rail, the other resting on his rifle.
Harper brushed rust from his hands and straightened his parka over himself.
Julia took the scope away from her eyes and exchanged a knowing look with Harper.
She turned and pushed the rifle into Kensey’s chest. He seemed surprised, but his hand came off the rail and accepted the rifle that was being passed to him.
“See for yourself,” Harper said.
Kensey looked at the rifle in his arms. He looked at Julia. He looked at Harper. Finally, he sighed and raised the rifle. He tilted his hat back so he could sight through the scope. He stood there for a long tim
e. The muzzle wavered a little this way, a little that way.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m seeing buildings. Small city. Couple of infected moving in the streets. Anything else you want me to see?”
Julia leaned close to him. “East side. Toward the outskirts, hon.”
Harper watched Kensey’s eyes jag at Julia, possibly uncomfortable with how close she had spoken to him, or perhaps simply not wanting her to tell him what to do. Nevertheless, he begrudgingly shifted his viewpoint to the right, overlooking the eastern side of the town.
Harper waited. Watched Kensey’s face absorb it.
To the sergeant’s credit, he did not react as poorly as Harper had when he’d seen it. But Harper could see the relaxed, humoring attitude suddenly leave him. His body language became stiff. His jaws clenched. Fine lines standing out around his eyes. Not the kind that came from smiling.
Kensey lowered the scope, stared out at Eden with his naked eye.
“That’s fucking impossible,” he said.
“No,” Harper said with a shake of his head. The only difference between him and Kensey was that he had been mentally prepared for it. Sure, when he’d seen it, he’d cussed a blue streak, but mentally, he’d been ready for it. Because Jacob had told them this was coming. Jacob, the unassuming, bookish man from Virginia, the scientist from the CDC who had researched the progression of the infected, and then crossed hundreds of miles on foot just to bring them this information, he had told them that the hordes from the big cities in the Northeast were coming. And he told them that they would number in the millions.
Kensey shook his head. “Eden was only a town of… what? Twenty thousand?”
“Less than that,” Harper said.
“How the fuck?” Kensey swallowed. “That’s gotta be…”
“A lot more than twenty thousand,” Julia said.
Harper waited for Kensey to look at him. When he finally did, Harper was not pleased. He was not smug. Not self-satisfied. How on earth could you feel that way, facing this situation? Maybe he was relieved. Relieved that Kensey and him were at least somewhat on the same page.
Harper pointed to the ladder. “We should talk.”
Wilson dangled in midair. Swinging uncomfortably when the wind caught him. He looked beneath him and saw slow-moving water, dark brown, almost black, and cold-looking. Above him, he saw the five steel I-beams that made up the substructure of the bridge that spanned this section of the Roanoke River. This one was just a typical, two-lane bridge, which was a relief.
Where Highway 13/17 crossed over the Roanoke at Williamston, the bridge had been a double—two lanes north, and two lanes south. Total of ten I-beams to cut, plus he had to jump from one section of bridge to another. Between setting the bridge for demolition and dealing with the small horde that was left in Williamston, it had taken every bit of three days. But it had been a success.
The previous day they’d spent traveling to this bridge. Clearing the area and anyone they didn’t want nearby—survivors and infected alike. Then they’d made their plans until it was dark, bedded down, and waited until morning.
Now here he was. Dangling underneath a bridge once again. Hoping that the ropes didn’t somehow fail and send him plunging into the icy water. The height wasn’t so bad. But the water below…
Wilson wasn’t a fan of what he referred to as “wild water.” Ocean, lake, river… didn’t matter. He disliked them all. There were things in wild waters and he wanted no part of them.
A nice, chlorinated pool was the only thing he’d ever had the desire to swim in.
Strange the horrific things he’d become accustomed to over the course of the last several months, and yet the concept of a fish with teeth or a snake in the water still gave him a chill.
“Little more!” he yelled.
Above him, on the bridge, the sound of a diesel engine going into reverse and then he was lowered about five feet and halted again.
“That’s good!”
All he had with him was a pistol strapped to his chest and a long pole that had been bent into a hook. After some trial and error at the last bridge, they’d refined their methods to include a few of these jury-rigged items. He used the pole to hook the I-beam that sat on the first cement support and he pulled himself over to it, slowly but surely. He could feel the rope-sling around his waist and legs tightening as he put extra strain on them. Just some knots he hoped would hold.
Come on. Hold together.
Just a little farther.
The rope creaked, shifted, making his heart jump.
Then he put his hands on cold cement and colder steel. He clambered up, quick but careful, breathing a sigh of relief not to be dangling over the water anymore, though he was hardly out of the woods just yet. Plenty of other ways to take a plunge.
With his feet planted firmly on the top of the cement support column, one hand gripping the first I-beam, he used the other hand to place the hooked pole very gently onto the lip of the I-beam. His fingers brushed through old bird shit and God only knew what else. The pole would be secure there—hopefully—until he was done setting charges.
Once the pole was out of his hands, he did the part that he liked least. He undid the knots that tethered him securely to the rope. He had formed a little cradle for himself, one rope going under his buttocks, the other going around his waist. As close to a safety harness as they could manage. And he always felt a sensation of lightheadedness as he watched the rope fall away from him.
You probably can’t die from a twenty-foot fall.
Probably.
Unless something in the water gets you.
“I’m good,” he called to the men up top. “Send it on down.”
The rope that they’d used to tether him zipped up and away in jerks and spasms until it disappeared over the top of the bridge. Wilson waited there on the underbelly, feeling the sweat in his armpits and at the small of his back beginning to cool. The riverbed was a channel for cool wind and it sometimes gusted up against the underside of the bridge with discomfiting force.
After a few cold minutes, Wilson heard a voice shouting down to him. “On the way!”
It was Dorian’s voice. After the loss of Father Jim and LaRouche in a single night, Dorian had stepped up. Done anything that Wilson needed him to do. And Wilson needed guys like that. Because honestly, he was so far out of his depth, he preferred not to even think about it. He was twenty years old with zero experience commanding troops. He’d made it through the very basic first weeks of the Air Force Academy before everything went to shit. And now he was supposed to be leading men? On a mission to blow the bridges along the Roanoke River? A mission that had to be completed in a short time frame? And the consequences for failing were not bad grades or an ass-chewing session with an instructor. No, the consequences here were death. For him, and for everyone he knew.
Best not to think about it.
From over the side of the bridge, a satchel dropped. One of the voluminous green “seabags.” It was packed with what looked like bricks—a bunch of rectangular lumps. Some blue cordage stuck out the top in briarlike loops. This bag would be the first load of five. One for each I-beam.
Wilson retrieved the pole from its resting spot and used it to pull the bag to him. It was heavy. Maybe sixty pounds. He heaved it up onto the cement pylon with him, very careful not to let the weight set his balance off. He left the rope secured to it, and when he had it firmly on the pylon, he opened the top of the bag.
Loops and loops of blue det-cord on top.
Bricks upon bricks of C4 below.
He knew it was completely stable until detonated—you could throw it, toss it, slam it on the ground, hit it with a hammer, or even shoot it and it wouldn’t go off. Still, it was never comfortable to have sixty pounds of high explosive between your legs.
He pulled the det-cord out and got to work. He moved as quickly as he could, but tried to stay meticulous. They only got one shot at each bridge, and each time used an incredible amo
unt of their explosives. Mistakes would lead to half-destroyed bridges that infected would be able to cross, but which would be near impossible to rig with explosives again. And Wilson was far from an expert with explosives. In fact, the extent of his training came from whatever LaRouche could teach him when they had a few minutes of free time.
P is for “Plenty.”
That was Wilson’s big takeaway from the few times LaRouche had taught him anything about explosives. It was better to overestimate how much explosives you needed. Then you slapped them on both sides of an I-beam, and that would give you a single cut. You needed two cuts. And you had to do it for each I-beam on a bridge. Then some on the underside of the concrete superstructure for good measure.
Then you made a big knot with the det-cord—what LaRouche had called a “uli knot”—and then you cut into one of the bricks of C4 and embedded the knot of det-cord into the cut. Then you mashed it in with the rest of the C4. Again, you had to do it for each side of each I-beam. Then you connected all the det-cord, like electrical wires, until you had them all running to a single cord, and you would hook that to your detonator.
Then it was “one, two, three, fire in the hole.”
It had worked for the Highway 13/17 bridge. Wilson just prayed that it hadn’t been a fluke.
But still, for all of his caution, he couldn’t stop himself from rushing. He knew what was out there. He’d seen them on the opposite banks more than once. And at the last bridge, though he could not see them, in the silence before he had detonated it, he could hear them. A buzzing crowd in the distance. And even now, as he worked, he stopped frequently to listen and to stare out at the opposite banks of the river. To see if anything was moving.
But all he heard was the steady trickling sound of the river moving slowly beneath. And the banks only revealed gray sticks and twigs, jutting every which way, their roots dipping into the black waters. Stillness, save for when the wind blew. Then the shuddering rattle of branches clamoring together, like bones rattling.
