Plague of the Dead

by Z. A. Recht

  “It’s creepy,” Brewster said, peering out the side window at the empty streets. The people here had fled weeks before in fear of the disease. “Like a ghost town or something.”

  “Desolate,” agreed Denton.

  “Did every single person leave or something?” Brewster asked, furrowing his brow.

  “No,” Denton said. “I doubt everyone left. There’s probably someone left somewhere here.”

  “Where are they? Aren’t they curious about this huge fucking column of trucks going down main street?”

  “I don’t know,” Denton said, eyeing the buildings they were passing. There wasn’t a single sign of life anywhere.

  The trucks rumbled on for a minute, and both men were silent. They were growing closer to the harbor.

  The shortwave radio in the cab squawked and a voice spilled through.

  “All vehicles, this is Sherman. We can see the docks. Looks like plenty of civilian craft are available. On arrival, secure a vessel and await further orders. Sound off, over,” said the general, voice slightly distorted by static.

  “Truck two, roger, over.”

  “Truck three, roger that.”

  “Truck four, I copy.”

  Brewster plucked down the handset from the overhead radio and clicked it on. “Truck five, wilco, over.”

  “Truck six, roger.”

  Brewster replaced the handset and spun the wheel to follow the leading trucks down a side street.

  “We’re close—I’ve been here before,” Denton said, pointing out on the street. “I ate at that cafe once.”

  Suddenly, a muffled thump sounded from ahead of their truck, and the convoy ground sharply to a halt. Brewster stopped his truck and leaned his head out the window, trying to see what was happening.

  “See anything?” Denton asked.

  Brewster didn’t answer for a moment. Then he swore, slammed the vehicle into park and swung down and out of the cab. Denton climbed out slower, nursing a bruised knee he didn’t remember getting at Suez. The passengers in the back of the trucks were peering out cautiously, curious as to what was happening.

  “What the fuck, Darin?” Brewster said, spreading his arms wide as the driver from the truck in front of him shrugged.

  “Don’t know. We just stopped,” Darin replied.

  “Let’s find out, eh?” said Denton, walking past the two soldiers toward the head of the convoy. After looking at one another, the soldiers followed him.

  Denton waved a hand at the figure of Sergeant Major Thomas as he approached.

  “Sergeant! What’s the holdup?” Denton called out.

  “Minor snafu,” said Thomas. “Lead truck hit a civilian. Jumped right out in front of them at the end of the street.”

  “Shit,” Brewster mumbled under his breath.

  The three men walked around the front of the convoy to survey the scene. General Sherman, Colonel Dewen, and the distraught driver of the lead truck were crouched around the prone form of a civilian, who was gasping for breath. He was covered in sweat, and didn’t focus his eyes on anything.

  “Shock?” Denton asked.

  “I didn’t hit him that hard! I was slowing down for the turn!” said the driver, holding a hand over his mouth.

  Sherman was crouched at the man’s side.

  “Hold on, son, we’ve got help on the way,” he told the man, checking him over for open wounds. The general turned his head and shouted, “Medic! Let’s get a medic up front!”

  Sergeant Major Thomas marched to the back of the first truck, yelling back along the street. “Medic up front, pronto!”

  In the back of Brewster’s truck, Rebecca heard the distant call.

  “Oh, crap,” she said to herself. “That’s me. What’s happened?”

  She levered herself up from the rough bench in the back of the truck and dropped lithely to the ground below, snatching her bag of ever-dwindling supplies. She didn’t know what good they would do her—all she had left were a few antibiotics, some bandages, and a couple painkillers—but it was worth a shot.

  Denton and Thomas met her at the rear of the lead truck, talking fast as she jogged towards the wounded man. Denton rattled off, “Lead driver hit a pedestrian—looks okay but he’s in shock, don’t think anything major is broken!”

  “Let me through!” Rebecca said, pushing between Brewster and Dewen to get to the wounded man.

  She knelt beside him and checked his pupils, then laid a hand on his forehead. She gasped and immediately fell back, scrabbling away from the man.

  “What are you doing?” Sherman said, glaring at her. “He needs help!”

  “He’s not in shock!” she blurted. “He’s burning up! He’s sick!”

  As one, the soldiers surrounding the man took a few steps backwards as fast as they could.

  “Morningstar?” Sherman asked, hand going to the butt of his pistol.

  “I don’t know,” Rebecca said, staring at the victim.

  “What do we do? Leave him?” Colonel Dewen asked, glancing at Sherman.

  “Fuck him, man, let’s get out of here. I’m not getting sick this close to a boat ride home,” Brewster said, and was promptly fixed with an angry look from Thomas.

  Thomas gritted, “Private, that’s the first and last thing you’re going to say at this point in time.”

  Brewster grimaced and shuffled his feet.

  Sherman sighed, folded his arms and took a long look at the man. He said, “No, he’s right, Thomas. We’ve got no choice. We have to assume he’s infected with Morningstar. I don’t know how the disease could have gotten here ahead of us unless he was infected much earlier in the outbreak. If we take him along and it turns out he does have it, we’re truly screwed. We’ve got to leave him.”

  Dewen nodded. “Right. Let’s move him out of the way and keep going. We’ve got rendezvous in forty minutes.”

  “Leave him some water and food,” Sherman said. “If he’s not infected, he’ll need it.”

  Sherman, Rebecca, and Denton returned to their trucks and waited for the soldiers to deal with the hapless man.

  Brewster and Darin pulled gloves out of their BDU pockets and slipped them on, then grabbed the victim’s legs and arms and hefted him between them. They set him down gently on the side of the street, and Darin unbuttoned one of his canteen covers, pulling the canteen free and setting it by the man’s hand. Thomas tossed him an MRE from the back of one of the trucks and Darin set it down beside the water.

  “Poor bastard,” Colonel Dewen said, fanning himself with one hand as he stood in the relative shade of one of the street’s many doorways. “What if he really isn’t infected? Wish there was a way to tell.”

  “General’s right, sir,” Thomas said. “No way to tell. Maybe he’s just got a fever. But we can’t take the chance.”

  “Yeah. But it still stinks to—”

  Without warning, the door behind Dewen burst open, knocking him roughly into the sandstone-colored wall. He grunted in pain.

  Thomas reacted first, snatching his Colt from his holster and bringing the barrel to bear. “Sir, get down!”

  Framed in the doorway was another civilian, looking deranged and almost feral in expression. Before Thomas could fire, the carrier leapt on Dewen’s back, rearing back with her hands and striking the officer in the back of his head. Dewen lunged about, trying to dislodge the diseased woman.

  “Damn!” Thomas shouted, trying to draw a bead on the carrier. Dewen’s head and shoulders kept popping into his sight picture as the pair wrestled about. “I don’t have a shot!”

  Brewster came running over, rifle unslung, and slammed the buttstock full-force into the bridge of the carrier’s nose. Her head snapped back and her high-pitched gibberish was cut off with a yelp of pain. She fell off of Dewen’s back. That was all the time Thomas needed.

  The shot from the Sergeant Major’s Colt rang out clearly, and blood spray coated the doorway a gory red. The carrier went limp, falling in a heap on the doorstep. De
wen sank to his knees, clutching the side of his throat.

  “Colonel!” Thomas called out, running over to the doorway. Dewen looked up at him and tried to say something, but all that came through was a muffled gurgle. Bright red blood seeped through the Colonel’s hands and coated the collar of his uniform. The carrier had done serious damage. Thomas’ face went blank.

  “Shit, man, that blood’s arterial!” Brewster exclaimed, slinging his rifle and digging at the medical pouch clipped to his suspenders. “Get some pressure on it!”

  “No!” Thomas replied, holding up a hand to Brewster. “Don’t go near him.”

  Dewen managed a slow nod in agreement with Thomas. He was fading fast.

  “He’s infected,” Darin said, stepping back.

  The three soldiers watched, helpless, as Colonel Dewen lay dying at their feet. In the silence, they heard the sounds of feral, hungry moans drifting through the empty streets. Their eyes turned upwards, focused on the cityscape in front of them.

  “They must have heard the shot,” Thomas said, glancing at his pistol.

  “They’ll be coming,” Darin murmured. “They’ll be coming right for us, won’t they?”

  Thomas was silent for a moment, then turned to face the two men.

  “We have to get to the harbor. Get back in your trucks! Now! Move!”

  Sharm el-Sheikh

  January 10, 2007

  1233 hrs_

  BREWSTER TRIED TO keep his thoughts in order as he sprinted for his truck. The convoy was in the middle of enemy territory. There were certainly carriers in this town—it had been overrun and the convoy was surrounded. A crude ambush, though not one planned by any sentient tactician. He had been in three firefights in his lifetime, not counting Suez, and one of them had been an ambush. It hadn’t been pretty.

  Brewster flung open the door to his truck and clambered up into the cab. Denton was on edge.

  “What the hell’s going on, Brewster?” he demanded. “I heard shots!”

  “We’re getting the fuck out of here, photo-jockey!” Brewster exclaimed. “Buckle up! We’re burning rubber!”

  He slammed the truck into drive and floored the accelerator. Denton was flung back in his seat and the passengers in the back shouted muffled protests.

  “Wait!” Denton said, pushing himself upright as Brewster took a hard left. “What’s happening?!”

  “This town’s a dead zone, man! We’re fucking surrounded by those things! They got Dewen!” Brewster shouted back, grimacing and shifting gears.

  “Colonel Dewen’s dead?” Denton uttered, surprised and dismayed.

  “As a rock,” Brewster replied. “Shit!”

  He swerved to avoid an abandoned car. The passengers in the back were thrown to one side and crashes could be heard through the cab wall.

  “Take it easy, Brewster! You’re going to throw out the guys in the back!”

  “No can do, partner. We’re bugging out, pronto!”

  Denton grabbed a firm hold on the dashboard and braced himself as Brewster threw the truck around another sharp turn. As he straightened out the wheel, the harbor came into view. It was below them, less than a mile.

  Between the convoy and the harbor were the carriers.

  There were a scant few compared to the horde they had faced at Suez. Denton doubted he would ever again cast eyes on a group that large. Nevertheless, they were in the road, shambling or running out into the streets from houses and storefronts, or pulling themselves out of shadowed alleyways.

  Sherman’s voice boomed through the radio.

  “Convoy drivers, we have carriers in the roadway. Do not engage or decelerate. Plow through!”

  Brewster nodded to himself and downshifted.

  The road was wide enough to allow for some maneuvering room. The trucks drifted out of their convoy formation, giving Brewster and Denton a clear view of what lay ahead. The lead truck, (the one carrying Sherman,) swerved sharply, and jolted. Brewster saw the tattered remains of a carrier twisting under the axles. The truck spat out the body, which rolled to a slow stop in the center of the road.

  “Fucking right, man!” Brewster shouted, pointing.

  “Watch the road! Watch the road!” Denton admonished.

  Brewster dropped his hand back to the wheel. The second truck scored a direct hit and gore sprayed around the sides of its cab. A few drops of blood splattered back onto the windshield of Brewster’s truck. A moment later, the second truck wavered, and the terrible sound of rending metal ripped through the air. The truck jolted to a dead stop, decelerating from forty-five miles per hour to zero in less than a second.

  It flipped, end-over-end, and landed upside-down on the road, skidding roughly into a storefront. The walls of the store shattered, sending debris flying into the roadway. Brewster raised a hand to protect himself as a beam of wood smashed into the windshield of the truck, leaving a spider web of cracks behind.

  “What the hell?” Brewster breathed, casting a backward glance at the smoldering truck as they passed.

  “Axle locked up!” Denton shouted. “Watch the road! The road, Brewster!”

  “There had to be thirty people in that truck!” Brewster exclaimed.

  “No time! They’re gone! Keep driving!”

  The carriers were getting thicker. The noise was drawing them out. Trucks were running over shambling forms left and right—Brewster managed to steer a pair of tires onto the sidewalk, smashing one of the carriers under them. The thump was sickening, but strangely satisfying to the private first-class.

  Denton hung his head out the passenger side door, trying to catch a glimpse of what lay behind them. The bulky tan canvas of the truck’s bed blocked most of his view as it whipped about in the forty-mile-an-hour wind streaming over the moving truck. Brewster weaved the truck around a jutting curb, giving Denton the glimpse he was hoping for.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful, eh?! Half the city’s behind us!” he yelled, sliding back into the cab and tossing Brewster an exhausted glance.

  “Sprinters or shamblers?” Brewster asked.

  “Sprinters, mostly. Think maybe this town got hit hard and fast by the virus? Looks like they all got sick with it. Not many wounded.”

  “Let’s worry about that after we leave here breathing, alright?” Brewster said.

  A crash from ahead of them drew their attention. The lead truck had crashed through the chain-link gate at the entrance to the city’s harbor. The trucks sped into the open parking lot and skidded to full stops close to the docks.

  The town of Sharm el-Sheikh was a tourist trap. That would be working to the advantage of the soldiers and refugees in their hurried escape from the Sinai peninsula. Because of all the tourism dollars spent here, there were a number of well-kept speedboats and even a number of luxury yachts moored in the harbor. The parking lot the trucks had pulled into was large and open, terrible for defense, but the dock itself had only three access points: small ramps of wooden planks that ran down to the dock proper.

  General Sherman dropped down from the lead truck and squinted out across the harbor. There were more than enough boats for the people in the convoy.

  But one problem remained.

  “Keys,” Sherman said. “We need to find the keys to the boats!”

  “Sir,” Thomas growled, appearing at the general’s side. “There.”

  Thomas pointed out onto the docks where a boathouse had been constructed. There was a vending machine set out front, and a number of bright signs were nailed to the wooden siding. It had every appearance of the dock’s main office.

  “Check it,” Sherman said, gesturing with his left hand. His right drew his sidearm. “Everyone else: If you’re unarmed or a civilian, get out on the docks and into a boat! Stay together, and take the largest vessels you find! Soldiers, on me! We’re holding the ramp to the docks!”

  Brewster was assisting people out of his truck, reaching up to pull them down one by one. He heard Sherman barking orders and stepped back, unslingin
g his rifle and charging the handle. He only had one and a half magazines left. He hoped they would be enough.

  Most of the civilians had rushed out onto the docks as soon as they were down from the trucks. What few remained on the paved parking lot were hurrying towards the access ramps, which were also quickly being filled by any soldiers still carrying ammo.

  “Drag those crates over!” Sherman was shouting. “Form barricades!”

  The soldiers were busy dumping anything heavy and solid they could find at the top of the three ramps. Coils of rope, empty coolers, cargo crates, stripped prop engines—all found their way into the rapidly growing piles.

  The last refugees pulled themselves over the crates to relative safety just as the carriers began arriving outside the gates to the parking lot.

  Sherman cast an eye over the ragtag band and their hasty fortifications. It was clear to him that they couldn’t hold for long. The barricades weren’t high enough to stop the sprinters, and even the undead shambling carriers would be able to pull themselves over given the time. His eyes drifted over to the harbor’s main gates, where the carriers were beginning their run across the parking lot. There were hundreds in total, he estimated, most still out in the streets beyond the gates. They would come at the soldiers in a steady wave until they overran them or were all killed. Sherman wasn’t sure his men had the ammunition and accuracy to win such a fight. His eyes moved south, to the access ramp on which he stood. There was something itching at the back of his mind.

  The soldiers were pressed up against the barricades, rifles to their shoulders, eyes against the iron sights. Sweat trickled down their foreheads and their hands shook almost undetectably as they waited for the carriers to move closer.

  Sherman’s head shot upright. He had remembered what it was that was bothering him.

  “The ramps!” he shouted, drawing glances. “These ramps are detachable! You can remove them!”

  He had seen similarly constructed docks before. The access ramps could be folded up onto the pavement or down onto the dock itself, or they could be removed entirely. He had no idea what the purpose behind the mechanism was, but the seemingly useless bit of trivia could end up being their salvation.