Plagued: The Midamerica Zombie Half-Breed Experiment (Plagued States of America)
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The two hunters nodded grimly and climbed down off the side of the duck. The other hunter unhitched a pair of old gas-powered weed whackers and slid them over the rails. Peske began hurling extension cords off the deck so that they would unravel. The third hunter began lifting tripods off the roof railing.
“Can I help?” Tom asked Peske.
“Can you stay out of the way?” Peske replied sharply. Tom didn’t hide his irritation. “Look, kid, you’re the only one who can get us out of here quick. Don’t go being a hero.”
“I don’t want special treatment,” Tom told him.
“Fine,” Peske replied. “Go stand over there out of the way with the rest of the idiots.” Peske winked at him and chuckled as he brushed past Tom. Tom smiled a little himself.
“Hey,” Tom said to Peske. “You never fed your half-breed. Where do you keep the food?”
“You’re standing on it,” Peske told him. Tom looked down to see the floor had hinges. “You can help with that.” Peske turned around and came close to Tom and whispered conspiratorially. “Why not get some of those idiots to help you dole out some grub. Try to see if any of them have been bit. Last thing we need is someone turning in the night.”
Twelve
The hunters made a wide box around them using the weed whackers, carving out straight lines five feet wide, tearing up the tall grass that surrounded them. As Hank and the other hunter put up the tripods in each of the four corners, it became apparent to Tom why they had stopped. This place was almost perfectly flat ground. The tripods had laser tripwire sensors mounted two, four, and six feet high. Anything that tried passing in the night would set them off. Touching or tampering with the tripods would set them off too. And because the ground was so consistently flat, there wasn’t any place a zombie could get through. If they had driven on, they might not have found as good a place to make camp, even if it was out in the open.
The generator rattled to life and hummed while Tom picked canned goods from Peske’s underdeck pantry. He handed cans up to two of the other survivors, a quiet guy named Bill and the woman Tom dragged onto the heat of the engine earlier in the day. Her name was Carrie. Thankfully she didn’t act at all offended when he asked her for help. Tom expected a “because I’m a woman” response, but she just shrugged and rolled up her sleeves to help out. Tom had picked the two because they had each been avoiding conversations and distancing themselves from Tyler and his growing idiot followers. It didn’t take much to think of them like that – idiots. Tyler’s arguments to keep moving no matter what were so laden with fault it just made no sense to listen, and yet he had already hoodwinked five or six of the visitors into agreeing. Where would they get fuel? That was the first logical question. And were the hunters supposed to drive, keep watch, and sleep in non-stop shifts?
“Can you really get us out of here?” Bill asked as he accepted more cans.
“With a powerful enough radio,” Tom replied.
“Who’s your father?”
“I’ll keep that to myself for now.”
“What? We’re supposed to trust you and you don’t trust us?”
“Actually, I trust you all implicitly,” Tom said with a smile. “I trust that any one of you will stab me in the back the first chance you get. About the only one on this rig I doubt is the half-breed,” he added, pointing at Penelope. She turned her gaze his way but said nothing. “I doubt she’d kill me just to make sure she could get on one of the rescue helicopters if it came down to number of seats.”
“That’s cold, man,” Bill said.
“Well, keep listening to that jackass Tyler and you’ll start to wonder too,” Tom said while climbing out of the hole. He let the hatch close and stared at Carrie, then at Bill. “Either of you two been bit?” he asked point blank. They both had a look of shock, the kind he would expect from an innocent being accused of something horrendous like that. “Good,” Tom told them. “Let me know if you think any of the others are infected.”
Bill went off but Carrie stayed.
“You know, Tyler may be a jackass, but Hank’s right. You’re going to get us all killed.”
“Driving through the Plague States is going to get us all killed one way or the other,” Tom argued. “Come on. Let’s go ration out dinner.”
Tom took a can of corned beef hash and a spoon to Penelope along with his own half-can of chili. He handed her the food through the bars and she took it from him without snatching. Tom half-smiled toward her before sitting down with his back against the cage, looking over the rail of the duck at a wide expanse of overgrowth encroaching on a pothole riddled road. Streaks of grass grew through ages-old cracks in the highway. Aside from two lights on the deck, one fore and the other aft, the darkness of night was settling over them and the noises of the forest at the edge of their sight echoed with the normalcy he would expect from untouched nature. He didn’t expect it here.
“You know,” Tom started telling Penelope over his shoulder. “This reminds me of back home in Denver. As a kid I camped out in the park. Even there in the Districts all the boys were afraid of zombies, like they could come out and get us. Most of the boys I knew hadn’t ever seen any. They were frightened just by stories and television. My sister got bit right in front of me when I was twelve. I’ll never forget it. Those nights in the park I just pretended to be afraid to fit in, but what I really wanted to do was tell them all that there were worse things in life than zombies.
“I don’t suppose you’d agree.” Tom looked at her over his shoulder. She stared at him with a complete lack of interest in the story he’d told, spooning food into her mouth. She had no recognition of his words or feelings. Or maybe she just didn’t care. He finished eating his meal and laid down where he was to try to fall asleep. It felt like those nights in the park, and even though all around him people were talking in those worried, hushed tones of fear, Tom easily drifted off to sleep. His body was exhausted.
Thirteen
Tom woke to an insistent shake. He turned his head to see the half-breed’s hand on his arm, shaking him through the bars. Penelope, he had to remind himself. She had a name. The noise of the forest had softened considerably. Almost an eerie silence. One of the hunters and one of the visitors were standing watch at the back of the duck. Tom looked at his watch. He’d slept five hours in the blink of an eye.
“What is it?” Tom asked her softly, rubbing his eyes. The generator was still humming, drowning out the nearby sounds of the forest. If it had grown silent slowly, he doubted anyone would have noticed. The two on watch were having a quiet conversation, not paying attention to the world beyond. Why should they? The trip wires would warn them.
Tom sat up, turning to face Penelope. The night air was chilling, boring through his jacket. He turned up his collar. His joints ached.
“What’s the matter? Are you cold?” Tom asked Penelope as she reached out to shake him again. She sniffed the air and growled, pointing at herself, then out toward the darkness. Tom swore. “Zombies?” She nodded. He didn’t think she meant half-breeds.
The flood lights mounted to the roof rack of the duck snapped on. The darkness into which Tom and the half-breed were looking lit up under a pale, white light. He squinted and shielded his eyes to see through it. There was a curse from the two on guard and a shout of alarm. Tom tried to pinpoint the movement in the tall grass. Three figures moving slowly through the flattened patch of grass, coming their way.
“Out of the way,” the hunter who was on watch said as he slid next to Tom. Tom had met him today. A good man named Mike. He worked for Peske. The other two hunters worked for Hank.
“I see three of them,” Tom said.
“More like eight or nine,” Mike replied as he unslung a canister gun he had been wearing across his back. He broke it in half to stuff a huge looking bullet in it, clapping it whole again.
“Aim for that third one,” Peske was saying as he hobbled over.
“Take the first one down,” Hank argued.
Everyone on deck was awake now. They stood or knelt with blankets half shed, their eyes filled with that same sense of fear they had about them back at Biter’s Hill. Mike cracked open the gun again, ejecting the spent shell casing.
“What is that?” Tom asked.
“Skunk powder,” Mike replied. “Muddles their senses. Irritates their skin. Usually makes them go away.”
It wasn’t working very well from Tom’s perspective. The three that had been out front were flailing wildly at themselves and the very air around them, but more zombies began to take form at the edge of their light.
“Hit that pair over there,” Hank demanded.
“Shit, Hank,” Mike said angrily, closing up the canister gun with another round in it. “It won’t matter. Look!”
Hank squinted his eyes and Peske began to head for the driver’s seat of the duck. Peske could see it, although Tom wasn’t sure what it was they were supposed to be looking at. All Tom could see was a line of eight or nine zombies shuffling toward the light. Beyond that there seemed to be nothing but a gray line of nothingness and a horde of fireflies.
“Shit,” Hank hissed and then Tom realized what they were all worried about. It wasn’t fireflies. It was the reflection of eyes. A wall of zombies. A hundred of them, maybe more, all advancing in that slow cadence, following the moans of those out front who had smelled the duck and came looking.
“Rick!” Peske yelled. “Dave! Go get those other two tripods. I’ll pick you up.”
“Go,” Hank agreed, slapping Dave on the back and then helping him over the side. “Don’t waste your ammo,” Hank told Mike, who was sighting a group of four zombies with his next round.
The duck’s starter turned over several times, grinding in what felt to Tom like some horrifically bad joke. Peske let off on the starter and Tom could hear the buzzing of the glow plugs beneath the deck. Peske cranked the engine and it sputtered to life, spitting up a cloud of black smoke into the flood lights. The truck lurched forward, turning abruptly away from the approaching zombies. Everyone tumbled to the deck. Hank and Mike both grabbed the railing to keep from being thrown. One of the visitors wasn’t so lucky. The man Tom had met only a few hours ago, the quiet one named Bill, hit the back rail and toppled over. For as much as everyone yelled for Peske to stop the truck, the old slaver drove fifty feet to where the two hunters were hurrying to retrieve two of the tripods.
“Shit, Peske, we lost someone,” Mike yelled, rushing to the front of the truck. “Don’t drive off!”
“What?” Peske yelled back.
“Someone fell overboard,” Mike said and Peske stood up at his driver’s seat to see. Two of the visitors were climbing over the back. It was a brave thing to do, Tom thought. Everyone seemed to be shouting Bill’s name. They couldn’t see him in the thick grass.
“Follow the truck’s path!” Hank shouted to the two men, pointing. Neither of them seemed to hear him, though. Hank climbed up on the roof rack to adjust the flood lights to help. The two hunters were rushing back toward the duck with the burden of a heavy tripod each, reeling in extension cords along the way. Mike pushed everyone at the back of the duck out of the way so he could get into position to take another shot.
“Back up!” Mike yelled. “We’re too far for a good hit.”
“I ain’t going back,” Peske replied. Mike swore and slung the weapon to start climbing over the deck. “Don’t you dare step off!” Peske screamed. Mike glared at him through the half-breed’s cage. “Help them up first,” Peske added, pointing to the hunters coming up alongside the duck. Mike did as he was told, taking the offered tripod from of the hunters. Hank took the equipment from the other. Mike dropped the tripod to the deck and turned to help Rick, but Rick was already rushing back toward the other two men. Everyone on the duck watched dumbfounded, unable to move more than their eyes. Hank hauled Dave onto the deck but neither moved except to watch as well.
“Don’t leave me!” everyone could hear Bill screaming. “Oh God, my back! Please! I’m over here!”
“Where?” the two men looking for him yelled back. Rick reached the two visitors and started pulling them back toward the duck. “We can’t leave him,” one of the men objected.
“Don’t leave me!” Bill shouted again, and this time he managed to lurch up high enough in the grass to be seen. “Please!” Rick and the two visitors were only twenty feet away, but two zombies were much closer. Rick turned the visitors and pushed them toward the duck, yelling “I’ll get him!” But he couldn’t. From atop the duck it was plain to see that. Tom felt the same ache in the pit of his stomach he knew Rick must have been feeling. Rick took five steps toward where they had seen Bill but then stopped. The first zombie was only a few feet away. Tom could see Rick put a hand to his hip as though he expected to find a pistol, but he patted emptiness.
“No!” Bill yelled as Rick turned away. Most everyone on board the duck turned away too. Tom watched the visitors all avert their eyes, turn their heads as the first zombie fell onto Bill. His screams were chilling, hauntingly familiar to Tom. Bill’s cries for help and his terror went on only for a few seconds before another zombie fell upon him to drown out most of his protests. Tom hated that he was numbed like this, unaffected by such a gruesome scene. Unlike most people, though, Tom not only witnessed but survived the first horde. As Mike helped Rick back onto the duck, Peske sat back down in his seat and turned his attention forward, grinding the vehicle into gear.
“Everyone else aboard?” Peske asked solemnly.
“Go,” Hank replied, equally vacant of his normally sour mood.
The vehicle lurched forward again.
Tom leaned against Penelope’s cage and sighed. Hank shut off the spotlights and generator before climbing down to resume his place alongside Peske. Rick, the hunter, sat down next to Tom with his head on his arms, propped up by his knees, looking down to avoid everyone’s grim stares. It wasn’t fair to blame Rick for anything, but the visitors had that accusatory look. They sat on the deck all staring his way, looking at him like he had made the killing blow himself.
“At least you saved the other two,” Tom said, thinking it was about the only comforting thing he could come up with. Rick didn’t say anything.
Fourteen
They drove slowly, creeping along the deserted highway, avoiding huge potholes, burning up diesel enough that Peske kept mentioning how close it was going to be. He kept saying they should stop again for the night, saying they might run out of fuel five to ten miles before they reached town. Tom wondered what kind of town they would find that had a gas station out here. Hank and Peske also argued about the zombies they’d seen. Not local. They both agreed on that. From the snippets of their conversation Tom overheard, they both came to the conclusion that those were all the zombies that escaped from Biter’s Hill. Tom hoped Rick hadn’t heard that. If that was the case, then most of them wouldn’t have been contagious. Rick might have felt worse for not tackling the front zombie and dragging Bill away. A few bites, some stitches mostly, wouldn’t hurt too badly in the grand scheme of things. Even the other two visitors could have helped.
Of course Tom knew it would have ended worse. All four of them would be dead or turned by now. Tom counted how many people were still left aboard the duck. From a town as big as Biter’s Hill, a place he knew had over five hundred men and women, only fifteen survivors and a half-breed. No, that was wrong. As far as survivors went, only those who were on the ferry officially made it out. No one knew about the duck. After the gunships, they must have written everyone else off completely. Tom wondered what the news cor
porations would be reporting on the incident, how they would spin it. It made him wonder if the government would have a vested interest in making sure none of them made it back. All the more reason to get to a long range radio, something that could reach the Districts directly.
The truck sputtered, acting like it would stall. Everyone glanced forward, even Tom. There was something altogether sinister about that sound. The engine was dying, gasping for fuel, lurching with each desperate breath. The argument had been going on for nearly two hours. Hank kept asking Peske why he didn’t have fuel. Peske claimed he never filled up until the day he left so no one would siphon his tanks. But regardless of their banter, the fact was that the duck was almost dead.
When the engine sighed its last breath, the vehicle went silent except for the crunching of its tires over the rubble-like highway.
“That’s why you don’t drive at night!” Peske groused loudly enough for everyone to hear. “If we could have waited for morning we would have reached the next town with five gallons to spare.” No one argued the point. Like Tom, they were all too busy wondering what they would do now. How far back were those zombies? The duck crept to a halt and Peske set the brake. “Get the siphon bar and pump down,” Peske said while pointing to some long rods on the roof racks. Rick didn’t hesitate to help with the task.
“What are you doing?” Tyler demanded frantically.
“Well,” Peske said irritably as he started unstrapping several empty three gallon fuel canisters off the roof of the cockpit. “Someone’s got to go ahead and get fuel for the duck, unless you want to walk the ninety-seven miles to Midamerica. I burned up most of my fuel plucking assholes like you out of the channel, so I think it’s fair that you be one of the assholes lugging these both ways.”
“What?” Tyler asked incredulously.
“You and four or five of your friends are going with Rick and Hank and his men to fetch some fuel. The more of you that go, the lighter your load will be on the way back. I’ve got ten empties. Figure it out.”