by Brian Parker
The radio crackled to life once more as the lieutenant, Jake, called out to all of the vehicles. “Alright. The map says there’s another bridge up ahead.”
Shaikh looked into the distance. He could see the bridge, although it wasn’t the first time they’d tried to cross the massive river and been denied due to a collapsed bridge. Jake said the US Air Force had bombed the bigger bridges in the cities to try and stop the spread of the disease. Little did they know that the council had planted agents at multiple key locations across the country, including New York where they were headed, so destroying the bridges did no good. Upon learning that the city was safe, he wondered what happened to that agent and how New York was spared. He would never learn the answer to the mystery, of course, but it was an interesting mystery.
In addition to the thoughts of where the New York carrier was lost, Shaikh wondered what the true nature of that lab was. He’d been told they were working on a vaccine to ensure that Allah’s chosen people did not contract the disease—which meant Iranians because other Muslim nations had fallen to the Cursed, and somehow, their Korean counterparts.
The scientists were obviously working with people who were immune as seeking them out and bringing them to “safety” had been one of his force’s key roles in addition to facility security. But what he’d seen the sole surviving patient do was remarkable. He’d watched how the Cursed had avoided contact with the man, even though he was strapped to a gurney and would have been easy prey. His own sense of self-preservation had been the sole reason he freed Harper.
And now, here he was, gallivanting around America with an armed group of soldiers who thought he was a simpleton, on the way to New York with Harper. They weren’t even sure what they were going to do once they got there, just that there had been universities with doctors and scientists in the city before it was isolated. The Americans were hoping that was still the case.
Regardless, he didn’t trust the look in that old man’s eyes back at the farm, so he’d thrown in with this lot. They seemed good enough—for heathens—and were intent on seeking out a cure, which is what he thought the scientists at the facility were doing anyways. So until they did something that violated God’s will, he would stay with them and help in whatever way he could, unless, of course, a way opened before him to return to Iran so he could kill the Facilitator.
He watched the bridge nearing and then it disappeared behind trees and buildings as they came up to a town. Shaikh knew from experience that the outskirts of most of the American towns that they’d driven through were riddled with the vacant shells of restaurants and shopping centers, all utilitarian in nature. It was usually once they made it to the downtown areas where the homes and businesses began to resemble what he’d grown to think of as iconic American living. The town they headed toward now, Cape-something, was much the same.
There’d been considerably less of the Cursed in the area than there had been at other points of their trip, but their luck changed when they exited the main highway that they’d followed south and turned east onto another road. The infected choked the highway, with more streaming in from the sides.
The call over the radio came to “button down the hatches” which Taavi had learned meant to close the hatch and lock it. He reached across the hull and grabbed the first of the doors. As he began to lift the heavy metal up, the vehicle shuddered, throwing him forward as it lost considerable speed. The hatch slipped from his grasp, and his fingernails caught against the edge as an unknown number of kilos slammed the door back into place.
Taavi cried out in pain. His hand felt like it was on fire. All around him, the screams of the Cursed were answered by the deep staccato of the Strykers’ heavy machine guns.
“Get that hatch closed, Taavi!” Harper yelled over the radio. He was up front in the gunner’s seat operating the machine gun.
Shaikh ignored the fire in his hand. He had to get the door closed or the Cursed could tear him from the vehicle and swarm the inside. Biting his lip to take his mind from the pain, he attempted to lift the hatch once more, but it wouldn’t budge. He strained against it, but the damn thing wouldn’t move. What is happening? he wondered.
He tried again, the hatch remained unmoving. Had he broken it somehow? The machine gun on his truck stopped firing as the big vehicle continued to drive forward. The Cursed streamed from the side of the roadway toward the Stryker. He scrambled for the pistol at his waist, abandoning his efforts to close the damned hatch.
The pistol pulled free of its holster. Armies all over the world used the standard 9-millimeter gun that he’d been given for protection, so he was familiar with it. His training took over. He’d sent thousands of pistol rounds downrange during his time in the Army. This was just like any other day at the range.
Except he only had two spare magazines, forty-five rounds in total.
He aimed at the nearest of the animals rushing toward the truck. It was less than ten meters away, and there were a hundred more beyond that one. He fired once, hitting the Cursed center mass and chastised himself as the thing kept coming. They were akin to a criminal high on shishe, a methamphetamine that had recently become popular in his country. Anything less than a killing blow would be ignored until their body shut down. He had to aim for their head.
Shaikh fired again, watching in satisfaction as the head snapped back and the creature tumbled forward, its momentum carrying it to within a meter of the truck. He aimed at another when he was slapped roughly on the calf.
“Move!” a muffled voice shouted, barely audible over the headset he wore.
He looked down into Harper’s bearded face. He understood the man, but he didn’t have time to comply. The Cursed were closing in. As he fired, he wondered why the operator had abandoned his machine gun to come to the back of the vehicle. Another of the diseased dogs fell by his hand.
Harper slid up beside him, uncomfortably close in the small hatch. “I said, move!”
Taavi looked at him and saw the bigger man reaching for the hatch. “It is broken,” Taavi said in English. Now was not the time for childish games.
Harper looked at him sternly for a split second as he fired another round, followed quickly by another as his first shot missed the one he’d been aiming at entirely. Pistols were a poor weapon choice for stressful situations, as the slightest lack of concentration would ensure that the shooter would miss his target. If he survived, he’d need to get a rifle.
Harper turned back and grasped the hatch. He pushed a lever inset on the panel that Shaikh hadn’t noticed in his frantic struggle and the hatch lifted away from the hull. It must have locked in place when he dropped it.
“Down!” Harper ordered, lifting the door. Shaikh fired one more round, further into the crowd, before flicking the pistol’s safety on and ducking inside the vehicle’s interior. It was more of a frustration shot than anything else, one meant to hit anything in the crowd. He’d let the one advantage that he’d held during this trip slip away during the heat of the moment.
First one hatch fell into place, then the second rapidly after that. Shaikh sat heavily against the hull, examining his left hand in the dim light. The life-or-death adrenaline rush was already wearing off and the pain flared once he saw the damage. Three of his fingernails were ripped away. Two of them still held on by a thin connection of tissue. It was extremely painful, but he’d be fine. It was much better than having his hand smashed under the weight of that door.
Harper sat down across from him and plugged his CVC helmet into a dangling coil of communication wire behind him. He turned back to Shaikh, staring hard at him. “So you can speak English, huh, motherfucker?” the man asked, his voice thick with menace.
Shaikh was not accustomed to feeling fear from any man. Even the Facilitator, a man who did unspeakable things to people on seemingly a daily basis, did not strike fear into him the way that Harper did in that moment. His gray eyes bore into Taavi’s soul.
Despite the threat implied in Harper’s tone an
d the stare, Shaikh did not back down. He had too much pride for that. His hand tightened around the pistol’s grip and he hardened his resolve, staring back at the operator. Pushing the transmit button as he’d seen the others do, he said, “Yes. I understand English perfectly.”
Harper sighed and leaned back. “Son of a bitch. I knew it. You always seemed too helpful for someone who was completely clueless.” He scratched at his beard. “The dumb foreigner thing is an act too, huh?”
Taavi nodded. “I went to university in the United Kingdom before returning to Iran to serve in my country’s army.”
“Officer, huh?” Harper asked. “I thought so. I don’t know what those symbols are on your uniform, but I can smell an officer.”
Shaikh pointed to the epaulets on his shoulder. “I am a major in the Iranian Army.”
“What were you doing at that airport?”
Taavi’s heartbeat quickened. In many snatches of overheard conversation, he’d heard Harper say that he didn’t remember any of the specifics of the last year, so there was a chance that he wouldn’t know about the role the security chief had played during his imprisonment. “I was there with a small ground force. We were trying to establish a refueling point for the jets so they could land, rearm and refuel, then continue their attacks on the Cursed.”
It was close enough to the truth to be believable. The airport was being prepped for that exact purpose by the Air Force team they’d stumbled across when the C-130 landed. Every other person who’d been there was dead now, so he could stick to that story without fear of being discovered.
“The Cursed? You mean these looney fuckers that the Army guys call the infected?”
“It is the same,” Shaikh agreed.
“Okay. So the part about Iran being here as part of the UN mission is true?”
Shaikh shrugged honestly. “I do not know, Harper. I was sent here from my country, from my home, to fight against the abominations. If we are part of the United Nations, then that information did not reach my unit. I did not even know that we were in America until we landed and I saw the maps in the terminal.”
Harper grunted. “Shitty way to fight a war, man.” He glanced at the empty gunner’s station. “I’ve trusted you so far. You’re not my enemy in all this, those damn things out there are.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder toward the Cursed outside. “You gonna shoot me in the back if I go back to that machine gun?”
He adopted the most offended look he could muster. “No, of course not. We have a common enemy. To kill you while they are a threat to me would be one of the dumbest things I could do right now.”
Harper frowned before he ducked his chin once, hard. He put his hands on his knees and stood. “Good enough,” he said before unhooking his helmet from the dangling communication wire.
Taavi watched him shuffle up to the gunner’s station, then sit back down. Within seconds, the machine gun atop the Stryker began to fire once more.
He sighed as he relaxed his grip on the pistol. He dropped the magazine and replaced it with a full one, then slipped the weapon back into its holster. The lieutenant in charge didn’t seem to be particularly smart, but he knew that Harper was. He’d have to shore up his alibi before the next time they stopped. It would have to be a blend of the truth and half-truths. Sticking as close to the truth as possible was the easiest way to keep his story straight. And he needed to keep his story straight so he could one day return to his homeland and find a way to kill the Facilitator for what he’d done to Taavi’s beautiful family.
He let that anger and hatred wash over him. He must be successful at deceiving the Americans if he ever wanted an opportunity to avenge his family.
19
* * *
NEAR LIBERAL, KANSAS
FEBRUARY 20TH
Sidney heaved a sigh of exhaustion as she set the spring-loaded post pounder down in the grass. Her front deltoids burned in agony from the exertion of lifting the post pounder up to head height, then slamming it down onto the top of a metal fence post over and over until each post was about two feet in the ground. The heavy tool had been loud, the sounds of her pounding on the posts echoing across the plains. The only thing she could hope for was that the wind played havoc with the infected’s senses the same way it did hers.
Mark rubbed at one shoulder through his coat, and a thin line of sweat ran from under his beanie hat along his cheek. “That was tough work,” he said, grimacing.
“Yeah,” Sidney agreed. “I’m gonna be feeling it for days.”
“Katie told me that her grandfather put in all of the farm’s fences by hand.” He gestured weakly at the fence post pounder. “With that.”
She shook her head. “Damn. I can’t imagine fencing in a whole field with this thing. We did…” She counted the fence posts they’d placed. “Sixteen? And I’m exhausted. I wish we had a hot tub.”
His eyebrows shot upward and Sidney rolled her eyes at his youthful innocence. Not much longer.
“You hear that?” Mark asked.
She cocked her head, straining to hear over the dull buzz in her ears. They hadn’t seen any infected while they put in the fence posts, which was a testament to the winter taking its toll on their population. But, the sound of the repeated pounding all but guaranteed that they were on their way. The damn things were predictable that way.
“No,” she replied. “I can’t hear anything.”
“I heard a scream,” he whispered. “We need to get off the road.”
She wrapped a V-shaped metal clip through the concertina wire and around the fence post she’d just finished putting in. “Okay, we’re just about finished,” Sidney replied. “Grab a couple of these clips and finish up on the other side.”
They worked quickly, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten as they used pliers to twist the clips into place around the posts. The clips would keep the wire secured and stop it from coiling back up. As they worked, they continuously cast furtive glances down the road beyond their small obstacle. Inside her mind, an alarm was blaring for Sidney to drop what she was doing and run. The boy’s ears were much better than hers, but if he’d heard a scream, then the infected had to be nearby.
Sidney’s fingers were numb from the cold as she repeated the process several times. Beside her, Mark did the same. She saw him wipe his nose with the sleeve of his jacket, leaving a glistening trail. That’s all they needed was to get sick.
“Okay, let’s go,” Sidney directed, grabbing Vern’s tools when they’d finished the job. They headed up the road toward the house and then she heard it.
Screams.
It sounded like a lot of them. Mark began to run and she matched his stride, the fence post pounder banging awkwardly and painfully against her thigh. Inside the metal pipe, the spring-loaded weight slid back and forth noisily. “Dammit,” she muttered and stopped to set the big tool down. Vern would understand. She could come back later and get it.
Without the added weight of the fence post pounder, Sidney sprinted the last fifty feet of the road’s asphalt and then turned onto the gravel driveway leading home. Ahead, she saw a figure in the crow’s nest beside the chimney gesturing for them to keep running.
The voices of death drifted on the wind as she leapt from the gravel onto the porch. There was no time to turn and see how many of them there were. No time to determine if her work from the day creating the obstacle was a waste. Blending in and remaining out of sight was their best chance for survival with the infected. Without visual confirmation of their hunt, they would grow bored and seek other prey.
Sidney was through the door a split second after Mark and then locked it behind them. Vern sat at the kitchen table as if he’d never left. She knew that wasn’t the case. The old man had probably been working in the barn or out securing the fence line on the rest of the farm.
He looked up, alarm clearly written on his face as Sidney lowered the metal bar into the brackets that Vern had secured on either side of the door. “Trouble?”
/> Sidney nodded, taking gulps of air. “Infected,” Mark said, having recovered more quickly from their sprint than she had.
Vern stood and lifted the chair as he pushed it back to keep the legs from scraping. He picked up his old hunting rifle. “How much time do we have?”
“I don’t know,” Sidney replied. “We heard them. Didn’t see ’em. The soldier in the crow’s nest was waiving us in like crazy, so they must be close.”
The old man frowned. “Caleb’s up there. I’ll go to the window upstairs and see what I can see.”
Sidney watched him go, then went to the sink and poured a glass of water. She gulped it down before refilling it. If the infected somehow made it up to the house, they would be able to see anyone through the window above the sink and she wouldn’t be able to get another glass until they were gone.
“I’m gonna go check on Lincoln,” Sidney said to Mark. “Go make sure those other two soldiers are awake—but be quiet about it.”
She crept up the stairs, wincing as the old boards creaked under her weight. The sound wasn’t loud enough to make it outside of the house, but it still made her cringe. As she neared the top of the stairs, she heard Mark’s whispered voice drift through the house, telling the other two men to wake up. Sidney had already had it with those three. They refused to do any work except for guard duty in the crow’s nest. It had taken Vern threatening them with eviction to make them repair that fence. Jake had said they’d be helpful, but they were only a burden as far as she was concerned.
Until now. She didn’t know how many of the infected her hammering was bringing toward the farm, but the three extra guns would be a huge help, especially since they’d brought the suppressed rifles, something the original group at the farm only had three of themselves after Jake took his personal weapon with him.
She tapped the wooden door to her bedroom and then opened it. Carmen lay on her side with the baby nestled up beside her on the bed. She lifted her head gently. “What’s wrong?”
