The Infection ti-1

by Craig DiLouie

  So Ray became a lawman and, in the process, a true believer in making the world right again. He was good at it. His only regret was that his mother was not alive to see him do it.

  When he found out Wendy was a Pittsburgh police officer, it had been like meeting an angel. The news of the burning of the city had hit the camp like a thunderbolt. People walked around in a daze, unable to comprehend it. By the time Wendy showed up at the police station, the fire had already become a legend. That made her something of a miracle, rare and precious.

  Which is why he came, to protect her. The part of Ray Young that he has been finding out is good believes that if he can protect her, he can help make the world right again.

  As for the part of him that is bad, the part he knows all too well, that part also wants to see the world return to normal. Ray is tough and morally ambivalent, he can be a bully and violent on a whim, but he has no wish to live in a world in eternal fear of being wiped out by a horde of diseased, homicidal maniacs. He longs for the day when he can get drunk on payday, throw a bottle through a window, and take a swing at honest cops who come to arrest him. He was a loser back in the day, that is true, while he is an important man now. But he was a loser who was certain to live a long life of petty amusements in a town he loved. He wants the world to get back to normal: a world where beer is manufactured and sold cheaply in mass quantities, tobacco farmers are free to harvest their crops unmolested, and women are loose and have easy access to birth control.

  He came for reasons both selfless and selfish, but none of that matters now.

  Now that he is here, all he wants to do is live.

  ♦

  The numbers of Infected multiply as they approach Steubenville along Route 22, the Bradley breaking their bodies with sickening thuds, the buses sending them flying with their V-shaped highway truck snowplows that had been retrofitted onto their grilles. They bypass the town along the north, their view of it obscured by a treed slope that gradually turns into a concrete wall. The fronts of the vehicles are splashed with blood; the windshield wipers are working full time. The Bradley crashes through a guide panel mounted on a sagging overhead gantry and announcing ROUTE 7 SOUTH STEUBENVILLE, smashing it into flying green shards that flutter and scatter across the highway. The Infected race towards the buses, squealing and pounding on their sides painted with special messages: HELLO, NOW DIE AND NONE SHALL PASS AND INSTANT CURE! inquire within.

  Sarge says into the intercom, “We’re approaching the bridge. Stay frosty.”

  Wendy glances at him with wide eyes, her face pale and pouring sweat.

  “Eyes forward,” he says, then adds gently, “You’re okay, babe.”

  “This is different than before. This is not just survival. This is a mission.” She shakes her head briefly before returning her attention to the ISU. “We’re fighting a war now.”

  “Don’t matter what you want to call it. Either way, people’s lives are riding on what you do, so you make sure you do right. You do the best you can.”

  “It’s too much this time. I’m scared.”

  “Only crazy people don’t get scared. Being scared is perfectly normal. You just have to control it so it don’t control you.”

  “How?”

  “You take things one step at a time. Each minute as it comes.”

  She nods, licking her dry lips. “Okay,” she rasps.

  “Baby steps. Right now, all we got to do is drive.”

  The bridge appears in the distance on the left, growing larger by the minute. Sarge glances at the instrumentation, pleased that none of the critical annunciator lights are lit up or flashing at him, which would indicate a problem with a vital system. He activates the intercom.

  “Get into your battle rattle,” he says, trying to sound upbeat. “We’ll be in the shit in less than ten and back home in a few hours.”

  No macho cheering or theatrical complaining comes back to him from the passenger compartment, just cold silence. He reminds himself that this is a different kind of war. A war of fratricides. A war of genocide against people they once loved.

  Nobody wants to cheer in this kind of war until it’s over.

  The bridge looms on the left, dominating the view against a gray sky that darkens towards the horizon like a distant storm. Waves of heat ripple at the horizon’s edge, Pittsburgh continuing to give up its ghost. The appearance of the bridge itself, a wonder of modern engineering appearing suddenly after miles of empty country, is almost as startling as the memory of the fire. An overhead road sign declares EAST 22 NORTH 2 WEIRTON PITTSBURGH. The convoy slows as it comes together in single file, exiting for the interchange.

  Honking loudly, a line of Brinks armored cars and flatbed trucks at the tail of the convoy breaks off, continuing south along Route 7 into Steubenville. These troops are headed to the Market Street Bridge, just a few miles to the south of the Veterans Memorial Bridge, an old light rail suspension bridge built in 1905 that was later upgraded into a two-lane crossover for vehicles. Seven thousand cars and trucks crossed that bridge every day before the end of the world. Now it is used only by monsters.

  The Bradley rolls onto the bridge. Sarge sighs with relief.

  The operation has officially begun.

  ♦

  The two leading buses race ahead to the other end of the bridge, knocking down Infected along the way while the rest of the convoy slows and stops. The other two buses deploy laterally across the Ohio side, forming a steel wall blocking access to the Infected. Immediately, the soldiers in the buses begin shooting out of the windows, cutting down the Infected who were following the convoy. The Bradley sits on the asphalt, idling. Inside, the survivors listen to the occasional pop of rifle fire as soldiers on the bridge take down stray Infected.

  Oh, Jesus, oh Jesus Christ

  Sarge keys his handset.

  “Negative contact, Immune 2. Say again, over.”

  There are thousands of them

  “I repeat: Negative contact, Alex. How copy, over?”

  Over the Bradley’s idling, Sarge can hear the splash of small arms fire from the other end of the bridge nearly six hundred meters away. Wendy flinches at the sound, then returns to scanning the bridge for threats. The Immune 2 unit, comprising the two buses that moved ahead, are supposed to plug the West Virginia end of the bridge by creating another steel wall. Once both ends of the bridge are sealed by buses manned by combat troops, Sarge and his force will walk the bridge from one end to the other, clearing it.

  Then Patterson and his engineering team can do their work.

  We’re trying to set up the buses but they’re everywhere, Sarge. Not just the Infected but the monsters, too. Hoppers. The giant heads with legs. Elephants with worms growing out of them.

  “Copy that,” Sarge says.

  “Should we go and help him?” Wendy says.

  “Our job is to clear the bridge,” Sarge tells her. “Alex’s job is to secure the other end.”

  I think we got it! Yeah, he’s got it. Holy shit, we’re in place. We’re in place, Immune 1.

  “I copy, Immune 2. Great job, over.”

  We’ll hold them here as long as we can, over.

  “Hang on. We’ll see you in a few minutes, out.”

  Roger that, out.

  Wendy activates the Bradley’s intercom system before Sarge can reach for it.

  “It’s time to go, guys,” she says, fighting to control her voice. “I just wanted you to know that I love all of you. Good luck and come back safe.”

  Sarge nods.

  “You heard the lady,” he says, and presses the button to drop the exit ramp.

  ♦

  The survivors dismount the vehicle, stepping into May sunshine. Nearby, a squad of National Guard and two machine gun crews watch them fidget with their weapons while wearing expressions of barely concealed disdain. Covered by the Bradley, they are all going up the bridge together. Their job is to clear it of anything breathing so that Patterson and his people can do thei
r work. The big five-ton trucks, loaded with tied-down boxes of TNT and C4 covered in plastic tarps, stand idling, surrounded by large, burly men waiting for their turn in the game. Patterson walks over to them and shouts instructions. Immediately, the men begin taking off the tarps, exposing enough explosive to rip the bridge in half.

  Todd checks his M4 carbine and waits for the order to move out, chomping at the bit for some action. He saw the way the Guard were looking down their noses at him and wants to show them what he can do.

  The firing at the other end of the bridge suddenly increases in volume. Todd wonders what those men up there are seeing, what they are going through.

  Paul nudges him, blowing air out of his cheeks.

  “This is going to be a shit storm, boy,” he says. “You stay close to me.”

  “I’m not worried, Rev,” Todd says with a smile. “If God is with us, who can be against us?”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Paul answers. “I think God might be on their side.”

  “Got an extra smoke for me, Preacher?” Ray says.

  “Here you go, Ray.”

  “Thanks. Feel that breeze. Man, that feels good.”

  While the two men smoke, Todd moves away a little, irritated. Between their smoking and all the exhaust hanging in the air from the idling vehicles, he is starting to get a headache.

  Gunfire crackles in the distance. The survivors crane their necks and squint at the Market Street Bridge, clearly visible to the south. Vehicles and tiny figures are moving on the road deck. The crackle becomes a steady pounding roar. Sparks flash along its length, tracer rounds streaming to contact. Several pale figures fall off the bridge and into the muddy waters below. A rocket explodes at the far side, a flash followed by a deep boom and a mushroom cloud.

  There is a hell of a fight going on over there. The other force is in action.

  Todd fingers the handset the Army gave him for the mission and keys it with a squeeze.

  “Uh, Sarge?”

  Todd, unless this is an emergency, get the hell off the commo, over.

  “Sorry about that, Sarge.”

  Todd hesitates, but cannot help himself. He is already committed. And he cannot resist using the radio.

  “I was just, uh, wondering when we’re going to get moving,” he adds. “Um, over.”

  You move when I tell you to move. Out.

  Todd smiles. He heard Wendy laughing in the background.

  Moments later, Sarge gives the command to advance.

  It’s show time, folks.

  ♦

  The Bradley begins crawling along the bridge, keeping pace with the Guard unit led by Sergeant Hackett, fanned out across the left three lanes, and the survivors spread out on the right. On the far right, near the edge, Paul looks down at the brown torrents far below. The water seems a good place to be, he muses, especially if the Infected cannot swim. A man could get a boat and disappear. He thinks about how the Ohio is formed by the Allegheny and the Monongahela meeting at Pittsburgh, and travels all the way here; downstream, it feeds the Mississippi. He asks Todd to swap weapons for a moment and uses the close combat optic to get a magnified view of the far shore. It is swarming with Infected as far as the eye can see. Corpses and small islands of plastic garbage float in the water, collecting in piles on the riverbanks. The Infected gather at the water’s edge, drinking among scores of bloated corpses washed up onto the mud.

  Paul lowers the rifle, feeling sick, and hands it back to Todd.

  “You look like you saw a ghost, Rev,” Todd says. “What’s going on over there?”

  “The usual,” Paul tells him.

  Behind them, Ray says, “Hail Mary, full of grace,” repeatedly until doubling over, vomiting loudly onto the road.

  Sergeant Hackett frowns at the survivors and shakes his head.

  Todd flushes with embarrassment and hisses at Ray, “Come on, man.”

  Ray wipes his mouth, gasping, and says, “Fuck this.”

  “Contact!” one of the soldiers calls out.

  The Guard begin shooting. The Bradley slows even further, almost coming to a halt. The survivors slow their pace as well, waiting until the threat is eliminated.

  “Clear,” the soldiers shout. The motley little army resumes its advance.

  Ray is right to be scared, Paul thinks. The hordes of hell are waiting for us at the other end of this bridge.

  As if reading his thoughts, Ray says, “You don’t look too scared, Preacher. What’s your secret?”

  “There isn’t any secret, Ray.”

  “You think if you die, you go straight to Paradise to be with the virgins, right?”

  Paul smiles and answers, “No, boy. I’m not scared because I’m already dead.”

  Ray stares at him in disbelief for several moments before shaking his head. “You people are fucking crazy.”

  “I’m not crazy,” Todd says.

  Paul notices Ethan frowning as if trying to solve a difficult puzzle. The Reverend pauses, raising his shotgun. He knows that look well. Todd sees them and shoulders his carbine.

  “What you got?” says Todd.

  Ethan suddenly roars, “Heads up!”

  His voice is drowned out by a flurry of screams and gunshots and curses. Paul looks up in time to see a flash of pale gray flesh. He pulls the trigger and the shotgun discharges with a burst of light and sound, bucking hot in his hands. The little creature flops to the deck, rolling and hissing and bleeding. Paul aims quickly and fires again. The Hopper explodes, leaving a trail of smoking gore splashed across the asphalt.

  He turns quickly, sensing motion in the corner of his eye, and cracks another of the little monsters in the skull with the butt of his gun. The thing stumbles away, reeling with vertigo, squealing with confusion and pain until Ray Young pumps several rounds into it with his pistol.

  Killing the Infected is hard because they are people. These monsters are something else. Demons. When Paul kills them, he feels he is doing God a favor.

  He scans the area with his shotgun, but sees no other threats. The gunfire around him sputters.

  “Cease fire, cease fire!” Hackett calls out.

  “Man down!” one of the soldiers cries.

  “We need a minute to take care of our people,” Hackett shouts at the survivors. “What you got?”

  “We’re all okay here,” Paul tells him, waving.

  The Guard pause after this announcement and glare at the survivors with open resentment.

  “Guess they thought we’d all be dead or something,” Paul says.

  “Sorry to disappoint them,” Todd grumbles.

  “The Hoppers were up in the cables,” Ethan says sheepishly, shrugging. “These cables that hold the bridge together. They were up there waiting to drop down on us. A pretty basic ambush.”

  Paul nods. “Good one, boy.”

  Ray laughs, his face as white as a sheet, and spits on the ground. “Batshit crazy,” he says. “But you seem to know your stuff. I’ll give you that.”

  ♦

  Sergeant Hackett pulls a can of spray paint out of a leg pocket, shakes it vigorously, and sprays a bright orange X on the back of one of the two men in his squad who were stung by the Hoppers. The man nods, accepting his death sentence. He will keep fighting but he will have to be killed when it is all over.

  The other soldier was apparently stung several times and lies curled up on the ground with his face clenched in mortal pain. He does not appear to be able to move. Ethan looks at him and wonders what must be going through his mind right now. Wonders if the man can feel Infection proliferating in his blood. Can feel his body slowly being converted into an alien life form.

  Hackett crouches, talking to the man, patting his shoulder. Then he stands, unholsters his nine-millimeter, and shoots him in the head with a loud report. The other soldiers tense and Ethan thinks, this is it, they’re going to shoot him now and go home, but Hackett growls at them to get back in line and prepare to advance, and they obey.


  The Bradley revs its engine and resumes its slow crawl to the center of the bridge. Ethan glances at the other bridge to the south, now almost concealed in a haze of smoke lit by muzzle flashes. As the survivors pass under the overhead WELCOME TO WEST VIRGINIA sign, the remaining Infected stream toward them in a flying horde, howling.

  We kill them and the bridge is ours, Ethan tells himself. This is it.

  He raises his rifle, but Paul pushes the barrel down.

  “What?”

  “Wait,” Paul says, watching Hackett.

  The sergeant has called for a halt and to hold fire until his command.

  “What’s going on?” Ethan says.

  “He’s afraid of hitting the bus and killing our own people,” Paul tells him. “We’re going to let the Infected get close and take them out with aimed shots.”

  The Infected are bolting down the bridge, arms splayed at their sides. It takes every bit of strength Ethan has not to empty his rifle at them. Or run like hell.

  “Hold the line,” Hackett cries.

  This is ridiculous, Ethan realizes. There are too many. If they get close, the survivors are going to have to make almost every shot disable one of them.

  He sees no old faces in the swarm. The virus is a harsh mistress, driving its hosts to constant exertion in its never-ending effort to spread Infection. The bodies of the old failed long ago. There are also no children. The Screaming spared the children but Infection did not; the Infected refuse to spread the virus to them, preferring instead to kill and, if they need food, eat them.

  What is left are healthy adults who were once Americans and had lives. He sees a man running at him wearing a tattered business suit, his tie still neatly knotted around his throat. A Sikh with a long beard, dressed in a turban and greasy mechanic’s overalls. A cop still wearing his bulky Batman belt, dead radio and all. A beautiful naked woman with a gray face and the remains of a hospital gown dangling from her wrist.

  A wave of stench washes over them, the characteristic sour milk stink of the Infected.

  “Give the order,” Ethan murmurs.

  “He’s got this,” Paul says.

  “Why is nobody firing?”

  “Don’t panic,” Ray mutters. “If you start panicking, I’m really going to panic.”