Evolution Z (Book 2): Stage Two

by David Bourne

  To make things worse, the road was now leading slightly upward, which slowed them down even further. Then they reached the top of a hill from which the road curved downwards again. Finally, Fort Weeks appeared on the horizon. Phil saw it first.

  “We are almost there,” he gasped with relief. He wanted to encourage the others.

  Scott’s legs were getting wobbly again. He was a strong guy, but not with the greatest endurance. He noticed that his lower legs were starting to develop painful cramps. He tried not to let the others notice.

  Ray looked toward Fort Weeks. Thick, plate-sized sweat stains had formed under his armpits. He was almost at the end of his strength.

  “Just a short distance now, people! Come on, keep going!” They pushed each other onward. Even Watson, who was walking next to Ray, was panting now. Almost there. We’re almost there. They kept staggering forward.

  The Finish

  Twenty more minutes to go. Private Mike Brown impatiently sat in his machine gun emplacement, bored and longing for the end of his shift. What had been thrilling a few days ago had now become just a dull, predictable routine of guard duty in regular shifts, with the only variation being the time you reported.

  He was amazed how quickly people adapted in this extraordinary situation to new circumstances and soon developed routines. The first few days after the outbreak had been very different. During that time, everything in Fort Weeks had been topsy-turvy. On the day the outbreak occurred, several higher officers had taken off in a helicopter to attend a meeting, but as there had been no sign of them since then, it was generally assumed they would not return. Other officers left the base without a word to rescue their families and had not been heard from since.

  Fort Weeks needed to be reorganized, because more and more refugees continued to arrive daily and had to be cared for. The fact this difficult task was completed successfully was due in no small measure to Master Sergeant Pelletier, who now commanded the entire base. New hierarchies were formed, communication was partially reestablished, plans were made and supplies were gathered. The base had now been sealed off all around, and a temporary refugee camp had been built. While things had become routine now, Mike felt there were no plans for the future, and this made the monotony of his life oppressive. So far, no one really knew why the world had all at once hit the skids and one thing was even worse: Nobody knew how to overcome this plague. Sure, they could survive at Fort Weeks for the next few months, but what about two, or five, or ten years? Mike stifled that bleak thought and instead looked over at Private Tom Clark who also was on guard duty today. Tom stood behind a barricade of sand bags and was inspecting his rifle.

  „Hey Tommy, what does the sign on an out-of-business brothel say?”

  Tom Clark rolled his eyes and chuckled. “You and your stupid riddles,” he said with a grin, shaking his head. “No idea.”

  “Beat it. We’re closed,” Mile said.

  “Oh, man, you are crazy,” Tom smirked.

  Mike watched as two undead were lurching toward the base from the East. Even though the patrols tried hard to keep the area surrounding Fort Weeks clean, now and then individual zombies managed to get through. Mike raised his silenced M4A1, aimed and fired two shots. Both creatures toppled to the ground.

  “Got another one. What do you call a man who prefers being with other guys than to being with his wife?”

  “Faggot?”

  “No.”

  “Queer?”

  “Negative.”

  “Anal Warrior?”

  “No, you twisted cob roller, nothing with anus.”

  “Homo?”

  Mike sighed. “Nope, you call him a husband.”

  Tom couldn’t help grinning, even though he himself had never been married. Mike was different because he spoke from experience, but Tom knew that Mike had lost his wife during the first week after the outbreak. Even though he tried to cheer up his buddies with silly jokes, one could see that this new life was difficult for Mike. Now Tom wanted to make him laugh, for a change.

  “Okay, I got one. What do a German shepherd dog and a short-sighted gynecologist have in common?”

  “A wet nose. Dude, I told you that joke,” Mike said and slowly exhaled.

  “Damn it. Okay, last chance: What is...”

  Mike suddenly jumped up. “Wait a moment.” He picked up his binoculars and looked toward the road. Something was moving on the horizon.

  “What do you see?” Tom’s voice sounded nervous.

  “I cannot recognize it clearly, but I think we have some visitors.” Maybe there will be something new after all, Mike thought.

  Tom squinted. Mike was right. In the distance, a large group was moving toward the base.

  He raised his M24 SWS, the standard sniper rifle of the US Army. The rifle had a range of about 875 yards, and he estimated the distance to the group of undead to be about twice that value. Through the scope he could only see silhouettes on the horizon. Tom pointed his rifle and consciously tried to slow his breathing. As soon as he had the first of the creatures in his crosshairs, he would pull the trigger.

  “Get ready, buddy. There are quite a few of them,” he said to Mike. Mike had already exchanged his M4A1 for the sniper rifle and was also aiming at the horde.

  “That’s gonna be a hell of a party,” Mike said.

  The group of pursuers meanwhile had grown to more than twenty undead, and they were hot on the heels of the humans. Ray didn’t know how much longer he and the others could keep up this speed. Sweat was trickling steadily down his back, his muscles were burning and threatened to cramp up any moment. Phil and the children also seemed ready to drop dead in their tracks. Even though Scott tried to hide his exhaustion, his bright red head and his sweat-soaked T-shirt told the real story. He wouldn’t be able to carry Chris much longer. Watson was also worn out and panting non-stop. Meanwhile, the first undead tried to grab Ray, who was walking at the rear of the group. When the first two attempted their attack, Ray managed to momentarily increase his speed so that the pursuers lost their balance and stumbled, face-down onto the road when they tried to reach for him. Then the third zombie managed to touch his shirt, but couldn’t hold on to it. There were only a few seconds left. Ray reached the others and considered his dismal options. They were in no shape to fight, nor did they have enough weapons for a confrontation. Fleeing across the fields next to the road was no solution, either since the undead would continue follow them everywhere. As if they had read his thoughts, the zombies started uttering guttural sounds. Fiona and Robbie screamed. Ray briefly turned around and saw one of the undead had separated from the others and had almost reached Phil and the two children. He let the other men pass him again and grabbed the baseball bat with both hands. Scott, who was carrying Chris on his back, looked at him incredulously, but kept walking on in a daze. When Phil, Fiona and Robbie had walked past him, Ray swung the baseball bat with a mighty blow against the head of the zombie. The nails dug deep into the face of the creature with a smacking sound and left a pulp of flesh that resembled a squeezed out blood orange. Ray groaned, leaned his elbows on his knees and gasped for air. The other zombies were heading directly toward him. He silently cursed himself—as he had done many times—for undermining his fitness with all that damned drinking he’d done in the past. “Ray, come on!” Scott was struggling with Chris in his arms, and he yelled as loud as his remaining strength allowed.

  Ray could barely hear him. Instead, he suddenly remembered a book he had read several years ago, called The Long Walk, and it was written by Stephen King. The protagonist of this book participates in a contest where you are forced to walk until you simply cannot go on anymore. Anyone who tries to rest for more than a minute or sits down is shot dead. All this continues until the only winner of the Long Walk is left. He remembered how he had identified with the main character and suffered with him. Now Ray had a better understanding of the doubts that had plagued the protagonist, as well as the temptation to just give up.
r />   “Ray, go!” Scott yelled again.

  To just stop.

  “RAY!” Phil’s voice cracked.

  I won’t be shot, but it should happen quickly nevertheless.

  “RAY, WHAT THE HELL!” Scott’s cry was a mixture of exhaustion, despair und dark foreboding.

  That way, I could gain some time for the others. I still have to make amends. I owe them that much.

  Ray took the baseball bat with his right hand and walked toward his pursuers. It would be an unequal fight of one against more than twenty. At this point, Ray simply did not care anymore.

  The sound of a gunshot made everyone flinch. One of the zombies fell backward and lay motionless on the road. For a moment, the group members all stared at each other in disbelief. Then a second shot rang out, and another zombie’s head exploded like a watermelon.

  “DOWN!” Ray screamed. Everyone threw themselves to the ground. Scott placed Chris next to him.

  With the mechanical regularity of a shooting gallery, the zombies were eliminated shot by shot. Fiona nudged her father, “Look, daddy, all those beautiful red flowers.” Phil looked at the muzzle flashes coming from the guns; he would explain this to his daughter later. One zombie after another dropped to the road until it was covered by a heap of more than twenty bodies. Ray looked in the direction of Fort Weeks. They were going to make it. They were really going to make it.

  Fort Weeks

  When Ray and his group reached the outer perimeter of Fort Weeks, they saw the faces of the soldiers who had saved their lives. They were two privates, who looked to be in their mid-twenties. Both had as sniper rifle leaning next to them and were holding an M4A1.

  “I want to thank you so much, we...” Ray started. One of the two raised his weapon and aimed at the group.

  “Put the baseball bat aside, raise your hands over your head and kneel down. The children too,” Private Brown coldly ordered.

  “Excuse me? We just...” Scott said.

  “Right away.” Brown’s voice tolerated no opposition. Robbie and Fiona gave their father anxious looks. He, in turn, looked at Ray.

  “You heard him,” Ray mumbled. Then he threw the baseball bat aside, placed his hands on the back of his head and kneeled. Scott laid Chris on the ground and then did the same, as did Phil and the children. Watson sat down next to Ray.

  Private Clark slowly walked around the group until he stood behind Ray.

  “At my command you will get up and walk through the gate ahead of me. I will escort you to the quarantine area. We must make sure that you and your unconscious friend are not infected. Let’s go.”

  Since the outbreak, there had been a steady stream of refugees seeking shelter at Fort Weeks. Now and again, new individuals or groups arrived. In order to simplify the processing and ensure the safety of the people on the base, a routine test for newcomers had been established.

  Since Josh had arrived here and talked with his father about the virus, the security measures had been tightened even further. A quarantine area had been set up on the training ground that was separated from the rest of the base by high chain-link fences. All refugees were first taken here and had to undergo a detailed medical checkup before they were assigned to a special tent camp on the former training grounds.

  Josh was on duty today and had to perform these checkups. As he looked out of the medical tent, he saw a frazzled group of newcomers, consisting of four adults, two children and a dog, whom Private Clark was escorting in his direction.

  One member of the group had to be carried on a stretcher by two soldiers, as he was obviously not able to walk. Overall, the group looked like they had endured quite an ordeal to make it to the base alive.

  “Aloha, people, I am Josh. Your doctor. Please follow me.”

  A short nod by the tall, brown-haired guy in a flannel shirt was the only response Josh got. At least they can understand me.

  “Are you the reason for all that commotion at the gate? Looks like you’d brought along some friends to the party,” Josh joked, trying to lighten the mood. However these refugees appeared the worse for wear and completely apathetic to his joking. When Josh realized this, he instead focused on his real task at hand. He looked the group over and paid special attention to the man on the stretcher. The guy looked in bad shape, was very pale and his breathing was ragged. Fuck. He’s deffo a case for mom. Josh turned around.

  “Private Clark, please contact the medical station and ask Doctor Pelletier to come here, as soon as possible.” He turned back to the group. “What’s this man’s name, and what exactly happened to him? Those are not wounds inflicted by those damned beasts. Looks like multiple traumas. Was he run over?”

  “Something similar. He fell from a balcony, doc. His name is Chris Foster,” said a slim guy who seemed vaguely familiar to Josh.

  “We’ve been on the road for days, and during the last few hours Scott had to carry him. That’s when he lost consciousness again.”

  Again? Shit! Josh realized they had no time left to waste. He started preparing for an emergency operation. The entire time he had been here, Josh never had an instance where he had to deal with such wounds. His mind reeled, and he cursed himself for not bothering to take any internships in trauma surgery with his mom. Okay. Clothing, operating table, morphine, space. Josh concentrated fully, and after a while he seemed to be only working toward his goal.

  “Clark, take the others to the cell, we need the space here. We’ll also need at least two more people here. GUARDS!”

  Two young privates came running into the tent, weapons at the ready.

  “Medical emergency here. You two, pick up the guy on the stretcher. Remove all his clothing and place him on the table.” Josh swept some papers and reports from a table and spread a sterile cloth over it. He estimated the man’s weight and went to the medicine cabinet. Fentanyl—very good. He filled a syringe and injected it into the injured man via an IV line he had put in beforehand. We don’t want you to wake up, my good man.

  Corporal Morgan had locked the rest of the worried group in a cell in the adjacent building, which had bars across its windows. Now he stood next to Josh again, as the injured man was lifted on the table. He was pale, almost grayish and had a large purple area on his lower stomach. A sure sign of internal bleeding. Josh palpated the man’s torso. At least four ribs were broken, and the shoulder did not look too good, either. One thing at a time. We need to stabilize him.

  Josh roughly knew what needed to be done. He would have to find the source of the bleeding and close it. To do so, though, he would have to look into the abdominal area. Cutting him open equals blood. Lots of blood. The first beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. He examined the rest of the man’s body and found no visible bites, scratches or other wounds. Apparently, the injuries were limited just to the torso, and he was probably not going to transform. Josh gathered his surgical instruments.

  “We’re going to need stored blood—O negative. Anything else could poison him.”

  There was only one bag left, and Josh hooked it up.

  This won’t be enough. Where is mom? Josh placed the surgical instruments on a small table next to the operating table and took a scalpel. Stay calm, Pelletier. You can do it. Trembling, he lowered the scalpel and drew a straight line across the right part of Chris’ abdomen. For a moment, Josh’s vision blurred. Pull yourself together, damn it! Hardly any blood seeped from the incision, which was a bad sign.

  The flap at the entrance of the medical tent flew open and Margaret Pelletier rushed in.

  “Joshua, what do we have here?” Josh looked up. Thank God.

  “A multiple trauma from a fall. He is bleeding somewhere in the abdominal area, and his ribs are broken. He is losing too much blood, and we don’t have any suitable blood in store anymore.”

  Margaret Pelletier took it in stride. She had more than twenty years of experience in trauma surgery and was an expert in her field.

  “Has he been sedated?”

&nb
sp; “Yes, with Fentanyl. We don’t have anything better.”

  “That’s alright. Then let me do it. First we need to get rid of all the old blood, although we won’t get far with one bag of stored blood.”

  Josh did the only thing that seemed logical to him at this moment. He had sworn an oath: Into whatsoever houses I enter, I will enter to help the sick, he heard in his mind. Josh set up an IV line for himself.

  “I am O negative, mom. We are going to do a direct transfusion. I checked the patient myself, and he is definitely not infected.” He spoke with full conviction.

  Margaret Pelletier was visibly impressed. Direct transfusion might still be used in war, but not in professional medicine. However, her son seemed to be sure of himself and she nodded in agreement.

  The soldiers helped Josh push a second table next to the unconscious Chris. Margaret Pelletier was already busy examining the abdominal area. Everyone worked together with the precision of a Swiss watch. Josh watched his blood stream through the narrow tube in his arm into Chris’ arm. Everything went black, and he could only hear muffled sounds.

  Hang in there, Chris Foster. Mom will put you back together.

  When Josh regained consciousness, he was still on his makeshift couch. He sat up a bit and turned his head in the direction of the operating table. His mom, having finished operating on Chris, was just sewing up the incision Josh had made earlier. He groaned audibly. His mom looked up briefly, pulled her surgical mask down and showed a warm smile.

  “You saved him, sweetie. You did everything right, from the beginning to the end. Only a few doctors can keep cool in a situation like this. Maybe you will turn into a good trauma surgeon after all.” She winked at him.

  Josh sank back on his couch. With a smile on his face he gave in to exhaustion.

  A First Encounter

  A warm tingling sensation, like many sharp pinpricks in his fingers, was the signal his blood was flowing slowly but surely into his extremities again. They were still working on Chris, and keeping his eyes closed, he listened to the buzz of activity.