by James Cook
Mike put down the box he was moving and pointed at the rows of metal shelving. “Sorting through it all. Prioritizing.”
“Beans, bullets, and bandages?”
“Pretty much.”
Stepping further inside and looking to my left, I saw Blake and Tyrel sorting through the ammo stacks. To my left, I saw Mike’s daughter, Sophia.
For a moment, I stopped breathing.
Sophia was my age, a senior in high school, and the star of her school’s soccer team. Tall, trim, and fit, she had straight blonde hair down to her shoulders, chestnut brown eyes, and was as pretty as a spring morning.
Mike rarely brought his daughter around BWT, as she had no interest whatsoever in what he did for a living so long as he handled the car payment and insurance on her brand new Infinity G-35. I had known her for years, the two of us attending the same barbeques and holiday events and such, and she had always been distantly, indifferently polite. I guess when a girl has a veritable legion of testosterone-fueled teenage boys lusting after her, it is hard to be impressed by a gangly, taciturn home-schooled kid.
Our eyes met across the dim gray room, and I felt a lance of pain in my chest. She looked haunted, her face red and puffy from crying, the thin coating of ash on her cheeks smeared from wiping at tears. She had tied her hair back in a loose knot, but a few errant strands hung loosely over her face. She sat alone on top of a wooden crate looking heartbreakingly delicate and vulnerable. Out of protective instinct, without thinking, I walked over to her.
“Sophia, are you okay?”
She looked up in mild surprise; I think it was the most I had ever spoken to her. Not that I had never wanted to, mind you. But when she was around, I always found it difficult to form coherent sentences.
“I’m all right, I guess,” she said. “All things considered.” Her voice was thick with the stuffiness that comes from crying. She crossed her arms and seemed to shrink without moving.
“Is your mother okay?” I asked gently, looking around. “I don’t see her anywhere.”
“She’s in Oregon, visiting my grandparents,” Sophia replied. “She wanted to come back when things … you know. Dad told her to stay put.”
“Probably wise,” I said. Then, realizing I had nothing else to say, I gave Sophia a short nod and stepped back. “Let me know if you need anything.”
She looked me over candidly, gaze lingering on my weapons, fatigues, and tactical gear. Her eyes were pools of shadow in the bluish light. “Thanks,” she said.
I walked away before things could get awkward.
Across the room, I saw Dad, Blake, Mike, and Tyrel standing in a cluster with Lauren hovering nearby. Lauren’s face looked gaunt, the strain in her eyes matching the tenseness of her posture. It didn’t take a great deal of perceptiveness to tell she was close to the brink. I had a second or two to worry for her before I came within earshot of the conversation.
“Has anyone given thought to where the hell we should go?” my father asked. “Just heading west until we run out of west doesn’t seem like the best idea. Everybody and their brother will be doing the same thing.”
No one said anything for a moment, then Tyrel spoke up. “I think we should follow Gary’s advice and head for Colorado.”
Everyone looked at the former SEAL. When he said nothing else, dad asked, “Why is that?”
“I’m from there,” he answered. “I know places we can go.”
Dad crossed his arms. “Can you elaborate on that, Tyrel? What kinds of places? Where?”
Tyrel breathed a sigh through his nose. “I think maybe we should talk about it on the way, Joe. Those fires coming our way ain’t gonna slow down while we chit-chat.”
Dad nodded, then looked at Mike. “What about you? You coming with us or striking out for Oregon?”
Mike pondered a few moments, then said, “I’ll stick with you until we find someplace safe for Sophia. Then I’ll head for Oregon. When we do find a safe place, can I trust you to look after my daughter for me?”
Dad didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”
Mike gripped his shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”
*****
Because Black Wolf Tactical was sufficiently in compliance with the National Firearms Act to possess automatic weapons—and because people were willing to pay significant sums of money to fire them—the facility had a number to choose from. Mostly small arms, but a few SAWs and M-240s as well.
Then there were the Humvees.
Three of them, although we only planned to bring along two: one to lead the convoy and another to bring up the rear. Blake and my father mounted M-240s to both Humvees’ roof turrets and divided the supplies and ammo between all five vehicles. Mike volunteered to take point in the lead Humvee, my father in his truck behind him. Lauren and Sophia would be in Mike’s four-wheel-drive Tundra, Blake and I behind them in his Jeep, with Tyrel bringing up the rear in the second Humvee.
As we were loading the supplies, it occurred to me if a casual observer saw us dressed in our modern tactical gear, they might mistake us for a military escort. Which posed the risk someone might flag us down for help, and possibly respond badly if we didn’t stop. There was also the risk a real military convoy might mistake us for deserters. I mentioned this to my father, but he just shook his head and said there was nothing for it. It was a risk we had to take.
Once we had everything ready to go, Blake tossed me the keys to his Jeep. “You drive,” he said. “I’ll navigate.”
For once, he wasn’t smiling.
We got seated and belted in, engine idling, wipers fighting a losing battle against the falling ash. The orange haze in the distance grew steadily brighter. Blake turned on the overhead light, plugged his handheld radio into a dashboard power outlet, and consulted his trucker’s atlas.
“All stations, looks like we can stick to the back roads and parallel the highways all the way to I-35. From there, we’ll have to find a safe place to get across. Any ideas? Over.”
Mike cut in. “You see Five Mile Dam Park on your map? It’s between Kyle and San Marcos. Over.”
Blake’s finger traced the map where indicated. “Yeah, I see it. Over.”
“Take us that way. I know a service road overpass hardly anyone uses. Should get us across no problem. Over.”
“Sounds good to me. Head for 1094 West until it turns in to Bastrop Road, then hang a left. Will advise from there. Over.”
“Roger. Out.”
Blake shot me a level stare. “Remember, Caleb. No matter what happens, Do. Not. Stop. If we get hit, keep going. If a vehicle gets in trouble, we can always regroup and double back if there’s still a chance to help them. Understood?”
I swallowed and nodded.
“If we run into any problems, let your father and me do the talking. If diplomacy fails, remember your training and don’t hesitate. And always, always follow our lead. Okay?”
I nodded again.
Blake put a hand on my shoulder. “You okay, man?”
“No, Blake. I’m not.”
He smiled then, sharp white teeth bright against his dark skin. “That’s good, kid. I’d be worried if you were.”
Mike’s hand came out the window and made a circling motion as he began to drive out of the parking lot.
The rest of us followed.
FOURTEEN
Humvee’s are good for many things, but speed is not one of them.
Their top speed is just over seventy MPH on a good day, but as laden as ours were with ammunition and supplies, the best we could hope for was a little over sixty. This did not fly well with what few cars we encountered on the way to I-35, whose drivers proceeded to swerve around us at breakneck speed, horns blaring.
I saw only one car crashed by the side of the road, but it was a doozy. The driver had misjudged a curve and skidded off the shoulder to plow headlong into an unyielding stand of trees. The front end of the little sedan was completely smashed in, the cargo former
ly on the roof scattered like tornado wreckage in the woods ahead.
Amidst the ruin, I saw the driver. He—or she, I couldn’t tell—should have worn a seatbelt.
If I had wanted to, I could have looked inside the little sedan’s windows as we passed, but I didn’t dare. If there had been children in there, I’m not sure how I would have reacted. The sight of the driver had me breathing heavily and choking down bile as it was.
Focus on the road, I thought. Just stay focused.
Despite the road conditions, we managed to outrun the raging fires to the east, if only by a slim margin. The billowing ash waned in intensity, but the sky grew inexorably darker as the afternoon wore on. Toward nightfall, the gray-shrouded road became almost indistinguishable from the tainted, wind-blown air. Visibility dropped to about twenty meters, forcing us to slow to a crawl. When we finally reached the service road near Five Mile Dam Park, Dad got on the radio and called the group to a halt.
“We need to scout the way ahead before we try to cross,” he said. “Blake, how far to the overpass? Over.”
Blake referenced his map under the pasty yellow dome light, and said, “About two-hundred meters, little less. Over.”
“I got this,” Tyrel cut in. “Blake, you’re with me. Caleb, come take the wheel and keep an eye on our six. Over.”
Dad started to raise an argument, but cut off with a curse when Tyrel went sprinting by. Blake grabbed his carbine before jumping out and following him. As they ran, both men donned goggles and tied a scarf around their mouths to shield their eyes and airways from the suffocating fume. I did the same, then picked up my rifle and ran back to the rear Humvee.
Once outside the air-conditioned cab of Blake’s tricked-out Jeep, the heat enveloped me like an ocean wave. The ambient temperature was well in excess of a hundred degrees, while the wind blowing in my face felt like standing in front of the world’s biggest blow dryer. Despite the scarf around my face, the air was harsh and difficult to breath, permeated with heavy smoke. Even a respirator would have been hard-pressed to scrub it clean. By the end of the short run from the Jeep to the Humvee, my throat was raw and my lungs felt hot. I worried for Blake and Tyrel, who had farther to go and were no better protected.
A wave of coolness washed over me as I leapt inside and slammed the door. Although military Humvees do not normally have air conditioning, ours had been modified for the comfort of BWT’s clients. It was a welcome respite from the suffocating heat.
Several anxious minutes ticked by as we waited for word from Blake and Tyrel. I focused on the mirrors on both sides, looking back and forth between them every few seconds, searching for approaching headlights. The wind howled outside my windows, jostling and tugging at the Humvee, wearing my nerves thinner and thinner. Just as I was about to grab a respirator and go look for Blake and Tyrel, the radio on the dash crackled.
“The way is clear,” said Blake, voice rough and strained. “Drive to the bridge; it’ll be faster if you come pick us up. Over.”
“Roger,” Dad said. “On our way. Lauren, can you put Sophia on the radio? Over.”
There was a moment of silence, then Sophia’s nervous voice came on. “Yeah?”
“Sophia, honey, I need you to drive your dad’s truck. Do you think you can do that for me? Over.”
“Yeah, I think so.” A pause, then, “Um … over.”
“Have you ever driven it before? Over.”
“No. He won’t let me.”
Dad waited for an ‘over’ that wasn’t coming, then said, “It’s an automatic, so it’s just like driving a car. Be careful with the brakes, though. They’ll have a little more travel than what you’re used to. Over.”
“Okay.”
“Lauren, can you hear me? Over.”
A pause. “Yes, over.”
“Give Sophia one of the radios in the back seat and show her how it works. Also, make sure you wear goggles and cover your mouth before you head for the Jeep. Move as fast as you can and don’t stop for anything, you hear? Over.”
“I’ll do that. Out.”
A few seconds later, Lauren stepped down from Mike’s truck and sprinted for the Jeep. I could tell by her body language she was having the same shocked reaction I had to the stifling heat and nigh-unbreathable air. In seconds, she was in the safety of the cab.
“All stations sound off if you’re ready to move. Over.”
Mike answered first, then Sophia, Lauren, and finally me. “Ready to go,” I said. “Over.”
Static. “Let’s move out.”
We followed Mike at a stately twenty miles an hour until the slope of the overpass loomed into view. Up to that point, thick forest had lined both sides of the road, brittle and dry from a lack of rain that year. But as we emerged onto the bridge, the trees fell away to reveal a storm of swirling cinders and dust borne along by great heaving gusts. The sky above was nearly black, only a thin, bloody crease on the horizon as evidence the sun still existed. Our headlights burned a short distance ahead, barely penetrating the gloom. As we crossed the bridge, I noticed a sickly ochre lambency struggling upward only to be swallowed by the stygian maelstrom above. The blare of thousands of horns reached my ears, followed by a thunderous cacophony of screams. For one terrifying moment, I wondered if I had died and was driving a Humvee through the gates of Hell. Then I realized what I was hearing was not the fiery gates of damnation, but the sounds of chaos on the highway below.
Brake lights cut the darkness ahead of me, forcing me to stop. A few seconds later, I saw Tyrel running toward my vehicle. “Fuckin’ shit,” he said, coughing as he climbed in and shut the door. “It’s Dante’s goddamn Inferno out there.”
“I noticed.”
He craned his neck to the side, trying to get a better look out the front windshield. “The hell is Joe doing?”
I leaned over but couldn’t see anything. “Dunno.”
“He say anything over the radio? I don’t have a handheld.”
“No.”
Tyrel rooted around in the back and dug out a respirator and a couple of filters. BWT had always kept a ready supply of the masks on hand because of some OSHA regulation or another. Dad figured it would be wise to bring them along, considering we had a forest fire half the size of Vermont bearing down on us.
“Wait here,” Tyrel said, his voice muffled by the respirator over his face. “I’ll be right back.” He jumped out and sprinted for the front of the convoy.
Like hell I will.
I let him get about ten steps away, then donned a respirator of my own, grabbed my rifle, and followed. Before I had gone five feet, a thought occurred to me and I stepped back into the Humvee long enough to locate a little black case I had grabbed from a shelf in BWT’s armory. Inside was a night-vision rifle scope—just the thing to overcome the poor visibility caused by the firestorm. After affixing it to my rifle, I sprinted to the front of the column. Dad, Mike, Blake, and Tyrel were all standing on the narrow strip of concrete shoulder lining the side of the overpass. Mike stared down at the road below through a pair of NVGs, then handed them to my father. As I drew near, Tyrel saw me coming and gave me a hard stare. I stared back.
“I’m not a kid anymore, Ty.”
He glared a moment longer, then went back to looking at the highway. Just as I was about to raise my rifle and peer through the NV scope, Dad reached over and laid a hand on the rail.
“Son, before you do that …”
“What?”
“It’s bad down there, son. Real bad. And I’ve seen some things.”
My father’s expression gave me pause. I did not know much about his past, but I had done a lot of reading about the Green Berets and Delta Force growing up, and if what he had faced was anything like what I read about, then him saying he had ‘seen some things’ was one hell of an understatement. I looked down at the pavement for a moment, watching swirls of grayish powder wind around my feet like a sea of ghosts, and made a decision.
“Whatever’s happening down
there,” I said, “it’s happening everywhere. Remember that rule you’re always telling me to remember, the one from The Art of War?”
Dad nodded, a sad smile in his eyes. “Know your enemy.”
I spoke softly. “Whatever is down there, Dad, that’s our enemy. And if I’m going to survive this, if any of us are going to survive, we need to know what we’re up against.”
Dad’s gaze stayed down, but he took his hand off my rifle. “Okay, son. Just remember what I told you—it’s bad.”
Slowly, reluctantly, I brought up the scope. At first, the magnification was set too high and I couldn’t see much of anything. So I adjusted it down to 2x and looked again.
And it was a scene straight out of Hell.
Before the news feeds gave way to snowy screens and emergency advisory notices, reports came in on every network that the undead were following the highways and attacking anyone they could get their hands on. Drivers were being advised to use side roads to flee major cities, and if trapped on the highway, to abandon their vehicles and seek safety on foot. All during that time, I thought I understood the horror those people trapped on the interstates must have felt. The horns, the flaring tempers, the shouted obscenities, the fights, the helicopters overhead blaring warnings on loudspeakers, the crack and pop of gunfire, the growing crescendo of terrified cries as a hungry tsunami of the dead arrived, the fires in the distance, the acrid burn of gasoline smoke, the gut churning imminence of lethal danger they didn’t understand or know how to combat. And worse, there was the knowledge that every person the undead killed did not stay dead, but rose to take their place among the exponentially multiplying army of ghouls.
I thought I knew what to expect.
I had seen it on television, after all. But there is a problem inherent with viewing violence through a pixelated screen—it is at arm’s length. You watch it all from a good safe distance, affected emotionally but not viscerally. Television had everyone—including me—so used to the unreality of sit-coms and superhero shows and singing competitions and the careful editing endemic of scripted pseudo-reality TV that the sense of disconnect applied even when we knew what we were seeing was real. And in my boyish overconfidence, I thought I had looked upon the horror in all its terrible majesty and prepared myself to face it in person. I thought I could handle it.
