Thunder and Ashes

by Z. A. Recht

  “Come on!” she screamed, upending a backpack and sending odds and ends skittering across the floor. “Where are the guns? Where are all the fucking guns?”

  A sound behind Rebecca attracted her attention. She froze, eyes wide, and slowly turned her head to look.

  Brewster stood at the top of the stairwell, blocking her only escape route. He seemed to grin.

  “Brewster,” Rebecca started, holding up a hand to ward him off.

  The soldier said nothing in reply. He merely opened his jaws and leaned in for the kill.

  0921 hrs_

  “Rebecca! Rebecca! Jesus, wake up, for fuck’s sake!” Krueger said, shaking Rebecca’s shoulder.

  Rebecca shot awake, grabbing at Krueger’s arm. Her eyes were wide and her sleeping bag was half soaked-through with sweat. Krueger had a sympathetic look on his face.

  “Another dream, huh?” he asked.

  Rebecca didn’t answer right away. She looked around the tower. Morning sunlight was burning away the last vestiges of fog outside, and the group was already active. Only Wilson and Ron remained asleep. Everyone else was on their feet, stretching, sighing, and working out kinks developed from spending eight hours laying on concrete. Sherman, Thomas, and Denton were missing, probably outside already. She looked over her shoulder at her pistol belt. The weapon was right where it was supposed to be.

  “Yeah,” she said, nodding. “Yeah, another dream.”

  “Must’ve been a bad one,” Krueger said. “You were mumbling to yourself.”

  She nodded again, taking a deep breath to steady herself. They’d all had dreams over the course of the past month or so, but that one had felt extremely real. It was unsettling. If she hadn’t had an appetite the night before, she sure didn’t have one now.

  “Come on,” Krueger said, standing and offering her an arm. “We’re going to head down and get the vehicles fueled up and ready to go. Sherman said he wants to get on the road after we eat.”

  The mention of eating sent Rebecca’s stomach to twisting again. She grimaced, but accepted the offered arm after buckling her pistol belt securely around her waist. Krueger snapped up his rifle and pack, having already strapped his sleeping bag across the top, and helped Rebecca do the same. He nudged the still-sleeping Wilson with his boot as they passed.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” Krueger said. “Don’t waste the day.”

  Wilson murmured something, still only half-conscious, and managed to flick Krueger off. Krueger chuckled and jogged down the tower stairs. They passed Brewster, leaning against the support column that held up the tower. He looked bleary-eyed and tired, having spent the night on watch. Rebecca clenched her jaw as she passed him, glancing at the soldier out of the corner of her eye.

  Brewster caught her expression and arched an eyebrow. “The hell was that look for?”

  Rebecca didn’t reply, and instead followed Krueger out into the sunlight.

  “Well, good fuckin’ morning to you too, beautiful!” Brewster called out after her. He shook his head. “Some people.”

  Denton was standing next to the pickup, upending a can of gasoline into the tank. Three empties lay in the grass next to him, and the cart of still-untouched cans was a few feet away. He waved as Krueger and Rebecca approached.

  “This one’s just about full now,” he said. “And there are eleven more cans in that cart. Figure four to fill up the utility truck, three for the car, leaves us with twenty spare gallons to use on the road. Not a bad haul, eh?”

  Krueger grinned. “Should last us a couple more full days of driving.”

  “A good four hundred more miles, you bet,” Denton said. “ ’Course, we still have twice that to go.”

  “So we raid one more airport along the way. Problem solved,” Krueger said, raising his arms in a victory sign.

  Denton chuckled.

  “Where are Sherman and Thomas?” Rebecca asked.

  “In the terminal,” Denton replied, pointing. “They’re packing up what’s left of the food in that little souvenir store.”

  Again with the food, Rebecca thought. “Anything we can do to help?”

  “Oh, no, I’ve got this taken care of,” Denton said. “Though I bet Sherman and Thomas could find something to occupy you if you’re looking for something to do.”

  “Thanks,” Rebecca said, turning and heading toward the terminal.

  Krueger hung behind, leaning up against the back of the pickup and sighing. “Whaddaya say, Denton?”

  “Eh?” Denton asked, looking up from the gas can.

  “Just making smalltalk. Nice weather today, huh?” Krueger asked, grinning impishly.

  Denton frowned at him. “Small talk doesn’t befit you.”

  Krueger chuckled. “It’s been a while since we all had a regular morning. You know, wake up slowly, stretch, eat, chat. It’s good to pretend things are normal for a change.”

  “I don’t know,” Denton said. “I’m not a huge fan of pretending. Makes me feel like an ostrich.”

  “Ostrich?” Krueger asked.

  “You know, head in the sand?” Denton replied. “Ostriches—actually, I’m not even sure if they really do this or not, but it’s common knowledge—when they feel threatened, they bury their heads in the sand and pretend like the danger isn’t really there, because they can’t see it anymore. Just because you can’t see the danger doesn’t mean it isn’t going to bite you in the ass.”

  “Reminds me of something Sherman said,” Krueger said after a moment had passed in silence.

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “Well, after we got out of Hyattsburg and got on the road, I heard him talking with Thomas,” Krueger went on. “Turns out this lady we’re trying to meet up with, what’s her name, uh, Demilio—she tried to warn people about Morningstar before the first outbreaks in Africa. No one listened.”

  “Eh, that’s just politicians for you,” Denton said. “They don’t see problems in terms of potential. They can’t. If they spend a bunch of money preventing something, and that something never harms so much as a fly because of their farsightedness and caution, then they get accused of wasting resources. On the other hand, if they wait too long, they can be accused of being uncaring bastards. The trick is to find a happy medium.”

  “Happy medium,” Krueger repeated, arching an eyebrow.

  “Yeah,” Denton said. “You have to let a problem get in a bite or two, and then kick it’s ass. That way you can say, ‘Look, it was definitely a threat, and I definitely dealt with it before it got out of hand. Vote for me!’”

  Krueger laughed out loud. “I’d say they fucked that one up pretty good, at least as far as Morningstar’s concerned.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Denton nodded in agreement. “Majorly. I’m just saying, maybe people did listen when Demilio tried to warn them, but they chose not to do anything at first.”

  “Guess we’ll never know,” Krueger said.

  The doors to the control tower were pushed open, and Brewster, Wilson, Ron, and Katie came ambling out. Brewster blinked heavily, holding a hand up to block out the sunlight.

  “Damn, man, don’t know how Thomas expects me to function with no sleep all the time,” he complained.

  “Sleep on the road,” Ron suggested. “We’ll be riding all day again.”

  “But I get motion sickness if I try to sleep in a car,” Brewster protested, holding a hand over his stomach.

  “Then stay here and sleep while the rest of us go,” Ron said, throwing up his arms in exasperation.

  “Hell no, I’m not staying at this creepy-ass airport,” Brewster said.

  Ron rolled his eyes and kept walking.

  In the terminal, Sherman and Thomas had kept themselves busy, rooting around the small storage room behind the counter in the souvenir store and coming up with another couple of boxes of snack food. Thomas wasn’t elated at the find (“I prefer a little more starch in my diet, sir.”), but Sherman shrugged and cut the tape on the boxes with a pocketknife, dumping the co
ntents onto the countertop.

  Rebecca wandered in, nodding to Thomas and waving at Sherman.

  “Good morning,” she said, letting her eyes wander over a rack of postcards. “Sleep well?”

  “Better than I have in the past couple of weeks,” Sherman replied. “It’s amazing what a set of locked doors can do to your sense of security.”

  “I would’ve slept better if I’d left someone besides Brewster on guard duty,” Thomas said.

  “You’ve got no one to blame but yourself for that one,” Sherman said, shrugging. “Besides, he’s not such a bad guy. Been pulling his weight just like everyone else.”

  “He’s too damn distracted all the time,” Thomas frowned, then gestured straight ahead with a free hand. “Needs to focus.”

  “Well, that’s your job, Sergeant,” Sherman grinned. “Keep the boys in line.”

  “Don’t remind me, sir. I feel like a failure enough already. Krueger’s the only one of ‘em left worth half a damn,” Thomas grumbled.

  “Hate to interrupt,” Rebecca said, clearing her throat. “Most of us are up and about out there. I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help move things along . . . ?”

  “Oh. Sure,” Sherman said. “Here, grab one of these boxes and take it out to the vehicles.”

  He lifted a large box and handed it over. Rebecca nearly lost it, surprised by the weight, but recovered. Sherman had hefted it like it was nothing. She reminded herself once again not to underestimate the older man’s athleticism. She passed by several others on their way in. Ron held the door open for her.

  “More potato chips?” he asked, tilting his head to read the label on the side of the box. “Awesome.”

  “All right, where’s the bathroom?” Katie asked, looking left and right as she entered the terminal. “There has to be one in here. I wonder if the water’s still on?”

  “Probably,” Wilson said, pushing past her. “I remember reading somewhere that something like three-quarters of all the plumbing in the United States is gravity-fed, not pumped.”

  “Well, I have no idea what that means, but cool,” Katie replied, shrugging.

  Ron disagreed, shaking his head. “Yeah, but look where we are. Mountains, remember? They probably have to pump the stuff uphill. No electricity, no pumps, no water.”

  “For once I’m hoping you’re wrong and Wilson’s right,” Katie said, poking Ron in the chest. “Aha! There they are!”

  Katie made a beeline for the women’s room, shoving open the door and vanishing inside. A moment later, a loud squeal erupted from behind the closed door. Ron and Wilson’s hands went straight for their weapons, and they ran toward the restroom. Ron kicked the door open—and made Katie jump a foot in the air in surprise. She was standing in front of the sink, a grin plastered on her face. She gestured at the running faucet.

  “Water,” she said, laughing. “What’s with the guns?”

  Ron sighed and Wilson shook his head, holstering his pistol.

  “You just about gave us a heart attack,” Ron admonished.

  “Sorry,” Katie said, but she didn’t sound it.

  “And on that note, I think I’ll repair to the men’s room myself,” Wilson said. “Wash up and change.”

  “I’m with you,” Ron added.

  They let the restroom door swing shut and walked away, shaking their heads. Sherman and Thomas came out of the souvenir store, each bearing a box of assorted food, and spotted Ron and Wilson walking toward the men’s room.

  “Hey,” Sherman called out. The two men looked over. “When you’re done in there, would you mind heading into the store and grabbing a couple more of these boxes?”

  “Sure,” Ron said, nodding. “We’ll meet you out by the cars in a couple of minutes.”

  “Don’t take too long,” Sherman said. “Don’t want to waste the daylight.”

  “Four, five minutes, tops,” Wilson said, holding up a hand.

  He leaned his back on the men’s room door, pushing it open—and fell right back into the arms of an infected wearing civilian clothes. It roared in his face, grabbed at his shirt, and sank its teeth into the back of his neck, immediately drawing blood. Wilson didn’t even have time to react.

  “Shit!” Ron yelled, throwing his bag to the ground and fumbling for his pistol.

  Across the terminal, Sherman and Thomas dropped their boxes and came running toward the pair.

  “Wilson! Wilson! Throw it off! Get it off!” Sherman yelled, gesturing wildly.

  Wilson was screaming in pain now, grasping at the carrier, which had latched onto his back like a humanoid leech. This one was still alive—a sprinter, with all the strength and speed of a normal human. Moreso, even, allowing for its fevered strength. Wilson slammed his back against the wall over and over, trying to dislodge the infected. It barked short grunts of pain as it hit the wall, and its jaws came loose from Wilson’s neck, but its hands still grabbed at the soldier.

  Ron ran forward, giving up on trying to find a clean shot, and drew his machete. He wound up, watched Wilson’s movements for a careful moment, and swung. The blade bit into the infected’s shoulder, spraying blood against the white tile of the bathroom wall. Ron wrenched the machete free, and the infected came loose, hitting the floor heavily. It twisted and spasmed, grasping at its shoulder with its uninjured arm, still roaring in defiance.

  Sherman came up behind Ron, reached around him with a hand that held a locked and loaded pistol, and fired twice, sharp staccato bursts in the enclosed space. Both rounds took the carrier in the chest, and it spasmed once more, then settled into death.

  Wilson stood in the bathroom, holding a hand to his neck and staring at the corpse on the floor. When he pulled his shaking hand away, it came free covered in blood. The soldier choked back a sob.

  “That’s it, man,” he said after a moment. “I’m done. It got me. I’m infected.”

  He looked up at Sherman, Thomas, and Ron in the doorway, but none of them offered any rebuttal. They just looked back at him with sad, sympathetic expressions on their faces. Wilson swallowed, slowly drew his pistol, and walked over to the corpse of the carrier on the bathroom floor.

  “Fucker,” he said, and fired into the infected’s head. He fired again, and again, and again. The body jerked with the impact of the rounds and blood and brain matter splashed Wilson’s boots. The three men in the doorway backed away slowly, unwilling to get any of the infected blood on themselves. “Fucker.”

  Wilson stopped firing before his pistol ran dry. He took a deep, shuddering breath, still holding onto his neck, and looked back up at Sherman.

  “Guess this is good-bye, sir,” Wilson said. “I ain’t getting into a vehicle with you all if I’m infected.”

  Again, no one offered any argument. Wilson wasn’t the first of their number to be bitten. It was a death sentence, plain and simple. Wilson might have a few days left to him, but eventually, he would turn, and when he did no one around him would be safe.

  “Been a slice, Wilson,” Ron said after a moment, then extended his hand. Wilson shook it with his right, his left keeping pressure on the bite.

  “Good huntin’,” Thomas said. He nodded, then turned and strode away. It was as tender a goodbye as any the old sergeant had offered before.

  “Sorry, Wilson,” Sherman said, frowning. “Wish it didn’t have to be like this.”

  “Me too, sir,” Wilson said, chuckling. “Me too.”

  Ron collected Katie from the women’s restroom and retreated with Sherman to the terminal’s main entrance, sparing one final glance over his shoulder at Wilson. The soldier was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, waving with a hand that still grasped a pistol.

  They pushed their way out of the front doors and into the sunlight.

  Brewster and Denton had taken cover behind the bed of the pickup when the shots had rung out, and the small group exiting the terminal found themselves staring down the barrels of rifles.

  “Hold up,” Brewster sh
outed out. “Friendlies.”

  The survivors slowly appeared from behind the vehicles. The back of the utility truck opened up and Jack and Mitsui poked their heads out.

  “Heard shots,” Denton yelled to Sherman. “What happened?”

  “Remember that last carrier we couldn’t find last night?” Sherman said, grimacing. “Wilson found it.”

  “Is he . . . ?” Brewster started.

  Another shot rang out, this one muted but still loud enough to cause the group to cringe. It had come from inside the terminal.

  “Yeah,” Sherman said after the sound had faded away.

  Brewster scowled and looked down at the ground. “Goddammit.”

  “There’s nothing more we can do here,” Sherman said, sighing. “Mount up, people. We have a lot of ground to cover before we get to Omaha.”

  Point Pleasant, West Virginia

  March 05, 2007

  1312 hrs_

  “I THINK WE SHOULD HAVE spent a little more time trying to get the car back on its wheels again,” said Julie Ortiz, sinking gratefully onto a bench and breathing heavily, holding her side and shaking her head. “I’m not cut out for this hiking shit.”

  “We can go over that again and again but it won’t bring our vehicle back,” said Mason, lifting a pair of binoculars to his eyes and scanning the horizon. “Besides, we tried. Even with all three of us, it wasn’t budging.”

  “Maybe if we used, I don’t know, a big lever or something,” Julie said, throwing up a hand in exasperation.

  Anna Demilio looked at the journalist out of the corner of her eye and smirked.

  “I saw that,” Julie said, frowning at Anna.

  “I’m not the one who rolled it,” Anna said in her own defense, nodding in Mason’s direction.

  “And I already told you both, those two sprinters came out of nowhere. It was reflexive. Either one of you would have done the same thing,” Mason said, not looking up from his binoculars. After a few moments, he spoke, still peering through the lenses. “Well, ladies, I have bad news, and I have more bad news. Which do you want to hear first?”

  “Eh,” Julie let her mind work over her choices. “Let’s go with the bad news.”