Chapter 33
“ERIC,” He heard Michelle scream through his headset that still miraculously clung to his ears.
He rolled away from the collapsed roof and struggled to his feet, catching a fuzzy glimpse of Michelle fighting against her harness for a better angle. Even in his disoriented state, he recognized that her rapid firing was being fueled by emotion.
“’Chelle . . .” he coughed out along with a puff of leaf dust, “aim . . . breathe.”
His head was clearing a little as the stun from the collision with the tree wore off, and he managed to ready the shotgun as he stumbled toward the truck. Bullets were zinging over his head and to both sides as Michelle fired at his pursuers.
“Sam, get in the truck,” she yelled as she dropped a magazine out of the rifle and slammed another one home. “This is my last reload! Eric, hurry up . . . RUN!”
The burst of adrenaline at her warning pushed him forward the last few yards and he dove into the bed of the trailer, spinning in the air and firing multiple times as he crashed onto the wooden slatted bed. Any effect his shots may have had on the pursuing horde was lost to him as Sam gunned the engine, bouncing Eric twice against the side wall. The Explorer shot forward down Golden Eagle Loop for less than five seconds before Sam hit the brakes and swore.
“Shit . . . hold on,” he barked out as the SUV lurched forward again, swerving around another mob of infected that had appeared on the road next to an abandon travel trailer. His new course took them off the road and through the lightly wooded area that separated the loops. Michelle’s truck heaved and pitched over the bumpy terrain as Sam searched for a way out of the campground, but the path of least resistance was steering him further and further toward the lake. The jolting in the utility trailer was intense, and Eric’s attempt to pull the last four shells out of the caddy resulted in a loss of three of them. Only one made it into the M2’s gate.
At that moment, Crowbar Mike’s voice, tinged with panic, came over their radios. “I’ve got a flag . . . Repeat . . . I’ve got a flag being waived by a kid. He’s running this way along the shore. Do you copy?”
Eric managed to brace himself in a sitting position as the pursuing pack of ghouls spread out through the wooded ground, their paths following curved lines to track the Explorer as it veered away down the gradual slope towards the water. A glance to his right showed that several more infected had appeared at the top of Blue Heron Loop, and were also trotting towards them on an intercept course. Mike’s call repeated with greater urgency, and Eric fired twice more, emptying the shotgun and slinging it before he answered.
“Mike, move the boat toward the pier right now, but stay a little off to the side, understand?”
“I’m almost there right now.”
“Stay there, but not directly off the end . . . We’re on the way.”
Through his headset, Sam’s droll undertone came through. “I’m not gonna like this, am I?”
Bracing himself with a death grip on the angle iron frame of the trailer, Eric peered ahead of the bouncing Ford. “Cut the wheel a little to the left and go around those picnic tables, then hard right onto the pavement at the bottom of Blue Heron Loop. Then gun it towards the pier.”
The words had hardly left his mouth when the truck slammed into a pair of ghouls, rocking and bouncing over their bodies as Sam rounded the picnic tables. The tires gave a rapid series of chirps as he veered down the loop, shooting past the four car tangle near the bottom and accelerating.
Almost immediately, Sam’s voice burst through the headphones. “Where . . . Where? I’ve got no road to the pier, just a little foot bridge crossing a gully.” The truck began to slow down as Sam braked.
“FLOOR IT!” Eric screamed through the radio. “You can make it!” Before the last syllable was spoken, the V8 engine roared to life and heaved forward, towing the trailer behind like an angry mother pulling an unruly child through a department store’s toy section. Eric braced himself against the front wall of the trailer as Michelle ducked through the sunroof. Two seconds later, the whine of RPMs pegging at maximum screeched into the air as the truck’s wheels bounced up and over the narrow culvert. The rigid springs of the utility trailer slammed into the far edge of the ditch and rocketed Eric skyward before dropping out from underneath him—their return was accompanied with all the delicacy and softness of a cast iron ass kicking.
The truck crunched back to earth and sputtered as it sought to correct the disruption in its fuel supply caused by the hard landing. With a triple series of impotent coughs, the engine died and the dark blue SUV began to slow. The impact had shifted Eric against the passenger side wheel well, and he battled through the haze and pain to regain his senses as Sam cranked on the ignition. At least a dozen infected were heading their way from the campground, and his hand was reaching for the Delta when the engine wheezed to life, idling roughly for a moment as its computer controlled functions recovered from their hard shutdown. When the lead ghoul closed to within twenty feet, the Explorer stammered to life and rolled ahead, slowly gathering speed as Sam fought to keep it alive.
“Are you sure about this?” Sam asked dryly.
“If you’ve got a better idea, now’s the time.”
Sam grunted in reply and kept on course, steering towards the rapidly approaching wooden pier.
Eric crab-crawled to the other side of the trailer, fighting for balance as his eyes found the figure of a boy waving what looked to be a white sock thrust over the handle of a golf club. After a rapid fire, back and forth swivel of his neck, repeated twice for clarity as he crunched the numbers, Eric called out over the radio. “Sam . . .”
“I see him.”
“Adjust your speed so we come together at the same time, and then slow down enough,” he looked behind him at the congealing swarm heading their way, “for me to grab him.”
“I’m on it.”
Michelle popped out of the sunroof and fired several times into the fast moving throng, dropping at least two, but also causing a guttural cry to resonate in their ranks as they howled forward in anticipation.
“Mike—right now on the PA—tell the kid to grab my hand as we come by.”
Instantly, the loudspeakers crackled to life with his announcement. They were joined a second later with a volley of gunfire as Callie started winging shots into the ghoul pack.
Sam began to slow as Eric reached out a hand toward the running boy. He was dressed in a baggy, teal colored rain suit, and Eric could plainly see tears of fright coursing down his cheeks with the rapid approach of the grey-skinned monsters.
“GRAB MY HAND!” Eric shouted, leaning as far to the side as possible. The young boy thrust out his own hand, dropping the sock covered golf club as he chugged and huffed with exertion. The trailer bounced over a series of grapefruit sized rocks, almost shaking Eric off the edge as he reached and stretched. Sam slowed even further, and the approaching swarm shrieked with ravenous hunger as they hammered closer. With a final lunge, Eric latched onto the boy’s hand and jerked him into the trailer.
“GO-GO-GO!”
The Explorer and utility trailer crossed with a triple thump onto the engineered plastic wood fishing pier, punching straight ahead as Sam floored it.
“Don’t stop!” Eric yelled to Sam as he grabbed onto the boy and coiled his legs in preparation. A brief look showed Mike off to their right, manning the controls of the ski boat while Callie balanced near the stern, cranking round after round into the ghouls.
The SUV was passing forty miles per hour when it shattered through the chain. At that moment Eric vaulted upwards and to the right, pushing off against the side wall with the boy wrapped tightly in a bear hug. Their momentary aerial freefall ended abruptly in a smashing roll across the lakes frigid surface, and the icy water soaked into their clothing, weighing them down in the numbing chop.
“Give me your hand!” Mike’s roar seemed muted and distant as Eric struggled to spin the thrashing boy face up in the freezing water
. With a monumental effort, he twisted the kicking child up and over his head, a move that had the counter effect of forcing his own body beneath the waves. Several desperate scissor kicks kept him at neutral buoyancy despite his waterlogged clothing and weapons, but he could feel his legs weakening and slowing in the biting chill of the lake. The weight in his hands was suddenly removed, and Eric thrust toward the surface, gasping in a huge gulp of air. As he surfaced, the hard crack-crack-crack of gunfire contested for his attention with Mike’s howling voice demanding again for his hand. With a weary, shivering sigh he reached up toward the boat, and a scant moment later he was pulled from the water and dropped on the deck like a 180 pound tuna. The bright blue sky above him seemed incredibly vibrant, and each breath that he sucked through his chattering teeth practically burst with energy and life. Somehow, after all he’d been through at the campground today, he was still alive. The rifle fire was dying, and he felt the thrum of the engine as the boat changed positions. A moment later, the catch of the day included a shivering Michelle, and a very sour faced Sam.
They pulled away from the shore, and Callie grabbed a large, heavy tarp from the storage compartment under the seat and wrapped it around the four soaked passengers. “Try and stay huddled together. This will keep the wind off of you for the ride home.” She disappeared outside the tarp, and an instant later, the slow rumble of the ski boat’s motor turned into an intense scream.
Mixtures of emotions were being displayed on the faces that stared back at him in the soft light penetrating the tarp. The boy’s face showed absolute exhaustion tinged with fear, and he had wedged himself so tightly against Eric that his panting breaths were being transmitted directly into Eric’s rib cage. Michelle's countenance—eyes flared and white teeth showing—looked like she had just gotten off a violently entertaining roller coaster. Although on second glance, especially considering the soaked hair that clung to her cheeks and neck like strawberry blonde seaweed, maybe it was one of those wild log rides. Sam huddled under the tarp directly opposite of Eric, and his dark eyes were narrowed under heavy brows as he stared back.
“Well,” Sam huffed in an excessively lumbering deliverance, “that was fun.”
Eric began to smile in reply but the state trooper raised a hand and cut him off. “Oh no, I’m not done just yet.” He paused for a moment and rubbed the side of his face, wincing occasionally during the process. Several shrugs and rolls of his shoulders followed, and then he held up two fingers.
“Two things. The first one is that I want you to promise me . . . swear to me right now . . . that you’ll never again let me volunteer for one of your ‘stealth’ missions. Hell, I did two tours in the sandbox as part of a Marine division, and I think we fired less ammo over there and we just did in a campground in North Dakota.”
Eric’s smile turned into a chuckle, and it was beginning to infect Michelle as well, but Sam shook his head, spraying all of them with more water as he continued. “I ain’t done just yet.” He elbowed Michelle and then pointed an accusatory finger at Eric. “I don’t want to hear any shit about me being promoted to a U-boat commander, or anything like that. You know damn well that I’m not the one who sunk Walter’s truck last night, and I’m sure as shit not the maniac who ordered the scuttling of Michelle’s Explorer.”
The forced silent stalemate was bordering on exploding into laughter when Callie stuck her head under the tarp. “Is everybody OK? No broken bones or head injuries?”
Eric strained his lips together to keep from laughing, and was almost successful until Callie added, “By the way Sam, remind me to never let you borrow my car. You suck at driving.”
It was too much even for the state trooper, and his deadpan presentation cracked—slowly at first with widely spaced out, low chuckles—but then rapidly descending into uncontrolled, side splitting hilarity. Eric and Michelle helplessly followed him down, spurred on even further when Callie had innocently asked, “What did I say?”
It took several minutes for their merriment to settle, and then a distant tinny voice crackled out of their headphones that had been scattered on the floor under the tarp. Eric reached to his waist and grabbed at the radio, unplugging the microphone cord by feel before he detached the belt clip.
“It’s probably a good thing these are waterproof,” he grinned as he held up the Fish and Wildlife radio.
“We should still dry them out when we get back. They’re supposed to be submersible to three feet for a half hour or so, but I’d rather not take any chances,” Michelle added—still giggling at Sam.
Eric raised the radio to his lips and keyed the button. “Say again, we didn’t copy your last transmission.”
Walters’s voice, now freed from the confines of the headset speakers, came through loud and clear. “Goodness gracious, it’s about time. What in the world has been going on over there? It sounded like a war zone coming through our radios. Is everybody OK . . . repeat . . . is everybody OK?”
“10-4, we are all present and accounted for. We’re heading back by water—plus one passenger—a young boy about twelve years old.”
“Roger that.”
“Be advised that we’ll need dry clothes immediately upon our arrival—Sam, Michelle, the boy, and me.” The clacking of Eric’s teeth accompanied his message.
“Understood. What’s your ETA?”
He hesitated for a second from underneath the tarp, and Callie’s musical tone jumped in to fill the gap. “Mr. Sheldon, we’ll be there in about ten minutes.”
“10-4. I’ll see you at the boat launch in about ten . . . and we’re glad to hear that you’re all in one piece—you had us worried for a bit. By the way, Eric, somebody wants to say ‘hi’ to you.” The channel stayed open, and the sound of shuffling and shifting came through before being replaced with a weak, but unmistakably welcome gruffness.
“Give me back my watch you thief.”
Twin bursts of excitement and relief flooded Eric’s gut at the sound of Uncle Andy’s voice, and he hung his head in a silent prayer of thanks before responding. “I think that can be arranged.”
Chapter 34
Smoke blackened faces bobbled in harmony with the jarring movement of the deuce and a half transport as it limped down the edge of the road. It was a late model M35—the A3 version—similar in appearance to the thousands of other two and a half ton cargo vehicles in service with the United States and other countries’ military forces throughout the world. The main difference that separated the A3 version was an upgrade to an automatic transmission. The newly improved gearbox was linked to a Caterpillar diesel engine, and they worked in unison to push the M35 forward, despite the shredded remains of the front left tire. Estes gazed at the scattering of camouflaged uniforms that rode with him. Bones—Corporal Matthew Henry—was there, as well as other members of Alpha squad. PFC’s Dennis Spurlock, Ross Morgan, and Calvin Rook. The rest of his squad was gone . . . lost in the explosion when the Black Hawk crashed into the school, or the resulting detonation of the fuel bladders that had been stored nearby. Those that hadn’t perished in the inferno had been torn apart before his very eyes, or swallowed underneath a festering pile of infected during their escape attempt. They had held out for as long as they could to give others a chance to make it to the vehicles . . . some had, most had not. Seated across from him was Sergeant Rita Thorn from the medical team. To her right was a civilian contractor, Nora Veil, also from medical. Next to them was Airman First Class Eli Horton, the Black Hawk mechanic that had been stationed at the school. Rounding out the diminished sea of occupants was Charlotte Pope, a lieutenant with the small military police unit that had been dropped off a few days before everything went to hell. The last person, seated next to Lieutenant Pope, was a thin man with wire framed glasses and a perpetual look of bewilderment on his face—Specialist Jacob Oakley. Supposedly from the 10th Mountain Division at Fort Drum, he’d been the last one that had been brought coughing and gagging on to the transport before the fence had collapsed and
the wave of snarling gray monsters had surged toward the trucks. In the front, driving the hobbled transport, was Specialist Glenn Perkins. Scouting ahead for the M35 was Sergeant Alex Keene, driving the only Humvee that had survived the catastrophe.
Fade to Grey (Book 2): Darkness Ascending Page 32
