Zompoc Survivor: Exodus

by Ben S Reeder

  “No,” Cassie said before I could continue. “For Bryce and me, that isn’t even an option. You know that, Dave.” She put an arm around Bryce’s shoulders, and I could feel the heat of her anger across the five feet that separated us. “If the rest of you want to turn yourselves in, fine. I’d rather take my chances with running.”

  Porsche stepped forward with a grim look in her eyes. “No way. I’m not turning myself in.”

  “I’m not either,” Maya said. “Not after what Dave told us.” She turned a cold glare on Karl.

  “For once, we agree on something, if for completely different reasons,” he said as he raised his hands between them. It was half placating and half defense. “If DHS wants you for some reason, then they’ll use Amy to get to you. My daughter is not a bargaining chip.”

  “Unless there’s money involved,” Maya spat.

  “You’re one to talk,” Karl retorted.

  “Mom! Dad!” Amy snapped. “Will you both please chill? God, you two are so immature. And by the way, I’m kinda right here, okay? And it’s my life too. Not that I want to get ‘processed’ or anything,” she turned to me. “I say we go, today.” With her outburst, I turned to Bryce, who’d remained silent throughout the discussion.

  “Bryce, what do you want to do? Stay or go?” I asked him.

  “It’s like Mom said,” he offered in a voice barely above a whisper. “They want us. The zombies aren’t the only ones who might come looking for us, are they?”

  “Probably not,” I said. “But I’m not sure. The DHS and the military pulled out of Springfield the same night we bugged out. Homeland is likely to be looking for us, but the military might not be.”

  “Then we’ll be like the mages in Night of Fire,” Bryce said, standing straighter. His voice lost the quiet tone, and he suddenly sounded much older. “They’ll look for us whether we hide or run. All we can choose now is whether to give them a moving target, or a stationary one. I aim to give them the one that’s harder to hit.” I smiled as he quoted my first book.

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself,” I said. “So, who else says we go today?” Four adults raised their hands. Amy had already made her opinion known, but she raised her hand, too. It made her the fifth adult to raise her hand in my eyes.

  “Okay, then. Saddle up.”

  Karl ended up riding shotgun in Cassie’s truck, and Maya took her place up front with me. Porsche and Amy alternated between the passenger seats and wandering into the back as we drove. I had the built in CB radio set to channel twenty three, since it seemed the quietest at the moment, and my shortwave set to scan. During the day, when signal propagation was weakest, I wasn’t picking up much except on the military bands, and most of that was encrypted. We stayed on the smaller farm roads that paralleled US 44. The back roads kept us away from major groups of zombies, though we did run into a few. Well, run into is sort of an overstatement. We ran over a few. The Land Master’s heavy bumper made short work of them, and the undercarriage’s high clearance made sure we only felt a couple of bumps. But after the first ten miles, we ran into our first challenge. The road T’d ahead of us, the western route taking us right into Pleasant Hope, the right taking us miles out of our way before it turned north again. Instead of turning either way, I grabbed the pair of bolt cutters and got out of the truck. Tall grass rustled around my boots as I walked through it to the ancient, rusty barbed wire fence. With four quick snips, the wire pinged and coiled up on itself. We drove between the two fence posts and rambled across brown grass, angling toward a line of telephone poles that I was hoping led to the road on the other side of the field. Once we got across, all it took was another few snips, and we were rolling onto the road on the north side of the field and back on track. Our goal was to get north of Bolivar and take Highway 54 across Missouri 13, as close to midway between Springfield and Kansas City as we could get. On any other day, it would have been less than an hour’s drive up 13 Highway to get there. On two lane roads that never seemed to go in a straight line for more than a few miles, it took us almost four hours to cover what would have been about fifty miles on the highway.

  A little after one, we pulled up behind a stand of trees that blocked easy view of the highway. Everyone piled out, eager to stretch their legs after hours on their asses. The Land Masters were big and comfortable, but they were still a little cramped, especially for two teenagers.

  “Everyone stay between the trucks and the trees,” I called out.

  “Ease up, Dave,” Karl said, his tone dismissive. “There’s no one around to see us.”

  “And what if you’re wrong?” I asked as I headed for the sparse grass on the side of the road.

  “Then we’ll see them coming from a long ways off,” he said, shaking his head. “And Maya says I have control issues.” Amy and Bryce were huddled in front of Maya and Porsche as they handed out sandwiches, bags of chips and the increasingly prized soda.

  Cassie came up beside me, her hands on her hips as she tried to stretch her back out. “So, we cross the highway here and head for Kansas, right?” she said more than asked. I nodded and we headed for the edge of the trees. The road was empty and the air was still. There was quiet and then there was total silence, and we had the latter going on. Even the breeze seemed reluctant to get near the road.

  “No cars on the road here,” I observed. “That’s good. If we can make it to Kansas, we should be able to make it to Nebraska or Colorado pretty easily, and from there, into Wyoming.”

  “Not into Colorado. Everything from Fort Collins down to Castle Rock is one big city.” I looked at her and nodded, filing that part away. “I grew up in Boulder,” she said.

  “Then I guess we’re heading up into Nebraska,” I said.

  “Do you hear that?” Cassie asked as we turned to head back.

  “No, I don’t hear an-” I started to say, then stopped as the low whup-whup-whup of rotor blades reached my ears. “Everyone down! Don’t move!” I yelled as I threw myself flat on the ground. I started counting, and when I got to thirty, a pair of Blackhawks flew overhead. For a moment, I was afraid we’d been spotted, but they didn’t turn around. Instead, they went maybe another mile down the road, then I could hear the steady pounding of a heavy gun. I risked standing up, and saw tracers streaking from the choppers to the ground as they circled something. Cassie and I sprinted back to the trucks and crouched next to everyone else.

  “What are they doing?” Amy asked.

  “Probably shooting at zombies,” I told her. I gave Karl a meaningful look, but he wasn’t impressed by me being right.

  “Or survivors,” Porsche added. After a few minutes, the choppers moved on, leaving columns of smoke in their wake as they headed further north. Everyone moved when I did, and moments later we had the trucks started up and on the road again. For another half hour, we navigated over more two-lane asphalt, tracking as far north and south as we did west. Even in October, Missouri was green and beautiful, with most trees not showing their fall color yet. Since it was still in the first days of fall, it was warm enough for me to drive with the window down if I kept my sweatshirt on. And after the choppers had almost flown up on us, I wanted to be able to hear as much as I saw. The low hum of the engine and the hiss of the tires on the asphalt were the only sounds. The shortwave was set on scan, and it hadn’t been very active. Even the birds seemed to be wary of drawing attention to themselves. Amy had opted to sit on the floor so Sherman could press his nose against the wire grill of the passenger side rear window, while Porsche sat in the seat behind me. Maya was riding shotgun beside me. Only she was carrying a pistol instead of a scattergun. Of course, so was I. Everyone on board was armed, with Amy’s pink Ruger stashed behind her seat. My HK assault rifle was stashed behind my seat, sharing space with my survival tube.

  We all jumped when the shortwave squawked. “Billy!” a high pitched male voice called out. “I got two big campers or somethin’ down on thirty-two, just past Wright Cemetery. Look pretty ni
ce, and they got women with ‘em.”

  “How many men?” another voice demanded. This one was deeper and more controlled, with less of the Missouri softening of his vowels.

  “I only see one. I got ‘im in my sights. You want me to take him out?”

  “Don’t be stupid. You’re not gonna hit a moving target at that kinda range. Walt’ll get ‘em at ninety-seven junction. You got that, Walt?”

  “I got ‘em,” a voice I guessed was Walt’s answered.

  “Fuck!” I spat as I grabbed the microphone for the CB and keyed it to transmit. “Cassie, stay close and don’t stop unless I do. We have some trouble heading our way.”

  “Copy,” Cassie said. I stepped on the gas and felt the Land Master surge forward. The road sign said that the junction with Missouri 97 was about a mile ahead, and the truck hit sixty in nothing flat.

  “Porsche, grab a shotgun from the gun cabinet and get it loaded. If we stop, Maya and I will cover the front, I want you to get out behind us and keep an eye on our six o’clock. Amy, put Sherman in the back and tie his leash off. If things go bad, you get behind the wheel and get the hell out, you got it?” I checked the rearview mirror in time to see her nod, her eyes wide and round. A few thugs wouldn’t have worried me, but they were using the police bands, which meant they’d probably show up in police cars and if they were broadcasting with a local police department’s tower, then odds were good they could be picked up by any decent radio direction finder in the western half of the state. Assholes with police equipment but no police training, I could handle. Trained troops in Blackhawks were a different story.

  Maya pulled her pistol and worked the slide to chamber a round, and I followed suit, putting my knee against the wheel to free my right hand to pull the slide back on my Colt before I reholstered it. She pulled up the map on the laptop and stared at it for a moment. A slow, wolfish smile spread across her face and she turned to me.

  “Take the left for Old Ninety-Seven Highway,” she said, pointing up ahead of me. I looked up ahead. The road curved to the right, but I could also see a smaller road that kept going straight. As the turn off got closer, I saw a police cruiser parked in the middle of the road with a man standing behind it. I braked and pulled the truck across the left lane and onto the gravel road that connected Highway 32 with 97. The Land Master rocked with the change in the road’s pitch and gravel crunched under the tires as I pulled the wheel hard to the right to make the dog-leg. The back end slewed out behind me and I hit the gas again, spraying gravel. Cassie pulled in behind me and closed the gap between us. Over the radio I could hear Walt screaming that we’d gotten past him and calling Billy and Jim to help him chase us down. I heard sirens behind us and saw flashing blue and red lights as we closed on 97. The truck skidded through the left turn, then we were speeding down 97. We took the first left and stayed on 97, headed for another small road that would take us south of Nevada. By the time we were turning west onto the road we wanted, I could see three of the white cruisers behind us, and they were gaining on Cassie’s truck. I keyed the mic again.

  “Cassie, take the lead. Stay on E!” I called out as I pulled into the left lane. Her truck surged ahead when I hit the brakes again, then there was a police cruiser pulling up on my right. I saw the driver’s window start to roll down. Maya shifted her pistol to her left hand and fired through the mesh. The cruiser slowed enough to drop behind the windows, so I braked and swerved hard right. Metal screeched when I hit it, and the truck shuddered for a moment, then the cruiser was plowing through barbed wire fence. The moment I was in the right lane, the second cruiser sped past me and rocketed toward Cassie’s Land Master. The third cruiser swerved into the rear quarter panel on my side, but it simply didn’t have the mass to do more than make me swerve a little. I stomped on the gas and left it behind momentarily as I bore down on his partner. I caught up to him as he pulled even with Cassie and rammed his rear bumper hard enough to move him ahead of her. I hit him again and he made the mistake of trying to get out of my way. When I rammed him a third time, my front bumper clipped the left side of his bumper and he shot across to the right side of the road and started to spin out. Cassie dropped back and avoided him and we left him behind in a cloud of dust. The traffic over the radio was turning the air blue, and I was tempted to join them as I heard the sound I’d been dreading: rotors. I checked my outside rear view mirror and saw flashing lights and shadows on the road behind me. Then I felt the chop of rotor wash and saw a Blackhawk drop down in front of me. The big chopper turned sideways and I found myself staring into the barrels of a mini-gun.

  I hit the brakes and pulled in front of Cassie to make sure she got the message to stop. She pulled to a stop a few yards behind me. For a few seconds, the tableau held, then I heard the Blackhawk’s PA system.

  “Exit your vehicles with your hands behind your heads,” the lead Blackhawk boomed.

  “What do we do?” Amy asked.

  “What he says,” I said dejectedly as I pulled my pistols and dropped them on the floorboard. I picked up the mic again. “Everyone disarm and get out.” I opened the door and put my hands out where they were visible and stepped out. The other doors opened and everyone else followed suit. I laced my fingers together behind my head and stepped clear of the truck. Ropes dropped from the chopper’s doors and eight men in dark green camo slid down. Marines, I found myself thinking as they approached us with their assault rifles up.

  “Turn around!” one of them yelled. “Walk backward toward us! Now!” Even Karl obeyed without a word. When we got closer to them, the lead Marine barked “On your knees, now!” One by one, we went to our knees. I heard the sound of boots and gear rattling as they approached us. Behind us, I could see the three cruisers approaching. A second and third chopper flanked the road, one higher than the other. The lower bird opened fire with a sharp burp, and I could hear the bullets hit the pavement in a series of pops. The cruisers ignored the gunfire and kept coming.

  “Contact front!” one of the Marines called out, and I heard eight guns coming up and charging handles being pulled.

  “Stop your vehicles and get out!” the PA system on the chopper that had fired the first shots called out. Evidently, the dumbasses in the cars had watched one too many movies where the terrorists killed soldiers by the dozen simply because they were willing to shoot first. The cars pulled to a stop and the doors burst open. Two men jumped out of each cruiser and brought their weapons up, but none of them got so much as a single shot off. M-16s popped and chattered behind us and the Blackhawks cut loose with their mini-guns. I could hear the thugs’ all too brief screams amid the metallic pops of bullets turning the cars into Swiss cheese as they flopped like rag-dolls and fell to the ground.

  “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” someone called out, and others took up the call. Suddenly, there was just the sound of brass tinkling to the ground and the fading echoes of gunfire.

  “Reloading!” someone called out. Seconds later, another Marine followed suit, and another, until all eight had fresh magazines in.

  “Kaminski! Blake! Clear the cars.” Two Marines jogged forward as two others spread out to the side of the road.

  “Have you had any contact with the infected?” the lead Marine barked out again. “Have any of you been bitten?”

  “No one’s been bitten,” I answered. “No direct contact with the infected. Just shot a bunch of ‘em.” I heard movement behind me and another Marine spoke nearby, his voice barely audible to me over the rotorwash.

  “Ma’am, please put your hands behind your back for me,” he said to Maya. Moments later, I heard the distinctive rasp of a zip tie being pulled closed, then another. “This is just a precaution. We’ll take them off once we’re sure you haven’t been exposed. Alright, I’m going to help you stand up, now.” The process was repeated with everyone else. The other two choppers landed, and I watched Maya being loaded on to one.

  “Take the vest off,” the Marine behind me ordered me. I undid the fa
steners and pulled the vest off. Another man came up and grabbed it, then I was pushed to the ground face first and my hands were pulled behind my back and bound together. One Marine held me in place while another searched me; he emptied my pockets and frisked me thoroughly, and not gently. Once he was sure I wasn’t hiding any bombs or guns, I was pulled to my feet and frog-marched toward the chopper across the road from the one Maya had been loaded into.

  At the door to the chopper, I found myself face to face with the leader, a tall lieutenant with deep brown skin and eyes that looked like he was inches away from a thousand yard stare. “Are my men going to find any surprises in your vehicles?” he asked me.