by L. T. Ryan
The sun came and went behind the thickening clouds. Warm air fragranced with pine blew in through the opened windows.
Twice the convoy had gone off road where pileups blocked the way. Each time, they had sent a scout ahead to verify no one lay in wait, ready to ambush the group.
Three crew cab trucks carried eighteen men. Four seated inside each vehicle, and two in each truck bed, armed with assault rifles and enough ammunition to take on a militia. If someone or something tried to stop them, they’d be mowed down in a hail of lead.
Phil recalled the scene at the house on the hill. The names of the folks who had lived there escaped him now. They didn’t matter. Wasn’t their bodies strewn about the property. Murdered. Butchered. All while trying to investigate a potential threat to their camp.
The work of Sean Ryder, Phil had told Barton and the others. Without a doubt. And when he had produced the linked GPS unit and showed them Ryder’s location, each man nodded in turn and said something along the lines of how they would avenge their fallen brethren. There had been some debate over what to do with Ryder once they found him. Phil had stepped in at that point and assumed control. Ryder, Phil had assured them, was no ordinary survivalist. He had training and skills that would make it difficult to apprehend him. He might not go quietly. They had to be prepared to coerce him, or straight up execute him on sight.
Nothing would please Phil more than apprehending Ryder and feeding him to the afflicted.
Alive.
Like those he had sworn to protect at his camp.
Phil rode in the front passenger seat with Barton driving. Behind him sat Justin and Ralph. They had remained silent since crossing the border into North Carolina. Finally, Barton cleared his throat and spoke.
“How are we looking?”
Phil looked down at the GPS. The linked unit had been motionless every time he checked during the previous fifteen minutes. “Still at the south end of Chapel Hill. We’re close, maybe three miles away.”
A few weeks ago, that would have meant there were minutes left in the journey. Not anymore. They were transitioning from country to the suburbs. Cars lined the road shoulder in greater numbers. People fleeing attack, or out of gas. Or taking their last breaths as the sickness overcame them and pushed them into the next life. For some that meant death.
For the others, damnation.
Phil glanced out and saw a group of afflicted. His breath caught in his throat and he jutted his finger at the seven figures who stood in a ditch. Their expressions blank. Gazes turned toward the sky. Were they sleeping? Were their minds so far gone that without prey to hunt they just gazed upward, doing nothing?
Behind him, Ralph breathed rapidly and heavily. The attack on Phil’s camp, and the events in the woods when Ralph was relieving himself, had scarred the man. And if he didn’t overcome his fear in quick fashion, he’d be useless to the group. A grown man could not exist solely to be taken care of. Not anymore. The only use for such a man was bait. Didn’t matter if Ralph was Phil’s best friend. The guy had to hold his own.
Or perish.
Barton veered toward the other side of the road as they made their final approach to the afflicted. Not that it would do any good. If the afflicted attacked, they attacked. It was up to the men in the back of the truck to repel them.
Phil’s grip on the GPS tightened. He could only guess what the guys riding in the truck bed felt at that moment. He had a hunk of steel separating him from the afflicted. Those guys had nothing. If the afflicted could jump, the two men would face a death so appalling Phil didn’t have to imagine. He’d seen the results firsthand.
The truck rolled forward, big tires humming along. The afflicted stared upward, seemingly oblivious to the men. Perhaps the rumble of the V-8 didn’t register. On some level, Phil could see it being no different than low levels of noise emitted by basic machinery and the earth’s crust. It wasn’t a human sound, or the sound of a prey animal. Therefore, a being who existed solely to hunt and stare off into the sky had no use for it and simply ignored the sound.
“Why don’t they attack?” Barton said.
“Them?” Phil asked. “Or us?”
“Of course not us. You know what happens when you fire a shot and those things are nearby?”
Phil nodded slowly while watching the afflicted in his side mirror. They still hadn’t moved. “I believe I do.”
“Firing on them is a last resort.” Barton glanced over at Phil and nodded as though the gesture hammered the point home. “What I don’t get is why they stand there like that. And, if you hadn’t noticed, it’s only in the open. When they’re in the woods, bastards are always on the prowl.”
“Intriguing.” Phil looked away from the mirror and compared the terrain ahead with the GPS.
“Almost think you’re safer out in the open.”
Phil hadn’t considered it. His experience with the afflicted was limited thus far. He realized that would likely change on this trip, as he spotted two more afflicted standing in the median. Like the others, their gazes were fixed over the treetops.
Phil diverted his attention back to the GPS. “He’s moving away from where he had been for several minutes.” Phil looked up, pointed at the approaching intersection. “Turn left here.”
Barton stuck his left hand out the window. Phil watched in the side mirror as Barton pulled into the intersection. The second truck remained close, but the third slowed to a stop.
“Everything okay back there?” Phil asked.
Barton said, “Yeah, just staying behind to cover us and maintain road integrity. Can’t have someone cutting our return off.”
Barton eased through the intersection, and then took his foot off the gas. The man gasped a few times. It sounded hollow, as though he were trying to force words out, but they’d become trapped somewhere near his Adam’s apple.
Phil turned to the front and stared in horror at the sight of a horde of afflicted in the middle of the road.
“There’s gotta be a hundred of them,” Phil said.
“At least,” Barton said.
“The hell are they doing?”
The mass of afflicted stood like a giant amoeba. A few broke off from the group, but most stood there. Like the others they’d seen, they stared up at the sky.
Phil checked the GPS again. “That’s where Ryder was. Look at the waypoint I marked. They’re surrounding it.”
Barton glanced over. A bead of sweat traveled down the side of his face, following the pronounced cheekbone. “You sure this guy got out of there?”
Phil held up the GPS. “That or we got an afflicted on the move with that other unit.”
“Guess there’s only one way to find out.” Barton grabbed the shifter and slammed it into reverse. “See any other way to get to him?”
The mark on the screen moved at a snail’s pace, headed south out of town. Then it stopped and held still for a few moments.
“What’re you doing, Ryder,” Phil muttered.
“What?” Barton said.
Phil ignored him. He glanced over the dash and past the mob, noticing a line of afflicted stumbling toward the road Ryder had taken. Had some caught up to the guy? Phil looked at the screen again.
Ryder was on the move.
“He’s cutting through the woods.” Phil glanced over his shoulder at the intersection they’d passed through. “Back up and head south. We’ll cut him off when he exits.”
Seventeen
Sean turned his back on the mob of afflicted gathered across the street from the clinic. Their moans and grunts rose higher with each passing second. The constant humming vibrated through him.
Inside the clinic’s entryway, an afflicted had fallen over the makeshift barrier and now struggled to right itself.
Fear tugged at Sean as he rushed back to the building.
The afflicted rolled right, then pushed its torso off the floor.
Sean fired once at close range with the Beretta he’d found inside. The afflicte
d made no noise as the 9mm bullet penetrated its forehead.
Shrieks erupted from within the building and behind Sean. He looked back and saw the mass of afflicted still staring upward, their mouths twisted open.
He disregarded them, and fired two more rounds at the afflicted attempting to cross over the filing cabinet. It retreated backward. Or was pulled off. He couldn’t tell, and had no plans on investigating.
The afflicted he’d killed moments ago now covered the messenger bag. The vinyl strap poked out from underneath its midsection like a snake coming out of the weeds.
Sean reached out and grabbed the strap and yanked. The afflicted’s corpse rocked side to side, freeing the bag an inch or two at a time. With the bag half-exposed, Sean looked toward the street. A group of five or six afflicted was staggering across. Time was running out.
The skin around his wrist turned cold. Sean looked down. Somehow the afflicted had mustered enough strength to lash out and latch on. Its dull, glossed-over eyes hinted at the faintest trace of life.
The afflicted clamped down. Its fingernails dug into Sean’s skin. He yelled out, partly in frustration and partly due to the pain. His hand went numb as he struggled against the being. He knew his wrist was at risk of dislocation.
Sean lifted his other arm and drove the butt of the Beretta into the side of the afflicted's head. He struck repeatedly, connecting with the afflicted’s cheek, eye, and nose. Skin split and thick dark blood seeped out.
But the afflicted still hadn't released its death grip on Sean's wrist.
Fists beat against the edge of the filing cabinet. Sean struck out and smashed dirty fingers with the pistol. The afflicted screamed as it retreated to the waiting room.
Sean adjusted the weapon in his hand, reversing the barrel and handle. He threaded his index finger through the trigger guard. Then he touched the muzzle to the afflicted’s forearm and fired. Fragments of bone and meat and muscle exploded. He felt them hit his face. Some landed inside his mouth. He spat the burning remains onto the afflicted’s face.
It took three shots, but the grip on his wrist relaxed enough that Sean freed his hand, which had gone numb. He managed to squeeze the canvas strap, even without feeling in his digits. He pulled the bag from underneath the afflicted.
The afflicted swung its mutilated arm toward the bag. Fingers made contact, but lacked the strength to grab hold.
Sean stumbled backward into the razor-sharp remains of the glass door. His right arm took the bulk of the damage. Fresh blood oozed down and dripped from his elbow.
He stepped out of the building and slung the messenger bag over his shoulder. As he crossed the sidewalk, he secured the Beretta in his waistband in favor of the M4.
The pack of afflicted took notice of his presence and started toward him.
He debated whether to open fire. Inside the clinic, aggression had caused the afflicted to retreat. But out here, with so many around, he expected the opposite to be true. They could act as a pack in the open. And what of the horde beyond them? At the moment, they didn’t seem to know he was there. Why alert them?
Sean turned from the pack. The road before him was open. Pins and needles spread through his left hand, sending a wave of relief over him. The damage was minimal.
He increased his pace until he reached a jog. He could go faster, but not by much. The prosthetic prevented him from breaking into an all-out sprint.
Every few seconds Sean glanced back and saw that he’d increased the distance between him and the afflicted. Their loud grunts and hollow yells never faded, though. And Sean was certain that any others ahead of him knew of his approach.
He looked up at the clouds that darkened the eastern sky and raced past, north to south. Behind him, the sun hovered high in the western sky.
And the afflicted continued following. Others had joined in the chase.
Several more.
He stopped for a moment and marveled at the large groups detaching from the mob. Waves of ten to twenty broke away and staggered toward him. It didn’t matter that they were a hundred yards away. Their gnarled fingers grasped at the air as though Sean stood a foot in front of them.
At the first opportunity, Sean broke off the main artery and turned right on a two-lane road. It stretched south, as far as he could see. Storefronts on either side of him soon gave way to open fields with tall brown grass. Beyond that the street cut through the woods.
Sean threaded his right arm through the M4's strap. He secured the rifle behind him. The stock grazed a wound on his side with every step. He fished through the messenger bag and extracted the GPS unit. An icon on the upper right corner of the screen indicated the battery had less than ten percent remaining. Ignoring the panic over losing his position, Sean zoomed out and located his waypoint for the ATV.
Sean looked back when he reached the woods. The first group of afflicted that rounded the corner had already spotted him. It appeared that way, at least. Wasn’t like they were screaming at him, telling him to stop.
He hoped he could lose them in the tangle of the trees without slowing himself down to the point that the staggering afflicted would catch up.
Sean stepped into the shadows. The GPS's LCD glowed brightly. He adjusted his heading and powered the device off to save what remained of the battery in the event he became lost in the woods. The constant maneuvering around obstacles required Sean to plan for the worst-case scenario.
The woods offered a sense of security. Sean felt safer than he had out in the open. But no place provided a true haven. Potential surprises lurked behind every tree. An afflicted could rain down upon him and he’d never hear it coming. A survivalist’s net could sweep him up, making him an easy target.
Not to mention bears, wolves and dogs. What had happened to them? He hadn’t seen any aside from Marley. But the fact that the canine was with them told him animals had survived.
Where had they gone? Would instinct have driven them into less populated areas?
The questions helped pass the time, but the occasional shriek or yell yanked Sean back to reality.
After fifteen minutes, he stopped and checked the GPS again. He’d made good time, and had already covered half the distance. Ahead lay one road to cross. From there he had less than a mile until he reached the ATV.
A few minutes later, Sean paused at the tree line, remaining out of view, scanning the road. Several abandoned cars lined the gravel shoulder in both directions. The clouds reflected off windows and windshields, hiding the contents from view. The main road remained clear of vehicles, people, and afflicted.
Crossing would require him to expose himself for twenty seconds as long as nothing appeared in his path to prohibit his movement.
Sean readied the M4 and emerged from the shadows. He panned left to right, keeping his sight level just above the cars. It allowed him to take in the full view without becoming fixated on a single vehicle.
He crossed the soft grass and stepped into the gravel. The crunching sound echoed as though he’d walked into an acoustic room. Didn’t matter how soft or slow he stepped. The noise traveled for hundreds of yards.
He moved quickly across the road, one foot slapping the asphalt, the other grating against it.
He reached the opposite shoulder. Two shots rang out. A bullet hit the ground and spit rock up at him, while the other slammed into the rear windshield of the car ten feet past him. Flying glass sparkled in the retreating sunlight.
Sean shifted toward the assailants. No one was in sight. He fired three rounds of his own to keep it that way. They counter fired, but had shot blind. The bullets landed nowhere near him.
Sean hustled toward the woods’ edge, diving onto the forest floor. The musty smell of decaying leaves burned his sinus. He scrambled off his knees and took cover behind a large oak.
A large engine fired up and rumbled in the distance. Seconds passed and the vehicle did not advance.
Were the shots a warning? Someone trying to get his attention? Or had the i
ntention been to kill or maim?
He caught movement in his peripheral vision. He looked back at the road. Emerging from the trees on the opposite side of the street were dozens of afflicted. Some had already climbed the short embankment and staggered through the gravel and were on the pavement.
Perhaps that was why the vehicle did not advance. They had seen the afflicted in the shadows.
A man called out, but his words were indecipherable over the sound of the engine
The afflicted stopped in the middle of the highway. They alternated glancing his direction, and toward the vehicle.
A voice inside Sean’s head called out move! Years of training kicked in and he acted upon the order without hesitation. For a few moments, he felt as though he had never lost his leg. After eight years, he considered himself proficient with the prosthetic. But right then he flew over branches and small bushes, cut around obstacles like a running back, and ran faster than he had in almost a decade.
He retrieved the GPS, which was still powered on. The battery indicator was no more than a sliver of red. But the rush of adrenaline had taken Sean off his heading, and he needed the device to adjust his route.
Shots tore through the gentle hum in the air. Dozens of them in a burst that lasted a couple seconds. The afflicteds’ tortured shrieks erupted in response.
For the first time, he considered that his attackers may have in fact been trying to help him.
No time to worry about that. Only option is forward.
After ten long minutes, he reached the area where he’d left the ATV. The gunshots were no longer, but the shrieks continued. At times they sounded far off, and other times he swore an afflicted was right behind him.
Sean’s stomach clenched. He’d been running nonstop in maximum humidity. He hadn’t eaten or drank near enough. He was steps away from the ATV, and he didn’t know if it remained where he had left it. If someone had come along and taken it, Sean was a dead man. The shrill screams were non-stop now.
