by L. T. Ryan
“What are you getting at?” Phil asked.
“What if something blocked the road back there and held up the trucks? And what if something else came along at the worst possible moment?”
“What if, what if,” Phil muttered. “What if I shove a rifle muzzle into your mouth and pull the trigger?”
Sean shrugged. “Would save me the torture of having to smell you four assholes.”
Phil moved with speed that belied his physical stature. He turned around in his seat and lashed out with his right hand. But as fast as the man performed the actions, Sean saw it coming and leaned to his left. Phil struck the rear windshield. The glass cracked under the power of his punch. Phil called out in pain.
The truck whipped left, then right, turning around.
“The hell?” Phil said, propping himself up.
“We have to make sure they’re okay,” Barton said.
Phil forgot about Sean and threw his weight into Barton. The truck jerked to the left, then hydroplaned.
On Sean’s right, Ralph slumped over after his head slammed into the window with a thud. The guy on Sean’s left clutched to Barton’s seat.
Sean placed his foot on the ground and pressed his hands into the seat behind him, forcing his body up. He drew his head forward, then whipped it into the man next to him. Sean’s forehead caught the guy on the bridge of his nose. The man grunted, then went limp.
Barton tried to steer with one hand and fight Phil off with the other, while Phil delivered blow after blow to Barton’s head, chest, and stomach.
Flashes of lighting lit the surrounding area enough for Sean to see that they were heading for the embankment. The shoulder faded into the darkness of a ditch.
Sean shifted back into the seat, then flung his body forward, driving his shoulder into Phil’s side, sending the man into the dash. Phil managed to wrap his hand around the back of Barton’s neck and pulled him along. The truck lurched again, sending Sean into the rear window. Already weakened by Phil’s punch, the window shattered. Shards of glass sliced into Sean’s back and arms, re-aggravating his earlier injuries.
Barton had lost control of the vehicle. Worse, it seemed his foot had pressed down on the gas. The engine revved and the truck entered a counterclockwise spin.
Sean dragged his arms along the jagged remains of the window in an attempt to slice through the zip ties that bound him. He received a few more gashes in his arm for the effort.
The truck dipped as it slipped off the edge of the road and onto the gravel shoulder. The tires crunched on the rock. They were only a few feet from the ditch.
Sean forced himself into the seat and wedged himself between Ralph and the other guy. Everything happened in slow motion. The truck tipped sideways then rolled. The embankment was steeper and longer than he had anticipated. Bodies were flung around the cab. Sean hit his head on the seat, the roof, another passenger. Every muscle in his body clenched. He tried to get his hands around his sides. The zip tie gave an inch, but before he could free his hands, he was tossed to the front of the cab, then thrown back into the rear windshield again.
The truck came to a stop, teetering on the roof. The tailgate touched the ground. Sean heard water rushing past. He was half in the cab, half in the bed. He realized he didn’t just hear water, he felt it. Cold and moving fast across his forehead. Aside from the sensation, he felt numb.
Christ, am I paralyzed?
Twenty-Eight
The engine revved with a high-pitched whine, competing with the sound of rushing water. Darkness interspersed with brief flashes of lightening. Behind Sean, the men moaned, groaned, pleaded for help. One sounded like he was choking. He was drowning. They hadn’t come to rest in a ditch. They were on a riverbank and half the truck was submerged.
The numbness faded. Pain flooded every nerve in his body. He felt beaten and battered, but he was alive and could move his hands, foot, fingers and toes.
Then Sean had the distinct feeling that the truck was moving. The ground shifted underneath as the truck was pulled into the current. The roof dragged along the bottom.
He fought against the heavy-duty strap of plastic that bound his wrists. There was wiggle room, but not enough. He decided if he couldn’t get his arms free, he’d crawl through the window, into the truck bed. He had a better chance of escaping through there than he did in the cab.
He tried to shift his leg. A heavy weight made it difficult to move. He managed to move enough to look back. An unconscious Barton pinned Sean’s leg between the front seats.
The truck was pulled out further. The bed now sat on the water’s surface. It went black inside. The rush of water sounded like a waterfall. If Sean could get through the window, he could sink into the river and be free of the men.
Echoes of thunder rattled the cab and truck bed.
He couldn’t tell which direction the truck faced, or which way it floated. It was going under, though. Water kissed his cheeks and lips. Time worked against him.
With a yell, he pulled his arms apart from one another with every ounce of strength he could muster. The zip tie held firm. He had to take another approach. Simple pulling wasn’t working. Sean pressed his arms together then jerked them apart. He repeated the move five times, after which he managed to slide his wrist free.
Sean placed his numb hands on the seat backs and pulled himself up. He twisted and turned until in a position to move Barton. It might be easier now with all the water that had flooded in. Lightning flashed and Sean realized that while the bed of the truck was sinking, the cab still remained a few inches above the water line. He hooked his hands underneath Barton and pushed him up enough to free his leg.
Another bright light filled the cab. It lasted long enough for Sean to see that there were only three others in there with him.
Phil had managed to escape.
Sean rolled over and pulled himself through the jagged rear opening, suffering additional cuts in the process. Water slipped into the cab from the bed. It had the putrid smell of raw sewage. The remains of humans. He figured they must be close to Raleigh, but had no idea what waterway laid claim to the truck.
Free of the cab, Sean sucked in a final lungful of air and dived down. He fought against the current, lengthening his body and holding his arms wide. Last thing he wanted was to become trapped under the weight of the truck in a spot where he had no idea how deep it was. With his leg extended down, he couldn’t touch the bottom. He remained there as long as he could before surfacing for more air.
He penetrated the surface and heard a roaring thunder crack. Only there was no lightening. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a muzzle blast.
Phil.
“Bastard,” Sean yelled.
Another shot tore past.
Sean gulped and dove back down. The water was cold and rough. It pulled him deeper into the middle of the torrent. He had no idea what obstacles blocked his path. Could be anything from rocks to abandoned vehicles. After all, the water was only this high because of the substantial rainfall that had occurred in the past hour or two. How far past its banks had it expanded?
He surfaced again and heard Phil yelling from the shore.
“You’re not getting away, Ryder. I won’t let you take the easy way out, either.”
The water didn’t seem that bad a place to be at the moment.
Then his movement stopped. The side of his head felt as though it had been hit with a golf club. The current pressed him against the obstacle. The storm lit the night and he determined he was pinned against the side of a bus.
He reached over the top in search of something to grab hold of, but his fingers slipped off. The surface was too slick to climb with nothing other than force of will. Using his foot, he felt along the side of the vehicle, hoping a window had remained open. But the results were the same. There was no way to climb up.
So he decided to roll against the side. The bus spanned the river and to the right, the side they’d crashed from, it appeared to reach sh
ore. At least close enough he could drag his body through the mud to get out of the river.
That was also where Phil lurked. Maybe the man had given up and left Sean for dead. Or maybe he remained, watching and stalking, waiting for Sean to pull off the impossible and get back to land with only one leg and shredded arms.
Then Phil could serve vengeance.
Sean rolled to the right, turning around so the cold water rushed against his chest and face. Then he spun again. The current forced his torso into the bus. He rested a few seconds and did it again. And again. Each time moving him closer and closer to shore.
Finally, his foot touched the ground. A few seconds later, he was able to plant and drive forward, clutching at the bus with his numb fingertips. The water level dropped below his waist. Sean fell to the ground. The frigid river rushed over his body, his head. He didn’t care. He dragged himself along the ground until he resurfaced on shore.
“Ryder!”
The shout came from maybe fifty feet away. Sean stared down the riverbank and thought he could make out the shape of Phil walking toward his position.
The woods were only a few feet away. He forced himself up and did a sort of knee-hop while pulling himself along the ground. The wind gusted relentlessly. It felt like ice against his soaked clothing and damp skin and hair.
He looked to his right, toward Phil, in time to see the man fire in Sean’s direction. Sean lunged forward and flopped onto his stomach.
“Got you, you son of a bitch,” Phil called out.
Sean crawled into the woods and pulled himself up on a thin tree. With his arms wrapped around the trunk, he felt the power of the storm as the tree doubled over.
The continued lightning allowed Sean to keep tabs on Phil’s position. It might give him away, too, so he decided to move deeper into the woods. It wasn’t an easy task. Dropping to the ground was dangerous now. It left him with no ability to dodge. At least on his foot, he could dive to the side, or lunge at his attacker. He hopped from tree to tree, reaching out and steadying himself, then pulling forward.
He looked back.
Phil was there.
Standing at the wood’s edge.
The man lifted his rifle, aimed and fired.
Bark exploded next to Sean’s head. Toothpick sized shards implanted themselves into his skin. He didn’t know which he feared more, dying or surviving and dealing with infections to his wounds.
Either Phil knew where Sean was, or it had been a lucky damn shot.
“Come in and get me,” Sean shouted.
Phil responded by firing again. The bullet slammed into the tree Sean took cover behind. Felt like it hit right behind his chest.
He lunged to the right, reaching for a branch to help propel him forward. But his foot got caught on a root or branch on the ground. Whatever it had been, it disrupted his balance enough to send him careening to the forest floor.
Phil laughed as he stepped into the woods. He wove through the trees like a slalom skier, cutting sharp, moving toward Sean.
Sean couldn’t make out the man’s eyes, but he knew they were aimed at him. As was the rifle.
Phil stopped a few feet away. “I so wanted to put you on trial in front of my people. Let those twisted, desperate minds come up with your punishment. It would have been far greater than anything I could think of. Better than just shooting you in the head.”
Sean felt around for anything he could use as a weapon. He found a few twigs, but nothing more than kindling for a fire. They’d prove useless against a man Phil’s size.
“I’ve got eight shots left,” Phil said. “I can do this quickly, or make you feel the pain that the people I swore to protect felt. It is up to you, Ryder. Tell me you caused it, and it’ll go quick.”
Sean knew Phil had no intention of killing him quickly. Even in this moment, when the best thing for Phil to do was leave and find the other trucks before they passed, he would waste every possible second extending Sean’s life, making sure every moment was filled with pain.
“Fuck you,” Sean said.
From close by, a shrill yell interrupted the sounds of the storm Sean had grown accustomed to.
Phil lowered his rifle and turned toward the noise.
Another scream came from behind them. And yet another even closer, from the river.
Instead of thinking of a way out of it, Sean laughed. Fitting, he figured, that an afflicted had taken his leg. And now that he was stranded without his prosthetic, an afflicted would end his life without him being able to put up a real fight.
He saw the first faint trace of glowing eyes approach. Two sets from behind. Another afflicted stumbled from the shadows to the right.
“There,” Phil muttered, hurrying to aim the M4. He depressed the trigger, sending a single shot into the darkness.
An afflicted screamed louder than Sean had ever heard. He wouldn’t doubt that his ears began to bleed after hearing the sound.
Then they all joined in. A shrill chorus of death.
Phil backed away, his head swinging wildly from side to side. He shifted the rifle then fired. Again and again he did so. Five, six, seven times. Only one more shot left.
Sean counted half a dozen afflicted. They staggered past him. Ignored him. All focused on Phil. Then they moved with furious purpose as though they were large prey cats, terrifyingly fast. They pounced on Phil. The man never got off the eighth shot.
Phil’s screams quickly faded to cries and then gave way to the grunts and groans of feasting afflicted. They fought over Phil’s remains. Two or three would throw another off. That one would jump back on, inciting another fight.
Sean scooted away from the massacre. He pulled himself behind a tree and got to his foot.
The afflicted didn’t notice. Or they didn’t care. Maybe he looked like weak prey, and they’d get to him once Phil was picked to the bone.
Sean had no intentions of hanging around to find out.
He hopped and lunged from tree to tree, scanning the ground for anything that could help. After a few minutes, he found a broken branch that didn’t crumble under his weight. He stuck it under his left arm and used it as a crutch. It dug into his skin and burned like hell. But it also allowed him to stagger his way through the woods and create some distance between him and the pack of afflicted.
The howling wind died down. The hammering rain eased up. The thunder and lightning all but vanished, now just tiny cracks in the distance. Above, the dark clouds thinned, and for a few moments, the moon came out. Was it the eye of the storm? Or just a break between bands? Was the worst yet to come?
Sean considered both, trying to determine how strong the winds had been. He hadn’t realized how incompetent he was about such things without the news or a weather forecast to tell him. He’d prepared for the day when the world would end. Had educated himself in the ways of using nature to forecast. But this fell into a realm beyond the scope of survival training.
This was real.
He entered a clearing where the wet grass glinted in the moonlight. There was a small house in the middle. Looked to contain a single room. Maybe two. Woods surrounded the structure. No road or driveway led in or out.
Sean moved as fast as he could on the makeshift crutch, resisting the urge to call out. He reached the door and grabbed the knob. It turned freely. The door opened and dry, stale air rushed past.
He took two steps in, let the door close and leaned back against it to secure the latch.
“Hello?”
Nobody answered.
He called out again. Still no answer.
Moonlight filtered in. The cabin wasn’t anything more than a box with a wood burning stove and a hole in the floor to piss in. There was no stink of human waste. No sign of someone inhabiting it. The place probably hadn’t been used in years.
Sean crossed the room and dropped the branch. Then he fell onto a pile of blankets and faded off to sleep as the wind picked up and battered the side of the exterior, the rain pelted the
roof, and the thunder rattled the foundation.
Twenty-Nine
Sand grated Turk’s throat as he swallowed. It lined his teeth, lips and gums. The insides of his cheeks. He coughed, but that seemed to make it worse.
He opened his eyes and found himself surrounded in a sea of light brown. Better than the actual ocean, he figured, which is where he last remembered being.
Turk rolled onto his back. The blinding sky sent a dull ache through his eyes and into his brain. He blinked a few times. Light gray clouds raced by. The winds and rains had died down. A gentle spray fell over him every thirty seconds or so. Waves roared and crashed nearby.
The events of the previous night filtered in like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Struggling in the water. Pounded by waves. He was on a surfboard. Men fired rifles at him. He scaled the wall of the fort.
Why?
What had he been doing out there?
The side of his head ached.
He noticed he was alone only in some scenes. In others, he had a partner. No, not a partner. He’d rescued someone.
The memories slammed into him with a psychic force strong enough he felt it in the form of a wave of pain that traveled through his spine and shot off on every connected nerve.
He tried to jolt upright, but only made it halfway before his ribs burned. Turk dropped back onto the sand.
“Rhea?” he said.
Surf battered the shore beyond the dunes. A few seagulls rode the air currents and called out.
But Rhea didn’t answer.
He yelled for her again.
She had been with him when they rode the breaker to shore. Had she not made it? How could he go back to Rob and Rose and tell them he let their little sister die?
Turk made a second attempt at sitting up, managing to ignore the pain long enough to get past the stiff muscles that clenched his ribs. The pain lingered, fairly intense. Maybe a broken rib or two. Perhaps bruised. Not enough to keep him down. He shifted his legs and clawed at the high dune wall as he scampered to the top of it and got a view of the Atlantic.
