The Last Outbreak - SALVATION - Book 5 (A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller)

by Jeff Olah

  Sawyer came to a stop just behind his friend, his feet sliding to the front of the oversized black leather boots. “Yeah, I’m getting the same feeling. Where are they?”

  “You mean Roland and his—”

  “No,” Sawyer said. “I know they are out there somewhere, I’m sure hiding like cockroaches. But … have you seen any Feeders since we opened the doors back there?”

  “I don’t like it, I mean I know Roland is behind this somehow. He is going to follow us to the high school, I planned for that. But what’s this all about?”

  “I’m sure we’re gonna find out soon enough.”

  Bryce turned back to the empty city street, blew into his hands, and rubbed them together. “You ready for this?”

  “No.”

  Bryce eyed his friend over his right shoulder. “Me neither, but we have to at least give it a shot. Those people have no idea what’s coming.”

  Sawyer narrowed his eyes and looked out around Bryce, almost as if he was attempting to delay the inevitable. “You think they’re gonna listen?”

  “One way or another. I’m just hoping it isn’t already too late. Even if we’ve got the numbers wrong by half, they still wouldn’t stand a chance. If nothing else, we should at least have Tom on our side.”

  “You think?”

  “I do.”

  Bryce pointed to the broken down drug store at the corner of the intersecting streets two blocks away. Stepping out, he went wide through the approaching intersection, making sure to slow as they became visible to the west and east ends of Mayfair Lane.

  Sawyer called from behind. “You think we’ll get there before the sun goes down?”

  The city seemed smaller now. No people walking the streets and not a single vehicle moved anywhere within earshot, at least not at the moment. Bryce was as familiar as one could be with the area; however, making this trip on foot seemed odd. He could calculate down to the second how long this would have taken during rush hour on a Friday afternoon, but today his best guess would be just that, a guess. “Doesn’t matter, we only need to get there ahead of the others.”

  Again on the move, Bryce looked to the opposite side of the street and couldn’t recall the name of the tiny sandwich shop he’d been to more than a dozen times. This new world was beginning to take from him what he used to be. The empty streets, the long-forgotten storefronts, the many, many lifeless corpses littering the sidewalk, the running and the hiding—so much running and hiding. These things were coming together to cloud his mind as they stamped out the memories of his former, much more conventional life.

  To himself, as much as to Sawyer, he said, “I was a tenth grade teacher.”

  Before his friend could respond, he said it a second time, now at an increased volume and much slower. He was determined to remember. “I … Was … A … Tenth … Grade … Chemistry … Teacher.”

  Sawyer chuckled as he followed Bryce to the rear of a garbage truck. The unusually obnoxious green beast had been neatly wedged into the narrow space between two blue and white delivery trucks. “Yeah, I’m aware.”

  Peering around the left side of the three massive vehicles, and then looking to where the garbage truck reached up into the sky, Bryce grabbed for the handle and began to climb. He quickly scampered to the top, helped Sawyer do the same, and then turned back to get a better vantage of exactly where they’d come from, and more importantly, where they were going.

  Pointing into the distance and cocking his head slightly to the right, Sawyer looked confused. “Is that it? I mean it looks much smaller from here.”

  “Yep, but we’re only seeing the back lot. I’m guessing that if Roland isn’t somewhere behind us, he’s going to be waiting out front. We have one shot at this, and it ain’t going to be fun or easy.”

  “Nothing’s fun or easy anymore.”

  Bryce looked back at his friend and smiled. “Yeah.”

  “So, how you wanna do this?”

  “It’s maybe four hundred yards to the fence and then another fifty or so to the rear of the gym.”

  “Yeah?”

  “How much you like those new shoes of yours?”

  “Uh?”

  “You feel like running?”

  Bryce started off with a light jog as he dropped down off the hood of the second delivery truck and then began increasing his speed as he drew closer to the end of the long block. Within a few hundred yards, he was nearly sprinting, his feet begging for mercy as they sloshed around inside the oversized sneakers.

  With Sawyer now over his right shoulder, Bryce scanned the ten-foot chain-link fence that sat just beyond the coming sidewalk. He found a section near the gates that spanned no more than eight feet, each with a pair of terminal posts jutting from the concrete. And pointing, he said, “That’s where we—”

  The detonation from somewhere to the east sounded as though it was tearing the beleaguered city in half. He continued running, but slowed his pace as he approached the coming intersection. “That sounded close.”

  “Too close,” Sawyer said. “What the hell was that?”

  The area quickly fell into a deafening silence as Bryce looked from left to right and then back again. He slowed once more, now walking. And at the last building—a low-end liquor store—he pushed in tight to the corner and took a breath. “Something’s not right, there’s no way that was Roland. He doesn’t have that kind of artillery.”

  Sawyer shook his head. “We don’t know that, he could’ve had—”

  “Either way it doesn’t matter, we have to move. Gotta get in there, like right now.”

  Starting out away from the last bit of cover afforded them, Bryce glanced east to where he figured the ear-splitting explosion originated. There was a grouping of at least twenty men. They stood less than two hundred feet from the entrance to the high school, side by side and staring up at a behemoth of a man in the back of an open air Jeep.

  The oversized man balanced some sort of a rocket launcher atop his right shoulder. The others began slowly backing away as he sighted his target and called for quiet.

  Leaning in and grabbing a handful of Sawyer’s shirt, Bryce pointed toward the fence near the rear gate and was already beginning to hyperventilate. “You know who that is right?”

  Sawyer’s eyes were wide and his hands were already shaking. “Blake.”

  “And you know what that means?”

  “Yeah,” Sawyer said through clenched teeth, “there’s a war coming.”

  His eyes back on the gymnasium seventy yards away, Bryce nodded to his friend as the large man in the back of the Jeep again unleashed hell. “We have to get them out of there.”

  They were already running when the front doors to the high school blew apart. Bryce was nearly taken from his feet as he stepped up onto the curb. Beside him, Sawyer misplaced a step—his attention momentarily pulled back over his right shoulder—and fell forward onto the dusty concrete sidewalk.

  Without missing a beat, Bryce pulled him up and began scaling the ten-foot fence. Tossing his right leg over and preparing for a quick descent, he looked back at the men standing a few hundred yards from the school. Through the cataclysmic disturbance, he and Sawyer somehow managed to escape being noticed. The men behind the Jeep just stared into the blaze with wide eyes and manic smiles.

  Dropping to the blacktop on the opposite side of the fence, Sawyer turned to run for the rear of the gym when Bryce again grabbed him by the back of his shirt. Pointing into the distance he said, “We’ve got another problem … look.”

  Much further back on the street they’d just come from—completely empty only minutes before—was a massive parade of indistinguishable men and women marching away from downtown. They were on foot and followed by two pickup trucks. And directly behind the slow-moving vehicles: a horde of Feeders that appeared to block out what remained of the devastated city beyond.

  Sawyer started toward the gym, tugging his friend as he attempted to peel his eyes away from the jaw-dropping spectac
le. “We’ve got maybe five minutes man, we gotta go.”

  Bryce released his friend’s shirt and wiped a line of cold sweat from his hairline. “I don’t think it’s going to matter.”

  16

  A wall of heat raced through the lower hall as Ethan stood in the doorway. He instinctively closed his eyes and leaned back into the cafeteria to avoid whatever it was that appeared to shake the high school off its foundation. Fine particles of dust—like microscopic shards of glass—followed, and what little light filtered in from beyond the room was momentarily blotted out.

  The second explosion in as many minutes, this one was sent with intent. The front doors to the school were blown in and what followed nearly took him from his feet. Shielding his face from the hailstorm of debris, Ethan slowly parted his lids and took a half step out into the hall.

  Near the staircase twenty feet ahead, two light fixtures hung desperately from the ceiling, their shattered bulbs now only a fine powder coating the cool linoleum. Further on, illuminated shards of decade-old paint clung like loose skin to what remained of the splintered walls, now limp and void of life.

  Near the entrance, a torched six-foot section of two by four had been forced through one of the two doors—nearly head high—would have instantly ended any life in its path. And finally, through the fading cloud of atomized drywall and frenzied mayhem burned a yellowish orange glow. It was pulling in from the entrance, appearing to lick at the sheets of plywood that lay fifteen feet back from the threshold.

  For the moment, all Ethan could do was stare.

  Now on his heels, Emma moved in close clutching tight to Zach’s hand. She appeared to be holding her breath as she stood over Ethan’s left shoulder. Zach rubbed at his eyes and had his hand over his mouth.

  “Ethan,” Emma said, her voice coming out slow and shaky. “What was that?”

  His left hand still on the door frame, he pulled the collar of his shirt up over his mouth, cautiously took another half step out into the hall, and used his right hand to urge his sister and the boy back into the room. In a voice only marginally above a whisper, he said, “Go … get with Griff and get everyone out of here.”

  The others were out of their seats and beginning to form a line behind Emma. Ethan’s mother, followed by Carly, Shannon, and the woman who Ben introduced only minutes before as Mila Wagner.

  Griffin came next, and beginning to cough he crowded in and behind the others, urging them back. “Come on let’s go, let’s get back to the gym.”

  Boone rushed over and now stood alongside Ben, Carly and Mayor Gil. As the wave of dust and smoke began filtering into the cafeteria, he began to backpedal, calling out to Ethan. “Whatta we got, how’s the—”

  Before Boone finished, Ethan turned his back to the hall and hastily interrupted. With his mind moving at light speed, and while still attempting to compartmentalize the rising fog left over from the night before, he pulled the shirt away from his mouth, and turned to face his friends. Then looking from Mayor Gil over to Ben, he said, “Any of this seem familiar to you? See anything or anyone out of place on your way here?”

  Ben’s wide smile was now somewhere else. He had a new look that Ethan didn’t recognize, and although their circumstances had rapidly evolved over the last sixty seconds, it felt somewhat out of character for the young man of only twenty-three. It aged him, made him appear cold, hard, and without reason.

  And although Ben’s voice came out calm and deliberate, Ethan thought he detected a hint of trepidation. Almost as if disgusted by the question. “No Ethan, we didn’t see anything … or anyone.”

  From the rear of the group, Mayor Gil leaned in. “We had better do whatever we’re gonna do. I don’t imagine anyone wants to be around for number three.”

  Ethan nodded. He looked to the others and motioned toward the other set of doors leading to the kitchen. “Griff, can you get them to the gym through there, make sure the rear lot is still secure and give me some time to figure this out?”

  Griffin nodded, looked around at the others, and said, “Let’s go.”

  As the others peeled off, whispered questions flying between the nine friends, Boone stepped away and moved to Ethan. “What are you thinkin’?”

  Ethan watched as the others moved out of range, and then only slightly above a whisper said, “I don’t know. But I’m assuming it’s not the welcoming committee. Either way, though, I’m going to find out.”

  “I’m coming with you, Griff can handle—”

  “No, I’ll be less of a target on my own.”

  “Not up for discussion,” Boone said. “You know I’m not letting you do this on your own. One of the rules around here … one of your rules.”

  Mayor Gil was the last to disappear into the dimly lit kitchen. As the cafeteria fell into a dead silence, Ethan wiped his face with his hand and started toward the hall. Before again pulling his shirt over his mouth he said, “We’ll take the stairs to the roof, get a better view of things.”

  Boone stayed on Ethan’s right shoulder as they moved quickly through the mounting smoke and into the stairwell. They took the first two flights with little problem, not yet breaking a sweat; however, reaching the landing before the final set of steps, the silence was shattered.

  A familiar squawk echoed through the enclosed space only a fraction of a second before the overly articulate voice followed. “Ethan Runner … I believe I have the correct name. If not, I apologize. Either way, I need to speak to whoever is making decisions for your group, as this one may be your last.”

  Ethan’s first instinct was to sprint to the top step, kick the door open, and release the anxiety and frustration he’d been holding back for the last several days. Although, without a weapon and less information that he was comfortable with, he decided on a more measured approach.

  To Boone he said, “Last chance …”

  Boone grinned. It was the same look Ethan remembered from their first meeting in Vegas. He wasn’t sure whether he should fear it or let it fuel what was to come. The man was originally erratic and unpredictable, but over the last few weeks had become a reliable member of his extended family.

  Boone curled up his nose and said, “This is why I’m here, let’s go.”

  They took the last several steps without speaking, and then moved out into the cool winter night. Visibility would be a problem, although Ethan figured that in their current situation, the who was going to be much less important than the why.

  Out away from the door, they stayed low and moved quickly to the parapet at the northwest corner, placing their backs against the low-slung wall. Ethan tilted his head back and took a deep breath. To Boone he said, “Okay.”

  Boone nodded.

  Into a squat, Ethan dropped one knee and gripped the top of the three-foot wall. He peeked over and then slipped back down. “Fifteen, maybe more. But they’ve got some kind of rocket launcher.”

  “Obviously what blew the front doors in.”

  “Yeah,” Ethan said, “but there’s gotta be a reason why they stopped. Why they now want to talk.”

  “You sure?”

  “I hope so.”

  Boone furrowed his brow, paused a moment. “You ready for this?”

  Ethan grinned, framing his response as a question. “Yeah?”

  “No, I mean are you—”

  “Yeah, I know what you’re asking. And yes, I’m fine.” He held out his hand, leveled it, and looked at Boone. “I’m good.”

  “Then let’s get on with this.”

  Still not showing himself, Ethan stayed low and shouted over the wall. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

  A beat and then the oddly relaxed voice came through the bullhorn yet again. “I only want to speak to Ethan Runner. I mean you and your friends no harm.”

  The man—whoever he was—was lying. Ethan knew that, so the only question was, to what extent. With his legs beginning to cramp, Ethan leaned forward into the wall. “SOMEHOW I’M NOT BUYING IT.”

  A bit of for
ced laughter came from the street below and then a few seconds of nothing. After another pause the man came back. “Okay, I get it. You have no reason to trust me, and taking a second look at your front doors—or what’s left of them—I can’t really say that I blame you.”

  Ethan waited.

  The man laughed into the bullhorn and then continued. “I’m going to give you a chance. One chance. I have no intention of wasting any more of my—”

  It was time. There was no delaying the inevitable and no real reason to continue the one-sided interrogation. This probably wasn’t going to end well, but nothing he said was going to change that.

  Ethan pushed away from the wall and stood. Quickly scanning the crowd—who he now estimated to be twice his original number—he found the man with the bullhorn.

  “I’M ETHAN RUNNER … AND YOU HAVE ONE HELL OF A WAY OF SAYING HELLO.”

  17

  Roland Mayhew blew into his hands, rubbed them together, and increased his pace.

  The long block ahead was scrubbed clean of anything without a heartbeat, and watching the two men scamper over the fence and into the rear yard gave him a warm, almost satisfied feeling. He realized the twin explosions somewhere near the north entrance to the school would probably take some work to repair, but the fact that Mitchell Blake’s rage was focused elsewhere only added to the delight.

  To his left and right, more soldiers than he could count. Eighty-four men and women willing to lay down their lives for a cause. A cause he invented to put the unraveling world back in proper perspective. He sold them on the fact that without some level of order, their chance of survival dropped by seventy-three percent.

  And he wasn’t completely lying. There was an argument to be made about the fact that the whole was greater than the sum of its parts. He didn’t know the exact numbers, but the exact numbers didn’t matter to those just trying to live. He needed them; however, they needed him even more. A weapon was only as good as its aim.

  To his left, Cory Shift walked with his head down. The twenty-something former high school guidance counselor had quickly become his default right-hand man. The tall lanky introvert was trustworthy to a fault, but didn’t always see the big picture. He had to be continually convinced that whatever Roland had planned was ethically and morally justified. He was the most difficult nut to crack, but also the most reliable. If the young man gave his word, not another question needed to be asked.