by Nathan Brown
Well … I’m not.
Then it might be a good idea to adopt a policy that you don’t stop … not for anyone. Taking on any more civilians is only going to make things even more difficult.
Yeah, right. I vaguely remember telling myself something like that back when I first picked up Joseph.
Then why do you have an old man and a hurt kid in your group?
Because … I don’t think I can do things the way I used to … not anymore.
What way? You were following orders back then. Saving innocent lives wasn’t a part of your orders. Why the guilt? It’s not your fight, Mike … remember?
But dammit! I’m following my orders now! I’ve been carrying around this guilt for years, for not doing something, for not protecting people who couldn’t protect themselves! And every time I did, a part inside of me died. This isn’t the corps anymore. I’m not bound by orders that tell me who lives and who dies, who to kill and who to save. The only reason I am still alive is because I stood by and did nothing while innocent people were being killed right in front of me. And I did that behind the cover that I was “following orders.” If a man does nothing because he’s following orders, he’s still a soldier. But if a man does nothing … and lets innocent people die because he’s trying to save his own skin … he’s just a coward. And I am not a coward.
You’re not a soldier anymore, either.
No, I’m not … but I am still a Marine. And there are people who need me.
Okay … so what’s the plan, Mike?
We drive through it, straight through Roswell, taking the best route our map can show us.
And what if you and your merry little band of civilians run into trouble?
Then I do what I’ve been trained to do … I improvise … I adapt … I overcome.
And if that isn’t enough?
Then, most likely, I’ll die. But at least I won’t die for nothing … at least my death will mean something. The only reason I have life is because I let innocent people die. So … if I give my life to make sure that a few innocent people have a chance to live … that sounds like an even trade to me. I mean, isn’t it?
Are you still debating strategy? Or are you trying to negotiate with God?
“That’s enough.”
“What did you say?” Joseph asked. Mike had been silent for hours, only to blurt out a random statement that made no sense.
“Enough,” Mike repeated. “Pull it over.”
“But we’re almost to Roswell.”
“I know that, Joe! And I need you to pull over!”
“Okay, okay!” Joseph replied, his aggravation coming out loud and clear in his tone. “I swear, Mike. What is the deal with you sometimes?”
Joseph pulled the Blazer onto the shoulder and put it in park. He sat silently for a few awkward moments, staring at the steering wheel, expecting Mike to speak up. But he just sat there in the passenger seat, staring at the dashboard.
“Well, for the love of roses and donuts, Mike. Don’t keep us in suspense or anything!” Joseph growled, his frustration growing with the passage of each silent, nerve-wracking moment.
“Walter, would you step out with us for a second? This might not be something she needs to hear,” Mike said, nodding to the pale-skinned girl curled up in the backseat.
“Yeah … she’s still sleeping.”
“How’s she doing?”
“It’s weird. She’s clammy and cold … but that’s all. She hasn’t gotten any worse, it seems. She’ll be alright for a few minutes.”
Walter Reuben kissed his daughter’s clammy forehead and brushed her hair back with his fingers, gently tucking it behind her ear. He got out of the vehicle slowly, gently closing the door behind him so as not to wake her. He walked to the front of the Blazer, where Mike had a road map spread out across the hood.
“It’s less than 20 miles before we hit Roswell,” Mike said.
“Isn’t that a good thing? I mean, there’s got to be some kind of a base or something in Roswell … right?” said Walter.
“Yeah,” agreed Joseph, “the last radio transmission we picked up said there were at least a few rescue stations set up in Roswell.”
“And why, exactly,” proposed Mike, “would a city, out in the middle of the desert, hundreds of miles from any other city, decide to establish rescue stations?”
“I don’t get your point,” said Walter.
“Because the infection has already reached them. My God … It’s already here,” Joseph replied, his tone barely above a whisper. For a brief moment, he just stared into space. Then, as if coming to some horrific conclusion, his eyes shot towards Mike. “Oh, shit.”
“What?” Walter demanded.
“Listen,” Mike explained, “Roswell is a fairly well-populated city, but it’s also in a pretty isolated area. If they’ve discovered the infection here, then there are only two possible outcomes. One, they identified the infection, figured out how it works, killed those who were infected, or at least reanimated, and they now have the situation under control.”
“Oh, good,” sighed Walter.
“But I really doubt that’s what’s happened.”
“…oh…”
“Two, which is the more likely scenario,” Mike continued, “The infection has spread through most of the city. Those few cops and military lucky enough to survive the chaos of the initial outbreak have likely either holed themselves up somewhere or gotten the hell outta dodge by now.”
“So, if we do this, we’ll probably be on our own if we run into trouble? That’s your point?” Joseph asked.
“Yeah,” Mike sighed, rubbing his palms into his tired eyes. “For the most part.”
“How long have you been thinking about this?”
“About Roswell? I had already noticed it on the map a few days ago, but at the time I figured we’d be a lot closer to Arizona by now. But the constant traffic we hit coming outta Texas really screwed up our timetable.”
“But there’s no way you could have known Roswell would be infected.”
“You’re right. I didn’t know … not until earlier today when we picked up that broadcast about the rescue stations. Until then, I was hoping there was still a chance we could blow through Roswell, maybe loot or buy some supplies if we saw an opportunity, and get back onto the road without much trouble.
“Now, however, I’m pretty damned sure we’re gonna have to shoot our way through it and hope there’s still an open path from here to the other side.”
“We can’t just go around it? Take the Blazer off road?”
“And if the vehicle breaks down? Then what? We have too many people, one an injured child. Chances are that the desert would kill us before we could even make it back to the highway. The crows would be picking at our bones long before any of those things ever found us.”
“So,” Walter asked, “what are we going to do? We can’t sit here for too long.” He pointed across the hood, at the desert beyond the passenger side of the Blazer. Three zombies, at least a hundred yards away, were lumbering slowly in their direction.
“It’ll take those three about twenty minutes or so to reach us … maybe more. They look pretty tore up. For now, we need to get every firearm we have out of the vehicle and loaded. Walt … after we get them out here, I want you to point out any weapons you aren’t familiar with, so I can explain ‘em to you. You’re gonna have to do my reloads for me once we get into the thick of it. Okay?”
“I can reload the guns, Mike,” Joseph said.
“No, I’m gonna need you behind the wheel. You’re the best driver out of the three of us. Trust me, your hands are gonna be full enough just trying to drive us through this shit storm in one piece.”
Mike, Joseph, and Walter devoted themselves to loading every weapon they had to full combat capacity—when possible, that meant one round in the chamber with a full magazine. The task took about a half an hour. In truth, if one of the slowly approaching undead hadn’t tripped onto his face, M
ike wondered if he would have forgotten all about them.
“Joe, the Winchester.”
“Here ya go.”
Mike took up his father’s old rifle, steadying the barrel over the hood of the Blazer. He took his time, lined up his sights, and aimed in on the closest one.
BANG!
The skull blew apart into bloody fragments, and the body collapsed to the sand. Mike cocked the lever and repeated the process two more times. Three rounds. Three kills. Immediately afterwards, Mike wondered if shooting them had been a hasty mistake, a waste of ammo. They were all three slow, bodies nearly crippled by the damage of rigor mortis and the harsh desert climate. They would not have been difficult to take down, he realized. At the least, he and Joe could have dispatched them with hammers or hatchets without too much trouble.
“Take a mental note, guys. From now on, when we run into small groups of stragglers like this, it would probably be better for us to save the ammo and just do it the old fashioned way, if you know what I mean.”
“Then why didn’t you say something before?” Joe asked.
“Didn’t think of it before … guess hindsight really is 20/20,” Mike replied with a chuckle.
“Fair enough.”
“What do you think? You ready to do this?” Mike said, handing the Winchester back to Joseph.
“At this point,” he answered as he loaded three rounds into the rifle, “would it really matter if I wasn’t? Like you said, my hands are gonna be full.”
“Whoa … déjà vu.”
“Yeah … haven’t we already had this conversation,” Joe replied. The two men shared a brief laugh.
“Don’t worry, Joe” Mike said, his tone now serious, “I’ll keep ‘em off you.”
“We both will,” Walter chimed in. While their new passenger had already proven himself handy with shotguns and revolvers, it had turned out that he’d needed a little instruction on how to properly clear and load some of the other weapons, namely the Desert Eagle and the Winchester. Luckily, he’d also turned out to be a quick study.
“Okay,” Mike announced, “No use putting this off any longer. Let’s load up.”
All three men took their respective positions—Joseph in the driver’s seat, Walter in the back next to his daughter, and Mike standing up through the sunroof. The former Marine found it amusing that he was, quite literally and for the first time, “riding shotgun.”
“Okay … Walt … where are your eyes?”
“To the rear, watching our backside so we don’t get surrounded.”
“And where are your ears?”
“Listening for you to call for reloads.”
“And what do you do when I call for a reload?”
“I hand you a new weapon and reload the empty one, and try to keep my eyes on our rear.”
“Good … you gotta be on the spot with those reloads, okay? If I run out of loaded weapons, we’re gonna turn into sitting ducks real quick, hear me? So I’ll start with low round capacity stuff—shotguns, revolvers, the Winchester, and then the semi-automatics. Got it? Are there any loads you want me to go over with you again? Or are you good?”
“I think I’m good.”
“Good enough for me,” Mike said, patting Walt on the shoulder before turning his attention to Joseph. “And you.”
“I know, I know … keep my eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel.”
“That’s right … and no cowboy shit. You have one job and one job only … to drive us through this shit storm in one piece.”
“I got it.”
“You’re sure? … Are you SURE?”
“I GOT it, Mike!”
“Okay. Then barring any unexpected catastrophes, we got a good chance of making it through. We all stick to our stations—I kill, you drive, and he reloads while watching our asses.”
“We’re running out of light, Mike,” Joseph said nervously, pointing to the horizon. It would be dark in just short of an hour.
“Then we’d better get moving, huh?” Mike growled. He knew his frustration had nothing to do with Joseph. He just hated situations like these, where he had no choice but to do something he knew would be unpleasant. Situation like these reminded him of jump school. Mike hated heights, and so he’d hated jump school even more than he’d hated mountain warfare school. At least learning to climb made sense. Flying in an airplane was no big deal. Jumping out of one, however, was an entirely different story. He’d made it through every grueling day by repeating the same mantra, over and over again, in his mind—I don’t gotta like it. I just gotta do it!
Now, as he popped the upper half of his torso through the sunroof, cradling a shotgun, he found himself chanting that mantra once more.
You don’t gotta like it, Mike. You just gotta do it.
“Okay, guys,” he called, pounding his fist twice on the roof of the Blazer, “Let’s take a bite of this shit sandwich and see if we can’t swallow it.”
“What!?” Chuckled Joseph from the driver’s seat.
“Let’s go,” Mike growled, finding himself tickled by Joseph’s laughter. “You smartass.” Mike was unable to hold back the smile that pushed on the corners of his mouth. There had been a time when he used to wonder how people laughed in the face of death … but that had been a long time ago.
The Blazer roared to life and they were soon on their way … into God-only-knew what kind of mess.
* * *
It wasn’t long before Mike’s eyes caught something in the distance, the first thing he’d seen in a while that wasn’t sand, rocks, or dried up brush. Far head, Mike saw a green mass of vegetation. He knew that Roswell had to be on the other side, though this wasn’t what he’d expected to see. In truth, Mike wasn’t exactly sure what he had expected Roswell to look like, maybe just a city standing alone in the middle of the desert.
Great … all that vegetation is going to make it impossible for me to tell what we’re driving into.
“Walt, hand me a pair of binos, would ya?” He called down, sliding the shotgun to Walter in exchange for a pair of camping binoculars.
Getting a clear view of anything while standing through the sunroof of a moving SUV turned out to be difficult. However, Mike soon focused on a cluster of tall buildings that peeked out above the treetops. Aside from a few wisps of black smoke, he saw little to further increase his concern about entering the city. He handed the binoculars back down and motioned for the shotgun.
“See anything?” asked Joseph.
“Not really … the tops of some buildings … a few weak smoke pillars … but that’s all. If this town is anything like some of the places we’ve already been through, then smoke on the horizon isn’t all that surprising. Probably coming from traffic accidents. But all that damn vegetation is blocking my line of sight from here. I can’t see a damn thing we’re coming up on.”
Mike suddenly found himself wishing he had a few things—like a good long-range rifle with a high-powered sight. And when he heard the sound of rapid gunfire, now growing louder with each passing moment, he found himself wishing he’d been able to find some body armor, or even just a nice plate of Kevlar. Zombies would be the least of his worries if he got hit with a stray bullet from some trigger-happy weekend warrior, spraying rounds like they were going out of style.
A road sign passed, alerting drivers of an approaching decrease in the speed limit, which told Mike they’d be hitting Roswell any minute now. The trees were soon on both sides of the road, and Mike brought the shotgun to the ready, butt into his shoulder. He watched a street sign pass to his right as Joseph maneuvered around an overturned truck. The sign read “2nd St.”
The gunfire had grown even louder by now, and Mike knew that, whatever was happening, it was happening close by. He could now hear not only the popping of gunfire, but the bullet impacts as well. He tried briefly to crouch, but found it impossible to remain steady while doing so and soon gave it up.
“Hey, Joe. Take the next turn you can … I think someone i
s shooting up ahead. And slow it down to a school zone crawl. I don’t want to get shot if we accidentally pop up on somebody.”
“I hear ya, Mike.”
They passed a number of modest ranches before Joseph was finally able to turn right onto a road labeled “Garden St.” As they rounded the corner, Mike immediately regretted the instructions he’d given to Joseph. Directly in front of them, no more than ten yards ahead, about a half dozen young men, decked out in camouflage and armed with what appeared to Mike to be old M1 service rifles, were standing on top of a semi-trailer that was backed up flush against the loading dock of a Quonset hut. Mike looked at the side of the half-circle structure—ARMY SURPLUS.
The young men were pretty thickly surrounded, firing wildly at what Mike estimated to be about thirty walking dead. Joseph brought the SUV to a screeching halt. The sudden and unexpected sound must have made one of the young men jerk, because Mike heard and swore he felt, the crack of a round passing by his head.
“HEY!” He bellowed back, flinching a bit. “What the fuck are you doing!? Do I look like a fucking zombie to you!?”
One young man, presumably the one who’d fired the shot, stood up and stared with brief bewilderment at Mike, as if trying to figure out whether or not what he was seeing was actually real. He began tapping his fellow gunmen on the shoulders, one-by-one, and pointed their attentions to the Blazer. Mike wondered if they shouldn’t just drive on. For all he knew, these guys were just a bunch of ill-fated looters. Then again, he realized they might also just be good people in a world of trouble.
