Siren Songs: Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse, Book 2

by E. E. Isherwood

  “Smart.”

  Jerry did think it was smart, but also lamented it could tip off anyone coming to check up on the hit men lying dead in the house. There was chance in everything now.

  2

  Liam was shocked awake by the sound of the Gatling gun. He also heard the sound of banging on the outside of the truck. Not the banging of hands, but the unmistakable banging of gunfire hitting the exterior.

  “Are we under attack?”

  He addressed the question to Grandma, but immediately noticed the truck was no longer empty. Almost all the space was taken by a cadre of octogenarians. They looked sprightly and youthful next to his 104-year-old grandmother.

  “Ummm, I think we took the wrong bus, Grandma.” He was trying to be funny, but mostly he needed to boost his own morale. He remembered what happened to Victoria and his good humor faded.

  More loud bangs on the exterior. More buzzing from the chain gun on the roof. The clinking of spent ammo casings could be heard bouncing wildly on the top of the rig.

  Marty had to speak up to be heard. “It's been going on like this for a couple hours now. How have you been able to sleep through it? You must be exhausted.”

  Liam felt exhausted. After days without real sleep, then losing Victoria...

  “I got a little sleep. Do you know where we're going?”

  “Can't say for sure. Maybe the old folks home. We've been picking up all these passengers since we left your house. They all get in with the same look of surprise. No one has been told anything.”

  Liam counted five fellow travelers on the opposite bench seat, and two more on his bench. There was nothing else in the rear compartment beyond the spartan seats, and there was a stout net separating the driver's cockpit. There were two crewmen up front, working the controls. Neither seemed too concerned about the passengers.

  I guess a real hero would be taking over this beast.

  He just sighed. He felt no energy for rebellion. Instead, he fell back asleep.

  The truck rolled on.

  3

  Liam next woke when the truck was stopping. The back doors swung open and Hayes was there, looking as cheery as ever. “Potty break! Liam would you help all these guests out of the MRAP please?”

  Liam wasn't happy to be put to service, but he did as he was told—for now.

  He must have slept for a long time because it was now completely dark outside. He could see they were on a narrow paved road in some woods, but he had no idea where they were. He considered getting out his phone to look at a map, but remembered he could no longer get reception “in the wild” as it were. What was once second nature—using his phone to answer questions—was gone. Maybe the old-fashioned approach would work.

  “Hayes, can you at least tell us where we are going? My Grandma can't sit like this for much longer.”

  Hayes laughed. “Nice try Liam. I watched her walk and ride a wheelchair out of the collapsing city. She isn't as weak as you portray. And I'm still mad at you for making me kill Victoria, so no, I'm not going to tell you anything.”

  I made you kill her?

  There were no chairs provided, so elderly men and women simply stood against the trees, or held onto a fellow human being. Everyone did what they needed to do, stretched for a few minutes, and then were marshaled back into the MRAP.

  Hayes did surrender one tidbit of information before he closed the rear doors. “I'm sorry we can't stay and chat for a while longer, but we are on a tight schedule. We have one more pickup to make and then we'll be going to a makeshift medical facility where you will all be attended to.”

  Liam silently wondered what all this was about. He knew Hayes couldn't be a good guy, not after what he pulled with Victoria, but how could a government agency let a guy like this run any kind of program? His first inclination was to say he would never cooperate, no matter what agency he worked for, or what method of coercion he used—but the reality was much different. Would he refuse to cooperate if he harmed the woman sitting next to him? What if he threatened his parents? Liam had no doubt Hayes had the ability to reach out to anyone if he wanted to do so.

  As he sat in the truck and it rumbled down the road, he wanted nothing more than to see Victoria again—but she was dead.

  Why do I keep forgetting that?

  He slumped in his seat and tried to go back to sleep. Right now it was the only thing that kept him going. Sleeping let him forget, just for a little while, the pain of the waking world. He fell asleep while listening to barely-audible music coming from the front compartment. It sounded exotic. Foreign.

  A few moments later, at least in his mind, the truck ground to a halt. After an insufferably long wait in the increasingly warm compartment, the doors finally opened. Liam looked out into the darkness and could see small fires burning in two parallel rows, far out into the distance. It reminded him of an airstrip.

  A couple camouflage-clad men were lifting a stretcher into the back of the truck, pushing it into the space between the inward-facing benches. All nine of the passengers would be facing the tenth rider laying on the floor.

  The tenth man was ancient. For once even Grandma looked young and healthy by comparison. The men had loaded an oxygen tank which was connected to a breathing tube draped below the man's nose. His eyes were sunken and he had distinct dark circles around his eyes, but he was very alert. He had almost no hair, but huge bushy eyebrows. His face was narrow, and deeply pockmarked—with a most unhealthy pallor about him. Liam guessed he was pulled out of bed because he still had on his plaid pajamas. He even had the slippers although he didn't look fit to stand.

  Liam was sitting in the last spot on his bench, so he was furthest from the man's head up toward the front of the compartment. Once the doors were sealed he felt compelled to talk to the old gentleman. “Hello, sir. My name is Liam. Do you know why they brought you here? Do you know where we're going?”

  After some initial confusion, the man pointed to his ear with his tiny arm and made a cup with his hand, as if to say he couldn't hear very well.

  Now louder, Liam asked him the same question.

  The man could barely be heard over the road noise of the now-moving truck. “My name's Bart. They took me without letting me say goodbye to my granddaughter. She takes care of me. He said he needed me to come with him because I was going to help with a cure for the sickness. But they made me leave Janey!”

  Thinking of a doting granddaughter keeping this man alive even after the collapse hurt Liam's heart. He pictured her coming home and finding her grandpa had up and left. What would she think? Who would steal an elderly man from his own home?

  Thinking of what they did to Victoria, he wondered if there was more to the story. “Did they harm Janey?” He practically shouted at the man so he could be heard.

  His eyes looked at Liam a moment, and in his wisp of a voice said, “No. She was out looking for more oxygen for me. She hadn't come back. Can someone call her? I have her number on my bracelet.”

  Obviously someone had taken care of him all this time, but how could he not know the situation with the world? Unless Janey was trying to shield him from it. He'd read about that scenario many times.

  “Sir, do you know what's happening with the zombies?”

  The man seemed to look around at his overseers, trying to absorb what was happening to him. If he heard Liam he chose not to respond. Instead, he repeated that his Janey was going to be looking for him.

  Damn. He's not all there.

  As they continued down the road, Liam still had no idea where he was going or why the CDC would be collecting this odd menagerie of people. All he knew was these folks were going somewhere that was run, either in part or in total, by the man who shot his girlfriend.

  There, I said it.

  If there was an indicator on Liam's heart, it would be moving slightly from the depressed zone to the “I'm going to sabotage this whole project and make that son-of-a-bitch wish he had never met me” zone. Was Hayes really working
on a cure? If so, would sabotaging him doom them all? Even revenge was overly complicated at the end of the world. For all he knew, it was always was. Nonetheless, his heart would give the man no quarter.

  He would play the rest by ear.

  Bart chose that moment to finally blurt out a response to Liam's query.

  “Zombies? I saw a zombie once. It was in a movie.”

  4

  The journey continued in the back of the MRAP for several more hours. They could see the early morning light coming in through the small side windows and the large front windows. Liam still couldn't see where they were, and he didn't know where they were going. He did know they'd spent the entire night traveling in the cramped compartment and no one was happy.

  “Someone please tell Janey where to find me.”

  Bart on the floor would alternate between sleeping and shouting out for his granddaughter. He would listen to none of his fellow passengers, most of whom insisted they would tell Janey as soon as they could. He either ignored them or didn't believe them. He was confused, that much was evident. Many were visibly frustrated at the futility of interacting with him.

  Grandma seemed the least affected by his ramblings. Liam asked why.

  “I've spent plenty of time in the nursing homes. You recall when I fell down and broke my arms—I spent six weeks in the crazy house that time—and a multitude of visits to friends and relatives who suffered their last years there. I've seen plenty of men and women like this gentleman. It really is sad how we end up when we reach the end of our lives.”

  Liam noticed she had her Rosary in her hands, passing the beads through her frail fingers. It may have been there the whole time they were riding.

  “Grandma, would you say a prayer for Victoria?”

  She turned to him with a soft look. “Sweet Liam. I've been praying for her since we left.”

  He didn't know what to say. He was afraid just thinking about her now would move him to tears, so he tried to focus instead on other things—anything. He stood up to address everyone. Time to DO something.

  “Does anyone in here know why you've all been, uh, collected?”

  He looked around. The obvious reason was their age. But that was just stupid. What other things did they have in common? He was saddened to see he wasn't getting any response beyond blank looks. The long journey made everyone bristle at the merest interaction with their neighbors. Liam was breaking an uneasy truce among these survivors.

  “Don't you want to know why you're all here? I can't be the only one curious.”

  An old woman—they were all old—further up his bench spoke up at last. “I can't think of any reason anyone would want me. My name's Petunia Hemma. I spent my life raising my family—they're all moved out and on their own of course—and my husband passed away a few years ago.” She crossed herself at that statement, as did many of the others. “I don't have any special skills or knowledge. I'm just a housewife.”

  Others spoke up in turn, some explaining they had jobs in the past which could have been construed as “interesting.” One even worked for the CIA in Langley as a receptionist. But Liam was unable to deduce anything both interesting and common among them all.

  He was left with the only thing even remotely common—their age. It was also the least intriguing to him. “Why would the government need a group of old people?”

  He looked around and noticed the stink eyes.

  “Oh sorry. I meant no disrespect. My grandma told me I could call her an old person after she reached 100.”

  That seemed to mollify everyone. Several began talking to Grandma once they learned she was a centenarian. An unwritten rule of silence was broken, and the group became much more animated. Checking where they went to high school. Piecing together the circles they'd run in during their youth. Finding out if they dated the same people. Old people stuff.

  Oops.

  Just people stuff.

  Liam was back in his seat, listening to the group chatting like they were sitting at a coffee shop hopped up on the caffeine. He was vigilant for clues tying them all to this journey, but few were forthcoming. He settled in and absorbed the life stories of his fellow passengers.

  All the excitement made him forget something important for just a little while.

  Victoria is gone...

  That was it.

  Another hour ticked by. The truck was never going very fast, and sometimes it would stop for a long time while the gun was in operation or was being reloaded by the men up front. They were let out one more time in the early morning, greeted by a light drizzle. It seemed to refresh the passengers and their conversations exploded as the journey continued.

  Liam absorbed as much as he could, but those folks could really talk when they wanted to. He still had nothing to go on in his effort to solve the mystery, even after a couple hours enduring waves of information. They were starting to repeat themselves as they shared their same stories with other companions. Even Grandma seemed to revel in the data dump.

  For a fifteen-year-old boy, it moved quickly from exciting to boring beyond belief.

  He turned inward. Sitting in the back of the truck reminded him of his zombie books. Survivors were rounded up in the hot zone and brought to the safety of the “compound” where they could find safety and comfort. When the rear doors of this MRAP opened, would they be greeted by a friendly face welcoming them to their new home?

  He didn't think for a second this was an altruistic mission.

  He then thought of his military history. He'd seen a dramatic recreation of another group of men sitting in the back of a military truck in the old days. They were traveling as prisoners of war in wintertime during the Battle of the Bulge, fought near the end of World War II. When the back flap opened they were greeted by German special forces, and they were anything but friendly faces. They dragged the men into a clearing and shot them all—a massacre.

  Did he believe they were heading for a massacre? Part of him did. But they could have been killed at any point in this journey. They could have been killed in their homes. Why bother with the elaborate transport? Maybe they have to keep it secret?

  He felt panic somewhere deep inside him trying to get his attention. Were these cold-blooded killers? They'd killed Victoria in cold blood.

  Was it really cold blood? What does that even mean?

  They killed her because of me.

  He felt his emotions going haywire. Panic. Regret. Anger. Confusion.

  He tried to force himself to go to sleep. End the fistfight taking place in his head.

  Sleep remained elusive. Much blood was spilled in the long mental battle.

  The truck rolled on.

  5

  Liam's thoughts were interrupted as the world slanted.

  The truck dipped its nose down a little and slammed into something. It wasn't going very fast, but the mass of the large truck and the flat bench seats worked together to send all the passengers toward the front of the vehicle in a brief but violent jerk.

  Those in the front of the truck had it the worst. They were pushed against the webbing separating the front compartment while simultaneously absorbing the weight of the passengers behind them. Because Liam and Marty were closest to the doors, they suffered almost no ill-effects.

  The Gatling gun on top came to life. It seemed pissed, spinning up in long pulls.

  The men in the front of the truck were yelling. The radio was squelch city. The MRAP seemed stuck on something. The engine was roaring, the tires were spinning, but the thing wasn't moving.

  The plinks of shell casings rattled on the roof while the clangs of rounds bouncing off the exterior were plainly evident.

  Where the hell are we? Afghanistan?

  The Gatling continued making long sweeps with short intervals of downtime. The operators up front were yelling about overheating, ammo consumption, and target selection. The noise was dizzying. He tried to help some of the others get back in their seats.

  Impossibly, a fe
w minutes into the firefight the back doors popped open. Hayes was hunched down just outside the truck, as if trying to avoid the rain. “Liam, you and Grandma will come with me. Now! Bart, you will be picked up next.”

  He considered the wisdom of that statement, but Grandma was already on her feet. She made the decision for him. After several long seconds of helping her out, they were standing at the back of the MRAP, surrounded by a thick blanket of white smoke. Smoke canisters were laying on the ground in all directions, belching out the smothering layer of safety. The MRAP itself was also cranking out smoke. Liam wasn't sure if that was due to the crash or a protective feature of the vehicle itself.

  Standing out in the open, he was assaulted by the sights and sounds of battle. The buzz saw sound coming from the top of the MRAP was the most distinctive, but he could hear other machine guns from the Humvee's, as well as the sounds of guns being fired from a distance. Those were the attackers—whoever they were.

  Hayes had a Humvee pulled up almost to the back of the MRAP. He hurried the pair toward his ride.

  Liam didn't know how to process all that was happening.

  In one moment he heard the whipping sound of a bullet streaking through the air nearby.

  Then two more. Close.

  He heard several rounds smack the outside of the MRAP.

  The Gatling was freakishly loud.

  In another moment he heard and saw a bullet sink into the tire of the Humvee he was approaching. His mind recalled some television show which explained how these vehicles had special tires which would run even if flat. So much time to think in those few seconds of running...

  Hayes made no effort to slow down as they moved toward the space where the bullet just passed. There were several cracks already on the windshield. “Get her in the front seat! I'll be in the back!”

  Once inside, with the doors safely closed, the Humvee began moving. Liam and Grandma were crammed together in the front seat, staying as low as possible. Hayes was in the back, along with a person they couldn't see fully. He was standing upright and was poking out the top, operating the machine gun mounted on the roof. It was hammering away, dropping shells both inside and over the outer surface of the truck. The driver was the redhead woman. She didn't have her hat on this time, her wavy red locks were down to her shoulder. After looking over to ensure everyone was in, she ripped out of there—as fast as the Humvee could accelerate.