Turning Point (Book 2): A Time To Run

by Wandrey, Mark

  “I know, Sarge,” he said down the hatch. “But if we can link up with a unit, we could head west in force. Maybe grab some civilians and save some people.” PFC Tony Bennet was the only one among them with no comment. He sat in one of the fold-down seats near the rear door and worked on their collection of guns. A tall, quiet black man who always did things with deliberation and accuracy, Cobb hadn’t known he was an armorer, until they’d camped in the remains of an ancient drive-in theater last night, and Bennet repaired a malfunctioning M4 with ease. All in all, since he’d been thrown together with these men, he felt more than lucky.

  “Pileup ahead,” Colbert shouted over the engine and Cobb felt the vehicle slow.

  “Why are you slowing, go around!” Cobb eyed the jumble of cars and trucks with a couple hundred zombies around it.

  “Survivors on a bus.”

  “Fuck,” Cobb growled and grabbed his binoculars. Observing the mess, he saw what the driver had seen. At the center was a huge double-decker Uber-Bus. It had gotten caught up in the crash and trapped. Apparently at least some of those in the vehicles involved in the incident had been infected, because now most of them were. The bus had a roof hatch. At least a dozen people had climbed up and were now marooned.

  “We stopping?” Bennet said from the rear, his voice low and gravely.

  “Evaluating,” Cobb said. Bennet grunted. “Is that a problem?”

  “Just trying to decide if I need to get this weapon back together right away.” Ahead, a few of the zombies had noticed the low rumble of the Stryker’s motor and were looking in their direction. So were the people on top of the bus. Several began leaping up and down, waving their arms to get the Army vehicle’s attention. Fuck, Cobb thought. At least two children were up there, sitting in the center of the group, sitting and staring into space. Double fuck.

  “We’re going in, right?” the sergeant asked.

  Cobb could hear Bennet quickly putting the gun back together. “Yeah.”

  “Fuck,” Colbert snarled.

  Cobb charged the big Browning. He wished they’d grabbed one of the ones equipped with the remote-control turret, but that wasn’t his luck.

  “Okay, here’s the plan.”

  * * *

  They’d been trapped for the entire day on top of the bus, since shortly after the pileup. The driver had been killed in the crash, along with a dozen of the passengers. The vehicles around them were so close, none of the ground-level escape hatches worked. Then they came: the infected, the reason they’d fled from Austin in the first place. A headlong rush to get away from a city that was tearing itself apart. The bus had gotten out just ahead of a National Guard checkpoint, taking I-35 North, hoping to find refuge in Dallas.

  One of the passengers had a shortwave, and he’d heard that Dallas was falling apart, so they’d turned west on Hwy 195, and gotten into a crazy crash with a dozen other vehicles fighting to get away, just like them. After the crash they’d waited a while, until someone in the upper deck saw that there were infected among the crash victims. Everything fell apart quickly after that. The first of them were in the bus only minutes later. Those who’d been fast and thinking on their feet found the roof exit and clambered out just as the first infected fought their way, clawing and biting, up the small steps to the second floor. They got everyone out they could and closed the hatch. Two strong men had held the hatch closed ever since. They’d done it all day in the sun. Now, as the sun was setting, the Army finally arrived.

  “What are they waiting for?” one of the mothers asked.

  “Are they going to stop the monsters, mommy?” asked one of the children.

  “Of course, dear,” she said and got on her knees to hug her child. She looked over the distance and sent a silent prayer.

  The big multi-wheeled armored fighting vehicle sat idling a half mile away as a few of the crazed plague victims ran toward it. The bus survivors could see someone in the turret looking at them with binoculars. They glinted in the light.

  “Come on,” one of the men holding the hatch down said, “help us.”

  “HEY!” another man yelled, jumping and waving his arms. “Help us!” The infected below howled and leapt against the sides of the bus, trying to claw their way up. One got a grip, but a man with an expensive carbon-fiber-shafted golf club teed up and smashed the creature’s head, sending bone and a spray of blood flying into the crowd. The creature fell back limply into the arms of those below, who instantly tore into it. The sounds of rending flesh made one of the survivors puke over the side.

  A moment later, black smoke poured from the Stryker and its wheels churned as it surged forward. They all began to cheer, but the big multi-wheeled vehicle suddenly turned onto the side of the road. In a flash, it reversed back the way it had come, spraying sod and gravel in huge rooster-tails. Its air horn sounded several times as it sped away.

  “They’re leaving us,” one of the women said, dejected. Everyone watched as it roared a mile or so down the road, finally noticing after it was almost out of earshot that the vast majority of the infected were racing down the road after it. Then it turned around even quicker and raced back toward them. The vehicle was going at least 50 when it crashed over and through the infected. It smashed bodies and sent others flying, including some who jumped right at its shovel nose, heedless of the vehicle’s rate of travel.

  In seconds, the armored vehicle was through the line of carnage and racing back toward the pileup. There were fifty or so of the infected who’d stayed with the bus, still trying to get at the easy meal, as the Stryker roared toward them. When it was less than a hundred yards away, the big .50 caliber on top spoke a dozen times, back toward the pursuing infected, the huge rounds tearing bodies to bloody rags.

  “Get them!” one of the men yelled and jumped up and down. He was so busy exulting in the machine guns’ carnage that he didn’t see the hand reach over the edge of the bus and wrap around his ankle. “Hey—” he started to yell as the arm jerked him off his feet. He slammed down on his back, head smashing down on the metal roof.

  “Look out!” one of the women cried. The infected woman’s head came up halfway over the top, pulled the leg of the now-stunned man toward her, and clamped her jaws down on the calf.

  He screamed as the woman tore through pants, skin and into muscle. Blood sprayed as an artery ripped. She bit again, tendons popped, and his scream became shrill. Two other men grabbed him, trying to pull him back, while a dozen hands appeared next to the woman, and all took handfuls of the unfortunate man’s legs and torso.

  “No, no!” he screamed as the infected pulled with their inhuman strength. The two trying to help him yelped in surprise, and they tried to let him go, but it was too late. In a split second, all three cartwheeled screaming over the side.

  “Damn it!” Cobb yelled as the 50 or so infected who’d stayed behind tore the three to bloody shreds and began to surge up toward the roof of the bus. “Fuck! Tony, up top!” Cobb slid the .50 caliber aside. It would go through the infected and the bus, probably killing the very ones they were trying to rescue. He reached down and grabbed his M4, having to pull it up by the barrel so it fit through the hatch. “Slow down, Colbert,” he said, “we don’t want to run up on them too fast.” Behind him, Tony stood up in the rear hatch with his freshly-assembled rifle and assessed the situation.

  “Jesus Christ, Colonel,” he said in his deep baritone. He sighted through the scope as he released the bolt and loaded his rifle. “Guess they didn’t all go for the diversion?”

  “No,” Cobb said as he loaded his own rifle and sighted. The Stryker braked as the driver slowed their approach. “They’re getting smarter, it seems.” They’d used the distraction a couple times since leaving Hood. “Keep them off the roof of the bus,” he instructed, and his rifle cracked. Tony’s followed suit an instant later and the two began rapid-firing. The Stryker’s smooth ride on the roadway made for a stable firing platform, and they quickly devastated the crazed creatures.
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br />   “What do I do, Sir?” Colbert called from the driver’s compartment. They were only a hundred yards away; the last few dozen infected were split between trying to climb the bus and rushing back toward the approaching Stryker.

  “Run right into the side of the bus!” Cobb yelled. “Right over the ones coming at us!” he added, guessing the PFC’s complaint before he could voice it. The diesel engine revved up, and the Stryker accelerated.

  Cobb did a quick magazine swap, mentally subtracting another 30 rounds from their dwindling supply, and shot a particularly slow-moving, obese infected who was trundling toward them. He and the Sergeant shot two more as they raced ahead. Then the infected did something he’d never seen before. They broke to either side around the shovel-shaped nose of the armored combat vehicle instead of just rushing at it or jumping onto it.

  “Holy shit!” Cobb snapped as he tried to pivot and hit them, only to be blocked by the mount of the .50 caliber Ma Deuce.

  “They’re flanking,” Bennet said, just as surprised. From his relatively-open rearward position, he continued to fire, even as several leapt up and caught on the many handholds adorning the side of the transport. “They’re on the sides!” It was the first time he’d sounded concerned, even when they’d been shooting their way out of Ft. Hood.

  “Damn it,” Cobb cursed under his breath, “Sergeant, we need you up here too!”

  “Coming,” he replied, and Cobb could hear him extracting himself from the cramped squad leader’s position in the transport. In the rear of the vehicle an incredibly fit-looking infected woman vaulted onto the side and, just like a gymnast on a horse, over into the personnel hatch and on top of the sergeant just as he was coming up.

  “Fuck!” he cried as she landed on him, clawing and biting in a wide-eyed, teeth-bared killing fury. “Fuck, shit, fuck,” he screamed as he fumbled with his rifle and she tore at him like a crazed cat. He fumbled for the knife fixed to his chest rig, but the M4 strap around his neck caught his right arm. The infected howled and bit at his face, catching the sergeant’s helmet instead, but her torn and bloody fingernails raked at his cheek and drew blood. “Get her off me!” Cobb stretched back from his position, spun his rifle around, and butt-stroked the woman in the back of the head. Her skull crunched with a sickeningly loud snap, and she collapsed onto the sergeant.

  “Come on, muthafucka,” Bennet laughed at the sergeant. “She just wanted some love!” The sergeant flipped the other man the bird and wiped blood from his face, both his own and the splatter from the infected.

  “Get that dead bitch out of here!” Colbert yelled from up front, glancing over his shoulder at the scene with distaste.

  “Screw you,” the sergeant grumbled, pushing the body out of the way and climbing onto one of the metal-framed chairs so he could shoot out the back.

  Now with all but the driver shooting, they mowed down or ran down the remaining infected. Pushing through the tangle of bodies, the Stryker butted up against the bus with a crash of shattered first level glass. The survivors on top looked down on the soldiers with a mixture of relief and horror.

  “What the fuck are you waiting for?” Cobb asked, his rifle at high port as he made a sweeping gesture toward the vehicle. “Quick, get down here with us!” The two surviving men looked unsure, hesitating. The woman with the child acted first. She swept the girl up and held her out to Cobb.

  “Help me?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He let his rifle fall onto its single-point harness around his neck and reached up for the little girl. The girl looked at him, her blue eyes wide.

  “Are you a superhero?” she asked.

  “Just a soldier,” Cobb replied as he sat her on the roof of the Stryker and held up a hand to her mother. “Now, the rest of you,” Cobb said. The others looked for a second, then began coming down. A minute later Colbert backed them away from the bus and began to work around the pileup as the remainder of the horde of crazies caught up. With everyone down inside the cramped crew compartment, Cobb took a head count. They’d rescued eight civilians, two of them children. The Stryker finished maneuvering back onto the road and began picking up speed.

  “Where are we going?” asked one of the survivors.

  “To the rest of your unit?” asked another.

  “Our unit is nowhere nearby,” Cobb admitted. He thought about what to say for a moment, then sighed. “We’ll try to find someone to help you.” The sun sank lower to the horizon as they moved on.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Five

  Evening, Thursday, April 28

  West of San Diego, Pacific Ocean

  Jeremiah’s hands were shaking so badly it took three tries to get the lid off the bottle of bourbon, and then he poured at least one shot onto his desk before actually getting any in his glass. He didn’t even bother digging into the ice tray in the fridge, he just tossed the shot back and swallowed. The liquor burned all the way down.

  “Better?” asked the Marine lieutenant standing in his office doorway.

  “No,” Jeremiah admitted and looked at the bottle. For half a second, he considered just downing the whole damned thing. But what would that get him? Puking his guts out, that’s what. If half of what he’d learned over the last 24 hours was true, there might not be much Tennessee bourbon left in the world. How many cases did he have downstairs?

  “Well, we’re ready to evac you, sir.” Jeremiah sat up straight.

  “Evacuate? I’m not going anywhere.”

  The Marine looked at him coolly, then walked over to the window and pointed toward the fantail of the specially-constructed ship/launch platform. “A third of your staff just tried to eat the rest of it,” the man pointed out. “We can’t guarantee your safety here.”

  “You don’t understand,” Jeremiah said and poured another shot, then pointed a finger up toward space with his left hand while he sipped it. “I still have a ship up there.”

  “You told me that already,” the lieutenant said, “and I explained it to my commander, Major Baker, aboard the Reagan, who in turn passed it onto Admiral Tomlinson, who’s running the show.”

  “I don’t care if you told Gilligan and the Skipper,” Jeremiah said, “my people are still up there. As long as there is a chance they’re still alive, I’m keeping in touch with them.” Of course, that was an exaggeration. His life-support team agreed that with three aboard the Azanti, it was likely the CO2 scrubbers had been saturated about 6 hours ago. Whatever had happened to them with the alien drive, they were all dead now. But he hadn’t given up hope of recovering the ship. As cold-blooded as it was, the drive was irreplaceable, even if the people weren’t. “We’ll take care of ourselves.”

  “Just like you did when your crew started turning at that barbecue? Mr. Osbourne, there are 92 Marines currently in this flotilla. We’ve responded to six outbreaks in the last 12 hours, and we have two still pending. If we leave, you could be on your own next time.” Jeremiah finished the bourbon and put the bottle away. He saw his message light flashing. That would be his assistant with some kind of information.

  “We’ll take that chance.”

  “You can personally take the chance, sir. I don’t have orders to forcefully evacuate you. However, your staff and ship’s crew will be informed and given the option to evac to a secure ship.” Jeremiah opened his mouth to protest, then waved it off. He was confident the essential staff would stay, especially after they’d figured out the alien drive. The rest of the ship was still there, and researchers had continued to work on it. Luckily, most had been there when many of the assistant staff and some of the ship’s crew decided to have a fresh fish fry and had turned into blood-thirsty zombies.

  It had been touch and go for a while. They’d slowed them down by closing as many doors as possible, but the infected seemed to have no concern for their own well-being and willingly smashed through wired glass windows with bare fists, regardless of how much meat they lost in the process. Someone with the ship’s crew had
screamed for help from the Navy ship and an inflatable boat full of Marines showed up like a scene from The Sands of Iwo Jima. There were men in biochemical protective gear hosing guts off the fantail and scrubbing down the corridors where infected had been killed. He’d lost 26 staff, including one of his chief scientists, and the ship’s 11 crewmen.

  “If there’s nothing more?” the lieutenant asked.

  “No,” Jeremiah said and turned to his computer. The door clicking closed behind the Marine was the only sound he made on the way out. A few minutes later, the ship’s intercom announced that the Marines were taking anyone off who wanted to go. They were to be taken to a nearby cruise ship, which was secure and being guarded. Anyone wishing to go was to muster at the boat deck in 30 minutes. Jeremiah spent the time reviewing files from the researchers until it was five minutes before the deadline the Marines had given, then he got up and went out onto his office balcony, which overlooked the fantail and the boat deck. It was dark outside, but all the boats had running lights. A trio of inflatable boats were there, taking people off. His people. There were far more than he’d hoped. He recognized one of them. He leaned forward, cupping his hands and yelling.

  “Traitor!” It was his only remaining electronics engineer, a twenty-something named Hathaway. Jeremiah had recruited him out of college at the recommendation of Alison McDill, who was not lost in space. The air was filled with the sound of nearby ships, helicopters moving around, and the Zodiacs. Hathaway didn’t hear his ex-boss as he climbed onto the boat. Jeremiah flipped a bird at the night and went back inside. One of the heads of the alien ship research group waited there. Coldwell, a physicist, Jeremiah thought. He was in his 40’s, dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, with a tablet computer in his hand. He had typical male pattern baldness that was well past the effective comb-over stage and a modest beer gut. “What, you leaving too?”