Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure

by Christopher Westley

  Mac lifts the can up and over to the stove. “Let’s see if this thing still works,” he says as he twists a dial on the front of the stove to the ‘Light’ position. It clicks a few times as the hiss of propane gas hits their nostrils before igniting. A yellowish-red flame quickly turns to blue.

  “There you go. Got a pot to put this stuff in?”

  She’s one step ahead of him and is already grabbing a large saucepan, placing it on the open flame. Mac turns the can upside down, dumping the slop into the pan. Grabbing a stool at the end of the counter, Sara places it in front of the stove, steps up, and begins stirring the spaghetti. Within minutes, it begins bubbling as the steam wafts its way out of the kitchen and into the café. Mac grabs three bowls, placing them on the counter next to the stove. Grabbing a ladle that is hanging above the stove, he puts scoop after scoop into each bowl, emptying the saucepan.

  “Wa-la. Dinner is served. Think Ava will like it?”

  “Hope so,” Sara says. They grab the three bowls and walk out of the kitchen into the café, where they see Ava slumped over in the booth where Mac left her.

  “Wake up, sleepy head,” Mac says as he approaches with two bowls of spaghetti. Ava doesn’t move. Setting down the bowls, Mac leans over Ava and shakes her shoulder.

  “Ava, time to eat.” She still doesn’t move, and it’s then that he realizes she has passed away, probably because of the beating and the dehydration from the previous day of traveling.

  “Is she? Dead?”

  “I’m afraid so. I think her heart just couldn’t handle all the stress,” Mac says.

  Sara steps backward; a single tear rolls down her cheek. Turning around, she walks to the end of the café, before sitting down in a far booth. With her back to Mac and Ava, she looks down into the spaghetti bowl, unaware that Mac has joined her across the booth in the opposite seat.

  “It’s okay to cry, Sara.”

  Lifting her spoon up, Sara’s hand starts to tremble as she looks over at Mac.

  “Why does everyone need to die?” she squeaks out. Mac looks over at her with compassion.

  “There is a time for everyone, especially now, during these troubled days; guess it was her time.” Sara starts eating her spaghetti, and the pair continue their meal, finishing it without another word spoken.

  Leaving the café at nightfall, Mac and Sara make their way outside into the darkened streets. There are no street lamps illuminated, but a full moon has lit up the town, leaving dark, shadowy alleys and storefronts. Cautiously walking up the street, Sara strains her ears, trying to see whether she can hear anyone or anything stirring around them as she turns her head left and right. The silence of the night engulfs them as they continue walking back to the museum. Stepping into the museum and off the street, Mac turns around, locking the door behind them.

  “We better get some sleep if we are going to go to Dulce tomorrow. We have a long day ahead of us; we need our rest.”

  Mac checks on Sara to see whether she is okay. Sara is still in shock after losing her friend, the first female she has ever had as a friend in a screwed up world. This is a world that a twelve-year-old should never have to experience in her lifetime.

  “I’m tired,” she says as she lies down, placing her head against her backpack. Looking over at Mac, she starts to say something but closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep.

  2:00 a.m.

  ROSWELL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  Overhead, the whir of large turboprop engines breaks the silence of the night sky. From the cockpit of a USAF C-130 airplane, two pilots work the controls, setting the airplane up in landing configuration before circling the runway. As the captain lines the plane up on runway three, his voice comes across the airplane address system to the crew behind.

  “We will be down in thirty seconds, men; prepare for landing.”

  In the back of the plane, a crack commando unit is standing by, ready to launch two specialized dune buggies. Each one is equipped with a single M60 machine gunner position and four extra seats for the team members. The machine gunners are already climbing into position as the ramp at the rear of the aircraft slowly starts to open. They are all dressed in black, with night vision goggles attached to their helmets, and the leader of the squad signals the men to mount up and prepare for a moving departure. The squeal of the tires and a quick jolt tells them they are down and it is time to move out. At the back of the plane, an airman signals for them to go. The drivers of the buggies launch out the rear of the aircraft and slide to a stop as the plane continues down the runway, then back into the air. Ten commandos leave the runway, out of the airport and onto Highway 285 to Roswell.

  In town, the smell of death has filled the night air, coaxing the infected into investigating the source of the stench. One by one, numbering in the hundreds, the horde of feeders move to the café, lumbering along back and forth down the alleys and streets, spurred on by their keen sense of smell.

  On the outskirts of town at the south end, the team leader in the front buggy pushes on his throat microphone. “Let’s get in quick, find any survivors, and back to the airfield. Roswell is small; should have this done in less than two hours.”

  One by one, the soldiers reply, Roger.

  Driving ahead, the buggies pass the cemetery and keep rolling forward to the museum. Just outside the museum and down the block, the horde of infected people has found the café and has started feeding on Ava’s corpse. One after another, the feeders fill the café until it cannot contain another person.

  Back at the buggies, the team leader finally spots the remainder of the horde standing outside the café.

  “Contact, dead ahead. Three hundred yards. Don’t shoot unless we have to. Keep moving. We will circle around at the north end of town and then start our search on the west side.”

  The rest of the commandos just sit in silence, disciplined by years of combat in places such as Kabul, Afghanistan, and various other Middle Eastern countries. Buzzing closer to the horde of the infected, the noise finally hits the grotesque ears of those just outside the café. They turn in unison, instantly running out into the street to the commando’s buggies.

  “Open up.”

  The silence of the night is shattered as the 7.62-millimeter machine guns rattle away, rounds ripping through rotted flesh. The ensuing carnage of two M60 machine guns does nothing to stop the horde from blocking the roadway, although fifteen to twenty lie sprawled out decapitated or missing most of their heads.

  “Go left; go left,” the team leader shouts over the microphone. Following the first buggy, the second buggy turns a bit too sharp and strikes the center divider of the road, flipping the buggy over on its side. It skids to a stop, one hundred yards away from the horde, which are already closing in on them as fast as they can scramble, crawl, or run. Two of the commandos on the right side of the buggy are killed instantly as it rolls on top of them. The gunner is catapulted out of the buggy, slamming headfirst into the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, knocking him unconscious. Frantically trying to unclip their seatbelts, the driver and left rear passenger work hard to free themselves from the machine’s grasp on them. Climbing out of the buggy, the driver sees the horde already jumping on top of the gunner, feeding on bleeding flesh.

  “Come on, Thomas; we got to get the hell out of here.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  The two commandos climb free from the buggy and head back up the street the way they came in.

  Up ahead on the street they just turned down, the lead group is initially unaware of the crash but turns around in time to see the horde make it to the overturned vehicle.

  Stopping, the leader steps out of the buggy and presses his microphone button. “Bravo Team, this is Alpha Six, over.” He hears no reply, just static. The horde hears the rumble of the V8 engine and immediately heads to the first team. Stepping back in, the team leader motions with his hand to move forward as they drive off. “Turn left at the next block; we’ll circle around an
d back to see if anyone is alive.”

  His driver steers the buggy around the city trying to find the street back to the crash.

  In the museum, Sara and Mac are awakened by the noise of gunfire and the crash. Running over to the windows, Sara looks out and cannot see down the street. Opening the door, she peers down the street, Mac looking over the top of her at the ensuing carnage just after it happened.

  “Military.”

  “Yeah, not sure if they are friendly or?” Sara looks up at him as she talks.

  “I’m with you, kid; pretty sure we better stay out of sight until we can find out if they are here for survivors or here to make sure there is no survivors. Don’t want to end up like all the survivors in New York that was slaughtered right after they were told it was okay to come out of their houses and leave the city.”

  Sara closes the door, remembering seeing a ladder upstairs. “I’m going to the roof.”

  “Good idea.”

  The pair grab their gear, heading upstairs. At the back of the museum, they find the ladder and quickly make their way to the roof. Walking over to the front edge of the building, Sara leans way out over the edge of the roof, looking down on the street at the slaughtered hordes. Further down the street, she can see two of the commandos running away from a half dozen bloodthirsty, infected citizens of Roswell. Sara quickly sets up the rifle and starts cutting down the horde, one by one. Low on ammo, she takes down six infected survivors. One shot, one kill each.

  The commandos continue running but are surprised to hear the distinct rifle cracks behind them. Looking over their shoulders, they see the two feeders fall victim to the .308 caliber rounds splitting their heads in half.

  “Not our guys, but can’t complain.”

  They make it to the front of a bank building and scramble inside through broken windows in the front.

  “Let’s get to the roof,” Thomas says to the other commando.

  “Good plan, chief.”

  The two make their way to the stairs and climb the ten stories to the roof. Walking over to the north side of the building, they look through the night vision rifle scopes across the skyline, spotting Sara looking back at them through her rifle scope. She does not have a night vision rifle scope, but the men are silhouetted against the night sky and show up quite nicely in her scope. She raises a hand and waves at them.

  “Who is that?” Thomas says to his buddy.

  “Let me see,” the other commando says as he looks through the scope of the large sniper rifle.

  “Don’t quote me, but that is either a real small man or a kid at the other end of that rifle barrel; either way, nice shooting. Wait, okay, just saw the other person; there are two of them. Might be our targets.”

  Thomas grabs the rifle and looks back into the scope.

  “Could be.”

  “Alpha Leader, this is Bravo Six.”

  “Bravo Six, Bravo Six, this is Alpha Leader, go ahead.”

  “Alpha Six, Bravo Team. We are down by three; I repeat, down by three.”

  “Roger that, Bravo Six, what’s your location?”

  “Alpha, we are four blocks to the south of the intersection where we crashed, located on top of a ten-story bank building.”

  “Roger that, Bravo Six. Stay put; we’ll make it to you. Over.”

  “That’s a good copy, Alpha. Bravo Six out.” Being a highly trained operative leaves little time for emotion, nor was it their time to go into lengthy conversation about what they had found on the other rooftop. Thomas figures he can fill the team in after they are reunited. On top of the museum, Sara is reveling in the success she just had with the last of the sniper rifle ammunition.

  “They look like soldiers,” she says, looking through the scope of her rifle before giving Mac a chance to see them. He leans over her to take a look.

  “Yeah they are military, or at least mercenaries in military clothing. Wonder what they are doing here.” He can see the two soldiers gesturing to each other and wondering what they are saying. Mac motions for Sara to swing the rifle over to the right and back to the intersection where the dune buggy crashed minutes earlier.

  “Nobody left alive in that one. Pretty sure these guys would be traveling with backup; just don’t see anyone,” he says as he gives the rifle scope back to Sara. She starts scanning the far end of the street they came up earlier.

  “Let’s get out of here, Mac. I don’t like this.” Sara turns around and sits down, breaking down the rifle just as she has done multiple times before and stowing it in her backpack.

  “Agreed. The flesh-eaters are not down in the café anymore. No time like the present to get out of here.”

  Mac and Sara make their way off the roof and are outside the front of the building. The street is deserted, besides the leftover carnage at the intersection.

  2:45 a.m.

  BANK BUILDING

  “Yes, they’ve left the roof,” Thomas says to the other soldier. Keying up his microphone again, Thomas calls the other team leader.

  “Alpha Six, Bravo Six, over.” There is a long pause of silence before the radio crackles to life.

  “Bravo Six, go ahead.”

  “Sir, we have civilians to the north; they are positioned in a building about two blocks north of the intersection where we lost it.”

  The radio crackles again before the message comes through.

  “Bravo Six, we understand two civilians to the north. We are still unable to reach your position. Multiple blocked side streets and the horde is still pursuing us.”

  “That’s a good copy, Alpha Six. And, sir, they are armed, large caliber rifle; one of them is a real good shot, took out half the horde that was chasing us.” Thomas ends the transmission and looks over at his partner. “Well, buddy, we are on our own temporarily.”

  The other soldier shakes his head before speaking. “I knew it. Had a bad feeling going into this town, things would be messed up.”

  Thomas looks at him, placing a hand on the soldier’s shoulder. “No worries, we’ll make it out of this one.”

  “Sure hope so.”

  They wait for a reply, but the radio remains silent.

  A few blocks over to the west, the other team is frantically navigating down narrow streets. Driving ahead, each block is fraught with more hazards than the last one. The driver reaches an intersection that is blocked in all directions except one. He turns right and puts the pedal to the floor. The tires spin, kicking up smoke before grabbing the pavement. Directly behind them, the horde keeps running after them, spurred on by the smell of uninfected human flesh.

  “Sir, this is not looking good. We are going farther away from the other team,” the driver says as he swerves left and right, trying to navigate around burned-out cars and trash left in the street.

  “I know, turn left at the next intersection. We’ll make it back there as soon as we can.”

  Turning left at the next intersection, the dune buggy’s right front tire contacts the concrete curb, blowing the tire.

  “Damn it, what’s our plan, sir?” The driver pulls hard on the steering wheel to compensate for the added resistance from the flattened tire.

  “Keep going. Punch it!” the team leader yells to the driver as the horde rounds the corner, thirty yards behind them. Heading back south again, the dune buggy’s right front tire disintegrates, letting the rim contact the ground. Sparks start to spray off the rim, lighting up the ground just underneath the buggy. Gaining distance between them and the horde, the driver pushes the engine to its limits trying to overpower the lack of a tire on the right side. The engine starts to overheat as they continue south. The team leader searches ahead through his night vision goggles and then realizes the lack of houses ahead is the cemetery they passed on their way into town. Two blocks ahead of them, he sees the entrance gate to the cemetery.

  “There. Take a left into the cemetery.”

  Narrowly fitting through the gate, the buggy flies into the cemetery.

  Tombst
ones materialize before them on both sides as they drive further inside. A loud bang and then silence from the engine tells them they will be walking out of Roswell.

  “Dismount. Let’s go men; the highway is just on the other side of this cemetery.”

  The horde of flesh-eaters has just made it inside the cemetery and is spurred on by the scent of the sweat the soldiers are leaving behind them.

  “Bravo Six, this is Alpha Six, over.” He tries to reach the other team but is unaware his radio has died.

  Alpha Team continues to scramble through the cemetery, dodging tombstone after tombstone. In the center, they find large, aboveground crypts, complete with gargoyles and other gothic figures fashioned out of marble. The horde starts closing in on the group. Looking over his shoulder, the team leader decides it is time to make a stand. He signals the men to spread out. Two of the soldiers head to the left and hide among the crypt buildings. The driver, team leader, and rifleman take the right side, fifty yards away from the other team members. Setting up crossfire, the commandos’ onslaught of bullets flying in the next twenty seconds cuts down ten to twelve feeders. Reloading, dropping magazines, and reloading again, the team continue to mow down more and more of the horde, when they realize it is no use.

  “Move out.”

  Still shooting, the two soldiers to the left start running through the cemetery, while the other three soldiers take off in the opposite direction. The horde splits in two and continues its marathon pace to the soldiers. The last cracks of automatic gunfire are replaced by the horrific screams as the Alpha team is overtaken, then eaten alive.