He took the pistol from Jeremy, firing three more shots before the terrible sound of an empty chamber resonated. He tossed the gun down, then removed his baseball bat. Zach was a good shot, better than Jeremy. He would do okay. Ed was stronger, making the baseball bat a more effective weapon. The survivors moved closer together as the carriers closed in on each side.
Ed looked at Dave, then at Trish. Their expressions were the same. Trish took Jeremy's hand, her rifle now empty. Ed raised the baseball bat, prepared for any carrier that came within swinging range. Zach fired several more times before his clip ran out. He attempted to reload it, but he had little ammunition left. Dave fired a few more times, saving his ammunition for the closest threats. They were tightly surrounded now; all they could do was fight until they died.
Suddenly Ed heard the sound of rapid gunshots. At least five carriers fell, their heads snapping backward before striking the pavement. Then more gunfire erupted, a symphony of sound as the carriers around them began to drop. The gunfire continued in a staccato rhythm, as carriers fell all around them.
Ed ducked, bringing Zach and Jeremy down with him. Trish and Dave both followed as the gunfire continued to erupt. The discharge of gunpowder, the ricochet of bullets flying through, the thud of bullets striking bodies, and the screaming of deadwalkers filled the air.
Ed and the rest of the group crawled on their hands and knees toward the wall of the overpass, hunkering down and covering their heads. Ed placed himself in front of the children, covering them as best he could. The gunfire continued as they watched carriers falling to the ground all around them, their bodies jerking back and forth as the bullets hit their mark. The concrete, once a grim, dark gray, was now a dark red puddle of blood.
Ed turned to see a group of vehicles approaching, along with men on foot. They wore either camouflage or black, along with flak jackets, army boots, and helmets. Some wore masks, some didn't. Mounted machine guns on the vehicles laid down fire as the men on foot advanced, stopping periodically to fire on the crowds of deadwalkers. The remaining infected fell at an astonishing rate, some of them running away from the advancing forces. Those were taken down methodically by snipers on foot.
“Hold your fire!” they heard someone call out. The command came from a man who sat atop one of the vehicles, waving his arms in the air. The gunfire stopped. The air was thick with the smoke from burnt gunpowder. It wafted about, making it difficult to breath. An eerie silence ensued; the only sound that could be heard was the moaning and writhing of bodies as the wounded carriers lay dying on the ground.
The line of vehicles rolled up next to the survivors, three in all, dodging the bodies of the infected where they could, and simply running over them where they couldn't. The man who had called the ceasefire hopped down onto the pavement. He had a light brown beard and shortly-cropped brown hair with a touch of gray at the temples. His shoulders were broad, despite being slightly shorter than the other men. Deep wrinkles lined his cheeks. His blue eyes caught the light of the midday sun, radiating in stark contrast with his weathered face.
“You folks okay?” he asked them.
The group remained crouched where they were. Ed looked at the man with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Seconds ago he was prepared to die; now he didn't know what to think about anything. He wasn't sure he was even still alive. His senses were reeling from overload.
“Who are you?” Ed stammered. “What's going on?
“We're here to help,” the bearded man replied. He was joined by several more men, all carrying guns. The man whispered something to one of the men and they departed. Ed then heard a gunshot to his left, followed by another, then another. He saw the men on foot walking through piles of dozens upon dozens of downed carriers, shooting any that still moved.
“How'd you know we were here?” Dave asked.
“When we hear that much gunfire, we come looking,” the bearded man replied, matter-of-factly. “Look,” he continued, “I'd love to explain more, but this place will be crawling with these fuckers in no time. We'd prefer to be gone by then. You're welcome to come with us, if you like.” He looked around, surveying the scene and gesturing with his hands. “I very much doubt you want to stay here.”
Dave looked toward Ed. When he didn't respond Dave responded for him. “No, we'll come.”
“Good,” the bearded man replied, smiling. “Is this your whole group here?”
“We had another with us...but he was killed on the bridge,” Dave told the bearded man. It hurt to speak the words.
The bearded man nodded in response. “You're sure he's dead?”
“He fell,” Trish added. “Off the bridge.”
The bearded man nodded again. “I see.”
“You never told us your name,” Ed said. He felt more aware and less surreal now. His mind was clearing, but he was still confused.
“Miller,” the bearded man responded.
“And the city, is it safe?” Ed asked.
“It is,” Miller responded. “That's where we're going to take you.”
Ed nodded. St. Louis is a save haven. The phrase played over and over again in his head. He looked at Zach and Jeremy. Their faces beamed.
The bearded man continued. “We can explain more later. For now we need to get back behind the fence.”
“The fence?” Dave asked.
“Around the city. Don't worry, we'll explain,” the man responded.
“Sure,” Dave replied. “I understand.”
Ed, Trish, Zach, Jeremy, and Dave sat in the back of a green jeep. Another man, this one dressed almost completely in black, sat behind the wheel.
“Take them to triage, then on to quarantine,” Miller told the man in black. “Tell Manahan to make them comfortable, then await my orders.”
“Yes, sir,” the man in black responded. He started the jeep, then sped quickly away. Ed watched as Miller saluted them, then turn back toward the rest of the men on the bridge.
As they drove away, heading west on the bridge toward the city, Ed held his sons close to him. He looked at Trish and smiled. She returned it, then followed it with a kiss on the cheek. She squeezed both boys' shoulders, then scooted closer to them.
Ed thought of their dead friends. He saw Mitchell fall over the wall of the overpass, covered with carriers. Brenda shot through the head, Tammy unable to go on. The thoughts hurt, but they could deal with them later. For now, they were out of harm's way.
Dave looked out the window at the city, then turned back to Ed. He smiled. “We made it,” he said, shaking his head. “Can you believe it? We really made it.”
“I wish Mommy could see this,” Zach said.
“Me too, buddy. Me too,” Ed responded.
As they drove over the bridge and across the Mississippi river Ed 's thoughts turned to Sarah. He had promised her he'd keep her boys safe. He wasn't sure he'd done that, but he had done what he could, the best way he could do it, and he hoped that she would be proud of that. They had, after all, made it to the city by the river; to their safe haven.
And now he could see her face again; something he hadn't been able to do in years.
The Jeep swerved harshly around stalled cars still sitting atop the bridge. Ed gazed toward the city, catching sight of the Arch in the distance. The midday sun was beginning its descent, and bright orange sunlight reflected off the polished stainless steel surface of the massive structure. Ed recalled his last memory of the Arch, the same one he'd recounted to his children time after time, and was surprised that it looked almost exactly as he remembered.
The Jeep continued until it reached two large, chain-link gates. Two men stood behind them, both with machine guns. The gates were part of a larger chain-link fence, topped with razor-wire, running as far as he could see. As they approached the gates, he held Trish and the boys a little more tightly. Reality then came into sharp clarity, and realization finally took hold of him.
They made it. They were home. They had reached their safe haven.
* * *
Miller watched the Jeep speed away over the bridge until it became a small dot in the distance. Several more gunshots rang out in the background as his men finished off the last of the deadwalkers. He could smell the residue of gunfire in the air; it was a familiar smell he both loved and hated.
A tall man dressed in black fatigues walked up to Miller, then stood quietly beside him. His straight blonde hair peeked out from under his helmet. The blonde man pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket then lit it. He took a deep drag, then offered it to Miller. Miller refused, shaking his head. Both men stood atop the bridge without speaking, watching the city for some time.
“Do you think they know?” the blonde man asked.
Miller said nothing, then held out his hand for the cigarette. He took a short drag then handed it back to the blonde man, exhaling the smoke into the spring air. It had been a long time since he'd had a cigarette. Some habits died hard.
“I don't know,” he replied. Then he looked at the blonde man, his blue eyes reflecting the intense evening sun as he spoke.
“How could they not?”
About the Author
Brian J. Jarrett is a computer programmer and writer.
He lives in St. Louis, Missouri with his wife, his children, and too many dogs.
For more please visit http://brianjjarrett.com.
* * *
Other works
The Signal: A Collection of Tales (available late 2011)
Acknowledgments
The author would like to thank the following people for their invaluable time and assistance with this project; it wouldn't be what it is without them.
Pete, Allyson, Brooke, Jerome, Scott, Jerene, Tim, Bevin, Adam, Melonie
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapters
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Into the Badlands Page 26
