by John O'Brien
“Stay here and leave it running. Hayward, stay with him,” Brown directs. “Clarke, you’re with me.”
Brown knows this may not be the best decision, but he hasn’t been to the cabin for nearly a year and isn’t absolutely sure that it’s still stocked. He’d have heard from his friend if he cleaned it out, but without having seen it in so long, he can’t be entirely positive.
“Search the cars, but keep an eye out.”
“Are we looking for useful things, again?” Clarke asks, smiling.
Brown shakes his head, remembering the last time they searched through cars at the Pineville campus.
“Dildos are not useful,” Brown says.
“Maybe not to you,” Clarke mumbles under her breath.
“What was that?” Brown asks.
“I said, let’s start this pony show.”
“Uh huh.”
They cautiously approach the outer limits of whatever gathering was being held, the sound of the beating of the rotors diminishing behind them. Trampled grass lies flat in the parking lot and around the tents. A stiff breeze is flowing, gusting and swirling. The canvas tents flap, the sides where the poles have fallen flailing in the wind. Placed at intervals throughout the compound, flags flutter atop tall poles driven into the ground.
Brown peeks into one of the smaller canvas tents. Folding tables and chairs are upended and scattered. Paper plates and plastic cups are strewn throughout, dirty napkins stomped into the ground. Loaves of bread and sandwich makings are scattered near the overturned tables. The tent carries a faint odor of moldering food. Apparently, people began gathering here early on.
Brown approaches the larger tent, the poles on one side downed. At the entrance, an overturned sign lies on the ground. Reaching down, Brown flips it over to see a hand-painted “Jesus Is Coming” on the other side.
“Looks like he was pissed,” Clarke says.
“I’d say so,” Brown replies.
Inside is much the same. Overturned chairs fill the long rectangular tent. Strings of lights are arranged across supports, bathing the interior in a yellow-white glare. At the far end, there’s a raised platform with a large wooden cross leaning against one of the sturdier poles holding up that part of the tent. A body is draped over the cross, one arm wrapped over each of the crossbars.
“Seriously?” Clarke whispers.
Brown shrugs; the whole place is eerie. It carries a sense of loneliness and desolation. There’s also a feeling of something hidden, something felt but not seen. As if the land holds the memory of what happened here but doesn’t want to and so keeps it shrouded. A breath of memory, part of a collective consciousness that isn’t there anymore.
Amid the hard slaps of the canvas in the wind, Brown hears something else: the sound of pages being turned. Looking for the source, he sees a Bible on the ground, the pages catching the wind, fluttering and turning. He steps over to the Bible and kneels with Clarke beside him. The gust sweeps past, several pages rapidly turning like a book being thumbed through. The pages come to rest. Leaning forward, Brown looks at where they stopped, one verse leaping out.
And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him…
“Oh, you have to be kidding me! Well, that just about does it for me. I’m ready to leave,” Clarke states, rising.
“I actually think I’m with you on this one. This is what I get for being curious,” Brown comments.
They take a slightly different route back, meandering through the parked vehicles, some with streaks of dried blood running down the windows and doors. Brown hates to leave such a trove of vehicles unsearched, but he’s a little creeped out. He’s usually able to shrug off feelings like this and push on, but this time it’s different. It could be the fatigue showing, but he’s ready to leave this place and never think about it again. He’s pissed at himself for feeling this way, thinking he should be able to force his way through a feeling. After all, it isn’t as if a gang of infected storming is after him.
Near the end of the vehicles, he forces himself to edge up to one of the car doors. A solid thump against the glass startles him and sends a rush of adrenaline coursing through him.
“Jesus,” he exclaims, jumping back and bringing his sidearm to bear.
Clarke yelps.
A face is pressed against a grimy window, so hard that the nose is twisted to the side. Hands paw at the glass, streaking it even more. The person held in place by a seat belt snarls, showing rows of stained teeth. Leaning back, it opens its mouth wide, but no scream issues forth. The obviously infected crashes against the window again, starting to pound on it.
Brown backs further away; “Okay, I guess I won’t search that one.”
And, by the way, I get it, he thinks, looking skyward. We’re leaving.
“Sooo…” Clarke says.
“Yes, yes…hint taken. We’re going,” Brown responds.
They depart, leaving the sound of flapping canvas and loose guide ropes behind.
“So, what did you find?” Hayward asks once they’re strapped into the helicopter.
“Tents,” Brown answers.
“Tents? That’s it? You didn’t find anything else?”
“Nope. Just tents,” Brown declares, staring hard at Hayward to indicate that the conversation is over.
* * * * * * *
“We need to find someplace to set down soon,” Handley states an hour and a half later, pointing to the fuel gauge hovering a little above the empty mark.
Ahead, the outline of a large city rises above the flat plains.
“That’s Salina, and it marks the end of our fuel,” Handley comments, noting Brown gaze.
“And, you’re absolutely sure that there aren’t any options?” Brown asks.
“There’s only one airport in the area and it’s right on the edge of town to the west. You can barely see it from here.” Handley points.
“Okay, fair enough. We’d have way too much company within minutes. That’s too bad. One more tank would have done it. But, that’s neither here nor there. Follow the interstate. We’ll find something there, and it’s far enough away from the city that we’ll have some time once we land,” Brown responds.
It’s odd how some towns seem to be nearly engulfed in flames while not a single plume rises from others, Brown thinks, contemplating how complete chaos seems to be the current rule.
He reflects on how things viewed closely can seem chaotic, but take on an orderly form when viewed from a distance. However, he can see nothing orderly about what is happening across the country, if not the world. He glances skyward, not seeing a single contrail.
We might be the only ones in the sky anywhere across the globe at the moment. When we touch down, this might be the last flight humanity makes for a very long time.
The thought makes him feel small. In their entire trek across half of the nation, they haven’t come across any sign of other survivors. Not a single flash of a mirror or car moving. He knows the odds dictate that there must be some, but he can’t escape the thought that they could very well be it. The idea that the four of them could represent the last vestige of humankind is one that isn’t easily contemplated. It was his dream to retire, not only from the military, but from humanity itself, but this isn’t what he had in mind. Knowing that others were out there provided an internal safety net that he never realized he relied on.
The town slides across the windshield, the gray ribbon of the freeway under the nose. The fields to either side are so flat that they can see the curve of the horizon. He remembers joking when he was in Texas that you could see the Empire State Building on a clear day. Compared to Kansas, Texas was an alpine wonderland. Whoever came up with the idea that the world was flat eons ago must have visited the Midwest.
“There,” Brown points to a group of buildings north of the city, right off the interstate. “The truck stops.”
Three very large truck stops sat astride the off-ramps, two
on the northern side and one on the southern. Their masses of pavement once hosted thirty or more semis at a time in each one, but now only seven trucks sit in one lot and eight in another, the last one empty. The hotels, restaurants, and stations have a few cars keeping the trucks company. The empty spaces between vehicles just don’t seem natural. Trucks stops like these were once sites of continual passage.
“Looks like we have company,” Hayward states.
A number of infected are racing across both parking lots, heading toward the sound of their approach. Even hopscotching backward as they did at the one airport, taking down that many will severely deplete the ammunition Brown is carrying.
“Are we going to do what we did with those other two?” Handley asks, perhaps having the same thought.
“No,” Brown simply states.
“Find another place, then?” Handley queries.
“What those folks don’t realize is that it’s PT time,” Brown relates.
“What does that mean?” Handley asks.
“It means we’re going to lead them away, doesn’t it?” Clarke says.
“Yep. They look terribly out of shape, so it’s time for a run. Go low and let them gather. Then, we’re going to lead them along the interstate until they’re far enough away that we can dash back and grab one of those trucks,” Brown replies.
“We don’t have a ton of fuel remaining. Will this take long?”
“I think five miles ought to do it. That should give us an hour or so to find one with the keys in it, or failing that, to hotwire one,” Brown states.
“If we’re leading them away, that means we’ll need to say aloft for an hour. We won’t be able to stay airborne for that long,” Handley says.
“You need to stop being logical. Three miles, then?” Brown asks.
Handley taps the fuel gauge, hoping to see the needle jump to show more fuel. He holds still, the smoke coming out of his ears indicating that gears are whirling inside.
“Thirty minutes. That’s all I can guarantee.”
“Okay, we lead them out for twenty minutes, then dash back and hope that’s enough,” Brown replies.
Handley brings the helicopter into a hover over the northern on-ramp, waiting for the infected to gather underneath. It doesn’t take long, as most were already heading toward them. He then begins slipping the helicopter down the ramp, judging how fast the infected can run and staying barely ahead.
“Was your generation just born brain-dead, or did it slowly manifest over time?” Brown questions, his tone disgusted.
“Huh? What do you mean?” Handley asks, the two cadets in back peeking out of the windows to see what is wrong.
“East. We need to lead them east. If we do pull this off and manage to get a truck running, we’ll be heading west. The last thing we need is to run smack dab into thirty or more rabid truckers who will be very angry at being duped,” Brown states.
“Oh…oh yeah,” Handley says, reversing and heading in the opposite direction.
“We could have just plowed through them,” Hayward says.
“You watch too many movies,” Brown retorts.
As they lead the horde away, Brown notes that the group begins breaking up, the slower ones falling behind.
Okay, so they’re limited by their bodies’ abilities just like anyone else. Good to know. That means they’ll run out of breath like anyone would. They’ll run until they fall, then get up again when they can. The only difference is that they won’t give up.
The horde disperses even more, looking more like a distance running event…which, in a way, it is. As they progress, there are only a few out front, and then one.
“That must be Lance Armstrong,” Brown comments.
“That’s twenty minutes,” Handley informs them amid chuckles.
“Okay, let’s turn this circus around,” Brown says.
The nose drops as they pick up speed, racing back to the truck stop. Below, they pass the strung-out line of infected. Many stand on the pavement, a few turn and stumble after them. At the on-ramp, Handley turns to see how much distance they’ve put between them and the infected. Most are invisible, a few specks heading their way. One, however, is far ahead of the rest and, even though still distant, is closing.
“Who the fuck is that guy?” Brown comments with a small amount of respect. “Come on, let’s hurry this up. We have fucking Hermes after us.”
“Hermes? You know that guy?…Wait…isn’t that a god or something?” Hayward asks.
Brown sighs. “Yes. And bloody fast on his feet. If it were a woman, I’d have said Atalanta. Don’t they teach you anything?”
“Oh, I know that one. Wasn’t she some fleet-footed Greek huntress, or something like that?” Clarke says.
“It appears someone was listening in class,” Brown says. “The bottom line is that we need to do this fast.”
“I know we need to move quickly, but it’s only one guy,” Hayward states.
“True. But then we take the time to deal with him, and another arrives. Then we deal with that one and more pile up the ramp. I’d rather just find a truck and move on,” Brown replies.
Handley lands near the parked semis and quickly shuts down.
“You three, start searching the trucks. Be on the lookout for anyone still in them. If they are, don’t open the door. Look for keys and shout once you find a set. We can’t be picky, so it’s first come, first serve. Do a quick search of the interiors. These are truckers, who likely have weapons onboard. There are only eight, so it shouldn’t take a lot of time. There are showers and places to sleep, so I’m going to check there. I figure we have about ten minutes before our Olympian shows up,” Brown briefs.
The cadets scatter, each moving for a different truck. Brown runs toward the store, his shadow keeping pace in the late afternoon sun. A muted scream rises above the sound of his heavy footfalls. Brown halts, wondering just how fast that one infected is.
He should still be at least a mile or so away, Brown thinks, looking back toward the freeway.
Another shriek erupts, this time sounding like it came from inside the store. Brown halts and settles into a stance, his sidearm pointed steadily to the front. He raises one hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the store windows. He sees movement behind the door, but is unable to clearly see inside. He moves sideways, trying to get a better look.
Sharp thuds sound against the doors. The glass shimmers, vibrating from the impacts. Getting a different vantage point and frustrated at the delay, Brown sees an infected on the other side of the glass, trying to pound its way outside.
Brown inches forward, his weapon aimed. So far, he hasn’t heard a shout from the cadets, meaning that they haven’t found any keys as yet. He edges closer to the entrance, but stays far enough out that he’ll have room should the infected actually make its way through the door. At first, Brown thought the infected was trapped inside because the doors were locked, but looking more closely, he sees that may not be the case.
“The fucking door opens the other way, you idiot. And, I don’t have time for this shit,” Brown says, raising his leg.
He kicks hard on the aluminum door side. The door blasts inward, knocking back the infected standing in the doorway. Brown thrusts forward through the entrance, not giving the infected a chance to recover. He raises his weapon and fires point blank into the stumbling figure. The infected fails to catch itself as the bullet impacts its sternum, propelling it back into a shelf. The figure falls to the floor, items from the shelf falling on to it. Brown fires another round, the body flinching as the round strikes home. Blood trickles from the infected’s mouth and one nostril, trailing to the floor to form a small puddle.
Brown stands steady, watching for the chest to rise. The figure remains motionless, its blue eyes open and glazed. Cautiously, Brown checks the pockets and pulls out a large set of keys. The keychain has a metal Peterbilt emblem on it.
“I’ll take these, thank you very much.”
; He forgoes any further search, exiting and looking around the lot for a Peterbilt. A red one sits off to the side with a large trailer attached.
Well, beggars can’t be choosers, but it looks like we have a winner.
“That one,” Brown shouts, pointing.
“I call shotgun,” Clarke shouts, as they clamber into the giant rig.
Hayward and Handley climb into the rear, each taking a seat on the bed. There, they place a few weapons they pulled from the other trucks: a couple of sidearms, a shotgun, and two AR-15s, along with a few boxes of ammo for each.
Not a bad haul.
The glow plug lights and Brown turns the key all of the way. After a couple of revolutions, the semi roars to life, the large diesel vibrating. Brown lets the big truck idle to warm up.
Can you drive this thing?” Clarke asks.
“Of course I can,” Brown answers, pressing the clutch and shoving the shifter into first gear.
The grinding sounds like the transmission is coming apart at the seams.
“You were saying?” Clarke remarks.
“Shut the fuck up,” Brown states, finally putting the truck into gear.
The truck rolls, picking up speed slowly as Brown muddles his way through the gears. They make their way through the lot, pulling out onto the roadway and down the ramp. Their runner friend shows up at the top of the ramp and runs alongside of them, seemingly judging the jump onto the cab.
“He doesn’t even look winded,” Handley comments.
More gears grind and the semi picks up speed, eventually leaving the marathoner behind.
“What do you want to bet he follows us all of the way to the mountains?” Hayward chimes.
“I’m not sure that’s a bet I’d take,” Handley replies.
At the bottom of the ramp, a sign leans against the side railings: “The Horsemen Are Among Us.”
“Seriously?! That again!” Clarke exclaims.
“What do you mean?” Hayward asks.
“We saw something like that back at the tents,” Clarke answers.
“That’s kind of creepy.”
