“How the hell is that thing still moving?” Jones said incredulously, cocking an eyebrow.
“I don’t know,” Bishop replied as he walked over to the figure and raised his boot in the air, bringing it down hard on the flailing thing’s writhing head.
Its skull ground into the tile floor and split under the pressure of Alex’s heel; pink brain matter seeped out of the opening and spilled onto the floor followed by what looked like a mixture of blood and pus.
“What the hell is this shit?” Bishop breathed and gazed down at the infected. The beast’s head spread out across the tiled floor like a cracked egg.
As far as Bishop knew, the bioweapon that he was informed of was nothing more than some kind of weaponized hemorrhagic illness that terrorists had somehow managed to get a hold of, but this? This he couldn’t even comprehend; these assholes didn’t just get sick and die like one would expect. As a matter of fact, it seemed almost as if the disease actually increased their strength while decreasing their vulnerability.
Footsteps came pounding down the hall way in unison; both Jones and Bishop raised up their MP5s ready to gun down whatever fiends came rushing through the classroom door. Two men appeared through the portal, guns raised at the ready as well. Bishop and Jones sighed, a measure of relief flooding over their adrenaline-flooded bodies.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Bishop exclaimed, lowering his weapon slightly. “We thought you were more of those things.” Bishop exhaled not realizing he had been holding his breath and pointed over to the massacred body of the janitor lying on the floor.
“Where in the hell did he come from?” one of the men asked as he glanced nervously around the room as if waiting for the boogeyman to jump out, which, in this case, wasn’t too farfetched. Bishop shrugged.
“Must have been in here cleaning before the alert went out. Hopefully he’s the only one,” he said but doubted his own statement.
Jones stepped over to the captain. “You all right, Cap? Son-of-a-bitch clocked you pretty good. Oh, and I think your hand is broken,” Jones said with a cringe, noticing the odd way several of the finger bones on his left hand were angled.
Bishop lifted his own hand up to his face and studied it. “So it would seem,” he said coolly, eyeing the big man, remembering that it was his boot that had struck his appendage. As if on cue, pain began to radiate up his disjointed fingers and consume his whole left arm. Bishop, however, did nothing to show any discomfort; he was just glad that he was right handed.
“We should probably set that, Cap,” Jones said, nodding to his injured hand.
“Yeah, yeah, after we get this stuff in front of that door. I don’t want any more surprises. Then we can worry about my hand.” The big man nodded in agreement and set about with the other two men to drag the filing cabinet out into the hallway.
After making several more trips to various classrooms surrounding the one-story middle school without incident, the men had discovered just about every classroom housed a similar filing cabinet. After a lot of dragging, grunting, and swearing, the men had built quite an impressive-looking barricade in front of the school’s lobby doors that looked similar to the first real world game of Tetris.
Bishop was impressed. The infected outside who were still attempting to break the door from its moorings were nearly imperceptible under the stack of cabinets and desks that lined the entryway.
Bishop looked to the men. “You, um, Jackson?” he pointed to a rather short, scrawny light-skinned black man who seemed to hold a grimace permanently etched on his face, tattoos lined his muscled arms and neck.
“Yeah, Captain?” he replied in the typical laid-back Baltimorean accent.
“I need someone to establish comms with command. You think you can handle that?” Bishop raised an eyebrow, knowing full well that he could.
“Yeah, man, I can do that. Might have to get up to the roof, though. I don’t know about you all, but I ain’t gettin’ a signal for shit,” he said, looking down at the signal indicator on his radio gear.
“Do what you gotta do, and consider yourself promoted to comms officer. Take Scotty here with you.” Bishop pointed over to a burly red-haired bruiser of a man named Ian McBride; he had gotten the nickname Scotty when his unit had found out that his family had immigrated to the United States from Scotland some seventy years ago. He was as full red-blooded American as they came, though, down to his deep Southern draw and the beat-up four-by-four Ford trucks that he drove. “That goes for everyone. No one goes anywhere alone from this point on, got it? Everyone needs to stay on point and watch each other’s asses. Am I clear?” Bishop instructed.
Everyone who remained in the small detachment acknowledged his order with a simple “Hooah,” being most of his men were former military, primarily Army special forces or ex-Navy Seals. Bishop had become accustomed to the reply.
“While Scotty and Jackson set up communications, the rest of us are going to search this school top to bottom, make sure we’re not in for any more surprises. If you get into trouble, don’t play hero. Shout. This school’s not that big. I’m sure we’ll be able to hear each other.”
The men nodded in turn and broke up into their respective teams, and began to head out into the school to perform the tasks they were assigned.
Chapter 13
Consciousness flirted with me like a lost lover. Blurry shapes began to emerge only to seem to evaporate in to the void once more. My eyes watered and blinked rapidly as they fought to stave off the assault of noxious smoke and gasses that flitted around the cab of the police cruiser, and entered my shallow breathing form. Muffled sounds entered into my nightmarish world barely audible over the roar of the blood coursing through my ears. All at once, reality seemed to crash in. I awoke with a start and gasped, sucking in deep breaths of lung-burning fumes. I coughed harshly to the point of near vomiting. It was at this point I realized I hung upside down, still adhered to the passenger seat by the thin strip of nylon seat belt. Its thin edge dug into my side, restricting my breathing.
I felt myself begin to panic and reached my hands up to the harness and fumbled around in the gloom, trying to locate the release mechanism. My hands trembled as I grasped onto the latch and depressed the button. I fell, hard, landing awkwardly onto of the cruiser’s broken windshield. Bits of shattered safety glass crumpled as I maneuvered myself to my hands and knees. I looked around the car, thanking God or any other deity that was listening for the fact that these cars were equipped with roll cages. I coughed hard again, raising my hand in front of my face almost instinctually as I tried to stifle the burst. The smoke was making it near impossible to see, but I was still close enough to make out the form of the police officer. Richard hung aloft in a similar position to myself. He, however, remained unconscious; at least I hoped he was just unconscious. I outstretched a bloodied hand and placed two fingers to the side of his neck to check for a pulse. I didn’t really know exactly what I was doing, but it was something I had seen done in just about every single crime drama ever produced on television, so I figured there had to be something to it. I was somewhat surprised when immediately I felt the steady thrum of the man’s heartbeat in his neck.
“Thank God for late night episodes of Criminal Minds and ER,” I whispered to the unconscious man.
After several moments of examining the man, I did not see any obvious signs of injury aside from some cuts and bruises. I quickly glanced myself over and discovered much of the same; a wound on my forehead bled like a stuck pig, dribbling salty blood into my eyes, nose, and mouth. If I had to make a wager, I figured if anyone had seen me at the moment, they would probably figure me for one of those crazy assholes running around outside.
Those crazy assholes, I repeated slowly in my thoughts. I had all but forgotten about those people, those things outside. The thought spurred me into action. I knew if we sat around in this burning wreck of a car for too long, the cop and I would be done for. I crawled up close to the upside-down man looking at him almost nose
to nose and began slapping him gently in the face.
“Rich, hey, Rich, wake up, dumb fuck. Rich, Richard. Hey, pig!” I shouted the last part, sending droplets of blood and spittle into the man’s face as he shot awake and immediately threw his arm up to his waist, reaching for his gun. I ducked back and threw my hands up in a placating gesture. “Hey, man, relax. It’s just me, just ol’ Kyle.” I did my best to smile; the whites of my teeth were covered in blood along with most of my face, making the act look more menacing than cheerful.
“Aw, fuck,” Richard groaned and touched his hand to his now-throbbing head.
“Yeah, I pretty much had the same reaction. Here, let me help you get out of that thing.” I reached up to unlatch his seat belt, and Richard batted my hand away.
“Get the fuck off,” he spat. “I’ll get it,” he said, wincing in pain.
“Not a morning person either, I take?” I said lightheartedly.
He ignored me and undid his seat belt, falling to the windshield in similar fashion as I had previously. He clutched his ribs as he landed, screwing up his face, and letting out a litany of swear words that would make my grandmother blush from her grave.
“You okay, tough guy?” I said as he did his best to roll over onto his side, wincing in pain as he did.
“Yeah, think I cracked some ribs is all.” He took in a deep shuddering breath.
“Damn, I broke a nail,” I quipped, trying to inject some levity into the situation.
Richard grunted in way of reply and looked around the cab. “We need to get out of here,” he stated flatly. I wholeheartedly agreed. I reached down and checked to make certain my sidearm was still attached to my hip, and then checked to make certain my speed loaders were still in place. All was accounted for, and I did my best to take a gander outside of the window to gauge what we might be up against.
“Can’t see shit,” I said, wiping at a small section of unshattered glass with my hand. I cocked my head to the side like a dog in an attempt to hear anything that might be lurking outside. All I could hear was a series of creaks and pops as heat from the blast ebbed away from the vehicle’s surface.
Although I could not see outside, I sensed a foreboding of what we would perceive once we exited the police cruiser. The fact that there were people still trapped in their cars as crazies and Homeland agents alike battled out in the street, I knew that the outside of this wagon would be the scene of widespread carnage like one would see only in times of war, or at least in the movies. I wondered briefly if exiting the charred remains of the vehicle at this point was our best course of action. Perhaps we should take a moment to formulate a plan. That thought quickly receded as memories of my wife and children entered my mind. They were, by far, my only priority. I had to wonder once again if this, this affliction, had struck home as well.
A crack and crunching sound wrenched me from my revelry as Officer Richard struck the windshield with both boots, trying to knock it free from its resting place. He coughed violently, clutching his side as he completed the motion; a small trickle of blood escaped his lips and dribbled onto his chin.
“Damn, dude,” I exasperated. “I think you better take it easy. I’m pretty sure your injuries are worse than you think,” I said as I eyed the bit of crimson spittle on his lips, a look of concern crossing my features.
“I bit my fucking tongue. I’m fine. Let’s . . . let’s just get this damn window off so we can get the hell out of this death trap.”
I nodded even though among the smoke infested car, I seriously doubted that it was even perceived.
I pivoted myself into position, lying on my back, and raised both legs, bringing my knees up toward my chest.
“On three, one, two, and three!” Both of us launched our assault on the windshield at the same time, the combined force of the attack sending the fragmented glass hurling out into the dead space in front of the car. It landed with a grinding thunk as it struck the scorched asphalt, skittering to a stop at the base of a melted median. I scrambled my way around until I was facing the open portal and carefully, slowly inched my head out of the opening, doing my best to listen for any signs of trouble. I heard nothing.
“I’m going to check it out. You stay here. I’ll let you know if it’s safe.” Richard started to protest, as I have come to learn in the short time I had known him was his usual way, but I held a finger to my lips, essentially shutting him up. “Shhh.” I dragged the rest of myself out of the open window, gingerly avoiding bits of glass and rubble. I spotted a rusted nail along the roadway and thought what a screwed-up thing it would be to cut myself on it and die of tetanus after living through all of this. I avoided it, getting to my feet, crouching low to keep from braining myself on the crumpled hood of the car as I duck-walked out into the open air.
My imagination could not have prepared me for what lie outside of the wreckage. The police cruiser sat astride the edge of what could only be described as a small crater. From the looks of it, it had to be at least a half a mile wide. Smoke flitted up from charred rock and sizzled as the storm’s last remaining droplets of rain pelted its nearly molten surface. The pit itself, however, was not that deep, perhaps only twelve or fifteen feet, high enough, however, that I would not want to take a fall down its jagged sides.
The bridge on the interstate where we had resided was all but destroyed; all that remained of it was a small slip road that winded uphill toward a series of train tracks in the distance. I heard a noise and spun around, hand on my sidearm ready to draw, only to see Richard clambering out from underneath the wreckage. I relaxed a bit and held my hand out, grasping a hold of his wrist, helping him to his feet. He grudgingly accepted it, although I had a sense he was not used to receiving aid from anyone lest it be a lowly security guard. If he only knew, I mused.
“What on God’s green Earth happened?” he said in utter amazement as he gazed upon the destruction.
“Fuel air bomb,” I stated matter-of-factly.
He eyed me quizzically. “You know this how?” He cocked an injured eyebrow.
I smirked. “I know a little bit about a little bit,” was all I would reply.
Thankfully letting the matter drop, we turned to observe our only escape route, unless we had the intention of walking across semi-molten asphalt, which we did not. We began to walk; well, okay, it was more like a spirited limp down what was left of the open roadway. What was left of the remaining cars on the roadway looked more like some kind of crap modern art you would see located outside of a random skyscraper in downtown Baltimore than the remnants of a Honda accord or a Nissan pathfinder. I wondered how many commuters or mothers taking their kids to school were on the interstate this morning when those assholes decided to bomb the shit out of it. I sighed, shaking the thought out of my head, and reached my hands up to rub my temples. I winced as my fingertips grazed the abrasions on my forehead. I looked over at the exhausted-looking police officer.
“So what now?” I asked.
“We need to get down to the station,” he said, looking around from side to side, still clutching his rib cage.
“Dumb question, why the police station?” I asked.
“The best thing we can do right now is get help. Besides, I need to get these ribs wrapped, and if anything else, there are a hell of a lot more guns and ammo there than what you and I are carrying.”
I nodded my head, all the while thinking that I wanted, no, needed to get home. Alas, I was a good thirty miles from there. If what I had seen earlier this morning was any indication of how things were going down all over, I was going to need some type of ride, well, mainly being the fact that mine was blown to shit by our illustrious government, but I digress. It was what it was.
“Okay, about how far are we from your station?” I asked, having a sneaking suspicion I knew exactly where it was.
“BWI, a few miles that way,” he said and pointed in the vague direction of the airport.
“Are you flipping insane?” I chastised. “If you hadn’t
noticed, the Department of Homeland Security has a hard-on for us.”
“Correction,” Richard interjected, raising an eyebrow, “they have a hard-on for you.”
I sighed.
“It’s no matter. I want to head to our substation located on Fuel Farm Road. There we have more cars, weapons, ammo, and perhaps we can get a read on just what the fuck is going on. You know where I’m talking about?”
I nodded, and in fact, I knew it well, being that I passed the damn road every single waking day. The road itself got its name for obvious reasons. The area where it was located housed several massive fuel tanks that held, of course, you guessed it, jet fuel. I wondered for a moment if that’s where the powers that be procured the fuel for the bomb they had just dropped on hundreds of innocent people.
There was only one major flaw in his plan: the bridge leading toward that particular area of the airport was just blown to smithereens, which meant, of course, we were going to have to backtrack to the side roads and make our way around, which was going to add more time than I wanted to give. Personally, I just wanted to start hoofing it home; but I knew on foot the thirty mile-or-so trek might as well have been a hundred, especially if whatever this was affecting the townsfolk here had spread beyond the roadway we currently occupied. As much as I hated to admit it, I understood why Homeland had launched the attack. In my previous experience with the military, I had seen such atrocities take place in the jungles of the Congo while squaring off against militant warlords who threatened to overthrow and destabilize the region. My unit was sent in to gather covert intelligence on their troop movements and assist the local government in quelling such uprisings.
There were, quite frankly, several times my team and I could have taken down several of the power players who ran these militant groups; however, our hands were completely tied with bureaucratic red tape. I hated that shit, but alas, we were on strict orders to remain eyes only lest we inadvertently cause some kind of international incident, even though we resided there for the simple reason that their own government had requested it, but I guessed that the African Government feared looking weak among their own people when Americans were doing their dirty work.
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