by RW Krpoun
I reached up to turn off the hiker radio but it was gone, probably when I slid off the roof. No loss; Charlie and Mick weren’t in a position to come to my aid. Leaning forward cautiously I jerked the rear view mirror off its mount and carefully looked around. Nothing. OK. Working clumsily with my left hand, I used the multi-tool pliers to strip off two lengths of plastic edging from the captain’s chairs. A couple strips of duct tape gave me a two-foot rod to which I taped the mirror. I slowly cranked open the sun roof left-handed and eased my mirror out. I had to re-tape the mirror to get it in a better position, but it let me see that I had four left around the van. Three were standing, two by the door I went in, one by the hood. The fourth, leaking blood from a belly wound, was sitting next to a light blue Volvo a few feet from the front of the van. Not leaking very bad, unfortunately-I counted her as a combatant despite the wound.
Four. Not bad. Close in, but this was Glock range, and the two hundred thirty grain hollow points would have greater temporary effect than the M-4s ninety-grain 5.56mm. I had fourteen rounds to work with, no time to reload or switch weapons.
After thinking it over I extended my mirror and checked again.
Both hands on the Glock. Think it through-a plan, however rudimentary, shaves reaction time in a fight that lasts bare seconds. Generally, the first one to act wins.
Two rounds caused the windshield to collapse; I hit the one by the hood in the chest knocking him back, then in the forehead. The sitter I got as she struggled to her feet, one round through her hair, one through her throat, and the third in the temple.
A black man in a business suit that had been half-ripped from his torso was clawing through the side door widow; I put two in his chest as I slid across the bench seat and the third into his forehead. The fourth was over the dash and clawing past the captains’ chairs as I blew two holes in the dash, one through his left biceps, and the last one that locked the slide back square between his eyes.
My hands shook badly enough to make changing magazines difficult, but I finally got the one holding the last three rounds for the Glock slid home and the slide released.
A hundred yards north of the van I stopped to catch my breath, remove the earplugs, and listen. Some scattered shots, not close, a few small explosions very far south, not much else. I pulled the empty magazines out of the double holder and slid it onto the full mag in the M-4, and slotted a fresh magazine into the other side. Obviously, reloading fast was a major survival issue.
Heading north was the only option: I had to get home and reorganize. The night may belong to Airborne Rangers, but not in this burg: Charlie said they laid up during the day, so if they came out at night, a single shooter in the open would not stand a chance, vision gear or not. Nor would a vehicle make you safe; one of the bodies around the van had had compound fractures to both wrists from hitting the safety glass; if there had been more than four, I wouldn’t have made it. I was down to three rounds for the Glock and half the load I had started with for the M-4, and at the furthest I had been three quarters of a mile from my starting point as the crow flew, double that as the cripple gimped.
No sign of Charlie, Mick, or Tina on my trek back to the ramp, but I hadn’t expected any. Four saved and fifty-odd infected put down wasn’t a bad piece of work, but it put me no closer to my goal, although it had taught me a lot. The rules of the game were much clearer now. I could see why they were pulling back and declaring an exclusion zone: out in the countryside troops would fare better against the infected; in armored vehicles they would be completely safe-hell, they could just drive over them. But here in an urban environment it was going to be a bitch to operate.
The kid I had shot earlier was still where I left him, and I was surprised to see that the fire ants hadn’t found him yet.
Hiking back, as the stress chemicals died down and my heart steadied, I felt good. It had been a very long time since I had felt anything other than numb and used up. There’s a silver lining in every cloud-the whole world might be turning to chaos, but I was feeling decent for a change.
With my door locked and bolted behind me, I stripped off my vest, gloves, and sweatshirt, checked for blood splatter, and washed up. What a mess-the city was deeper in the shit than I had imagined, and me with it.
I was slapping together a quick sandwich when my phone buzzed. It was my ex-sister-in-law. “Where are you?”
“Still in the city. Have you heard anything?”
“Yes, they are in the projects, holed up, they just called.” She read off the phone number. “She lost her phone and my truck. I hope you plan to get into gear soon, Martin. We’re loading up into busses to be shipped God knows where, so I doubt I will be able to keep tabs on you.”
“I’m working on it.”
My ex picked up on the second ring. “Its me. You OK?”
“Yes, we all are. We’re hiding in an empty apartment with a couple other people. Where are you?” She was calm but tense; she always did well under pressure.
“At home. I headed towards you, but got turned back after half a mile. I’m working on a plan, though. Where exactly are you?” I copied down the building and apartment numbers. “Look, they come out in strength after dark, and they are drawn to noise and light, so black out everything, remember cracks under doors, and unplug or turn off phones. I’m going to come get you, but it will have to be during daylight. It might not be until tomorrow.”
“Martin, maybe you better stay put. There’s hundreds of them here.” Other than dealing with the kids she had always been level-headed and good in a crisis.
“I’ve got a plan, I really think it can work, but I need to get a vehicle first, and I’m not sure I can get it and reach you before dark. Shut down all phones and anything that makes noise. Call me at seven, I’ll know more then. Listen, you’re going to be okay. If you have to defend yourself, shoot them in the head, don’t mess around, there’s no law in the Zone.”
We didn’t exchange endearments. What we had was long gone, wasted. It had been real once, though. That was something, anyway. Not everyone gets even that.
Seven pee em was sundown. Ninety-five minutes from now. I scarfed down the sandwich and headed back downstairs.
New choices: drop the Maglite and batteries, the night vision goggles, cell phone charger, the CB radio. Loaded magazines to replace empties, and add three more magazines for the M-4, this time all full metal jacket which ought to be better for drilling through skulls. Add two magazines on the vest for the Glock, sticking with hollow points because at close range the extra knock-down could help.
My plan revolved around the idea that you needed either distance or a barrier to deal with infected. Safety glass was not an effective barrier, so if I wanted to travel I needed a vehicle that a bare-handed person could not claw their way into no matter how hard they tried. There were numerous military vehicles up to the job, and the department had a few specialized riot vehicles which would do, but they would certainly be in use and far from my current position.
In the civilian world the Motor Vehicle Code had visibility requirements and safety glass issues which made almost every private and commercial vehicle useless for my purposes. Except for at least one type: the ‘armored cars’ used to move money around. They were neither cars nor really armored, just trucks with a bit more superstructure framework, crash guards to let them survive attempts to disable them, and ballistic glass. An infected could beat his fists to pulp on them and never get through.
The movement of bulk money is always of interest to the police. I knew that about eight blocks from my home Lomas Money Services stored two trucks for over-flow work in this area; the building was unmarked because it is best not to give such information away, but I was hoping at least one was still there. The banks would have evacuated their vaults prior to the Zone being put in place, but it was quite possible they did it using ordinary trucks with police or military escorts to hide the nature of the cargo. During the Ike evacuation tens of millions of dollars were mov
ed using hearses. No one thinks twice about police making a funeral escort.
Outside my front door I looked around carefully, but no movement, no signs of trouble. Maybe most were still laying up, like vampires. I wondered what they did in the dark. I wondered where I could get dynamite-this hole up in daylight thing could turn into a major weakness for them.
Eighty-five minutes left, I gimped west, sticking close to the buildings except where there were broken windows or open doors. Snipers weren’t the issue, nor deflected rounds following a hard surface, but being spotted. The infected didn’t seem terribly clever, but I did not have a broad range of experience; they might be holed up for the day, but that did not mean they wouldn’t be watching. I can’t out-run anyone.
Halfway there I heard a car, and stepped into the doorway of a secondhand clothes store; seconds later a metallic silver minivan came up the road doing forty. I didn’t see where the infected came from, he was just there in the road, he must have been hiding between a couple parked cars, maybe under one, a tall skinny black kid, teenager probably. The driver swerved, instinct most likely, swiped a sun-faded yellow S-10 pickup parked on the opposite side of the road, and lost it. It didn’t roll, but it swapped ends twice and banged against a telephone pole and a couple more parked cars. It stalled on the sidewalk, two tires flat and air bags deployed all around.
The infected poured out of a deli between the minivan and my position, at least thirty, and swarmed the van. I had my sight on one but caught myself, as I was maybe ninety feet away with no real cover. Last time I had had a distraction, more distance, height, and a cluttered roadway to work with. Here they would roll right over me. They would pay, but so would my ex and those with her.
I slipped away while they were dragging the occupants of the minivan out the windows. The screaming stuck with me…well, in one sense it never stopped.
At sixty-one minutes my target was in sight: an old gas station, the kind with two repair bays and an office, red brick with gray cinderblock where the windows used to be. I did a quick circuit of the building and then knelt by the back door; I could have gone in through the front, but you don’t overcome a lifetime of honesty in the first go.
The department had sent me to a course on lock-picking when I was in Tactical and it had in come in handy at times. It was also very useful for practical jokes, so I had kept the skills sharp. The dead bolt was good, and took six minutes; the knob lock was cheap and took less time than choosing and stowing the picks.
Fifty-four minutes, and I was stepping into the building. Luckily the alarm system was either down or turned off, because I don’t know much about them. The square bulk of a truck loomed in the darkness; I snapped on the M-4’s light and locked the door behind me. The big red and white vehicle was a bit canted: flat front left tire. There were spares in a rack and a tool bench, so all was not lost. I noted its bumper numbers and headed into the office. I used my multi-tool to pry open the key box on the wall and found three sets of keys with the bumper number stamped into brass disks.
A wall locker looked interesting, and its lock wasn’t too hard to open. Inside were three old Winchester pump shotguns, short barreled riot guns, with ammunition stacked at the bottom along with fire extinguishers, road flares, and a first aid kit.
Fifty minutes. I found the air compressor and got it started. The floor jack was in plain view, too, but the truck was at the jack’s top end rating so I had to work with extreme care. I wondered where the jack stands had ended up.
Twenty plus minutes of wrestling, cursing, and getting completely filthy followed; ironically, the lug nuts took less than two-usually they get put on with air wrenches by guys who thought a hernia was funny. Finally it was in place and bolted on. I checked the air in the other five tires and the spare, the fluid levels, and the belts-everything was good. The truck had a short metal ramp that came out of a slot under the back doors, for money cases I guessed; I rolled the two remaining tires from the rack and the floor jack into the cargo area and strapped them down. The cargo area was a simple box with a bench seat along one side and shelves along the other. Tie-down points and webbing let you haul all sort of things, and came in handy for the ties and jack. There was no connection to the vehicle cab except an intercom.
I transferred the contents of the locker to the cab, inserted the key, and said a silent prayer.
The diesel light came on-good deal; I had less than a quarter of a tank -not so good. At twenty-one minutes the engine jerked and shuddered into life, settling down to a steady rumble that boded well. I hit the gray plastic door opener on the visor and the garage door ratcheted up its rail. I closed the door again after I pulled out, and tucked the opener into the glove box along with a key that fit the front door that I had taken from the key box because the station was a secure place with a bathroom, and you never know when a bolt-hole might be handy.
It was about twenty-two urban miles to the project without detours; figure forty minutes without problems, longer if problems developed along the way. I had to gas up, too. Thirty-odd minutes of light after sunset.
I didn’t start rolling immediately. I could call ahead, they could be ready…to do what? I had no plan, just the equipment on me, no time to recon the target site, and the infected would swarm. They might not like daylight but I had ample proof they weren’t afraid of it, either. It boiled down to which was greater risk: hide all night, or an off-the-cuff rescue attempt with little preparation. Assuming I could get there before full dark, which was an assumption that had little room for error. In the dark we wouldn’t have a chance.
Finally I shifted the truck into gear and headed home. Prepare tonight, move at first light, have the whole day to get to the site, plan, and execute the rescue.
If I kept telling myself that, I found I actually didn’t feel like a complete heel for minutes at a time.
Cutting around a semi-blocked intersection I got a front-seat experience of an infected ambush: one second I was rolling around the wrecks at not much more than idle, the next I had infected swarming over the truck. It startled me badly, but after the initial shock I just picked up the pace a bit and rolled on while various disheveled infected hammered at windows that were harder than the bones of their hands. If I had been in a different vehicle, it would have been a fast and ugly end, but as it was it just one more surreal experience in a very surreal day.
The intensity of their assault cleared away most of my guilt and misgiving-seeing it up close hammered home that you either had a plan, or you were a going to get ripped up quick.
The gas station where I exchanged my propane tanks still had power, but it was deserted. I held the burning head of a road flare to the center of the front door until I smelled plastic heating and hit it sharply with a fire extinguisher; the safety glass burst into a mound of crystals with very little noise. I heaved the flare into the street and ducked under the push-bar into the store.
The camera system was internal, not satellite feed; I kicked in the office door and pulled the camera DVDs, including the hidden unit. The city was abandoned and people had become homicidal maniacs, but I wasn’t leaving any proof of my crimes-I felt guilty enough as it was. Looters are the lowest form of life there is-I consoled myself that this was more of a resupply towards saving my ex.
It took me a bit to puzzle out how to turn on the pumps; I dug through the drawer under the register and found the key to the exchange rack of the propane case. I took the entire stock of jerky, about a case of chips, three coils of bright yellow nylon rope, and sixteen twelve-packs of sodas. They were out of gas cans, but I grabbed packets of auto fuses and a couple gallons of coolant and a case of motor oil. Outside I took two propane cylinders before fueling the truck. Standing by the truck listening to the pump click, I watched the growing shadows and came to peace with my choice. Rash gets you killed, and that helps no one.
Chapter Five
I was cleaning the Winchester riot guns when the phone buzzed. I had unloaded the truck and parke
d it in the lot next to my place but a good forty feet away because it was tall, and I didn’t want an infected using it to try to get to my roof. There was no fire escape on my home, and I had no interest in creating an easy route.
It was my ex. “How are you?”
She sounded calm. “We’re all right; we barricaded the door, and have everything blacked out; we have some guns, but they haven’t gone above the second floor so far. I told the others you would come tomorrow.”
“I tried, but by the time I got the rig going there wasn’t enough time.”
“I know, Martin. This is your sort of thing, after all. If it could have been done you would have done it.”
It would have been easier if she had cursed me for failure. “Look, sunrise is at seven forty; I’ll be loaded and rolling by then. Its twenty-plus miles, and the roads are a mess, so it won’t be quick, but I’ll be there before noon. Call me at eight aye emm and I’ll know more. Now, how many are there in the complex?”
Numbers, building layout, compound layout; I sketched on the white board while she explained. It was bad-that was a high-population-density area. There were literally hundreds of infected.
“OK, I’ll let you go. I’m coming, I promise you, and I have a plan.”
“I know you do, Martin.” She paused, searching for words.
“If I don’t make it, it’ll be because I’m dead.” I didn’t want her getting maudlin-I was having trouble keeping my voice steady as it was. We were through, but some things are never completely dead.
She managed a dry little chuckle. “This is straight out of those John Wayne Westerns you watch. See you in the morning.”
