by RW Krpoun
I compared his sketch to the city map. “Yeah, I do. Its set square with the compass with the entrance on the south side of the building, right? So the truck comes up the west side of the building heading north, that’s four lanes plus a turning lane, going say ten miles an hour, dropping Miguel’s personal alarms and my decoy tanks and shooting at the infected. They swarm the truck, which drives just fast enough so they can’t swamp it but not so fast they lose interest. That should pull damn near every infected around into a pursuit. Go for head shots, not mobility hits. When they’re good and committed the bus nips in from the east to the entrance with one shooter, and the people scamper in. Once the bus is in place the truck speeds up and breaks contact, and by the time the infected double back, the bus is moving. If the people in the basement move briskly, it could work.”
They gave it some thought. “They’re predictable,” Charlie tapped the sketch. “Worth a try. Who goes where?”
We replaced the extinguishers before setting off, which cleared a little space on the crowded truck roof; I checked the water, oil, and belts in the truck, concerned that the extra weight might be straining the engine, but everything looked fine.
Miguel drove the truck, Charlie and Mick took the truck roof, Bob drove the bus, and I rode shotgun with him, with the phone the Guard had assigned to our team.
“OK, we’re starting our run,” Charlie radioed.
“Roger.” I hit the send button on the phone. A man answered with an educated tone, the sort you associated with a Mr. Chips kind of teacher, but Charlie said he had managed a furniture warehouse. His name was Trevor. “Get in position but keep the door closed, and stay on the line, the distraction operation is beginning. Don’t move until I give the word, and then move damned fast.”
“I understand. Devil take the hindmost.”
“Exactly.” I heard shots start popping to the west, and then the screeching of one of the personal alarms.
“We’re passing the hotel,” Miguel radioed.
“Is that your vehicle we hear?” The warehouse manager asked.
“No, that’s the distraction, and with luck, every infected in a three block radius is chasing them. It won’t be long now.”
The firing picked up. “They’re everywhere, worst yet,” Miguel reported. “We’re hitting the north street.”
“Roll,” I told Bob, who had heard and was releasing the clutch. “Trevor, we’re moving, less than a minute.”
One limping infected was at the southeast intersection at the hotel, a thin white guy with bare gray patches on his scalp and a twisted leg that looked like he had been gimped up before the virus got him. Bob ran him down before he could give a howl, although there were a half-dozen in a cluster at the opposite corner staring at the ground, and a couple dead ones scattered along the center line of the street. I was looking right at the group when my decoy detonated; apparently that was what they had been staring at. It was fast, one red-gold flash, some smoke, and prone bodies, two or three on fire, the rest blackened and smoldering.
It was really surreal when they all climbed to their feet, except one that had lost the use of his right leg.
“Trevor, go!” I threw my weight onto the lever and the doors banged open as Bob bounced the tires off the curb and the bus shuddered to a halt.
Trevor had listened to Charlie: he had his people in a conga line, fastest in front. I was on the sidewalk yelling at them to get in and all the way to the back, then hit the radio to tell Miguel we were loading. The howl was raised by one of the scorched crew at the intersection, and repeated out of sight by another.
The word being out, I brought up the M-4 and opened up, aiming for a pelvis hit to knock them down; I put a head shot on the crawler who was making a highly motivated turn of speed given his infirmities
I checked behind me: five or six coming up the sidewalk at a dead run, and the survivors still jostling in an orderly line to the door, not moving too fast now that the head of the line was in the bus, but still moving. I shouldered through the queue and pulled off three head shots, two misses, and four solid torso hits, leaving Infected East dead or downed for the moment.
Turning back I saw Infected West was still closing, a couple burn victims and four new faces, but there were only three people to my right and four to my left. Back through the line, dropped both extra-crispy and one regular infected with head shots and knocked down the rest.
I turned east: the last survivor had passed me, and two infected were charging in, close, and a dozen a quarter block behind them. Two good head shots and a couple torso hits that dumped the leaders of Infected East, throwing the entire group into disarray and delay, but a tracer had gotten the second-to-last body hit.
West: three close, twenty or so coming up the sidewalk behind them. Someone at the bus opened up with what sounded like a .357, getting sternum, neck, forehead, and a wild shot off on the lead infected. I dropped the other two and headed for the door where a burly guy in greasy jeans and a stained white shirt with blue pinstripes and epaulettes was popping off the last two in a stainless hogleg at the west group. I fired off my last two at Infected East, who were moving at speed again but still further away than they needed to be. I probably missed the entire group, but at least they knew I cared.
“Get in get in get in get in get in!” I screamed as I hobbled at best speed. The burly guy hopped back with surprising grace and elbowed the door lever, snapping the doors shut close enough to slap me on the back.
Bob didn’t wait; he popped the clutch and had us moving before I made it up the second step. I felt a couple jolts as infected failed to get out of the way, and then we were turning, clear of the scene and picking up speed.
“Everyone take a seat and leave the windows alone; no shooting.” Reloading the M-4 and sorting out my mags, I found I was down to the mag in the weapon and the one in the bracket next to it.
“Nothing to shoot,” The burly guy grinned from the front seat. “Six was all I had, and this is the only weapon in the group.” The embroidered name tag on his shirt said Trevor.
“I’m Martin,” I offered my hand. “How long were you down there?”
“Since Saturday night, most of us. We certainly are glad to see you.”
“I can imagine.” I raised my voice. “Listen up: we are going to meet up with the other vehicle in our group, and then we will get you back to government-controlled areas.”
The looks on their faces was something to remember, too.
“It’s gonna be a solid hour to get them out,” Charlie announced after examining the map. “Bob’s decided to stick around for one more day, but since it will be getting dark before he makes it back to the Wheel I’m gonna ride with him. We got an e-mail, there’s a couple who made it to the Wheel ‘cause I listed that as our safe base of operations…”
“Bat-cave,” Mick interjected.
“… and they made a run. They can bunk there until tomorrow.”
“I’ll drop Miguel and Mick off at the Wheel, and make an ammo run. I’ll crash at my place, and come back in the morning. I want to get some better optics.”
I drove, Mick rode up front, and Miguel opted to ride in the back. I was tired, both physically and emotionally, and ready to call it a day. I suppose I should have felt guilty about leaving scores of other survivors trapped for another night, but frankly, I was used up. It had been nearly twelve hours of activity, planning, adapting, and to be honest, more Human interaction than I had had in months, plus several sessions of adrenalin-pumping action, and what you get from combat chemicals at the time you pay for later. I could feel the stress-induced poisons sloshing around my bloodstream. The only thing I wanted to do was get home and sleep; the only thing I had on my mind besides the basic operation of the truck and the automatic habit of watching for trouble was how to find ammunition so I wouldn’t have to dip into my own stock. Obviously my seven thousand rounds wasn’t going to last long at the rate we were shooting it up.
Mick was as tired
as I was-he didn’t even comment when a half-dozen infected tried to over-run us at a choked intersection. I got one with the bumper, ignored the rest, and we kept rolling.
“Hey, check it out!” Mick suddenly pointed, startling me.
“Check what out?” We were turning under an elevated roadway, a wreck-strewn access ramp curving up to my right front; I looked about wildly, expecting hordes of infected.
“Stop the truck! Look there, under the reefer.”
It took a moment to realize he was indicating a refrigerated truck, one of a chain that took orders by Net and delivered them to your door, high-priced stuff. It had plowed into an RV which in turn had mounted a little pale blue hybrid. A dozen or so dead infected were scattered around. “OK, I see it.”
“Look that the puddle.”
The intercom clicked. “Why are we stopping?”
“Mick sees something.” I heard the roof hatch open and Miguel climb up. “OK, it’s a puddle of water under a cooling unit. So what?”
“Its dripping-man, its still refrigerating, probably an independent propane-powered system. Which means we’re lookin’ at a truck loaded with nice stuff. Steaks, roasts, all sorts of things. The Wheel has a great kitchen, but just chicken and burgers, and we fed a lot of people over the last few days. Supplies are low.”
“I see dead infected.” I wasn’t sure if Miguel was trying to be funny.
“The food truck there is still cooling, and Mick wants to shop. You want to cover us?” The radio beeped, meaning the batteries were low. It was used up as well.
Mick and I did a quick look around after getting out of the truck, but there were only the three vehicles immediately to hand; the infected had been dead at least a full day, maybe more. “Pull the truck up and load what you find interesting; I wouldn’t mind a steak or two to take with me. Porterhouse or T bone if I have a choice. I’m going to take a look at that RV.”
He looked at it. “Think they might be in there?”
“No, but the way I read this crash scene, the RV hit the hybrid probably Saturday night or Sunday morning. Either it was running from the infected or they heard the crash. The food truck just wrecked, driving too fast is my guess, probably this morning. Driver took off on foot. The thing is, the dead infected were shot by the people in the RV, which might mean this is our one stop shop.”
Easing up on the wreck, I studied the placement of bodies: one uninfected torn up at the foot of the open RV door, a Browning Hi-Power with the slide locked back nearby, and eight dead infected in a cone pattern focusing on him. OK, he had been in the doorway…no, the step was unfolded, he was sitting on the step, and they rushed him. He fired as they advanced, very good shooting, eight for thirteen or fourteen rounds. But not good enough, they got him.
I stuck the Browning in my dump pouch and eased up to the hybrid. The driver and passenger were dead, crushed when the RV hit them. Those little hybrids get incredible gas mileage, but they are suicide carts when hit by anything except another hybrid.
The RV only had the one door, so I smeared some Vicks into my nose and tried to miss the worst of the blood. Inside it was a luxury model, although they never intended it to smell that bad. The flies were pretty rough, fortunately just at the front.
The tableau there told the story: the driver was dead behind the wheel, a woman I guessed in her late fifties, of an age with the dead guy outside, nicely dressed; she had taken several bites to the face and neck, and a gunshot wound to the torso, no doubt the cause of the wreck. An infected, a young woman, Hispanic as were the two older corpses, wearing a night dress was on the floor behind the driver, hit multiple times.
The shooter was in the front passenger seat, a man of an age with the infected; both wore wedding rings, so the infected was likely his wife, and the older couple were one set of parents. He had a revolver in his lap, and a self-inflicted gunshot wound in his temple.
The wife is sick, and things are getting crazy. They meet up with one set of parents who have an RV and head out, the wife tucked away in a bunk. She turns, goes for the driver, and her husband tries to restrain her; there were signs of a fight, and he had bites on his arms, but you don’t stop an infected in hand-to-hand. He shoots her, but it’s a struggle, and the driver catches a round. Maybe the driver’s husband shot as well. The driver hits the hybrid. At some point later the younger husband shoots himself; the exact reasons are myriad. The older husband, probably in deep emotional shock, sits on the step of the RV until a group of infected show up, drawn by the noise of the wreck or just passing by.
There was a plastic pistol case on the booth table; the pistol was missing but a loaded magazine for the Browning was still in a form fitted compartment, which went into the dump pouch. One of the framed pictures screwed to the wood over the table had four smiling people standing in front of a vista of snowy mountains; none of the bodies present was in great shape, but it didn’t take a forensic wizard to match the photos to the dead. It occurred to me that they had vacationed in what would eventually be their tomb, and I decided thoughts like that were proof that I needed to stand down as soon as possible.
On a back upper bunk bed I found what I was looking for: three long guns in soft nylon cases, a blue athletic bag with shooting glasses visible in an outside pocket, an unopened case of 12 gauge, and a plastic store bag containing six boxes of 9mm hollow points. The athletic bag contained cleaning gear, earmuff hearing protectors, cleaning kits, a cased .22 target pistol, staple gun, and shooting gloves. I dumped the muffs to make room for the 9mm boxes and a bottle of bleach I found under the sink I intended to use on the soles of my boots. The gun cases had handles so I managed to get everything in one load, but I was glad I wasn’t going far.
“What did you find?” Miguel asked as I limped up, taking the case from me.
“Shotgun shells and nine millimeter, plus some sporting shotguns I haven’t really looked at. Enough for tomorrow, anyway.”
“I’ll put ‘em on the roof, Mick’s got the back full.” Miguel rolled his eyes.
There were a half dozen people in a panel van waiting at the Wheel; they were disappointed that they would have to stay the night, but took it well enough and with their help the food and ammo were quickly off-loaded and I was on my way home.
The streets were more ominous than yesterday; not really changed, but in how I perceived them. My abortive foot march yesterday seemed a year ago in experience-I had had no idea how lucky I had been that I hadn’t run into a sizeable group before learning the rules of the game.
I circled my neighborhood, watching carefully, but there didn’t appear to be infected within two blocks of my place; there were a couple standing watch at the choke point I had sniped last night, but I avoided that area. Pulling directly in front of my door, I dragged the boxes and my gear bag into the doorway as fast as I could hobble, then parked the truck forty feet from my building and stood in the open door listening intently: no wails, no running feet, good. I locked the truck and got indoors quick.
I dumped the food boxes in the fridge (the power was still on, amazingly), and staggered upstairs. Dumping my clothes and gear in a pile, I sluiced away sweat, road dirt, and some of the tension that was knotting my shoulders under a lengthy hot shower.
I barely made it to my cot before the darkness closed in.
It was pitch dark when I opened my eyes, the soldier’s knack of waking instantly. I was hungry, thirsty, and had a too-full bladder, but none of those were what had awakened me. I cursed myself for not leaving a light on, and listened intently. The noise that awakened me repeated itself, and I relaxed: a helicopter passing low overhead.
I had a flashlight clipped to a leg of the cot, and the power was still on; I dealt with my bladder and thirst, and checked the doors: still locked. It was nearly three-I had slept like the dead for nine hours straight. I felt a lot better mentally and a lot less weary, but on the flip side I was stiff and sore in a lot of places and my knee wasn’t happy at all.
One go
od thing about all the drama: I was back to sleeping normally, something that had eluded me since the House.
Since the water was on I washed the clothes I had worn, towels, everything I had in the place that needed it. I cleaned the M-4 the Glock, the Browning, and the Beretta, and sorted out my tactical load, things I should have done before I went to bed, but frankly, I had pushed myself too hard. I plugged in my phone, replaced the batteries in the hiker radio, reloaded magazines, and re-stocked my gear bag. I also stowed all the stuff I had looted from Radio Shack in the back room.
The dish would have to wait for daylight; it occurred to me that I might re-connect with the outside world just in time to be cut off by a failing power grid, which would be rather ironic.
Mick had left me three cases of vacuum-packed porterhouse steaks, twenty ounce premium cuts, and about twenty pounds of pre-cooked spiced curly fries which made me call blessings down on the wiry little guy’s soul.
I got the grill warming on the roof and went back downstairs to nuke a bowl of fries and heat a half-can of corn. Two steaks on the grill and the TV tray set up for my meal, I cracked a cold bottle of water and surveyed the city. There were flares far to the west, barely visible, and gunships were working out to the south, but the sight didn’t cheer me as much as it had yesterday. If the Miguel Principle held true those rocket runs were only shortening the operational efficiency of most of the infected in the kill zones. The million dollar question was going to be how long an infected could survive once it turned? Obviously the bodies were breaking down, but was it hours, days, or weeks? Could we kill them faster than they could infect others?
The little crew I was running with was doing quite well-we had dropped a huge number of infected in a day and a half in addition to bringing nearly forty uninfected to safety-maybe more, I couldn’t recall the numbers. But we were something of an exception, I imagined. Most people would have been taken before they knew what was going on; the people at the dollar store, the woman running down the street.
