by W. J. Lundy
Many of the men at the facility had already deserted, returning home or fleeing to one of the safe zones. After the initial facility lockdown and safely withdrawing from the meat grinder, all available resources were moved into re-gaining control of the nation. Region by region, they used everything they had to help secure bits of the country and to pick up allies within what they then called the secure zones.
Eventually, most of the country was segmented into local alliances and locked in safely behind walls. They formed a new means of communication between them and took control of their local military assets. That left the Coordinated National Response Team obsolete, and even unwanted. As national resources were depleted and more and more requests for assistance had to be denied, the CNRT fell out of favor.
The CNRT was slowly blocked from accessing military bases and airfields, their freedom of movement greatly restricted. State governors demanded the CNRT disbanded and its military might and fuel reserves transferred to local government control. The general stood a hard line, arguing a need for a central government. His words were ignored, but all of that changed with the discovery of Aziz and a race for a cure. Now the CNRT was back on mission, and the alliances knew it. Some were once again cooperating with the CNRT, while others—like the Midwest Alliance—were hunting their own vaccine.
The general knew that finding and controlling a vaccine would be the last chance at pulling the nation back together; control of the cure would unify the alliances back under the CNRT.
The plane bucked hard and rattled. Cloud heard the wheels dropping and the whine of the gear lowering into position. He looked ahead and could see the airman calmly sitting in a rear-facing seat, waiting patiently. The plane bumped hard against the road, and then he heard the wheels squawk as the pilot applied the brakes and the engines were reversed. Cloud felt his body move forward with the deceleration of the plane. The aircraft came to an abrupt halt and then spun around.
The airman jumped to his feet and ran to the back. Light filled the fuselage as the ramp dropped. Cloud unbuckled his lap belt and got to his feet. He moved to the rear of the plane just as the last of the men in black filed down the ramp. Cloud walked to the last row of modular seats and stood waiting with his hands on his hips. The ramp was down and obscured in bright dust; he couldn’t see beyond the bottom of the platform.
“Sir, we have a problem,” the airman called out. “Could you please join us on the ramp?”
“With the aircraft?” Cloud asked.
“No, sir; the count… Please, sir, I think it would be easier if you came down here.”
Cloud grunted; his right hand reached up to check the Glock in his shoulder holster as he said to himself, What now?
He moved through the open cargo space and to the top of the ramp. Standing next to the airman, wearing multi-cam trousers and a brown cotton shirt, a bulky, bearded man materialized. Beyond the pair, he could see the recovery team formed up and surrounding a ragtag band of civilians and soldiers alike, all standing in a cluster clutching children and bundles of belongings. Soldiers were in a guard position, watching the road. Cloud took them out of his view and marched directly to the airman and the bulky man.
The bulky man’s rifle slung behind his back with the barrel pointed down just visible near his hip. No rank on his uniform, the man’s posture identified him as a senior non-commissioned officer. When the pair saw Cloud, they moved in his direction; approaching swiftly, they met him near the bottom of the ramp. Although the dust still swirled from the aircraft’s engines, the bulky man attempted to force his way ahead. Cloud stepped forward and began to point a flat hand at the stranger when the airman positioned himself between them.
Cloud ignored the airman and looked over his shoulder at the newcomer. “Sergeant Turner?”
The man shifted to the right to make himself seen. “Yes, sir. We’re all here; what’s the hold up?”
Cloud looked at him sternly. “Sergeant, how many are in your party?”
Turner hesitated, then looked up and locked eyes with Cloud. “One hundred and twenty-six—including women and children, sir.”
“Do you think this is a game? I told you twenty-five!” Cloud shouted.
Turner took half a step up the ramp; his eyes swept the rows of empty seats, he turned and looked into the expansive empty cargo bay, and then he looked back at Cloud. “Sir, I can’t leave anyone behind. If we take our guns out of the fight, these civilians are good as dead. Even with us here, I don’t think anyone will survive the winter.”
“That’s not our problem, Sergeant. I’m ordering you to get your men on this plane.”
Turner shook his head. “Not going to happen, sir; you can court martial me,” he put his wrists together, reaching to Cloud. “Do what you want, but we won’t leave these people behind.”
Cloud turned and walked back into the body of the aircraft, fully prepared to kick Turner off the plane and order the pilot to take off. His thoughts flashed to his wife and daughter—the real reason why he was here. “Dammit,” he shouted. Cloud spun on his heels and looked the airman in the eye, “Get them on board!” he said.
“All of ’em, sir?” the airman asked.
“Yes,” Cloud answered. “And Turner? You can count on that court martial.”
Turner smiled and moved to run out of the aircraft to recover his people. “Yes, sir,” he called over his shoulder.
Chapter 9
Darkness quickly filled the valley as the sun dropped below the distant mountains. Joe sat huddled in the sporting goods store armed with his newly assembled battle mace. His left arm was swaddled in strips of torn canvas that he had wrapped and tied tightly to serve as protective armor. Joe’s back was pressed against the counter, his eyes level with the bottom sill of the storefront’s window.
Figures paced along the street, moving slowly toward the grocery store parking lot. Joe’s eyes traveled along the dark lot to the row of trees where he’d left his truck. Two hundred yards—a couple football fields—is all he’d need to cross. If he ran, he could be there in minutes. The creatures still followed predictable patterns; they would continue to be drawn to the store for at least the next day and then slowly they would dissipate, returning to the smaller hunting packs. Joe didn’t want to wait that long; he was hungry and thirsty, and he wanted to get back to the cabin.
He sat silently watching another pack pass by his current position then readied himself in the doorway. He made sure the things were out of immediate earshot then readied his hand on the door. Letting his right hand firmly grip his handmade weapon, he squeezed tightly, feeling the sweat on his palm. His heart rate increased, adrenalin beginning to surge in his body. Joe checked his pocket a last time and felt the straps of the tiny backpack to ensure it was tight to his body.
“Well, guess it’s time to do this,” he whispered.
Joe-Mac let the door glide open and stepped into the dark. He stood on the sidewalk in front of the store. The immediate area was empty, but he could hear the plodding of the creatures’ feet as they slapped pavement far ahead. He turned away from them and walked down the street, putting distance on the pack. Instead of moving straight for his truck in a diagonal line, he decided he would navigate the long way down the street and cut back up to it, hoping to stay hidden in the shadows of the storefronts.
The moon drifted out of the clouds, its lunar light making the concrete appear blue. Looking into the lot, the figures lit by the light looked ten feet tall and made of steel with their backs turned to him as they moved away and filed into the market. Joe passed in front of a brick-faced auto parts store at the end of the block and paused, crouching low. He heard the sounds of crunching glass. His body tightened, his head moved left and right, but he was unable to pinpoint its source.
Joe heard a loud gasping and intake of air; he spun on his heels and saw a female staggering toward him. Dressed in rags, her left leg moved awkwardly; the clothing at the knee ripped away to reveal torn muscle. She lunged forward,
the sounds beginning to gurgle from her drooling mouth. Joe knew she was going to make the howling noise, the one that alerted the others to prey. Not hesitating, he launched himself at her, pushing off with his toes like a sprinter in the blocks as his arm swung up violently. The rope-encased eight ball connected solidly with the woman’s temple, her head snapping up and back from the force of the mace. Joe heard her neck crack as her body lifted off the ground, following its head.
She thumped to the pavement and lay still; her head turned away and showcased a concave dent where the mace had struck. He planted his feet and recovered, crouching and waiting for the next attack to come. His head swiveled and his body turned while searching; he picked up the sound of running feet, soon followed by the distant moans. Joe turned toward the truck and ran. He could see the dark line in the distance that he knew was the row of trees where his truck was hidden, and he focused on it. From the right, Joe heard a scream; he turned in time to see a man’s rage-filled face emerge from the dark. No time to plant his feet, he pivoted while still running forward and smacked the man with a backhanded tennis stroke, catching him in the throat. The man continued to scream as its body went limp and crashed to the ground. Joe leapt away from its outstretched limbs.
More came; he used his canvas-wrapped arm to push a creature away before spinning on his heels and crashing the mace onto the top of its skull. Not stopping, he continued moving ahead until he was at the trees. He ran through them, twisting around foliage as he heard the things behind crash through low-hanging branches and limbs. The sound of the hunt increased as those in the market learnt of the new prey. Finally, he saw the glint of moonlight off the fender of his truck. He made a last-ditch dash, running with everything he had left. Misjudging the distance as his vision clouded from the surge of adrenalin and darkness, he nearly collided with the truck. He grasped the handle and pulled the door open before diving across the bench seat. He quickly twisted and closed the door shut behind him, his palm slapping the lock, securing it.
He heard the mob crash into the truck, pulling back when they made contact, quickly surrounding it. Joe’s 1979 K15 Sierra was far from standard. Dan made fun of him, told him he should grab a new one from a lot in the city, or even one of the military vehicles at the roadblocks on the highway. Joe laughed it off and said he enjoyed the throaty sounds of the big V8, but really, he liked the way the old truck looked and the heavy steel it was made of.
The exterior was wrapped in tensioned barbed wire he’d carefully removed from a farmer’s fence. So much epoxy and imbedded chicken wire coated the rear window, it was nearly impossible to see through. The original side windows and windshield were cut out and replaced with Plexiglas that Joe had painstakingly cut from a bank’s sliding front door. He bolted the shatterproof and nearly unbreakable acrylic to the truck’s body then used even more epoxy to secure rebar and strands of barbed wire over it before he finished it with heavy coats of mirrored window tint.
The Sierra pickup was nowhere near an armored car, but it had saved his ass from the psychos more than once. Joe reached under the bench seat and removed a red canvas bag. He pulled out a foil package of hard candies and a bottle of water. He drank thirstily while listening to the mob outside pound away at the sides of the truck. They screamed as they leapt into the bed, feeling the planted shards of broken glass and roofing nails pierce their feet. Joe grinned knowingly; he had an argument with Dan about the glass. Joe said the things were reacting to pain. Dan didn’t believe him and called the booby traps a waste of time.
In the early days, the things would run through plate glass and raging fire to get at a survivor, ignoring harm to their own bodies. In the months that followed, they began to regain tactile sense; although not yet to the degree a human would—or even that of a wild dog—more like a… well, Joe didn’t know what to make of them. Regardless, they were changing and that worried Joe the most. Like the female; did she really bump into Joe by chance, or did the others push her ahead and use her as a probe in the shadows to find him?
The truck began to shake violently as the mass surrounding it intensified. Joe exhaled loudly and stuffed a piece of the hard candy into his mouth; he crushed it with his teeth then chased it with another long gulp of water. He sat up in the driver’s seat. The moon cast thriving shadows all around the vehicle’s hood. Through the heavy tinted glass, it was hard to make out individual shapes. The noise of the mass was deafening; they beat and pounded on the hood of the truck, snarling when their skin or hands would find the barbed wire.
Joe grinned. He liked this new life—although filled with fear, hardships, death, and starvation, he felt it suited him better than schoolwork and juggling odd jobs. Even before all this, life could have been easier in the city, but he loved the mountains and his big trucks. Joe would rather spend a day on a roof than trapped on an assembly line or in college; he figured that could all wait for later. He was working as a ranch hand for Dan when it all started. The job didn’t pay much, but it kept him fed and gave him a place to stay.
Dan was strong and capable. Retired Army—or maybe a Marine, Joe couldn’t be sure because Dan never talked about it. He was a hard boss to work for, but he kept Joe honest. He saved Joe’s life several times at the start of things, teaching him how to move around and how to conceal the property to keep people out. Although, nobody ever came except for some of Dan’s family and a neighbor from farther up the mountain. Joe frowned when he thought of Dan. He was really going to be pissed about him losing the gun.
Joe grinned. “Well, I better get back before the old man throws out my stuff and gives away my bed.”
Joe let his hand search the steering column; he gave the keys a quick jingle for good luck and turned the ignition while he pumped the gas pedal. The truck roared to life; he revved the engine in competition with the mob’s roars. He felt the engine’s vibration combine with the pulsing and rattle of the mob. Even though he should be afraid, the mass made Joe-Mac smile. His hand searched the ceiling, finding the switches to the light bars. He flipped all of them on at once, and bright halogen lights illuminated the space in all directions.
They pressed on all sides against the truck, howling, pushing, and shoving to get closer. The protective wire was gashing and slicing away skin; some ignored the pain or were just forced into the jagged glass from others pressing it forward. Joe searched the crowd, looking for the one. There was always at least one. The one that kept its distance, the one that would push a wounded female out ahead, or organize a mob. Joe dropped the truck into four-wheel drive and let it ease forward, the V8 having no trouble moving the crazed out of its way.
He drove slowly, allowing them to follow alongside. He spotted the loner at the end of the tree line; she stood alone. Broad shouldered, long matted hair, nearly naked to the waist, she looked directly into the bright lights of the truck, not flinching. She didn’t run at him like the others did. She didn’t howl. She seemed to study Joe in the same way he studied her. Joe kept the truck moving in a slow, straight line; then when he was less than fifty feet out, he pushed the pedal to the floor. The truck accelerated hard, throwing the creatures off the hood, bouncing them to the sides. At the last moment, he cut the wheel sharply and aimed for the broad-shouldered woman. She looked at the truck then her mouth opened wide as her body tensed just before the impact. The steel brush guard crushed her frame, the momentum tossing her up and over the cab of the truck like a rag doll. For a moment, Joe thought he saw a look of recognition on the woman’s face, that she knew what was about to happen… that she knew she was about to die. In that moment, she almost looked human. He gripped the wheel tight and pushed the ideas from his mind.
Joe steered out of the sharp turn, looking for the center of the road. Maintaining his speed, he cut the wheel hard and the tires squealed as he drove onto the tiny main street. He left town, driving fast. He needed to get distance on this group before he hit the narrow mountain trail that would take him back to Dan Cloud’s cabin. The old man woul
d for sure shoot him if he brought back any stragglers.
Chapter 10
Rounds snapped overhead as Brad pressed his face against the grass, his left arm clawing at the ground. His fist balled up to grip the roots of the thick crabgrass, using all of his strength to drag himself forward and off the road while earth spit up from the ground as bullets smacked close by. With his body now in the grass, Brad pulled his rifle to his chest and rolled until he thudded up against a rotting log. He pivoted to his elbows and pushed his head up over the log, bringing his rifle in front of him.
Ahead, he could see that the point man and sergeant in charge were both down, their crumpled bodies not moving. More rounds pecked off the road, spitting dust and shards of concrete with them. Brad saw soldiers lying motionless to his left. Just feet away, a young soldier lay with blood pooling from a wound in his head. Looking into the town’s row of buildings, he saw the glimmer of a muzzle flash and puffs of blue smoke. He raised his rifle and tried to focus on the faraway windows.
“Get some fire on that building!” Brooks shouted. “Get your weapons up!”
Brad pulled the trigger, firing rapidly and hoping to suppress the far off gunner. A M249 Squad Automatic Weapon opened up somewhere to Brad’s right. The tracers arced through the air, painting swaths of smoke and splinters across the wood-sided structure just below where Brad saw the flash. More fire erupted from the far side of the road as the patrol rallied and brought their weapons on line. Someone fired an M203, the woomp of the weapon followed by the blast of the 40mm grenade. The grenadier’s fire was true and the building’s front flashed in a blast of white smoke; the roofline crumbled, turning the white smoke to black.
