by Tripp Ellis
18
The X-27 Rocket streaked through the sky. It spit fire out of its tail and left a stream of white smoke behind it. There was no way to out run, or outmaneuver it. The APC didn’t have countermeasures that it could deploy. The X-27 was a precision guided rocket, and the pilot could steer it to its destination. And whoever was piloting that CAV did just that.
The rocket slammed into the APC with a blinding explosion. A ball of flame erupted. Black smoke billowed into the sky. The explosion rolled the APC onto its side. The composite hull ground against the asphalt, showering sparks. The massive tires became molten flaming chunks of rubber. The APC skidded across the highway and plowed into the grass, breaking through a barbed wire fence. It finally came to rest amidst a herd of cattle.
Inside, those who were buckled in their seats stayed in place. But Delroy was freestanding, and was flung against the hull. The initial impact had slammed him against the bulkhead and knocked him unconscious.
Steele groaned in pain from the shock, but he was okay. He looked to Susan. She was dazed, but moving.
“You alright?” Steele asked.
She nodded.
Steele unbuckled his safety harness and climbed out of his seat. “Sound off,” he yelled.
“I’m good,” Parker replied.
“Chloe?” Steele screamed, concerned.
“Never better, sir.”
“Mr. President?”
There was no response.
Steele crawled to him. The president was beginning to stir.
“I’m okay,” he said.
“I guess no one gives a shit about me and Earl,” Duke said.
“Well, you both look fine,” Steele said.
“I ain’t fine,” Brandi said. “That damn harness squished my tit.”
“Better check for a silicone leak,” Duke said.
“Fuck you. My shit’s all natural, bitch. And you know it.”
“Both of you, shut up,” Steele barked. Then he crawled to the back of the APC and hit the ramp release. The locking mechanism disengaged, and the ramp opened. He climbed out into the field. But by that time, the CAV had landed in the pasture. The APC was surrounded with militia.
They were fully outfitted in body armor, assault rifles, and bio masks. There were at least a dozen of them. The squad leader barked at Steele. “Get your hands up. Keep them where I can see them.”
Steele gritted his teeth. But he had no choice. Now was not the time to be bold. He raised his hands in the air and slowly stood up.
The squad leader motioned him to move away from the exit. Two other squad members grabbed Steele and zip tied his hands behind his back. Steele noticed the patch on their sleeves. The insignia was clearly modeled after Zulu Force—a red viper against a black arrowhead. These guys were wannabes. Guys that had probably washed out of basic, or didn’t get accepted. Now they were running around, playing dress up. Only, they had managed to pull off the largest terrorist attack in history. Steele had to acknowledge that. Underestimating your enemy was the fastest way to get killed.
One of the Viper soldiers kicked Steele in the back, sending him crashing to the ground. His face was inches from a pile of cow shit.
The soldier zip tied Steele’s ankles, then frisked him and confiscated his weapons. The dumbass didn’t pay any attention to his tactical sword. Steele hoped to get a chance to bury the blade in the soldier’s head.
“Come out of the vehicle. Slowly,” the squad leader yelled.
One by one, the rest of the team exited the APC. They were all bound with zip ties around the wrists and ankles. Then frisked, and weapons confiscated.
Everyone was in the field except for Brandi. She was still in the APC, tied up in her seat and safety harnessed.
“I said get out,” the squad leader screamed. It took a moment for him to see that she couldn’t get out on her own.
He walked over to Steele and kicked him in the ribs. Pain rifled through his chest. Steele wished he’d kicked him on the other side. He’d have gotten a boot full of titanium composite—and hopefully a broken toe.
“What’s her problem?” the squad leader asked.
“She’s infected,” Steele said.
“She don’t look infected.”
“Shit, I’d like to infect her,” one of the squad members said, lasciviously.
“Knock it off,” the leader said. He moved to the back of the APC and scanned inside. Then he climbed in, keeping his distance from Brandi. He grabbed the nuclear football and exited the vehicle. Then he ordered his troops to grab the former president. He made it a point to stress the word former.
Two soldiers marched President Johnson toward the CAV.
“What about the rest of them?” another soldier asked.
The squad leader scanned the field. There were several infected approaching. The squad leader grinned. “Leave them for the lurkers. That will be much more unpleasant.”
The squad leader and the rest of the Viper team retreated to the CAV. They climbed up the ramp, towing the president along. The massive Hughes & Kessler engines powered up. The ramp whirred and closed behind them with a heavy slam. A moment later, the CAV lifted into the sky. Heat distorted the air below the thrusters. Then the craft lumbered forward and banked around, disappearing into the night sky.
The lurkers were stumbling closer.
Steele twisted his wrists, snapping the plastic zip tie. He grabbed the tactical sword from behind his back, sliding it out of the sheath. With the razor-sharp blade, he nicked the zip tie restraining his ankles. It split apart, and Steele sprang to his feet. He jogged to the others, freeing them with the blade.
Steele’s eyes focused on an infected man staggering towards him. An old farmer in overalls and a plaid shirt, still clutching a pitchfork. Steele marched toward him and stabbed the blade between his forehead. It pierced through his cranium, poking out the back of his skull. Dark blood oozed from the man’s forehead and trickled down his nose and into his deep eye sockets.
Steele kicked the man in the chest, pushing him back off the blade. He crumpled to the ground like a sack of bones, still clutching the pitchfork. His body writhed and twitched for a moment.
Steele spun to the next lurker, slicing its head clean off. The head spun and flopped to the ground, twirling blood. The body kept staggering forward, fountains of blood spurting up from its carotid arteries. It made it about 10 steps before it tripped and crashed to the ground.
There were more lurkers coming from the edge of the field. But it would take them a few minutes to become a threat. Steele marched back towards the APC, to the others.
“What are we going to do now?” Delroy asked.
“The president has a tracking chip,” Susan said. “One is inserted under the skin. Another is in a back molar. The football also has a tracking chip. I can connect to the network and pinpoint the exact location.”
“That’s just great,” Delroy said. “But how are we going to get them back? They took all of the weapons and ammo we had.”
“Fort Ramsey’s not far from here,” Duke said. “I think we could find everything we need there.”
Steele was a little surprised that Duke offered up helpful advice. “How far?”
“Maybe twenty miles.”
“Delroy, there was a truck a mile and a half back. Why don’t you see if you can get that started.”
Delroy grinned. “I can get anything started.” But his smile quickly faded. “I don’t have any weapons. What if I run into some lurkers?”
“Here, take my pocket knife.” Duke slid a buck knife from his front pocket. “They missed it.” He unfolded the blade. “It ain’t much. Maybe five inches.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying all along,” Brandi quipped, assaulting his manhood.
Duke scowled at her. “Don’t pay her no mind. She’s talking out her ass.” He handed the blade to Delroy.
“It’s better than nothing,” Delroy said.
“I said that too,” Brand
i snarked.
Duke scowled at her.
“Back in a jiffy, Chief.” Delroy took off toward the highway. After several steps, he looked back. “What if it don’t start?”
“Then find one that does,” Steele said.
19
Delroy jogged west down the highway. His boots smacked the asphalt along the dashed centerline. His heart was pumping and he was starting to work up a sweat. The impact from the rocket attack had left him with a hell of a headache. His head was throbbing, and he could feel every beat of his pulse pounding in his temples. His neck was already getting a little stiff from slamming into the bulkhead.
Delroy didn’t always have the best luck when it came to crashes. At least, this time there wasn’t a piece of shrapnel sticking into his thigh. His previous injury from the quarantine zone was mostly healed. Every now and then, he’d move a certain way, sending a shock through his thigh—adhesions tearing around the nerve.
The night air was calm, almost relaxing. The sound of crickets filled the air. Leaves gently wrestled with the breeze. Delroy huffed and puffed, and his boots kept smacking the asphalt. It was loud enough to draw unwanted attention.
A mile and a half run was nothing for Delroy. He reached the truck within 15 minutes. It was a white Slinger 300 Magnum, speckled with mud.
And blood.
The Slinger was a big truck, designed for off road. It had tall, fat tires with deep tread. A supercharged V8, pumping out 750 horse power. Pure badass. Delroy’s eyes lit up as he surveyed the vehicle. He walked around the car, taking in the sight. There was a heavy duty, Ironman cross-bed tool box that spanned the width of the bed. The truck’s chrome tailpipes were like cannons. He couldn’t wait to crank the engine up.
A Yakuma YX 125 dirt bike was tethered down in the back. An off road crotch rocket with an ultra-lightweight aluminum mono-shock frame, knobby tires, 2-stroke liquid cooled engine, and a six speed clutch. A pure motocross machine.
Delroy loved anything with an engine. It didn’t matter what make or model—he loved them all. Big cars, little cars, sports cars, bikes, trucks… the only thing he wouldn’t be caught dead in was a minivan. He was pretty good at turning a wrench too.
His infatuation with cars got him a grand theft auto charge—which was deferred if he joined the military and kept himself out of trouble. Getting past the security measures on this truck wasn’t going to be a problem.
The driver’s side door was wide open. There were blood smears on the door panel and steering wheel. Dried blood had pooled in the driver’s seat. The dash and windshield were peppered with blood splatter.
It was hard to tell what exactly had happened to the previous owner. But whoever it was had a really bad night.
Delroy was about to climb into the truck when he heard the snarls of infected. They were emerging from the brush behind him. Delroy spun around to face them. He fumbled in his pocket for Duke’s buck knife.
There were four of them staggering toward him.
Delroy unfolded the blade and locked it in place with a click. He launched toward the leader of the pack and jammed the blade in his skull. But the blade bounced away—it didn’t penetrate the skull.
The lurker stumbled. Blood oozed from the gash across its scalp. Then it regained its footing and kept marching toward Delroy.
Delroy shuffled back a few steps. But there were lurkers emerging from the woods on the other side of the road. Maybe a dozen in total, snarling and groaning.
Delroy’s heart was in his throat, thumping. This little knife wasn’t going to be enough. It was harder to stab through a human skull than he thought.
Delroy scurried away from the approaching herd. But there were more coming from the west. He would soon be surrounded. He circled around to the back of the truck and climbed into the bed. The horde plowed against the sides of the truck, pawing at him. It would take them a moment to figure out how to climb into the truck bed.
Delroy kicked one of the lurkers in the face. The thing toppled backwards, flopping on the ground. Then it got up and plodded forward again. Blood dripped from its shattered nose and mouth. Its two front teeth were gone.
Craggy hands clawed at him. Hungry teeth gnashed. Growls and moans filled the air. Bodies slapped against the sheet metal, and the truck rocked back and forth. It wouldn’t be long before they made it into the truck bed. Delroy could climb up onto the roof of the cab, he thought. But then what? He couldn’t hold them off forever. He should have gotten in the truck and locked the doors.
“Dumbass,” he muttered to himself.
But even if he had, they might have smashed the windows and drug him from the cab. And he’d still be dead. Worse, he’d be one of them.
Delroy reached down and tried to open the toolbox. But the lid wouldn’t budge. It was locked tight. He kicked it several times, frantically. But this was a heavy-duty Ironman toolbox. It was designed to resist impact.
Delroy had seen many trucks totaled in a wreck—only to have the Ironman toolbox remain unscathed. That was their selling point. They wouldn’t deform, or break open, during an accident. The locking mechanism was strong and could resist an incredible amount of shear. But the lock itself was a simple pin tumbler device. It only had three pins.
One of the lurkers was pulling himself up the tailgate. In a matter of moments he would crawl over and have Delroy for dinner.
Delroy knelt down to the lock. He pulled a paper clip from his pocket. He straightened it out. Then he put the end between his molars and bit down and bent it slightly. Then he inserted the clip into the lock and used it to lift up on the pins.
The lurker had climbed over the tailgate and was in the truck bed, plodding toward him. The ghoul stumbled and tripped over the tethers stabilizing the dirt bike.
Delroy’s heart was pounding. His hands were jittery. Lurkers on the sides of the truck were pawing at him, grabbing hold of his sleeve. Delroy stuck the tip of the knife in the lock and used it as a tension wrench. He click the last pin in place and twisted the knife. The toolbox unlocked. He flipped up the lid. This was the moment of truth. Was there anything in there he could use?
The lurker in the truck bed staggered over the tethers. It lurched forward toward Delroy, snapping at him.
Delroy snatched a claw hammer from the toolbox and swung it around. The talons pierced the lurkers skull—bone fractured and blood spurted out.
Delroy wrenched the hammer free, ripping out a chunk of the thing’s cranium. The ghoul collapsed. Pinkish gray brain matter bulged from the gaping hole.
The hammer was the first thing that Delroy had seen. On a second glance, he saw a crowbar. He snatched it from the toolbox. Now he had two weapons.
Delroy started on one side of the truck, bashing skulls. It was like playing whack-a-mole at an arcade. He swung the hammer down in his right hand.
CRACK.
Then swung the crowbar down in his left.
SMASH.
CRACK.
SMASH.
He kept cracking and smashing. Stabbing and skewering. He beat these miserable ghouls to bloody stumps, working his way around the truck. A sea of bodies were strewn about the roadway, writhing and convulsing. The hammer and crowbar were coated with blood. His hands and sleeves were splattered red.
He was a brain wrecking machine.
When the last ghoul had fallen, he jumped out of the truck bed. His boots leapt to the ground, smacking in a puddle of infected ooze. He stomped through the muck of infected remains toward the driver side. He climbed inside the cab and tossed the hammer and crowbar onto the passenger seat. His eyes grew wide as he glanced over the gauges.
The truck was out of gas.
20
Delroy sulked in the cab a moment. Then he flipped through the glove box and center console. He found a box of 9mm hollow point rounds.
That got him thinking.
He checked under the seat and found a Koenig Haas 9mm pistol. He sighed. This would have made life so much easier if he would
have found this before. Better late than never, he thought.
The Koenig Haas was perfectly balanced. It was made of a lightweight composite polymer material. Delroy checked the magazine—a full 17 rounds. He slid the magazine back into place and chambered a round. Then he holstered the weapon. He took the box of extra ammunition and put it in a side pocket.
Delroy slipped out of the truck and stepped over the corpses, striding to the back of the Slinger Magnum. He dropped the tailgate and climbed into the truck bed. He rummaged through the toolbox and found a machete underneath the main tray. He shook his head again and attached it to his tactical belt.
Then he untethered the dirt bike. He tipped it from side to side, sloshing the gas tank. The capacity on the YX 125 was 3 gallons. This sounded about half full. With a truck the size of the Slinger Magnum, that wasn’t going to get him very far. He checked the GPS data on his mobile device. There was a gas station 14 miles to the west. Surely they would have some gas cans there, he thought. He’d go, fill up, come back, fill up the truck and rendezvous with Steele and the others.
Delroy grabbed the bungee cords that were tethering the bike down. He stuffed them in his pack, then saddled up. He slammed his foot down on the kick-starter. The two-stroke engine rattled like a chainsaw. Delroy revved the throttle, and a sly grin curled up on his face.
He let the clutch out, and the dirt bike lurched forward. It rocketed out of the truck bed, catching air off the tailgate. Delroy landed the bike on the asphalt and sped off to the west. The engine wound up and Delroy caught a second gear wheelie. He always wanted a dirt bike like this. He grew up watching motocross stars like Dave “Dynamite” Dakota. Delroy had plenty of bikes before, but nothing as slick and as race worthy as this. As a boy, Delroy had fantasies of being a motocross superstar. For a moment, he forgot all about the virus. All about the destruction. All about the end of the world.
He was in the moment. He was having the time of his life.
