The Dying of the Light: Interval

by Kristopher, Jason

  “Guo. Li Guo.”

  “Miss Li, can you put the gun down for me? There are no more walkers to shoot.”

  The gun was shaking in her hand, drifting back and forth in front of Denson, whose right hand gripped his bloody left sleeve. He was motionless, doing nothing to provoke her. “No, they are still there. Still here.”

  He kept moving toward the Chinese woman, slowly, steadily, not making any sudden gestures. “I promise, Guo. They are gone. Dead. For all time.” He was within just a few feet of her now.

  “No! They are coming back. They always come back. I have to kill him!” She shoved the gun against Denson’s head, and he winced. “He must die!”

  “Guo, it’s my job to kill zombies. Jiang shi. Zombie. They are all dead.”

  She looked at him again as he spoke in her language, and trembling, fell into his arms, the gun falling to the ground. She had passed out by the time he laid her on the ground, motioning over a few of the onlookers from the survivors.

  Another Chinese woman sat down next to her, propping her up in her lap and speaking to her calmly.

  Anderson scooped up the pistol and turned to Denson, who had struggled to his feet.

  “Since when do you know Chinese, sir?” the sergeant asked.

  “You’d be surprised what I know, Sergeant. Where’s Baronowski? Or is this him?”

  Denson shook his head as they looked down at the body on the ground. It had been covered with a now-useless McMurdo jacket. “No, that’s Hansen. Don’t know what happened to Barry.”

  Anderson looked up at the survivors. “Did anyone see what happened to the other soldier?” Those who spoke English shook their heads, and Anderson swore softly, activating his radio. “Baronowski, come in.” When there was no answer, he tried again. “Baronowski, dammit, come in!”

  “Commander, I saw other soldier, this Baronowski, you say?” Tatiana approached, Fagerhölm at her side. “He went that direction,” she said, pointing to the north. “I tried to help, but he would not let me come. Here is gun I found.” She handed him a pistol, and he noted it was still warm. “I use to kill zombie.” Again she pointed to the north.

  Eller spoke up, drawing Anderson’s attention from the tall blonde. “Sir, the trucks are here,” he said, as the delivery truck crashed through the young underbrush, in reverse.

  Gaines hopped out and walked back toward the camp, stepping a little faster when Anderson motioned him over.

  “Gunny, I need you to take Eller and Lederman here and find Baronowski. Get Ferguson and these two,” he said, pointing to the latecomers. “To start loading as many people in the trucks as you can. He may have been headed north,” he said, pointing the way the Russian had indicated.

  “Thanks for the cover, Gunny,” said Denson.

  Gaines nodded and began issuing orders, and in a few minutes, the three chosen men moved off to scout once more while the survivors began climbing into the trucks.

  “What the hell happened to her?” Anderson said, jerking his chin in the direction of the Chinese woman who’d taken Denson’s gun.

  “When I came out of the jungle, one of the walkers was closing in on her, and she was firing a pistol at it—or trying to fire, since the gun was empty. I hit the walker nearly dead center, and the spray got her. Things go a bit wobbly after that, but I think when I turned around to look for other walkers, she hit me over the head with her gun. Next thing I know, I’m on my knees with her pointing my own gun in my face.”

  “What was all the business about the walkers not being dead? They’re all gone. None here.”

  “That’s not… not exactly true, sir.”

  The sergeant took his hand off the wound he’d been covering. Bite marks showed clear through the rent and torn skin and uniform.

  “Ah, dammit, Sergeant!”

  “I almost made it, sir. I was just coming out of the trees when one came at me out of nowhere. There wasn’t any time… I’ve never seen a walker move so fast, sir.”

  “Well… wait, what? How old was it?”

  Denson blinked at the question. “Uh, what?”

  “The zombie. How old was it? Before it turned.”

  “I really don’t…”

  “Show me.”

  Denson walked the captain over to the spot where he’d come out of the jungle, and kicked at a walker laying on the ground. The handle of a standard-issue combat knife protruded from under the walker’s chin. This one died fast, thought Anderson. He noted the age of the body. The girl was in her teens when she turned. Well, shit. That confirms it. “It’s not a walker, Sergeant. She’s a runner.”

  “Runner, sir?”

  “We didn’t see ‘em much before Z-Day, and I was hoping the ones we did see were just random chance. That’s why we never talked about it. It looks like they weren’t, though.” He pointed to the face, the skinny arms, the undeveloped chest. “She was a teenager when she turned. Something about the hormones in the body at that age screws with the prion. Makes them faster, stronger, harder to kill. This one would’ve chased you down.”

  “That’s… shit. Now I don’t feel so bad.”

  “You shouldn’t, other than the obvious. These things are nasty.” He touched the mic at his throat. “Gunny, we have a confirmed runner sighting.”

  “Shit. Roger that, sir.”

  “Gaines was one of the only ones to see them, back then. He can handle it.” Anderson sat down on one of the now-empty crates scattered from its previous position as his command table. “This sucks, Sergeant. I’m too old for this shit. No wonder that girl wanted to shoot you.” He scrubbed his hands through his short-cropped hair. And all of it grey, now, he thought, apropos of nothing.

  “She’d have been right to do so, sir,” said Denson, squatting next to the older man.

  Anderson sighed and took out his pistol. “I guess we’d better get it over with.”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take one of the rifles and see how far I can get.”

  “How far you can get?”

  “Yes, sir. Maybe take a few of ‘em with me, if I can.” He went quiet and covered up the wound once more as Gaines returned with his men.

  Gaines walked up, whispering in the captain’s ear.

  “We found Baronowski, sir,” Gaines said, his face emotionless. “Or, at least, what was left of him. And several walkers.”

  Anderson shook his head. “He was a good man. Experienced. He knew what he was doing. What the hell happened?”

  Gaines shrugged. “He got overwhelmed, it looks like. At least three, possibly four, all at the same time. They’re runners, sir.” He paused, then shook his head. “The weird thing, though…”

  “Sergeant?”

  “Well, we found another walker, off from the others, on its way toward the camp.”

  “Why’s that weird?”

  “Barry didn’t hit that one, sir. This one came in after he had passed. It was a pistol, too. But the weird thing is the grouping, sir. Double-tap to the head. And a damn good shot, sir. I doubt I could have done any better. Took a second look before I realized it even was a double-tap. They were that close.”

  Anderson looked over at the Russian, who was moving through the crowd making sure no one was injured. She hadn’t struck him as being very bright, despite her medical training. I use to kill zombie, she said. With a shot like that? I wonder what other sorts of training she’s had?

  “Fuck! What the fuck do you want?” Anderson asked as Lederman trotted up. His face fell as Anderson’s words hit hard, and the captain sighed, waving a hand in dismissal. “Never mind, sorry. It’s been a shitty day. Report.”

  “Good news, sir. We got everyone on the trucks.”

  “What? How?” Anderson stood and walked a few paces until he had a clear view, then he laughed, a short, sharp bark. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. We were already up there, after all.” The intrepid survivors had filled the delivery truck, as well as the cabs and beds of the others. T
hen, those that were left had climbed up on top of the truck, using whatever handholds they could find to keep from being bumped and jostled off.

  “We saved you all spots,” Lederman said. “Ready when you are, sir.”

  Anderson nodded. “Fine, everyone load up. Sergeant Denson, a word.”

  He waited until the others were out of sight, then unslung the rifle from his back and handed it to the sergeant. “Make good use of it.”

  “I will sir,” said Denson, holstering his sidearm and taking the rifle. “Thank you, Captain. For everything.” Holding the rifle in the crook of his left arm, he stood to attention and saluted the captain. “It’s been an honor.”

  Anderson returned the salute. “I’m getting real tired of saying goodbye, Sergeant.”

  Denson grinned. “Then don’t, sir. Old soldiers, and all that. Except I’m going out with a bang. Or several. Get those people home, Captain.”

  “Count on it.”

  Denson took a deep breath, set his rifle in the ready position, and moved off into the jungle without a backward glance.

  Anderson shook his head and whispered, “Godspeed.” He watched until he couldn’t see the young sergeant anymore, then walked over to the delivery truck and climbed up into the passenger seat. Gaines glanced over, a single eyebrow raised, and Anderson just shook his head.

  “Shame,” said the Georgia native, and put the truck into gear. “I liked that guy.”

  Me too, Gunny, thought Anderson. Me, too.

  The trip to the airport—back to the airport, for some—took a lot longer than Anderson had hoped, but not longer than he had expected. The overgrown and clogged roads were a problem, forcing them to stop and hack at weeds and trees that had grown up around and even through abandoned vehicles and other debris. More than once, they had to backtrack through side streets to go around blockages of the larger roads, and some of these smaller byways had been washed out or eroded after more than a decade without regular maintenance.

  “How in the hell did you get these trucks through before, Gunny?” he asked.

  “We didn’t, sir. We picked ‘em all up on the outskirts as an afterthought. Figured it’d be easier than trooping all these folks through jungle.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Of course, walkers were also a constant presence on the trip, as the trucks could not be made silent, or even quiet. The soldiers standing guard in the beds of the trucks, or, in the largest truck’s case, on the roof, were firing at walkers continuously.

  An Indian scientist, tired and not paying enough attention, was dragged from one of the trucks by a walker that had been hidden by a large burnt car. The poor man lost his balance to the grasping and pulling zombie, and tumbled out of the truck, falling to the road. The walker was on him before anyone could react, and his screams were only silenced after a well-placed shot by Gaines, who had taken a turn atop the delivery truck as Anderson drove. After that, the rest of the scientists huddled close together, out of arm’s reach from the monsters waiting to rip and tear.

  Exhausted, the convoy finally made it to the airport, where the soldiers were able to pick off their long trail of zombies quickly as the pavement allowed them to circle the proverbial wagons. Soon, they’d dispatched all the walkers, and Anderson climbed down from the delivery truck’s cab to move around to the rear. Mahoney was talking with one of the soldiers, pointing to the crashed 747.

  “I’ll need to see it up-close and personal before I can say for sure, but I think if we can find some of the rescue equipment we can move it off the runway,” he said as Anderson walked up.

  “Oh? It looks pretty bad to me,” the captain said, glancing over at the crash. The 747 had come to rest with one wing crushed and bent against the ground and the body of the plane tilted to the left. The plane’s right wing pointed skyward at a forty-five degree angle, with the right landing gear completely off the ground. I wonder how it stayed that way for so long? Surely, it should’ve rusted out or collapsed by now.

  “Nah, not really. Look, you can see the nose gear is still mostly intact, and the whole thing is just about to go back to level, if only the left wing was cut off. If we can find some of the bigger rescue equipment—fire trucks and such—we might be able to just tow or drag it off to the side. Hell, if worse came to worst, we could just push it right off the edge into the ocean.” He leaned back against the truck. “No, the problem will be getting the other planes ready to fly, first.”

  Anderson folded his arms, determined to get his people home. “Just tell me what you need, Chief.”

  Mahoney thought for a moment. “We need to find out if there is any rescue equipment around, and if so, what kind of shape it’s in. If it can’t be fixed, then we’ll need to come up with a completely new plan. If there is workable rescue equipment, we’ll need to find a welding torch and propane, so we can cut through the wing of the plane. But first, let’s go take a look at these other planes, see if they’re at all useful.” He took a step toward the waiting planes, then wavered, and fell back against the truck’s side. “I might need a ride, sir. Looks like the crash took more out of me than I thought.”

  Anderson grinned. “No problem. Let’s get the civvies situated first, then we’ll take a look at your planes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sergeant Gaines!” Anderson yelled, and a moment later the soldier trotted up. “Gunny, I need you to secure the terminal. We’ve got to have a defensible place for these folks.” The Pago Pago International Airport terminal was, for lack of a better word, small. “Once that’s done, get ‘em all inside, and keep ‘em there.”

  Gaines nodded and took off, picking a few men to go with him.

  Anderson chose one of those left behind. “Eller, see if you can find any mechanics among the survivors. Particularly aircraft or vehicle mechanics. If there are any, have them report to Mahoney. He’ll need them.” As the soldier moved off to interview the survivors, Anderson turned back to Mahoney. “How long you figure we’ll be here, chief?”

  Mahoney glanced up at the captain, shielding his eyes against the bright afternoon sun. “At least three days, Captain. If everything goes well.”

  Anderson sighed. No way in hell that’ll happen. We’re going to need some supplies, he thought as he looked around. Still, at least we’ve got a plan, now.

  As Mahoney had guessed, the wreck of the 747 was not as difficult to clear as they’d first thought. The broken wing had been almost rusted through already, and with their find of the rescue equipment in good shape—excepting only tires that needed filling from some generator-driven pumps they’d located—they were able to break the wing and push the wreckage into the ocean. In the end, it had come down to a volunteer group of survivors jumping up and down on the broken metal of the wing, since they hadn’t been able to find any welding equipment or even so much as a hacksaw. With only three jumps, however, the tortured metal gave way, and the survivors, jumping on the outer wing portion, had fallen backwards, tumbling down the wing with only minor scrapes and bruises. The plane creaked once and then slammed into the dirt and concrete, the sound loud enough to send their patrols to scout for walkers attracted by the noise.

  Since they’d been unable to find any chains or other devices to tow the plane’s carcass, they had simply decided to push it. The airless tires of the plane were mostly shredded and gone, and the landing gear threw a few surprising sparks as it squealed and scraped across the runway. The resistance of the plane caused serious damage to the fire equipment, but eventually they moved the plane far enough that its weight caused it to tip and finally fall gracelessly into the ocean, leaving just enough room for its sister to take off in its place.

  The inventory of the other planes was not quite so successful.

  “We’ve got two planes that have a reasonable chance of being repaired to useful duty, sir,” said Mahoney during what passed for their lunch on the second day. “There’s a Gulfstream, can’t quite see it f
rom here, it looks like a private plane for somebody—some rich guy, judging by the interior. That’ll hold about twenty, twenty-five if they’re friendly. Then there’s that other 767, there.” He pointed to the large plane with the faded orange and purple logo of Hawaiian Airlines on the tail. “She’ll hold about two hundred fifty folks, though that’s pushing it. I’d recommend we fix both, sir.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, for starters, it’ll be good to have a spotter plane, something that can go lower and check out the runway in Hawai’i. And, it’ll give us more room on the big plane. Cramming another thirty people in there would be rough, sir. Especially with the injured.”

  Anderson grunted. “Good point. So, how long?”

  “Three, maybe four days. I’ll do what I can to cut it down.”

  “Good. Just let me know when they’re ready.”

  Two days later, Anderson was in a briefing of sorts, sitting in the shade outside the terminal. He’d been in hotter weather plenty of times, and the breeze coming off the ocean was cool for once, so they’d decided to do their daily rituals outside. After the terminal had been secured a few days prior, he’d asked Gaines to do some quick scouting around the airport, looking primarily for food, but also for any other useful supplies. The scouts had managed to find some canned goods that didn’t look too rusted or bent, but he wasn’t willing to take that risk just yet. Botulism was nasty, and there wasn’t exactly a hospital close by.

  Zavrazhny was sitting quietly, staring out into the ocean with a grim look on her face. Anderson couldn’t blame her. She’d seen a lot in these past few days. He was still wondering about that perfect double-tap kill, though. .

  Zavrazhny’s ever-present shadow, the tall Swede, was a few feet away, his back to a young tree and his eyes closed.

  Anderson was trying to concentrate on Eller’s patrol report when Mahoney pulled up in one of the trucks. The chief sauntered over, sighing with relief as he took a place near Anderson in the shade.

  Eller broke off and glared at Mahoney, who paid not a whit of attention to the younger man, just closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. Sweat ran down his face and neck; he’d been hard at work while the rest of them were taking their ease. Anderson would’ve felt somewhat embarrassed, but he’d long ago grown out of such juvenile responses. What was, was. There was no sense in being embarrassed about it.