by D. J. Molles
When they were within about 25 yards of the vehicle, Trevor noticed what he thought was a weird, green license plate, strapped to the grill of the car. As he got a little closer he realized that it must be some type of style plate, because it was too thick to be a regular state-issued license plate, and had a slightly convex shape. He could see some sort of writing embossed on the front, but it was the same olive green color and difficult to read.
Trevor loved to read vanity plates and style plates. He laughed, even at the air-brushed ones that said “I LOVE JESUS” and “R.I.P. SHAWN” because it was hilarious to him what people thought was important enough to display on their car for total strangers to read.
Distracted and curious, with a small smile on his lips, Trevor couldn’t help but lean forward and get a little closer. He just had to read what this idiot put on his car.
“Don’t rush up,” Roc said from several yards behind him.
Trevor hadn’t realized he’d gone that far in front.
He wasn’t worried. He was pretty sure these guys were with the Smithfield group.
He was about fifteen yards away from it when he finally made out the lettering. As he did, he barely noticed out of the corner of his eyes that all three individuals in the car had ducked down behind the engine block. Trevor Schlitz’s brows narrowed in confusion as he read the words aloud: “Front toward enemy?”
And just before dozens of 1/8-inch steel balls ripped through his body, he thought, I don’t get it…
***
LaRouche and Harper stared at each other, cringing as the whole vehicle rocked with the detonation of the M18 Claymore mine they’d strapped to the grill. Admittedly, LaRouche wasn’t sure that it would work or if they would even be safe behind the engine block, as he had never been so close to a Claymore mine upon detonation. They all hoped that any shockwave or bouncing shrapnel would be soaked up by the hood of the Chevrolet Lumina.
When the vehicle stopped rocking back and forth, LaRouche straightened in his seat, still holding the “clacker” in his hand, attached to the conspicuous wire that trailed out of the driver’s side window and into the engine compartment. He had imagined that the windows in the Lumina would have shattered, simply based on the proximity to the blast, but whoever had invented the Claymore mine knew what they were doing, and the convex design of the explosive had projected all that energy outwards at their attackers.
Front toward enemy...
Harper sounded half excited and half disgusted when he spoke. “Holy shitfire...”
Looking through the unmarred windshield, LaRouche didn’t even recognize the bodies on the ground. He knew there had only been two men approaching the vehicle, but there were three mounds of bloody flesh on the ground. One of the men had been torn in half.
The back passenger door opened up and Miller got out, clutching his rifle. “Come on guys, we gotta move.”
The other two men quickly exited the vehicle. LaRouche snatched up Lee’s rifle as he left and Harper didn’t mention anything. This was a fight now, no time to squabble about what weapon belonged to who. The blast from that Claymore mine was pretty attention-getting, and they would have company rushing through that door any minute now.
As they sprinted towards the four vehicles that made up Milo’s convoy—the big green Humvee, the two pickup trucks, and now the truck full of Camp Ryder’s supplies—the air was choked with gasoline fumes. Not of exhaust, or the old lawnmower smell of spilled and dried gasoline, but the fresh sweet stench of it. As Harper ran he searched for the source of the smell and it didn’t take him long to find it.
The closest enemy truck to them was full of gas cans, and the blast from the Claymore mine had peppered the bed and the cans inside with those little steel balls, punching holes through the thin plastic gas cans and letting that precious fluid spill out onto the ground, like another wounded casualty, spilling his blood.
Harper swore when he saw it. “Woulda been nice to have some of that gas!”
“Fuckin’ leave it,” Miller huffed. “Let’s get our truck and get out!”
The two man from Camp Ryder split for the Dodge Ram 2500, still stocked and strapped with white food pails and boxes of dehydrated fruits and vegetables. The sight of the truck within their grasp was hopeful and tantalizing, but Harper couldn’t ignore the black dread inside of him that this would never work, they would never manage to get this thing out of here alive. They weren’t soldiers, they weren’t heroes. They were just an old business person and a young kid.
LaRouche rushed for the Humvee. He yanked open the door and jumped in, thanking God that the keys were dangling from the ignition. Apparently Milo had assumed their posted guard would be enough to defend the vehicles. His hubris irritated LaRouche and exhilarated him at the same time. It always tasted sweet to pull one over on the person you hated most in the world.
LaRouche cranked the truck up and slammed it in gear. He nudged the gas pedal with his foot and the diesel monster leapt forward, smashing its ram-bar into the side of the concrete wall of the stairwell, jamming the door to the hospital closed. Then LaRouche put it in park and hopped out.
No one would be coming through that door.
Harper had already positioned their pickup, facing away from the hospital and ready to roll. The big V8 engine rumbled mightily and Miller looked at him through the open passenger side window and waved his hand.
“Let’s go!”
LaRouche slung into Captain Harden’s M4 and shook his head. “I can’t leave these people, man.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Miller nearly screamed.
LaRouche waved at him. “I have one of your radios. If you don’t hear from me by tonight, things haven’t gone well. Now get the fuck out of here!”
Harper tossed him a salute and slammed on the gas, not waiting for further argument, but Miller stared at him through the window, even as the truck pulled off. LaRouche watched it for a brief moment as it dipped down into the parking garage and began making its swift descent to the ground level, and from there, away from Smithfield and back to Camp Ryder where it belonged.
LaRouche began jogging towards the ramp to the lower level. He popped the magazine out of the M4 and checked the chamber. The mag was full, plus one in the chamber.
It was time to find Captain Harden.
Behind LaRouche, the punctured gas cans continued to slop the pickup bed with gasoline. That gasoline pooled and began to dribble at first, and then to flow through the tailgate and down the bumpers, splashing on the ground in little pools. Those little pools quickly turned into big pools with tiny streams that meandered away from the back of the pickup truck, following the slight downslope of the concrete. Like a half-dozen dark snakes meandering away from the tailgate of the truck.
The first two narrowly passed by what remained of Trevor Schlitz’s cigarette, but the third found its mark, connecting with the bright red cherry at the tip of the cigarette. An almost-invisible blue flame erupted and spread, quickly consuming the entire writhing pool of snakes.
The first thing LaRouche noticed wasn’t heat or flame, but the whoosh sound behind him that grew rapidly and suddenly into a roar, like a jet taking off. Then there was the sensation of running against the wind at the same moment that LaRouche attempted to draw a deep breath and found the air in front of him devoid of oxygen.
Then came the searing heat, like a harsh slap on the back and he immediately felt hot and sunburned, like his skin was shrinking on his skull. The air was on fire, burning his face, burning his mouth, hot and dry on his tongue, and stinging in his lungs like he’d just inhaled pepper. He spluttered and coughed, and then fell to his hands and knees, scrambling forward a few feet and looking behind him.
A tower of flame rose above a fully engulfed pickup truck, red and menacing, thick tongues of it licking spastically and leaving behind black smoke. LaRouche stared in wonder at the giant fireball that swelled in the sky above the truck, turning black and obscure as it rose.
> On hands and knees, the sergeant began scrambling for the ramp that led to the lower levels of the parking garage. In the wake of the lashing heat, his face felt cold and stiff. Eventually he got his feet under him and began running again. He felt a deep, black certainty coiling up in his stomach. The hospital and the adjoining parking garage were two of the tallest structures in the town. From that top level of the parking garage, LaRouche could see almost all of Smithfield.
And all he could think was, now everyone in Smithfield can see us...
CHAPTER 18: UNWANTED ATTENTION
Lee heard the boom from inside.
He and Doc both stood extremely still, waiting for something that might explain the loud concussion that shook the floor under their feet. Out in the hall, beyond their locked door, there were a few cries of surprise. Then came urgent shouts and the sound of running feet.
“What the fuck was that?” Doc’s voice was a whisper.
Lee tossed him a sharp look. “Some kind of explosion. Keep going, I’m almost out.”
Doc set back to picking and gnawing at the duct tape bindings. Lee could feel his teeth grabbing at the edges and tearing, layer by layer. Every time he heard that little popping noise as Doc’s teeth made it through another layer, he would strain against his bindings, hoping that it was weak enough now to break, but it hadn’t been yet. However, it was loose enough now that feeling was returning to his fingers, so that was at least something good.
Out in the hall, a door slammed.
The yelling and scrambling around seemed to quiet for a bit.
Another popping sound. Lee tested his bindings, felt some give.
“Keep going. Almost there.” Lee began to sweat now, his jaw clenching and unclenching rapidly and his eyes fixated on the door. It was only a matter of time before someone came and checked on them. Because he knew that if he were in their shoes and heard an explosion, his first thought would be prison break.
A moment later, there was another odd noise from outside, like a sudden rush of water. It lacked the harsh, jarring slap of the explosion a few moments earlier, but still rumbled the building like distant thunder.
“What...?”
“Keep going!” Lee snapped.
The sound of boots in the hallway. A flashlight flickered, strobing the space underneath the door with cool, white light. Lee felt another rip in the tape and pulled, groaning with the strain as he fought to pulls his hands free.
The door flew open and the light rushed in.
“What are you doing?” someone demanded, though Lee could not see their face past the blinding flashlight. All he knew was that they were getting closer, stepping into the room to investigate. Now only a few short feet away from Lee. He saw the flicker of the flashlight on gunmetal, the faint outline of a pistol pointed at him.
Doc had stopped tearing at the tape, too afraid to continue, but Lee still strained hard. The man with the flashlight must have seen the effort in his features because he shook the flashlight at them.
“I said, what are you doing?” He demanded again.
Lee girded himself up. He could feel the give in the tape and it was to the point of no return. He flipped the switch in his mind, shut off all that comfortable, moral code of humanity, so he was just a mean dog trapped in cage. He stared at the dark shadow of the man’s face and kept repeating in his mind, I am going to kill this man. I am going to kill this man. I am going to kill this man...
The tape snapped.
Like a greyhound shooting out of a stable, Lee drove forward, dodging to his left as he grabbed the pistol with both hands and shoved it to the right. The flashlight dropped, the beam causing the shadows in the room to shift. In the ghostly light diffusing off the walls, Lee could see the man’s face, eyes wide with terror, lips spread apart, teeth gritting together.
Lee pulled the man close and put a knee in his gut, doubling him over. He felt the struggle for the pistol ease a bit as the man lost some of his strength and Lee hammered his fist twice into the man’s forearm, crunching the radial nerve and causing the man to cry out in pain and drop the weapon. Lee head-butted him sharply, felt the sting of the man’s teeth slicing into his scalp and heard the crack of the man’s nose breaking.
The ferocity of Lee’s attack had driven the man back so that Lee had him pinned against the wall. To their left, the door still hung wide open and Lee knew he had to end it quickly before someone showed up to help the man out. Lee had the initiative now and he didn’t want to lose it. He could feel the man struggling against him, trying to get off the wall, their hands and arms scrabbling back and forth blocking each other from grabbing any holds.
Lee reared back and punched the man in the throat.
His wide eyes closed to a squint and he made a choking noise. His hands flew up to his collapsed larynx and that was the last mistake he ever made. With both hands free, Lee drove his thumbs into the inner corner of the man’s eyes, felt them pop and give way under the intense pressure, felt the anatomy wriggling against his fingertips. Lee was instantly repulsed and fought the urge to simply jump back and begin wiping his hands off. He had to stuff that feeling down and force himself to curl his thumbs inward, hook the insides of the man’s head, and rip it out.
The man convulsed, twitched, then sank to the floor.
Shaking now, Lee flicked his wrists and felt something warm and wet leave the palms of his hands and splatter against the floor. He had no time to think about what he had done, to self-recriminate. Those were feelings that were saved for long, sleepless nights when faces swam up from the dark parts of your mind, like the depths giving up their dead.
Shoving it all aside, Lee bent down and snatched up the gun and the flashlight.
He put the beam of light on Doc’s face, found him staring slack-jawed at the dead body lying against the wall. Lee hated him in that instant, hated him for the look of shock and disgust on his face. “I’m not sticking my ass out for you,” Lee growled at him. “You want to escape, you keep up with me and don’t say a fucking word.”
Doc looked up at him and slowly sat back on his heels.
Lee shook his head. “Fine.”
He turned his back on him, and the last image he ever had of the man who had betrayed him was a stringy clump of hair, obscuring his face as he hung his head, too ashamed to even save himself.
Lee stuck the flashlight in his pocket and checked the pistol he’d picked up. It was some cheap and shitty make that Lee didn’t recognize, with a gaudy chrome plating, chambered for 9mm. It contained a single-stack magazine with eight rounds out of fifteen left, and one in the chamber. He took a quick moment to make sure the safety was off.
He moved to the right side of the open door and gained a good angle down the hallway. A few people were down at the end of the hall, with their faces pressed against a window, pointing at some spectacle that Lee couldn’t see. They didn’t look like they were with Milo, they just looked like regular people. Some of the Smithfield group of survivors, he thought. He forced himself to stay in that position, take a breath, and think about the layout of the hospital, and where he intended to go. Overall, he needed to get back to Camp Ryder, but he needed to break it down. Manageable portions. He needed to compartmentalize.
The first step: Get some time to think. He needed to leave the hospital room, because somebody would eventually come looking for the man he had just killed, and Lee didn’t want to be around when they did. He needed to find some dark corner where he could take the time to slow his mind down and think clearly about the next step, which was getting out of the hospital completely.
Lee looked down at himself to make sure he wasn’t covered in blood—it wasn’t bad—and jammed the pistol in his waistband. He figured if he just walked out casually and closed the door behind him, no one would really take notice of him. He was banking on the Smithfield folks avoiding contact with him, thinking he was one of Milo’s men.
He stepped out, pulling the door closed on his heels. He heard it latch
and looked to his right, where the hallway led to the nurses’ station. He could see a few men there, and all of them were armed, but they did not appear to be looking his way. Their attention was instead focused on the door to the stairwell, which one of them was holding open. From inside the stairwell, Lee could hear shouts and grunts and expletives. Whatever was going on at the top of the stairwell, it wasn’t going well for them.
Lee turned away from them and started walking, fast but not too fast. If you moved too slow, it was obvious you were trying to appear casual. If you moved too fast, it looked like you were trying to escape. You had to just look like you had really important business to get to. Lee held that picture in his mind and tried to imitate it as best he could, but the fear of discovery kept banging at the back door of his mind, demanding attention.
He marched past the group at the window.
One of the men looked at him, but only briefly. Then he cast his eyes downward, as if he had made a mistake by looking at Lee and put his arm around a young woman standing next to him, as though Lee was going to snatch her away.
As he passed, Lee risked a glance out the window at what everyone was staring at. The window gave a good view of the western-facing side of the parking garage. Over the concrete wall he could see the tops of two pickup trucks, parked close to the building, one behind the other. The one in the back was a charred skeleton of a vehicle and it belched fire and black smoke. Lee realized his jaw was hanging open and snapped it closed. He kept walking.
His head buzzed with questions.
Who set the fire? Whose truck is that? It looks like a gasoline fire. That had to be a lot of gasoline. That was the rumble I felt inside the room—all that gas going up. Was that all Milo’s gas? Was somebody sabotaging Milo or was it just an accident? What are they struggling with in the stairwell?
