The Survivalist

by Arthur T. Bradley

  He wasn’t getting in that way.

  With his left hand touching the bus and his right clutching the Supergrade, Mason worked his way around the side. The smoke was so thick that Bowie occasionally bumped against the back of his legs, which if nothing else, removed one worry from his mind.

  As he shuffled along, Mason took stock of his situation. He had made it to the bus. All he had to do now was get inside, start the engine, and pick up Brooke and Locke without getting shot or hacked to pieces. Hard, yes, but also doable.

  Before he could congratulate himself further, a figure rushed from the fog and smashed him against the bus. Mason’s legs buckled, and he wavered as he tried to bring the Supergrade on target. Something hard hit him on the left ear, and he stumbled sideways, the world growing dark.

  He felt Bowie push past him, snarling as he tackled the man to the ground and began mauling his face and hands. Still trying to recover, Mason steadied himself against the bus. Within seconds, the screaming stopped and Bowie emerged from the smoke, blood dripping from his open mouth. His advance was anything but friendly.

  “Easy, boy,” Mason said, carefully extending a hand for him to smell. “It’s me.”

  As he caught Mason’s scent, Bowie lowered his head and came closer with his tail wagging.

  “We’re almost there. Just stay with me.”

  Leaning against the bus for support, Mason made his way forward. Suddenly, the wall fell away, and he barely managed to catch himself. Waving aside the smoke, he saw dark steps leading up into the bus. The accordion-style door had been removed, and in its place a panel of steel had been installed to block most of the entrance. A gap of perhaps eighteen inches remained.

  He shrugged off his backpack and tossed it in ahead of him. Turning sideways, he slipped through the narrow opening. Bowie came in behind him, eagerly sniffing the strange new space. The smoke hadn’t fully filled the interior, and Mason could make out the general details.

  All but a handful of seats had been removed to set up firing ports along both sides of the bus. A Browning .50 caliber M2 machine gun rested atop a tripod along the left side. A large T-shaped slot had been cut through the surrounding steel to allow the barrel of the gun to move more freely. Mason knew full well that M2s were serious weapons capable of inflicting heavy casualties. But right now, he had to get moving.

  He slid in behind the oversized steering wheel and looked for a way to start the bus. To the right of the dash was a rotating switch, the black paint worn away. He turned it clockwise, and the big engine turned over. It sputtered once and then rumbled to life.

  He dropped the transmission into low and wheeled the bus around to the left. The smoke was thinning, and he could already begin to make out Church Street. If he had his bearings correct, following the street would lead him directly back to the corral.

  Something thumped against the side of the bus, and Bowie let out an uneasy growl.

  Mason motioned for him to come closer and lie down next to the driver’s seat.

  “Better get cozy, boy. I think we’re in for a noisy ride.”

  Mason swerved to the left, centering the bus between Church Street’s two white lines. A small cluster of infected dove out of his path to avoid being run over. As he passed, the sharp metallic ping of bullets could be heard striking the bus’s metal plating. Even with the accelerator pedal pressed to the floor, the school bus was so burdened by weight that it had barely reached fifteen miles an hour. Sensing they might be able to overtake him, some of the infected gave chase on foot, occasionally pausing to fire a few more shots in his direction.

  After passing the main packing facility, Mason turned into a drive that truckers used for deliveries. More infected spilled out from the enormous building, shouting and waving their weapons in the air, uncertain about how to bring down such a heavy beast.

  Mason spotted a giant standing in their midst, thick-muscled, with the head of an ape. He carried an M16 but seemed to know better than to waste his efforts trying to penetrate the vehicle’s armor. He shouted orders, and three men hopped into the back of an abandoned flatbed truck directly in Mason’s path. They braced their weapons against the railing and took careful aim.

  The windshield was about ninety percent covered with armor, but driving required that a long horizontal slit be left unprotected. Clinging to the steering wheel, Mason bent over and forced the bus to continue its relentless slog forward. A handful of bullets broke through the glass, one of them slapping against the seatback where had had been leaning only seconds earlier.

  Shouts sounded, followed by a deafening crash, as the bus sent the truck spiraling out of the way.

  Free of the snipers, Mason straightened up and once again peered out through the driver’s port. The way ahead was clear. Unable to see out through the rear, he had no idea how many of the infected gave chase, but he had to assume the worst. He had drawn the attention of their monstrous leader, and that could only mean that he had become job one.

  Mason envisioned the army running after him, waving guns, hatchets, and anything else they could use to kill. How much time would he have to get Brooke and Locke into the bus? Twenty seconds? Less? Would it be enough? If it wasn’t, the whole rescue thing was going to end as quickly as it had started.

  As he approached the corral, he eased his foot off the gas and felt the heavy contraption begin to slow. Applying the brakes was hardly necessary, as the incredible weight of the armor brought him to a rolling stop. Hundreds of pigs stared out at him from behind the fencing, frightened beyond anything they had ever experienced.

  An idea came to him, and it came in the crusty voice of Lieutenant Colonel Rinton, an old Ranger Battalion commander with whom he had had the honor of serving.

  “When the enemy has you outnumbered, stir their shit up.”

  The idea was simple enough. Countering an overwhelming force required instilling disorganization and inefficiency into their operation. If successful, a well-choreographed attack could quickly devolve into chaos and tail chasing.

  Realizing that the answer was right in front of him, Mason moved his foot back onto the gas pedal. He plowed through the wooden fencing and barreled toward the huddled mass of frightened pigs. As he drew closer, they broke away, running past the bus on either side. A sea of pork spilled past him, the very earth shaking from their thunderous stampede.

  Mason stomped the brake pedal and felt the bus jerk to a stop. Stepping over Bowie, he hurried down the stairs and leaned through the armored doorway. Brooke and Locke were already hobbling out from the building, one of his arms draped over her shoulder for support.

  Mason stepped out to get a better look at what was happening behind the bus. Scores of infected stood forty or fifty yards back, but they were busy dealing with the enormous stampede of pigs charging through their midst. Some shot at the animals; others were wiser and dove out of their way.

  Mason brought up his M4 and added to the confusion by winging a few of the most determined of his enemy. Between the pigs and the gunfire, it was enough to buy Brooke and Locke the time they needed to get to the bus.

  As she helped her father up the stairs, Mason turned to lend a hand. The man’s skin was cool and clammy, and his face was pale. The bandage on his leg was soaked in blood, meaning that he had either broken open the wound or that it had never fully clotted.

  As soon as they were aboard, Mason scrambled in behind them and motioned for Brooke to take the wheel.

  “You drive. I’ll shoot.”

  Without arguing, she slid behind the big wheel and began backing the bus out of the corral.

  “It’s too slow!” she cried, stomping the gas pedal. “We’ll never outrun them.”

  “Maybe not,” muttered Mason, “but that’s why God invented the .50 cal.”

  Mason sat down behind the Browning M2 and performed a quick check to see that everything was operational.

  It was.

  The ammo can beside the weapon contained perhaps three hundred ro
unds. It wasn’t enough to decimate the advancing army, but it sure as hell would send them ducking for cover.

  “When I say ‘now,’ throw the wheel to the right, forty-five degrees.”

  Brooke grabbed the top of the steering wheel, her knuckles white.

  “Ready!”

  As soon as they bumped their way clear of the broken corral, Mason shouted, “Now!”

  She pulled the wheel hard to the right, sending Bowie tumbling from one side of the bus to the other. By turning sideways, the broadside of the bus now faced directly toward the infected army. The pigs had largely pushed past them, and their pursuers were once again giving chase. In another few seconds, the closest would be within reach of the bus.

  Mason lined up the big gun and pressed the butterfly triggers with both thumbs.

  The M2 shuddered back and forth, and a deafening thump-thump-thump filled the air. There were no tracers mixed in, but he was able to walk a steady spray of hellfire across the enemy, ripping bodies apart under the onslaught of the 660-grain bullets. The incredible ferocity of the gun sent them diving to the ground or cowering behind thick steel shipping containers. By the time the gun ran dry, not a single person remained in pursuit.

  Mission accomplished.

  He abandoned the Browning and hurried back toward Brooke, shouting “Go! Go! Go!”

  She floored the pedal, and the heavy bus labored forward. As they straightened out, she pointed to the roadblock ahead.

  “They’re fortifying the barricade. We’ll never get through!”

  And indeed they were. A dozen or more of the infected were busy moving additional vehicles into the narrow roadway exiting the plant. Even with the weight of the bus, there was a good chance they would get hung up on something as they smashed their way through.

  “There!” Mason pointed to a field immediately to the right of the road. The ground was uneven and filled with a lifeless red clay, but it remained passable. The only issue was that a small water tower sat at its center, and the space between the tower and road was quite narrow.

  “We won’t fit.”

  “We’ll fit. Just drive.”

  Brooke turned the wheel, bumping the bus down the shallow embankment. The packed clay grabbed at the wheels, but the bus managed to slog ahead like an out of control train.

  Realizing their shortcoming, the infected abandoned the roadblock and raced out into the field to form a human barrier. Many brought up weapons, and gunfire once again peppered the front of the bus. Both Mason and Brooke instinctively ducked behind the shield to avoid becoming the victim of a lucky shot.

  “What do I do?” she cried.

  With a choice between a road barricaded with metal and a field filled with infantrymen, there was really only one answer.

  “Run ’em down.”

  “But I can’t see!”

  “Just keep it steady. Once you break through, we’ll get our bearings.”

  Still ducking her head, Brooke did her best to hold the wheel steady. The pull of the dirt tugged first one way and then the other, but she held fast without succumbing to the temptation to overcorrect the movement.

  To their credit, even with certain death bearing down upon them, the enemy did not cut and run. Instead, most stood their ground until the very last moment, firing frantically at the bus. That, of course, ended the only way it could have, the huge vessel plowing through them with little more than a slap to the steel.

  As the bus thumped over the last of the men, a body caught under one of the front wheels to send the bus careening sharply to the right. Brooke fought to bring it back under control, but before she could, there was a tremendous crunch. The impact threw both her and Mason against the dash, as well as sent Bowie skittering into Mason’s back.

  The dog whined and nestled against him, no doubt seeking comfort from what had become a ride straight out of The Gauntlet.

  Brooke rose up and peeked through the narrow opening in the windshield. The bus had winged one of the tower’s supports, and the entire structure now leaned ominously to one side.

  “I told you there wasn’t enough room!” Her foot instinctively started to come off the pedal.

  Mason pushed in next to her and placed his foot atop hers.

  “Keep going!”

  They heard the tower groan as it slowly collapsed behind them. When it finally crashed into the field, it did so with a roaring woosh. Hundreds of thousands of gallons of water poured out, turning the dry barren field into a rich bog of red mud.

  Brooke steered back toward the road so they would re-enter just past the bulk of the barricade. Bullets ricocheted off the thick steel, the steady pop-ping-pow making it sound as if they were inside a pan of Jiffy Pop popcorn.

  The bus lurched forward as one of the front tires blew, a thick flap of rubber smacking against the underside of the bus. The steering wheel suddenly became heavy, and once again Brooke had to fight to keep it under control.

  Mason leaned across and used both hands to help steady the wheel.

  “We’re almost there. Just hold on!”

  Like the powerful Minotaur, the twenty tons of steel plowed ahead, finally bumping back onto the asphalt and smashing through a few straggler cars positioned at the rear of the roadblock. More gunshots sounded, and more bullets chipped away at the bus, but none were enough to stop the monstrous beast as it roared down Berry Hill Road.

  Berry Hill Road took a wide turn to the left, and the bus quickly fell out of sight of the men giving chase. The only sounds were that of the engine whining under the heavy load and the incessant thumping of the blown tire. Up ahead, they saw that the road ended at an intersection with Highway 258 going left and right.

  Mason stood up and let Brooke once again manage the wheel.

  “Which way?” she said, easing off the gas.

  He knew that right would carry them north toward whatever remnants of the army had stayed behind. Left was little better, as it would take them across the Pagan River to skirt the town of Smithfield. Assuming that the infected hadn’t already devastated the town, he would be all but drawing them into the small community of survivors. On the other hand, it was a community that had been built on cannibalism and murder.

  “Go left.”

  “We’ll never outrun them. This thing’s like driving a bank vault.”

  She was right, of course. The collapse of the water tower would delay an organized pursuit, but if the infected decided to come after them, and he believed they would, it wouldn’t take long for them to catch up.

  Brooke glanced back at Locke. Thanks to the tumultuous ride, he lay half on, half off the bench seat. His clothes were damp with sweat, and he looked to be drifting in and out of consciousness. The sight of him caused her face to wrinkle with anguish.

  “Go on,” Mason said, grabbing the wheel. “I’ve got it.”

  She slid out and hurried back to her father.

  Feeling of his forehead, she said, “We need to find a doctor.”

  Mason didn’t doubt that Locke needed immediate medical attention. Unfortunately, the closest doctors that he knew of were in the New Colony, and that might as well have been on the far side of the moon.

  “We’ll get across the river and find a faster set of wheels. If everything goes our way, we could be back to the colony by nightfall.” He tried to sound optimistic, but there was no denying the difficulties that lay ahead.

  “Please hurry.”

  Mason said nothing more as he steered the bus down Highway 258. After crossing over the Pagan River, the road turned southeast past the Cypress Creek golf course. The highway was empty except for a few abandoned cars, and a logging truck that had overturned and fallen into an adjacent gutter.

  They continued on, speeding past a small strip of stores, including a Farm Fresh and a tractor supply company. Neither looked like it had been open in a very long time, but stalls had been set up in the parking lot to act as a weekend farmers’ market. Not a living soul was in sight.

 
; The road finally opened up into a broad intersection. Highway 258 veered left, and State Route 10 continued straight ahead. Turning left would take them directly to the James River Bridge, which if they could get across, would all but ensure their escape.

  As Mason started to turn the wheel, an explosion shook the air, gently rocking the bus from side to side. Hitting the brakes, he leaned around to see through the narrow slit in the windshield. In the distance, he saw a huge plume of black smoke billowing into the air.

  “What was that?” cried Brooke.

  “They’ve blown the bridge.”

  “Who? The infected?”

  “More likely those who escaped from The Farm.”

  “But why would they do that?”

  “It was the only way they could be sure that they weren’t followed.”

  “But don’t they realize they’ve left the rest of us stranded?” The panic in her voice was palpable.

  Mason said nothing. Hard choices always had ramifications. That’s what made them hard.

  “Maybe we can still get across,” she said.

  It was actually a fair point. The James River Bridge was an enormous structure, so big in fact that it had withstood a direct collision with a fully loaded container ship. The problem was that he had no way of knowing if the bridge was still traversable, and being trapped on the wrong side of a river was the worst kind of mistake to make.

  “We can’t take that chance,” he said, steering straight through the intersection.

  “But my father needs a doctor.”

  “We’ll have to stabilize him when we stop.”

  “But what if we don’t—”

  The bus jerked hard, and another thick flap of steel-belted rubber flung out into the road behind them. The tires were disintegrating, and as they did, the bus was becoming less and less maneuverable.

  Bowie tipped his nose into the air, pulling in the powerful stench of burning rubber. He looked over at his master for an explanation.