by Calen, Tom
“He’s working on it. Sooner or later he’s bound to have some luck,” Paul replied to a question Mike had missed.
“I know, but those people…they scream so much when he’s…you know,” the teen said falteringly.
“You gotta stop looking at them as people, kid. Unless the doc studies them, they’re gonna be infected like that forever.”
“But, Derrick…I mean, he still sees them as people,” Andrew said.
Mike could not see him through the tent, but he knew Paul’s face reflected the sorrow in his voice when he replied, “It’s different for him.”
The conversation trailed off and the silence of the wooded camp allowed Mike to drift into a brief slumber.
* * *
Morning saw the group of six continuing their trek down the mountain; the storm of the night before had left the trail muddy, but not impassable. However, the rain had washed away the boot impressions left by Michelle and the others that his team had been tracking. Whatever happened to them had happened in the city, as the footprints thus far had only led down the mountainside.
The roads, more distinct as they made their way, were filled with abandoned cars. When the infected began displaying the end results of the virus, motorists stuck in the evening rush hour commute had abandoned their vehicles in an attempt to escape the onslaught. Even from this height, Mike could see skeletal remains—bones picked clean by the infected and wildlife and sun-bleached—that littered the pavement.
The closer they got to the road, the more his team lost the relative protection of the trees that covered the mountain. Even with the storm, they had reached the base of the mountain a few hours before nightfall. Now, any watching eyes would easily be able to see the six hiking figures.
“All right, keep alert guys,” he instructed the men. He motioned Paul to one side and conferred with him about their options.
“What do you think? We have about four hours of daylight left. Do we make camp? Or find a truck?” he asked the ranger.
Paul’s eyes scanned the surrounding area, as he replied. “Once we start an engine, we have to keep going.”
In the stillness of the post-infection world, any sound, especially that of a truck’s engine, would rouse the Tils from docility. If there were any in the area, the noise would have them swarming down on the team immediately. Mike disliked the idea of traveling at night, even by truck, but he loathed to lose any usable hours, and he was anxious to find the others.
“There are three trucks that could work if you wanted to keep going,” Paul said as he pointed down the road. Mike saw the SUV and two extended cab pickups. If they were going to travel at night, he was not going to risk having anyone ride in the bed of a truck.
“Okay, let’s do it.” Mike rejoined the others and laid out his plans. Within minutes, the group had reached the SUV, a dark red, ’08 Chevy Blazer.
Tim Cornell, a part-time mechanic prior to the outbreak, lifted the hood and began to inspect the truck’s condition, as the others took point around the vehicle.
Several minutes later, Tim made his diagnosis.
“The battery looks good, the oil is not great but it will get us where we need to go. The engine looks like it should crank up. I need ten minutes to siphon gas from these cars and fill the tank,” he informed Mike, wiping sweat from his shaven head. With Mike’s go-ahead, the mechanic got to work.
Time ticked by slowly as the team waited, eyes glued to the area, scanning for any sign of movement.
“Mike, we got company,” Paul hissed. Mike turned to follow the ranger’s stare. In the distance, about a quarter mile north of their position, he saw it. A lone figure walked among the abandoned cars and trucks. Still too far to see much else, it was clear that whoever it was, it was headed towards Mike and his men.
“Tim, how we doing?” Mike asked over his shoulder.
“The tank was dry, if we’re gonna make it without having to stop I need to get it at least half full,” he replied while quickening his pace.
Instinctively, Mike reached to his chest holsters and removed his twin Glocks, disengaging the safeties. Loaded with extended magazines, each pistol held thirty-three rounds a piece. With an additional twenty magazines on his person, and more in his pack, Mike knew he had enough firepower, but discharging a weapon would attract much unwanted attention from any Tils nearby. If the truck was not ready, that could mean an extended firefight, and that was something Mike hoped to avoid. Tils tended to remain in an area once they spotted prey, and he planned on returning to the mountain via the way they had come.
As the figure ambled closer, Mike could now easily make out the tell-tale sign of an infected: the side-cocked head.
“How much longer?” he asked, forcing the concern to remain hidden from his voice.
“Five minutes.”
“You have two,” Mike instructed.
As the mechanic finished siphoning from a nearby car, he made his way back to the SUV, titling the gas can into truck’s tank and mumbling, “Then why’d ya ask?”
Ignoring the comment, Mike kept his eyes on the infected, now only a hundred yards away.
“Andrew, Erik, and Shane get in the truck…slowly,” he ordered. As the three men eased their way to the rear passenger doors, the infected stopped its approach.
“Mike…” Paul began, but was cut off by a bestial growl that erupted from the Til. The infected then sprang into a full sprint, bearing down on the SUV. As the creature raced towards them, other forms began appearing from the road, howling in predatory rage.
“Dammit,” Mike shouted as he and Paul began opening fire. The first Til fell after six rounds, but it was quickly replaced by several dozen others. Mike heard shots being blasted from the SUV behind him. With a glance, he saw that Tils had sprung up on all sides, and the men in the truck were firing on them.
The silence that had previously blanketed the afternoon was split apart by the screams of infected and the gunfire from the men. In his periphery, Mike saw a Til jump onto the hood of the car to his left. Three shots took it down, but the swarm was too close now to hold them off with any real assurance. He quickly expelled the spent magazines and slammed his weapons down onto a pair of full ones strapped to his thighs. Without surrendering more than two seconds, he was once again unloading into the seething crowd.
Paul, armed with an assault rifle, held off the Tils on the front passenger side as best he could. With the virus destroying all pain receptors in the body, the infected were undaunted in their approach. Head and heart shots were the only immediate way to bring them down. Andrew and the others inside the truck had their doors ajar and were firing shotguns at the attackers, keeping them away from the mechanic as he worked. Finally, Tim’s voice rose above the chaotic din, announcing that he was finished.
“Get in the truck, NOW,” Mike shouted to Tim and Paul. Racing backwards and firing at the Tils closest to them, the three men jumped into the front seat of the truck.
In the driver’s seat, Tim turned the key to start the Chevy’s engine, but the effort was met with only a brief rev.
“Shit,” Tim exclaimed as he pumped the gas pedal and kept turning the key. The Tils were at the truck now, and they banged relentlessly on the glass, their bodies covered in blood and sores.
“Let’s get the heck out of here,” came a frantic scream from the rear, the voice indistinct among the screams and howls of the Tils. As if in reply, the engine roared to life.
Glass shattered beside him as Tim put the truck into drive. Mangled arms grabbed at him, nails scoring his face and chest. As he screamed, Mike began firing at the ravenous infected that were attempting to rip the mechanic from the driver’s seat. The truck moved steadily forward, then, in his struggle, Tim’s foot slammed into the gas pedal sending the SUV crashing into the Tils, pinning them against the car in front of the truck.
Blood splattered the interior, as the mechanic slowly lost his struggle with the horde of grasping hands. With a final scream, he was pul
led through the driver’s window, neck snapping as his head struck the doorframe.
“NO!” Mike screamed as he lunged towards the door.
Paul held him back shouting, “He’s gone, Mike, he’s gone! We gotta get out of here!”
In a daze, Mike saw the pinned Tils before him, other infected climbing over them. He heard the screams and gunshots from the backseat, shotguns ripping apart the bodies of the Tils surrounding the truck. Hands shaking, Mike gripped the blood-slick steering wheel. He shifted the truck into reverse and slammed on the gas. With a tight cut of the wheel, he angled the truck free of the other vehicles and plowed through the dense mass of infected. The Blazer bounced heavily as it veered off the paved road and onto the grass.
Chapter Five
Mike Allard’s voice strained as he tried to shout over the hysterics that filled the room. He had been unable to get a signal from the television since the screen went blank ten minutes earlier. Understandably the students in the room had reacted with screams, tears, and panicked confusion. You’re not doing much better, he thought to himself. He tried his cell phone again, but like others in the room, he could not get a signal. Sheriff Cartwright had gone out to his cruiser to radio the station, as his two-way was also dead. As each student reported an inability to get a cell signal, Mike at first assumed the towers were overloaded, but a voice inside him was beginning to suspect that the cells, radio, television and internet were perhaps intentionally shut down. For what purpose, he did not know. As he tried again to calm the students, the familiar squeal of the emergency broadcast system blasted from the television’s speakers. The tone was quickly followed by a mechanical voice.
This is not a test. The federal government has issued a warning for the country. Please remain indoors at this time. Structures with minimal windows and doors will provide the best security. The National Guard has been activated to address the situation. Again, this is not a test.
The message repeated several times before the screen returned to static.
“Mr. Allard, what do we do?” asked Derrick Chancer, worry cracking his normally steady voice.
In response, Mike moved over to the windows. The courtyard beyond the glass was dotted with slow moving figures. Their shambling movements were identical to the man from the news report; as he tried to digest the situation, three gun shots ripped through the late afternoon air. The sound caused him to jump back as he saw two of the figures in the courtyard fall to the ground. The people still standing began to rush towards the police cruisers. Five officers, with guns drawn, stood behind their patrol cars. Mike could see the flares of gunfire as more shots rang out.
“Guys,” he said urgently, “help me get these bookcases in front of the windows.”
Four students, Derrick among them, joined Mike in his effort to slide the bookcases to the windows. The wood made a screeching sound as it slid along the linoleum flooring. In the distance, he could hear glass shattering, followed by screams. The front office, he thought. With the windows secured, Mike quickly made his way into the hall. The gun shots had now moved indoors, and he could hear the commanding shouts of the officers. With steady back-stepping, the officers came into view.
“Get those kids out of there!” one shouted over his shoulder to Mike. With instincts and adrenaline racing, he raced back into the room.
“Everyone, follow me. We’re going upstairs.”
The students ran out of the room and made their way to the stairwell at the other end of the hall. As the last few exited the class, Mike saw one of the officers get tackled by a frenzied woman. Her hands and mouth were ripping into the officer. With several shots of his sidearm, the officer killed his attacker and dragged himself clear of the others now pouring into the building. Mike ran to the stricken man and pulled him towards the stairs. He could hear the windows of his classroom smash, followed by the crashing sound of the bookcases crumbling to the floor.
We’re going to die, his voice screamed in his head.
Reaching the stairs, Mike reached down to lift the officer, whom he now recognized as Sheriff Cartwright. The man had large gashes in his chest and face. The blood that before was only splattered on his sleeve was now indistinguishable from the red that stained the shirt entirely. Struggling to lift the large sheriff, he grunted with exertion. Barely lifting him to his shoulder, the sheriff began to convulse wildly. With the strain too great, both men crashed to the floor and Mike’s head smacked loudly on the tile. While still trying to assist the sheriff, he looked back down the hall and saw the remaining officers falling back quickly as they were overrun by the crazed attackers.
As suddenly as it began, the convulsions that overtook the sheriff ceased. During another attempt to lift him, the sheriff’s hands grabbed at Mike’s shirt. Struggling to fend off the attack, he stumbled backwards as the sheriff rose to his feet. The man towered before him, eyes wild and primal growls ripping from his mouth. The sheriff crouched into what could only have been called a pouncing position.
Mike looked to his sides as he continued to slide himself away from the sheriff. His eyes locked onto the man’s service revolver that had fallen a few feet to his left. Grunting, he dove for the gun just as the sheriff launched himself. With a crash, the big man met empty floor, and Mike turned quickly, revolver in hand, and squeezed the trigger. One round smashed into the sheriff’s shoulder. The shot staggered the man, but he steadied himself and again began to move towards Mike. The revolver felt heavy in his shaking hands as he cocked and aimed again. The second shot ripped through the sheriff’s chest and he crumpled to the floor.
His hearing now dulled from the shots, Mike stood slowly, the world a fuzzy haze around him. With a start, his vision cleared as he heard another shot fired. Looking towards the far end of the hall, he realized that the remaining officers had fallen and had been enveloped by the mass of blood-drenched attackers. One, a male in what appeared to be his early teens, looked up from his feeding and his eyes locked onto Mike. The creature howled in rage and soon the others that filled the hall raised their heads, spotting him standing alone some fifty feet way.
He turned quickly as the attackers leapt into action. The blood that covered their clothes and shoes caused them to stumble on the slick surface of the floor. He reached the top of the stairs just as the others began their climb. The frantic gesturing of the students signaled to him.
The faculty room, he thought to himself as he sprinted the length of the hall. The children screamed warnings as the crazed creatures breached the second floor behind him. With a grunt, he smashed into the arms of the students who pulled him inside. Michelle slammed the door behind them, while others strained to slide a vending machine in front of it.
Exhaustion overcame him as the adrenaline left his body. His vision again began to blur as he slipped into unconsciousness. He could hear the worried students in the distance, their voices seemed miles away. As his eyes closed, he heard the crashing sound of bodies slamming against the barricaded door.
* * *
His body ached. That was the first sensation he became aware of as Mike slowly stirred from his sleep. The surface under him was hard and cold. He soon could make out the faint sounds of weeping.
“Mr. Allard?”
The voice caused him to jump and he immediately brought himself to a seated position. His eyes took in the familiar surroundings. Students huddling together in the corners of the faculty room.
“Mr. Allard, it’s Derrick. Are you ok?”
Turning to the voice at his left, Mike asked urgently, “What happened? Is everyone okay?” he asked the student urgently.
“We’re fine. You’ve been out for an hour or so,” Derrick informed him.
Rising to his feet, Mike remembered the last sounds he had heard before blacking out. He quickly turned to the door. The crashing and growling were absent.
“Are they gone?”
“We don’t know. They kept trying to get in but twenty minutes ago they stopped,” replied Jenni Ca
lente, offering him a bottle of water. Michelle Lafkin stepped forward. “No one has been able to get a signal on their phones.”
Mike looked around the room and saw the fear in the eyes of those before him. Natural risk takers and self-believing immortals, the teens in the room now cowered like mice before a snake, and they were looking to him for answers. Trying his best to assess their situation, he made another visual sweep of the room. The twenty by thirty foot, second floor faculty lounge had a small bathroom in the right rear corner, no windows and one door to the hallway. That door was now blocked by a large snack food vending machine. To his left, Mike saw the beverage machine, its glass front smashed open. Smart move, kids, he thought, at least we have food and water.
“Okay, this room is good,” he said.
“Derrick picked it,” Jenni replied, her voice holding a bit of pride for her boyfriend.
“Always thinking with your stomach, eh, Derrick?” Mike laughed.
“Yea, he usually thinks with something else,” called out one of his buddies from the football team.
At first nervously and perhaps a bit forced, the room soon filled with laughter.
It wasn’t long before more jokes were told, more comments made, and the survivors found themselves holding their sides from the mirth. The stress of the day’s events had been channeled into a new emotion.
It was Jenni, however, that brought them back to harsh reality, asking, “Mr. Allard, what do we do?”
Pensive for a moment, Mike turned to the barricaded door and replied, “We need to see what’s out there.” As he spoke he picked up the revolver from the large table that sat in the middle of the room and discovered there were two bullets remaining.
“Give me a hand with the vending machine,” he directed as he shifted his weight against it.
“Mr. Allard, no way. You’re not going alone. Those things could still be out there,” Derrick stated with a hint of authority.
