by Calen, Tom
Even if the heavy guns are out of commission, he told himself, we still need to cut through the enemy line. Moving more stiffly than during his previous stalking, he slid through the trees as best as his battered body could manage. He allowed his senses and instincts to direct his path, while his mind tried to determine how much time had elapsed. From his vantage point, he could still see the flames of the burning vehicles. Without a gasoline accelerant, Mike knew the interior of the cars and trucks would not burn for long. Minutes, he realized with surprise. If he was to judge by the beating his body had taken he would have assumed hours had slipped past.
Though the fires were visible, he had difficulty locating the refugees as they were hopefully making their way forward. The Tils advancing along the highway, however, were quite distinct, their numbers crowded closely together and appearing as a fleshed wave inching along a paved shore. The encroaching tide of infection had moved past the burning vehicles. Mike knew if the refugees did not break through soon, they would be crushed between bullets and disease.
Crouching low behind a heavily-leaved sapling, he identified two more targets. Closer to the road than their comrade had been, the two figures positioned themselves among the few remaining trees before the woods gave way to the highway’s shoulder. Armed with semi-automatic machine guns, each would briefly spray the highway below with bullets before returning to safety behind the trunks. It had surely been luck that his attack on the .50 caliber had not been heard, but Mike understood that such lightning would not strike twice.
Past the two attackers closest to him, Mike could see several dozen others arrayed across the blockaded highway. A brief glance was all he needed to recognize how strong the enemies’ position was. In his current state, he accepted his inability to enact a silent approach, let alone take on that large of a force with two handguns.
Mike forced his mind to process his options rapidly, fearing the seconds of delay that brought the refugees closer to a horrifying end. Before the idea was even concluded, Mike turned and retreated with as much haste as his body allowed. The needed immediacy of action allowed for a slight carelessness as he rushed through the trees. Sparing no time for subtlety or safety, he quickly returned to the site of the struggle with the Til. Grunting through the pain, Mike lifted the heavy machine gun and its metal case that overflowed with the belted cartridges. With a combined weight of well over one hundred pounds, he strained as he half-carried, half-dragged the weapon. What should have been crippling pain in his chest was masked by the adrenaline in his veins and the determination in his will.
Finally returning to the sapling and the enemy, Mike let the weapon drop to the ground, its tripod righting itself with ease. As the two figures heard the thundering crash, he slipped one of his guns from its holster and fired several rounds at them. His pained body hit the ground before their lifeless ones did. As expected his attempted sneak attack had easily been seen and he was now drawing fire from several of the enemies’ number. Armed with the immense power of the .50 caliber, he thought the sacrifice of stealth was an even trade.
A slight rise in the landscape offered Mike an invaluable advantage over the enemies directing a substantial portion of their fire power up towards him. Depressing what he assumed to be the trigger of the weapon, his ears rang sharply as a steady stream of rounds exploded out the long barrel. Though the recoil was minimal, Mike still tightened his grip to better control his aiming. Spent shells began to form a pile on one side of the machine gun, while a seemingly endless belt of bullets were fed through the other. At this close range, the automobiles the enemy forces had been using as cover quickly became riddled with massive holes.
Without ceasing his barrage, Mike risked a glance to his left and was relieved to see Paul striding atop the hoods and roofs of cars. He held a medium-sized semi-automatic gun in each hand while he screamed words Mike could not hear over the din. The other refugees had begun to follow Paul’s assault, and the tide of the battle soon shifted as the refugees made a daring push forward under the protection of Mike and the .50 caliber.
To their rear, however, the Tils closed the remaining gap of ground and had now reached the refugees at the rear of the assault. Every Til that was brought down by a refugee bullet was immediately replaced with three more of its kind. Now that Paul and the refugees at the front had reached the enemies’ position, Mike swiveled the machine gun on its tripod while shifting his body. At his current angle, he could not risk directing the machine gun at the Tils for fear of hitting his own people. He could, however, thin the number of infected further down the highway.
The rhythmic booms of each round’s release became almost hypnotic. With the vast number of Tils coalescing along the road, Mike no longer needed to use the weapon’s sights, every bullet tore into infected flesh.
Mike could feel Gazelle’s weight as she sat across the back of his calves. He had placed full trust in her senses to warn him of any danger that might be approaching in his blind spots. Only when he felt her tense up in alarm did he remove his focus from the targets below. A glance to his left showed only the tall trees of the woods. Turning to the right, he saw a figure jogging towards him through the foliage. From the shape and the gait, Mike quickly recognized the figure to be Lisa. When she reached him, he eased off the trigger-lever in order to hear her report.
“We’ve broken through the line,” she said through gasps as she tried to catch her breath. Mike could see that he had not been the only one involved in a struggle. The skin above Lisa’s right eye was deeply gashed and fresh blood streamed freely from the wound.
“I need you to scout ahead and find somewhere we can hole up and regroup,” he shouted in reply, his ears still ringing.
“Sir,” Lisa began.
“We need some place to figure a way out of this trap,” Mike continued. “God knows how many we’ve lost.”
“It wasn’t a trap,” she attempted to cut in again.
“Once we’ve secured a place, then we can plan our next move,” he said. Though his engagement in battle was paused briefly, the adrenaline still flowed through him. His mind raced with plans and strategies. His resolve would not accept a defeat after so many years of survival.
“Mike! It wasn’t a trap,” she said. Her words finally managed to break through his warrior’s fog.
“What…” he began, but trailed off with incomprehension.
“I mean it was, but not the way you think. Mike, I already scouted ahead. There’s a ship, Mike. I don’t know who these guys were,” she said as she indicated towards the road. “But the message didn’t come from them. There’s a ship, and they were trying to stop us from reaching it. But there’s a ship, and it’s waiting for us.”
“There’s a ship?” he repeated in confusion. The words felt strange on his tongue as if he were a child speaking them for the first time.
With tears in her eyes, Lisa nodded.
“There’s a ship.” Mike said, voice cracking as his own tears traced his cheeks. Emotions he thought forever lost to him flooded through his body and his jaw trembled as he fought to keep control.
“Where?” he eventually managed.
“Half mile up,” she replied. “It’s docked but can’t wait long with this many Tils following us.”
Collecting himself once again, he said, “Okay, get the others there. I’ll hold the Tils off for a few minutes before I follow.”
Rising to her feet, she offered him a broad smile, which he returned. The nightmare was over, and it was difficult to hide their excitement. Breaking their emotion-filled stare, Mike returned his focus to the highway below, and Lisa set off to lead the refugees to the ship.
In the brief moments of his exchange with Lisa, the Tils had advanced further along the road than he expected. Mike placed his thumb on the lever and pressed down, filling the air once again with the deafening resonance of the heavy artillery. The armor-piercing rounds tore through the mass of infected, ripping limbs free of their bodies. Ticking off the sec
onds in his mind, he continued to pummel the crowd below. Before he reached the two minute mark, the belt feeding the machine gun ammunition delivered its last round. Abandoning the weapon and easing himself back to his feet, Mike looked down to his loyal canine companion.
“Well, girl, you up for a jog?” he asked with a smile. With a short bark in reply, Mike turned to follow the trail Lisa had come along to inform him of the waiting ship. As he took his first step, he heard the soft snap of a twig breaking behind him. Immediately, his left hand dragged one of his Glocks from its holster as he spun towards the direction of the sound.
As the landscape lurched across his vision, Mike saw the gunman he had shot earlier now desperately clinging to a tree for support with one hand, while the other leveled a small revolver at him. Barely completing his turn, Mike’s finger found the trigger and a single shot sounded through the trees. The man lost his grip on the revolver and slumped to the ground.
He began to exhale in relief when his throat convulsed, forcing the air out in a cough. A warm, metallic liquid filled his mouth and dripped from his chin. With the back of his free hand, Mike wiped his face and stared at the deep red blood that covered his hand. Left arm still extended and holding his gun, he glanced down to find a small hole in his shirt. The hole was surrounded by an expanding ring of red saturation. A second cough ripped from his chest and blood splattered to the ground below.
The gun in his hand soon felt immensely heavy and he let it slip from him. With a numb thud, he crashed to a kneeling position as his legs gave out from beneath him. His right hand moved to the wound in his gut and the warmth of his blood flowed through his fingers. Gazelle sat in front of him, her head tilting with the same confusion that plagued him. She leaned forward to lick his left hand, dangling loosely at his side.
He tried to speak to her, but further coughing wracked his body, though now those coughs mixed with the gurgling rattle of approaching death. Intending to only fall back on his haunches, Mike slipped to the ground completely as his body no longer obeyed his commands.
The ground beneath his head was hard as his eyes stared into the canopy of green above. A nervous flash of gray fur danced back and forth in his peripheral vision. Go to the boat, baby, he thought silently, no longer able to speak. But Mike knew she would never leave his side. Instead, she nudged his head with her own, the cool wetness of her nose unnoticed by her master as icy numbness spread throughout his body.
Loss of feeling was soon followed by the inability to taste; though still expelling blood through his mouth, his tongue no longer recoiled from the harsh metallic tang. A consuming silence settled across the woods, real or imagined, Mike could no longer tell. The beating of his heart, slowly winding down, throbbed raucously in his head. The edges of his vision began to blur as he stared skyward. The branches and leaves were stirred by a gentle wind, though to Mike the motion was magnificently slow. Where some parts of his sight melded and hazed together, his eyes seemed to narrow their focus to a hawk-like perception. Dozens of feet above him, he could see the lingering drops of the earlier rain as they slid along the thinly veined leaves.
So beautiful, the voice in his mind spoke. This is why we fought.
A second sound made its way to his attention. Distant at first, but sounding closer the more he forced his thoughts towards it. Recognition finally reached him, and he heard the alarmed barking of the dog by his side. The miraculous and beautiful nature above him was then obscured by its converse monstrosity. His eyes stayed locked with the creature’s own as their faces drew together. Like an animal determining the quality of its quarry, the Til sniffed loudly along the edges of Mike’s face. It lingered for the briefest of moments at the flow of blood at his mouth. A blistered tongue slipped from the Til’s lips and traced a short line down his chin. With what Mike thought was disgust, the creature pulled away from him.
It won’t feed on the dead, Mike’s voice echoed in his head. Laughter erupted in his thoughts. He had spent six years avoiding the bite of these monsters, and now, at his weakest and most vulnerable, the monster before him was dissatisfied with the meal.
The Til shifted its gaze from Mike to a spot over his shoulder. The infected man’s thin lips drew back into a vile snarl as it growled antagonistically. A smaller, but no less vicious growl and bark was offered in return.
Gazelle, Mike shouted silently. NO! You bastard…me…feed on me!!
The arching branches returned to his view as the Til leapt towards its prey. A single tear escaped Mike’s eye as the sky turned to black, the sounds about him faded, and he slipped into the emptiness of death.
* * *
“But, I don’t want to.”
“Then you’re not coming with us.”
The nine-year old watched his brother begin to pedal away down the block with his two friends. Indecision and fear gave way to pride, and the boy quickly mounted his own bicycle and spun his legs furiously to catch up to the trio. Though only a few years separated them, Jimmy was now at the age where he viewed his little brother tagging along as a burden. With a subtle glance over his shoulder, Jimmy saw his brother breathing hard and he slowed his own pace out of pity.
Their destination that day was the quarry three miles across town. The northeast summer was at its peak, and the swimming hole offered not only a much needed break from the stifling heat, but also a local rite of passage. Many of the kids in Jimmy’s grade had already made the jump off the quarry’s high ledge. Jimmy and his friends had yet to set foot on the rocky outcropping. The plan had been to begin earlier than midday, but the boys’ mother demanded that all their household chores be completed before disappearing for the day.
“It may be summer,” she had said. “But you still have work to do.”
The brothers rushed through their tasks with less than perfect efficiency. After an inspection of their efforts, the boys’ mother frowned with a sigh and a shake of her head, but allowed the two to be on their way. She was of course unaware of the adventure that awaited them. Jimmy’s brother was also kept in the dark about the journey, and when he found out his fear had caused him to balk at the trip. But now, drenched with sweat, the four found themselves carelessly dropping their bikes to the ground and walking up to the cliff face.
The real reason Jimmy wanted to go earlier was the hope that the quarry would be empty and if he chickened out none but his friends and brother would be the wiser. This late in the day, though, they found the place crowded with teens of varying ages. The older ones smoked cigarettes smuggled from the packs’ of their parents, jumping to the blue water below after they flicked the butts from their hands. The younger teens milled about, mimicking the mannerism of their older counterparts as best they could in an effort to appear “cool.” A couple of classmates greeted Jimmy and his friends, but the butterflies in his stomach made their words distant. His eyes flickered to the edge of the cliff.
His two friends made their running jumps into the open air, both shouting wildly as their bodies descended and crashed into the glassy water with a splash. Seconds later each boy’s head crested the surface and triumphant exclamations echoed of the stone walls. Jimmy chewed the edges of his lip as he walked over to his brother.
“I’ll jump first to show you it’s okay, and then you can jump,” he told him.
With paralyzing fear in his eyes, the younger sibling nodded his head. Jimmy wondered if his own face expressed the same dread he saw etched across his brother’s face. With a deep breath, he began a long stride that quickly turned into a run. The edge of the cliff raced towards him until his body sprang into the air. Wind rushed over his body as gravity took control and pulled him down. Remembering the stories of pain told by older boys, Jimmy kept his legs tightly closed and his arms pinned to the sides of his chest.
Faster than it had begun, his body plunged into the sun-warmed water, and he found himself floating to the surface. Exhilaration raced through him as he looked back towards the heights from where he had jumped. The small sh
ape of his brother was visible against the blinding sun.
“Come on!” Jimmy shouted to him, but the boy did not move. Finally, after numerous calls of encouragement, his brother backed away from the edge. Jimmy was unsure if the disappearance meant his brother would make the jump or if his fear had gotten the better of him.
It was only a moment’s time before his question was answered. His brother’s small body cleared the edge of the cliff and began its fall. Jimmy swam the short distance to where his brother had splashed down. When he returned to the surface, the boy’s face was still a visage of panic.
“What’s wrong?” Jimmy asked him.
“I hit a rock with my knee,” the boy simpered as he fought back tears.
Jimmy took his brother’s arm over his shoulder and helped him swim over to the rocky shore line of the bowl-shaped quarry. Once out of the water, Jimmy could see why his brother was close to crying. A large gash on his left knee dug close to the bone, while a sickening flap of skin, the size of a half-dollar, hung from the bloody wound.
One of the other people on the lower level of the quarry handed Jimmy a shirt that he then pressed against his brother’s knee. The younger boy winced from the action.
“You have to keep pressure on it,” Jimmy told the boy.
“I didn’t want to do it,” he replied through sniffles.
Jimmy smiled at his brother. “I know. I shouldn’t have made you. But you did it, Mikey! You were afraid and you did it anyway! That’s really brave.”
“Yeah?” he asked, not sure if his older brother was being truthful.
“Yeah, it really was,” Jimmy replied before reminding his brother, “Mikey, you have to keep pressure it.”
* * *
“You have to keep pressure on it,” a familiar voice spoke, not Jimmy’s though. This one was older, more mature.
A second voice said something in response but the words jumbled together incoherently. Blurred shadows, black forms against white, danced across his vision. He was sure he was floating as the world rocked to and fro with soothing gentility.
