Well, hell. Sandy was starting to realize that these people were worse off than he was, even with the secure location. He pushed down the urge to flee. Unbidden, the image of the little blonde girl with drawn cheeks popped into his head.
“Creeps are getting close,” Jason interjected. “What are we doing?”
Richard turned to Pat. “That many, they’ll tear the showroom out from under us even if we hide on the roof, boss.”
Sandy’s hands were clean and his sock was pink. He discarded it on the ground, but he kept running his hands over one another. He half-expected to find a spot of blood that he’d missed. He thought about the horde outside, and the drawn cheeks of the little girl. He met Pat’s eyes. “They’re not all that smart. If you folks stay quiet and something else grabs their attention, they’ll pass on by.”
The other man’s face worked through an unreadable progression of emotions. “Mister, we don’t even know you. You offering what I think you’re offering?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Sandy shrugged. “I’ve been on my own since the beginning. Done okay so far, but I’m getting tired, sir. It’d be nice to have a place I can catch more than a few snatches of sleep.”
Richard frowned. “We haven’t got the food, like I said.”
Sandy gave him a crooked smile. “I said sleep. We’ll worry about eating later.” He nodded to the two men and slid his softball bat out of his backpack. He left the bag where it lay—there was nothing in it he couldn’t afford to lose, and he was planning on coming back.
When did you turn into a hero? He shook his head and pushed the small voice in the back of his head away. He had an idea, and it was crazy enough that doubt or hesitation was liable to get him killed or worse.
Sandy moved up beside Jason and glanced out over the plow blade. The leading edge of the swarm was stumbling along. They stayed on the paved surface of the road for the most part, and the cluster slowed them down a bit. He eyed the distance and figured they were fifty yards away.
“You got any anchors lying around?” He tried to keep his tone casual, but his voice went high despite his intentions. If Jason picked up on his nervousness, he didn’t show it.
The younger man stared at him for a moment. “Yeah,” he said, finally. “Sure.” He moved over to the closest boat hull. The boat dealership survivors had propped the inner side of the boats up. He slid underneath and returned a few moments later with a metal anchor and a coil of yellow nylon rope.
Sandy glanced away from the rope and back to the leading edge of the swarm. Forty yards now. Gonna be close.
He hoped it was enough rope.
He took the coil from Jason and looped it over his head and across his chest. “Okay,” Sandy nodded. “You and everybody else, get up on the roof. Knock on wood, this will be one hell of a story in a few hours.”
Jason stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. “Whatever, man. Good luck.” He turned and sprinted for the showroom, along with Pat and Richard. Sandy could make out the silhouettes of a few other survivors inside, but he didn’t take the time to study them.
If this worked out, he’d have plenty of time later to get acquainted.
He put a boot on the front bumper of the pickup truck and swung one leg over the plow blade. He had a higher estimation of his own grace than what he was actually capable of, and at once he found himself toppling. He slammed onto the pavement, sandwiching the Easton between the blacktop and his chest. Not the most auspicious of starts.
Sandy pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and tried to ignore the pain in his chest. Twenty-five yards, and the swarm was starting to spread out as the caught sight of him.
It was depressing how many had died and reanimated in their pajamas. Most of those in sleepwear exhibited no external injuries, while the ones wearing street clothes wore everything from business suits to military fatigues. Some seemed uninjured, while others sported gruesome, bone-baring wounds. The plague didn’t discriminate. It took anyone it could get.
He forced himself to look away. He wasn’t here for a study. He’d done enough of that while cooped up in the lab. Standing, he took hold of the Easton and rapped it on the pavement. The sound of aluminum on blacktop filled the air, and if the infected had moved with a purpose before, they seemed even more excited now.
This is the dumbest idea you’ve had in a long time.
He had no argument there. “Come and get a taste, people! Fresh meat!”
Sandy stepped-slid down the side of the driveway and strode to the graveled road. The trick was to get enough distance between the swam and himself for a margin of safety, while still keeping their attention. He hoped the folks inside of the boat dealership were smart enough to keep quiet.
He backed down the road in a half-crouch, slamming the barrel of the softball bat into the ground every few steps. The ring of metal on gravel wasn’t as sweet as it had been off the pavement, but it was enough. The swarm narrowed out, collapsing back onto the road as they stumbled forward. In the movies, zombies reached out like sleepwalkers, but the infected were different. They moved in a listless shuffle, almost as though they were unaware they even had arms.
That didn’t mean they couldn’t use them, of course. Sandy had seen stray animals and even people snatched down by small, seemingly-weak infected. Keeping out of reach was paramount, because once they got hold of something, they never let go.
He glanced over his shoulder. The road behind was clear so far. The only problem with his hasty plan was the possibility that infected from the south side of the highway might be tracking in on the noise of the departing raiders. If they were, he hoped they would continue following the vehicles. The stolen Army trucks only had one way to go with the bridge out, and that was away from Sandy and the boat people.
Hopefully. The further he got from the relative safety of the dealership, the more he realized that his idea was a pretty stupid one. It wasn’t developed well enough to dub it a plan.
Walking backward was becoming nerve-wracking. He turned and jogged past the boat ramp and partly up the rise leading to the highway. Sandy paused to make sure that the leading edge of the infected swarm could still see him before continuing up the rest of the way.
He wasn’t out of breath, but his heart was hammering in his chest like a hyper-kinetic heavy metal drummer. “Good thing you guys are slow,” he muttered. “I’d be screwed if you could run.”
As the lead elements staggered his way, he moved again, heading west this time. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the swarm turn to follow, spreading out as the ones in the rear caught sight of him at a different angle. He hadn’t considered that, and he lowered his head and put on every bit of speed he could muster. The angle of the road put him on a path headed closer toward them, rather than away. He hoped that the brush at the side of the road would slow them down long enough for him to commit to the really stupid part.
The pavement ended, and his feet pounded on the steel deck of what remained of the Champ Clark Bridge. He slowed, waiting for sympathetic vibrations to set in and the entire mess to collapse under his feet, but it seemed stable. Of course, his weight was one thing. The mass of the accumulated swarm was a different story.
He crept as close to the edge of the scorched bridge deck as he dared. Whatever weapon had taken the crossing down had come in at an angle from west to east, chopping the road surface shorter than the overhead support members. The green-painted metal was showing patches of rust where the explosion had damaged it but seemed solid enough.
Sandy glanced over his shoulder. He saw movement at the edge of the road, though none had gotten up onto the highway yet. Shucking the anchor rope over his shoulder, he set the softball bat down and played out the rope. All told, he had about twenty feet of line. It was more than he’d need, but he supposed too much was always better than not enough.
Of more concern was how thin the braided nylon cord was. “You’re not as heavy as a boat,” he told himself. The promise fell flat
in his ears.
He double-knotted the end of the rope around the barrel of the bat, then added another knot for good measure. He started to tug on it to test, then shook off the impulse.
With the end secure, he grabbed the length of rope with the anchor and played out a few feet of rope. He took a deep breath, eyed the furthest overhead support, and began to swing the anchor. After a moment, he released it.
The anchor sailed up and out, well under the bridge support, and plunged toward the dark waters of the river below. “Shit, shit, shit.” Sandy hauled in on the rope, bringing it back up as fast as he could. He stole a glance over his shoulder. The swarm was less than twenty yards from the bridge deck, well past the turnoff for the marina.
He swung the anchor again. “No pressure. No pressure. Worst case scenario, you can always swim for it, huh?” The rushing water of the Mississippi was dark, and who knew what was under the surface, but yeah. There was always swimming. Haven’t been in anything other than a pool since I was eight years old, but who’s counting?
Sandy cast the anchor for the second time. It bounced off the beam with a clang and fell back toward him. He cringed and let the anchor drop.
Glance—five yards away. “Last chance,” he muttered. He swung the anchor, letting a bit more rope play out between his fingers. With a cry, he released the anchor, and it sailed in a perfect arc, up and over the support and back down again. The weight of the anchor pulled the rope over with a hiss, and he snatched the softball bat to stop it.
Moment of truth.
The anchor hung a bit more than halfway to the road surface from the support. The first footsteps of many stomped on the bridge deck, but he didn’t have time to look. He spread his legs and stepped over the softball bat. Sandy pulled the end of the rope and lifted the bat up between his legs until it spanned his butt. It wasn’t going to be the most comfortable seat in the world, but he could deal with it. With some extra slack, the anchor slipped down even more. He reached up and grabbed it.
Six months ago, he wouldn’t have been able to do this. Sixty hours a week in the lab and countless more spent in his office at home hadn’t been a prescription for physical fitness. During the months he’d spent trapped in the lab, exercise had given him something to do to pass the time. Knowing that he was going to need it for future survival was still more incentive.
He heaved on the anchor with all his strength as he stepped off the bridge deck. For a moment, he was certain that the knots were going to slip or that the rope was going to break, but it held. He swung back and forth at the end of the loop of rope. The very edge of the bridge deck was five or six feet from the center point of his swing. Too close for comfort, perhaps, but good enough. The irony of the fact that he’d volunteered as bait and now hung from a line was not lost on him.
His most pressing issue was what to do with the anchor. For a brief moment, he considered trying to hook it onto the bat, between his legs. With a shudder, he discarded that thought. Tying it wasn’t liable to be a solid solution, so—ah!
Sandy heaved again, the cords standing out in his arms. His body eased upward as the anchor descended. With a grunt, he pulled it down to his waist and twisted. His belt was loose enough to fit one end of the anchor underneath. This put him at a little bit of an angle. Overall, it felt solid, and he had both hands free.
A pair of hands brushed his boots.
The infected at the head of the pack was tall enough to make the reach, but as its push rocked Sandy back, it tipped over and off the edge of the bridge. With a splash, it vanished into the dark water.
That’s one.
They filled the bridge deck from side to side now, though they began crowding over to the side that Sandy had ended up on. The silence with which they conducted the hunt was most disconcerting of all, but at the moment he was grateful for it. It gave him the opportunity to listen for the sounds of distressed metal.
So far, so good.
He resisted the urge to kick the next one that reached for him in the face. The last thing he wanted to do was start an oscillation that would bring him back into reach. If any of the infected got hold of him, even if they swung back out over the river, he doubted they’d let go. And then the rope—or worse, his legs—would give way.
As with everything since the world had gone off kilter, patience was the name of the game.
But that didn’t mean that he had to take the situation lying down. He reached down and eased his pistol from his holster. He’d left his reloads with his backpack, but at this range, sixteen shots would be more than enough. An infected man in the shredded remains of a business suit went over the edge as Sandy got a bead on an elderly infected in a hospital gown. One shot, and she went down, close to the edge of the bridge deck. Perfect. The things were as stupid as they were implacable. They didn’t look down, which made them all the more liable to trip over obstacles in their path.
Five shots later, he had three infected down in a line across the bridge deck in front of where he hung. They came on and on, tempted by the fresh meat just out of their reach. And one by one, they tripped over the fallen in front of them and plunged into the water below. As he holstered his pistol, Sandy realized that all he had to do now was wait.
He didn’t realize he’d been keeping count until the tenth one went over the edge. With a laugh, he shrugged and adjusted his grip on the anchor rope.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
Fourteen.
Chapter 8
March 12, 2026
Forward Operating Base Hope—Southwestern Indiana
Z-Day + 3,067
In the short time that Pete had been gone, the survivors and Marines had accomplished quite a bit.
Between the fences and walls the original survivors had put up, they’d had right at half a square mile of secure ground. The river and the creek to the north and south limited expansion in that direction, but Pete’s first clue at the ambition of development was the point at which they reached the eastern wall. New construction, it seemed, had encompassed the small valley to the east of the original settlement.
The original wall was a steel-paneled construction of telephone poles and scavenged lumber ten feet in height. The only word that came to Pete’s mind as the MRAP drew to a halt was ‘monstrosity.’
The new wall consisted of an interleaved stack of Conex shipping containers that went three high. Since each container was over eight feet tall, the new construction stood a whopping twenty-five feet high. Even more, the corners and edges of the gate at the county road consisted of a single container on edge, providing looming, forty foot bastions.
It wasn’t the Crow’s Nest, but it was still impressive. The chain link fences had slowed the enhanced zombies. If they could get past this set of fortifications, they deserved to win.
Heavy steel cables attached to pulleys on the inside edge of each gate tower strained and lifted the gate up and out of the way so that the convoy could pass. The gate was the more familiar-looking telephone pole and sheet metal construction but was also tall enough to not present a weak point in the new defenses.
The convoy pulled off the road onto a graveled assembly area. The south side of the road bustled with construction equipment, erecting offices and living quarters. On the north side, a handful of tractors tilled the wild grass that had laid claim to the untouched farm fields.
Pete eased his way down from the MRAP. At the bottom, a young Marine officer waited. He saluted after Pete turned to face him. He returned the gesture, then extended a hand with a grin. “How are you, Adam?”
Captain Adam Hanratty had led the mission bringing the surviving military into contact with Pete's people. After that success—as well as actions which turned the tide after infected breached the walls—Vincent had named him base commander of the Marines sent to supplement or replace the Hope wall guards. With that extra labor, as well as the extra civilian hands ferried up from various other locales, an all-hands evolution was currently underway to exp
and the size and scope of the community's farm fields. Before the Marines had arrived, they’d had enough to bank a small surplus each growing season. With enhanced security, fuel, and good old-fashioned sweat equity they were planning on much, much more. If the developments that Pete could already see were any indication, they were well on their way.
Hanratty shook Pete’s hand. “Welcome home, Major.” Foraker stepped up at Pete’s shoulder, and Hanratty acknowledged him as well. “Chief.”
“I hardly recognize the place,” Pete said. “Hell of a job, Captain.”
“I can’t take any of the credit. We’ve got a good group of Seabees, and your people have been a great help. Vir Singh’s been leading the charge, there.”
Pete huffed a chuckle. He and the chief followed as Hanratty turned to lead him across the staging area. With the rest of the convoy parked, a swarm of Marines and civilians descended on it to help unload. Perry’s quartermasters had earmarked most of the gear for the new encampment, but a there was a good bit for the civilian side—barrels of salt, crates of frozen fish, and the like. The convoy crew separated that portion, loading it on a waiting flatbed for storage in the silos-turned-warehouses on Pete’s old property.
“If I heard Vir gripe about the fences ten times over years, I heard him a hundred times.” The man had been a structural engineer before Z-Day and spent much of the time after as a guard on the wall. When Pete’s nephew, Miles, recruited him for an undercover mission, Vir’s nerve-wracking experience had given the survivors their first hint that the worm had turned in terms of the supposed end of the infected.
“I’ve got a meeting room set up in one of the trailers, per your request. I do have another issue that’s cropped up. I hate to drop it in your lap, but, well…”
A Place Called Hope (Z-Day Book 2) Page 7
