Plagued: The Rock Island Zombie Counteractant Experiment (Plagued States of America)

by Better Hero Army

  “You OK?” Mason asked. More explosions erupted behind them, setting off a chain reaction so loud they each covered their ears. Heat seared over them from a fireball that rolled and toppled out over the channel, rising as it churned and rumbled. More explosions began to strike further inland, blanketing the southern edge in a wave of fire.

  Explosions hit so close, Mason hardly registered the noise from the ringing in his ears. A tree along the shoreline burst into burning fragments that flailed the duck in clanks and clatter, swatting them with twigs and branches and stones that cracked into the slave pens behind them.

  The duck growled as the engine revved. Hank turned the wheel to straighten their course, moving them away from the burning shoreline as quickly as the lumbering vehicle could manage. The current did the rest of the work, ferrying them west along the length of the island. Bombs continued to strike quickly. Some landed in the channel, blowing water and fire into the air.

  One burst off their port side, and the doctor screamed in Mason’s arms as water sprayed over them, dousing the scorching heat from the fires at their backs.

  “Can’t this thing go any faster?” the doctor screamed. Even her voice was drowned out by the crack and boom of missile after missile blanketing the island.

  Hank didn’t answer. He couldn’t hear her. His gnashed-tooth grimace and white knuckle grip of the steering wheel said everything, though.

  Mason didn’t watch the carpet bombing. He looked ahead and downstream at the broken bridge.

  “Hank,” Mason warned, pointing forward. “The bridge!”

  Hank hazarded a brief glance, then a double-take. The 2nd Street Bridge had been blown, but the collapsed part stuck out of the channel at an angle as though it had only partially collapsed, leaving just a narrow opening to navigate through.

  “God hates us,” Hank reasoned aloud as he turned the wheel to steer the duck directly at the bridge.

  Twenty-Five

  The firestorm had passed, its rumble still shaking the earth. The surface of the surrounding channel vibrated. Mason wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Hank switched the duck to reverse throttle and revved the engine in an effort to slow them down.

  O’Farrell eased herself from Mason’s lap, settling down on her knees between the two chairs. The fireball rising above them hissed and roared, its orange glow dimly lighting the world around them. The obstruction at the bridge was easy to see under the glow. Hank used the extra light to drive the duck against the current as he tried to aim them for the only span that looked wide enough for them to pass.

  “Will we even fit?” O’Farrell asked as she looked through the front window at the approaching blockade.

  Mason stood to look over the windshield at the top of the bridge. He thought he had seen movement. A whit-dit-dit-dit noise echoed over the ting-tang-ring of bullets swatting through the metal cages on the deck of the duck.

  Mason pushed O’Farrell down by the back of her head. He collapsed over her while pushing her toward the foot well of the cockpit. Hank slid out of his seat and onto the floorboard in one motion.

  “They’re shooting at us!” O’Farrell uttered in disbelief.

  “At least it’s not helicopters,” Hank grumbled. “I can’t see where we’re going. We’re sitting ducks.”

  Mason crawled out and sat down behind the driver’s seat, turning to face the oncoming bridge. He drew his pistol and held it to his knee as he leaned back against the cage.

  “Guide us a little more left,” Mason said. Hank turned the wheel from under the dash. “Give it some gas,” Mason added as he lifted his head a little to see out over the seat back.

  Ting-ting-tang came another spray of bullets just over Mason’s head as the machine gunner on the bridge let out another whit-dit-dit burst. Mason ducked and shifted his position, adjusting his aim, anticipating where his target would appear when the bridge platform reached its apex above them.

  “Are we going to crash?” Hank asked worriedly.

  “Just five more seconds,” Mason replied, blinking hard to drive the sweat from his eyes.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Five more seconds,” Mason insisted.

  Tang-cling-clang-ping came another spray of bullets over the cages. Mason saw the flash of the other shooter’s gun crest the dashboard. Pong-ting-ting came another burst. Mason leaned into the shot. Blam! His pistol kicked in his hand and he watched his target retreat.

  “Shit,” Mason hissed.

  “What!?” Hank asked, starting to climb out.

  “I missed,” Mason said hotly.

  Hank eased back under the dashboard.

  The form appeared again, this time hovering over a slab of concrete giving him partial cover. The machine gun poured another volley of bullets over them, hammering the deck. Thump-pap-crack-ting-snap came the bullets as they gnawed their way toward Mason’s prone position.

  Mason took aim and a deep breath. Blam!

  The machine gun abruptly stopped firing and Mason let out his breath.

  “Did you get him?” Hank asked wildly.

  The duck suddenly lurched, scraping against the pier along its port side before slamming to a halt. It was a jarring impact that knocked both the doctor and Hank back beneath the dash. Mason careened from his position, rolling and slamming into the driver seatback.

  Hank clambered out from beneath the dashboard, lifting himself into the seat with the aid of the steering wheel. The duck was aground on the partially collapsed bridge. The vehicle groaned and scraped as the strong current of the channel pushed them higher up the embankment. Hank laid into the throttle. The duck’s engine growled as the whole vehicle shook, even though they hardly moved.

  “We need to get off this mess,” Hank growled as loudly as the engine.

  O’Farrell crawled out to Mason, who still lay on his back, his legs open in a “V”, his pistol pointing toward the intact portion of bridge on the Rurals side.

  “Are you OK?” O’Farrell asked as she put a hand on his chest, tapping at him as she worked her hands over his body in the quest for blood.

  “He’s not alone,” Mason told her and she froze, her head craning to look up at the bridge. Light shined out over the channel from some vehicle far out of sight. Two black shadows carved the light in half for a moment as they crossed the beams.

  The duck turned sideways, dipping its port side against the pier as the starboard side lifted to clear the obstruction of the partially toppled bridge. The side of the duck raked the concrete pier as the vehicle’s wheels found traction. The duck surged forward, shaking O’Farrell off her hands and knees. Mason slammed his elbow into the cage beside him to keep from sliding to the port rail. O’Farrell fell onto Mason and he grabbed her with his left hand to keep her from sliding away, too.

  “If we get out of this alive,” O’Farrell lamented in his ear, but let the sentiment trail off.

  The grating noise of the duck scraping along the pier grew louder as the engine roared. The nose of the duck dipped awkwardly as a crack and pop noise burst from beneath the deck. The scraping died out and Mason felt the deck fall from beneath his shoulders. For a second, his stomach turned. He thumped onto the deck again as it lurched side to side.

  “We’re free!” Hank yelled.

  A whit-dit-dit-dit answered his euphoria. Bullets sprayed over the roof of the rig, pinging off and snapping through the overhead lights and supply rack. Blam! Mason answered, not aiming at anything in particular. A warning shot to whoever was above, something to ease the attack long enough for Mason to find them.

  Mason pushed O’Farrell off as he sat up, the pistol leading the way. The bridge receded above from the swift current below and the throbbing growl of the duck’s diesel. Hank slid beneath the dashboard again, letting the vehicle find its own course, his hand wedging the gas pedal to the floor.

  Another whit-dit-dit was quickly answered by a Blam! A man screamed in pain, yelling “I’m hit, I’m hit,” repeatedly
. More bullets sprayed over them from two machine guns on the bridge. The rounds whacked against the cages filling the back half of the duck. Tings, tangs, and cracks splattered the vehicle like hailstones.

  Blam!

  “Fuck!” a different soldier’s scream was heard.

  “I’m hit, I’m hit, Jesus, I’m hit,” the first soldier still cried.

  “Stay down, stay down,” Mason heard another yelling.

  The duck began to list, leaning to the port side as though trying to help shield its occupants. Hank reached up to turn the wheel, to steer the vehicle into its momentum and keep it straight.

  “We’re taking on water,” Hank said over the droning of the engine. “We need to get to land.”

  “Stay down,” Mason replied. “We’re still in their range.”

  Hank reached up and flicked several switches. The flood lights overhead and the running lights around the duck went out.

  “What do we do now?” O’Farrell asked.

  “Stay down,” Mason told them, edging to the rail in a crouching position. He began to wonder how many rounds he had left, if any.

  Twenty-Six

  A barrage of bullets struck the rear and side of the duck. Mason dropped to his chest. Half of the shots fired made no contact with the duck. He counted the sound of the guns firing against the swats over the duck and figured they had lost sight and were spraying in the area. It didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous.

  “Kill the engine,” Mason said to Hank.

  “I’ll lose control,” Hank objected.

  “They can’t see us. They only hear us.”

  “Shit,” Hank grumbled as he let off on the gas. He reached a hand to the dash and turned the key. “We may not be able to start her,” were Hank’s words as the engine sighed its last knocking chug.

  The whit-dit-dit-dit of two machine guns continued to fire, but the pelting of the vehicle eased almost immediately. One swatting of bullets came across the roof rack, then a second line of fire chewed at the aft deck, but then for as many streams of bullets that were fired, nothing came.

  “Stay down,” Mason warned them. Even though they weren’t being hit, the machine guns were still directing fire into the channel.

  “We’ve got to get the engine running,” Hank said. “Do you feel it? We’re tipping. We need the engine to straighten up or we’re going to sink.”

  They continued to drift with the current and even Mason, whose head swam with dizziness, realized the port side was dipping further into the channel.

  “All right,” Mason agreed reluctantly. “Start her up.”

  Hank didn’t climb out of his hiding hole. He reached up to the key and turned it. The glow plugs began to hum beneath the deck.

  “Please start,” O’Farrell moaned. “I can barely swim.”

  The engine whirred and chugged to life in one crank. Hank turned the wheel as he pressed the gas pedal. The duck straightened out and began to level off.

  Mason looked up over the railing to see the island behind them, still glowing orange under a hundred small, unchecked fires. The toppled bridges were beyond his own firing range, but they were in range of those rifles.

  “Stay down, Doc,” Mason told O’Farrell.

  Hank lifted his head above the dashboard to see ahead. The waterline was black, but the trees along the shore appeared in grey silhouettes that held up the night sky and all its stars. Hank veered the duck abruptly, tipping it more, turning it to port in an effort to drive straight at shore.

  “Whoa,” O’Farrell exclaimed as she fell sideways.

  “Sorry, lady,” Hank said. “We need to get to shore.”

  “Why are you heading for the Plagued States?” she asked as she crawled half of the way out from under the dashboard. Water was collecting in the foot well, dousing her pants.

  “I don’t think we’ll get the warmest of receptions in the Rurals right now,” Hank told her.

  “But there are zombies over here.”

  “Yup. And maybe that’ll keep those other bastards from looking for us,” Hank said as he turned the wheel again, leveling the duck as it drove straight for shore. The current of the channel carried them further from the burning island. Mason sat up, relieved that they were now far enough out of range of the rifles. He saw the men on the remnants of the bridge carrying their injured colleagues toward the light of the Jeep parked there.

  They didn’t even know why they had been ordered to shoot at Mason and the others. They were just holding the bridge as they had probably been ordered, afraid that the vehicle contained infected people trying to reach the Rurals—their worst fear.

  “Can we get up?” O’Farrell asked Mason.

  “Sure,” Mason told her wearily.

  She climbed out of cover and sat in the chair alongside Hank, who was struggling to climb out from under the steering wheel.

  “I want to go home. I want to go to that side,” O’Farrell insisted, pointing behind them as she glared at Hank.

  “Swim for it,” Hank told her, not looking her way. He stood and looked over the windshield to gauge in the dark where they might reach land.

  “What does that mean?” O’Farrell glowered. “Jones, are you hearing this?”

  “I am,” Mason said weakly, pushing the palms of his hands into his eyes. The pistol stood between him and his own skin. He held it in front of himself and the inkling of a memory rattled in his head, but he couldn’t quite make it out. He knew it was a memory he feared, that one that gnawed at his dreams, kept him awake, haunted him for months before he ever came here. It was the memory that landed him in the hospital for evaluation, the place from which he had been plucked. And it was missing.

  “Jones?” O’Farrell asked, looking at him worriedly. She slid out of her chair and crawled next to him. Hank looked over his shoulder with mild concern.

  “You OK, kid?” Hank asked.

  “What’s wrong, Jones?” O’Farrell asked, a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  “He wasn’t the first soldier I’ve killed,” Mason admitted. “That kid on the bridge,” he added for clarification. He didn’t mean Chavez. Mason hadn’t actually killed Chavez as much as abandoned him anyway. “Before they shipped me here, I was in a psych ward. I mean I’m fine, I wasn’t crazy or anything. I just couldn’t cope. I mean, it’s one thing to kill an enemy, but one of your own—”

  “Jones,” O’Farrell said softly.

  “They’re just holes. I can’t remember my Christmas presents, or my girlfriend in high school. She exists. I know I had one. I’m not crazy.”

  “Jones, you’re not crazy,” O’Farrell assured him. “You’re the first person who has been cured while in transition. Everyone else we’ve cured was already a full-fledged zombie. Basic language skills have to be taught to them all over again. Their minds are wiped clean, but for you, you’re still mostly intact.

  “Some of your memories may be gone, though. Permanently.”

  “I used to wish I could forget,” Mason said. “I don’t know what’s worse.”

  The engine of the duck revved.

  “Hey, hey, I found us a beach,” Hank said excitedly. “We’re not going to drown after all.”

  “Great,” O’Farrell said cheerlessly. “Out of the frying pan, into the fire.”

  “You’re looking at it all wrong, lady. In three days, we’ll be at Biter’s Bend and getting out of this shit hole once and for all.”

  “How are you going to manage that?” O’Farrell asked skeptically.

  “Let’s just say I know someone there who owes me a big favor,” Hank replied with a wide smile.

  “How big?” Mason wondered aloud.

  “About as big as the one you owe me, kid,” Hank said. “And he’s got connections in all the right places.” Hank began whistling as he turned the wheel again to level the deck. The continued jostling of the duck reminded Mason of his nausea and light-headedness. Hank continued turning the wheel to keep them facing shore, then turning it the other w
ay to level them off. They lurched side to side.

  “I’m going to be sick,” Mason announced as he reached for the railing cable. He dry heaved over the side as O’Farrell held onto his waist. When he slumped back, he shoved his pistol into its holster and collapsed onto his back.

  “Jones,” O’Farrell asked as she tapped his face with the palm of her hand.

  Her fingers were so cold, he thought.

  “Jones, don’t pass out on me.”

  “Doc, I got you out alive, right?” he said weakly, his eyes blinking as dark spots chewed away at his periphery.

  She stared down on him with worried eyes, but nodded. “Lieutenant,” O’Farrell said sharply.

  Mason was so tired. His body had reached its limit; his mind had been stretched as far as it could go. He closed his eyes and wondered if his nightmare still lurked somewhere inside. He hoped it was there. At least it would remind him of who he was.

  Jones, Mason E., Lieutenant, Army Ranger, Expert Marksmanship Badge in Pistol and Small-Bore Pistol. After serving 26 months in Egypt, he returned to the United States for clinical evaluation and to enroll in a mental health treatment program following an incident in which he was forced to take the life of one of his own soldiers under his command. After receiving a medical evaluation of minimal risk, he was assigned to the Rock Island Prison Defense Facility to serve out his remaining five months of active duty. At Rock Island, he was wounded by a subject infected with the consumption pathogen. Soon after, he caused a facility-wide prison escape. In the ensuing chaos, he evaded capture by his fellow soldiers, killing several, and directly caused the sentry ring to be utilized in defense of the country. He was last seen entering the Plagued States. His current whereabouts are unknown.

  All went black and quiet.

  The End

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