The F*cked Series (Book 4): Hard

by Gleason, R. K.

  Brooks considered letting Patel go first, but the instant they reached the door, she yanked it open, heedless to the possible presence of gnashing teeth being there to greet her on the other side. Relief washes over her when she sees the stairway in front of them is clear. It’s quickly replaced by terror as the accelerant starts raining down from the ceiling. They lurch into the stairway to avoid being coated in the fuel like their pursuers, since there was no sprinkler system running through any of the stairwells. They began running down the stairs, forgoing the last five or six steps on each flight, in favor of jumping and allowing gravity to carry them to the lower landing. Zombies stream through the door above them and they could hear more of their kind were entering from several floors below. Toxic vapors from the noxious fuel covering the infected fills the narrow space. Brooks and Patel immediately became lightheaded, but they kept going as the fumes grew thicker. Just a few more, Brooks thought, staggering down the last flight to reach the landing to their destination. Spots float across her vision as she stumbles and Patel pushes past her to slam his shoulder against the metal door. The infected continued pouring in, packing the steps with their bodies and flammable fumes.

  “Don’t shoot! It’s us!” Patel shouts to the soldiers positioned on the other side of the door as he shoved it open, dragging Brooks behind him.

  “Stand clear!” Brooks orders. She fumbles to remove one of the two grenades from her vest, trying to force her eyes to focus and her head to clear from the fumes. Letting her M-4 hang from its tether, she finally manages to hook her finger in the ring attached to the pin and pulls it free. The spoon flips freely into the air as Brooks turns on her heels and tosses the explosive into the stairway before slamming the door shut.

  “Fire in the hole!” Patel yells as they all race toward the MTV idling several yards away.

  The fuel-soaked zombies that had been closing in on them from the stairs, reach the door at the same instant the grenade explodes. There’s a deafening whoomp as the fumes that had filled the stairway ignite, sending a thick jet of flames through the stairwell and out the open doorway. Several of the infected are propelled through the door and onto the loading dock, their accelerant-soaked clothing igniting from the explosion. Several of the soldiers are blown off their feet by the force of the explosion. One of the more unfortunate enlisted men caught a foot-long piece of metal doorframe in his throat. Blood gurgles and bubbles from his screaming lips as a pack of Z’s fall on him. The soldiers that remained standing begin dispatching the infected by blasting 5.56 caliber holes through the flaming zombies.

  “Fall back to the MTV!” Brooks orders her men, knowing her use of the grenade won’t stop them all. The ones that had been coming up are all probably cooking in the stairway, but the rest of the ones from above are most likely just stunned and will be on them at any moment.

  Nichols and Patel are already in the front seat of the MTV pointed toward the open double-bay doors. The corporal hangs out the driver’s side window, waving his arm for Brooks to get in the cab. The remaining soldiers easily climb into the back of the MTV since it had been parked for unloading and loading, and the cargo/troop area was sitting level with the dock. Brooks runs to the passenger door and looks out across the parking lot through the open bay doors. She can see the infected pressed against the chain-link fence and knows it’s only a matter of minutes before the fences collapse. She climbs into the passenger seat as the infected begin flooding onto the loading dock from the stairwell. The soldiers in the back don’t wait for the order and begin firing into the chokepoint and still, many of the infected make it through. A few of the soldiers change target and fire on the ones racing toward the open back of the MTV. The soldiers farthest from the tailgate begin pushing their way toward the back of the bed, wanting to add to the spray of bullets peppering the zombies and the walls behind them. But the scuffling and shoving only manages to cause the ones with clear lines of fire to be jostled and miss their intended targets.

  The first zombie to make it through the maelstrom of bullets leaps for the soldiers in the back of the MTV but is riddled in midair. Several more make the running jump and one makes it into the back before taking a bullet to the brain. More of the infected pour onto the loading dock as the soldiers try to pick off the ones getting too close, rather than focusing some of their fire into the funnel point at the doorway.

  “Corporal, get us out of here!” she orders Patel as she sees a few zombies slip into the loading area through the open bay doors. More follow them as the soldiers in the back switch to full-auto and begin burning through their ammo like they were trying to put out a fire with them. The timed charges placed around the inside of the stadium begin to explode in series, causing the entire structure to rock and igniting the accelerant that continued to spray from the sprinkler system. The ensuing inferno is sucked through the corridors and passageways, searching for more oxygen to burn. Walls of fire ravage the seating area and field as the firestorm rages. The thousands of infected being held inside the stadium will be burned beyond all recognition before the flames go out. Black smoke rolls into the sky, choking the air with the smell of burning, infected flesh.

  Shouting erupts from the back of the MTV as Patel stomps on the gas and the behemoth vehicle lurches forward. The shouting turns to screams and become less distinguishable as the MTV gains speed. Patel has it rolling straight for the fence and the infected pressed against the other side. He glances across the seat at Brooks, looking for any sign or direction from her. She gives him a curt nod and Patel presses the pedal down farther, wanting to tear through the chain-link fence cleanly. The shouting from the troop area begins to die down, indicating the infected that had gotten in were either dead for good, or had been thrown out the back. Their situation seemed to be improving, until a bullet pierces the back of the cab and punches a hole in the roof above Nichols’ head. Two more bullets are fired, and Brooks hears them ricochet around in the back before going quiet.

  “Hold on!” Patel yells as he hits the curb and crashes into the fence.

  The infected are pressed against it, four or five-deep in some places. Patel had unintentionally aimed them at the densest population against the fence. Bodies cartwheel into the air from the impact with the MTV, landing in twisted piles of broken limbs and ruptured parts. Those that weren’t sent sailing were trapped under the fencing. Those infected bastards were either forced through the openings, forming sticky diamond shapes that matched the chain-link, or effectively cheese-grated by the pavement from being dragged across it.

  Brooks watched the smoke filling the sky above the stadium in her side mirror. She briefly considered activating her comms and giving the command to fall back to the soldiers she’d ordered to hold their positions while she made her escape. She’d lied to them, effectively giving the order to sacrifice their lives for hers, with her deceit. She dismissed the fleeting idea, deciding rank did have its privileges and sacrifices needed to be made.

  Then she considered how she’d explain this to Colonel Beaurite during her next report, without painting the soldiers she’d condemned by her orders, as martyrs. That is, if the colonel or anyone else was still alive at Fort Bolivar. But her thoughts were quickly distracted by something she was seeing in her mirror.

  Two zombies clung to a section of fencing that had been snagged by the heavy rear bumper and were attempting to scale it to get to the back of the MTV. A loud thump came from the rear of the cab set against the troop area.

  “What the hell are they doing back there?” Nichols asked.

  “At least the shooting stopped,” Patel said. “Want me to pull over and find out?”

  “Not yet,” Brooks answers. “Let’s get clear of here first. Head toward North 71.”

  She continues to study the progress of the climbers. If they drag them far enough, eventually gravity and the chain-link would spread them across Ohio like a lemon zester, she reasons. Brooks watches in fascination as the two continue inching closer to the back, a
s a thought kept nagging at her. Why hadn’t the soldiers in the rear just shot them by now? Surely they’d seen them. Could all of her men possibly be out of ammo? Had the last of their bullets been the ones that had punched through the cab? Maybe the battle in the back of the transport to repel the horde had been more intense than she’d thought. But even if they were out of ammunition, they could certainly still use the butts of their carbines to knock the intruders free from the fencing. If nothing else, they could fall back to using their combat knives to cut the fingers off the climbers and achieve the desired outcome.

  Brooks considered keying her mic to ask what the hell they were waiting for, or maybe just ordering Patel to pull over and she’d dispatch the clinging infected herself. Either way, she’d be sternly reminding them they were soldiers, trained to improvise, adapt, and overcome. But her growing frustration abruptly fell away when she saw an arm thrust out from the back of the MTV. She guessed it was possible it’d taken them this long to notice the climbers, but she’d still be having that talk with her men. She noticed the sleeve partially covering the arm was torn and the hand at the end was empty, with fingers splayed. She watched, expecting whoever the soldier was, to start bludgeoning the zombies or try freeing the snagged fencing. At least that would release their unwanted guests and leave them skidding to a stop on the pavement. But the empty hand reached down to one of the infected climbers. Their grips locked together, and the arm hoisted the climber up and into the back of the moving transport. A moment later, the second one is helped into the back.

  “Shit,” Brooks said, turning away from the mirror.

  “What is it?” Nichols asks, his momentary relief shattered by the major’s exclamation. He searches the road ahead, looking for the oncoming threat.

  “We’ve got problems in the back,” she answers.

  “So, now what?” Nichols asks after Brooks had described what she’d seen in the mirror.

  “How much fuel do we have?” she asks Patel.

  “We still have about a quarter left in the main tank but the other one’s full,” he replies.

  “How far will that get us?” Nichols asks, expecting the worst.

  “Three hundred miles, tops. These things weren’t built for fuel efficiency,” the corporal answers.

  “Okay. At least we’ve got three hundred miles to come up with a plan,” Nichols says, feeling a bit better about their situation.

  “Tops,” Patel repeats. “And I mean absolutely best-case scenario. It’s probably more like two-fifty.”

  “Why didn’t you just say that the first time?” Nichols asks.

  “I didn’t want to be pessimistic,” Patel answers.

  “Pessimistic!” Nichols gapes. “Don’t you think…”

  “It doesn’t matter!” Brooks shouts over them, ending their argument before it had a chance to pick up any more momentum. “We’re not going to drive around with a load of infected in the back until our fuel runs low. And we’re sure as hell not taking them with us to where we’re headed.” Having already come up with a plan in her head, she studies the road ahead for what she could use.

  “Where are we going?” Patel asks.

  “First things first,” Brooks says, keeping her plans to herself until they need to be shared.

  Chapter 3

  After they’d stopped to let Ben speak his mind and plead his case, they’d all agreed his plan made a lot more sense than Dave’s lack of one. They drove a little farther west on Highway 114 until they came to a paved side road. The signpost indicated it was a private road and they all pulled off. Zack and Brigette followed it, scouting ahead to look for a place suitable for their needs, while the others waited. Within a few minutes, Brigette called back to the group using the CB radios they’d installed in the vehicles.

  “We think we found what we’re looking for,” she began. “The pavement ends after the first bend from where you all are and turns to loose gravel, so go slow. After that, there’s a shitty dirt road, a couple hundred yards farther on the right. Watch for the Private Property sign full of bullet holes. I don’t think anything’s been done here for some time because it’s pretty grown over and easy to miss, so keep an eye out for it and take it,” she told them. “Follow it for another quarter mile or so, and you’ll be here. Like I said, it doesn’t look like anybody’s used this lately because there’re a few branches you’ll need to watch out for, and the road itself is shit. I don’t think your vehicles will have any problems, but we nearly got the Passat high-centered in one of the ruts.”

  The last part of Brigette’s message was just another reason supporting Dave’s opinion that Zack lowering their car because it looked cool, was a dumb thing to do. He regretted he hadn’t insisted they swap the Volkswagen pavement-scraper when they’d had the chance in Haviland. He promised himself they’d be correcting that mistake the first chance they came across to get them into another vehicle with a reasonable amount of ground clearance. Brigette had understated the dirt road’s condition and he wondered how they made it back as far as they had without becoming permanently entrenched.

  What they found, however, fit their needs perfectly. It was a large, standing structure in the middle of the woods and reminded Dave of a huge carport. The roof was gabled at the center and sloped to allow rain runoff on both sides. The foundational skeleton of the structure was made of metal, rather than wood, which would eventually rot and need replacing. But it had been out here, exposed to the elements for so long, one of the overhead beams near the center had rusted through and broken above the weakened joint. This caused the roof to severely bow in the middle, increasing the gaps between the corrugated aluminum covering the building. More aluminum covered the sides, but only about four feet down from the roofline. This leftover fifteen feet between the bottom of the flimsy, partial walls and the ground. The tremendous gap allowed grass and ferns to grow freely under the cover. The entire thing was big enough to park two semi-tractors and trailers side by side and keep them both under complete cover. Although Dave couldn’t fathom the idea of driving something big enough to need a cover this size down the narrow, rut-laden trail they’d driven on to get there. And the fact the driver would have to complete some kind of miracle, twenty-point turn to park under it. This was because the entire thing sat perpendicular to the shitty road leading to it, capping the oversized trail like the top of a corroded T. Zack had parked at one end and Joe had managed to back in Mike’s Mercedes SUV at the other. Dave parked his newly acquired 4x4 away from the structure, not wanting to risk having it collapse on all the vehicles, given the severe sag in the center. Despite the faulty design of the rusted structure, the location was perfect for what they needed to do. Half of them would do a little reconnaissance ahead, while the others would remain behind and stay in radio communication.

  “Are you sure about this?” Pam asks Dave. “What if something goes wrong while you’re out there, traipsing through the woods? What if you need help?”

  “What could go wrong?” Dave replies, trying to give her a modicum of reassurance. “We’re just going to scout ahead a little bit and see what’s going on up there.”

  “We should all stay together, and you know it,” she replies.

  “We’ve already been through this, and you’re right. But we don’t have a lot of choices. We have to keep moving but also have to know what’s ahead of us. This is the best plan we have,” Dave says, glancing in Ben’s direction before turning back to Pam. “Besides, it’ll give Mike some time to rest his back without being bounced around in a moving car.”

  “I said I’m fine,” Mike shouts from the Mercedes.

  “Liar,” Lynn says, sitting in the front passenger seat near her husband.

  Mike had been propped in the backseat since they’d left Haviland Hardware and was still unable to move around without grimacing in pain. They’d thought about helping him get out of the car and leaning him against one of the poles supporting the roof. Rather than inflicting the unneeded discomfort this w
ould cause, the family had opted to lower the rear window of the Mercedes so he could hear what was happening without having to move. Dave and Pam had started their conversation near the back of the small SUV and now took a few steps away from the open window before continuing their discussion.

  “Like I said,” Dave says, taking her hands in his and speaking quietly. “If you’ve got a better idea, I’d love to hear it. Don’t think for a second, I want to go marching around out there. But after we all talked about it, this makes the most sense. Plus, we’ll have the radios,” he reminded her. He purposefully left out the part about the reasons they were down to only two of the walkie-talkies. The one Jacob and CJ had been using when the attack on Haviland Hardware started, had been destroyed, curtesy of the soldiers’ 50-cal assault.

  “Those are fucking toys,” Pam reminds him.

  “I don’t know what else to say other than, if you’re dead-set against this, we won’t go,” he says.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Pam tells him after a moment of consideration.

  “Me?” he asks, reaching for his neck in mocked offense. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

  “Just be safe,” she says. Pam gives her husband a kiss on the lips and hugs him tightly. “And keep the kids safe,” she whispers in his ear so no one else could hear her. He leans back to look her in the eyes, but all trace of sarcasm and nervous jest were gone from Dave’s expression. He drew a breath for a final attempt at reassurance when Pam placed her fingertips over his mouth. “Please don’t say it,” she quietly pleads.

  “Say what?” he asks.

  “You know,” she replies, holding his hands in hers.

  “What? Goodbye or I’ll be right back?” he asks. Dave figured the first was a little too emotionally sappy for Pam, but these were unusual times. Maybe it was just because this might be the last time they’d ever see each other. But that didn’t make any sense. And he highly doubted the latter, because they both knew saying those words was the fastest way to cull oneself from the herd in a horror movie. But they’d never been in situations like these before. “Which one?” he asks.