We got back to the CDC garage without incident and pulled the Suburban and the mobile lab into the garage, rolling the door closed. It was now going on 4:00 in the afternoon. I wanted to get the hell out of here before nightfall. With the speed at which Hemp was capable of designing, fabricating and working, it wouldn’t be a problem. The summer days were long, with daylight sticking around until near 8:30 PM. I figured we could be out of here by 6:00 or so, and Lula was only about 60 miles from the CDC.
We had only to hop on the I85 to the I985 to get there in just over an hour and a half – if all was clear on the road, and we didn’t expect that. No more exits if we could avoid it, though. We didn’t need a repeat of that offramp debacle.
The gas line that Hemp had run was expertly done, supported by several makeshift support platforms placed at strategic locations to relieve stress on the long pipe run. We could rest assured that Max would be supplied with a long-lasting supply of fuel for the generator. He might have to come down and service it a few times, and try to keep his power draw to a minimum, but he should be good for a month or more. There’s no telling what the military might organize before that, or if this thing would run its course, which was my great hope.
We weren’t bad at this, but we didn’t want to do it for the rest of time.
We did our best to keep Taylor completely away from the gory remnants of the massive zombie kill we engaged in at the service elevator, so we took her into an interior hallway and we went up on the passenger elevator. When we arrived at Max’s enclave, all was well.
It was extraordinarily well when Cynthia saw her daughter. She leapt out of her chair and ran to the door, falling down on her knees. She scooped Taylor into her arms and kissed her neck, face, lips and the top of her head. She felt her all over to make sure nothing was broken or hurt, and she pulled her to her again, and wrapped her arms around her in an embrace that I did not believe would end. I didn’t blame her for a moment. This was her little girl.
Not a word was exchanged between them. The child’s eyes were squeezed closed as though the nightmare was over and the good dream from which she did not want to awaken had begun. Over Taylor’s head, Cynthia looked into our smiling faces; Gem, Hemp and I must have looked like three morons, our smiles fixed, our expressions tender.
“Thank you all so much,” she mouthed. Her eyes said enough.
As though on queue, we all nodded and turned to head back downstairs. Before I left the room I said, “Max, I had to give away the Hummer. Found a bunch of uninfecteds about a mile and a half from here.”
“That’s good news,” he said. “A good sign. Did you tell them I’m here?”
“It’s great news, and yes, we did. They might contact you, so keep your radios on scan.” I said. “But I’m going to need another vehicle, if you think you can spare it.”
“We already worked it out, Flex,” said Hemp. “You gotta check out the Crown Vic I got you.”
“A fucking Ford?” I asked, incredulous.
“I guess you might describe it in those disparaging terms, but it’s a rolling fortress. We need something kind of nimble and quick, but tough. The cops drive these things for a reason.”
“Okay. You can convince me when we get back down there.”
We waved to Max and Cynthia, who still held Taylor in her arms.
Dead Hunger: The Flex Sheridan Chronicle Page 31
