by Brian Parker
AFTER THE ROADS
Sidney’s Way volume 1
a Five Roads to Texas novel
Written by
BRIAN PARKER
Illustrated by
AJ POWERS
Edited by
AURORA DEWATER
DISCLAIMER
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Notice: The views expressed herein are NOT endorsed by the United States Government, Department of Defense or Department of the Army.
COPYRIGHT
AFTER THE ROADS
Copyright © 2018 by Brian Parker
All rights reserved. Published by Phalanx Press.
www.PhalanxPress.com
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.
Five Roads to Texas: a Phalanx Press Collaboration
Haven’t read the start of Sidney’s journey yet? Get your copy here.
Works available by Brian Parker
Easytown Novels
The Immorality Clause ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B01HWOH1VC
Tears of a Clone ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B01NBDUZSH
West End Droids & East End Dames ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B07436C21L
High Tech/Low Life: An Easytown Anthology ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B0787D6ZY6
The Path of Ashes
A Path of Ashes ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00XATPU9E
Fireside ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B015ONZOU8
Dark Embers ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B01CPSAI1A
Washington, Dead City
GNASH ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B01ACTBBZQ
REND ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B01AYEQRUI
SEVER ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B01C7VEMG2
Stand Alone Works
Grudge ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B06Y5QS6J6
Enduring Armageddon ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00XZA2UQY
Origins of the Outbreak ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00MN7UFBW
The Collective Protocol ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00KUZDY4O
Battle Damage Assessment ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00PCND2RI
Zombie in the Basement ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00H6DUXY2
Self-Publishing the Hard Way ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00HNQCZ9I
Plus, many more anthology contributions and short stories
Only the dead have seen the end of war.
~ George Santayana
PROLOGUE
* * *
Death.
Today was the same as yesterday. Yesterday was the same as the day before that. For the soldiers of Able Company, there was no point in keeping track of the days of the week. The men and women didn’t mark the days off on a calendar. There was no going home at the end of their deployment. This was their life.
This was America.
Lieutenant Jake Murphy sighed as he wiped ash away from the lens of his ACOG scope. He lifted the rifle up to his shoulder and pressed his cheek against the plastic stock, lining up the small red dot of his optics on the twisted, bloody face of an infected. It was a woman. Her exposed torso was thin and muscular. Scratches, bruises, and streaks of dried blood did little to conceal her nakedness. Jake supposed she’d been pretty at one time, but now her face was twisted in rage as she screamed her hatred at the non-infected soldiers on the wall.
The soldiers, elevated nearly thirty feet above their targets, protected the millions of refugees who’d sought sanctuary inside Fort Bliss when the FEMA camps outside the base were inevitably overrun. The camps, with their chain link and barbed wire fences, had been no match for the hordes of infected that made their way across the desert sands, chasing their quarry toward the so-called “Safe Zone.”
He supposed the Army knew the camps would fail, which is why they’d created the perimeter wall from thousands of forty-foot shipping containers, stacked end-to-end and two high. It gave them excellent fields of fire from above against their enemy, an unthinking, untiring, unstoppable mass of humanity.
A wave of heat and light washed over the lieutenant, causing him to momentarily break his cheek-to-stock pressure. His men were lighting the bodies below, simultaneously burning the dead and living alike. The fires, while terrible and sickening, were an absolute necessity. Otherwise the infected would be able to swarm over the mounds of their brethren and overrun the base.
He rested his cheek against the weapon once again, but peered over the top of the scope with his naked eye to reacquire his target. There she was; the blonde with the lithe, muscular body. He raised the barrel slightly to bring the ACOG into his line of sight. Magnified now, he led her slightly as she jogged doggedly toward the wall, allowing himself a moment to wonder what she’d been before the infection took her. Had she been a dancer, or a student? Maybe she’d been a mother, or even a soldier like him.
Whatever she’d been, it didn’t matter now. His aim didn’t waiver as she crossed behind the red dot in his scope. He squeezed the trigger.
The round was lower than he’d wanted, it took her through the neck, snapping her spine and dropping her instantly. She’d lay there until she bled out and died.
Jake made a mental adjustment to his aimpoint as he elevated the barrel of his M-4 to find a new target while the Stryker behind him engaged targets at a greater distance.
Boredom.
Today was the same as yesterday. Yesterday was the same as the day before that. For the refugees trapped in the confines of Fort Bliss, Texas there was no point in keeping track of the days of the week. The men and women didn’t mark the days off on a calendar. There was no going home at the end of their stay. This was their life.
This was America.
Sidney exhaled forcefully as she attempted to button her pants unsuccessfully. It was no use, she was only about six months along but she’d been so thin before the pregnancy that her stomach had more than doubled in size. There was no way she was going to get her pants to button.
She looked around her tent for something to help her out. The tent was the most expensive one available at REI that day she’d rushed to the store and grabbed all of her and Lincoln’s supplies after they first heard the news of the pending nationwide outbreak of madness. Not being a hiker or camper, she hadn’t known if the tent was the best one on the market or simply some type of designer brand, but it had held up well, even in the heavy rains of late spring and the wind storms of early fall.
The blow-up mattress was another last-minute grab from Lincoln’s house, something left over from his college days. She’d had to trade some of her precious canned goods for a bicycle pump once she made it to the camp, though. There was no way she’d be able to continue to find six D batteries each time the damn thing deflated.
Knives, first aid kits, Linc’s clothes… She let out a quick huff and opened his pack that sat in the corner, mostly undisturbed. Inside, she found a few pairs of shorts, several t-shirts, and one pair of jeans. For such a smart guy, he sure as hell hadn’t thought a lot about the everyday stuff. She remembered him telling her that they’d be able to get clothes in the Safe Zone, so he traded the space in his bag for more food. It was a good call at the time, but now that she was actually here, there were no clothes to be had. Supplies were limited, and there was never enough of anything to go around.
The camp designers hadn’t expected the FEMA camps to fall. The small section of the larger base that she occupied, Fort Bliss Refugee Camp #3, was originally designed for 150,000 people max. Today, there were over four hundred thousand in the camp, and millions more c
ramped behind the walls, cowering in fear while the military defended them. Food, ammunition, clothing, patience—all were stretched to the breaking point. How much longer could they hold out?
She pulled her pants off and groaned as the fine layer of hair on her legs scraped along the material. Razor blades were another luxury commodity that had ran out quickly. Now, almost all the men sported beards and women had lovely, flowing carpets of fur sprouting from everywhere.
Surprisingly, Lincoln’s jeans fit okay. They were much too long for her, so she cuffed the ankles, but they fit her waist, which was the most important part. If the baby continued to grow as rapidly as it had been, his pants would only buy her a few more weeks at the most. Then she would be in trouble.
As the resident camp pariah, she didn’t have the option to trade with anyone in her immediate blocks. She’d have to start searching farther out.
1
* * *
SURVIVOR CAMP #3, EL PASO, TEXAS
SEPTEMBER 14TH
The stench of burning bodies was especially strong this morning as the soldiers on the wall burned what had piled up outside since the last large scale attack. The thick, acrid smoke hung low across the camp, creeping along the ground like fog. Mixed amongst the charred flesh smell was a hint of sweetness, which reminded Sidney of maple-cured bacon.
Gross.
After almost five months in the west Texas survivor’s camp, Sidney had become accustomed to the smell. It was her daily reminder that the men and women protecting the camp were still killing the infected by the hundreds, sometimes thousands, just about every day.
The infected… They were a daily part of life now. Sometimes, when Sidney thought about the worries of her old, modern life, she would laugh hysterically, which didn’t help with her almost pariah-like reputation in camp.
She wasn’t crazy, far from it, but she was determined to survive at any cost—and to keep the life growing inside of her safe. Immediately after stumbling into the camp, pushing an orange Home Depot cart full of supplies, she’d been hit on, verbally assaulted, and one guy even tried to cop a feel of the thin, tattooed woman who, according to the slurs he shouted, was ‘obviously into all the kinky shit, just look at her’. His friends rushed him to the hospital after she stabbed him in the armpit with her tiny three-inch lockback knife. He almost died before they made their way through the choked streets, but the doctors were able to save him. Apparently, there’s an important artery that runs through that particular part of the human body. Who knew?
Since then, there’d been a few other run-ins with other refugees, none of which turned out pleasant for the other party, so she was pretty much marked as a dangerous, caged animal, and left alone. Months ago, camp officials had moved her from the tent that she’d been assigned on the requests of other residents. That was fine by her, she’d purchased a nice tent on the day the world went to hell and had never gotten to use it. Now it was her home.
Sidney left her tent by the walls—which were really just double-stacked shipping containers with mounds of dirt behind them for the tanks to drive up on—and made her way toward the latrines to use the restroom and shower. About the only thing she truly missed from her previous life were showers and bathrooms in her house. Well, that and alcohol, but she couldn’t drink now anyways, so that wasn’t too much of a concern.
“It’s the crazy cat lady,” a boy, no more than eight or nine, whispered to a group of children along her path.
“My mom said she’s just as crazy as the infected,” another said.
“I heard she steals children and cooks them in her little tent way out by the walls,” Sidney replied, sending the kids scurrying in all directions.
When Sidney was alone with her cat, Rick James, she allowed herself to feel sad for what she’d become in the eyes of others. She was a genuinely nice person, who used to help people and enjoy happy hours with strangers and friends alike, but all that had changed back in the hotel in eastern Texas when she fled from Washington, DC to the Safe Zone.
She’d rented a room in a hotel the night Lincoln had turned. He’d been a raving lunatic, just like the rest of them; all semblance of his old self was gone. A gas station guard helped her and killed Lincoln, the father of the baby growing inside her now. Before his self-sacrifice to save her life—which is how he got infected—Sidney had been intent on getting an abortion. Afterward, she realized that even though they’d only known each other for six weeks or so, she loved that man and would do anything to bring their child safely into this world.
Then, the attendant at the hotel tried to rape her.
He’d been her first, and only, human kill. That hotel attendant brought the harsh realities of the new world directly into her life. Sure, she’d been in the Peace Corps and a lawyer for a non-profit battling human trafficking, so she’d seen plenty of atrocities, but the bad stuff hadn’t happened to her until that night.
That night had helped to mold her into the person she was, the person she was becoming. And the number one rule on her expanding list was: Don’t trust anyone.
Jake Murphy dragged the razor across his jawline, shaving away the stubble from the night before. He had a big day today. His platoon, 1st Platoon, Able Company, 1-36 Infantry, was the first unit that would be testing a new proof of concept to get additional food and supplies to the refugee camp.
With just over four million people in the camp, including the military, food was going quickly. Planners had brought enough supplies for half that population, not thinking the siege would last as long as it had, but the infected were relentless. Fights had been breaking out over supplies and gangs ruled entire sections of the camps, based in part on their abilities to get additional supplies.
First Lieutenant Murphy’s First Platoon was going to be airlifted by six Chinook helicopters to a large Sam’s Club warehouse in Midland, Texas about 290 miles away. The helicopters would land on the roof to conserve fuel and his platoon’s mission was to clear the building of infected. Once that task was complete, they were to load up the five semi-trailers that recon elements had seen at the back dock with any and all foodstuffs and relevant supplies. Then the trailers were to be sling loaded under the Chinooks for the return trip to El Paso.
If they got all five trailers full, the food was only a temporary reprieve, maybe enough for two or three days, and they’d have to repeat the process at similar warehouses in Lubbock and Albuquerque, which were at the limits of the Chinook’s range. After that, the lieutenant didn’t know what they were supposed to do.
Situating the refugee camp at Fort Bliss in El Paso had been a brilliant tactical move by the military because of the ability to kill a lot of infected at great distances, but it was an operational nightmare to manage as supplies dwindled and they had to travel farther to find enough food for everyone. Jake didn’t even want to think about the implication of putting the camp in the middle of nowhere from the strategic standpoint. It seemed just plain stupid—until he factored in the rumors about the foreign activity out west, then maybe it was smarter than he gave the planners credit for.
The people who made the decision had been trying to save as many people as possible in a short period, so he didn’t have any right to second-guess their choice. He just had to live with the results and the difficulties they created.
No one had thought that the infected—a disorganized mob of insane people whose only goal in life was to attack the non-infected and spread their disease—would survive this long. Human anatomy shouldn’t have been able to withstand going without food or drink that long, although truthfully, no one knew how the infected sustained themselves. They could be eating animals, insects, or even scrub brush. No one knew, and no one really cared.
He used a towel to wipe away the excess shaving cream because the camp was under a water restriction, and then slapped on some liquid aftershave. It burned like hell after the mostly dry shave, but he could handle the uncomfortable feeling.
“Alright, LT. You look as fr
esh as a newborn baby. Now get outta the way so us old guys can have a turn.” Sergeant First Class Turner, his platoon sergeant, flashed a grizzled smile.
Jake picked up his bag and moved out of the way as the older soldier set his shaving bag on the back of the sink and began rummaging around inside it. “Alright, Sergeant. I’m going to the orderly room to get any last-minute updates from the CO. I’ll meet you at the arms room at zero-seven for the additional ammo draw.”
“Sounds good, sir,” Sergeant Turner replied as he splashed a handful of water onto his cheeks, then proceeded to lather up his skin with shaving cream.
The lieutenant left the small company latrine and walked to the hooch that he shared with the other two single officers in the company. Grady Hallewell, the Mobile Gun System platoon leader, was married with two kids and had a house on post before everything began, so they stayed in their house—along with two additional refugee families. Jake’s hooch wasn’t much more than an area carved out in the company equipment locker area where the lieutenants had set up cots so they could always be near the office to react to situations on a moment’s notice.
Not that anything exciting happened anymore. These days, the company’s duties rotated between acting as roving security patrols amongst the refugees and along the wall’s perimeters to ensure there weren’t any breaches, and pulling kill duty at the top of the wall.
Kill duty had been exciting for the first couple of days, but now, the monotonous task was mind-numbing. At first, they killed the infected with their M-4s and then burned the bodies piled up along the wall when the mound of corpses became tall enough that they might be able to make it over the wall. Then, about a month into the siege, they’d stopped wasting so much of their ammo and switched to simply burning the infected that made it close to the wall, cutting out the middleman. It was less resource-intensive and the flyboys had a fuel farm set up somewhere out in the desert where they supposedly had access to hundreds of thousands of gallons of fuel.
