by Lundy, W. J.
Lawson stood from his chair and went to the railing, looking down toward the main gate. Unshaken from the soldier’s speech, he kept his eyes on the gate below as he spoke in a low steady voice. “Are you trying to scare me, son? You think I haven’t seen shit in the last three weeks?” He stopped and turned to face Gyles. The other men on the deck took notice of the commotion and turned in to face the pair. “I need you to know, Sergeant, there is no way out for us. We don’t have a bus … we don’t have cars. Do you expect us to walk?”
A cracking voice from the shadows sounded off. “Maybe Joe could help.”
Gyles turned back. A frail red-haired boy stood with his arms cradling a lever action 30-30 with a cedar stained stock. The kid was dressed in canvas pants and wore a flannel shirt two sizes too big, with a leather bandoleer of brass across his chest. He paused and looked down, embarrassed by Gyles’s glare. He gulped then said again, “I said maybe Joe can help.”
“Who is Joe?’’ Gyles asked.
Lawson waved his hand. “He’s a fool; don’t waste your time on this nonsense.”
The boy shook his head rapidly. “No sir, it ain’t nonsense. Mister Joe Hansen, he’s got a truck. He come in two days ago on foot, but he said he has got an eighteen-wheeler just a few blocks away.” The kid walked around the other side of the tower and pointed into the distance. In the faint light, less than three blocks away, Gyles could make out the shape of what was once a police roadblock. Cars were backed up and pressed tightly together for at least fifty feet, then behind it all was a semi-truck sitting all alone in the center of the street.
“Right there. He says it’s his truck. Joe said he saw one of our signs and had tried to make it to the church, when he ran into the roadblock. He said they saw him and started after him. Instead of backing out, he ditched the truck and made a run for it.
“But look at that trailer—it would be enough to get everyone out of here. Sure, it won’t be comfortable, but it will get us out. We could leave if we got that truck.”
Gyles looked at Lawson. “Where is this Joe?”
Lawson gritted his teeth. “The guy is a loon. He came in here a few days ago on foot and in his underwear, covered head to toe in scratches.”
Gyles raised his eyebrows. “Scratches? How’d he keep from getting infected?”
Lawson laughed. “Oh, he says the scratches weren’t from the crazies, said he got them crawling through brush and brambles. Claims he ran through them to keep the infected from following him.”
“If he had a truck, why didn’t he just drive that here?”
“Fool said he got hung up in traffic and walked in the rest of the way. Asked us to help him back it out and said he would give us a ride to wherever we wanted to go.”
“Then why didn’t you take him up on it?”
Lawson shook his head. “Cause, like I said, the guy is nuts. It probably ain’t even his truck.”
“Well, how long has it been there?” Gyles asked.
“None of the boys can seem to remember, best guess is it appeared the same day Joe showed up.”
“So it’s probable that it’s his truck,” Gyles said.
Lawson shrugged. “Maybe. For all I know, he is a homeless vagrant, just looking for a place to hole up; could have just walked past the truck and came up with a good story.”
“Would you have let him in without a story?” Gyles said.
Lawson nodded. “Of course we would have.”
“Then he had no reason to lie,” Gyles grinned. “I need to talk to this Joe Hansen about the whereabouts of his truck.”
Chapter Ten
Day of Infection, Plus Nineteen
Camp Alamo, Near Hayslette, Virginia
Just past 02:00, the bay became busy with activity. Luke watched as Marines, armed to the teeth, moved back and forth with ammo cans and cases of supplies. Vehicles were started, exhausts belching black smoke as they pulled into position in a long line just inside the overhead doors. Luke stood nervously outside the cab of the MRAP, tapping his boot. His own vehicle was loaded and ready for departure, all the compartments stuffed with food, ammo, and water. The young girl was in the passenger seat, fast asleep. Luke could hear her snoring from his perch outside.
He had no idea what he was doing or why he was doing it. All of this seemed to suddenly be pushed on him. He had no ties to this girl, no responsibility to her morally or otherwise, yet here he was. And what was he doing, putting his neck out for even more people he had no connection to? Why was it his problem if Gyles wanted to play cowboy and save the world? And even then, if that worked out, he would just be moving on to do something stupid for even more people. He should be trying to get home, back to his own family.
Just like back at Vines. He should have ignored the sheriff’s calls for volunteers to report to the station. He should have packed his bags when the news got shady and headed for his kin on the East Coast. What good did it do for him to stay there? He shook his head and whispered, “They all died, anyway.” At the same time, Luke couldn’t give up hope. No, they didn’t all die. Some of them got out.
He watched as Marines gathered close to the doors for final convoy briefings. Men checking each other’s armor, snapping magazines into pockets on tactical vests. “I got my own family. I have a vehicle and food… maybe it’s time to find out what happened out there,” he mumbled to himself. “To hell with this mess; it’s why I got out of the corps in the first place. Time to put me first.”
He was about to give in to his own temptations and pull the MRAP into position, without the backup of the soldiers, when he spotted Weaver and three heavily armed men moving down the hallway. Each man was decked out in body armor with heavy packs on their backs. Luke knew they’d gotten the word. This wasn’t a short recovery mission; these men were planning on leaving and not coming back.
The soldiers approached the vehicle. Luke knew each of them. They were familiar faces from their fight out of the George Washington National Forest just two weeks ago. Looking into their determined faces, he forgot all about his notions of abandoning them. He began to relax, being back in the company of friends and men he trusted.
O’Riley, the lean farm boy, Scott, the Philly tough guy, and Sergeant Tucker, who no matter how hard he tried, couldn’t shake the Jersey City accent. These were Weaver’s boys, the original troops of his first squad. Men who had been to war with the sergeant and back again, they were dedicated to him the same as if he was their own flesh and blood. They moved past Luke and piled into the rear of the truck as if they were struck with boredom, hardly saying a word.
Weaver pulled up by his side and shrugged off his pack. “You get the word? You know what’s up, right? What we have planned?”
Luke nodded. “Gus gave me the lowdown; we been suddenly sanctioned by Master Guns to do some dirty laundry. I take it most of the boys aren’t aware of what’s going on here?”
“Oh, they are woke to the cause, brother,” Weaver said with a sly smile. “Except we ain’t going after that tower like Guns wants us to.”
“Then what are we doing?” Luke asked.
“We rescue Sergeant Gyles like we already planned. We get our boy back, and then—if we still have something left in the tank—I’m fine with the tower mission. But either way, we are off the sidelines and back in the fight.”
“Hells yes we are, Sergeant,” a man yelled from behind Luke. He spun back to look at Sergeant Tucker just before he entered the vehicle, the veins bulging in the black man’s neck. “We’re tired of being on the sidelines, grocery shopping. Time to get back out there, give me something to kill.”
Luke forced a laugh. “Oh, so you’re born again hard now, aye, Sergeant Tucker? I seem to remember you nearly shitting yourself in the back of my MRAP a couple weeks ago.”
Tucker waved a dismissive hand. “You just drive this beast, that sexy way you do,” the man said, turning the corner and climbing the ramp into the back. “Then you can see how hard I am,” Tucker shouted,
the others bursting into laughter.
The girl, startled awake from the loud voices, turned back toward the cab then looked over the console and into the eyes of Luke standing in the open driver’s door. He raised a hand, calming her. “Don’t worry about it… these are friends.” He looked down at Weaver. “Isn’t that right?”
Weaver grinned. “If we weren’t friends, I wouldn’t have even told you about this mission.” He laughed. “I’d a left you with that Puerto Rican gal of yours.”
“Hell no,” Luke laughed.
“You know the staff are all leaving too, right? They’re all bugging out any day now, once they get the all clear.” Weaver paused and looked at the young girl in the passenger seat. “We could get another vehicle, if you think that’s a better option for you.”
“Man, stow that nonsense,” Luke spat, shaking his head. “Who else would be dumb enough to give you a ride?” Luke waved his hand, dismissing the suggestion. “Get in. You all are late—the bay doors are about to open, and I suspect stuff will be happening fast after that.”
He briefed the men on what he knew of the plan about the misdirection, the objective to lead the infected away so the base defense forces could circle away to the front and allow them and other camp defenders to break away. He also pulled the scrap of paper and passed it back to Weaver. “What do you think? Is that tower even there?”
Weaver unfolded it and looked at the numbers. He reached into a thigh pocket and pulled out a plastic-wrapped tactical map with several routes already outlined in green or red, depending on their conditions. He stared at the paper then back to the map before leaning forward between the seats. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Am I laughing?” Luke said, looking back at him.
“This is Mount Weather. It’s a major installation, not just some radio antenna. Lots of stories about this place. And if the tower is there and operational, it’s not likely to just be sitting out in the open, waiting for someone to come knock it down.”
Luke smiled and placed the MRAP into gear, joining the other vehicles lined up at the exit doors. “Then let’s get our boy and become legends.”
“That’s what I’m saying!” Tucker bellowed from the back. “We get Gyles first—then if there’s time, we head out there and crack skulls, blow some shit up.”
Weaver shook his head and stuffed the scrap of paper into his shirt pocket then taped the tactical map to the center console, which would have normally held a large military radio. Instead, there was just a tray with two small portable walkie talkies and a civilian band (CB) radio. He pointed to a town to the northeast on the map that was circled in red grease marker. “Gyles was headed here, that’s where we’ll try first.”
Luke nodded then held up a hand, silencing the men in the back as the overhead doors began to crank up. Lights inside the bay were shut off, and the vehicle headlights switched to blackout drive. Engines revved, and men inside the building took up fighting positions around the top perimeter of the bay, up on the overhead catwalks.
Before anyone could speak, a machine gun opened fire in a roof turret then tracer fire rained down from the catwalks above. The entire garage space was lit with a dizzying strobe of muzzle flashes and tracer fire. As the doors continued to crank open, streams of infected raced through the bottom. The bodies were torn apart as they crossed paths with the gunfire. Still, the doors kept opening, and the infected continued to swarm. Kate began frantically screaming in the passenger seat, seeing the infected fill the garage and run directly at the MRAP.
Luke looked back over his shoulder at Weaver. Without having to speak the order, the man reached up and snatched the girl back into the crew compartment with one arm. Before the heavy MRAP rolled forward, Weaver was seated up front. Luke followed close to the lined-up vehicles. One, two, three, four passed through the open bay, the only light being the menacing strobes of muzzle flashes. Luke gripped the wheel as he approached the opening, waiting for his turn in the breach.
On the outside, Luke spotted two of the heavy Seabee dozers covered in plate steel with large spotlights shining down on the packs of infected. He couldn’t see the operators through the clumps of infected grabbing onto the sides of the dozer as it spun left and right, snagging Primals and pulling them down into the tracks, throwing off unrecognizable mush from the rear treads.
The overhead door screeched at the top and began to roll down as Luke approached it. Suddenly, he realized his eyes had been focused on the outside. He looked back at the vehicle bay—and wished he hadn’t. The garage around them was a nightmare of bloodied and screaming bodies. But as bad as it was inside, it was worse beyond the doors.
“Holy gates of hell, what are we doing out here?” Weaver said.
“You’ve been out of the wire before… I take it this is different.”
Weaver shook his head and placed his palms on the dash to his front. “I’ve seen nothing like this, brother. I heard the horde had us surrounded, but holy hell—nothing like this when we came back this afternoon.”
Luke willed the MRAP forward, mentally gluing himself to the armored Humvee to his front. Fire pots of diesel exploded off to their right, casting a bright glow across the night sky. Bits of sticky flame and bodies fell from the sky, striking the armored vehicles in the convoy. Then the wall to the right of them erupted in gunfire, with even more riflemen joining the fight from the rooftops of the complex. He dared a look over his left shoulder and could see Marines standing shoulder to shoulder firing into the mobs of infected, tracers zipping all around them.
A shirtless infected man climbed onto the hood of the MRAP and looked inside, his mouth grotesquely wide, screaming at the occupants. Rounds pinged off the sides of the MRAP, and the man’s chest and head exploded, the body rolling off the side. The vehicles in the convoy went boot heavy, picking up speed as they lurched forward. As Luke crunched over the masses of bodies, the wheel shuddered in his hands. The convoy wended down a raised road then turned, headed around the perimeter road that circled the factory. Luke looked across at Weaver. “This is it; this is the distraction.”
Luke slammed down the pedal and cut the wheel hard into the wall of infected on their left, driving through a sea of bodies. Screams and grinding from under the wheels shuddered through the armor until the wheels finally found purchase on a paved road. Luke leaned in, his face against the glass, squinting to see out as he white knuckled the wheel, fighting through the mob. Slowly, as he gained separation on the camp, the hordes thinned out and eventually turned to nothing.
Luke stopped the MRAP and pushed back into the seat, his body still shaking. His clothing was soaked with sweat; he was panting and thirsty. He turned his head and stared into the large rearview mirror on the driver’s side that somehow managed to stay attached during the escape. Behind them, Camp Alamo was blanketed in a storm of explosive flashes and tracer fire.
“They’re dead if we can’t stop the jamming,” he said without turning his head. “If they don’t get help, they’ll all die.”
“Then let’s go get Sergeant Gyles and get it done,” Tucker said quietly from the back.
Luke shook his head, not speaking, his eyes still locked on the mirror as he watched the base fighting for its life. He knew what had to be done, even if he didn’t want to say it out loud.
Weaver pulled the scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and compared it with the tactical map taped to the console. Using a grease pencil, the soldier circled a new destination. “I’m sure Gyles will be okay for a bit longer.” He pointed his hand to the west. “Let’s knock out this tower, boys. The Marines need us to bail them out.”
Chapter Eleven
Day of Infection, Plus Nineteen
North of Hayslette, Virginia
Gyles walked through the dark sanctuary. Pews had been moved to the sides and small family spaces were formed around a central aisle. He spotted his own men in a corner, Mega and Culver passed out as Kenny sipped from a canteen cup. All around the room, parents s
tood watch over sleeping children. The people held all sorts of weapons, from axe handles to single-barrel shotguns. Even though far past midnight, some still worked the meager camp kitchen, heating pots of coffee. He investigated the weary faces then yawned, beginning to feel his own fatigue.
“How long since you’ve slept, Sergeant?” Zeke whispered.
Gyles looked beside him at the elderly man in the olive-green Army field jacket. He shrugged. “Real sleep? I don’t know… two, maybe three weeks—however long ago this shit started.”
“You should sleep then. Go find you a spot at the end down there. You can talk to Joe in the morning, he isn’t going anywhere,” Zeke said.
“It can’t wait,” Gyles answered, catching a glare from a woman sitting on a stool, cradling a baby. She held a finger to her lips, hushing them. Zeke smiled at her and pointed off to a far wall lined with chairs, directing the sergeant away from the crowd.
Nodding, Gyles continued to make his way through the sanctuary, stopping near the tall wooden doors that were now secured and locked. He found an empty chair along a back wall and sat heavily. Zeke moved close and stopped beside him, his eyes studying the curled up and sleeping bodies inside the church. He pointed to a corner of the sanctuary. “I think I see Joe. Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll bring him to you.”
Sighing and rubbing an arm across his forehead, Gyles nodded his approval then took a stool and put his feet up before leaning back against the wall. The old man was right; he did need to sleep. The Reaper Platoon had been on the go for at least twenty-four hours, and he didn’t even know what sleep they’d had prior to that. He let his body shut down; his shoulders slumped while he kept his eyes open and mind fixed on the room to his front. He watched as Zeke wound his way through the sleeping bodies on the floor of the church.
