by Morgan Rice
I think quick. I see an RPG lying in the snow, a few feet away from the dead body of a crazy. It looks intact, never fired. I run to it, my heart pounding as I run right towards the mob. I only hope that it works—and that I can figure out how to use it in the next few seconds.
I kneel down in the snow and scoop it up, my hands freezing, and hold it up against my shoulder. I find the trigger and take aim at the mob, now barely twenty yards away. I close my eyes, praying that it works, as I squeeze the trigger.
I hear a loud whooshing noise, and a moment later I’m knocked backwards off my feet. The force of it sends me flying about ten feet, landing flat on my back in the snow. I hear an explosion.
I look up and am shocked at the damage I’ve done: I managed a direct hit on the mob, at close range. Where there were dozens of bodies a second ago, there is now nothing but body parts spread over the snow.
But there is no time to revel in my small victory. In the distance, dozens more crazies crawl up from the subway stations. I don’t have any more RPGs to fire, and don’t know what else to do.
Behind me I hear a noise of smashing metal and turn to see Logan standing on the hood of the Humvee. He lifts his leg and kicks at the machine gun mounted to its hood. Finally, it comes flying off. He picks it up, and a chain of ammo dangles from it, which he wraps over his shoulder. The gun is massive, made to be mounted on a car—not carried—and looks like it weighs over fifty pounds. He holds it with both hands, and even as big as he is, I can see it weighing him down. He runs past me and takes aim at the new group of crazies. He fires.
The noise is deafening, as the machine gunfire rips through the snow. The impact is tremendous: the huge bullets tear the incoming crowd in half. Bodies drop like flies wherever Logan aims the gun. Slowly, finally, the gunfire stops, and the world returns to its still, snowy silence. We have killed them all. For now, at least, there are no more crazies in sight.
I look around, survey this canvas of destruction: there is the destroyed black school bus, taken out by the RPG, the destroyed yellow one, lying on its side, in flames, bodies are everywhere, and our Humvee is a shell beside us. It looks like the scene of an intense military battle.
I look down and follow the tracks where the other bus went, the one with Bree on it. They forked left at the Flatiron.
I chose the wrong bus. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.
As I study the scene, catching my breath, all I can think of is Bree, those tracks. They lead to her. I have to follow them.
“Bree’s on the other bus,” I say, pointing at the tracks. “I have to find her.”
“How?” he asks. “On foot?”
I examine our Humvee and see that it is useless. I have no other choice.
“I guess so,” I say.
“The Seaport’s at least fifty blocks south,” Logan says. “That’s a long walk—and in dangerous territory.”
“You have any other ideas?”
He shrugs.
“There’s no turning back,” I say. “Not for me, anyway.”
He examines me, debating.
“You with me?” I ask.
Finally, he nods.
“Let’s move,” he says.