The remnants of the National Guard platoon outside of Hampton Beach, that had survived the outbreak, had fallen back to Portsmouth. Their orders were to set up a line of defense and keep the deaders out of Maine. This task that had fallen to him after the commander, Lieutenant Hannigan, had been torn apart south of Rye trying to save a family stuck on the side of the road. The remaining officers were killed during the retreat. Thankfully, the assignment seemed relatively easy, at least on paper.
The Piscataqua River flowed along the border between New Hampshire and Maine before turning south five miles inland, draining into the Great Bay, creating a natural cul de sac that would stop the deader advance. Only three bridges crossed the Piscataqua.
The structure farthest west was a six-lane arch bridge that crossed the river at an elevation of over one hundred feet. Two squads under the command of Sergeant Simmons had been assigned to its defense since it would be the easiest way for the deaders to cross. Simmons had blocked all six spans with abandoned vehicles, parked side by side, with no space between them, beginning at the start of the approach span and continuing for five hundred feet. One squad manned a Hummer with a roof-mounted machinegun, parking it on the center span to halt any deaders that managed to crawl over the barricade. If that line of defense failed, the second squad had placed a line of explosives two-thirds of the way across the bridge and would detonate them as a last resort.
The bridge farthest east was a vertical-span bridge that carried the local traffic between the two states. A squad under the command of Corporal Wilcox guarded this one. Downey ordered that one be kept open so stragglers had a chance of escaping the upcoming onslaught, although it would be raised at the first sign of a deader approach.
The middle one, a more modern vertical-span bridge and the one he commanded from, had its span raised hours ago to prevent anything from getting across. This bridge connected Route 1 between the two states and carried commercial traffic. From the southern edge of the raised span, Downey surveyed the situation through night vision binoculars.
The streets of downtown Portsmouth were clear of deader activity. Electricity still flowed through the area, running all the streetlamps, which made it easier to detect approaching deaders and gave survivors a better chance of escape. A few passed through every ten to fifteen minutes seeking sanctuary. Wilcox’s men checked them for bites and signs of infection before handing them off to a Shore Patrol detail. That patrol would take them to the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard to be detained in isolation for twenty-hours before being released. Scanning the length of Route 1 into New Hampshire as well as the elevated I-95 to his right showed no unusual activity.
Downey let the binoculars dangle around his neck and keyed the microphone to his communication headphones. “Wilcox, do you read me?”
A few seconds elapsed. “This is Wilcox. Over.”
“Cut the ‘over’ crap. What’s your situation?”
“We haven’t seen anyone or anything other than a stray cat in over an hour. Let’s hope things stay quiet.”
“Don’t jinx yourself. Let me know if anything changes. Raise the bridge the moment you spot a deader.”
“Roger that, sergeant.”
“Simmons, do you read me?”
“Loud and clear. Our situation is boring and friggin’ cold. Any chance of getting some hot coffee up here?”
“I’ll ask the guys at the navy yard to make a Dunkin’s run for you.”
“You’re the best, sarge. Have them bring some donuts while they’re at it.”
Downey chuckled. “Let me know if anything changes and stay frosty.”
“The last one won’t be hard.”
Downey leaned back to speak to his radio operator, a below average private 2nd class who preferred playing video games to doing his job. “Claptrap, get me Lieutenant Commander Jones.”
“It’s Clapton, sarge.”
Downey suppressed a grin and spun the fore and index fingers of his right hand, telling the soldier to hurry up. Jones commanded the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, an island facility surrounded by the Piscataqua River and, once the deaders reached the New Hampshire-side of the river, would be the officer responsible for the defense of coastal Maine. Because everything had deteriorated so rapidly, a proper line of communication had not yet been established with the navy yard so one of his squad with a hand-held radio shadowed Jones.
“He’s on the line.”
“Thanks.” Downey took the radio and held it to his ear. “Lieutenant Commander, this is Staff Sergeant Downey on the Sarah Milford Long Bridge. The situation is quiet.”
“Good to hear. Keep your eyes open. I received a police report about an hour ago noting that a horde of deaders had been reported on Route 95 near Pease.”
Don’t bother passing it on to us, asshole, Downey thought. “Roger, that, sir. I’ll keep you posted.” Downey returned the radio. “Did you get that, Claptrap?”
“Yes.”
“Pass it on to the other squads.”
“Yes, sergeant.” As he did as commanded, the soldier mumbled under his breath, “And it’s Clapton.”
Ocean Escape gently swayed on the river. Steve had cruised into the harbor two hours before sunrise with all lights off and the console set to dim, barely making any headway and being careful to stay as close as possible to the New Hampshire shoreline. He had stopped outside the Kittery Point Yacht Club on Goat Island, hoping that if anyone noticed the ship it wouldn’t raise suspicions. With all the lights still blaring in Portsmouth and Kittery, it would be easy to detect them if Steve sailed down the middle of the river. In addition, the naval shipyard stood less than a thousand feet to starboard. The caution proved fortuitous. If Steve had attempted to rush past the bridges, he would not have gotten far since the one closest to them remained in the lowered position.
Steve sat at the driver’s console. He had sent the kids below to stay with Archer and keep him company. Miriam followed a minute later with strict orders to keep the kids quiet, pull the blinds over the porthole windows, only use a flashlight, and not to come topside unless they were told to. Alissa and Nathan stood on either side of Steve.
After several minutes, Alissa whispered, “What now?”
“We wait.”
“For what?”
Steve motioned with his head. “For that drawbridge to go up. It’s the only thing standing between us and your cabin.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“It will, eventually. Raising that bridge is the only way to keep the deaders out of Maine.”
“What if we’re spotted first?” Nathan asked.
“That’s why I stopped here. I can crank her up and be back on the ocean before anyone can catch us.”
“Then what?”
“We head north, find another river that will take us inland, and hike the rest of the way.”
Alissa sighed. “Probably right into a deader horde.”
“As much as it sucks, this is our best bet.” Steve leaned back into the chair. “Now we wait for the right moment.”
“This is fucking awesome, dude.” Jimmy loaded boxes of Coors beer into the shopping cart. “If we had thought of this earlier, we could have hit up one of those pot dispensaries in Massachusetts.”
“Be thankful we thought of this when we did.” Fyler stepped over to the plastic cigarette display case behind the customer service counter. He slid a screwdriver between the lock on the plastic door and the shelf behind it, slid the tip to the end, closed his eyes, and jerked the handle up. A loud crack accompanied a chunk of shattered plastic that struck him in the face.
“Son of a fucking bitch!”
“You okay?” Martha Lee yelled from the snack aisle.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Fyler grabbed a large paper bag from behind the counter and emptied the cigarettes into it.
This had been a good idea, if he said so himself. But then, he had a lot of them. Stay away from the big cities. Take back roads. Head north where there were less people.
Find a beach house that had been closed for the winter and party away the apocalypse. Oh, and take what you needed cuz the fucking cops were no longer a concern. That’s how they got the RAV-4 that sat in the parking lot, by borrowing it from a family they had stumbled across on this side of the traffic jam near Greenland. The husband cried like a fucking bitch when Fyler left him, his wife, and two little girls on the side of the road. Shit, he let them keep their stuff and left them on their own. Pussy didn’t even try to fight him. Maybe the bitch would finally grow a pair and start defending his family. If not, fuck him. No skin off his teeth. Survival of the fittest, baby.
His best idea yet happened as they passed through the roundabout in Portsmouth and had spotted the New Hampshire State Liquor and Wine Outlet. Shit, you can’t party away the apocalypse without party supplies. Getting in had been easy. The last one out didn’t bother to lock the doors or switch on the alarm. They walked right in and took only what they needed. If this shit storm lasted long enough, he might be able to start pulling together others who thought like him and maybe start rebuilding things the way they should be. With him in charge, of course.
Jimmy came around the corner with two shopping carts piled high with cases of beer. “How’s this?”
“Don’t you think that’s a little much?”
“Fuck, this is only the first load.”
“We don’t have enough room in the fucking SUV.”
“We have more than enough room.”
“Asshole, we got to save room for food. That’s more than enough for now.”
Jimmy tried not to show his disappointment at being dressed down by Fyler, especially with his girlfriend only a few aisles away.
“Load that up,” ordered Fyler. “First, get some whiskey.”
“Anything special?”
“A couple of cases of Jim Beam. And a case of Stoli while you’re at it.”
As Jimmy went to the back of the store to get the hard shit, Martha Lee came around the corner with her cart filled with bags of Fritos, Doritos, chips, pretzels, and candy. Typical for a bitch who weighed in at over two hundred pounds. Shit, Jimmy stayed with because the slut would do anything to keep a boyfriend. She pulled the cart behind one of the cash registers and began throwing the junk food into paper bags.
“What do you plan on doing? Getting even fatter and then hibernating for the winter?”
“I’m only getting some snacks.” Martha Lee reached into the cart and pulled out five boxes of beef jerky which she showed to Fyler before dropping into a bag. “See, even got protein.”
After filling five bags with junk food, she went from cash register to cash register, removing all the lottery tickets from their displays.
“What the fuck are you doing? They’re not worth anything.”
“I’m not stupid.” Martha Lee danced as she folded the tickets onto each other. “They’re for entertainment in case we get bored.
Fyler rolled his eyes, which Martha Lee did not notice, and headed for the exit.
“I’m going to check on Dorrie. You and Jimmy come out when—”
From the parking lot, the horn of the RAV-4 began to blare.
Murphy drove east along Route 4, throttling his midnight black Harley at close to one hundred miles per hour as he passed through Newington toward the interchange. His son, Dan, rode behind him on his own Harley, keeping enough distance for safety. As Murphy had anticipated, or at least had hoped, all the traffic would he heading away from the coast toward the mountains. Abandoned cars, trucks, buses, and SUVs blocked those lanes for miles. Thankfully, there were few vehicles on this side of the highway, allowing them to move quickly, the only thing that had gone right for him the past few days.
When the shit hit the fan two days ago, Murphy had been teaching a Russian History class at the University of New Hampshire. His son had been home relaxing after matriculating out of the Air Force five weeks earlier and his wife, Deborah, had been starting her shift at Emerson Hospital in Concord, Massachusetts. She had called him to warn about the outbreak in the emergency rooms throughout the Boston region. Deborah planned on staying to see if she could help contain the infection but, if it grew out of control, she would head home. Murphy would prepare what they needed to bug out and head for the summer home they owned on one of the islands in Casco Bay outside of Portland. The three of them could stay there until the crisis blew over or burnt itself out. Murphy never heard from his wife again. A few hours later, no cell phone connections were available in the greater Boston area and, according to the news, the outbreak had spread beyond the city limits. He realized the chances of ever seeing Deborah again were minimal. Murphy prepped her motorcycle and a well-stocked bug out bag, left both in the garage, and posted a note on the refrigerator telling Deborah that he and Dan had gone on ahead. The family moored a small boat in Portland that they used to travel to and from the island; he would come back to the mooring every day at noon for three weeks in case she made it that far, though he doubted she would. He and Dan had set out at 2100, hoping to reach Portland before sunrise. So far so good.
Murphy dropped his speed to fifty as he approached the interchange. A minute later, he spotted movement up ahead on the eastbound side of the highway. A dozen or so deaders wandered along, spread out for a quarter of a mile. No problem. They could easily maneuver around these few with no—
A deafening cry emanated from the westbound lanes of Route 4, loud enough to be heard over the roar of the Harley’s engine. Hundreds of deaders milled about the vehicles, each attracted by the sound of the two motorcycles rushing past. Desperate for food, they gave chase, the only thing saving Murphy and his son being the retaining wall between the lanes. Within seconds, a marauding mass of living dead swarmed after them. Up ahead, others raced toward the two, many falling over the retaining wall, stumbling to their feet, and rushing the two Harleys. Murphy and Dan swerved through the threat. If they continued along this route much longer, they would be overwhelmed.
Murphy saw the sign indicating the exit to I-95 North. He swerved left around a legless deader blocking his path, moving close enough to the retaining wall that one deader reaching over nearly ripped him from the motorcycle. Glancing over his shoulder, Murphy saw Dan had veered right, avoiding the horde. The two continued along the exit ramp, an increasing number of deaders giving chase. Within a minute, they drove through the Portsmouth, roundabout veered right, and entered the U-turn that would put them on I-95 north.
Without realizing it, they had passed within five hundred feet of the New Hampshire State Liquor and Wine Outlet.
Dorrie sat in the driver’s seat of the RAV-4, the engine off and the door open, wringing her hands. Every five seconds, she checked either the dash-mounted clock, the rearview mirror, or the mirror attached to the passenger’s door. As a change of pace, this time she pulled up her sleeve and checked her watch.
“God damn it, guys. Where are you?”
The others had been inside almost fifteen minutes. Fyler promised they would be out in five. Should she go in and check on them? If she did, should she lock the SUV and take the keys so no one would steal it? Would that make them sitting ducks if the deaders attacked? What if there were deaders inside the store? Fyler never left her a weapon and, even if he did, she had no idea how to use it. What kept them? If they didn’t come out soon, should she leave and head out on her own? What an idiotic thought. She had no idea how to survive in this type of situation. That’s why she had agreed to run away with Fyler. She needed to go inside, find out what delayed them, and hurry up their asses.
Dorrie heard a noise growing louder. Car engines. No, motorcycle engines. That’s all she needed; to get kidnapped by a biker gang. She jumped out of the car and headed toward the liquor store when she picked up another noise also growing increasingly louder, and much more frightening. A horde of deaders on the rampage. She focused her attention on the roundabout. Two motorcycles raced through, followed a moment later by a mass of deaders chasing them. A warm str
eam of urine ran down Dorrie’s leg. Without thinking, she leaned into the car, placed her hand on the horn, and pushed.
When she did, hundreds of the deaders switched direction, ignoring the motorcycles and charging toward the liquor store parking lot.
Murphy and Dan raced along the entrance ramp, the rampaging horde still behind them. Once Murphy came out of the curve onto I-95, he throttled up the Harley and pulled away from the deaders. A half dozen stretched out along the highway ahead of them, with a few more in the southbound lanes opposite the retaining wall. They posed no threat, scattered enough that the two men easily veered around them. Murphy checked on the swarm in his mirror, which remained a good distance behind them.
Dan accelerated, joining his father. With his right hand, he gestured ahead. Murphy focused his attention toward the bridge.
Damn.
Someone had used the abandoned vehicles to barricade the north- and southbound lanes from the last exit/entrance ramps on this side of the river and continuing for hundreds of feet, packing the lanes so tight not even the motorcycles could get through. Murphy slowed, stopping ten feet from the barricade.
Dan pulled up beside his father. “What now?”
“We have to figure out how to get across the river.”
“I’m not going back the way we came.”
“That’s suicide,” Murphy thought for a moment. “Let’s try one of the other—”
A bone-chilling snarl interrupted Murphy. Both men turned to see the horde of deaders drawing near, less than a hundred feet away and lunging, churned into a frenzy by the thought of fresh meat.
“Follow me.” Dan dismounted his Harley and bolted for the line of cars, jumping onto the trunk of a Volkswagen Passat. He continued running, making his way from vehicle to vehicle and heading for the bridge.
Nurse Alissa vs. the Zombies (Book 2): Escape Page 2