by Dave Lund
The Bus
Bexar felt like he was on a really crappy motorcycle trip, the cold desert air grinding and burning at his face and beard; his eyes felt raw from the assault from nature as they drove with no windshield.
“We’re getting close; we need to take the exit for US-491—that should be in the next mile or two.”
“That’s great, except there’re no road signs left standing.”
The two yelled back and forth over the wind and engine noise. Bexar wished he had ear plugs; he looked at Chivo and realized he had a 9mm round stuck in each ear. Son of a bitch! Ammo ear plugs?
“Just take the next one; we’ll check the signs up top.”
Chivo turned the wheel and slowed as they traveled to the top of the overpass and the intersection to see if any of the road signs were still standing. The signs were standing, and they had guessed at the correct exit. Chivo swerved around stalled vehicles in the intersection and turned north on 491. They were getting close, but they would have to drive into town at night. Gas stations, a car wash, fast food, and strip malls lined each side of the road. Chivo bounced the bus over the center median to clear a collision that blocked the road. Around each of the buildings, Bexar saw a growing number of undead staggering out of the shadows and into the afternoon sun, the bus instantly garnering their much unwanted attention.
“We should probably stop and fuel soon.”
“Not yet, Chivo, the fucking dead are all around us. Keep rolling, and wait until we get up in the hills.”
With each passing mile, the buildings would grow sparse, but then a new pocket of civilization would sprout up. Chivo looked at the fuel gauge, now under a quarter tank, and not known to be reliable. He just stopped and said, “Fuck it, mano. We’ve got to fuel up.” He left the motor running and the shifter in neutral and pushed on the parking brake. As he let off the brake pedal, the bus began rolling backwards. “Fucking pinche bus.”
Chivo looked around and saw a stalled car ahead of them. He put the bus in gear, drove in front of the car, and rolled the bus back against the abandoned Mercedes. It stopped the bus, proving once again that expensive German cars can be useful.
Bexar fed the hose out of the window by the fuel filler cap, then climbed onto the roof of the bus, his AR in his hand. An old barbed-wire fence separated the highway from the service road; a lonely convenience store stood in a cluster of buildings with manufactured homes behind it. As Bexar expected, undead shambled out of the mobile home park and out from behind the gas station towards their running bus. It was time to see if the old fence would hold.
Slowly, one by one, the undead bounced into the barbed-wire fence, catching clothing and flesh on the sharp points, tearing each away as they moved side to side trying to find a way at a fresh meal. More bodies pushed against the rusted wire, and the first strand broke.
“Care to hurry the fuck up down there, guy?”
“You want me to check the oil and clean the windshield for you too, Meester?”
“OK, ha-ha. Seriously, are you getting close?”
“Yeah, just tickle my balls and show me your tits.”
Bexar shook his head and watched the second wire break. Bodies fell forward over the fence from the pressure, then climbed back up only to trip through the low desert shrubs. Standing on the roof of the bus, Bexar took aim at the closest corpse and fired before driving his rifle to the next and the next. Chivo left the hose to work on its own, turned, and began engaging the undead with his pistol.
“Hey Bexar, what would happen if we drove off while fuel was still syphoning?”
“Nothing, but we’d probably lose some fuel in the process, and we couldn’t put the filler cap back on.”
“Does that matter?”
“Fuck no. Let’s roll!”
Bexar kept addressing threats as Chivo turned and sprinted to the side door, swinging the metal handle to close it. Seconds later, the bus lurched forward and ground through first gear. Bexar almost fell off the roof, but caught himself and climbed back down the hole to the interior.
“Well that was fun. Thanks for stopping, Dad.”
“If I’m your dad, the first thing I’m going to do when I get home is slap your momma for having such an ugly baby.”
Bexar laughed. It was the first time in a long time he’d had a good deep laugh, even having to wipe tears from his eyes.
Gallup, NM, the FJ
“Think we should wait longer, or do you think we could go?”
“If we go, we should drive slower.”
“Or we can drive normal, and I’ll shoot the driver as we pass. Shit on those guys.”
Sarah and Erin both looked at Jessie.
“No seriously. It’s like they were following us to get you two, that’s sick. It’s like the damn bikers before. Drive 60, and when we catch up, get next to them and I’ll shoot the driver and the front tire.”
Erin shrugged, started the FJ, and drove down the ramp onto the Interstate. A gaggle of undead walked west, possibly following the stampede, possibly following the bus that had passed. Either way, Erin drove around them and pushed on, getting excited to see Jessie put down the assholes that had caused them so much grief before.
The miles wore on and the sun glowed angrily against the edge of the western horizon, yet they saw no sign of the old yellow school bus. The excitement wore off, and all three of them began to feel drowsy from the letdown. The endless desert road was punctuated by a handful of small towns that had been bypassed when the Interstate was built. Straggling undead continued to punctuate the roadway, but the rest of the road was clear—pushed clear by the previous mass of bodies. They still worried that they would reach the actual back end of the massive stampede, but so far they had seen no sign of it. By Jessie’s estimation, they had been on the road for six or seven hours. All of them were exhausted. After a quick discussion, they decided it would be best to stop and rest for the night, if they could find a safe place.
“Erin, just take the next exit. We’ll see what we can find.”
“What exit? There’s nothing out here but empty and trees; even meth heads don’t go out this fucking far to cook up their dope.”
Jessie smirked. “Well, just slow down. Drive off the roadway and park against the fence line if we don’t see something soon. We can sleep in shifts, or put the tent up on the other side of the fence, if you want.”
As if on cue, an exit appeared, curving back around the trees to a small road that ended in a dirt lane on their left. Erin looked each way before deciding to go left and drive north along the dirt path, following it as it meandered through the trees before stopping. They were a good distance away from the highway, and Jessie knew Erin was right; there was nothing out here. Nothing is good; nothing means no threats. No, it means a lower chance of threats. There is no such thing as “no threats.”
“Let’s put up the tent. You’ll like it.”
Erin and Sarah pulled the heavy plastic box off the roof rack, along with the long canvas pouch holding the metal poles.
“These things are awesome. You’re not going to hike with one, but they’re awesome tents.”
Jessie set out the tent poles and slid them into the angle adapters, making rafters like a house. She pulled the dyed canvas tent over the rafters, then raised a corner and placed the vertical poles, six in all. Once done, a ten foot by ten foot canvas wall tent stood next to the FJ. Jessie tucked the sod cloth under the poles to hold the bottom in place, and moved the FJ to where the driver’s side was touching one end of the tent, the flaps tied closed. They tied the other side closed, and sat in silence, listening to the normal sounds of nature around them, while they ate cold MREs.
Jessie felt happy to be in her tent again, even if it was one of the group tents and not her normal camping tent. But, as she fell asleep, wrapped in a green wool blanket, and holding her rifle, through her mind flashed the faces and the deaths of Malachi, Amber, Jack and Sandra, Will, and Keeley. She could see Bexar running towards her,
a crazed look in his eyes, rifle up, and firing as he ran. Keeley at least had a grave, and she had helped bury Malachi and Amber. Sandra, Jack, and Will’s bodies were still in the Basin when the bikers brought her in. Bexar became a ghost. Her last thought as she drifted to sleep was that she would never give up hope until she found his body. Bexar was her man, the father of her unborn child, and she loved him so bad it hurt.
CHAPTER 30
March 9, Year 1
Colorado, the Bus
For Bexar, just using high end NODs was a novelty in and of itself, but driving a beat-up piece of shit bus while wearing one simply took the winning spot in random situations he’d been in. The slow drive had his nerves rattled; his face was raw from the wind even with his shemagh wrapped over his head and face, and his helmet pushed down on top of it, keeping everything in place against the constant onslaught. Somehow Chivo slept, leaning against the wall of the bus by the stairwell. Bexar couldn’t sleep in this bus if he was tranquilized with a rhino dart.
The upside to exiting the Interstate was that the road signs still stood on the small U.S. highways. The downside was that cars and undead were scattered here and there, causing him to jerk the bus shoulder to shoulder as he navigated around them on the small, two-lane highway. According to the signs, he was very close to Cortez. The vast, empty green glow of nothing in his night vision was quickly being punctuated by farms, houses, and ranch land.
“Chivo,” he said looking back over his shoulder. “CHIVO!”
Bexar threw his half-empty water bottle at his sleeping partner, hitting him in the groin. Chivo snapped awake and threw it back hard enough to knock Bexar’s helmet and NODs askew. As he scrambled to straighten them, Chivo came over and stood next to him.
“What’s up? Are we there?”
“Almost. Do you want to just roll in, or do you want to take it slow? You’re the secret squirrel—what should we do?”
“What would you do?”
“Roll up the middle and hope for the best.”
Chivo shrugged. “Sounds fair. As far as we know, Cliff has killed everyone and is only in need of a ride.”
Bexar slowed and drove through a dark intersection. The traffic lights looked odd without being illuminated; they shown in a green glow through his goggles. The road split and divided into four lanes, and both of them could see the football stadium ahead on their right.
“Our guy is supposed to be north of the school a few blocks. Follow the road to a dead end in a neighborhood, by a field.”
“Wow, Chivo, real helpful.”
“I can see the map in my mind; I just don’t know the road names. See if you can turn off near the middle school—that was one of my way points.”
Both of their heads snapped right at a burst of light. Bexar had no idea what it was; Chivo yelled, “RPG!” and pushed the steering wheel hard left, away from the launch point.
Cortez, CO
Cliff, restless and unable to sleep, heard the explosion. It sounded like a light rocket or an IED; he knew that the cult had RPGs—he and his aircrew had been the victim of one. Who would they be shooting at? Cliff’s mind was having trouble pulling focus; he didn’t have a thermometer, but he was guessing his fever was dangerously high. Instead of being wrapped in blankets as before, he lay in his clothing on top of the bed with the bedroom window open, which was probably why he heard the explosion.
Could be the QRF, assuming Wright got my message. Shit.
Cliff stood. The room felt out of balance; he decided to break cover and take a more direct route. He put on his bag, carrier, and the blanket poncho, and grabbed his arms, press-checking his rifle and pistol. He carefully walked downstairs and rolled up the garage door. Lowering the door behind him, Cliff scanned the neighborhood and saw no movement. All the patrols are probably converging on the blast. Muffled rifle fire could be heard in the distance. He walked across the street to where his first truck sat hidden in the trees. Pulling the covering branches off the truck, he climbed in and was happy to find that it started on the first try. He backed out and spun around; the tires squealed as he sped towards the sound of an intense firefight.
The Bus
Bexar pulled Chivo through the hole in the roof of the bus, which now lay on its side. The RPG had struck the rear axle; the back of the bus exploded, along with the spare barrel of diesel fuel. Bexar’s helmet took damage and was burning, but after taking it off and throwing it away, he was happy he’d had it on. Chivo slumped under the steering wheel once the bus came to a rest on its side; some of his utilities were blackened, but he wasn’t on fire. He appeared to be mostly OK.
Clear of the bus, Bexar pulled Chivo by his chest carrier. His NODs now damaged and thrown away with the helmet, he could only return fire at muzzle flashes in the darkness. The bus was still burning, becoming more engulfed with each passing moment. Bexar was worried that the vapor in the fuel tank would combust and explode, if it hadn’t already when the RPG struck. He had no idea. All he knew was that he was on the wrong side of a firefight, and standing near a burning vehicle didn’t seem like all that great of an idea.
The bus had come to a rest against the outside wall of a car dealership, which was now catching fire as well. The muzzle flashes seemed to be coming from the hotel across the street; Bexar let his rifle hang on the sling, squatted, and picked up Chivo by his carrier and belt, nearly falling off balance as he put him across his shoulders. Bexar ran northeast through a parking lot as fast as he could, which was painfully slow, nearly stumbling several times. Finally, he got behind the business and finally had cover. He laid Chivo against the back of the building, propping him up against the cinderblock wall. Bexar pulled his Mechanix glove off, checked for a pulse, and found one, a strong one. He then ran his hand under the front and rear of Chivo’s carrier and found no wounds or blood. Unconscious or internal ... fuck if I know, but fuck all of these goddamned assclowns!
Bexar looked at the building. The rifle fire came between the hotel and the building to one side, so he crept in a crouch around the north corner, pulling off the wall and cutting the pie with his rifle as he went, then taking a kneeling shooting position once he could see the muzzle flashes. The flashes stopped, but by the light of the raging fire he could see men climbing into two trucks, both of them driving towards him. Bexar knelt in the shadow and waited. The first truck stopped in the road, just past where he was kneeling; he fired at the driver. Breath, aim, squeeze ... look, turn your head ... breath, aim, squeeze ...look ... breathaimsqueezelook …
Bexar had killed the three men in the truck in front of him before he realized he was taking fire from his right side. The cinder block wall of the business shattered in chunks, the concrete hitting him in the face, cutting his cheek and chin. Another truck drove from the south at a high rate of speed, and as Bexar pulled away from the corner of the building, he saw another truck coming in from the north.
Fuck. We’ve got to move; I have to get Chivo and move off the X.
Bexar ran around to the back of the building. Chivo was missing. Looking frantically in every direction, Bexar heard a soft whistle and looked up. Chivo was on the flat roof of the business. He pointed at Bexar and then to the south, then at himself, and towards the front. Bexar flashed thumbs up and crept to the right side of the building. Above him, he heard Chivo let loose with a full auto burst from his M4. All the men in the trucks turned towards him, including another guy with an RPG. Bexar knelt and shot the man with the RPG in the torso just as he fired the rocket, which skipped off the ground and slammed into the truck with the first people Bexar had shot. The truck exploded in a shower of hot burning metal. Bexar shot the man with the RPG again, to make sure he would stay down, before firing on the man next to him and the third.
It felt like an hour, but in the course of ninety seconds Chivo and Bexar had killed nearly a dozen men the main street of Cortez. The truck that had sped in from the north slid to a stop in the middle of the aftermath and a man stepped out, waving at Chivo t
o come with him.
“Bexar, come on, it’s Cliff!” Chivo yelled.
Chivo climbed off the roof and ran to the truck. Bexar ran from the back of the building and dove into the bed just before Cliff slammed the truck in reverse, executed a fast J-turn, and sped off north.
Cortez, CO, Cliff’s House
After some escape and evasion turns and double-backs, there were no signs of any other cult member patrols. Cliff parked the truck in the trees, stepped out, walked towards his house, and collapsed in the driveway. Chivo picked him up while Bexar tried and found the garage door unlocked. Once inside, Chivo lay Cliff on the living room floor and checked him for wounds. The bandaged thigh was quickly found. Removing the dressing, Chivo saw that infection was setting in, and that Cliff had a very high fever.
“We need to do a pharmacy run; my med kit went up with the fucking bus.”
“Shouldn’t someone stay here? Should I go?”
“I’m going to take a swing and say that my level of medical training is significantly higher than yours—unless you’re a registered nurse and never told me.”
“Nope, but I can do a really half-assed CPR and call for a medic.”
“OK, then I’m staying here. You’re going to have to do this on your own. Stealth, mano. You can’t be drawn into a prolonged gun battle, and we have to assume two things: one, that every able body they have with a weapon is out tonight looking for us, and two, if they find us we’re royally fucked. I don’t know where they got an RPG, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they have even more hardware. It’s like being back in the fucking ‘Stan; a Hilux truck with a 105-mm recoilless bolted in the back. Fucking people, it must have been like going to a hotrod shop, but they outfitted their shitty truck with hardcore weapons.”