In the back of the group and losing ground, I turned to catch up. Just as I did, another loud explosion rocked my ears. Behind us, at the location of the first wire I had seen the soldier stretch across the street, was another line of fire, guts and infected blood misting in the air.
Thirty seconds later, another explosion, this time near the second wire. More flames erupted into the sky; more clouds of blood gave the remaining infected a reddish tint.
Matt and the others stopped at the specified driveway, about twenty yards ahead of where I was. Watching the infected emerge from the flames and bloody mist, I realized only about thirty remained on their feet, though a few determined infected continued to crawl despite having lost their lower halves.
The soldier had stopped behind a tree to wait for the second explosion. After the blast, he turned around with an AR‐15 and began chopping down the residual infected.
Confident our ammo outnumbered the infected, Matt, Rob and I moved back toward the former horde and fired at anything that moved.
Ten minutes later, we had placed a bullet in the head of every crawling, walking, twitching infected for a quarter mile, from the second wire back to the intersection of Routes 1 and 222.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thursday, 11:30 a.m.
Without saying a word, the soldier led the five of us up a winding dirt driveway to a house about 100 yards from the road, hidden by a dense cluster of oaks and pines. The home was a ranch, like many of the others we'd passed on Route 1. A screened‐in porch jutted out near the rear of the home, giving it the shape of an L. A carport held a Dodge Ram pickup truck. The soldier opened a door near the carport, leading us into a well‐organized garage with a Camaro parked inside. We shuffled single‐file between the Camaro and the wall toward another door that led into the kitchen.
Trailing the rest of the group, I heard a raspy, male voice as the soldier stepped into the kitchen.
"What the fuck, Bri, that don't look like groceries," the voice said.
As I stepped up through the door onto the kitchen's tiled floor, I saw an older man, about 60 years, hair pulled into a pony‐tail, wearing camo pants tucked into boots, a gray tank top and a four‐inch long gray beard. He sat with a shotgun trained on the door.
"Found 'em outside," the soldier replied. "What was I supposed to do?"
"Let 'em die," the old man suggested, finally lowering the butt of the gun and resting it barrel‐up against the kitchen table. I couldn't tell if the man was cantankerous by nature, or if he really would've rather seen us die.
Both men had thick southern accents, but we were mere miles from the Pennsylvania border. I remembered having heard that the closer you got to the Mason‐Dixon Line, the thicker the accents became. Former rebels trying to compensate for their proximity to Yanks.
The soldier removed his helmet, revealing a high‐and‐tight military cut. He was young, no more than 25, I thought. He stripped off his vest and laid it across a couch in the adjoining living room. He disappeared into another room and returned with two formal dining chairs, setting them around the kitchen table. He motioned for everyone to sit, then turned to the refrigerator and grabbed a handful of water bottles, passing them to the five newcomers.
I reached for the nearest one and was startled by how cold it was. The fridge was working!
"You have power?" Matt asked excitedly, realizing the same thing.
"Yes sir," the soldier replied, leaning against the counter. "Neighbor two doors down has solar panels. Soon as I figured they was gone, I strung a few cords, no big deal."
"Then why is it so hot in here?" Melissa asked.
Jesus H. Christ, I thought, she is never happy.
"Don't wanna run the AC," the soldier answered. "Unit's outside. Not too loud, but loud enough for them things to hear."
An awkward silence followed as we greedily chugged our water.
"So what brings you folks to Conowingo?" the soldier asked, a minute later.
"Where are we?" Rob asked, not sure he heard the town name correctly.
"Conowingo," the soldier said, pronouncing each syllable slowly. "Maryland. Bout two minutes from the Susquehanna River, maybe ten minutes to PA."
I nodded, thinking it sure as hell didn't feel like two minutes under the blazing sun walking down Route 1. I realized the soldier was talking about driving time, a luxury I'd taken for granted in my life prior to the attacks.
"I'm sorry, so rude," the soldier said. "I didn't even catch your names. I'm Brian, this is my uncle Dale." He stopped and looked around the table, waiting for us to introduce ourselves.
After an awkward pause, we shared our names, and thanked Brian for taking us in and, really, for saving our lives out there. A few days removed from civilization, watching the fall of civilization, and I think we'd lost some of our common courtesy.
Matt and I then took turns explaining how we'd arrived in Conowingo. We started with the outbreak, and how it spread to southern Maryland faster than we had expected, leading Rob and Anne to convene at my house. I explained how Sarah had come to join the group. I talked about my father's health, and wanting to find my parents in the Poconos. Matt talked about losing Tom as we took to the water, and Rob chimed in with how we lost Anne in an effort to get gas for the boat. We shared what we had seen as we passed Baltimore. Talking about Baltimore seemed to bother Brian. I mentioned barely escaping the beach at Aberdeen Proving Ground and losing Holly in the darkness. Finally, we described how we had unexpectedly encountered the dam on the Susquehanna and decided to trek down Route 1, hoping it would lead us to West Chester, Pennsylvania, where we would try to find Matt's parents on our way north.
"Well you were right about that," Brian said. "This the same Route 1, all the way into PA."
"Good," Matt said, nodding his head. "And how did we get lucky enough to run in to you?"
"Not really as interesting as your story," Brian replied. "I just got out the Marines a couple months ago, been staying here with my folks. My uncle there lives up the street a little ways."
"I'm a vet, myself," Dale interjected. "Two tours in Vietnam."
"When the attacks happened," Brian continued, "most the town spent all day Sunday up at the church. Only 'bout 300 of us here in Conowingo anyway. I stayed here with my uncle, just to keep him company."
"Not much of a church‐goer, if you know what I mean," Dale interrupted again.
"Anyway, I hadn't seen many people around town since Sunday mornin'," Brian said. "I rode up to the church the next day, but no one's around. Monday afternoon, I notice the whole lot of 'em crossing the field out back the house here, just the other side those trees. I follow 'em a little, and they go straight to Davy's farm and start eatin' the cattle. I was back a little ways, but I seen the old man come out his house and fire a shotgun in the air. Every one them things storms the house. Nothin' I could do."
"Woulda got his‐self killed," Dale said.
"Next day, Tuesday I guess, I set up those blast lines you saw today," Brian said. "Establish a perimeter. They did the job though. Think we took out 'bout the whole town."
"What about your parents?" Melissa asked. "Weren't they in that group?"
"Aw naw, ma'am," Brian said. "They're National Guard. They got called down to Baltimore Saturday morning. Though I imagine they ain't doing too well down there."
Brian described all this without a trace of emotion. I wondered, was his nonchalance a product of the military, the redneck, or the testosterone? Either way, Brian talked like he was discussing a game of chess, not the worst disaster to ever strike the United States.
"Any how, now that we're all caught up," Brian said, "why don't we get you folks cleaned up a little. Anyone want a shower?"
Sarah and Melissa both threw a hand into the air.
"You two fight over it," Brian said. "I'm gonna whip up some lunch for everyone."
***
Thursday, 12:30 p.m.
While we each took turns showering, Brian prepared a
simple lunch of buttered noodles and sausage. A week earlier, that meal would have held no appeal for most people, but after four days of grilled fish and canned vegetables it was a welcome, even delicious, change. As everyone ate, Brian brought his laptop to the table to update us on what we'd missed the past few days. It hadn't even occurred to me that the internet might still work.
The world as we knew it had been flipped upside down. Every foreign nation had banned travel to North and South America, virtually quarantining the entire continent. The infection had begun with confirmed attacks or explosions in only Boston, New York City, Philadelphia and Washington, D.C., but there were reports of the infection having spread to Chicago, Atlanta, Houston and even Montreal, Canada. The President of the United States had relocated to an undisclosed location out west, but the Vice President, several Department Secretaries and many members of Congress were either unaccounted for or confirmed dead. The military was in pieces. Units based in the west, unaffected by the infection, had been mobilized, but only to quarantine major cities in hope of preventing further spread; the military was no longer fighting to defeat the infection, but rather to contain it. Thus far, the President had refused to resort to nuclear detonation as a means of wiping out large, infected metropolitan areas, but the option was not off the table. In the cities where the infection had begun, there were reports of isolated squadrons continuing to battle the infected, although these units were mostly cut off from the chain of command and were fighting for survival rather than strategic gain. Most first responders, military and civilian, had been overrun by the infection.
There was some good news. The military had captured a number of infected and was working on identifying the source of the mutation, which they believed to be viral. There also appeared to be a general guideline for evading the infection: an uninhabited thirty mile radius. News reports suggested thirty miles was as far as an infected person could travel without sustenance, before dying from starvation. There were reports of communities in upstate New York, north‐central Pennsylvania and in the Appalachian Mountains of West Virginia that remained untouched by the infection, despite being surrounded by it in all directions beyond the thirty mile buffer. Clearly the thirty mile radius bode well for the American West, where vast stretches of land, sometimes hundreds of miles, were void of human settlement.
"Do you have a printer?" I asked, as an idea came to my mind.
"Yes sir," Brian said, "down the hall. Gotta plug the computer into it though."
"What're you thinking?" Matt asked, looking at me.
"You've seen what even these small towns look like," I responded. "I thought it might be a good idea to print out a couple maps, maybe avoid the main roads and towns on the way to West Chester."
"When you folks plan on heading out?" Brian asked.
"The sooner we go the better," Rob said.
"I agree," Matt said, as he began to survey Google maps on the computer. "West Chester's only an hour and a half drive from here. Even sticking to side roads it shouldn't take much longer than that. We've got all the guns and ammo we'll need. There's nothing to be gained by sticking around."
"Not so fast, we need to think this through," I said. "West Chester's probably swarming with infected. Not exactly gonna be able to drive right up to your parents house and honk the horn. If we wanna have any chance of making it out of there alive, we need a plan."
"Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen," Brian said, standing from the table and turning down the hallway.
I noticed Dale was absent as well and felt slightly uncomfortable that our hosts had disappeared.
"We don't even know if your parents are still alive, Matt," I said, returning to the topic at hand. "We really need to proceed cautiously. I'd hate to put the girls at risk only to get there and your parents are gone."
"No you're right," Matt said. "So what do we do?"
I had been thinking about our plan of attack the entire trip up the Chesapeake. In my mind I had imagined every possible scenario, every different approach. Now, put on the spot and asked to verbalize my ideas, everything I had thought suddenly seemed futile.
"I have a couple ideas," Brian said, standing in the doorway to the living room.
Matt, Rob and I all turned to Brian. Dale was beside him, slightly behind.
"We'd like to go with yous, if you'll have us," Dale said. "No point in sitting here waiting to die. We're soldiers. We were born to fight, and those things are the greatest threat this country's ever faced."
"Agreed," Brian said. "I sat around here long enough. There's nuthin' left for us here. Might as well help where we can."
Dale patted Brian on the back a few times. I picked up on some unspoken, deeper meaning behind Brian's words. Maybe it was about avenging his own parents' certain deaths. Maybe it was more than that. But I couldn't quite place it.
"You said your pop mighta been bit, but survived, right?" Brian continued, looking at Matt.
"That's what my sister said, but who knows?" Matt replied. "Could've been a mugger for all I know."
"Well let's say it's 50/50," Brian said. "I'll take those odds if it means he could be a walking vaccine, you know. Hell, I say it's worth a shot if we could save the world!"
I noticed how excited Brian was. He'd get along great with Rob. Bunch of cowboys, I thought.
"So what's your plan?" Matt asked.
"Let's take a look at a map, first," Brian said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thursday, 2:45 p.m.
Brian led the group through the garage, the way we had entered the home, followed by Rob, Melissa, Matt, Sarah, myself and Dale. Matt and I each carried a duffel bag full of guns, ammo and grenades. Everyone except Melissa held an AR‐style rifle, most of which had been stolen from the pawn shop; she felt more comfortable with one of the Berettas.
Stepping into the sunlight, all I heard were crickets, frogs and other noisy critters hidden somewhere amidst the trees and tall grass surrounding the house. With Brian in the lead, we made our way down the driveway to Route 1. From the main road, I looked west to see the carnage from this morning's encounter with the town's infected. Bloody, mangled corpses covered the street from curb to curb. We started that direction, heading toward the truck rental. The smell of flesh rotting under the summer sun filled the air. I tried breathing through my mouth but tasting it was worse.
We walked along the side of the road, where the bodies were more spread out. Matt bent over in the grass, covering his mouth with his hand, convulsing. He spit out the vomit and wiped his hands on his pants, looking around to confirm he hadn't been too loud. I gave him a nod and he turned to continue walking.
From the end of Brian's driveway to the minivan we had abandoned earlier was about a quarter mile. The truck rental place was halfway between the two. As we approached the rental building, Matt, Melissa and Dale crossed the parking lot. They would wait here, checking the windows, while the rest of us continued on to the van to carry back as much water as we could.
When we returned with the cases of water, Dale was standing on the building's front stoop and Matt was positioned at the back corner of the building, keeping an eye out for any surprises. We dropped the water at the bottom of the steps and Brian leaped up onto the stoop next to Dale. Peeking through the glass door, Brian gave it a slight tug. It opened. Brian continued pulling the door outward, grimacing as a bell gently jingled above the doorway. If anything was inside, it now knew we were here.
Dale took the door and held it in position while Brian slipped through. Dale waved me past him and I slid in behind Brian, rifle raised, scanning the lobby. Gray, industrial carpeting, wood paneling and a small waiting area with four plastic chairs and a magazine‐covered coffee table. Truck rental brochures lined the wall behind a small counter. Do people rent trucks so frequently that they need brochures? Also behind the counter was a cork board dotted with keys. Jackpot.
Brian waved for me to keep an eye on the hallway leading to the back of the building while he
stood behind the counter and collected each key off the board. Moments later, I followed him out the door, down the stoop and into the parking lot.
Standing out in the open, Brian suggested a cargo van rather than a truck and we quickly agreed. There were a number of 20‐, 24‐ and 32‐foot options, but those seemed too big for our purposes. The vans had only one compartment and would be easier to maneuver. Brian jogged toward the row of vans and gave a slight tap on the side of each one, just in case anything was taking a nap inside. Satisfied that no infected were hiding in our getaway vehicle, Brian started working his way through the keys in an effort to unlock the van closest to the main road.
Matt was still standing lookout at the corner of the building as we began loading the van. It had large captain's chairs for the driver and passenger, but everyone else would be sitting on the floor. There were double doors on the side and at the rear. The interior was mostly metal, with three wooden planks running along each side, presumably to secure furniture and prevent it from sliding.
With the water and the duffel bags loaded, Brian started the engine. Rob hopped into the passenger seat. I offered Sarah a hand as she stepped up through the van's side doors, and then did the same for Melissa. Dale jumped in the back and shouted for Matt to hustle.
Matt started a slow jog past a row of six 20‐foot trucks in the center of the parking lot. Just as Matt approached the back of the van, Brian yelled something inaudible and I heard the sound of sprinting footsteps kicking up gravel. Matt turned around just in time to raise his rifle and fire a shot at an infected, but he wasn't quick enough to hit his target. Through the back doors I saw the infected man tackle Matt, knocking him to the ground below the bumper and out of sight.
Brian stomped on the gas and thrust the van forward a good thirty feet. The infected was on top of Matt, mouth snapping at his arms as Matt struggled to push him off. Dale raised his AR and pumped several rounds into the infected's back, propelling him off Matt.
Dale pointed his rifle toward Matt, as Matt convulsed on the ground, the same way Tom and Anne had twitched before they turned. Melissa, seated toward the front of the cargo compartment, screamed as she pounced on Dale and swatted his aim into the air. A shot fired, hitting nothing but clouds, as Matt's body went limp.
American Infection (Book 2) Page 4