by Ivan Turner
The sound of engines on the wind suddenly caught his attention. He wasn't sure how long it had been there, but he was aware of it now. They weren't car engines; they were bigger than that. They could be trucks or semis, but Martin wasn't knowledgeable about such things. What he could determine was that they were idling. Since he was on the ramp, not too far from where it crossed over the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, he guessed that the police must have set up a road block. At this point, they could be on the bridge or on the highway below. He might not know it until he tripped over them. If they were on the bridge they would stop him. Hell, they might shoot him.
Leaning the bike up against the median, Martin trudged over to the side of the bridge and leaned over. It was tough to see anything much more than he could already. Visibility below was better than visibility above. The roadway underneath the bridge was getting less of a covering and it seemed as if the wind was pulling the snow upward and over the top. He couldn't see any lights or cars on the road. Looking back into the distance ahead, he tried to make out any sign of anything but his efforts were in vain. With nothing left but to continue onward, he trudged forward, forgetting about the bicycle.
Shortly, the sound of idling engines was joined by another crack of gunfire. Cold and miserable, Martin had lapsed into a sort of a trance. The shots broke him out of it, startling him badly. Those shots had been very close. He almost called out into the wind but decided against it. It was only minutes before he finally came upon the roadblock. There was a combination of police and military vehicles including two Humvees, six patrol cars, a police van, and a tank. The tank took point, its gun pointing across the bridge. It was flanked by the Hummers while the police cars were parked in a blockade formation in the background. There were soldiers and police all over the place. So far, their attention was focused on the bridge ahead and no one noticed Martin as he approached. He thought about trying to sneak by but that was going to be impossible. He might be able to get around them but they'd spot him as he walked away from them. At that point they'd either detain him or mistake him for a zombie and shoot him.
Marching up behind one of the policemen, he put a hand on his shoulder and announced himself. He was afraid of startling the cop, but either the cop didn't startle easily or he just wasn't worried about someone coming up from behind.
"You know," Martin said, "you really should be watching your back."
"Who the hell are you?" the cop asked, his gun arm tensing.
"Maritn Benjamin. I was hoping to get across the bridge."
The officer laughed. "You're not even supposed to be out. There's a state of emergency."
Maritn nodded. "I'm aware of that, actually. My wife and son are trapped on the other side of the bridge."
The man hesitated. Martin couldn't see his face behind the cold weather mask and goggles, but he imagined the color had drained from it. What was he thinking? Was he going to tell Martin that the City Hall area had been overrun? He already knew that. In the end, he didn't say anything. He leaned into his radio and called for his sergeant. Before long, a large man appeared out of the snow. He was NYPD rather than military but he carried the air of authority. When he came close, he asked for an update.
The first policeman had forgotten Martin's name so he had to repeat it. Other than that, he was able to give an accurate account of Martin's concerns.
The sergeant tore off his headgear to reveal a gentle face with skin so dark it contrasted almost perfectly with the falling snow. After introducing himself as Sergeant Al Henry, he said, "Mr. Benjamin, you know we can't let you cross that bridge on your own, don't you?"
Martin bit back an angry retort. "My wife and son are over there."
"I sympathize with you, really. And I admire your courage in coming out. But there's an army of zombies coming across the Brooklyn Bridge."
Martin perked up. "You're going to take care of that, though, right? That's why you're here, isn't it."
Henry shook his head, but not in answer to the question. "We are going to take out the mob, hopefully pretty easily. But it broke off from an even larger mob that swarmed the area near City Hall. Whatever's coming across the bridge is only a portion of the whole pack."
"I'll worry about the stragglers when I get there."
"You're not going, Mr. Benjamin. If it wasn't for the snow, I'd have an officer drive you home. As it stands, though, you're just going to have to wait it out in a squad car."
Frustrated, Martin thought about making a break for it. Of course, that kind of rash action would land him in more trouble than he dared think about. Even if he got away from the police, what good would it do when he ran headlong into the mob? There was likely no way through them.
"Wait a minute," he said. "What about Heron? Where's he?"
Henry, just about to turn away, looked at Martin again. This time he was trying to determine whether or not he recognized him. "The lieutenant's no longer with the unit."
"Oh, well, that's rubbish. He runs it, doesn't he?"
"Not anymore." Henry's tone of voice was clipped. Martin couldn't tell whether Heron's dismissal made him happy or angry. "Do you know him?"
"Well," Martin said, wondering whether or not he should backtrack. "A bit, you know? It's my wife that's his friend. She was there at Sisters of Charity."
"Abby," Henry said. "Your wife's Abby." He had only met her briefly as they'd been freeing the survivors but her name had stuck with him. Of the survivors, she had been the only one not on staff. He also remembered the cool way she had carried herself. It wasn't as if she hadn't been as frightened as all of the others. And she hadn't been a hero. But she'd taken the events as they came. It was almost more than he'd been able to do himself. After that encounter, he'd gone home and shook for an hour. His wife hadn't known what to do for him. Henry had been one of the first people asked to join the zombie squad. He'd initially refused, unwilling to face it again. Later, he'd changed his mind. Now he was a sergeant, a leader.
"Stick with us, Mr. Benjamin," he said. "We'll be pushing across the bridge once we clear it."
Martin nodded. For now, it would have to do.
The lieutenant in charge was a National Guardsman by the name of Olden. He was a short guy but built out with layers of muscle. Martin could hear him shouting even before he could see him through the snow. I don't know what's on the other side of the bridge. Satellite? Are you stupid? All the fucking satellite shows us is snow!
When he came into view, Martin could see that his shouts were directed into a phone. Whoever was on the other end of that line was a subordinate whether he was of lower rank or not. Lieutenant Olden didn't let anyone tell him how to do his business and he didn't like it when his dependencies didn't hold up their ends.
He was just hanging up the phone when he saw Henry and Martin approaching. "What the hell is this?"
"Martin Benjamin, sir," Henry offered.
"He's a civilian."
"Yes, sir. He's come several blocks to warn us, sir."
Martin's eyes went wide. Warn them? Warn them about what?
Olden's eyes fell on Martin. He was wearing a helmet, but nothing to protect his face. He had these wide pupils that seem deceptively innocent. But with the crease in his brow, the very hard line of his personality came through. "Let's have it."
Martin searched for something to say, then remembered the three stragglers. "Well, Lieutenant, I imagine you're satellite imaging is confused by the storm. I've seen several stragglers coming down Tillary and have to assume that they were part of a larger group. As I approached, I noticed that your guard was light from that end."
Olden's face burned red for a moment and Martin thought he was going to explode all over him. But he turned his attention to the storm. "Corporal!"
A harried looking young man ran up. "Sir?"
"How far out are those plows?"
"About fifteen minutes, sir."
He suddenly began barking out orders so fast that Martin could hardly follow. The cor
poral stood at attention and listened. Others fell into line and also took in the orders. Martin wasn't sure if the lieutenant had summoned them or they had just known to be there. Then he turned back to Henry. "Put Mr. Benjamin in a patrol car where he'll be safe."
Safe meant out of the way but Martin didn't care as long as he got to go over that bridge. As they turned away, there were more rifle shots. These came from just past the tank and he turned to see. A line of shooters was standing in front of the vehicles and had just taken down what looked to be six or seven zombies. The bodies lay in the snow along with a few others that had been shot before.
"That's the most we've seen at once," Henry said. "The hoard can't be far behind."
"Do you have the firepower to handle them?"
Henry nodded. “Between the tank and the two Hummers…" As he said it, one of the Humvees pulled away from the formation and started back down the bridge toward Brooklyn. Henry and Martin watched it go past. It was being sent as support for the plows. There was also a lot of other activity. The patrol cars were being moved while they could still move. Guardsmen and police alike were taking up strategic positions along the expanse. Now there were eyes and guns in front and behind. Martin wasn't sure he hadn't made a mistake by telling Olden about the stragglers. If there was a group of zombies in Brooklyn, it was probably heading deeper into the borough. Because of him, there was possibly vital firepower pointing in what could very well be the wrong direction.
The next fifteen minutes went by very slowly. Marin sat alone in a patrol car. He desperately wanted to just bask in the warmth, but was too curious about which orders were being given outside. He opened the window. Snow blew in but he ignored it. He once checked the phone to see if Abby's position had changed. It hadn't. He almost wished it had. Then he could at least convince himself that she was alive. If the phone wasn't moving, that could mean… He didn't want to think about what that could mean. He listened to those nearest him. Some of the men were getting skittish. At one point, he heard Olden screaming at the top of his lungs. If those fucking plows don't get here soon, we'll never get across that fucking bridge.
Finally, they did arrive with the rumble of their large engines and the clanking crunch of their chained up tires. They were standard New York City Sanitation trucks outfitted for snow removal. They moved slowly, pushing the snow aside as they went. There was one in front and one behind, the one behind dumping salt onto the roadway as it went. Each plow was driven by a sanitation worker in a green uniform. Sitting next to him in the cab was a fully geared, fully armed policeman. The Hummer followed the two trucks.
"About fucking time!" Olden cried. "Get those two trucks behind the tank! Come on!"
Lieutenant Olden was an aneurysm waiting to happen.
The tank took point with the plows staggered behind it. There was one on the left and one on the right. Though the bridge was three lanes, the trucks did not ride side by side. The lead truck pushed the snow to the left and the other, behind it and shifted, pushed the snow to the right. Together, they made a wide path. Twenty feet back so as to avoid the salt spray, came the Hummers, the van, and the patrol cars. When they ran into the hoard, the trucks would stop and the cars would pull up and spill men out onto the bridge. The tank should be able to hold the zombies off long enough for the men to get into formation.
Martin was tense. Despite the fact that he knew he could never have crossed the bridge even that quickly without the threat of zombies, he was still chewing his cheek over the time spent waiting. He kept telling himself that he was safer with the cops and that it had all worked out better than he could have expected. He could only hope that Abby and Sam were alive and safe. If they weren't… If something had happened to them… If he saw them walking toward him as the living dead…
What would he do?
What could he do?
He was beginning to understand why Jazz had given him the gun. All he would need was three bullets.
A few minutes into the trip, the tail lights ahead glowed a bright red and they came to a stop. There was a brief command over the radio and the officer driving the car threw it into park. He looked to his partner, said "Here we go," and got out. Martin sat tight for a couple of minutes, not knowing what to do. There was silence both inside the car and out. Then all of a sudden, a huge concussion sent the world spinning. The tank had fired. Martin had never heard anything like it. Even in the back, he could see the bright light that had erupted. The tank fire was followed by gunshots. Unlike before, it wasn't just a couple of shots and then nothing. It was continuous.
Unable to stand it any longer, Martin got out of the car. It had started to snow harder. He doubted he'd have been able to see the Hummers and the sanitation trucks at all if it weren't for the lights. He went forward slowly, getting lost in the cacophony of shots. When he passed the first plow, he looked up and saw that no one was in it. That seemed odd until he reached the second one and saw that both sanitation men were there. Their police escorts had gone to fight. The two men's eyes were glued to the scene ahead, a scene that Martin couldn't view from where he stood. Rounding the passenger side, he climbed up. The man inside was startled at first, then slid over to make room. He didn't know Martin, had never seen him before. But he was a living breathing human being and that seemed to be all that counted.
They didn't have a good view over the tank, but they were slightly left of the tank so they could see enough. Fires burned on the pavement where the bodies of dozens of zombies lay in pieces. Soldiers and policemen were lined up to either side of the tank. They were shooting in waves and reloading the same way. This allowed them to keep up a constant fire on the approaching hoard.
There had to be several hundred of them. They approached wave after wave heedless of the flames and the bullets. The tank fired again and the center of their rank was obliterated, bodies flying in all directions. The falling snow melted in the air and the wind parted the dust and smoke. Behind it all, crowding the bridge as far as the eye could see were zombies.
Martin had never seen so many.
No one had ever seen so many.
Across the other side there were more. Some were trying to bite their way through the separating fence but most just kept right on walking. The sound of gunshots was deafening. Zombie bodies fell to the pavement and others scrambled over them. It became quickly clear that they were too far outnumbered. It would only be so long before some zombies got into arms' distance. After that, things would get very ugly.
The driver of the truck levered himself to jump out. Martin caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and reached across the cab. Though he was a strong man, he could never have held the driver if the driver hadn't wanted to be held.
"Where do you think you're going?" Martin asked.
The driver didn't say anything. The tank fired again. More bodies were tossed backward and to the sides. It slowed them momentarily.
"You've got room on the left." Martin pointed around the tank, then pointed to the second driver. "You get back in your truck, seal the doors, and follow us."
He wasn't quite sure what Martin had in mind, but he obeyed anyway. The driver of the first plow put it into gear and began creeping forward. He blasted his horn at the soldiers in his path and they scattered. Martin told him to angle his plow to the left. As they moved past the tank, he caught sight of Olden shaking his fist and screaming. He would have given chase, but the second plow came forward and blocked his path.
"What kind of tonnage can one of these trucks push aside?" Martin asked.
The driver grinned.
It took a moment for the second truck to pull up next to them. In that time, the zombies gained a lot of ground. There was no one shooting at them. Together, though, the two trucks took up most of the roadway. Not even half of the left and right lanes were clear. They shared the center. Pushing hard, they moved forward, their plows down. Martin looked to his right and saw the other driver through the window. He waved him on with a wicked
grin and told his own driver to keep going at all costs.
"Heroes is what we'll be," he cried. "Let's go and be heroes!"
Then they reached the front line of zombies.
Plowing people wasn't like plowing snow. The giant blades took the zombies right off of their feet and pushed them to either side of the bridge. A few of the more agile ones tried to get out of the way, but after a few yards of pavement, there was no more room. Those that weren't caught directly by the blades were knocked aside by the wave of bodies. They were pushed to the side, some safely buried under their brethren, others crushed up against the sides of the bridge. Some were caught between the two trucks and chewed up by the chained tires. There weren't that many of those, however. Otherwise, they'd have been at risk of getting stuck. It was terrific to watch and Martin was the only living person who could really take in the full effect of the scene. The drivers were so intensely focused on driving that the snow and the zombies and the road fused into a mathematical construct. But Martin… He was able to appreciate the terrible beauty of it all.