Run (Book 2): The Crossing

by Rich Restucci

  The problem was that Recht now had a huge security staff, all were undyingly loyal, and all had P90 submachine guns supplied by Brooks. Recht strutted around like the President at a high-school commencement with personal security and snipers in the stands. He had become untouchable, and started to flaunt his religious superiority.

  The radio broadcasts had started soon after, and people came in droves. In another two weeks, the population of the enclave had grown to nine thousand. Then the checkpoints started. At key locations on both interstates and rural roads, soldiers waited for travelers, and stuck them on buses all headed to Lincoln, whether they wanted to go or not. Refusal meant serious consequences.

  Anyone bitten was executed on the spot, children included, and those who refused to be inspected were beaten into submission and inspected anyway. More often than not, these people, or anyone else who didn’t conform, had “bites” in undisclosed locations, and were put down immediately.

  When Bourne had gone to Brooks and Recht to speak to them about the executions, they told him that while he was in charge of the military, Brooks was in charge of security, and he could conscript whomever he chose, including Bourne’s men. It was then that Bourne realized these men didn’t need him anymore, and the gold stitching on the BDUs might just have two IIs instead of three in the near future.

  That night when he picked up his volume of The Art of War, (which he read passages from every night), a transmitter had fallen out of the worn spine. A bug. The colonel found two more in his room, one in a light switch, and one under the desk, both in his luxury box. There were probably ten more he couldn’t find.

  The next day, Brooks was waiting for him when he woke up at 0430 hrs. Brooks was sitting across from his makeshift bed reclining in a chair reading Bourne’s copy of The Art of War. He called out, and two of Recht’s men came in shortly after, both with submachine guns. They were to be the colonel’s security detail, and he wasn’t to go anywhere without them anymore. Bourne had just received his first order from someone other than a general.

  When the call came in from Captain Brady, who had been under Bourne’s command, that they had detained elements of the military complete with armored transport, Bourne knew he could use this opportunity to bug out. He brought his most trusted man, Gunny Barry Steele, and seven others -including his security detail- with him on a Blackhawk helicopter to intercept and question the detainees.

  Brady had always been a little over the top, but Bourne thought he was loyal, until Brady had started working with Brooks over the last two weeks. Bourne was certain he was in on the disappearance of Cushing, as Cushing stood in his way on the military hierarchy. So did Bourne.

  Bourne was not a murderer, but there was no way Brady could be allowed to report back to Brooks. He had to go.

  He planned to rendezvous with the military elements that had been detained, and conscript them if necessary. When Bourne found out that Seyfert was a SEAL, he took a chance, dropped non-integral information and was instantly rewarded. He now had mission capable soldiers at his disposal, or so he hoped. They were even on the same mission.

  Immediately prior to leaving for the depot, the colonel had the Blackhawk destroyed, hopefully with any of Brooks’ transmitters aboard. Every one of the men at the checkpoint had agreed that they didn’t want to go back to the stadium, back to Brooks and Recht, so they all came with the colonel.

  “So here we are. The real question is, do you trust me enough to combine forces and go get those scientists, or do we split up? Either way, I’ll see you in Boston if any of us survive.”

  Barry Steele was an intimidating man. At six foot nine and almost four hundred pounds of muscle and sinew, he scared the average MMA fighter with his size alone. Most doorways barely fit him, and three of the extra-large black BDUs that Brooks brought in had been needed to tailor the big man’s Triumvirate uniform. When he got out of the tank after parking it in the depot, everyone stared. He was used to it, and shrugged it off. When the tiny boy named Stevie came up and asked if he was a giant, he got down on his haunches, looked in Stevie’s tiny face, and said yes.

  “I’ve never met a giant before. Can I ride on your shoulders?”

  Barry stood. “Nobody’s ever asked me that before.”

  “So, can I?”

  Scooping up the boy, Barry lifted him until his small legs were on either side of the soldier’s massive cranium, and then he proceeded to walk around. In ten seconds, every kid in the depot was begging for a turn, and when they had all received a ride, Barry showed them the inside of the Abrams and the Bradley.

  While the big gunnery sergeant kept the kids busy, the colonel and most of his soldiers, the SEALs, Rick’s group, and Teems were planning the rest of their trip to Boston. Dallas was awake and the doctor was ministering to him, but Stark still hadn’t regained consciousness. Calvin and one of the army engineers had gone up to the roof and were installing a fifty caliber heavy machine gun, and the other new-comers were making themselves at home, and figuring out a work schedule. Many of the civilians on the bus hadn’t wanted to go to Lincoln in the first place, and the ones who had come looking for it all decided that the place they were in now was probably safer.

  Bourne was impressed with the installation, but soon had an epiphany. He looked at Teems and said, “It’s a fair bet that Brooks knows about this place.”

  “How could he know about this?” the biker said, spreading his arms. “We just stumbled onto it today.”

  “The man just knows. He knows everything, that was his job, and apparently he’s the best at it. I’m torn between thinking you won’t find a safer place than this, and that it might just be your tomb.”

  “We can fight.”

  “He won’t come knocking at the door. He’ll send scouts, and when they report back to him, he’ll send a small army. Or a large one.”

  “We can hold this place forever.”

  The colonel was skeptical. “I hope so.”

  Bourne was marking a road atlas of the US with red marker. The marks were where roads and throughways had been destroyed at the outset of the plague to curb the spread of infection. The colonel looked alarmed when there were shots from outside, but Teems told him that it was probably a few rotters that had gotten too close to the depot, and the snipers were taking care of them. They continued to talk and the shots went from sporadic to continuous. Then the fifty cal opened up and Bourne’s engineer called on the radio.

  The colonel looked at the people with him in turn. “We may have a problem.”

  Everyone looked nervous. “What it is?” demanded Teems.

  “Let’s get to the roof to confirm.”

  The fifty cal was very loud as they climbed the stairs to the second floor catwalks. Looking out one of the office windows, Rick could see that they might just be in serious trouble. It would seem their secret was out, as hundreds of zombies were again pouring out of the corn heading for the depot. The main body of the horde was just starting to reach the killing field of the fifty caliber machine gun and dozens were on the ground either not moving or missing body parts and crawling toward the sanctuary.

  Bourne went into high gear as he made it to the roof. “WILCOX! Lay off the fifty until they’re bunched! Anyone with a rifle get to the roof and defend! Pick your targets, head shots only! Barry! Where’s Barry?” The colonel spun around and the giant man was behind him. “Barry! Get in the Abrams with Richards and Monahan and get it out of the depot. Use the treads, but don’t fire the main gun. You’ll have to hurry so we can get the door closed before they reach the other side of the building.” The man kept firing off orders to others he had just met, or barely knew, and they jumped to follow him. Rick thought of his friend submarine commander McInerney back on Alcatraz. Both men commanded authority, and Rick was amazed that Bourne was able to remember the names of the colonel’s new recruits.

  Rick pulled Teems aside. “Get the kids and anybody else who wants to go into the silo, make sure Chris and Anna are do
wn there, and then lock yourselves in. Shut the top hatch but leave the bottom door open so you can hear us call for you. Don’t let anybody in if you can’t figure out who they are.”

  “Rick, I’m staying up here to fight the rotters off, I can…”

  “You can help Dallas, and keep your son safe. There’s no time to discuss this, and don’t let Dallas give you any shit, either, get him down there.”

  The Abrams tank fired up its diesel engine with a growl. Sixteen people stood on either side of the tank ready for whatever came through when it opened, and the Bradley and the LAV had the back hatches open to receive these folks should something go awry. Three of Teems’ T-poles were in use on each side of the tank, with three gunners and two men wielding harpoons per side as well. The rest of the depot community was either on the roof or in the silo.

  It had taken almost ten minutes to maneuver the vehicles out of the way so the Abrams could move into position in front of the garage door, and Bourne inwardly cursed himself for being so stupid as to not foresee of the problem beforehand. In the time that it took to move the other vehicles, the mass of dead had reached the depot and were smashing their fists on the concrete walls. A minimal force had traversed to the far side of the building, and the snipers above culled as many as possible before someone figured that more dead were coming to that side because of the shots.

  “Open it!” someone yelled, and the door began to rise. Several undead knees were revealed as the door slowly ascended, and several of the more impatient zombies dropped down to crawl under and into the facility.

  The men with the poles went to work and held as many creatures as they could at bay while the ones behind hurried to spear them. The door moved painfully slowly as the men and women fought off the onslaught. Calvin was one of the spearmen, and six inches of his pointed pole was protruding from the back of the skull of an undead housewife wearing a brown-stained apron with Kiss the Cook on it, when two zombies broke the front line and one grabbed him. A shot rang out as he frantically pulled on his harpoon, the dead weight of the re-killed woman dragging it away from him. One of the breachers dropped, but the one who had grabbed his shirt sleeve lunged and snapped at his arm. He let go of the spear and used his hands to fight the thing off. He punched it in the face as the tank rumbled forward, the door already closing.

  The commotion at the door had attracted many more undead, the snipers on the roof trying to deal with as many as they could. The fifty caliber was firing steady too now that the horde was closer and bunched together. The massive shells blew the encroaching host limb from limb, scattering bits and pieces of undead flesh, bone, and organs on the dirt.

  As soon as the tank was out the door, the gap was filled by more zombies, but the giant metal door was mostly down. A surge pushed the defenders back as the roll-down gate reached head height, and the young woman manning the push-button door control screamed for the defenders to drive the creatures back or the door wouldn’t close all the way. The door would get stuck on the bodies.

  The door continued to close, cutting the enemy down to sixteen inside and dozens outside. The snipers could see that several of the exterior creatures had turned to chase the rumbling Abrams. The undead who had breached the depot began to spread out, and the defenders fought for their lives. Two creatures grabbed a young man from the bus and fell on him, biting and clawing. He became hysterical as he fought them off, and received help when a harpoon pierced the skull of the skinny girl who was trying to bite his stomach. The other thing, a dead orderly by the looks of his stained blue scrubs, was held at bay by the young man as he pulled the thing’s hair with one hand and held its face away with the other. Someone shot it and it went limp, the man pitching it off to the side.

  With the T-poles, the harpoons, and the guns, the battle lasted less than a minute. There were twenty nine re-killed creatures, and the defenders looked around and started cheering, but trailed off as the young woman with the door control started yelling that the door wasn’t all the way down. There was a ten-inch gap where the metal frame couldn’t reach the ground. Several undead lay in its path blocking the closure. Three had been destroyed, but two were still moving, one with its legs moving feebly on the inside of the door, the other trapped at the waist and pushing up with its hands, hopelessly trying to free itself.

  Calvin grabbed a harpoon off the floor and strode to the pinned zombie, who immediately smashed its face on the ground when it reached both arms at Calvin and snarled. “Stupid fucker,” he said and stabbed the weapon into its head. The defenders used the T-poles to shove the rest of the things that were caught under the door back outside as best they could. Apparently, the word was out though, and many of the creatures had dropped to their hands and knees and were trying to get through the gap.

  As a creature would get its head under the door, the defenders would stick it with a spear, and someone else would shove it back out. Soon there was a small wall of lifeless people on the outside of the door, and it was able to be closed all the way. A second cheer went up.

  Doc was looking at the man from the bus, who had deep red furrows on his right forearm and cheek from the things that had pinned him. It didn’t look too bad, but the doctor wanted him isolated and watched just the same. The doc stood up and looked around, wiping his brow, and noticed Calvin. Calvin was staring at his hand as everyone else was congratulating each other on the victory, with hearty claps on the back and high fives.

  Calvin looked up as the doctor approached, his eyes glazed. “It must have happened when I punched the one that grabbed me.” Doc took his friend’s hand and examined it. There was a small gash on the knuckle above the ring finger. Calvin looked at the doctor knowingly. “Shit. After all this, I kill myself.”

  Doc swallowed. “Now, we don’t even know how you got this for sure. We’ll clean it out and watch you, but don’t assume that it’s fatal just yet.”

  The biker nodded, but the look on his friend’s face spoke volumes.

  The tank used its treads to do the job outside, and it ground the wretched former humans into pulp as it ran them over. The problem was that there were so many of them that it was difficult to get them all, and the procedure took the better part of the day. The snipers had stopped firing to conserve ammunition, as had the large machine gun. Bourne was in constant contact with Barry in the tank giving him orders and locations of pockets of stragglers via the radio and his rooftop vantage point. When all was said and done, better than eight hundred undead had been pulverized, shot, bludgeoned, or harpooned.

  Bourne came down off the roof five hours after the first dead person showed up, to see three people on stretchers. He knew the names of two of them, Private Hobbs and a biker named Calvin, but the third man was unknown to him. All three looked to be in bad shape. Hobbs was vomiting, and the unknown man was unconscious, and in the process of being secured to his gurney with restraints by the resident doctor. A single blood-red tear ran from the man’s eye. Calvin was coherent, with a damp cloth on his forehead. Several people, including the big man Teems, Seyfert, and Rick were talking with Calvin.

  “Bullshit,” joked Teems, “you’ll be fine, ya dumb hick. It isn’t a bite.”

  “I punched him in the face and his tooth cut my hand. What’s the difference, a bite or a cut by a tooth? I’m screwed, and it would probably be easier on me if you all just quit bullshitting me about it.”

  Bourne furrowed his brow as he approached the group. “What happened?”

  Private Hobbs wiped his mouth with a rag and tried to sit up. “Sir, when—”

  “Lay back down, soldier, you can tell me from there.”

  “Thank you, sir. When we opened the garage door to let the Abrams out, there were more than we anticipated outside. Several got in, and we had no choice but to go hand to hand. Sir, the folks here are good people and damn good fighters.”

  “Agreed, son. Why are you sick, were you bitten?”

  “Negative, sir. That guy,” he indicated the unconscious man
, “had two of the Fallen on him, and I dragged one off and shot it. There was some spray and it hit me in the face.” He looked away. “I must have become infected because of the shit that got on me.”

  “We don’t know you’re infected, it could be anything.”

  “Due respect, sir, but I know. I can feel it.”

  “Me too,” Calvin said from the other gurney. “I can’t tell if it’s something extra or if I’m missing something, but I can feel it just the same.”

  The doctor gave a sharp intake of breath and backed quickly away from the man who had been unconscious. The man was feebly struggling to sit up, and was emitting a low, guttural growl.

  Doc wiped his brow with his sleeve and shook his head. “He was alive five minutes ago.”

  The private vomited again and closed his eyes muttering. He was obviously scared. Calvin was angry. “Dammit. I didn’t want to go like this. Not like this. Puking and feeling like shit until I try to get up and eat my friends.” The private began to sob quietly on the bed next to him.

  “Calvin, you are too damn pretty to die. You’ll be fine.”

  The biker mechanic sat up so fast the cool cloth on his forehead went flying. “Knock it off, asshole! I’m fucking dead already!” he spat venomously. “If you keep…” Calvin caught himself and immediately looked horrified. “Sorry Teems, I’m… I’m just mad. It’s so… so unfair,” he lay back down. “Doc, best tie me down too. I honestly wanted to jump off the table and kill my best friend for a second there, and that ain’t me, I don’t get mad.”

  “Do it, Doc,” Teems said in a heartrending voice. “Calvin is right, he never gets pissed.”

  Rick spoke up. “What do we do with him?” He pointed at the young zombie strapped to the stretcher.

  Doc reached down to a gleaming stainless steel table and picked up a small instrument. He put on a face shield, grabbed the dead man’s hair and yanked his head to the side. The surgical drill entered through the ear and the dead man’s struggles ceased. “We bury him.”