“Do you think you can hit them?” I asked hopefully.
Andy levered a round into the chamber and shouldered the rifle, “nope.”
I looked at him and raised my eyebrows. He only smiled, “Too long of a range and from a moving platform… I’d be happy to hit the fucking bridge. But hey, miracles do happen. Here goes.”
I raised my binoculars and peered at the men above us. I could see maybe eight of them, all leaning on the concrete guardrail of the skyway. They just stood there all in a line and I even think I saw a few smoking cigarettes.
The Winchester went off with a boom that echoed across the water. I waited a few seconds and shook my head, “I didn’t see anything.”
Andy grumbled, “Probably low… or high…”
“Oh, that narrows it down,” I joked.
He chuckled, “Get ready…”
He held his breath and waited for just the right moment, I guess. Because when we rose to the top of a wave, the rifle roared out again.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Dammit,” Andy muttered, “I wish I knew if I was high or low.”
The hand held VHF clipped to my jeans crackled, “Where are you centering your sights?”
It was Tony. Andy still held the rifle to his shoulder, “Tell him I’m aiming for the middle guy and then raising the rifle about ten degrees.”
I said this into the radio. There was a pause and then Tony said, “Tell Andy his bullet is probably dropping by about fifteen feet.”
“Jesus,” Andy said, “Okay, let me try this…”
He aimed again and I could see that the barrel was way high. He waited and fired. I’m not exactly sure, but I could swear I saw a tiny puff of whitish gray near the bottom edge of the road deck.
“I think you hit the bridge!” I said excitedly, “Way low, almost under it, but I swear I saw some concrete dust fly.”
“Hmm…” Andy said, “Okay, let me try another…”
He elevated his shot a little higher, inhaled and squeezed the trigger. I saw the little puff again, except this time it was nearly at the top edge of the guardrail. It was more toward the right side of the group of men, but the three on the end of the line jerked backward.
“Damn!” I shouted gleefully, “Just about got em’. You were like six inches too low and maybe like three guys to the right of center. Scared a couple of them off, though.”
“Lot of windage… that should get their attention,” Andy said with a grin, “Although honestly, the power of the bullet might not even penetrate the leather of their jackets at this range.”
“What happened?” Tony asked over the radio.
Before I could answer, Drake’s voice came over the channel, “What the fuck, Commander! You’re taking pot shots at us now?”
“Is this fucking guy for real?” I asked Andy.
He only shrugged.
“You’re kidding, right?” Tony transmitted, “You fuckers have done nothing but threaten us, come after us with automatic weapons and are now trying to hem us in… oh, and let’s not forget that volley of rifle fire after our last pleasant chat… and you’ve got the balls to act surprised?”
“That was just to make a point,” Drake replied, “We both know there’s no way we can hit you from this far away.”
“Well,” I could hear the smugness in Tony’s voice easily, “Now you know that we can hit you from this distance. In fact, maybe I’ll half it to make things easier. Even at eight hundred yards none of you fuckwits could hit us… but that would dramatically increase the accuracy and striking power of my sharp shooter. What do you think about that, shit for brains?”
Drake laughed, “You should be careful who you piss off, Commander Sturgis. And all we have to do is back off the guard rail and you’ll never hit us. But we can still pop up anywhere and pour hot lead on you if you try for this bridge.”
A long pause. Finally Tony said, “We’ll see, asshole, we’ll see.”
So we waited. Hours went by with nothing happening. It was really a Mexican standoff. The assholes on the bridge couldn’t reach us and we couldn’t reach them.
As the hours went by, Tony also began to show the signs of his injury. He was steadily getting weaker and had finally gone below and climbed into his bunk. Brenda was now all alone in Sexual Heeling’s cockpit.
“I wonder if they knew how few of us there were,” I said to Andy when he’d come back aboard after checking up on Tony, “if they’d send more boats after us.”
Andy sighed heavily and wiped his face with his hands, “Yeah, we’re a pretty easy target.”
“How’s Tony?”
Andy frowned and shook his head, “I took care of the entry wound… but it’s the bullet still inside him that’s causing the issue. It’s probably infected or at least inflamed. It needs to be cut out. I’m afraid that’s above my pay grade, though. Not to mention we don’t have the equipment or meds for that. Not even an IV bag.”
“So what do we do?” I asked, wringing my hands. I think I’d been doing it all along and hadn’t noticed.
“We hurry up and wait,” Andy said with another sigh, “We hope that the other team gets in touch with us again with a plan or we wait until dark and make a run for it I guess.”
The sky was already beginning to darken. It was after five in the evening and the sun was well down in the west. It was actually really beautiful if you could forget that there were ten guys on the bridge above us ready to open fire.
The VHF crackled again, “Commander, you listening?”
I was really beginning to hate Drake’s voice.
Andy picked up the mic, “This is Lieutenant Summers. What do you want, Drake?”
“Ah, Andy, right?” Drake said in what sounded like a friendly tone, “I didn’t think the military took teenagers. Where’s commander Sturgis?”
Andy frowned, “Taking a shit. Want me to describe it for you? What the fuck do you want?”
There was laughter over the channel, “You should have a little more respect for your elders, son. And what I want is for this to end, Andy. This is stupid and we’re all wasting time. What’s it gonna take for us to come to an agreement.”
“That’s Lieutenant to you,” Andy growled into the mic, “And age doesn’t grant you respect, mister… respectability does. If you want this to end, then withdraw and let us pass unmolested.”
“Now that’s not going to happen, son,” Drake replied, “You, your people, your boats and stuff all belong to me. But I’m not heartless. Honestly, I could use some quality trained people on my side. I’ve got big plans to expand my territory and you all would be a great asset to me. Why don’t we discuss it?”
Andy gritted his teeth, “Okay… let’s start with a good will gesture on your part, then.”
A pause, “Such as?”
“Lower that treacherous fucker Mark down on a rope,” Andy said.
“And then what, punk?” This was Mark’s voice, “You think you can handle me?”
I rolled my eyes and Andy grinned, “Why don’t we find out, tough guy. I owe you for trying to shoot me… on several occasions. So far you’ve failed miserably. And do you know why? Because you suck donkey nads. You’re a stupid, incompetent fuck up. Everything you’ve done so far has been a total failure. Drake, I’d toss his worthless ass off that bridge if I were you.”
Mark’s string of curses was cut off by a booming laugh, “You got fire, son. I like that. And it’s Governor Drake.”
“Oh, please…” I muttered.
“Not for long.”
That was a new voice and it took me a minute to realize who it was. By the look on Andy’s face, he was just as surprised as me. Then he grinned like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Who’s this?” Drake asked impatiently.
“This is Captain Sam Decker, United States Navy,” Sam said in a stern tone, “And I’m ordering you to withdraw. If you’re on the top of that bridge when I get there, I’m going to mow you and your people down.
There will be no quarter given.”
“So… the leader finally shows himself,” Drake said, “Where’ve you been hiding, Captain?”
“You have ten minutes,” Sam said, “Mount up and ride away or you’re all dead men. I don’t know who the hell you think you are, Drake. This is still the United States of America and you’re in violation of more laws than I can count. As a Captain in the U.S. Navy, a duly appointed representative of the armed forces in a time of martial law, I’m hereby ordering you to withdraw. If you don’t, as stated, I’ll open fire on you. Whoever I capture, should any of you survive, will be summarily executed in accordance with the uniform code of military justice.”
“You got some balls, mister!” Drake shouted back, “As I explained to Sturgis, the country is dead and your authority is bullshit. I’m the governor of West Tampa Bay and I have been appointed and my authority is what matters. Might makes right in this new world, Decker, and that’s all that counts.”
“So be it,” Sam said in a calm voice, “You have established the rules of engagement. And I don’t give a hoot in hell who or what you think you are. This will be your final warning.”
There was a long pause. The minutes crept by. Every so often, Drake would call out on the radio for Sam or Andy and even for Tony. No one responded, though.
And then, as the twilight deepend, I heard the sound of a new engine on the bridge. It was hard to see from the water, but something fairly substantial was roaring along the skyway’s lower section from the direction of Bradenton.
After a few more minutes, the bikers on the center span began to fire their weapons. The crackle of automatic fire floated across the water toward us.
Tony appeared in the other boat’s cockpit and looked around, “Let’s make a run for the bridge, Andy.”
“Okay,” Andy said. He put the Sorcerer in gear and turned her toward the center of the bridge. I hauled the jib out and we began to pick up speed.
“I hope this isn’t a bad move,” I said as the bridge steadily grew before us.
The crackling of rifles was growing louder but luckily nothing was headed our way yet. Then there was a new sound. Another weapon began to fire and this one had a deeper sound.
I could see little fireflies of light zipping along the top of the bridge.
“What’s that?” I asked Andy, pointing above us.
He frowned and then smiled, “Tracers. Somebody’s got a machine gun up there, I think.”
“Don’t the bikers have machine guns?” I asked, “Like ours?”
“I doubt it,” Andy said, still grinning, “People call weapons like the M16, M4 and AR15 machine guns, but they’re really not. They’re automatic assault rifles. A true machine gun is a bigger beast that fires belt fed fifty caliber or 7.62 rounds, and that’s what that one sounds like. Maybe a SAW or even an M60.”
Almost as if to prove his point, there were a series of explosions on the top of the bridge. We were close enough now to hear the screams of men above us and the sound of motorcycles being revved.
The sound of the biker’s weapons stopped. The next thing I heard was the roaring of their bikes moving quickly down the Saint Pete side of the bridge. After a minute or two, Sam came over the radio.
“It’s all clear, gang. Make your way under the bridge and we’ll rendezvous at point Delta.”
“Where’s that?” I asked.
Andy shrugged, “Not sure.”
Tony grinned over at us, “Point Delta is in the Manatee River. Just follow us. God damn that was sweet!”
Chapter 23
From the personal journal of Samuel R. Decker
On one hand, we scored at MacDill. The bad news was that by the time we finished loading the deuce and ahalf, a rather substantial horde of zombies was schlepping our way.
On the other hand, the deuce and ahalf truck we “borrowed” wasn’t one of the older standard M35’s, it was a newer vehicle in the family of the Light Medium Tactical Vehicle series, and had an armored cab complete with a Lexan ballistic windscreen.
In other words, a truck that could take some fire.
On yet another hand, which made three so far… that’s a lot of hands… we’d also found some diesel fuel and topped off the truck’s tank.
“Sharky, what about firing up one of the Vipers or SuperCobras,” Andrea said as we piled into the cab, “I could fly it out there and strafe the bridge. That’d show those fucks what’s what.”
I grinned, “I love that idea… except that we don’t know anything about the aircraft. We might have to scrounge up fuel, swap batteries, yadda yadda yadda. Then we’d still have to drive this truck somewhere to offload.”
“So what’s the plan?” Carl asked.
“Take seventy-five south to two-seventy-five,” I replied, “Get on the Skyway and simply drive up to the bikers and order them off the bridge or mow them down with the M240.”
“Just like that?” Andrea asked.
“Just like that,” I replied, putting the truck in gear and heading away from the approaching horde.
I was more than happy to get off that base. I don’t know what it was, but like the rest of my team, I felt this strong sense of evil hovering around the place. I know that’s stupid and obviously a product of our stressed out minds. Being in this desolate place where a battle had been lost…
And it wasn’t the zombies, either. For all of their danger and all that they represented, they weren’t evil. They weren’t responsible for their actions any more than an amoeba was. They were, in essence, a human-sized virus only doing what it was programmed to do.
But there was something. I wish I could’ve put my finger on it, but frankly we had better things to do.
Oh, and of course, the drive south wasn’t nearly as simple as it could’ve been. Nothing ever was in this brave new world.
Somewhere around Riverview, we ran into another impressive horde of the walking dead. They seemed to be milling around on the highway, spreading from the tree line on either side and for a ways down the road. I couldn’t tell how many of them there were, probably several thousand.
“Fuckin’ zombies,” I muttered, “I’m tired of fuckign zombies…”
The two and a half ton truck was a burly beast. The actual weight of the vehicle was several times that, and I figured it’d be fairly easy to simply plow through the monsters, shoving them aside or simply driving over them as we weaved between stalled vehicles.
“What’re you doing?” Carl asked.
“I’m going to try and push through,” I said, putting the truck in low gear, “Otherwise we’ll waste who knows how much time going around.”
“Aren’t you afraid of high centering?” Carl asked.
I shrugged, “In this nearly seven ton beast? Not really. Hold on to ya’ butts.”
I moved forward into the crowd of ghouls at about fifteen miles per hour. At first, it was going well. Monsters simply parted before us like water before the prow of a ship. Yet as we moved further in, the sheer mass of the bodies was beginning to slow us down. On top of that, many of them were falling beneath the truck and being crushed into organic paste by the six wheels. You’d think this would be a good thing, except for the fact that the more slimy zombie goo we drove over, the worse our traction became.
As we dropped below ten miles per hour, I frowned and said, “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. How fucking deep is this horde, anyway?”
“Maybe too deep,” Andrea said, trying to peer forward over the heads of the undead. It was impossible to tell.
I pressed the gas down harder and the big caterpillar diesel roared. We began to pick up speed despite the dense mass of bodies and the slippery road. I grinned at them.
Suddenly, though, the nose of the truck rose up sharply and we ground to a stop at a twenty degree angle.
“What the fuck!” Carl exclaimed, “Did we create a pile?”
I scowled, “No, there must be a trailer or something in the road I can’t see because of them.”
Now that we weren’t moving, the zombies began to get more aggressive. They crowded in on us and began to climb. At first, it was just one or two that made their way clumsily up onto the side runners and began beating on the windows. That wasn’t a problem, the glass was actually inch and a half thick ballistic Lexan. However, when they started making their way up onto the hood, I knew we had problems.
“I vote we get out of here,” Carl suggested a bit shakily.
“I second that,” Andrea said.
I tried stomping the gas to roll forward over whatever it was we were stuck on, but the big engine only complained loudly as the front wheels spun uselessly.
“Shit,” I said brilliantly.
Then we had another problem.
As I have probably mentioned before, zombies had the dexterity of a garden slug. They could push and bang on things, but picking something up, climbing anything more than an easy mound or a set of stairs seemed to be beyond them. That included operating something as simple as a doorknob.
However, as we’d learned back at MacDill, turning a handle ninety degrees or yanking on something didn’t seem to be beyond their skillsets. This was particularly irritating at the moment because of two reasons.
First, the trucks had pull handles to open the door. They were big and as long as you got your fingers behind them, it was pretty easy to pull them and open the doors. The second was that our truck, like most military vehicles, didn’t have locks on the doors.
Normally, this was a good thing. Like the fact that you also didn’t need keys to start them, it was thought that no obstruction or distraction should prevent their operation. There wouldn’t be a stupid action movie situation in combat where a truck driver would get killed with the keys in his or her pocket and then the rest of the team wouldn’t be able to drive the truck.
However, in a zombie-infested world, this wasn’t such a good thing.
“Sam!” Andrea shouted as her door was yanked open and two pairs of gray arms tried to reach inside.
“Fuck!” I snapped, “Carl, help her!”
My door clicked as well and I grabbed the inside handle and held on, trying to prevent the door from opening. It worked for now.
World of Corpses (Book 1): World of Corpses Page 29