by A. M. Geever
Did he love me that much?
Delilah nuzzled against her neck as if she could sense Miranda’s distracted reverie. Miranda snapped back to attention. She looked at Connor in the driver’s seat in front of her and felt more confused and conflicted than ever. You idiot… Keep this shit up and you won’t make it to Los Gatos.
She gnawed on her lower lip when she thought about the reserve fuel tanks. The front Humvee that she rode in had one twenty-gallon tank at the rear; the Humvee that followed them had four. Even though the fuel tanks were armored, the reserve fuel was a terrible risk in a firefight, but they had to take it. Humvees were one of the best vehicles for the terrain they faced but with gas mileage at twelve miles per gallon—at best—they might not make it to Santa Cruz otherwise. If they had to take a detour on the circuitous mountain roads, they might need more fuel.
The next hour passed almost in silence. As they approached the main commercial area of what had once been the Town of Los Gatos, the Humvee slowed. At first, Miranda thought Connor was navigating around an obstacle or zombie, but then they stopped.
“Why are you stopping?” Doug asked.
Connor turned in his seat just as the comm crackled to life. “Because they did.”
“Alpha, we’re dragging something. We need to take a look, over.”
“Miranda and I will join you, over,” Doug said. He put the comm back in its cradle and surveyed the street. “This is a bad place to stop,” he said. “Come on, Miri, time to sing for your supper. Connor, keep the engine warm.”
Miranda stepped into a puddle that reached her ankles. She shut the door to stop Delilah from following her, then tipped her head back to look up at Gabe. Rain pelted her forehead. “Eyes sharp, Gabe.”
She took a slow look around, up and down the row of shops along the once upscale shopping district. The area was surprisingly clear of zombies, but Doug was right, it was a bad place to stop. The two-story buildings that lined both sides of the street created a narrow, man-made canyon. The number of abandoned and rusting cars in the street could make a quick exit difficult.
Miranda stepped around the back corner of the Humvee just as Doug did the same from the other side.
“Let’s see what the kids have done now,” he said.
Miranda smiled as they walked to the Bravo Humvee, which had stopped a hundred feet behind them. From not far away, she could hear zombies moan.
“You would think they’d get tired of doing that all the time,” she said.
Doug laughed softly. “You’d think they’d get tired of eating the same thing all the time, too, but you’d be wrong.”
The front passenger door swung open when they reached the other Humvee and Mike Sealy, resembling a miniature mountain, got out. Mike wasn’t wearing his night goggles and carried a Maglite. “It’s a piece of scrap metal, to judge by the sound,” he said without preamble. Seffie got out of the Humvee and stood by the driver’s door.
“Miranda, watch our perimeter,” Doug said, “Seffie, stay where you are in case we have to move. I’ll help Mike.”
Miranda nodded, then began a circuit around the Humvee.
Even after a decade, it was still apparent that Los Gatos had been an expensive place to live before the ZA. In the green-black shadows of broken out windows, Miranda saw movement. A gaunt frame lurched forward, followed by another. The moaning grew louder.
“Shamblers at your four and six, fifty yards,” Miranda said as she passed Doug. His feet stuck out from under the rear bumper. Mike was around the corner beside the rear tire, half under the Humvee feet first, kicking.
“We’ve almost got it,” Mike grunted. “Come on, you SOB.”
Miranda nodded, even though they could not see. She glanced in the window of the rear door. Mario leaned back in his seat, eyes closed. Even though the night-vision goggles washed out details, she could see dark rings beneath his eyes. His head was cocked toward Naomi. Whatever she said was amusing, to judge from his grin.
He doesn’t waste any time… Already yukking it up with the twenty-three-year-old, Miranda thought.
“We’ve got company on my side,” Seffie said. “We need to move it, guys.”
Miranda continued circling the Humvee and stopped beside Seffie at the driver’s door. There were about twenty zombies now, and more were straggling out. Then she heard a hiss. A high whine, descending, trailing. Blistering heat, the roar of combustion, the sharp bite of debris against her skin. Miranda thumped flat on her back; the air in her lungs whooshed out. An impossibly bright light overwhelmed her retinas.
“RPG! Get down! Get down!”
A deafening chung-chung-chung-chung filled the air as the .50 cal gun on the Alpha Humvee returned fire. Miranda rolled over, ripping the useless night-vision goggles off. All she could see were bright-yellow spots. She crawled toward the Humvee, gasping, choking, drowning. She couldn’t get enough air.
As she blinked her eyes, her vision began to clear. A crater smoldered twenty feet behind the Bravo Humvee. She crawled toward it, stopping at the rear bumper. Intermittent bright flashes, fifteen at least, came from second-story shop windows in the next block.
“They’re behind us, a hundred yards,” Miranda tried to shout, but it came out as a gasp. She backed up and bumped against something. Seffie lay on the ground, moaning, blood drifting and diluting across the wet concrete from a gash on her forehead. Miranda pressed her hand on Seffie’s neck. Relief flooded through her when she felt a pulse, strong and steady, as Seffie’s eyelids began to flutter open. The door beside Miranda opened and Naomi ducked out, carrying her medic bag.
“I’ve got it,” Naomi said.
Precise shots rang out, too close for comfort. Miranda looked up to see Mario firing from the open rear door. The leading edge of zombies were ten feet away. Attracted by the commotion, scores more were behind them. She flinched away from another explosion as Doug and Mike dashed toward them. Doug shouted to be heard over the noise. “Get in there and drive! A direct hit will blow this thing up.”
Miranda nodded and scrambled up. Naomi was pulling Seffie, now semiconscious, to her feet to hand her off to Mario.
“I’ll get her,” Miranda said. She jerked her head toward the front passenger seat on the far side. “Get in!”
Before Naomi could release her grip, Miranda heard the hiss. She shoved Seffie back at Naomi. “Move!”
Miranda clamped her hand around Mario’s forearm, adrenaline and fear propelling them forward. They were halfway across the short distance between the two Humvees when the RPG hit. The thunderous blast shook the ground. A shockwave hit from behind, knocking them from their feet. Mario scrambled and jerked Miranda up.
“Keep going!” she said, shaking him off. She turned back to the towering pillar of fire that seconds ago had been the Bravo Humvee. The yellow-white flames raced skyward, fueling a funnel of oily black smoke. The air sizzled and cracked. A fine mist from the evaporating rain billowed around the burning wreck. Seffie and Naomi were crumpled on the ground, Naomi’s jacket aflame.
Oblivious to the blazing landscape, zombies closed in as Miranda sprinted to the injured women. A brown blur of furious barking and teeth darted between the wounded and the zombies as Delilah joined them. Seffie crawled to her knees. Miranda beat at the back of Naomi’s jacket with her bare hands as she rolled the young medic on her back to smother the flames. Delilah clamped on to the fallen woman’s shoulder and began to drag her.
I can’t save them both, Miranda thought. Then Connor was beside her, scooping Seffie up and hoisting her over his shoulder. Miranda did likewise, groaning as she shouldered Naomi’s weight.
The nonstop staccato of the .50 cal gun grew louder. Miranda splashed across the wet, uneven pavement. When she fell a few paces behind Delilah, the dog circled back, snapping and growling at the undead pursuers. Connor had shoved Seffie into the front of the Humvee and was already behind the wheel. Delilah vaulted across his lap to safety. Miranda shrugged Naomi into the back seat, but
there was no more room. She stepped onto the running board and banged on the roof.
“Go go go,” she shouted, grabbing hold of the open door as zombies closed in from all sides.
The Humvee jerked forward, colliding and crunching over the zombies in its path. Bones popped and snapped. Miranda lost her balance when her foot slid on the slick running board, but a hand grabbed her vest. She instinctively began to slap it away before realizing it was Mario. Regaining her footing, Miranda jammed the Humvee door out to knock the undead back. She finally located the handhold inside the open door and snapped her carabiner in place.
The rain lashed Miranda’s face. She squinted her eyes almost shut while bushes and tall weeds slapped against the Humvee door. They were turning onto Highway 17 now, bumping heavily over the broken concrete. She twisted round to look behind them. She didn’t see anyone pursuing them apart from the zombies that continued to blunder across the road.
“I need a tourniquet strap!” Doug shouted from inside the Humvee.
Mario pulled on her vest. “Get in.”
Miranda collapsed into Mario’s lap and slammed the door shut. When she wiped her hand across her face, it stung as if badly sunburned. An acrid burnt smell filled the vehicle.
“I think my eyebrows are singed off,” she said. Her fingers moved over her face. They hurt as well. When she lowered her hands, she saw small blisters across her fingers and palms.
“Are they following?” Mario asked. Gabe was still up on the .50 cal gun, his feet pulled up on a footrest next to Mario’s head. Mike sat on the other side, catching his breath.
“No.”
“Mike, put your hand here and press hard.”
Doug’s voice came from behind her. He knelt over Naomi in the rear cargo area, crammed into the twelve inches of free space between the back seats and supplies. Mike reached through the space between the seats to press on the blood-soaked bandages halfway up the unconscious woman’s thigh.
“Shrapnel must have nicked her femoral artery,” Doug said. “If a tourniquet doesn’t stop the bleeding, she won’t make it.”
Mario shook his head, a grim expression filling his eyes. He was likely thinking the same thing Miranda was: seriously injured, Naomi was a liability they could not afford. Even if they got her out of her blood-soaked clothes, between blood loss and burns, her chances of survival were poor unless they got her back to San Jose, the one place they could not go. Zombies had a better sense of smell than dogs when it came to human blood. Whatever slim chance they had of getting through the mountains would vanish if Naomi was with them.
“Doug,” Miranda said. “We cannot take care of her out here.”
As if to underscore her words, the Humvee lurched. Connor swore, then backed up and tried again.
“There are doctors in Santa Cruz,” Doug said as he wrapped a strap around Naomi’s leg, just above Mike’s hand. He tied a thin metal tube into the strap and started turning it. “We only have to keep her stable until we get there.”
For the first time, Miranda noticed that Doug was not wearing his waterproof jacket. Both of his forearms were starting to blister. Doug finished twisting the tourniquet and tied it in place.
“The bleeding’s stopped,” he said, relief filling his voice. He wiped his hand across his brow, leaving a bloody streak in its wake. “There used to be houses and park buildings by the Lexington Reservoir. We’ll go there and regroup.”
Miranda nodded. “That might work. It’s not too far off the road, but far enough, in case they follow us.”
Doug raised his voice. “Get off at Bear Creek and head for the reservoir.”
Connor gave a thumbsup.
Doug looked down at his blistered arms, surprise filling his face. “Who else is hurt?”
“I’ve got burns,” Mike said through clenched teeth. “Hurts like a son of a bitch. You okay, Sef?”
“I might need a few stitches. The dog seems fine,” she added, failing to deflect a lick from Delilah.
A chorus of ‘okays’ from Miranda, Connor, and Mario completed the inventory. Doug slumped against the back of Miranda and Mario’s seat.
“What happened to your jacket?” Miranda asked.
“It caught on fire,” Doug said. “I guess that’s how I got burned.”
“The big med kit was in the other Humvee. We’ve only got the smaller one, plus whatever we’re carrying,” said Mario.
Doug’s brittle laughter filled the cramped vehicle. “That’s great. That’s just fucking great.” He rubbed at his forehead again before adding quietly, “Might try praying, guys. It can’t hurt.”
32
The stretch of road leading up to the reservoir was completely overgrown. Road was too generous a description. It was more like a washed-out mud track overrun with nature’s version of barbed wire. But there was a house just ahead that they had almost missed from the highway. Others might miss it altogether. Miranda could see its dim outline, a dark shape against a darker background.
Her shoulders felt like they were on fire. She lifted a heavy arm to hack at prickly brambles as tall as the Humvee’s roof. Muscle memory—lift and swing, strike and cut—was the only thing that kept her moving forward. She winced with every swipe of the machete; her blistered palms and fingers had long since been rubbed raw. Along with Connor and Doug, she had hacked at the thicket of thorns and briars for half an hour, breaking it down just enough for the Humvee to nudge its way through. Finally, impossibly, the thicket began to thin.
“I think we’re through the worst of it,” Connor said.
Miranda pushed through the brambles to stand beside him in what passed for a clearing compared to the thorny hedge. Clumps of grass as tall as a man grew in the semi-open space, whipped in all directions by the wind and rain. A simple clapboard house sagged on the far side of the clearing. Behind the house, closer to the water, stood a collapsing garage.
“Thank you, God,” Miranda whispered. She sheathed her machete and began to wipe at her forehead, then caught herself. It was not likely to make any difference for more than a second. She drew her handgun instead. It felt too light in her hand compared to the Desert Eagle she had lost in the crash on the Expressway. Her hands hurt so much and her arms were so tired that she wouldn’t have had the strength to hold the Desert Eagle anyway.
A moment later Doug caught up to them, looking like he’d been on the losing side of a fight with a pissed-off cat.
“Scout ahead to the water’s edge. I’ll tell the others to drive through,” he said. He turned and disappeared into the brambles.
“You heard the man,” Miranda said, trading a tired glance with Connor. They set off toward the house. Thorns snagged at Miranda’s pants. Dead branches reached up from the ground, tripping her. Miranda stopped once, cocking her head to the side to listen, but only heard the rain. She wished she still had the night-vision goggles she had tossed aside in the chaos of the ambush.
They approached the house cautiously. The front door stood ajar.
“Let’s shut the doors and clear the garage first. It’s smaller and we can do it quickly, then come back to this after we wash off,” Connor said, his voice low. He produced a bungee cord from a pocket on his vest. Miranda kept her gun trained on the door. After a few cautious steps forward, he snatched the doorknob and tied the door shut. Then they separated, Miranda on one side and Connor the other, before meeting again at the back porch.
“Nothing on my side,” Miranda reported.
“Mine neither, and the back door is locked,” Connor said. He leaned against a peeling porch rail. “You up for this, Miri?”
“Are you?” Miranda could not see his shadowed face well but was sure Connor was smiling from the slight shake of his head. She could hear the reservoir now, the water lapping against the land. She wanted to leap into its chilly depths, surrender her blood-contaminated clothes to its cleansing waters. So close, so near, the pull so strong it was almost unbearable.
They headed for the garage in
stead. The doors hung open, one almost off its hinges. A sweeping flash of light engulfed them, then passed. The Humvee was through the brambles.
Miranda reached into her vest pocket, ignoring the flare of pain when her raw hands curled around the flashlight. She switched the flashlight on, then crossed the wrist of her hand that held her gun over her flashlight hand. Connor did the same. They stepped inside the doors and swiveled in opposite directions. Utility shelves, rusted and brittle, littered the floor. Paint cans, tools, a ladder, and lawn chairs lay askew amongst puddles from the leaking roof.
“There’s just a bunch of crap over here,” she said, relieved.
Still, they picked their way through the debris, just to be sure. If a legless zombie lay hidden in the debris, they had to find it. It would start to moan with prey so near, and that would bring a stampede of the undead to their doorstep. By the time they finished and propped the doors shut, the Humvee had parked nearby. Delilah ran to Miranda from the water’s edge, where everyone was shedding their clothes. Everyone but Naomi, who lay inert on the ground, rolled onto her side. Miranda gave the pit bull a perfunctory pat on the head before she and Connor joined in, ripping off their boots and clothes, emptying the contents of their pockets into jumbled piles.
“Put all the clothes together. We’ll wash them all at once,” Doug said.
Miranda’s breath sucked from her lungs as she plunged beneath the frigid surface. Tiny needles of cold pierced her skin. She rubbed at the blood that had seeped through her clothes. The water made her hands hurt even more. Delilah doggie-paddled nearby, not a care in the world.
Miranda emerged from the water a few minutes later, shivering uncontrollably. The air felt downright balmy now, in sharp contrast to the soaked bra and panties that clung to her gooseflesh-prickled skin. She squatted next to Naomi and began to unlace her boots with clumsy fingers. A second later, Doug joined her.
“Leave this to me,” Miranda said. “I’ll get started on the clothes. The house still needs to be cleared and my hands are a mess. I’m not sure how good I’ll be with a gun.”