Turning Point (Book 1): A Time To Die

by Wandrey, Mark

  “You giving up?”

  “No!” the gamer barked, “but I’m out of gas.”

  “If you’re breathing, you can move. Chris, help!”

  Andrew grabbed one beefy arm and threw it over his shoulder. Chris took the other and did the same thing. Wade didn’t complain. Between the two of them, they helped him enough to manage a shuffling jog. Andrew briefly considered a fireman carry, then discarded the idea. His leg was throbbing, and he doubted he could carry the huge man 100 yards.

  “Come on,” Andrew yelled, “we’re almost there!”

  It was a complete lie. Wade was so far gone, he was only looking down and, somehow, managing to put one foot in front of the other. Chris and Andrew carried about three-quarters of his mass. But they kept moving, somehow. Foot after foot, yard after yard, the building was closer every time Andrew glanced up. And so were the ravenous sounds behind them.

  They were just getting close enough to see some of the details on the building, when Andrew heard footfalls, clear as day. He flipped Wade’s arm off his shoulder, spun and clawed at the old military-style flap holster on his hip. The infected man was 20 feet away and coming really fucking fast. He was nearly naked, lean, tanned, and muscled like an athlete. Some part of Andrew’s mind knew that was exactly what he was. Maybe he’d been a distance runner or an Olympic sprinter. It didn’t matter. As Andrew fumbled the M9 clear of its holster and released the safety, he knew he wouldn’t be fast enough. He moved sideways to draw the man away from Chris and Wade. Maybe he would buy them a few moments more of life. “Boom!”

  Before he could raise his pistol, Andrew heard a shot. The head of the crazy who’d been reaching out for him bloomed like a red cabbage, and he flew down into the dirt and rocks face first, skidding to a stop inches from Andrew’s flight boots. A foot away, Chris held his M9 pistol in his hand. The angle was bad, but the shot was flawless.

  “Three gun, remember?”

  “I do now,” Andrew said. He holstered the M9, swung his M16 around, and flipped it from safe, to full auto. “Ears,” he warned the others, a second before emptying the remaining 15 rounds from the assault rifle in one long burst. He raked it left to right across the approaching crowd, now only 150 yards away. At that range, every round was a hit. The attack slowed them, mostly because they were tripping over the fallen, but he would take what he could get.

  Andrew let the empty magazine fall, slapped in another, and grabbed Wade’s arm. Wade was standing there, eyes glazed, gasping for breath. He hadn’t twitched when the gunfire started.

  “Haul ass!” Andrew yelled, and they were moving again.

  Every hundred yards, Andrew repeated the ritual. He sprayed an entire magazine at the closest group. It didn’t stop them from closing the distance, but it did slow them. He was almost certain the gain was worth the pause. The fourth time, he didn’t have a full magazine in his pocket, so he took one from Chris. Once they were moving again, he awkwardly slung the rifle and used his free hand to open his pack. He took out the last six magazines. He looked up and saw that the building was about 400 yards away. Jesus, it was going to be close!

  He planned to use the same routine, when he glanced behind and saw their pursuers had closed to a hundred yards, and were gaining. Running and stopping to shoot wasn’t going to work anymore.

  “Chris!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Take a couple of mags and shoot as we go.”

  “You can’t pull Wade along by yourself,” Chris said as he took the magazines.

  “No,” Andrew agreed as he slung the rifle, pulling the strap to tighten it snuggly, before turning to Wade. “Can you go any farther?” Wade panted and shook his head, chins waggling and sweat pouring from his hair like he’d just come out of the rain. “That’s what I was afraid of,” Andrew said. He took Wade’s left hand and pulled it over his shoulder. The other man didn’t resist. Once Andrew was up against Wade’s chest, he bent over and put his shoulder against the gamer’s solar plexus. Holding Wade’s wrist tightly, he pulled his arm, pushed in and pulled. Andrew wrapped his left arm behind Wade’s knees and stood. Wade’s body went over his shoulders, balanced evenly.

  “Jesus Christ with a jelly doughnut,” Andrew groaned. He felt like Atlas taking the load of the world on his shoulders.

  “Don’t,” Wade moaned.

  “Shut up,” Andrew said as he started walking. Every other step felt like someone was jamming a knife into his leg. The path wasn’t completely level and threatened to turn his ankle at every step. His back screamed under the load, and he desperately wished he’d taken the M9 pistol out of Wade’s waistband before pulling him into the fireman’s carry, because it was right up again his collarbone.

  “God damn, Andrew,” Chris said in admiration.

  “He’s heavier than a fucking Marine. Now shoot those fuckers while I haul some ass.”

  Put one foot in front of the other, he thought, his SERE training coming back to him. In Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape training, they’d taught him that a person could overcome any amount of pain or fatigue, if the body still had enough energy to operate. He’d lived for two days in the swamps of Georgia with a cracked tibia, surviving on nothing more than swamp water and a few grubs.

  “This is nothing,” he growled. Step. “Move your ass, Tobin!” Step. “You ready to quit yet?” He heard the rapid crack, crack, crack, of Chris’s measured firing. He kept going, knowing Chris was the best choice to shoot, and he was the best choice for carrying. “You never…” step, “leave…” step, “a man…” step, “behind!”

  Chris ran past, and it took every ounce of will Andrew possessed not to turn to see if the crazy bastards were about to jump on him. Chris stopped a couple dozen yards ahead, spun around, and knelt as he slapped a fresh magazine into his gun and brought it up.

  “Keep moving,” Chris hissed as he sighted and fired right past Andrew’s head. The sonic crack made him jerk and almost fall. He heard a yelp behind him, and the sound of a body hitting the ground. The impact scattered rocks, some hitting Andrew’s pants from behind. “Don’t look back!” Chris implored.

  Andrew returned to the endless pain and fatigue of bearing a man more than his own weight across the hard-packed desert ground. He knew if he took one wrong step, stopped, or got caught, it was the end. And, if they ran out of ammo, it was most certainly the end.

  “I can walk again,” Wade moaned.

  “Shut up,” Andrew gasped. More steps. Chris raced past him, switching out magazines. “One left after this,” he said as he ran by and turned to shoot. Andrew nodded and kept going. When he looked past Chris, he saw a vast expanse of white steel going up into the sky and curving away to either side. He looked up as far as his burden would let him, and saw a huge UK Petroleum logo. It was a huge oil tank. “Any port in a storm,” he said and took the last hundred steps to the base of the tank.

  Andrew unburdened himself, which unfortunately for Wade, was more like an unceremonious dumping. Andrew ended up rolling over Wade and sprawling on his face, gasping for air, trying not to scream from the pain in his back and leg.

  “Andrew!” Chris yelled.

  Somehow, he found the energy to roll into a sitting position and released his gun’s shoulder strap. The M16 swung into his arms, and his right thumb instinctively flipped the safety selector to single shot. Chris ran toward him, reloading. The oil tank was near the top of a low rise, and he could see the clear line of the highway in the distance. Between them and the highway was a surging sea of insane, bloodthirsty humanity coming at them with murder in their eyes. There had to be twenty thousand or more.

  He also saw dozens of downed bodies, many of them swarmed by others who were tearing into their flesh in a hungered frenzy. Some created big piles, feeding frenzies that further slowed the advance. Chris had done a spectacular job of buying them crucial time.

  He took it all in within a second, including the 10 monsters that were hot on Chris’s heels and were going to catch
him. Andrew sighted in and started shooting. He wasn’t as accurate or methodical as Chris, but he was experienced. It took him thirteen rounds to put them all down.

  “Thanks,” Chris gasped as he ran up. Andrew opened his pack and fished out the last three magazines, handing one to Chris, sticking one in his belt, and holding the other in his left hand.

  “Wade, get the fuck up!” Andrew screamed.

  “Okay,” the man said and, surprisingly, made it to his feet. “Find us a building or something.”

  “Sure,” Wade said, and set out around the tank. Andrew got to his feet, and side by side, he and Chris backed in the direction Wade had gone. In only a few seconds, they heard Wade yelling he’d found something. What he’d found wasn’t optimal.

  “A stairway?” Chris asked.

  Wade found a big box of chain link fencing that protected the bottom few steps of a metal latticework stairway. It climbed at a rather shallow angle around the outside of the tank, up, and out of sight. The tank seemed to rise a thousand feet into the diming sky.

  “Fuck me,” Wade moaned. A few moans answered, and untold thousands answered those. “Open the gate!” Wade yelled, and jerked the handle. There was a huge lock, secured by a chain wrapped around the fence’s bars multiple times. “Goddamn it!” he screamed as he jerked the handle over and over, tears pouring down his face. The growls got closer.

  “Back away,” Chris barked. Wade didn’t argue. As soon as he backed up a couple of feet, Chris let the M16 fall to its sling, whipped out the M9 from his waistband and fired three times. The chain parted and fell loose. Wade rushed in and unthreaded the shattered chain, threw it aside, and jerked the gate open. He rushed up the steps, quickly slowing, but he kept going up.

  “Go!” Andrew exclaimed. “I’ll take the rear.” Chris started up, Andrew right behind him. Less than a second later, the first of the zombies appeared around the corner and sprinted toward the gate.

  He was a huge, hulking man, completely naked, his upper body covered with tattoos and scars. Andrew shot him dead with one round through his forehead. The body hit the lowest metallic step with a disgusting crunch and spray of blood.

  Andrew ignored the screaming in his legs and began going up the steps backward, his legs shaking uncontrollably with each step. Fatigue was getting worse by the moment, and he knew from long practice and the SERE course that he was approaching a wall no amount of inner drive and fortitude could push past.

  Another dozen infected raced toward the entrance. Andrew shot the first one, missed with the next shot, then hit the second, third, and fourth, before the magazine emptied. He performed a rapid swap with the extra in his left hand, and dropped the bolt on a fresh round in record time. It was a good thing as the other eight screaming, and mostly naked, ghouls clambered over the ones he’d shot and had started up the stairs after him.

  Andrew was only a few dozen stairs above them. He fired at almost point-blank range into the first one, a portly, dark-skinned woman. She was close enough that the muzzle blast blew her hair back, and the side of her neck exploded, releasing a spray of arterial blood that stood out in stark contrast to the white of the oil tank as she fell backward into those behind her. The stairs were just wide enough for one person to climb easily, so the others had to fight to get past her. One took the easier meat, ripping into her flesh, further slowing them. Andrew backed up and shot the one behind her.

  Up and back he went until that magazine was empty. It was the same each time, shoot a few, slow them down. The others would feed or climb over, and he’d do it all over. But as the magazine ran out, fewer and fewer showed interest in feeding. They wanted him. And they were getting faster.

  “Reloading!” Andrew yelled.

  “Switch,” Chris said. Andrew spun around, grateful for the chance to use different muscles, and climbed the two dozen stairs between them as quickly as he could, reloading as he went. He almost lost the magazine, and his heart leapt into his throat as it was one of only two they had left. Below, Chris fired and fell back. He’d watched Andrew and was emulating him, except he hadn’t realized the crazies were getting bored with the game. A diminutive woman took a bullet to the head, exposing her brains, but it didn’t slow her. In an instant, she slammed into Chris and knocked him back.

  The M16 fell from his grasp, hanging only by the strap over his shoulder. Chris cried out and grabbed her neck in both hands. She fought, clawing at his face and trying to bite his arm. Andrew leaned against the hot metal of the tank and sighted carefully; he only had two inches to shoot around Chris’ head. Chris screamed as the woman’s teeth inched toward his face.

  Crack! Andrew fired the M16, and the bullet passed through the dome of the woman’s head and down through her neck, exiting through the middle of her back. The impact carried the body backwards and over the edge.

  “Did you get bit?” Andrew asked, helping Chris to his feet.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Chris said, carefully recovering his gun. He got to his feet and checked himself. “I’m fine,” he said. There was no time to recover; they had to keep going, no matter the cost. Chris continued up, while Andrew held the stairs.

  Andrew craned his neck and looked up. The top of the tank was not as far as he’d thought. He decided to try a new tactic. He let a group clamber over the bodies on the stairs, fighting each other to be the first to reach him, then brought the M16 to his shoulder and fired five rounds into the group.

  The over-penetrating .223 caliber rounds passed through the first line of crazies and into the second, and a couple even hit the third. The zombies jerked and fell, and one went over the edge with a strangled scream, cartwheeling 50 feet to the ground.

  Andrew took advantage of every second, turning and hurrying as fast as his tortured, fatigued limbs would let him. Even the low steps were torture; each one felt 10 feet tall and caused bolts of pain to shoot up his leg. The air pumped from his lungs like a laboring steam engine, and sweat rolled off his forehead in a torrent.

  “Almost there,” he huffed.

  Andrew caught up to Chris after casting a look over his shoulder to make sure the crazies weren’t about to overrun him. Wade was just a few steps ahead, only taking a step every second or two. Andrew was about to help move him along when he realized they’d reached the top!

  Wade took the last couple of steps onto the top of the steel tank and fell to his knees, gasping for breath, holding himself up with his hands. Andrew and Chris took up positions at the top of the stairs and waited. It only took a few seconds for the first customers to arrive.

  They fired methodically and carefully. Each shot Andrew made was a center chest shot from less than 10 yards. Sometimes the target went a few steps before falling; sometimes it fell instantly. As the bodies started to pile up, it became progressively harder for the infected to climb over the top, and easier for Chris and Andrew to shoot those who did. If it wasn’t life or death, Andrew would have laughed at the comic qualities of the scene. It reminded him of a Japanese gameshow, Takeshi’s Castle, only with zombies.

  “Almost out,” Chris said.

  “Me too,” Andrew replied. There was a huge, pulsating pile of dead and dying infected. Some still reached toward them, others lay bleeding out; most were already dead. Blood poured off the metal stairs in rivers, much of it in long crimson streaks down the white tank’s sides.

  “There’s a catwalk!” Wade exclaimed. Andrew glanced over and saw Wade on his feet, walking to the far side of the tank. A catwalk was clearly visible leading to another tank, and another past that! It was an entire network of tanks.

  “Go!” Andrew urged. Back on the stairs, they could hear movement. As they caught up with Wade, who was carefully moving along the catwalk, the first head appeared at the top of the stairs. Chris shouldered his rifle and fired. The head exploded and fell back. Another replaced it, and he shot that one, too. His bolt locked back.

  “Empty,” Chris said. Andrew handed him his last magazine.

  “You
’re better with the rifles,” he told Chris as he followed Wade across the narrow, shaky bridge. Chris’s methodical precision fire resumed.

  When Andrew reached the other side, he yelled to Chris and raised his rifle. Chris turned and started across. In the instant it took Andrew to acquire a target, several crazies reached the top of the tank and raced toward them. Andrew shot four, but they kept coming. How many had they killed? A hundred? Two hundred?

  His heart raced as he realized this was probably it for them; there would be no escape. When he crossed the bridge, he passed over a sea of moaning, screaming animals, all looking up and reaching for him.

  When he’d seen there was a way to the other tanks, Andrew had considered going down the far side to escape; however, since the crazies were unable to get up to the top in any great number, they had surrounded their quarry on all sides. There was no way down.

  “We’re fucked,” Wade cried as he slowly crumpled onto his butt. Chris came up to Andrew who stood a few feet from Wade. They were on the tank farthest from the one they’d climbed. Andrew turned and saw a completely naked woman reach the ladder for the tank on which they now stood. Either the security gate was open, or she’d climbed over it. He drew the M9 and shot her twice in the chest without thinking. She staggered and fell over the side.

  “What now?” Chris asked.

  “End of the road,” Andrew said. A stream of insane infected appeared on the next tank over. It took them a moment to find the three men in the twilight, but eventually, they did.

  Chris looked down at the empty M16, let it fall to the sling around his neck, and drew his pistol. He didn’t raise it to fire; instead, he looked at the weapon for a long moment and sighed.

  “I had a friend shoot himself two years ago,” Chris said. “I told myself that, no matter what, I’d never do that. I guess I spoke too soon.”

  Andrew considered his own pistol. The infected were at the bridge to their tank, but had gotten tangled up, fighting to see who got to feed first. He pulled the magazine and checked. Nine rounds, in addition to the four magazines in his backpack. Seventy-nine rounds, plus whatever Wade and Chris had in their pistols. His training to fight to the end began to flag.