I pressed the PTT button. “Thanks, Sid. You navigate until we’re clear.”
“Will do,” he replied as I slid off my headset and turned in my seat to face the rear of the carrier. My shirt was dripping with sweat and my throat was as dry as sandpaper, but I was alive. All of us were, though from the look on Dawson’s face, it had been too close a call for her liking. I glanced at Jo, who mouthed the words “are you okay?”, so I motioned for her to come up to the front of the APC. She crawled across the jump seats and stood in front of me, her left hand gripping the turret cage to stay upright.
“I’m okay, Jo – are you okay?” I asked, wiping the sweat away from my eyes with the sleeve of my combat shirt.
“You’re bleeding,” she said, her face awash in concern. “Did they … did they bite you? Is that why you’re bleeding?”
I shook my head. “No – that’s what happens when you bump your head after having a lousy dream. Nobody got bitten, Jo. We’re all together and we’re going to make it out of here, okay?”
She let out a huge sigh of relief and then threw her arms around me. She buried her face in my chest and started sobbing. I pulled her close and whispered gently in her ear.
“I know it was insane here for a few minutes, Jo. It was scary for all of us.”
She sniffled loudly and gazed up at me. “I thought you got bitten … I thought you were going to turn into a creeper. I don’t want you to die. Mom died and …”
I kissed the top of her head and squeezed her hard. “I promised you I would never leave you and I meant it. I’ll fight an entire battalion of those monsters to protect you and so will everybody else. We all love you and I’m not going anywhere, got it?”
She sniffed again and said. “I got it. I’m okay now – just real scared about everything. There’s no place to hide out here.”
“There’s an entire world of places to hide,” I said, correcting her. “And where we’re going, there won’t be any need to hide from the creeps because there won’t be any creeps.”
“A-Are we going to make it there?”
I nodded. “Jo – we are definitely going to make it there. We don’t have any other choice. Now I want you to go back to your spot and try to get some rest, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, giving me another hug. “I’m sorry I got upset.”
“Don’t sweat it, now, go get some kip.”
She scrambled back over the jump seat and slipped the helmet onto her head as I spun around and gazed out through my periscope. We’d made it out alive – this time. But I had no idea how many more “this times” we’d have until the monsters would finally succeed. As the nose of our carrier cleared the cloud of diesel exhaust, I saw miles of rolling farmland ahead, and Cruze’s panel markers in the distance. I exhaled heavily as I felt my throat tighten. My hands were shaking and my eyes began to blur through a stinging film of tears.
“I gotta stay focused,” I whispered to myself, biting my lip so hard that it started bleeding. “I can’t … I won’t fall apart.”
15
Doug told me our radio was the reason for the drained battery. A damned freaking ancient vehicle radio set dating back to the early 1960’s. Something inside its pre-transistor era circuitry had sucked the juice on our carrier’s battery set dry and it was a miracle Ark Two’s batteries hadn’t been sucked dry as well. As long as the carriers were moving, the engine generated enough power to recharge the batteries but not when they were shut down. We decided to use man packs for communication from now on whenever we went to ground.
We kept on driving for another 90 minutes. Our APC’s rolled across acre upon acre of farmland and, every few miles, fording streams of ice-cold water flowing in from the mountains 200 km away. We’d gone hatches up at first light, each of us armed with a carbine and a new determination to make sure we’d never have another close call like the one we’d just lived through.
Every military history book I’d ever read said that soldiers have always dealt with the aftermath of a battle in their own private way. Some write letters home to family, while others immerse themselves in cleaning their weapons or sharpening their bayonets, preparing for the next inevitable skirmish. But the only thing going through a soldier’s mind during these relatively silent periods is a gambler’s game, wondering what the odds are of making it out of the next battle alive. It’s probably how the human mind is hard-wired. Nobody has time for post-traumatic stress disorder anymore – we’re all too busy trying not to get torn to pieces.
For our team of survivors, there was vehicle maintenance to perform as soon as we reached a safe place to stop.
I swung my hatch door in front of me to act as a wind screen as I gazed over at Ark Two. Pam Cruze was standing tall and proud, her face a mask of determination as her carrier bounded over the uneven ground. I felt a small nudge of envy as she glanced my way, sending me a short nod that told me everything was okay with her team. Even though Cruze was the same age as me, she possessed qualities that I didn’t. She always kept a sharp, business-like approach to those of us left alive, and it didn’t matter if she was doing something as insignificant as drawing up a sentry list or assigning tasks for her team. There was purposefulness to Pam Cruze that I lacked, and I secretly wished I could be even one tenth as brave as she was.
I’d have been happy if Pam was leading our group and I’d even pushed for her to take command but she told me to get my head out of my ass.
We kept a healthy distance from the small farmhouses that dotted the landscape. Dead livestock lay rotting in the fields, fallen victim to either starvation or disease. Most were ripped open, their ribcages exposed to the dry, dusty air, and we couldn’t tell whether they’d been eaten by creeps or coyotes. We could have gone scrounging, but after our run-in on the outskirts of Airdrie, I think every one of us wanted to put as much distance as possible between our APC’s and built-up areas. I pulled my map out and oriented it to the rolling farmland. By my estimation we’d pushed on a further 30km from where we’d gone to ground. We were probably somewhere between the tiny village of Cremona and the town of Carstairs. I folded up the map and stuffed it back in my pocket as I hailed Cruze on the radio.
“Ark Two, how’s your levels?” I asked.
Cruze ducked down into her hatch and reappeared a few seconds later, her eyes fixed firmly on the way ahead. “We’re about three quarters full. My boat is running a little hot, though.”
“Roger,” I replied. “We’re closer to Cremona than we are to Carstairs – it’s probably a good idea for us to stop and check fluid levels.”
“Sounds good to me,” she answered. I raised everyone in our carrier on the intercom.
“Bring her to a stop, Doug. Listen up, everyone … we’re going to do some quick carrier maintenance before we press on. Get out the oil, the coolant and the tool kit. Sid, you’ll help Doug while Dawson and I keep watch. Be ready to move out on a minute’s notice.” The air brakes hissed as the carrier pulled to a stop, and Doug lowered his driver’s seat and removed the engine panel. I climbed up top along with Dawson, our weapons at the ready. We’d stopped in the middle of a field that probably had gone fallow the year before; the ground was chalk-colored and the chill morning breeze kicked up small plumes of topsoil that drifted across the front of our carrier. An old barn, grey and weathered after decades of unrelenting prairie wind, stood about 500m to our right. The closest farmhouse had burned to the ground and the only sign that human beings had ever lived there was the crumbling foundation poking up out of the scorched grass.
There were also charred human remains.
“They’ve been there a hell of a long time,” said Dawson. “Probably died in the first month or so – just like pretty much everyone else. I wonder how fast it spread out here, in the rural parts of the province.”
Jo called out to me. “Is it safe for me to come up top? I don’t want to be stuck inside anymore. I feel like a sardine.”
I scanned the area for any signs of creeps
or survivors, and reached down into the rear of the carrier to pull her topside. Jo crawled over to the turret and took a seat on the hatch cover. “You wanted to be a help,” I said cautiously. “So here’s your job: sit tight on the turret and keep a lookout for Doug and Sid. If you see anything that looks like a creep you start shouting, okay?”
She blinked. “Okay … but what if I see something else – someone like us?”
“One second,” I said. I dropped back into the carrier, reappearing a moment later with a pair of binoculars. I knelt down in front of Jo. “Good thing you mentioned that, kiddo. See, I always knew you were way smarter than me. All right, here’s my binos – you know how to use them. If you see anything, creep or otherwise, you let us know. And then you high tail it back down into the carrier.”
She nodded firmly as Sid Toomey jumped down from the side of the carrier, a cotton duck tool bag in one hand, and a flashlight in the other. He did a quick walk around the hull to look for any visible signs of damage and then crawled underneath.
“The hull looks okay,” he called out. “No damage to the prop-shafts.”
“Good!” shouted Doug Manybears. “Now get back in the boat and find me some oil – we’re down about two quarts. And some water, we need to top off these batteries.”
Cruze’s carrier was parked about 200m to our left, and I could see Melanie Dixon and Kenny checking the trim vane while Cruze stood lookout. I did likewise, keeping a watchful eye for movement from a copse of poplar trees on the horizon. “Please tell me we won’t need a slave again, Doug, because our cable is somewhere on the outskirts of Airdrie,” I said as I pulled out a dipstick that was as long as my leg.
Doug’s head popped up through the crew commander’s hatch. He had a smear of grease across his forehead and a large aluminum funnel in his hand. “That’s why I packed a spare,” he said with a wink. “It’s under the secondary floor panel in the rear.”
“You are a wise man, brother. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
Sid Toomey climbed up the side of the carrier and tossed his flashlight into the turret. “Geez, do you two guys need a room or something? I’m gonna gag here.”
“He’s not my type – not enough Sarcee in him,” said Doug. “Also, he’s the wrong sex.”
“Mmmmm sex,” Sid purred. “I’d forgotten what that looked like.”
Dawson tossed a shell casing at Sid, hitting him in the side of the head. “Yeah – maybe can the potty talk when we’re around you-know-who?”
Sid’s face flushed red and he quickly climbed into the turret. “Sorry about that – didn’t see the midget there. I’ll do a disappearing act.”
I glanced at my watch. “How much longer until we can get rolling, Doug?”
I heard a few clangs from the engine compartment, followed quickly by a string of angry sounding words in the unmistakable dialect of a First Nations person with a huge knot in his face. “Assuming this piece of crap starts up properly, maybe five minutes. Don’t get your hopes up, though – I’ve been wrong before.”
“We can get it going, though, right, Doug?” said Dawson, her eyes fixed firmly on the old barn.
His head popped up through the driver’s hatch this time, wrench in hand. “If I have anything to say about it, we will,” he replied. “Toomey is just topping off the batteries with water. Once he’s done, I’ll try.”
I glanced over at Cruze’s carrier and she threw me a wave. I nodded back, then gestured that I was going to hail her on the radio. “Jo … we’re going to leave in a few. Want to hop back inside and get me the man pack? Oh … and maybe a granola bar or something, my stomach is growling.”
“You bet,” she said, dropping back in the rear hatch. I heard the sound of gear being moved around down below, and in seconds Jo stood up and heaved the radio onto the top of the hull. “Here you go – I’ll come back in a minute with a granola bar for everyone.”
“Thanks, kiddo,” I said, grabbing the handset. “You’re like our nanny. I always wanted one of those.”
“I’m not a nanny,” she said with a slight edge to her voice. “I’m part of this team so don’t talk to me like I’m just a kid, okay?”
I grimaced and felt my face beginning to redden. “Um … I guess you told me. Sorry, Jo.”
“Uh-huh,” she said as she started shifting kit around the back of the carrier.
I knelt down to fiddle with the squelch for a moment and then hailed Cruze through the handset. “Ark Two, we’re going to move out in five if you guys are ready.”
The radio hissed. “All our levels are good, no damage to the carrier. We can leave as soon as you give the word. Where do we want to RV?”
I pulled out my map again. ”Stand by, Cruze,” I answered. “I need to shoot a bearing and Doug needs to start up the rig. If we’re dead in the water again, we’ll need a boost.”
“Roger that,” she said through a haze of static.
I unfolded the map and chewed my lip for a moment, studying possible access routes that would keep us clear of built-up areas. The closest military detachment that wasn’t in a city was Alsask on the border between Alberta and Saskatchewan. That would be our first destination and I hoped like hell there would be some remnants of what used to be the Canadian army for us to link up with. The best thing would be to avoid even the smallest towns and head on a north-east bearing – that meant a combination of cross-country driving and using cattle-and-grain-farm back roads from Carstairs to the border. And, at some point, we’d have to cross over Highway Two. There would likely be roamers because of the inevitable car pile-ups. I decided that we’d drive up until we were a few hundred meters from Highway Two, and do a little reconnaissance.
I poked my head into the driver’s hatch and said, “Doug – you ready to roll?”
He nodded as he replaced the engine panel. “Yep – everyone good to go?”
I glanced back over my shoulder to see Jo waving at me and Dawson’s legs standing on the jump seat. Sid was seated comfortably in the turret, so I gave Doug a thumb’s-up and told him to start the carrier.
He leaned over to disengage the neutral start switch and then pressed the start button. To everyone’s surprise, Ark One started up without even a groan of protest. I patted Doug on the shoulder and grabbed my handset for the intercom.
“Sid and Dawson – cover me. I’m jumping off to shoot a bearing.”
I lifted myself topside and scampered down the nose of the carrier, onto the hard dusty ground. I pulled out my Silva compass and looked out on the horizon line for the tallest object I could find. In seconds I’d spotted it; an electrical tower about 5km away. I pulled out my map, oriented it to the ground and then scanned it for a symbol showing where there might be power lines in the area. As luck would have it, the map didn’t show me a damned thing, so I quickly shot three bearings and did a three point resection to confirm my place on the map, just as I had learned from Sergeant Green. We were precisely 8 km from Carstairs – the power line would have to suffice as a reference point. I’d shoot another bearing when we arrived, and then another one after that; I wasn’t going to take any chances after my colossal cock-up the night before.
I folded the map and stuffed it in my pocket. According to the resection, the highway should be a few kilometers past the electrical tower. There was some high ground near a junction with grid road 83, so it seemed as good a spot as any to survey the main Edmonton highway for any possible threats.
In minutes I was back in the crew commander’s hatch. I slipped on my headset and raised Cruze on the radio. “Ark Two – confirm this location for me, over.”
The radio hissed. “Ark Two, send, over.”
I squeezed the handset. “Grid 923 561. Verify, over.”
A gust of wind blew a cloud of dust a few feet away from the nose of the carrier and I crossed my fingers this time, hoping Cruze would confirm the grid reference.
“Ark One, it checks out,” said Cruze.
I heaved a sigh of relief and sa
id, “Thanks, Cruze. We’ll RV at the electrical tower on the horizon. Once we get there we’ll have a quick scan of Highway Two – we need to get safely across.”
“Good plan, Dave,” she answered. “We’ll steer clear of Red Deer. Where’s our final destination today, do you figure?”
I pressed the handset and the radio crackled. “A place called Dinsmore. Highway 582 runs through it, and the map shows we should be pretty much alone the entire way. It’s around a 120 clicks from here. Your fuel topped up?”
“Yeah, we’re good,” Cruze answered. “Looks like a decent route to take for now. Let’s hope we don’t run into any unwanted company along the way.”
“Roger that,” I said, feeling a nudge of comfort that Cruze agreed with my plan. “Let’s roll.”
“On it,” she answered, her radio hissing loudly.
16
We ate on the fly.
Individual Meal Packs, or IMP’s, taste pretty lousy even when they’ve been heated. Eating them cold does little to kill the nasty flavor of the damned things. The aluminum pouches are often half-filled with liquid, so depending on what your meal is, it might be dripping wet. Naturally, I got another ham omelet which looked more like an over-stretched hockey puck – assuming hockey pucks are yellow disks with flecks of mystery meat inside. I washed it down with a cup of instant coffee – again, cold. We’d decided early on that we’d have our hot meal after we secured a safe zone in Dinsmore. Usually a hot meal would be something to look forward to, but IMP’s leave little to the imagination, so you need to pretend you’re eating something else entirely or you’ll go nuts. Still, I think everyone in my carrier was thankful for being together as a group, and for having survived another day.
It took us a good 20 minutes to arrive at the electrical tower. The steel and iron skeleton stood five storeys high and if you followed the power lines, you’d see another electrical tower every 1000m or so. The ground was flat and relatively free of obstacles, though we had to cross over a number of grid roads. I fought the urge to use them, even though it meant everyone in our two APC’s bounced around like they were ping pong balls. We didn’t want to raise massive plumes of dust that would attract creeps or survivalist nut jobs.
The North: A Zombie Novel Page 11