A moment later the soldiers were in as well, squeezing her between them as they stuck their rifles out open windows and the vehicle leaped forward. There were five of them, one soldier standing in the middle, sticking his body out through a circular hole in the roof, where the machine gun was.
“Hold this,” he shouted to Skye, handing his rifle down to her.
Skye stared at the thing. Of course she had seen them on TV and in video games, but she had never actually held a real gun in her life. She didn’t touch it.
“C’mon, honey, take it!” he insisted again.
“Do it.” The soldier who had saved her, crammed in on her right, spoke softly. He stood the weapon on its stock and guided her hand to the barrel. “Just hold it like that, between your knees. Jay needs to work the sixty.”
Skye didn’t know what a sixty was but learned a moment later when the soldier who must be Jay, standing in the circular hole, opened up with the M60 machine gun mounted to the turret. He fired the thirty-caliber weapon in short, choppy bursts, and Skye cried out first from the noise of it, then from the rain of hot, empty shell casings bouncing down into the Humvee. All the other soldiers, with the exception of the driver, were firing out their windows as well.
The driver was moving fast, the heavy vehicle swaying as he dodged stopped cars and staggering figures. From the middle of the rear seat, Skye would have had a good view out the windshield were it not for the machine gunner standing in front of her. Something thumped against the front of the Humvee.
“Try not to hit them,” said the soldier in the front passenger seat.
“Why not? It saves us rounds,” the driver, a man with the name Martinez on a patch over one pocket, responded.
“’Cause if they go under and jam up the axle, it’s gonna fuck up my truck, Corporal, that’s why not.”
“Copy that, Sergeant.”
Out the right window Skye saw trees and campus buildings passing, the road lined with cars. Beyond them, people were moving stiffly across lawns, wandering in all directions. Everyone she saw wore torn and bloody clothing. And then she saw one moving much faster than the others, a young man with dreadlocks flying as he sprinted and wove among the dead, waving his arms at the Humvee.
“Live one on the right,” Skye’s soldier called out. She had to think of him that way; he had gotten her out of there, and she didn’t know his name.
“Got him,” said the sergeant, and the vehicle slowed. Skye saw the machine gunner shuffle left, and then his weapon started barking again. Brass rattled on the metal decking around her feet.
Skye saw the slow-moving people taking hits, bullets smashing into them. Some were knocked down, others spun in different directions, and one collapsed onto the grass when his legs disintegrated beneath him. Most kept moving, and the one without legs just crawled after the running man, pulling itself along by its hands, just as the corpse had when it fell out the window and landed in front of her and Crystal. Just as she noticed all this, the gunner, whom her soldier had referred to as Jay, shouted down from the turret.
“They’re not going down, Sergeant!”
“I can see that, Hayman! Keep up your fire!” the sergeant said.
The man with the dreadlocks reached the Humvee, and Skye’s soldier—as he turned she saw the name Taylor on a patch over a chest pocket—climbed out and told the man to get in. Dreadlocks scrambled inside, wedging up tight against Skye with a muttered, “’Scuse me.”
Taylor had his rifle to his shoulder and did a half-circle sweep of the area. There were lots of people moving slowly toward them, but no more runners. “That’s it,” he yelled, climbing in. The Hummer started moving before he’d closed the door.
Skye heard the sergeant speaking into a handset, a mix of common language flavored with the kind of numeric, military lingo she’d heard in movies. The radio answered back in the same language. She heard words like sweep, tangos, and sector, and none of it made much sense, but she clearly heard him say, “Four civvies on board.” That had to be her, the kids in the back, and the dreadlocks man.
They left the campus behind and were quickly in the surrounding community, the vehicle turning and the corporal steering around objects in the road as he had been instructed by his sergeant. He banged on the horn and swore repeatedly, and sometimes there would be a crunching noise against the grille. Each time that happened, the corporal grunted, “Fuckers.”
In the back, the girl started crying and the boy held her. The soldiers fired sporadically, and every once in a while the machine gun made a harsh ripping noise. The vehicle kept moving, accelerating, slowing, then accelerating again.
“Ain’t this some pretty shit?” Dreadlocks asked of no one in particular. He shook his head and looked at the floor. “Ain’t this some shit?”
Skye suddenly remembered Crystal’s cloudy eyes as her sister snapped at her, and she forced the thought away. She made herself focus instead on the weapon she held upright before her. The barrel was smooth and cool against her palm, and she ran her eyes down its length. Games, movies, and television had given her more of an education in the structure of an assault rifle than she realized, for she understood a lot of what she was looking at, even if she didn’t know what it was called. The barrel and the muzzle were easy enough, and the opening at the end was smaller than she would have expected. A rubberized grip under the barrel was there to steady it, and this was a scope on top, with a red lens. Did that mean you could see in the dark with it? She didn’t know. There was where the clip went in, and behind it was the trigger and the pistol grip. She hefted it, surprised that it didn’t weigh more.
“Six point three six pounds,” said Taylor.
Skye glanced at him. She hadn’t realized he was watching her. “It’s light.”
“Not so light when you have to grip it by the barrel and hold it extended at arm’s length. Then it gets heavy awful fast.”
“Why would you have to do that?”
Taylor shrugged. “Mostly in basic, as punishment for being a screwup.”
The sergeant turned in his seat, and Skye saw that his name patch said Postman. “Private Simpkins, you good to go?” Postman asked.
The soldier to Skye’s left gave his sergeant a thumbs-up without looking back.
“And on the topic of screwups, Taylor,” Postman said, “quit flirting and keep your eyes on your sector.” The young soldier grinned at Skye and went back to watching out his window.
Skye looked at Taylor. He was handsome, not Abercrombie-model handsome, but with a rugged appeal. She decided he was maybe twenty. Then she went back to looking at the rifle, no longer afraid of it and curious. There were a couple of small levers near the clip—the magazine, she corrected herself—which would probably be a safety, and a way to take out an empty magazine. The whole rifle had a smooth, solid feel to it, despite being made mostly of plastic. Could she handle it if she had to? She decided she could, if she had someone to teach her. She glanced at Taylor’s profile, and then the image of her dad being pulled down hit her hard. Guilty tears burned in her eyes, and she committed to herself that she would learn how to use it, so she could kill them. Kill them all.
The radio spoke, and Sgt. Postman responded. He told the driver to turn left ahead, checked a plastic-coated map he was holding on one knee, ordered a right and then another left. He pointed. “Right there. Right in the intersection.”
The Humvee came to a smooth stop, and the call of “Security out” had doors opening. Postman, Taylor, and Simpkins exited the vehicle, leaving Corporal Martinez at the wheel and Jay Hayman in the turret. The dreadlocks man tried to get out too, but the driver looked back. “Stay put,” Martinez said.
The man glared at the corporal and then sat back, sighing dramatically. “Ain’t this some pretty shit?” Skye decided she didn’t like him. She didn’t know why.
• • •
Out on the pavement, Private First Class Taylor stood next to his sergeant. The intersection was free of vehicles, but
they quickly saw that an accident up ahead had backed up cars behind it. Doors stood open, the vehicles abandoned. Somewhere beyond them something burned, making a column of dark smoke. The side streets held only cars parked along the curbs.
“Morning rush,” said Taylor. “There should be more cars in the streets.”
The sergeant nodded. “Yeah, but other places are jammed so tight you can barely walk. Why should any of it make sense?”
“Copy that,” said Taylor.
Three blocks to their right, a military truck with six wheels and a canvas cover—a “six-by”—sat in an intersection of its own, men in camouflage moving around it.
“That’s First Platoon,” said Postman. “They’re setting up blocking positions.”
Taylor looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Blocking positions? Does the brass think these things are going to mount some sort of offensive? They’re scattered and completely disorganized.”
“Do you see any stars on me, Taylor? I don’t know what the fuck they think. Our orders are to hold here and watch for civilians until we get instructions.” He nudged the PFC. “But the next time the generals sit me down and ask me how to run their wars, I’ll be sure to voice your concerns.”
“Good. Don’t forget.” Taylor’s eyes crawled over parked cars and doorways, then up to rooftops. They were now in a more commercial part of Berkeley, an older neighborhood with ground-floor shops and apartments above. “What do we do with civvies if we find them? We’re full up.”
Postman pointed toward the green truck. “We send ’em down to First Platoon.”
Taylor used his rifle scope to look down that way. Lots of doorways and alleys, plenty of places for the dead to hide. Those three blocks would be a long walk. “We going to send these guys down there?”
The sergeant glanced at the Hummer, then at the distance to First Platoon. “Not just yet. Let’s see what happens.”
The radio summoned Sgt. Postman back to the vehicle, because they were only a Guard unit and weren’t equipped with the personal-headset and throat-mic radios issued to regular units and troops overseas. He returned a couple of minutes later and moved around to the hood, snapping his fingers to get his squad’s attention. “That was Sergeant Rodriguez,” Postman said. “Second Platoon is engaged to the east.” They all glanced to their rear, as if expecting to see soldiers fighting.
Postman looked at his men. “Remember your briefing, and what we’ve seen. We need aimed, single shots, so shooting on the move is going to be pointless. We’ll conserve ammo.” Pvt. Hayman made a sour face, his big, lethal toy no longer of much use. Machine guns were not precision weapons. He reached down and took his rifle from Skye’s hand, then started turning in a slow circle, looking for trouble. “Rules of engagement remain the same,” Postman continued. “Fire on a freak only if you’re certain it’s not a wounded person walking slowly.”
“They got to get too close for that!” said Simpkins from the opposite side of the vehicle.
“You’ll just have to work it out.” The sergeant turned to cover his own sector.
Taylor watched an empty street. And why was that? he wondered. All the streets of Berkeley had at least a few freaks wandering around. Had this neighborhood been evacuated already? He doubted it. The one civilian evacuation plan he had heard of had been a clusterfuck that quickly turned into a buffet for the walking dead.
The radio squawked with requests for situation reports and several demands for medical airlift. One panicked call for an artillery fire mission made them all glance at one another. A distant crackle of gunfire drifted on the air, along with a far-off siren and the thump of rotor blades. It was coming from behind them, where Second Platoon was supposed to be. Sgt. Postman moved closer to listen to the radio, as Taylor caught movement at the edge of his vision. He snapped the rifle up and tracked the scope in that direction, moving it over cars, over sidewalks, even up across second- and third-story windows.
He saw curtains and blinds moving, pawing hands and dead faces pressed against the glass. Taylor shuddered. How many were trapped inside these buildings? How many were still alive, afraid to leave the safety of their locked apartments? What would happen to them? So many, so fast . . . His National Guard unit in Richmond had been mobilized at four A.M. that morning, and after a quick briefing at the armory, where they drew their weapons and gear and learned the rules of engagement, they were rolling. Information was sketchy and incomplete, most of it beyond believing, but here it was all around them. They had been told only that the freaks (no one had come up with a catchy name for them yet, but Taylor had faith in his military brethren) may or may not be contagious. There was some talk about a fever, speculation about biological warfare, and some completely crazy nonsense about the infected actually being the walking dead. That last part was quickly determined to be true.
The numbers of the dead were steadily increasing, spilling into the streets. Civilian police were being overrun, and the few scattered military units in the area were overwhelmed. Those with Internet access stated that it was everywhere. Taylor heard a captain outside the armory speaking softly with another officer, saying the situation had already passed the point of control.
More movement, on the street now, about midway up the block: an old man, shoulders hunched, shuffling out between two cars. He was bald and wore a gray sweater, and dragged one foot as he walked. Taylor sighted on him. Through the magnification of the sight he searched for blood on the old man’s clothes. He didn’t see any. Hell, he thought, his spine could be dangling exposed or the back of his head chewed away and I wouldn’t know it from this angle.
More staggered out from doorways and between buildings, men and women, a couple of kids, a wide variety of races and ages. Zombies, the ultimate diversity group, Taylor thought. There were more than a dozen, all of them torn up, and they followed the old man into the street. He shuffled on toward the Humvee, head down.
Taylor put his sight directly on that bald head, searching for a torn ear, a fleshy rip, something. And then the old man lifted his head, and Taylor saw his eyes, bright and wide, his face pinched with effort as he tried to shuffle faster. He looked over his shoulder at the horde coming after him and let out a little cry.
“Oh shit, he’s—”
A single rifle shot cracked over Taylor’s head, and he saw the old man take the hit in his stomach. He winced, grabbed his belly, and fell to his knees. “Got him!” Hayman yelled from the Humvee turret.
“Hayman, he’s alive!” Taylor started in that direction, still using his sight. A rising groan came from the street as the horde caught up to and swarmed the kneeling man, tearing him apart.
“Motherfuckers!” Taylor opened up, planting his feet and squeezing off rounds into the crowd. Bullets thumped harmlessly into shoulders and chests and thighs and necks, until Sgt. Postman smacked the back of Taylor’s helmet and yelled, “Head shots, goddammit!” Taylor took a deep breath, sighted, fired. A woman’s head popped a little pink cloud behind it, and she collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
Hayman began firing again and shouted, “Action rear!” On the far side of the Hummer, Simpkins went to the back of the vehicle to add his fire. The dead were approaching in the direction from which the soldiers had come, a crowd as wide as the street, bodies at the edges bumping along parked cars. They came on slowly but didn’t even hesitate when one of their number went down to a head shot. The dead walked over the fallen, and a couple out front moved faster than the rest, in a sort of sidestepping gallop, arms flailing.
“Action left!” Corporal Martinez called out, stepping from the driver’s seat, sighting his rifle down the new avenue and opening up. Soon, all five soldiers were firing, shifting direction as more and more creatures moved into the street, bloody parodies of people.
• • •
Inside the Hummer, Dreadlocks whipped his head left and right, looking at the scenes playing out beyond the windows, his hands beating a nervous tattoo on his kn
ees. “Shit, shit, shit,” he whispered, again to no one but himself. Skye edged away from him. In the back, where there were no windows, only the closed, curved rear hatch, both the boy and the girl were crying now.
Without warning, Dreadlocks jumped out of the vehicle. Skye saw him run to the right and disappear near the back of the Hummer where the firing was constant now, and then a moment later he appeared again, running left, his head still whipping in every direction. Through the windshield Skye saw him sprinting up the street with the traffic accident in the distance. A scattering of lurching figures jerked toward him all at the same time and started to move faster, and Skye was reminded of the way schools of fish all changed direction at once. Dreadlocks slid to a stop, looked left and right, and then darted left, out of sight between two buildings.
High-pitched screams came from there a moment later.
Skye discovered that panic is infectious. She bolted from the Hummer, seeing Taylor and the sergeant each kneeling and firing single shots, one after another, into a growing crowd. Bodies fell, but not enough. Their numbers swelled as new arrivals slid in from every direction. As Dreadlocks had done, she ran to the rear, where Simpkins was firing into a wall-to-wall mass of the dead, surging forward. Cries of “Reloading!” came from all around.
Up in the turret, Hayman heard a strangling screech to his right and looked down to see Corporal Martinez on his back near the driver’s door, covered in half a dozen growling freaks. “Sergeant!” He turned and fired down into the new swarm, shell casings spinning through the air and peppering Skye. She didn’t notice. She was frozen in place, arms hanging limp like the creatures that were steadily approaching, now less than thirty yards away. Her stare was fixed on one shuffling figure, its chest open, exposing torn organs and a broken rib cage.
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