As they approached, Callan slowed, waiting for a soldier to exit a truck and greet them. He stopped twenty yards short and let the vehicle idle.
“Doesn’t look like a standard army blockade,” Greg said.
“How the fuck do you know?” Callan said.
“From the movies.”
“Maybe they’re stretched a little thin,” Dylan said. “This is all they can afford.”
The trucks were identical, about twice the length of the Jeep, with large, treaded wheels and a square cab for the driver and passengers. The chassis and rear tray wore a mix of light green, dark green and tan paint, whilst the canvas canopy covering the rear showed a more detailed camouflage pattern. A thick black snorkel for underwater driving ran at the edge of the front window alongside the driver’s door. The right truck slanted. Both wheels facing them were flat. Between the noses sat a table full of equipment, including several desktop computers. Beside it stood an upright device that reminded Dylan of an x-ray machine at the airport. Either side of each truck were barricades to prevent cars from driving around. A large white sign stood on a pole and said: DO NOT PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION.
“Should I press the horn?” Callan said.
“No,” Greg said. “Don’t. It might piss them off.”
Sherry pointed to the gap between the noses of the trucks. “Can you squeeze through there if we move that table?”
Greg said, “You don’t want the army coming after you for breaking their blockade.”
Callan made a pinched face. “Doubt it. Not with the boat on, unless I smash it up.”
“What about driving around the trucks?”
The left edge fell away to a steep embankment and sloped down to the river. Tall grass filled a rainwater gutter on the other, leading to another ridge and beyond, a small hillside.
“Looks a bit risky.”
“What’s on the table?” Sherry said. “And the funny thing standing up?”
“It measures body temperature,” Dylan said. “A few years back when the bird flu was happening in Asia, my Dad and I went to China and they had a similar thing at the airports. As long as your body temp wasn’t too high, they let you in.”
“So they’re here to check for the virus,” Kristy said. “Fever must be a symptom.”
Dylan felt his heart beating faster. “I don’t like it. Two army trucks parked in the middle of the road with nobody about. Surely they would have heard us?”
“Maybe they’re in the back,” Greg said. “Keeping out of the rain.”
“We’re gonna have to find out,” Callan said.
“No,” Kristy said, touching his shoulder. “Don’t get out.”
“We can’t wait here all day. If they’ve left for some reason, we’ll have to move a truck. Dylan, grab the axe out of the back, will you?”
Sherry said, “The axe? What are you going to do, chop someone up?”
“We’ve only got a little ammo left. We don’t know what’s out there. Just a precaution.”
Dylan unbuckled his belt and reached over the back seat. He had to move a couple of bags to find the bladed handle. They had all used it with regularity, getting a decent work out each day as they rotated the task of splitting wood.
“Greg, you take it-”
“No,” Dylan said. “I’ll go.” He cursed himself, but Greg had gone to Callan’s aid with the old man. They had to share the load, even if it was a simple check. Callan already hated him. The only way to win credibility was to show some metal.
Callan nodded. Greg took the pump action from beside the seat and passed it to Callan.
“I’m sure you won’t have to use that thing,” Kristy said, squeezing Dylan’s arm. She narrowed her eyes. “Be careful.” Suddenly he didn’t want to help. He wanted Kristy to beg him to stay inside, but she said, “And you too Cal. Just run if… you know.”
Callan nodded and checked the chamber, then opened the door. “Have the shotgun ready,” he said to Greg. “Shoot first and ask questions later. Climb over the front Kristy and be prepared to punch it through that gap in the middle. We’ll move the table.”
“I thought you said we wouldn’t fit?”
“In a choice between our lives and the boat, I don’t give a fuck about the boat. But let’s make sure before we smash it to smithereens.”
They climbed out, shut the doors, and stood beside the car as the rain fell in thick drops, splattering off their faces. Dylan spat water from his lips. In the distance, thunder rumbled. He could barely swallow so he tipped his head back and opened his mouth, but his eyes caught more water and he shook his head to clear them.
They each took an end of the light timber table, and lifted it aside, then did the same for the upright device.
Callan said, “I’ll go first. We go through the middle and take a quick look around the back, see if anybody’s inside either truck, okay?” Dylan nodded. His tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth. He tightened his grip on the long axe handle, holding it in position like a baseball bat.
The rain made soft tapping noises on the canvas tray covers. Behind them, the repetitive swipe of the wiper blades sounded. Dylan noticed an unfamiliar scent through the smell of rain and grass. It became stronger as they crept between the heavy vehicles.
“You smell that?” Callan whispered, screwing up his nose.
“Yeah. What do you think it is?”
“Blood.”
A cold tingle ran up Dylan’s spine. He shifted the axe. “Shit. Are you sure?”
“I’ve skinned enough animals over the past month. I have a bad feeling about this. Just be ready to run.”
Callan tipped his head towards the right lorry, then quick stepped around and lifted the gun to his sight. Several flies buzzed near doors. Dylan watched his impassive face, lips pressed tight.
The Remington wavered, and then Callan dropped it. “Padlocked.”
Dylan felt a pounding pressure in his chest. Jesus, he thought, can a heart really beat that hard? He swallowed again, and his throat cracked. Toughen up, he told himself. You can always run.
Callan nodded at Dylan, then tipped his head towards the second truck, where the doors were open. Dylan lifted the axe. He hated this shit. He wasn’t the macho type looking for action. He had never even had a real fistfight. In grade nine, he had wrestled Stephen Goeby to a draw by administering a fluky headlock, and that was the extent of his fighting career. But he had no choice. If he ever wanted to win Callan’s approval, this was the route. He counted in his head, one, two, three, then stepped around the gate.
An icy spear chilled his heart.
Flies buzzed about inside like a squadron of mini-fighters. Slaughtered army men lay over the floor amongst a spread of automatic machine guns and cases of exposed ammunition. Red streaks covered the walls and roof. Blood had run on the angle into a pool at the back of the truck, spilling over the edge and onto the bitumen. One man sat hunched over another, his head buried in his colleague’s stomach. The rotted eye sockets of numerous victims stared at them.
Dylan opened his mouth to scream. He let the axe fall to the road with a clunk and glanced at Callan, whose face was slack, his mouth an “O”. Callan raised his pump action but its long barrel smacked against the back of the truck.
The feeding soldier looked up.
Red swollen eyes glared at them from a sweaty face beneath thick black hair. He wore a standard issue uniform, green army shirt and pants. A dark stain covered his neck and chest. He licked his bloody lips and a chunk of flesh fell from a mouthful of broken teeth. It snarled, made a low growling noise and stuffed another lump of flesh in its jaws.
“Sh… sh… shoot it man,” Dylan said.
The soldier stood, hunched over, and walked towards them.
Callan lifted the gun and fired. It thundered, and Dylan flinched, feeling a sharp pain in his right ear. The soldiers left arm below the shoulder exploded. Blood and muck splattered the wall. Callan loaded the chamber and the
Remington pump action roared again, but the shot missed, shattering the cabin window with a loud crash.
The soldier kept coming.
Dylan groped for the axe but all his strength and awareness had fled. Oh, shit.
Callan leapt forward and grabbed the right side gate. “Shut it! Shut the fucking door!”
Dylan took the left side and swung it around, meeting Callan in the middle. They twisted the plate and jammed the lower bolts into the tray.
Both boys leapt away. The doors shook as the soldier screamed in rage, pounding on the gate with successive blows.
“Fuck, man,” Callan said. “That was close. I haven’t missed a shot like that for a long time.”
“I can’t believe I dropped the axe.”
The lorry bounced as the soldier continued to flex the doors. He made a low growling sound, like an angry dog.
“He’s an unhappy fucker. Did you see his arm explode? He just kept coming.”
“He’s sick,” Dylan said. “Much worse than the old man.”
“Jesus, I’ve never seen anything like it. You think it’s the virus?”
Dylan felt his pulse still racing. “What else? Rabies?”
“Did you see the guns and ammo? We need that.”
Someone called out from the Jeep. Callan tilted his head in their direction.
Greg was hanging out the passenger side with the Stevens pump action shotgun leaning on the door.
“What?” Callan said as they approached. He could hear the trapped soldier still banging on the gates.
Kristy leapt out the driver’s seat. “What’s wrong? The windscreen exploded and we heard yelling. And what’s that banging?”
“We locked one of them in the back of the truck.”
Sherry leant forward in the back seat. “One of what?”
“It’s much worse than we thought,” Callan said.
“It’s infected,” Dylan said. “One of the soldiers. There must be fifteen dead guys in there.”
“No bullshit,” Callan said. “It’s fucked up.”
“Fifteen dead?” Sherry said. “Are you sure?”
Callan said, “One hundred percent babe. It looks like a butcher’s shop.”
“How did they die?” Kristy said, walking towards the truck.
“No,” Dylan said, stepping in front of her. “Don’t go there.”
Callan glanced at Dylan. “I’d say the soldier killed them. He’s… it’s like a rabid dog.”
“What?” Kristy said. “What do you mean?”
Dylan took a deep breath and spoke in a low, controlled voice, “The soldier was feeding on one of the other army men.”
A long pause.
“Say again?” Greg said.
“That’s it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Kristy said, laughing.
“Do you think it was the virus that made him like that?” Sherry said.
“Viruses can’t turn people into cannibals?” Kristy said.
“I don’t know,” Callan said, “but we both saw it.”
“I need to have a look,” Kristy said. “If you guys are bullshitting-”
“Kristy!” Callan said, grabbing her by the arm. She twisted free of him.
“Leave me alone. I want to see.” Her eyes looked glassy.
“No,” Callan said, pulling her away from the lorry.
“GET OFF ME!” Kristy screamed. Tears fell on her cheeks.
Dylan moved towards them. “Don’t fight.”
Callan shook her. “LISTEN TO ME! The soldier might have this virus. It is eating people. This is not a fucking game, it’s real, and you have to accept it.” He pulled her to him and hugged her as she wept.
“This can’t be happening,” Kristy said. “It just can’t be.”
“It is babe. I don’t know how or why, but it is.”
Dylan rubbed his temples. Things were falling apart. Kristy’s reaction was understandable. Doctors helped people and he knew Kristy had struggled to accept the realities of death. She had witnessed the suicide at the gas station, and the old man kill himself. Now her brother spoke about a truck full of cannibalised dead soldiers.
The lorry shook violently. Bulges appeared in the canvas covering, as though it was trying to punch its way out.
“It knows we’re here,” Callan said. “We have to move the truck.”
“Could it break through the canvas?” Greg said.
Dylan said, “I don’t know. Maybe”
The rain grew heavier, clunking against the hood of the Jeep, as thunder cracked in the distance, rumbling across the hills. Water dripped from their saturated hair onto their faces, and their clothes had darkened.
“Dylan, check the wheels on the other side. If they’re flat it won’t roll out of the way and we’ll have to barge our way through.”
Greg stepped out of the front seat and swung the shotgun up into position, his blonde hair coloured dark by the rain. “I’ve got you,” he said, following Dylan.
He felt comfortable with Greg at his side. The man was reliable, honest. Around town, his word was a binding contract and Dylan had never known him to break it. He had been around guns the longest, and had killed the bulk of the game that fed them with impressive accuracy. Dylan considered Callan’s plan as he went around the back of the lorry. He wondered whether they could remove the key items from the boat. It would save fuel and get them home faster, but they would have to leave half their supplies behind. Callan was right.
They stopped at the rear of the truck. Both wheels were intact.
“How bad is it?” Greg said, glancing at the silent cover.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. They all look dead, except the one whose arm Callan blew off. It didn’t even flinch.”
“I got a feeling Albury’s gonna be in a bad way.”
“Me too.”
“We gotta look after the girls, make sure nothing happens to them, okay?”
Dylan wondered if he specifically meant Kristy. “Sure.” He hesitated, then said, “You like her, don’t you?”
Greg shrugged. “Kind of.”
“Have you told her how you feel?”
Greg shook his head. “I know she likes you. I’ve… accepted that.”
“I’m sorry man.”
“It’s cool.”
Dylan nodded and they emerged at the front of the truck. “We’re good,” he said to Callan. Kristy was in the driver’s seat again. Dylan wished he were sitting beside her.
“There are weapons in with them,” Dylan said to Greg. “Automatic machine guns and a load of ammo.”
“We need it. We’re down to our last few rounds.”
A ripping noise sounded and Dylan jumped back from the lorry. A fist and forearm stuck through the side of the cover, the soldier’s bloody fingers searching for a victim.
“We gotta move!” Greg yelled. He raised the shotgun and took aim. It was best suited for small, speedy game where the shot would disperse into pellets, but at five feet, it was a lethal ball. He unloaded the gun with a noisy report. The soldier shrieked, and fell back into the darkness. “Take that, fucker.” Greg pumped the next shell into the chamber.
Callan stepped up onto the lorry and opened the driver’s door. The lifeless body of another soldier fell to the bitumen with a dense thud. A gaping wound in his neck glared at them with crimson fury. Dylan felt his stomach rise.
“Jesus!” Callan screamed. He slipped inside the cab and fiddled with the controls. The truck began to roll backwards towards the embankment with painful tardiness and Callan leapt from the doorway.
They converged on the Jeep, now streaked dirty by the rain, and Greg resumed his place as the front passenger. Dylan opened the back door as Sherry shuffled to the far side, allowing Callan to get in first.
Kristy stepped out of the driver’s seat.
“No, you drive,” Callan said, slipping inside. “We don’t have time.”
“I can’t Cal. I’m shaking.”
Behind t
hem, the soldier screamed as he rushed the side of the lorry, bursting through with a sharp rip. He landed on the road head first with a sickening thump, and blood spread across the bitumen.
“It’s escaped!” Greg screamed, winding up his window. “Hurry!”
Kristy was halfway around the front of the Jeep, leaving Callan no choice. He pulled himself out, circled the hood where he passed Kristy, and slipped into the front seat.
The soldier climbed onto one knee and shook his head, spraying blood from the split in his skull. He sprung to his feet, then ran at them like an angry gorilla, grunting and slobbering, his red eyes focused on Kristy. A second gunshot wound had blown a flap of his shoulder away, leaving a bloody crater.
Kristy clawed her way to the rear passenger door, yanked it wide open, but froze when she spied the monster from the corner of her eye.
In the background, the truck rolled down the embankment with a thunderous crash.
Kristy screamed, and fell back against the doorway. The soldier grabbed at her throat.
She shrieked. “GET HIM OFF ME!”
Dylan wrapped an arm around her waist but the monster’s grip prevented him from pulling her into the Jeep. Panic swept over him. He couldn’t get past. If he pushed Kristy, she would fall further into its deadly grip.
Greg kicked the front passenger door open, knocking the soldier aside, and sprung from the car. He stepped away and swivelled, drawing the shotgun into position. “YOU WANT ANOTHER ONE?”
The soldier groped, dragging Kristy inadvertently into the firing line. Greg swung the gun around, taking it by the barrel, and struck the wooden butt down on the back of the army soldier’s head with a crack.
The soldier staggered.
Dylan swept Kristy aside with his right hand and kicked out with both legs, pushing the monster away. It teetered backwards, shaking its head, and growling.
Greg took aim, and fired. The shotgun roared and the top half of the soldier’s head disintegrated in explosive ribbons of red. His limp body collapsed in a pool of blood and brain.
Screaming, Kristy swiped at her face and neck. Dylan leapt out of his seat. He drew her to his chest and she fell against him, sobbing and shrieking.
Aftermath (Invasion of the Dead) - Part I Page 5