“Harley!” he yells through his mask.
“Marcus? That you?” Harley asks, stunned by the appearance of Marcus stepping out of a skull- and flame-painted truck, donning the attire of the Grim Reaper.
“Step away from the car,” Marcus says, raising his scythe in a menacing display.
Harley laughs. “You gonna defend these mutha fuckas? This is my mutha fuckin’ road now, nigga. And I expect my toll to be paid.”
“What do you want?” Marcus asks.
“All their shit. And the bitch,” Harley says, motioning to Sheryl inside the overturned police cruiser. ”It gets lonely out here. We need a good fuckin’ to make it through the day. And when we run out of their shit, we gonna eat the kid.” The other inmates laugh with Harley. “The zombies have it right. Once you taste man, you don’t want nothin’ from a can.”
“Maybe we can work something else out. Take some supplies, but don’t bring no harm to no one,” Willy says as he steps out of the rubble with his hands up.
“This ain’t Let’s Have a Deal, old fool. This is I’m Gonna Steal, and I make the rules,” Harley rhymes again.
Brandon stays curled in a ball, in fear, and Rocky barks nonstop. But Sheryl slowly and quietly moves her pistol into the back of her waistband, just above her ass. She tries to cover it with the bottom of her shirt as she steps out of the cruiser and puts her hands up. She positions herself behind the car somewhat, to block her hips from Harley’s line of sight. It’s cold outside, and her stiffened nipples show through her tight white tank top.
“Damn you look good, girl!” Harley says to Sheryl. “I’m takin’ first crack at this one boys,” he yells over his shoulder, receiving hoots and hollers in response. “Step out from behind the car, sweet thang, and let ol’ Harley see that ass.” Sheryl hesitates, not listening to the command. He snaps. “I said get the fuck over here!”
Sheryl steps out to the side of the wrecked car, still holding her hands in the air. She takes a few steps toward Harley and stops.
“Turn around, baby,” Harley says with widened eyes.
Sheryl turns slowly. Without a coat to cover it, the gun is in plain view through the back of her tank top as it pokes out of her slim jeans.
“Now that’s a nice piece,” Harley jokes. “Lemme get that for you.”
Harley walks over toward Sheryl and reaches out for the gun in her waist. Without warning Marcus flings his cloak open and draws his gun. He squeezes the trigger with a prayer on his lips. The lone bullet fires directly into Harley’s throat. Harley drops his gun and falls backward to the ground with a gurgle. In an instant Sheryl pulls her gun as well, firing at Harley’s men. She manages to drop one with a head shot and clip a second with a round to the shoulder. The others scatter behind the truck. A moment later the delivery truck engine starts and begins to pull away. Willy grabs the rifle from the back seat of the destroyed police cruiser. He cranks off two shots at the tires. A tire blows out and the truck yanks to the left, flipping onto the driver’s side. Willy runs out after it, leaps up onto the passenger side door, and fires two shots down, killing the driver inside the cab. The final car speeds away, but not without Willy blowing out the rear window and putting a few bullets into the gas tank. All that remains is Marcus’ monster truck, the busted up police car, and several dead bodies.
And Harley... He struggles to breathe, still clinging to life with all the strength he has. Marcus stands over him and looks down upon him. He kicks Harley’s gun away and takes a knee beside him, preparing to put him out of his misery. He closes his eyes and prays in silence for the life he is about to take.
The pump of a shotgun beside his head interrupts his solemn thoughts. His eyes burst open to reveal Brandon standing next to him with Willy’s gun pointed at Harley’s face. Marcus slaps the barrel to the side just as Brandon fires. A divot rips into the frozen grass beside Harley’s head. Brandon stares down, blank, emotionless. Rocky sniffs at Harley, having jumped out of the police cruiser when Brandon stepped out.
“This is my kill, little man. You don’t need to be doing this,” Marcus says to him as he stands up to look down over Brandon. “You got your whole adulthood to go killin’ bad guys if that’s what you want. But no child should ever have to take a life.”
“What if I like it?” Brandon says through a haze. He stares at the gushing wound on Harley’s neck.
“You shouldn’t,” Marcus says.
Brandon steps back beside Willy and Sheryl. Everyone stands with gun in hand. With Harley’s and the other marauders’ weapons there will be even more firepower to go around. But Marcus only uses his blade to kill demons. He drops Thompson’s empty gun to the ground, thinking of him and how he died at the prison. Retribution. A life for a life. An eye for an eye. But how do I do it? How do I kill Harley, how do I end it? He thinks for a moment, and then it comes to him. I’ll let God take him...
He kneels beside Harley and removes the mask from Harley’s face. A pool of blood spills out from underneath it. If he didn’t bleed to death he would’ve eventually drowned in his own blood. Marcus watches as he gasps for air. He begins to twitch and shake. His eyes roll back into his head, showing nothing but the whites. Rocky's hair stands on end and he starts to growl and bark viciously at the spectacle. Then every hole begins to purge; piss, shit, and bloody vomit comes out of Harley all at once. Marcus hopes it was fear of eternal consequences that caused this, but he knows it happens when people change. It happens to all of them. Marcus stands up. When Harley’s yellowed eyes roll back down from their lids, Marcus brings his scythe down onto Harley’s head to finish the job. He dies instantly. Marcus kneels again and says a prayer for his own soul, asking the Lord’s forgiveness for all he’s done. And although he prays for Harley’s soul as well, he convinces himself that a demon like Harley doesn’t need a burial. He takes a few moments to gather himself. As much as he didn’t like Harley, he did spend a significant amount of time with the bastard behind bars. It wasn’t a great loss, but it was a loss nonetheless.
“Y’all are going west?” Marcus asks.
“Past the quarantine,” Willy says.
“You can ride with us,” Marcus says, motioning to his truck.
“Us?” Sheryl asks.
Michael and Amy peek their heads over the dash to see the aftermath of the gunfight.
Amy waves to everyone. “Hi!”
“Marcus has some serious explaining to do,” Michael whispers to her.
CHAPTER 35
Dr. Vogel’s brisk, silent walk is shattered when he hears the distant sound of gunfire echoing off the empty road. I knew there would be a military presence at the quarantine, but I didn’t expect fighting. As he gets closer he sees a helicopter hovering in the air, and a barricade stretched across the road; sandbags, a military truck, and soldiers. It’s like a war zone. Some caution tape and street dividers are set up to prevent people from wandering in from his direction, but they aren’t guarded. A lone makeshift sign reads “military personnel and citizen soldiers only beyond this point.” Dr. Vogel ignores it and moves toward the closest man in uniform.
“It’s dangerous here. You should go back,” the soldier says.
“I’m a doctor. I can help.”
“Okay come this way.” He waves Dr. Vogel forward and leads him toward a tent.
“Truth is, I’m trying to get to the CDC. A man who broke through the quarantine came to my hospital and he seems to be immune to this... whatever this is. I have samples here in my bag.”
“Well, the roads are pretty much all barricaded or jammed with traffic, and the air belongs to the military now.”
“I was hoping I could get a lift in your helicopter,” Dr. Levy pleads.
“Doubt that’s gonna happen. We’re short on manpower right now, and we can’t afford to send our chopper off,” the soldier says.
“This is vitally important. It could mean the end of the disease. I used to work for the CDC, for many years.”
“Well I’m
pretty sure they got samples already. Scientists are going back and forth to study the craters.”
“That may be, but if the sample isn’t from someone who was exposed but unaffected, then it’s no use,” Dr. Vogel reasons. “Is there someone I can talk to about getting my samples into the right hands?”
“Sure. I’ll take you to the colonel,” the soldier says.
He couldn’t look any more like a colonel, Dr. Vogel thinks as he is taken to the man. He’s chubby, with a big, bushy, dirt-grey mustache under his mask, and a few strings of white hair on top of his mostly bald head. He studies a paper map on a fold-out table beside a much younger, lower ranking officer.
“Get these last two areas secure. We’re lucky they’re sticking to the roads right now, but eventually they’re gonna fan out and try to breach. We need soldiers on every inch of this perimeter. And we need radios in every group in case there’s a surge somewhere else. Then we can respond quickly to any attacks with more manpower at their location.”
“Yes sir,” the young officer responds before slicing his hand above his brow and running off.
“Who’s this?” the colonel asks.
“Sir,” the soldier pauses. He never got Dr. Vogel’s name.
“I’m Eugene Vogel. I’m a doctor.”
“I’m Colonel Buford Wallace.” They shake hands. “Let’s see some credentials,” says the colonel. Dr. Vogel pulls out his wallet, where he keeps a hospital ID tucked in one of the flaps. “Here to volunteer?” Wallace asks as he finishes examining the ID.
“No sir... colonel... I used to work for the CDC. I have some important biological samples that I think might be helpful in synthesizing a cure for whatever this outbreak is that we’re dealing with.”
“That’s great Dr. Vogel, but what I’m dealing with here is the brink of war. A civil war. The entire population of the northeast is banging at my door, and I need all the resources I got to keep that door locked. I can’t spare any men to lead you down in a convoy, and I sure as shit can’t give you a chopper lift, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Understood, colonel.” Dr. Vogel is visibly disheartened. I should have known.
“The proverbial shit is about to hit the fan out there. Our men have been fired upon, and we have a bunch of untrained, trigger happy civilians helping us out wherever possible. If it were up to me they’d be gone, but we need every man that’s able and willing to help hold these lunatics back, to keep from spreading the disease even further.”
“With respect, Colonel Wallace, many have already broken through to this side.”
“I know. I know, damn it. It’s been worse in other places, like the big highways, but I have orders. This is just where they sent me and my troops yesterday. My real opinion, this whole thing is useless. It’s only a matter of time before the quarantine has to be widened. They considered it, briefly. They wanted to move it into Ohio and use the roads as borders, since they’re easier to arm, blockade and defend. But it’ll all be for shit when this spreads global. And that’s inevitable, mark my words. It’s a war we can’t win, because it’s not just a war against men. It’s a war against nature’s will, or God’s will, or whatever the fuck you believe. A lot of people already got past the initial roadblocks we set up right after impact. But those were done with just a few local cops and some reflective orange saw horses west and south of the Lazarus point. We just set this one up at dawn. Heavy manpower on all the major interstates, half as much on all these other roads, and patrols in between. We’ve had short firefights and minor skirmishes up and down the borders of the quarantine the past couple days. They flare up at the most random times and places. It’s difficult to predict, but we need to plug the holes if we want to stand a chance.” The colonel strokes his moustache in thought for a moment. “Alright listen. Something’s brewing over there on the other side. I can feel it. After forty years of combat experience, I can just sense it in my bones. When you can’t calculate what the enemy is going to do with all your strategy and your tactical knowledge, you just have to go on gut instinct.”
“Enemy?” Dr. Vogel asks.
“Something’s about to happen. They’re pissed.” He ignores the question. “When this surge passes... and by God I’ll make sure it passes if it’s the last fuckin’ thing I do... I’ll see what I can do to get you a lift down in that direction. It may not be all the way the fuck down to DC...”
“Atlanta...” Dr. Vogel interrupts, correcting the colonel.
“Atlanta... but we’ll need to send the chopper back out for more supplies, weapons, and fuel from our base. Hell, I haven’t even heard from base since 0-300. Lord knows I’ve been trying to get them on the radio. I may be working on stale orders for all I know, but someone’s got to do something. Someone’s got to hold the fuckin’ line! Anyway you can ride with them, but you’ll have to talk your way down from there. All I can do is try to let them know to expect you. I can’t promise anything.”
“Good enough.”
“Until then, consider yourself conscripted to the civilian army. We need medics, and a doctor like you fits the bill just right. When the fighting’s done you’re free to go with the supply chopper.”
“Sounds like a deal,” Dr. Vogel agrees.
“Sounds like a deal, sir. And that’s an order, not a deal.” The colonel nods at the soldier, motioning for him to approach. “Get Dr. Vogel some basic gear and get his ass out there. We need him.”
“Yes sir,” the soldier responds.
Great. Now I’m going into combat. Joanna would freak out if she knew.
The soldier hands Dr. Vogel a pistol and throws a white apron with a red medical symbol on it over his head. "You can leave your samples case with me," he says. "It'll be with the things we're taking to base."
Dr. Vogel is hesitant to part with the samples. He raises a distrusting eyebrow at the soldier.
"I'll personally make sure they're safe. And I'll label them," the soldier offers.
"Fine." Dr. Vogel hands the case over.
The soldier points. "They'll be behind the tent, over there. Chopper leaves for base in three hours, unless there's fighting."
He takes Dr. Vogel out to the barricade. There's a chest high wall of sandbags, and a few feet in front of that is a makeshift wall of poured cement road dividers, stacked three high. After that, they erected those old fashioned wood and razor wire barricades that you see in old WWI movies.
Armed soldiers and local police from the west side of the quarantine are wearing riot gear and carrying live rounds. Word came down from high up that the threat was too great to use the typical water cannons, rubber bullets, and bean bag guns. The barricades must hold. Interspersed with the soldiers and police is the civilian army; regular, average, ordinary guys in their everyday winter clothes carrying whatever guns they keep at home. A certain lack of experience drenches them, but it’s wiped away by their eagerness and determination to protect the land behind them. They all wear US military grade gas masks, with singular, wide view, wraparound glass panels, and filters positioned to the left side and downward, so that their front and peripheral vision isn’t obscured.
The other side of the blockade is mobbed. Some people are chanting in solidarity, others are marching with signs, or sitting in a peaceful “hunger strike” protest. One group stands side by side, linking arms to create a human wall that mocks the military barricade. Around their necks are cardboard signs displaying various quotes from the Constitution and the early founders about freedom. One man who marches up and down the blockade wears a white t-shirt with the words “Man-Feast Deadstiny” crudely scrawled onto it in black ink. He chants “Go west, dead man,” over and over.
But a greater number of people are raging with anger, shouting curses and threats. Many don’t have gas masks. They're west of the impact now, where it's supposedly safe to breathe, but they probably came from the east. They cough and hack as they try to yell and chant. It’s only a matter of time before they turn and start attackin
g anything nearby.
Dr. Vogel sees a thick crowd gathering east of the barricade. He sees the barrels of all sorts of guns being raised in the air, jolting up and down with chants of “Hey, hey, we won’t stay.”
A scuffle breaks out in the protest. One of the protesters’ gun barrels tips down and takes aim. The crowd quickly disperses from the gunpoint, and when the people clear away Dr. Vogel sees an infected woman attacking someone on the pavement. The raised voices and chants turn to screams when the armed protester opens fire upon the woman, riddling her with bullets until she flops lifeless to the road.
“Shit they’re shooting at us,” yells one of the civilian militia men on the west side of the barricade. He fires back, out into the crowd, dropping a few people. The men on the other side immediately open fire in response. The crowd roars and starts to surge at the wall, pushing their way up onto the cement road dividers and climbing over the wood and barbed wire fences. The soldiers dive down behind the sandbags and take aim, firing back at the rebels. It’s war. The quarantine border war. A second civil war.
CHAPTER 36
With everyone loaded into Marcus’ truck, the drive isn’t quiet or pleasant. On Marcus’ insistence, the women are inside the cab, and the men, including Brandon and Rocky, are out in the truck bed with the rest of the supplies. The late morning air has a bite to it that doesn’t melt away with the growing sunlight. With only a half tank of gas left in the truck, Marcus is on the lookout for wrecks, but some straggling dead wander the roadside.
“I got an idea. Let’s play some zombie baseball!” Brandon says. “Marcus, pull up so the zeds are along the passenger side.” Brandon switches his rifle’s safety on, and grips the barrel like it’s a baseball bat. Marcus slows down as they pass one of the risen, and Brandon takes a mighty swing. The shoulder stock meets it’s skull with a crack, sending a stream of bloody goop out into the wind. “C’mon guys, let’s do it! A knock down is a single, a thick blood spray is a double, exposing the brain is a triple, and decapitation is a homerun. I have a man on second. Who’s up next? Willy? Michael?”
The Lazarus Impact Page 17