“We must be getting close,” Brandon says. “That means Pittsburgh isn’t too far. We should get off the highway soon. It’s going to get dangerous as we pass by the city.”
“He’s right. We barely got out of the New York City area alive. We ran from a swarm of these monsters, and then all the roads were in gridlock.”
“Could be fun though.” Brandon smiles.
“We ain’t got much ammo,” Willy says. “Anyone got a map?”
“I do,” Brandon says.
“We need more detail than that computer printout. Need to see a road map,” Willy explains.
“I think I have one in the glove box,” Marcus answers. “Let’s see where we can turn off.”
Amy approaches Brandon. She holds the note that her mother wrote to her. She’s been reading it over and over on the drive. “Hey. I’m sorry I tried to kill you,” she says, almost playfully.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry I killed your parents,” Brandon returns the light hearted attitude.
“But seriously. I’ve been thinking about it, thinking about what this note said that my mom left for me. They may have both started to get sick even before the windows broke. When you shot my dad, you might have been putting him out of his misery, and stopping him from changing too. When I got there, my mom was tied up in a chair. She already changed. Maybe my dad was just trying to keep her alive in case there was a cure.”
“But your dad was fine. He had a gas mask on, right?” Brandon asks.
“Yeah, but something tells me he put it on too late. I don’t know. The way this letter is written, it’s like they knew they were both about to die.”
Michael walks over. “What are you doing talking to this psycho?”
“Michael, just stop it, will you?” Amy says.
“Stop what? Telling the truth?” he sarcastically replies. “About Brandon? About Marcus?”
“No just... stop being a fucking dick to everyone,” she mumbles. Michael rolls his eyes and there is silence between them.
Marcus walks over, having heard his name. “Found some county roads that might be a little safer. We can try those, but it still might be rough as we get close. I bet all the roads are patrolled and barricaded.”
“Hey you guys should come with us to the compound,” Brandon offers Amy.
“Compound?” Michael asks.
“Yeah. My girlfriend’s family has this big farm where they’ve been preparing for a doomsday scenario. They’ve got water, food, shelter, weapons, and probably power too,” Brandon explains. “She said I can bring whoever I wanted.”
“Thanks but we’ll just go our own way after we cross the border. I’m fully aware of what those kinds of places are like, and the kinds of people who do that shit. No way. They’re fucking crazy people,” Michael says.
“We don’t know how dangerous it is over there. This could’ve spread. Who knows, it could be worse,” Marcus adds. “Might be good to have a destination. A place we can settle into. A new beginning. Or even just a place to take a rest and figure out the next move. I’m up for it.”
“I’d rather take my chances fending off an occasional infected person on my own in flyover country than to willingly lock myself into some mid-west, lunatic fringe, gun crazy, ultra-conservative, Christian cult compound.”
“Ay man, why you gotta be so hostile against Christians?” Marcus fights back. He’s finally had enough of Michael’s intolerant remarks.
Michael snaps. “Oh please, Marcus... Don’t get all self righteous with me. Why don’t you tell us all who you really are? Huh? Why not tell us about how you knew those animals on the road earlier? Tell us about the stash of ‘blood money’ you had hidden away in your warehouse from ‘before you went away.’ Why not tell us the truth?”
“Michael...” Amy tries to cut him off.
“Because it’s none of your damn business, that’s why!” Marcus answers with widened eyes.
“No? I’d say it’s right within our damn business, seeing as though we’re traveling with you. I think we have a right to know who we’re riding with,” Michael argues. He turns to the others. “Don’t you guys?” No one answers.
“You’re welcome to walk,” Marcus retorts.
“Just tell us! What are you hiding?” Michael pushes.
“Fine. You wanna know? I’m a convict. The jail turned into a madhouse when this plague hit, and a bunch of us got out. That’s how I knew that fool on the road,” Marcus explains.
“That fool? Seemed to me you were his friend. What’d you do to get sent to jail, huh?”
“I was selling drugs. Someone tipped off the cops, and I...” Marcus hesitates.
“Go on. The truth shall set you free!” Michael mocks him with laughter.
“It was murder.” There’s silence for a moment. “I did other bad things too. Things I never got caught for. But I’m a changed man now. A new man. Harley wasn’t my friend, neither. Sometimes in jail you just get stuck rollin’ with people, or groups of people, whether you like ‘em or not. It’s a hard thing to explain. I tried keeping to myself though, because I am a changed man. Reformed in Christ’s image, as best I can.”
“Yeah sure. That’s what they all say, isn’t it? How typical and hypocritical. He found God in the jailhouse chapel, and now he’s saved! The murders of the past are wiped clean!”
“I never said that,” Marcus says.
Michael folds his arms across his chest, standing proud and satisfied, as if he won some great victory. “You still want to ride with this guy? A drug dealing murderer? A man whose peers deemed him unfit for society?”
“I killed people. Lots of people. In the war.” Willy says. “Also got stuck runnin’ with groups of bad people despite my better judgment. Maybe it’s not the same, but I can understand what it’s like to make changes in your life. To reform, as you say.”
“I killed Amy’s dad,” adds Brandon.
Sheryl puts a motherly hand on Brandon’s shoulder. “I wanted to kill my husband. So many times. I was happy when we found him turned into one of those things,” she says. “No. I don’t care what you did, Marcus. You saved our lives. Every one of us here. He saved your life too, Michael. I don’t care what he did.”
“I don’t care either,” Amy says. She glares at Michael. “You’re the only one who does. And I’ll go to this compound or farm or whatever... with or without you.”
“I’m not going anywhere without you,” Michael says.
“Then I guess you owe Marcus an apology, and you should consider yourself lucky if he still lets you ride with him.” She goes back into the truck.
CHAPTER 38
The slower drive on the county road feels more personal than the highway. More real. There’s a story behind everything. The body draped over the wooden split rail fence; the half eaten child sprawled out in the middle of the road with a stuffed teddy bear next to her finger tips, just out of reach; the farm house torn in half, with a crater where the proud colonial once stood with decorative Christmas majesty. Every one of them is a tragedy; a nightmare come to life. They slowly pass by with solemn, grim thoughts.
But the soulless cannibals get no reprieve. Marcus parks the truck and slashes their heads in half any chance he gets. He sees it as his mission, his duty. Brandon quickly becomes enamored with him, and helps him with each kill.
Soon they come upon a string of cars blocking the road. Marcus drives up around the side for a closer look. It’s not just a snarl of frozen traffic. They've reached a roadblock; the border barricade. They hear gunshots and fighting in the distance. Groups of people huddle close to the barrier, trying to get over, only to be gunned down. They see men and women hidden behind cars and makeshift walls. Local police, military personnel, and armed gunman are positioned behind barbed wire fences and concrete barricades on the other side, squaring off against westward travelers.
Michael gets angry when he sees a seemingly innocent person get shot down while holding nothing but a picket sign. He opens th
e cab window so Marcus and the women can hear him. "Those people are just protesting up there! We need to help them! They're being slaughtered!"
"Whoa whoa whoa, hold up. That's a lot of firepower on the other side there," Willy says. "Now look. A helicopter like that can be armed with turret guns that shoot bullets the size of beer bottles. You sure you want to go rushing up there? Besides, check out what’s happening on this side." Willy points off to a small storefront building along the right side of the road where civilians are hiding. Two men carry what look like rocket launchers around the back, and other men with guns are scattered around in various hiding places, shielded from the view of the soldiers. "Something going on here. A rebellion or something. Best we stay back and avoid it."
Michael becomes indignant. "Screw that. You may be tired of war, but when I see shit like that I can't just sit back and do nothing. I want to help. We're gonna need to get through this blockade anyway if we want to make it to safety."
"I'll go. I kicked ass at Domestic Warfare III. I know what I'm doing," Brandon says. Willy shakes his head with disappointment again.
Marcus allows the truck to creep slowly toward the action. "Michael’s right. We need to get past this. But maybe we can go around if the fighting is concentrated to the road." He turns left and starts to drive across some property that stretches back to a tree line, parallel to the blockade. Suddenly the helicopter rises up and turns its guns toward the truck, and nearly every gun on the barricade puts them in its sights.
"Shit. Get out! Run!" Sheryl yells. "They're going to shoot us!"
Marcus pulls the parking brake but leaves the pick-up running. Everyone bolts from the truck and sprints back the way they came; even Rocky. Bullets start raining down like a hailstorm. Marcus turns his head to see his beloved truck being riddled with holes. They dive behind some farm equipment as the gunfire penetrates the engine block. Marcus’ jaw drops when he sees it explode. His pride and joy is engulfed in a massive flame, and it shatters into shards of flaming shrapnel and twisted metal. His heart sinks for a moment. No matter. It's for the best. It was made with blood money, and now look: it burns and crumbles. The last remaining piece of the old me is finally gone.
The rebels return fire, drawing the soldiers’ attention away from the group. One of the rockets lets loose from behind the storefront building, blasting a gory hole of blood and rubble through the concrete road partitions that blocked the way. A moment later a stream of gunmen pop out all over the place from in hiding. Suddenly the fight looks evenly matched, except for the helicopter. The sound of its armament firing is deafening. The drone-like, mechanical whir of death fills the air with dread as people are mowed down by the dozen.
The rebels fire a second rocket. It erratically snakes its way up into the air. The helicopter sharply tips to try to avoid it, banking up and away. But the rocket finds its target and ignites the chopper into a fiery explosion. The heat that comes off the airborne fireball nearly singes their eyebrows off, and for one brief moment their icy skin is warmed by the burning fires of battle. The remains of the chopper crash down onto the soldiers standing along the barricade, crushing them and burning them alive.
“You know... I think I might actually be buying into your point about the second amendment, how it’s meant for people to push back against an overbearing government,” Michael says to Willy with a smile, winning a short chuckle from the old vet.
“Without those rockets and guns, we’d be sitting ducks right now,” Marcus adds.
The rebels gained the upper hand, but the protesters and travelers are starting to change into bloodthirsty demons. It's mayhem. As if normal warfare wasn’t chaotic enough, there are zombies to fend off as well. Soldiers and rebels alike are attacked and eaten. The bloody faces of the dead glow a bright crimson as a gentle snow begins to fall on the battleground.
Rocky starts to snarl and growl. One of the undead made its way over to them and lunges for Sheryl. He barks in rapid fire, and before anyone could hold him back, he darts out at the beast. Rocky leaps up and locks his jaws around the zombie's neck, sinking his teeth deep into its dead flesh and knocking it down to the ground before it can grab Sheryl.
"No! Rocky!" Sheryl yells, but Rocky ignores the command. He rips the flesh off the monster, burying his snout deeper into the beast’s neck. Sheryl walks up and puts a bullet into the zombie's head. Rocky looks up at her and releases the zombie's neck from his clutch. His ears go back and he whimpers. His breathing quickens and his eyes seem to fog up. He lies down and begins to shiver.
"Oh no! No Rocky, no!" Sheryl starts to cry. The only part of her family that was left alive is now dying. She wants to pet him, but she’s frightened of him, and bullets are whizzing by all around them. "He's turning," she says as his mouth begins to foam up. "I can't do it. I can't," Sheryl whimpers.
Brandon loads his rifle and takes aim. Sheryl steps behind him as Rocky struggles back onto his feet. His hair is stiffened on end, and the skin on his snout is pulled back to reveal a furious set of teeth. The golden glow in his eyes means he has changed. Brandon squeezes the trigger, and Rocky is no more.
“Come on. Let’s make a run for it now. There’s an opening,” Amy suggests.
“And plenty of dead bodies to keep the zombies busy,” Brandon adds.
“Y’all go ahead. I’m going to run back to the truck and see if any of our supplies survived,” says Marcus. “I think I see my scythe, believe it or not. I’ll be right behind you.”
Gunfire fills the air as they run. Willy leads them to strategic spots along the way; first along a fence line, then crouching and crawling near some bushes, and then sitting behind a car.
“Why are we stopping?” Sheryl asks.
“I’ll give you some cover fire,” Willy says. The others look confused. “You know what that is?” Blank stares come back at him.
“He’ll fire his gun, so the enemy ducks. While they are ducking, we move forward,” Brandon explains.
“That’s right. Then you guys give me cover fire while I run up to meet you. Got it?” Willy asks.
“Got it.” Sheryl nods.
“Okay now make for that truck up ahead like there’s no tomorrow. Move, move, move!” Willy starts firing at the soldiers behind the remains of the barricade.
The soldiers take cover, and the group runs toward the truck. They dive behind it to safety and look back to Willy. Then Brandon and Sheryl begin firing at the barricade. Willy darts out into the open. But when he’s about halfway across he meets with a bullet to his gut. It knocks him off his feet.
“Willy!” Sheryl screams as she stands up. Bullets hiss and zip by her ear, hitting the truck they’re hiding behind. She ducks back down to safety.
“Shit! Keep shooting! He can make it to us,” Brandon says.
Willy struggles to his feet and trots the rest of the way over. His body is bloodied. He flops back to the ground, and Sheryl takes his head into her lap. “We need to get him some help,” she says.
“There’s a guy over there with a red cross on his chest. Look. He’s like a doctor or something,” Michael says as he points across to the other side of the barricade.
“Let’s go,” Amy says.
“Michael. Take my gun,” Sheryl says. “You and Brandon give us cover fire. Hopefully if they see two women with an injured old man in their arms they won’t shoot.”
“Okay,” Michael says. A sense of power and purpose washes over him as he grasps the pistol grip.
Sheryl and Amy stand Willy up between them. His arms hang across their shoulders.
“On three,” Brandon says. “One... Two... Three!”
CHAPTER 39
Dr. Vogel does his best to patch up the bullet and shrapnel wounds of fallen soldiers up and down the barricade. Things are looking pretty grim for the west though. First the highway was breached, and now this county road. The quarantine is falling apart, and that means the disease will spread.
Dr. Vogel's hopes were destroyed when he saw
the chopper go down in flames, crushing the command tent and the supplies where his samples were stored. The samples are ruined. I've got to go back and find Wolf. Maybe I can slip away without anyone noticing.
The barricade is almost completely overrun. The rebels somehow managed to get their hands on a couple of RPGs and blew a hole through the barricade. They’re crawling under the barbed wire fences, climbing over the cement dividers, and blasting through the sandbags. All the while more and more people are turning into ravenous beasts and eating each other. Three times already Dr. Vogel had to pull his piece and kill zombies that were rushing after the bleeding soldiers he was tending to.
This is fucking madness. I gotta get out of here.
"Help! Please help us! Are you a doctor?" a woman calls out for him. She and a younger woman carry an older man between them. He bleeds from his stomach.
"Was he bitten or shot?" Dr. Vogel asks.
"Shot," they say in unison as they set the old man down before him.
Dr. Vogel presses his hands around the wound to feel for the bullet. He takes out a long clamp-like pair of tweezers and plunges it into the bullet hole. It's deep, but he feels the tweezers make contact with it. The old man moans in agony.
"Just hang in there. I have to get this out, and then try to stitch you up quick because you’re losing too much blood." Dr. Vogel explains.
"Is he going to be okay?" a young man asks as he runs up beside them.
"Vogel, what the fuck are you doing?" Colonel Wallace yells from just behind a toppled row of sandbags. "You're supposed to be helping the soldiers, not the rebels!"
"I care for all people. I took an oath to be a doctor, not a soldier!" Dr. Vogel nervously insists. His craft is no good under the incredible stress and pressure of a battlefield.
"And we're Americans, you asshole! Not rebels!" the young man yells.
"No. What you are is in violation of the quarantine," Wallace says as he raises his sidearm and takes aim at the young man.
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