by Ryan, L. T.
People today…
Didn’t mean the same as it did a few months ago. All due to an event Turk had advanced warning of. He could have done more before it happened. He should have done more. How many lives could he have saved?
“Stop it,” he muttered as chilled water splashed his face.
The government would have been all over him had he opened his mouth. They’d have put him and his family away. The world could never know about the government-backed program to develop a virus that could wipe a community out and then destroy itself before leaking out into the world.
The world found out.
Most perished without ever knowing what had happened to them. The survivors might find out in time. Or they wouldn’t. Turk bet on the latter. With groups so dispersed and still under attack by the afflicted, chances grew slimmer by the day of any rebuilding effort which would lead to large scale civilization. And winter would be here soon enough. How many who had survived the virus would perish in the cold?
Turk felt his body rise up and then tumble to the right. The surfboard was pulled from underneath him. He rolled in the murky water. Without time to prepare, he’d gone under without air in his lungs. Despite the urge to breathe, he kept his mouth shut and avoided drinking the seawater.
The wave passed and the water stilled. He had a few seconds before the next. The cord wrapped around his ankle tugged toward shore. At least that’s what Turk assumed. But it also seemed to be pulling downward. Was the board caught in a current? Turk kicked his legs to push himself upward. A force pulled against him.
Then it disappeared.
He spun in a half circle as he penetrated the surface, untethered to the surfboard. Turk treaded water, looking for it. When he finally spotted it, it was being thrashed in the waves as they crashed on the beach. The board wasn’t a necessity, but it would make the journey easier considering his exhaustion.
Turk waited a few seconds before swimming toward shore. Had to make sure no one was watching from the beach or dunes. When he was confident the area was clear, he swam toward the beach to retrieve the surfboard. It took less than a minute to reach it. He surveyed the dunes again from the shallow water. What did they hide? What were the chances of a small boat being there?
None.
He knew the answer before he asked the question. His tired mind had attempted to distract him. If anything had been left, a survivor had come across it by now. He only had to recall the scene in the harbor to realize that.
Turk paddled out again and continued toward the end of the island while keeping an eye on the approaching surf. As he bobbed up and down in the waves, he wondered how many boats managed to escape the harbor. And what of their crews? Then, and now. Had the sick made it on board, turning the vessel into a floating nightmare? Had some survivors made it to the Caribbean, where there was some chance of finding a hospitable island not ravaged by the virus?
Turk approached shore as he neared the end of Sullivan’s Island. He’d survived one time in the powerful currents near the jetty. No way did he want to risk it again, even with the surfboard to keep him afloat.
His plan was to paddle into the harbor and leave the board attached to one of the abandoned wrecks. From there, he’d swim back to the fort.
He navigated along the island’s edge, keeping close to shore until he felt confident he’d traveled far enough to not be spotted from the fort.
After finding a suitable place to leave the surfboard, Turk began his approach. His mind raced with doubts. Perhaps he should have put some effort into attempting to fix the electrical system at the bunker. He still could. There was nothing saying he couldn’t bring his family back there.
Except that people knew.
But had those people survived the onslaught in the woods? Had they survived the night? Would they ever bother to go back if they had?
And what of those who would attempt to find him at the bunker? Sean Ryder and his daughter? Turk could return, leave a note or a message, letting them know what had happened and his destination. His group would be stronger with Ryder, but if the chance came to leave the mainland behind, Turk had to take it.
His thoughts carried him the half mile from the wrecked boat to the pier. They had provided a welcome distraction. He hadn’t noticed the burning in his arms, chest and legs until he touched his feet down to the bottom and stood in chest-high water.
He looked back to make sure no one had followed him through the harbor. The clouds burned dark orange as the sun completed its descent into the horizon. This time of year, darkness would come around seven-thirty. But with the thick dark clouds, it might be earlier than that.
What he wouldn’t give for night vision goggles. They’d saved his life on so many occasions. No point dwelling on it, though. He had to make do with the supplies Rose and Rob had supplied. In his backpack, secured in doubled up plastic bags was a small flashlight, a pistol with a spare magazine, and a six-inch hunting knife with a serrated blade. He also had a length of thin steel wire, which Rob had modified into a garrote by attaching wooden handles from a jump rope.
He had no idea how many people occupied the fort. And how many of them had some kind of military training. He’d determined it wasn’t necessary in order to survive. Above all, you had to have the will to make it in this new world. Anything beyond that was icing on the cake.
The only certainty was that the small island and fort were occupied. They were armed. And they had kidnapped Rose and Rob’s little sister. In the ideal scenario, Turk would find her quickly and get her out of the fort without being noticed.
Chances were that wouldn’t happen, so he prepared himself to take as many lives as necessary in order to complete his mission. The bastards deserved it, too, holding the woman against her will. They were lucky she wasn’t his kin, for then he’d kill every last one for sport.
He still might if he found Rhea in any condition other than pristine. At least given the circumstances.
The water gently lapping against the bank lured him into a serene state. Propped up against a pylon under the pier, the current kept him afloat. Turk knew he could close his eyes and drift off for fifteen minutes. He’d even adjusted to the sewage smell fouling the air.
Sleep had to wait.
He kept his eyes open and focused on the final traces of orange and red in the clouds. The colors painted the harbor. At one time, people had stood at the top of the fort, gazing out on the sight.
Now it meant nothing. Just another sunset to signify they were one day closer to the end of all humanity.
Turk took a deep breath and ducked under water. He remained beneath the surface for close to a minute as he swam south. When he emerged, he only remained above long enough to refill his lungs and take note of his position. Then he dove down again, this time swimming east.
Turk surfaced halfway between the island and shore. The choppy water slapped him in the face and filled his mouth. The swirling current threatened to sweep him from the harbor into the clutches of the Atlantic.
He watched the roof line for a patrol, aware that he might not see them. He had to exercise caution and control on his approach. He had one shot at this. Make a mistake, and he might be paddling on the surfboard all the way to Miami.
Or worse, he would end up dead.
Not that that mattered at this point. Exhaustion had taken a toll on him and death seemed nothing more than a chance to rest up. An inevitable reality that would occur all too soon.
The winds had picked up and white caps formed on wave crests in the harbor. They stood out in the increasing darkness. For the moment, the tide came in.
Turk sunk below the surface and swam to the island. He stopped in three feet of water and surveyed the scene. Confident he had gone unnoticed, Turk crawled forward, then sprinted to the wall. There, he leaned back against the bricks and caught his breath. He retrieved the pistol from the bag while listening for signs of someone approaching. After a few seconds, he took out the remaining supplies and
dropped the bag on the ground.
He tucked the flashlight in one pocket and the steel wire in the other. The belt Rob had given him had a sheath for the knife and a holster for the pistol. He opted to keep the pistol in hand, though.
Turk kept his shoulder in touch with the brick wall as he headed toward the Atlantic. It offered the best approach. The gate on the other end of the island could be locked and guarded. It might not be any easier on this side, but at least he would have a better understanding of the layout should he need to escape.
Waves thundered in the distance. The winds picked up by the minute. The skies turned black over the ocean, intermittently exploding into white as lighting scratched along the dark clouds. The storm was close. Turk had to complete the mission and get off the island as soon as possible or risk being stranded in a hostile environment.
At the corner of the fort, Turk had his first up close view of the vessels housed there. None were secured. None were the rigid boat Rose had mentioned. With the storm surge coming, they would likely be swept into the harbor. An ocean kayak stood out. It had two seats and two paddles. He could use it to escape the island with Rhea and cross the harbor to shore.
He wondered about the rigid some more. The people here must’ve kept it within the walls of the fort. Or maybe they lost it. Perhaps they ditched it because they ran out of gas.
While the vessel would be valuable, Turk couldn’t focus on finding it. Every second had to be dedicated to locating Rhea and getting her off the island. He didn’t want the mission to turn into a gunfight. With his energy levels low, anything more than two enemies would mean he was out-manned.
He remained at the corner for several minutes. Watching and listening. Letting the constant barrage of thunder and crashing waves lull him into a meditative state. It cleared his mind and allowed him to prepare for what he had to do.
Turk wrapped his hand around the pistol grip. He placed his other on the knife handle and mimicked pulling it out and dragging it across an unsuspecting throat. He sucked in the salt air and held it until it pushed all other thoughts out of his mind.
Go time.
Chapter 21
They’d driven into the dark, once again navigating obstacles with headlights half as powerful as a car’s. To Sean’s surprise, the roads had been clear for most of the trip. They’d taken the old trail from the campsite twenty miles south. It skirted a lake and led to fields overgrown with the summer’s unharvested tobacco, corn and wheat.
Sean had continued south without stopping until they had passed Sanford. In an empty field, with the sun setting behind, he had taken a few minutes to check on Barbara and give her another dose of antibiotics. It was sooner than required, but the woman needed all the help she could get. She remained in a state of shock and her condition had worsened.
From there, he’d decided the best course of action was to get to the rural eastern portion of the state and then travel south, straying no further than thirty miles from the Atlantic. The two interstates that had to be crossed concerned Sean. Often the thoroughfares were lined with trees or jersey walls. Simple for a person to avoid, but the obstacles pinned in vehicles. There would be abandoned and wrecked cars along the way. Hiding places. Possible assailants masked as survivors.
And afflicted waiting in the shadows.
So rather than enduring the threat twice, Sean decided to cross where I-95 and I-40 intersected in Benson, North Carolina.
They were less than a mile from the crossing, north of downtown Benson on a road named Dogeye. Only faint traces of the sun remained, fighting through the dark clouds that had thickened and still raced past overhead. The precursor to something larger and more intense than a thunderstorm. Sean didn’t want to get caught in it. Shelter had to become a priority after they crossed the interstates.
The small engine echoed off the concrete, alerting anything within a half-mile of their presence. Maybe further than that. Emma, Addison and Jenny were all armed, their M40s aimed left, right and behind, respectively.
Sean trusted each to make the correct decision and had instructed them if anyone got within twenty feet, they were to open fire. They couldn’t take the risk that it was someone looking for help. He only hoped his imploring of them to take action would ease their conscience should they be called upon to act. It would be easy for them to rationalize it as murder rather than defending the group.
Sean studied the tangle of concrete in front of them. In order to complete the crossing, they had to navigate a series of ramps, first taking an on ramp onto I-40, then merging onto I-95. From there, they would take the first exit, depositing them about a hundred yards from where they started.
Sean took the ramp slowly, gaze sweeping in front. Cars littered the roadway, like tombstones sticking out in a graveyard. He figured many were coffins. Sick who had perished. Afflicted who’d been killed. Survivors who didn’t make it.
“Don’t look inside,” he said to Emma.
She would, though. Couldn’t help it. Human nature.
Weaving around abandoned and wrecked vehicles, Sean found the exit for I-95. It wound one way, then cut back in the other direction, then back again. Each time a jungle of well-placed timber hid what lay ahead.
Sean’s M4 brushed against his leg. It comforted him less than it had in the open fields and deserted back roads. Places where fewer people traveled. Sean lacked the confidence that he could stop, secure the weapon, and fire in time on the interstate.
Trust the women.
He’d done it for years with Kathy. He had to do it now.
They reached I-95. A massive pile up stood between them and their exit. It stretched from the jersey walled median to the shoulder, and extended into the grass.
Sean drove forward and stopped halfway.
He saw both an obstacle and opportunity. Of course, the opportunity wasn’t his.
Sean cut the engine and held up a finger to keep the women silenced. Marley leaned forward and sniffed at the air. His ears perked up, and his tail extended straight back.
After a moment, the ringing in Sean’s ears lessened. He strained to hear whispers or movement. His eyes adjusted to the dim light. He scanned the vehicles ahead in search of that familiar human shape. The only ones he saw were slumped over steering wheels.
Maybe another route existed. Sean fidgeted with the GPS in search of an alternate exit. There were plenty. But if they went backward, they would have to cross I-40 in a different location, leading to more on ramps and off ramps. More chances to be found. More time would be wasted.
He turned the key in the ignition and tapped the gas. The ATV lurched forward. He cut the wheel to the right and navigated over the shoulder into the grass. The space between the edge of the wreck and the tree line appeared to be wide enough.
“Everybody on alert,” he said.
He had a hunch someone waited on the other side. If so, there was no doubt they knew Sean approached.
He took his foot off the gas and the ATV slowed to a crawl. A few feet from the edge of the wreck, he realized there wasn’t enough room. But it was too late. The ATV scraped against the rear bumper of the minivan. The vehicle sat at an angle and forced them into a tree. Metal grated against metal on one side and wood on the other. The sound was louder than the engine.
He slammed his foot on the brake to prevent wedging themselves in any further. The minivan rocked and groaned. He shifted into reverse and eased the gas pedal down. The wheels spun in the dirt, but the ATV didn’t move.
Addison grabbed his shoulder. “I’ll get out.”
“No,” he said. “If anyone goes, it’s me. But let me try and get us out first.”
He alternated gears a few times, forward and reverse, rocking the ATV. As he did so, the mini-van shifted position and the ATV lurched forward. Sean stopped it and leaned out the side, looking backward.
“We can clear it,” he said. “Hang on tight in case.”
With his stare still directed to the side, he eased the ATV for
ward until they cleared the minivan.
“Dad!” Emma pounded on the dash.
Sean whipped his head around and saw three armed men standing on the other side of the wreck. Whether they’d been waiting or had been alerted by the sound of the engine didn’t matter. They were there now. Though Sean wondered why they hadn’t approached while the ATV had been trapped.
The man in the middle lifted his rifle.
Sean hit the gas and fought the wheel to keep the ATV under control as the wheels slipped in the grass.
The first man fired. The bullet slammed into the rear of the vehicle.
Behind Sean, Addison opened fire, ripping off a three-round burst and hitting the man on the left. The guy screamed out and dropped to one knee, clutching the thigh of his other leg.
The other two men opened fire, shooting as fast as they could reload.
By this point, Sean had pulled ahead of the men.
Their bullets ripped past, shredding through the trees and leaves. Slamming into the asphalt. A few hit the ATV.
Addison continued to return fire. Jenny joined her. When the shooting stopped, Sean looked back and saw they had taken another man out, and the remaining was straddling the jersey wall.
Sean slowed the ATV down. “Get him.”
Addison stood and lined up her shot. She fired four times, sending a dozen rounds at the guy. Sean couldn’t tell how many had hit, only that the man collapsed on the concrete barrier.
Addison remained standing for a few seconds before slumping into her seat. The smile on her face faded and her eyes glossed over as the weight of what she had done descended upon her.
“Hey,” Sean said. “You did what I told you to do. Their deaths fall on my conscience, not yours. Got it?”
Addison said nothing. She nodded slowly while looking past Sean.
There was nothing else he could say. He’d felt the same feelings as a young PJ, required to kill to survive a rescue mission. It didn’t get easier after that. He’d learned to compartmentalize, only allowing the pain to bubble to the surface when he was self-medicated enough to deal with it.