by L. T. Ryan
Phil stepped forward, then dropped to a knee. He felt Ralph’s leg against his back. Saw the man’s rifle protrude above his head, sweeping across the clearing. Phil extended his weapon. Using the wall for leverage, he swung around and saw Barton at the other end of the building.
No one stood between them.
Phil rose and met Barton and Justin at the entrance. Ralph grunted as he pulled the dented door open. Mildew-laden air rushed out. The light filtering into the room through translucent windows gave it a piss-yellow glow. A wall with sinks on both sides split the space in half.
“Us right,” Phil said. “You left.”
He and Ralph made their way into the room. A bank of bathroom stalls lined the outer wall. The doors stood in varying stages of open to closed. They cleared each one, verifying no one hid within, then stopped in the rear, staring at the backs of Barton and Justin.
Phil cleared his throat.
Barton looked back. “Take a look.”
Phil stepped between the men and looked down at the puddle of blood on the floor. Torn scraps of paper and pieces of tin or steel thread rested on the short tiled ledge that separated the stall from the rest of the walkway.
Phil knelt down and placed his index and middle fingers into the pool. “Fresh. Hasn’t coagulated yet.”
“There’s more,” Barton said. “Leads out past the other showers.”
Phil turned his head to the left and saw the crimson line spanning the length of the room. “Or in. Ryder has medical training. I think he found this place and patched himself, or someone else, up.”
“Well, where is the son of a bitch now?”
Phil gripped the GPS and brought the screen to life. Shaking his head, he said, “That’s what I don’t get. He should be right here. At least the ATV should. We’re right on top of it, but I didn’t see anything out there.”
“Me either,” Barton said.
“Come on,” Phil said. “Let’s go check the surrounding woods.”
When they stepped outside, Phil adjusted the zoom on the GPS. The screen flashed black for a second, then zoomed in.
“Shit,” he said.
“What is it?” Barton said.
Phil handed the GPS to Ralph. “The hell is going on?”
Ralph grabbed the unit and stared at it. Finally, he shrugged and said, “I give. What?”
“It’s gone.”
“What’s gone?”
“The mark for the other unit.”
“Where was it?”
“Here.” Phil spread his arms and turned.
Ralph pressed the rocker button. “Maybe we’re covering it up since you zoomed in so close. Let me just take it back out.”
Phil studied the shadows in the woods while waiting for Ralph to finish. Four of their men hovered at the edge of the clearing.
“Dammit,” Ralph said.
Phil moved in closer to get a look at the display.
“They’re miles away.” Ralph turned and pointed to the southeast. “That way.”
“That trail over there.” Phil gestured toward the opening on the opposite side of the camp. “Where’s that go?”
“Doesn’t show up,” Ralph said. “I don’t think it matters. They’ve already made it to a road and are skirting alongside it.”
“How did this happen?” Phil slammed his foot into the soft earth.
“Hell if I know. Maybe we were only downloading partial data or something.”
Phil squeezed his rifle with both hands. Unleashing his fury on Ralph wouldn’t solve anything. It wasn’t the man’s fault this had happened. He looked up at the dark clouds and took a deep breath, allowing the oxygen to work its way through and clear his head.
“Barton,” Phil said. “How much gas do we have?”
“Enough to go a ways further before we need to turn back.”
“A ways?”
“Hundred miles, I guess.”
“Ok, then. Everyone to the trucks.” He turned to his old friend. “You had better find a way to reach them by the time we get back to the road.”
Ralph spit on the ground between him and Phil. “Or what?”
Phil shifted the rifle so that the muzzle pointed at Ralph’s midsection. “Don’t make me answer that question.”
Twenty
The surf pounded the shore, crashing like thunder. Turk had paddled out on the surfboard to a spot where the waves rolled underneath. It was still rough, and he knew why.
He regarded the dark swirling clouds with a mix of curiosity and dread. When the news played extended coverage of hurricanes impacting coastal areas, he’d often wondered how folks a couple hundred years ago had dealt with the storms. They had no advanced knowledge, unless there were markers present in nature that people today didn’t take notice of.
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 abandone
d 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.
Twenty-One
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. Hid
ing 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.