by Caleb Cleek
"Sarge?" the soldier screamed, seeking direction.
"Fire!" Martinez shrieked as he raised his rifle to his shoulder and took a rest on the hood. "Fire!"
Both fifties opened up on the lone runner, instantly cutting him in half as a stream of empty cases were ejected from the big guns and bounced off the roof and hood of the Humvees, landing on the ground. Martinez also fired in short bursts. His empty cases, baby brothers to those spitting out of the fifties, added to the shiny piles forming around us.
The second two charged. As they ran, they separated, with one on each white edge line of the road. The gunner who first spotted them opened up on the infected on the right side of the road. He instantly knocked it down and stopped firing. It got back up and started running again. He shot again. This time a bullet hit it in the throat, separating the head from the body. The head flew backwards and rolled toward the yellow center line. The body sprawled forward, landing arms outstretched. It didn't move. The third infected darted off the road into the sage brush where it disappeared as a stream of bullets chewed up the ground just behind it. And then it was gone.
The three soldiers who were not in the turrets charged the spot where the infected had disappeared into the brush.
"You have to shoot them in the head," I yelled after them, unsure of how well they had been briefed before they were sent out. I turned to Martinez, "You're in charge, but if they were my men, I would call them back. The brush is too thick. That thing will be on them before they have a chance to shoot. If we move a mile back down the road, you will have alfalfa fields on either side of the road and nearly a mile of visibility in every direction."
"Regroup!" Martinez yelled. "Back to the vehicles."
He was too late. I heard a scream followed by a burst of gun fire. Another gun joined in and then the third.
Then it was silent, except for the screaming. A moment later, the screaming quit and a hush fell over the landscape. Even the birds and squirrels ceased chirping.
“Report!” yelled Martinez.
Silence.
“Report!”
Still silence.
The only reason I could hear him over the sonorous ringing in my ears was because I was three feet away from him. I doubted they could hear a word he was yelling at them. The massive concussion from each blast out of the fifties had been directly over their heads. They would never hear the same again.
A minute later, two of the soldiers dragged the body of the third soldier out of the brush and onto the road. Each supported an arm. His torso was suspended above the road. His head hung limply with his chin resting on his chest. His knees and feet drug across the asphalt. Blood was dripping from his neck, soaking into his uniform and dripping onto the road.
Once they had some distance between themselves and the brush at the edge of the road, they lay their buddy down and rolled him onto his back. One covered the brush with his rifle raised. The other removed his pack and hastily dug through it. The two turret gunners were both focused on the brush, searching for a target.
Martinez yelled, "What's your status?"
"That thing came out of the brush and jumped on Johnson!" the guy covering the road side yelled frantically while his buddy applied a dressing to Johnson's neck. "It bit his neck and disappeared back into the bushes," he finished.
"Get him bandaged up as quickly as you can. We need to reposition. There's too much cover here."
They finished with the bandage and each placed a hand under his armpit and drug Johnson back to the Humvees.
By the time they got him back to the vehicles, Johnson's face had lost its color. There was a little red showing through the bandage, but not much. There was no blood left; he had bled out before they could get him out of the brush. Martinez checked his neck for a pulse opposite the wound. He moved his fingers twice, searching for what he knew he was not going to find, but was still refusing to give up on one of his men. Finally, his head slumped as he removed his fingers and announced, "He's gone."
I looked over my shoulder and realized that Matt was standing beside me with a rifle in each hand. As our eyes met, he extended his left hand, which was holding my rifle. I received it gratefully.
They began dragging the body toward the left Humvee. "Leave the body here,” Matt said, "It is contaminated with the infection."
The two soldiers looked at Matt with disdain as if he had told them to cut off one of their limbs and leave it behind. They continued pulling the corpse of their fallen comrade to the Humvee.
"He's right," Martinez bellowed. "They said our vaccinations won't be fully effective for a week. We can't take that risk for a body that's already dead."
"We can't leave him here," the shorter one, whose nametag read Donetelli, said insistently as he looked to the soldier beside him for support.
"We're not bringing him. That's final," Martinez growled. "I don't like it any better than you do. That's just the way it is."
Army discipline overrode personal feelings and the soldiers obeyed as they had been trained. They dragged Johnson's body to the shoulder and gently laid him on his back in the gravel and then ran back to the Humvees. Donetelli's eyes glistened as he fought back tears. His bottom lip quivered as he said, "I hit that thing at least three times and Johnson hit it, too. It just kept moving.”
My throat grew tight as I recalled the same experience back at Mary's when Steve was killed by an infected after I had put a kill shot through its chest. "The only way to kill them is with a head shot," I said softly, still reeling from the pain of Steve's death.
Martinez climbed into the front passenger seat of the right Humvee while Donetelli climbed into the driver's seat. The other soldier climbed into the driver seat of the left Humvee. Matt and I jogged back to the truck. Before I closed the door, I heard an ominous howl in the brush at the side of the road. It wasn't close, but it certainly wasn't far.
Chapter 23
"Is he going to let us pass?" Matt asked as I turned the truck around. Even though they didn't need us to show them where to set up, I led the way, hoping to talk with Martinez some more. I hoped I would be able to recruit them to help secure the town and clean out the infestation of the infected.
"I suspect he will, but it doesn't really matter. I don't think he realizes there is a parallel road two miles south of here. We can go around just as easily as we can go through." I looked in the rear view mirror to verify the Humvees were following. The first was on my bumper. The second was in trail behind the first. One turret faced to the right and the other to the left. "He seems like a good guy who wants to do the right thing,” I continued. “I'm not sure he's ready to bend on following his orders, though. We'll see."
"What was he saying about the vaccination?"
I explained what I knew and then we reached what I thought was the perfect place to set up a roadblock, considering what they were up against. The land was flat and open. Each side of the road was bordered by a dilapidated barbwire fence. The rusty wire hung limply between posts, a vestige of the past when the fields held cattle. Now, the fields strictly grew alfalfa for hay. Ranchers don't like people on their land. Even a tired old fence is usually enough to keep a passerby out of the field. I assumed that was why the rickety fences were left standing, that and the fact that it would take time and money to tear them out.
Martinez seemed to approve of the spot. The roadblock was reestablished in less than a minute. The extended sight distance afforded a level of relaxation, at least until darkness set in.
Martinez exited the vehicle and walked to my window. "Thanks for letting us know about this spot," he said appreciatively.
"How many groups of you are up here?" I asked while I watched the soldiers set up their perimeter. Each knew exactly what was needed and did it without instruction. I guessed they had been to Afghanistan or Iraq together, which forged trust and teamwork. It also made it that much harder for them to lose Johnson.
"There are two other squads right now. The others each have
eight men. They are set up on the other main tracks out of town. Word is, by tomorrow, there will be another five hundred.”
"How flexible are your orders? We are pretty shorthanded right now. As I said earlier, the sheriff is out of the country. One deputy moved away two weeks ago and another one broke his leg playing softball two days ago and he was flown out of town. It leaves Matt and me to handle everything. We could really use some help with the infected."
"Our orders are to secure the quarantine zone. That's all we are supposed to do."
"We both know the perimeter has been breached. The disease has already gotten out of town. You guys are a wasted resource the way you are being used. Who do I need to talk to to get some help from you guys?" I asked, frustrated by the bureaucracy of the government. First they tried to kill us. Now they were squandering manpower that could be effectively used to save lives. Keeping them here to maintain a quarantine that was already breeched didn't make sense. It made sense yesterday before Claire made it out of town. Not today. They were a day late. With the speed things were changing, a day behind wasn’t acceptable.
"I agree with you," Martinez said sympathetically. “You need to talk to Captain Tuttle. He is the ranking officer. He should be at the roadblock west of town. I can get him on the radio and let him know you're coming. He can go up the chain of command with your request and see what we can do."
"Thanks," I said, feeling encouraged that we may be able to recruit some help.
Martinez stepped away from the truck and motioned us around the roadblock on the shoulder. We drove in silence until we reached town.
It appeared deserted. There would normally be a steady stream of cars driving up and down Main Street; there was virtually no traffic this morning. We passed a couple cars coming back into town. They were loaded to the roof with valued possessions. Kids had their hands and faces plastered against the windows searching, with eyes full of horror, for the infected that had terrorized the streets last night. Dads were returning their families home after having been turned around by the Army reservists just out of town. They were unsure of how to protect their loved ones.
There were corpses along the street. Some had been chewed on, others had head wounds. It was like a scene from a horror movie. People were trapped. They were being attacked and had nowhere to go.
A few miles west of town, I spotted Captain Tuttle's road block. As before, I stopped short of the pair of Humvees blocking the road. Matt and I exited the truck. "Captain Tuttle?" I called out. He nodded his head, confirming my guess. "I'm Connor. Martinez said he was going to let you know I was coming."
"Yeah, Martinez said you were coming. He told me what you wanted. I'm with you. We aren't accomplishing anything sitting here. I've already advised my superiors of the situation here and requested to assist the local law enforcement. There’s a posse comitatus issue. They can't make up their mind and told us to sit tight for now.
“If you have time, I need your help with a task I was given,” he continued. “Part of our mission is to preserve the lives of key people in town. These are people who can maintain order and keep things running. I don't know who that would be locally, so I'm going to trust your knowledge of the local situation and your instincts." He turned around and reached into the Humvee behind him. When he turned back to us, he had a small Styrofoam cooler in his hands. "I was given a handful of vaccines to administer. I'm going to delegate them to you to administer at your discretion; however, I recommend that you and your partner take the first two," he said as he handed the cooler to me.
“I’m immune to the infection so I won’t need a vaccine, but Matt does,” I said as I took the cooler from his hands with trepidation. I didn't want to be the one who decided who lived and who didn't. I opened the cooler and counted ten syringes with safety covers over the needles. Each was filled with a clear liquid.
"You're first, Matt," I said, pulling a loaded syringe from the cooler and replacing the lid. There was a squeak as the lid rubbed against the sides of the Styrofoam container.
I reached into my back pocket with my left hand and pulled out a small packet that contained a single alcohol wipe. I always carried at least one to clean my hands after dealing with drug addicts or bums who migrated through the area in the summer. I tore the packet open, revealing the moist wipe and releasing the pungent odor of rubbing alcohol into the air. I placed the plastic syringe between my teeth so I could use both hands, one to hold Matt's sleeve up and the other to scrub his bicep with the wipe. Once I was satisfied that the skin was clean, I pulled the plastic cover off, jammed the needle into Matt's arm, and pushed the plunger, which delivered the liquid panacea into his body.
After I removed the needle, he rubbed the spot and then swung his arm through its range of motion a couple times.
“Giving injections isn’t that hard after all,” I said with a shrug.
“You mean I was your first test subject?” Matt said, feigning anger. “At least I’m covered now.”
"Don't get too excited," Tuttle said. "They told me it takes a week to reach full immunity. After about two days you should be pretty good, but keep wearing that mask for a week just to be on the safe side. Welcome to the club, Buddy," he said with a smile on his face as he slapped Matt on the other arm. “Don't get exposed before it goes into effect. I could have sold that for a million bucks in the city. It would be a waste to give it away and have you die before it had enough time to work.”
"You don't need to worry about that," Matt said with a big grin. "I plan on living forever now." The removal of impending death instantly lightened his mood.
I gave Tuttle my cell number and told him to call me when he heard something. Matt and I piled into the truck and headed back to town.
Chapter 24
After leaving the second checkpoint, we headed to Marty Cummings’ house, hoping to convince him to oversee organizing the town to gather food for the survivors. He was likeable and he had a gift for rallying the community to accomplish unlikely tasks.
Nobody seemed to be at work. All the stores we passed were closed. Everyone was scared of the infection and rightly so. After less than twenty four hours, the consensus seemed to be that the best way to stay alive was to remain in isolation. We arrived at Marty’s house; the curtains in the front window were tightly drawn, but both cars were in the driveway. It looked like tracking him down was going to be easier than we had hoped.
The sprinklers were on in the front yard, giving the appearance that life was proceeding normally. In reality, no one had come out to turn them on. They were on a timer and would keep cycling on and off every day as long as there was power and water. A sprinkler at the edge of the walkway to the house was out of adjustment and was spraying onto the sidewalk that led to the front door. I waited for the stream of water to leave the sidewalk and begin its semicircular arc across the yard. Once the path was clear, I traversed the rest of the walkway with Matt on my heels, wearing his mask.
The front door was recessed between the living room on the left and the kitchen on the right. The outer walls of the two rooms created a fifteen foot long corridor to the door. Both the kitchen and living room had windows that faced into the corridor. I attempted to peer into both rooms, but the curtains in the living room and venetian blinds in the kitchen obstructed my view.
I pushed the illuminated button to the left of the door and heard an electronic chime inside the house. I took a step to the left of the doorway. Habits are hard to break, especially unconscious habits. This one was drilled into me by my training officer when I first got out of the academy. He told me it would give me a little extra cover if someone came out shooting. It stuck with me.
I waited for the tell tale sound of approaching feet. After thirty seconds I still didn’t hear anything. I rang the bell again, gave the brass clacker hanging on the door three hard raps and, for good measure, yelled, “Open up, it’s Connor.” I tried the door handle. It was locked.
“This isn’t looking good, Mat
t,” I said, turning around to face him. “Let’s go around back and see if there’s a window or door unlocked.”
We waited for the sprinkler stream to move off the sidewalk and hurried down the walkway. Not wanting to get wet, we walked along the edge of the lawn until we came to the neighbor’s yard and walked up the border of the two properties until it came to the weathered wooden fence that divided the Cummings’ front and back yard. After waiting for the corner sprinkler to begin its arc away from the fence, we made a beeline for the gate. I pulled on the string which disappeared through a hole drilled at the top of the innermost fence board. The tension on the string released the latch on the other side of the fence. The gate squeaked open on hinges that badly needed oil.
When the gate swung open, Matt drew his gun. I did the same in response to Matt, not sure what he had seen, but trusting his instincts none the less. Then I saw what had spooked him. The edge of a blood pool was just visible on the concrete patio at the corner of the house. As I neared the corner, I was able to see a greater portion of the yard. When I was nearly even with the corner, I could see far enough around it to see a body lying face down on the patio.
Flies had already found the blood and corpse and were thick on both. I kept my eyes up, searching for what may have killed the man laying at my feet. I could see the entire yard and it was empty. I stepped around the body and startled the mass of flies, which took flight in unison, filling the air with a buzz. The body at my feet was Marty’s.
With the entire patio in view, I saw a set of footprints leading from the semi congealed pool of blood to the open sliding door and into the house. The prints were made by a medium sized foot without shoes. I assumed they belonged to Marty’s wife, Carol.
I started to announce myself when I walked through the open door into the house, but the current situation called for different tactics than any previous day in my career. If Carol had turned, the last thing I wanted to do was announce my arrival. I silently followed the bloody prints around a corner inside the house. They made a right hand turn and I followed. Carol was standing at the entryway facing away from us, scratching at the oak door. Both of her hands were covered in blood up to her elbows. From the back, her hair was in disarray.