The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Greene, Daniel

  Gwen got out of the car and started screaming. “Look, infected,” she yelled, pointing outside the gate.

  “Everything will be okay, ma’am,” Franklin said.

  Kevin was tossed out of the car.

  “We’ll take care of these perverts and deal with the infected in a minute,” Franklin said.

  “They’re coming,” she screamed at them.

  Both Franklin and Stevens both looked up alarm.

  “What the fuck, lady? You’re safe,” Franklin said.

  “Look,” she pointed out. They both looked to where she was pointing, searching for something that posed more of a threat than these civilians.

  Joseph squirmed free and punched Stevens in the neck over and over. Stevens’s hands leapt for his throat. Franklin pointed his gun at Joseph, but Gwen’s handgun fired as if it had a mind of its own.

  Pop. Pop. The soldier held his neck in surprise, stepping backward. His gun dropped low. “Bitch shot me,” Franklin said. His eyes wide. “Bitch shot me,” he repeated, more panicked. He sat on his backside and crawled backward for the Humvee.

  Joseph stood over Stevens, hands drenched in blood. The soldier writhed on the ground, holding his throat. Gwen holstered up and collected the soldier’s carbine, holding it loosely.

  She walked over to the wounded soldier. He crawled back on his elbows, belly up. His feet pushed at the dirt. She stared down at him.

  “I was—only. Trying to help.” He paused as if he would say more, but blood pumped from his throat. He stopped crawling.

  I killed you. You are dead for trying to save me. “I don’t need saving,” she said at his corpse.

  Kevin looked at them, terrified. “We should go,” he said.

  Gwen ran to the fence and took something from her pocket. She unfolded the picture of her and Mark, looking at the photo one last time. She smiled a bit, placed two fingers to her lips and pushed them on Mark’s smiling face. Then she wedged the photo in the chain-link fence.

  The men were already sliding onto the pickup’s leather seats. They seemed reluctant to leave their crime. Gwen wasn’t surprised at the outcome of events. Joseph stared at his crimson-covered hands. She put a hand on his shoulder.

  He looked at her, eyes bulging. “I just killed him. That soldier. I don’t know what came over me,” he said. He didn’t need to explain himself. She understood. Forgiven or not, they would probably die in the farmlands of Ohio before anyone would care.

  “We did what we had to do,” she said.

  He nodded.

  Kevin sped down the road.

  “Why don’t you take a rest. You’re going to need to drive here at some point,” she said. Joseph slumped down in his seat. Abandoned vehicles littered the road and roadside. Gwen held the M4 in between her legs and looked out the window at the devastation. The overgrown fields were strewn with bodies of the dead. It was the polar opposite of the photo that fluttered in the fence, waiting for Mark. The photograph only had one word on the back. Home.

  STEELE

  Ohio River, PA

  With the smoldering remains of Pittsburgh behind them, Ahmed and Steele navigated the Ohio River, a key shipping lane of pre-modern America. Their relief at accomplishing their mission faded every mile from the crackling flames. Steele let up on the throttle.

  “What’s that sign say?” he said, gesturing at an offshoot of the river. A thick tree line covered the banks of the river.

  “I can’t see anything,” Ahmed said.

  Steele cut the engine. He grabbed a waterproof map. “Can’t tell off this map. There are just too many offshoots, but one of these has got to take us to Youngstown,” he said. There were less infected bodies in the water the further they traveled away from Pittsburgh.

  A dilapidated white farmhouse sat some distance off the river. The roof was sunken in the middle, bleached gray shingles cracked or missing.

  “There. What’s that barn say?” Steele said, spying the building. The barn was almost pink in its old age, having long ago lost its iconic red hue. Dull white lettering covered the end of the barn.

  “Please Help Us,” Ahmed said. “That paint looks fresh.” He gave Steele a worried look.

  “Below that,” Steele said. He already knew it read Beaver River Canoe Rental. Rotating his wrist, he turned the throttle back up. “That’s the way we need to go,” he said.

  Hours passed as they traveled up the small tributary of the Ohio River, and it eventually turned into the Mahoning River. Pennsylvania’s treed hills gave way to Ohio farms. Ohio farms turned into early twentieth century brick warehouses. Former industry, now relegated to the past, crumbled long before the outbreak.

  Youngstown was a small city. A few larger buildings, no skyscrapers. It was hard to tell if the buildings were abandoned prior to the outbreak or if the outbreak was the cause of their abandonment. Steele knew cities like this had suffered immensely with the collapse of the steel and auto industries, like many places within the “Rust Belt.”

  “How many people you think live here?” he asked.

  “I dunno. Less than Pittsburgh. Probably under a hundred thousand.”

  “In that case, I’m gonna vote we stop well outside the city limits.”

  “I will second the motion.”

  They passed the downtown center; no lights lit up the small businesses. The city was dead, but not dead enough to stop the inflatable. Steele let all of that pass.

  Steele wanted to put in as close to the airfield and as far away from the city as possible. He found a small inlet that held a farmhouse and some short soy bean fields riddled with weeds.

  “I’m thinking of putting in over there,” Steele said.

  “I haven’t seen an infected in about a mile or so; it’s probably good.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  He pulled the small boat ashore and hopped out into the shallows with little plops for each of his feet. Water and mud came up to his knees. He scanned with his carbine for threats, but no one bore down on them.

  Ahmed helped Steele pull a tarp over the small boat. There was little chance they would need it again, but maybe if things got really bad. He tried not to think like that, but he had to. He had to see the unexpected to prepare for it mentally. If you ran through all the worst scenarios with game plans on how to survive and win, your chances of success went way up. His reaction time shortened by playing it out in his mind first, but some things he didn’t want to play out and almost all of those scenarios involved Gwen.

  Instead, he hoped that Gwen would be there, safe and happy. Mauser would be up and walking. He and Kevin would share a drink or two or three, saying “cheers” to their close calls like old time warriors. He stopped daydreaming. Not the time or the place for such frivolous thoughts.

  He kicked at the small gray inflatable motorboat to say goodbye. He hoisted his pack and kept his carbine at the low ready. The river had its own set of dangers, but for the most part, it had provided him and Ahmed with breathing space from masses of the infected, and distance from hostile people or anyone in general. Anyone and everyone far away. Nobody to ask him favors. Nobody that needed rescuing. Nobody to shoot him in the head. Steele liked that, but it was time for them to get to Youngstown.

  Ahmed held his arm across his chest, carbine in his other hand.

  “If I’m right about where we are, we have about five miles to the airfield,” Steele said. He pointed west.

  “We should see if there’s a car. As much as I would love to run across Ohio being chased by the dead, it would be easier if we had a mode of transportation,” Ahmed said.

  “You don’t by any chance know how to hot-wire a car, do ya?” Steele said, pointing to an old farmhouse in the distance. “There’s an old pickup over there.”

  They trekked over long grass. Caution prevailed over speed. The brown grass swayed in the wind. A rusted hulk of metal rose up from the grass.

  Ahmed walked around the rusted old truck as if he were sizing up a prize bul
l. He ran a hand along the side, and using his sleeve, wiped dust and dirt from the window.

  “I asked if you could hot-wire it. Not marry it,” Steele said, watching the man.

  Ahmed turned his way, an excited smile crossing his lips. “You don’t understand. This is a 1963 Studebaker Champ.”

  Steele kicked at the tires. They were deflated, but had enough to get them five miles down the road.

  “My dad used to talk about these all the time.”

  “Really? I’m somewhat surprised, but you think you can get it running?” Steele said. He didn’t care if Ahmed’s dad could fly it. The only thing that mattered was finding a ride that took them back to Gwen.

  “These trucks are like a collector’s item now. The Studebakers stopped production in 1964, but with a little bit of upkeep, you can still run them today.” Blocking the daylight with his hand, he looked through the window again.

  “See, it’s the first pickup that had a sedan-like cab,” Ahmed said.

  Steele couldn’t believe this guy’s excitement at the specifics of an ancient pickup that probably wouldn’t start.

  “Pickup trucks and baseball, huh? Let me guess, you like apple pie too?” Steele said, poking at his counterpart.

  “The American dream,” Ahmed said. He rose his eyebrows and tried the driver’s side door. The door creaked open like a stiff joint.

  Steele gave him a smirk and shook his head in disbelief. A little luck never hurt anyone. He watched Ahmed look under the driver’s column. He had grown fond of him. Given a few weeks ago he had almost put a knife through his neck, their situation had taken a one-eighty. When Gwen wasn’t around to bring out their most inner male competitive instincts, they worked pretty well together. He would never tell her that though, because he valued his life.

  Ahmed leaned back out of the driver’s seat. “Let me see your knife.”

  Steele pulled out his blade and pressed the button to punch the blade out the front. I almost killed you with that knife a few weeks prior.

  Ahmed stuck out his hand. His dark eyes stared at Steele expectantly. Steele flipped the knife onto its blade and handed it to him hilt first. Ahmed took it and went back to work.

  “Where do you think the owners are?” Ahmed said. He ripped wires from beneath the steering wheel out into the open and cut them carefully with Steele’s knife.

  “I dunno. Dead. In a FEMA camp. Upstairs. Most likely infected.” Steele eyed the farm house. Greenish brown vines scaled the sides of the old home. The tall grass surrounding them led all the way up to the white-columned porch and red brick home. Dual chimneys sat on either end of the home. He looked for movement in the windows, but only saw darkness. Doesn’t mean nobody is home. Crosshairs may be on me now.

  The engine revved up as Ahmed sparked the wires together. In newer cars, this took some skill to do, but with the older ones it was almost dummy proof.

  “Everyone isn’t dead. People have to have survived somewhere. There have to be safe places. We’re still alive,” Ahmed said. He slid the blade back inside and handed it back to Steele.

  “Not for lack of trying. Every safe place I get to is overrun. Maybe it’s better to stay spread out in small groups. Keep a low footprint.” Steele hopped in the driver’s seat.

  Ahmed threw his pack in the back, and made his way around to the passenger side.

  “But the military is still operating,” he said.

  “We saw all too well how that’s going.” He rocked the pickup out of its time-worn divots.

  Ahmed frowned.

  “If you were trapped somewhere and a bunch of camo-dressed guys drove by, would you come out?” Steele asked. If anyone wanted the pickup, they weren’t going to fight for the relic.

  Ahmed thought about his words. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “The people are scared. Since nobody is really helping them, people are taking care of themselves. Fear is King now,” Steele said. The Studebaker bounced on its old shocks as Steele took them to a dirt farm road leading away from the house.

  The dusty gravel road led them to Ohio Route 45. Steele took the pickup onto the pavement and sped it up with a chunk-chunk-chunk of the engine.

  Thirty uneventful minutes later they stopped a short distance from the airfield gates. He could see a couple of Humvees sitting idle, a few men in green and brown ACUs standing nearby. Steele was sure they could see him. The old pickup truck rattled, an old warrior on its final march.

  Ahmed looked at him from the passenger seat. His voice cracked as he spoke. “Why are you stopping? We’re almost home free.”

  Steele knew they were close. He didn’t hesitate because of the men. Men could be handled. He hesitated because he would soon know Gwen’s fate. She had to be safe there. She had to be, but at the same time he knew that there was a possibility that she wasn’t there. Even worse, she could be dead. It was almost better just believing blindly that she was safe, and never actually finding out if she was. Blind faith. Ignorance was bliss.

  “What if she isn’t there?” Steele asked.

  Ahmed paused, digesting his words like undercooked meat. He placed a hand on Steele’s arm. “She will be. She’s strong.”

  Steele nodded, his head low.

  Ahmed peered nervously out his window. “But in a few minutes, we are going to make some infected friends, and I would much rather be inside the base than outside it,” he said. Twisting his frame, he looked over his shoulder.

  Infected flanked them on either side. They walked through the long grass fields adjacent to the airfield. Steele sat frozen by doubt.

  Ahmed dribbled on, sounding more and more concerned with every minute.

  Everything was unfocused in Steele’s eyes, a fuzzy blur before him. I have to know, but will the truth break me? I don’t know if I can handle her death. Her death broke me before. What will it do, now? His hands crushed the steering wheel.

  His foot set down on the gas and self-preservation overcame self-doubt. He definitely didn’t want to get caught in the gunfire if the soldiers decided to open up. His pickup rolled forward, steady and slow like a turtle on wheels.

  “Get me something white. Hurry,” Steele said.

  Ahmed dove in the backseat, tearing apart gear.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  Guns leveled in their direction.

  We aren’t running the barricade. “Something white, Ahmed. If you like living, get me something white.”

  “Ahhh,” Ahmed yelled. He stripped off his shirt and removed his undershirt, handing it to Steele. Ahmed held his injured arm over his bare chest.

  Steele whipped the white t-shirt out the window and stopped the pickup. He waited a minute. Ahmed’s head turned from the soldiers to the infected.

  “Why haven’t they come out yet?” Ahmed said. The soldiers watched them, cigarettes hanging out the side of their mouths. Helmeted heads stuck up out of Humvee turrets. They trained fifty-caliber machine guns on Steele’s pickup.

  “I don’t know. But keep your eye on the infected.”

  “I got ten within forty feet,” Ahmed said.

  “I got eight moving up the road,” Steele said. He reached behind him, grabbing his carbine. Two options flashed in his mind like bright burning warning signs. Throw it in reverse and drive off never knowing if Gwen was in the base, or make a run on foot to the gates and hope to God that those assholes would let them in. Neither choice was good, but he had to know. He opened the door of the truck and it whined loudly in protest.

  “We gotta make a run for it,” Steele called at him. They both took off for the gate. In one hand he held Ahmed’s undershirt over his head, the other held his carbine pointed at the ground. Please don’t shoot us, he thought over and over. Ahmed kept pace with him, one good arm pumping at his side.

  Ten yards from the gate, one of the guards shouted out. He put his hand in the air. “Stop. Drop your guns,” the soldier screamed.

  Steele complied. He tossed the shirt and carbine on the gro
und. His hands lifted above his head. There were no halves. They either let him in, shot him, or the infected would make quick work of them at the gate.

  A salt and peppered bearded man locked his fingers on the chain-link fence looking through at them. “We were wondering what you two boys were doing out there.” Chevrons decorated his upper arm along with an American flag.

  “There are infected behind us,” Steele panted.

  “Oh, we can see them.” He jutted his unshaven chin out past Steele. “But you see, we aren’t too worried about them. ’Cause we got this old fence here to slow them down. You, on the other hand,” the grizzled soldier said. He rose a hand outward from his body and tilted his head to the side to emphasis the questionableness of their predicament.

  “We are seeking sanctuary. Please let us in.”

  The soldier grinned. “Sanctuary. You ran all the way over here to say that? I was expecting a bit more. You don’t got any guns, and you don’t got no fence. So to me it looks like you are up a shit creek,” he said with a grin.

  “Please. We’re on a mission from Colonel Jackson in Pittsburgh. Is he here? He promised us refuge,” Steele said. He glanced behind him. The dead closed in to the gate. The pack tightened around them, cutting off all paths of retreat save through the closed gate. Like a flesh-laden noose they cinched tight around Steele and Ahmed. Fresh blood covered their face and hands.

  The soldiers traded looks with each other.

  “Colonel Jackson? You were on a mission from him?” the sergeant first class said.

  “Yes, please,” Steele pleaded.

  The sentry gave a wave. “Light ’em up Donnie.”

  The thunder of the fifty roared over the fence. Steele could feel the concussions from the rounds as they screeched overhead. It seemed to suck the air out of his lungs, and when he realized that he was not the target of their hot lead he threw himself to ground, bringing Ahmed with him. As his hearing came back, he could see Ahmed’s mouth working out a yell. Steele gathered himself and stood up, brushing his chest off. The gate rolled open and the fence clanked.