Turning Point (Book 2): A Time To Run

by Wandrey, Mark

  “No overboard dump,” West admitted and gestured to his ship. “We’re a bit like the SS Minnow. We were only up for a three-hour tour.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Thorson said in heavily Nordic-accented English, “we estimated your initial transmission as being well outside of Earth orbit, toward the moon?” All the Azanti crew members nodded. “So if you were only supposed to be in space for a few hours, how did you get that far out? More importantly, how were you supposed to get back?”

  Richardson nodded and continued. “We had a good look at your ship as you came in. It looks identical to the one your boss at OOE designed. I saw pictures of it. Your craft has no power beyond whatever a booster attached would give it. You matched our orbit in less than an hour. I know quite well how much delta-v that would take.” Her look was a mixture of curiosity and accusation. “What the fuck is going on?”

  They’d discussed this scenario on board before docking. They’d had to, it was a question well beyond the obvious. They hadn’t all agreed on what to say, though.

  “You’re looking at the first faster-than-light drive,” West said, and gestured back to the lock. Richardson and Thorson looked at each other, then burst out laughing. All three members of the Azanti crew floated and watched until their hosts stopped laughing.

  “Wait,” Richardson said, “are you serious?”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Seven

  Morning, Friday, April 29

  Atlanta, GA

  The sun was climbing rapidly into the sky as Atlanta slowly slid into anarchy. The Gateway to the South was now becoming a gateway to hell as all societal norms disintegrated. The Georgia National Guard had been fighting a losing battle for days, trying to hold enough of the city to handle the thousands who’d fled there from the suburbs. Time and again, camps were cut off, isolated, and destroyed by waves of infected. Every time a survivor camp was overwhelmed, it provided a fresh wave of infected. The pressure on those remaining continued to increase.

  As midday approached, the military consulted with surviving civilian leadership and concluded they needed to move. The governor was nowhere to be found. Before the internet and satellite communications collapsed, there were reports of survivors holding out on the islands near Savannah. Shortwave operators also continued to get intermittent reports from Charleston as well. With the sea to one side, and limited approaches, they were holding their own.

  The airport had been lost days ago, so overland was the only option. As the sun began to approach its apex, the convoy set out along Interstate 75 South, toward Macon. Dozens of Strykers, Humvees, and MRAPs moved down all six lanes of the freeway, killing anything that got in their way. The MRAPs were equipped with plow blades, and they shoved aside hundreds of abandoned vehicles as they moved. Thousands of civilians packed into buses, trucks, and cars followed in trail.

  The going was not fast. The noisy MRAPs in the spearhead drew the infected like flies to rotten meat. Every half hour or so as they shoved aside dead passenger cars or looted tractor trailers, they would eventually be covered with hundreds of the crazed cannibals. The former citizens of Georgia clambered up the sides, pounded on the composite armor, tore at the doors, and even bit the mirrors. Eventually the drivers couldn’t see through the maelstrom of bodies. Humvees would move closer and carefully rake the truck with small arms fire, sending the creatures screaming to the ground where they were ground under the trucks’ tires as they moved forward.

  Once the military was 20 miles southeast of Atlanta, hundreds more Guard trucks and combat vehicles joined them, along with many more buses, trucks, and anything else that could carry the civilian survivors. It took an hour to get them all going, but by then there were over fifty thousand men, women, and children moving under military escort. After the convoy was enroute, the remaining air assets of the Georgia Guard joined the perimeter. Aging Cobra gunships followed along the freeway, using their 20mm chain guns to sweep concentrations of the infected as they rushed the convoy.

  Each time the convoy rolled past a town, they were assailed by a fresh wave of infected. Guard air cover laid down heavy fire on those concentrations, making pass after pass until their ordinance was expended. They’d then return to Dobbins Airbase and rearm. But as the day wore on, they began to pick up radio signals from other military units--ones heading northwest!

  A tidal wave of infected moved north from Jacksonville, chasing tens of thousands of survivors heading for Savanah, and the survivors led them right to it. The city had become an immense refugee camp of more than a hundred thousand souls, guarded by Georgia Guard units and a Regular Army battalion that was trying to push out to secure more of the city. They were just making progress when the vanguard of those fleeing from Jacksonville arrived.

  Mixed in with the survivors were infected, some only just beginning to succumb, others already turned and attacking their former friends and family. Before the Army realized the wave of survivors was compromised, the infected were in their midst and through their lines. Mixed signals from the perimeter forces didn’t reach the refugee command until it was too late. Guards began opening fire indiscriminately on the refugees trying to get inside the line.

  As word flooded into the camps that the Army was shooting refugees, panic spread even faster than the infection. Helicopter gunships took off and began the wholesale slaughter of the Jacksonville refugees. No one knew who made the call, and it didn’t matter. The uninfected died screaming, and the infected died rushing the lines.

  Thousands of survivors began self-evacuating the camp. Some took to boats, while others rushed to the north. The military rallied those who’d listen and took them toward Atlanta in the hopes of finding more organized relief efforts. The military elements from Savannah and Atlanta finally obtained good comms when they were only 40 miles apart, and both were approaching the Dublin area. The command elements of both forces raced ahead to meet face to face to discuss a plan of action. While they conferred, a wave of infected overran the command center and moved on to the convoys.

  The gunships ran out of ammo and tried to return for more, only to find Dobbins lost. Several crashed when they ran out of fuel; others sat down, and their crews fled into the hungry arms of still more infected. Back in the convoy, ammo ran low, then ran out. The slaughter went on for hours.

  * * *

  Fond du Lac, Wisconsin

  The group never had a name for itself. They jokingly called themselves survivalists, but it was more complicated than that. They’d gotten together on many weekends, bought survival equipment, practiced with guns, and fantasized about the end of the world. A few of them even had military experience, and they were all rich. So when the infection turned into a pandemic with all the hallmarks of a zombie apocalypse, they figured they had it made.

  They gathered one last time in late April at their Milwaukee clubhouse and agreed on the trigger to bug out. When the CDC issued their mixed message of avoiding recently produced raw or packaged food, and Milwaukee police came on the air informing everyone to shelter at home, they were ready. The internet kill switch activation was the last straw, and the group hit the road.

  Their retreat was on 200 acres near Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, only a one-hour drive. Of the twenty in their primary group, with another fifty dependents, only sixty-two made it. The plague was spreading with exponential speed, and many never got the warning about fresh food. They all checked each other for signs of the disease and pronounced the group safe.

  Over the next few days they watched through the few news feeds they could still get on television and listened to the shortwave radio as the country descended into anarchy, and worse. Their retreat was remote and unnoticeable from any of the major roads, and most of the minor ones. The heavily-reinforced main home had extensive cameras to monitor their perimeter. Panicking people raced past the driveway hourly, with their cars piled high with personal effects. None knew where they were going, just that they needed to get away from the dying zones of the c
ity.

  The third day after they’d arrived, one of the men walked out onto the porch in the afternoon to find a fully-grown white-tailed buck standing less than fifty yards away, just looking at him. He gave a little laugh, and the deer cocked its head. “What the fuck?” he said, and the deer charged.

  He was too stunned for the first twenty-five yards to do a thing, and by the time he reacted at all, he just yelled “Hey!” at the deer, which didn’t respond. Its antlers were razor-sharp as they raced at him, only it didn’t lower its head, it kept its eyes locked on him and charged face first. He reached for the door handle and yanked it open just as the deer hit it with a resounding crash of broken glass and wood, throwing him back in the kitchen, where half a dozen of his fellow survivalists were drinking coffee and listening to a shortwave. Their wives, daughters, and children were still asleep. Everyone gasped as he was catapulted through the patio door, followed by the deer.

  The deer shook its antlers and found the man on the floor just sitting up, covered in shattered glass. The deer stepped forward and bit his leg.

  “Argh!” the man screamed as the deer shook him by his leg, tearing pajamas and skin, splattering blood on the expensive tile floor. One of the men by the refrigerator turned and ran from the kitchen. A second later, the deer released his victim, looked up and swept the room with its un-deer-like gaze, and charged the next closest man. The kitchen descended into bedlam as the deer rampaged.

  The man with the knife lunged forward, burying his blade to the hilt in the animal’s left shoulder. The wound severely damaged several muscles and severed a nerve, but the animal showed no reaction to it; instead, the deer turned and bit the man who’d stabbed it.

  A little over a minute later, a man who’d fled the kitchen returned with a Remington 30-06 rifle. Four men were hurt and bleeding, three others were fending the deer off with chairs, tables, and one with a broom. He raised the rifle and fired. The thunderous explosion of the shot in the enclosed space deafened everyone, and the deer staggered, a massive wound through its chest splattering the wall of the room with bright red blood. A second later, it steadied itself and looked at the gunman.

  “Fuck!” he gasped as the deer turned toward him, its hooves slipping in its own blood. He worked the bolt and fired again. This shot was nearly point blank and blew most of the deer’s head off. The room quickly flooded with family members and other survivalists who gawked at the scene of bleeding friends and blood-splattered walls and floors. No one knew what to say or do. The room was filled with gunpowder smoke and a fine mist of deer blood.

  Eventually, the members of the group trained in first aid went to work on the injured. At the same time, others moved the messily-dead deer carcass out of the kitchen. Fearing it was rabid, they decided not to butcher the animal, despite the valuable meat. Instead it was towed with an ATV to the backside of the property, where it was consumed by a number of opossums, raccoons, and a pair of coyotes, all of which would go on to bite dozens more animals and humans in the coming days.

  Back in the retreat, the injured were taken care of and then put to bed. A team of six worked on the kitchen, which looked like the set of a particularly gory horror movie. Buckets of bloody water were dumped down the drain, and a bowl used to gather hundreds of bone chunks. Many of them were quite sharp, and one woman nicked her finger.

  A few hours later, one of the medically-trained members went to check on the first man bitten by the deer. When she opened his bedroom door, her patient attacked her. Her screams brought others, who fought to subdue their former friend, just as another injured man burst from his room and attacked. As the survivalists began to barricade themselves in, many succumbed from the blood they’d inhaled. Firearms were eventually used, but it was too late. No one was left alive. At least, no one who was truly human anymore.

  * * *

  St. Louis, Missouri

  “Move, move, move!” Sgt. Brian Black yelled at the busload of survivors. St. Louis was falling all around them. The smoke was so thick that many civilians wore water-soaked handkerchiefs over their mouths, for what little protection that provided. The sergeant had a respirator mask on, making his voice sound muffled, but no less desperate. Gunfire sounded around him, steadily increasing in intensity.

  North 6th Street was a gridlock of abandoned buses of all types. For hours, survivors had been pouring into the evacuation center established in One Metropolitan Square. They’d set it on the top five floors of the 42-floor office complex, and several hundred people were already crowded into it, with hundreds more coming. Black thought the idea of holing up in a building against a pandemic of crazed cannibals was stupid at best, but he was only a sergeant.

  He stopped at the door, his M4 held crossbody by the pistol grip, and waved the people inside. They were a motley group of survivors, mostly from East St Louis. A lot of them were injured, and all appeared near the end of their endurance. They also had expressions of hope as they entered the building.

  “Take over perimeter security,” he ordered a nearby corporal.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the man replied, and Black trotted inside. He removed his mask once inside. The lobby smelled of smoke, but it wasn’t oppressive. Piles of discarded personal belongings were to one side, some stacks taller than a man. People were being crowded in above, so each person was only allowed one small bag of personal effects, but all the food they could carry. Most had no food.

  The bank of nine elevators were all in use. Four were express elevators that jumped to the 30th floor without stopping, four more were local all the way up, and the last was a big freight elevator. Additional Missouri Guardsmen were cueing up the survivors in lines in front of the elevators, making sure only eight people went in each of the regular elevators and 20 in the freight car per trip. Progress seemed good.

  “Sergeant Black,” the radio crackled.

  “Yes, Captain?” he asked.

  “Come up with the next group. I want help coordinating the next two busloads.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “Be right up.”

  Black walked over to the front of the lines and watched for the next door to open. In a moment, one of the express elevators opened, and he slipped in before any of the survivors had a chance. Inside was a private operating the controls. He had a fire key, used to override the elevator’s automatic controls.

  “Sergeant,” the man said. He looked just as tired as the rest of them. Most hadn’t slept in more than two days.

  “We’re backing them up,” he said, “get a few more in each one.” The private merely nodded and waited as nine bedraggled men and women stumbled into the car. God, he thought, are they all injured? Two looked like they could barely walk.

  Once they were all inside, the corporal outside stopped any more from coming in, and the private at the controls turned his fire key and pressed the button for the 37th floor. But as the door was closing, one of those waiting tried to push his way in. Sergeant Black used the butt of his M4 to none-too-gently stop the man and push him back outside where the corporal there took hold of him.

  “The elevator will be back in just a few minutes,” the corporal said.

  “They’re in my head!” the man screamed.

  “Keep him back so the fucking door can close,” Sergeant Black yelled.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the corporal said. “Sorry, Sergeant.” The corporal used his rifle like a staff, pushing the crazed man back, and the door began to close again. As the door closed, Sergeant Black heard screaming in the lobby.

  “Good God, what the hell?” he wondered, but the doors had already closed. He looked at the private running the panel, who now looked a lot more alert. Both men were thinking the same thing; had one of the infected gotten loose in the lobby? Neither knew anything was wrong until one of the survivors in the elevator yelled.

  “Dad, what’s wrong?” Black spun around and saw one of the two who’d looked like he could barely walk was shaking his head and muttering. As the elevator began to accel
erate, he looked up and around the crowded elevator for a moment. “Dad?” the younger woman who’d spoken asked again. The man pounced on her.

  She screamed and tried to back away, but there was no room. The man wrapped his arms around his daughter’s neck and used his teeth to tear a piece out of her face. Her screams became visceral.

  “Get off her!” Black yelled and butt-stroked the man from behind.

  “He’s infected,” someone yelled. The man released his daughter and turned around as if Black had merely tapped him on the shoulder. His eyes were wide with rage, teeth bared and snarling, a big piece of bloody flesh dangling from his mouth. The man grabbed wildly at the sergeant, seeming slightly disoriented from the rifle blow. One hand went for the sergeant’s face, the other clawed at his vest. Black used the rifle like a pugil stick and slammed the man in the chest to get him away. The elevator erupted into pandemonium, and no one saw the infected’s hand come away with a shiny metallic pin or heard the piiing of the grenade spoon flying free.

  Each of the senior noncoms had been issued two grenades when they’d been called up as the crisis intensified. Black never thought he’d have a chance to use them. Who needed grenades when assisting a medical quarantine? He’d fixed them to his battle gear, pins tied down to avoid an accident. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been secured against someone thrusting a finger through the pin and jerking with inhuman strength.

  One.

  Immediately his training started a count in the back of his mind. He tried to grab the grenade from the vest as the infected man attacked again. He was dimly aware that at least one other person had succumbed to the virus, turning the elevator into about seven panicking civilians, two infected, and two soldiers fighting. All Black could think about was getting the grenade off his vest!

  Two.

  He struggled to get enough space for his hand to release the grenade, but the man was clawing at him, bloody teeth just inches from his face. The smell of coppery blood was strong. Jesus, God help me, he silently prayed as he fought. The elevator board lit up and the private stroked his hand down the keys, activating most of the upper floor destinations, hoping to get them stopped quickly. He finally got a hand on the grenade, as the man bit the same hand. He felt bones crack and cried out in pain.