by John O'Brien
The hills draw closer and Emily finds that she’s in a race with the setting sun, although the race is really just one rotation of the pedals after another, a slow revolution of the tires. There’s only the squeal of the chain and the sounds of her wheels crunching over the occasional small stone lying on the paved shoulder. At times, she crosses the yellow line and rides on the highway itself. Each time, she feels a certain kind of freedom and daring. But then images of fast-moving cars enter her mind and she eases back to the side.
Emily pedals up to a bridge crossing a creek and is pretty sure it’s the same one where she and the soldiers emerged from the woods. Close to her left, a tall, steep hill rises above the tops of the trees. The sun has vanished behind another line of hills, but daylight still falls on the landscape. Dimmer, but still there.
In the distance ahead, the highway makes a sharp bend. Emily hops off her bike, laying it against the concrete railing of the bridge. Below, the creek gurgles as it pours over and around rocks. She downs the last of the water in one bottle and throws it back into her pack, not wanting to add to the garbage already by the side of the road. As the day and the miles went by, nothing bad had happened, allowing her to become less frightened.
The day’s heat begins to fade, bringing a slight chill to the air as the sun sinks lower. Emily knows that she’ll have to find a place to stay the night, but isn’t sure where the safest place would be. She’s only spent the night in houses, other than the occasional camping trip with her parents. Staying out in the open on the bridge worries her. If someone were to come up on her while she was sleeping, well, she only need remember the frightening things her parents described about being out alone.
Emily gazes toward the trees. The creek makes its way through them, creating an opening between the towering trunks. Embankments rise from the stream as it heads further into the woods. Emily remembers their trek through them, but it doesn’t look the same seeing it from the opposite direction. Squinting her eyes, she attempts to pierce the deep gloom, but isn’t able to see far beyond the tree line. The shadowed woods don’t look like the inviting playground where she and her friends played. It looks alien and foreboding. Her imagination runs away with her and she envisions all kinds of creatures that could prowl the dense woodland at night, all intent on finding her.
Daylight keeps them away, but they all come out at night.
Ruling out the road and nearby forest, she peers over the railing to the stream below. She considers the underside of the bridge with both anxiety and security. She’ll be out of sight, but it’s also under a bridge, where trolls live. Walking to the end of the span, she sees that it’s fairly easy to get down. Emily works her way around rocks and slides down the steeper ledges. At the water’s edge, with daylight fading, she finds small sandy beaches on both sides of the creek. They’re large enough for her to lie down and far enough from the water’s edge that she won’t roll into it in the depth of slumber.
Climbing back up, she retrieves her bike and manhandles it down the slope. She sets it against one of the larger rocks and pulls a sweatshirt and thin blanket from her pack. Sinking onto the tiny shore under the bridge, she ravenously eats two of the sandwiches she made, saving the canned food for later. A deep gloom settles. Emily uses the last of the light to go to the bathroom away from her small camp and then arranges herself for the coming night.
The shadows turn to darkness. Echoing against the top and sides of the bridge, the gurgling creek hides all other noises, for which Emily is thankful. The pitch black scares her, but she isn’t sure if she should turn on her flashlight or keep it dark.
If I turn on the light, then I’ll be seen. But, then I’ll be able to see.
In the end, Emily turns on the light, but places a shirt over it to keep it dim. It’s really not enough light to see by, but it makes her feel better. She wishes she had her phone so she could play a game, but that capability vanished when she crashed into the car and dropped it. The long day, the miles of cycling on a bike that isn’t meant for long distance travel, and the stress all descend at once. She doesn’t remember turning off the flashlight and lying back on the sand.
Chapter Five
Near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
October 6
The three-plus-hour flight is a mind-numbing one. Cities and communities pass below, some with vehicles jammed in the streets. The ordered streets are filled with the chaos of what happened, verifying that the spread of infection extends beyond the academy. The constant sound and vibration gives Brown a headache, with the others complaining as well. The lack of caffeine, water, and food is also beginning to have an effect.
With the metropolis of Pittsburgh barely visible to the northwest, Handley begins a descent, angling south toward an area with large residential neighborhoods. Staying low to the deciduous trees displaying their fall colors, he hugs the hills. Following a set of power lines dangling between large steel pylons, they come to a valley with a dirt track along its length. Handley banks and races up the valley just over the tops of the trees. Hills rise on both sides, streaking past. Briefly glancing down at the map on his knee, Handley banks the helicopter sharply over a nearly dry streambed.
“It should be right ahead of us,” he states.
He barely skims over a small crest, so low that Brown thinks the skids will kiss the leaves. Then the trees give way to an expanse of green with the gray ribbon of a runway ahead. They streak across a freeway and over the airport proper. The helicopter begins to slow and they turn toward a wide ramp to the right.
“Circle once,” Brown orders.
“That will eat into our window.”
“Yes, but it will also reveal any infected hidden by the structures. I’d rather not open the door only to be beset upon immediately. Any besetting to be done should come after drinks and something to eat.”
“So an after dinner kind of thing?”
“Precisely.”
Two infected emerge from near a line of hangars, racing toward the circling chopper.
“Can you hover just above their heads and hold it steady?”
“I think so. The wind isn’t too bad,” Handley replies.
“Then, let’s do that. Preferably away from any fuel source.”
Brown opens the door and leans out as the helicopter scoots over the field. He can’t get a shot directly over them, so he has Handley inch away. Unfortunately, the infected still follow.
Dammit!
“Drift away fast enough to keep them just to my side,” Brown orders.
Handley does as he’s told, but the infected just pick up their speed until they’re at a near sprint with the helicopter just ahead.
“Stay still, you fucking assholes!”
Brown directs Handley to position them away with the infected on Brown’s side. The helicopter darts away from the two on the ground and settles, skids hovering just above the pavement. The infected charge after, growing larger as they rapidly close. Brown fires a round, only to have it strike the ground near one of the infected’s feet.
Okay, the downdraft is stronger than I thought. Come closer you sons of bitches, I’ll wait.
The two are just outside of the blur of the rotors.
Can’t miss from here.
Brown fires; one of the infected staggers and falls face down. The second one, thinking it’s some kind of steeplechase champion, leaps into the air with arms reaching out. A spray of red mists the air as the rapidly spinning rotor slams into the side of the infected’s head. The helicopter lurches as Brown quickly closes the door, the figure cartwheeling to the side.
“Fucking A!” Handley yelps.
“Whoa!” Hayward exclaims.
Brown looks carefully at the windscreen and side windows. The downwash kept any blood from the chopper.
“Will that damage the blades?” Brown asks.
“I…I don’t know. Maybe. It seems to be handling okay,” Handley replies, angling back toward the refueling truck. “I’ll check it out
after we finish filling up.”
Landing close to the truck, Handley would like to leave the helicopter running, but needs to make sure the blades didn’t sustain any damage. Although he didn’t feel any vibration, that doesn’t mean that a small nick won’t grow larger with the forces exerted on the blades, eventually causing them to get out of balance and possibly shred the transmission. Cutting power, the rotors slow and wind down to a stop.
Handley races to the truck, drives it over and sets the Power Take Off. Hayward unwinds the hose and starts refueling. Brown grabs Clarke and heads into the base’s operations building. Putting a round into each of the vending machine locks, Brown kicks the doors open and the two of them begin removing as many sandwiches and water bottles as they can carry. On their third trip out, Brown notices that several infected have crossed the freeway and are gathering at the fence surrounding the airport.
“How much longer?” Brown asks, having to shout to be heard over the fuel truck’s revving engine.
Hayward shrugs.
Beyond the fence, Brown sees more infected crossing the highway at a run.
“I suggest we hurry this along,” Brown says, pointing at the gathering crowd.
Hayward turns to look. Infected are gathering in greater numbers, those in front being pressed into the fence. Even though they are nearly a quarter-mile away, their screams rise above the sounds of the truck. The fence begins leaning inward, the force behind being stronger than the chain links. More continue to appear, drawn by the shrieks.
“Oh shit!” Hayward exclaims.
The cadet withdraws the nozzle and races the hose back to the truck, then over to where Handley is checking out the rotors. Gathering the pilot’s attention, he points at the rapidly deteriorating situation. Handley’s eyes widen and he races for the truck, shutting it down.
“Apparently, pointing out a potentially dire situation spontaneously fills a tank,” Brown mutters as screams echo across the airfield.
Handley jumps into the right seat and hurriedly starts flipping switches while looking through the checklist. The fence line looks like the front of a mosh pit, with the ones in front looking like they’re being pressed through a cheese grater. The fence continues to give way, bending inward to the point that the infected can begin scrambling over it, and soon it collapses entirely. A mass of infected pour onto the airfield, pounding and shrieking their way across the green field and onto the runway.
“I suppose this is the time where I tell you to hurry,” Brown says.
“I am…I am,” Handley replies.
“Perhaps we could just skip to the part where those start spinning,” Brown comments, pointing to the stationary rotors overhead.
Handley glances at the approaching horde and presses the start button, the blades beginning their slow process to reach full speed. Brown fingers his sidearm, gauging the increasing speed of the rotors with the closing infected. Not really knowing how fast the rotors need to be, other than the meager understanding that they’re a blur when at speed, it’s difficult to judge if they’re going to make it in time.
The running infected look like a scene out of every zombie movie he’s ever watched: Faces twisted in rage and eyes eager with anticipation, they run through the field with the stalks whipping at their legs. Grimy faces splashed with the dark stains of dried blood—or the bright red of fresh blood—they streak forward, tripping others in their own lust. The roar of the engine drowns out the screams issuing forth from open mouths. The helicopter vibrates, trying to escape the bonds holding it to the ground.
“Sooo…” Brown starts, the bouncing skids interrupting the completion of his statement.
The engine revs and Handley pulls up on the collective, raising the helicopter quickly. The infected gather below, their eyes locked onto the chopper, arms stretched upward. Downwash whips their greasy hair and filthy clothes. The nose of the helicopter rotates, then drops as they accelerate away. Not giving up, the horde chases after them, diminishing in size as the distance increases.
The trees grow smaller as the helicopter climbs, creating a dizzying effect. The lack of food and water is taking its toll. The four of them dig into the sandwiches, Handley having to take bites while operating the stick with his knees. Even though he knows that he should be eating slowly, Brown can’t help himself. His large frame needs calories. He relishes the cool water rushing down his throat as he tips one of the bottles. He leans back in his seat after the frantic gorging, thinking there should be shreds of wrapper floating gently down in the aftermath. His mind clears as the hunger is sated.
Brown settles back, readying himself for another long flight filled with tedium. His mind is filled with thoughts that have no ending. They flow from one to the next, none of them holding for any length of time. His only real goal is to get to the cabin, where they’ll have a little room to breathe. Then he’ll have time to think about anything long-term. He doesn’t really understand what that might be, other than carving out a safe place where they can sustain themselves. The things happening in the cities and countryside below may or may not last for a long time, so any plan he comes up with has to be centered around them being around for a long time, if not forever. He just doesn’t know the playground rules.
The terrain change is abrupt as they leave the forested hills and begin flying over rectangular fields displaying gradient greens and browns. Just off the nose, smoke plumes rise from the metropolis of Columbus. Most are thin, but one billowing wall of smoke rises from a residential neighborhood in the northern section of the city. Below the thick cloud, tall flames flicker as houses burn unchecked. Looking across the countryside, other columns of smoke rise from several communities.
Someone probably left a curling iron on, Brown thinks, watching as a blinding sheet of white flame erupts within the advancing wall of fire.
Brown wonders if the fire will continue to spread or die down on its own. There’s certainly enough fuel for it to persist. As they pass by the city, the parts that aren’t burning give clear evidence of the chaos that occurred. Jumbles of cars block streets, others are parked askew in parking lots. Long strings of vehicles line the routes out of the city, the flight of the drivers halted and overwhelmed by the mass of infected. Even from their altitude and distance, Brown can see tiny figures as they run through the city thoroughfares.
He feels lucky that they can fly over the mess. He can’t imagine having to cross the country and deal with the mass of infected. They were lucky to escape from the academy so easily. Passing near any large city would have its consequences; there would be no way they could get out of the area without having to go through a few of them. The smoke causes a slight haze to spread over the city, although he can’t help but feel the grime isn’t just from that alone. With the high probability that the agent was airborne, the air within may very well be contaminated, mentally adding a degree of dirtiness to the image.
That’s provided the pathogen can still be transmitted from the infected in that manner.
He ponders whether the obvious airborne nature is still something that they need to worry about. The virus must have mutated into its current state, but he doesn’t have a clue exactly what that might mean. And, if it is airborne, how long would it persist? Too many questions without answers. With it being this widespread, he doubts that he’ll ever know the answer to many of them. Observation over time would yield some results, but he has no desire to venture anywhere close to populated areas. If he has his way, he’ll experience the retirement he looked forward to—the one with no people around. Of course, now that means no occasional forays into towns to pick up groceries.
Seeds…we’ll need seeds. And we’ll make a greenhouse.
With winter on the horizon, he knows that they’ll have to shore things up to get through it in a hurry. With the fish hatchery close, they’ll have a source of meat. But they’ll need something more than that. His mind drifts toward how to provide continued sustenance as they slowly make their way across
the state toward their next refueling stop.
The helicopter comes in low and fast with brown fields passing underneath in a blur. The sun nearing the horizon casts long shadows from the fence poles and bushes lining a creek near the airport. A tangle of blackened metal smolders just off the end of where the two runways almost meet. Brown can’t decide if the aircraft was trying to land or takeoff when it impacted the ground.
Handley circles the modestly sized Indianapolis Regional Airport. Several industrial complexes lie near the airfield. The nearest residences are scattered farmhouses over a mile away. Actual neighborhoods lie still farther away. Once the airport is cleared, they shouldn’t have any company during the refueling stop.
As long as there isn’t the occasional farmer still roaming the fields.
No infected are spotted during their aerial recon. Brown directs Handley to hover on the ramp for a minute to see if any show from within the few buildings. Nothing. The stop is quick, with Brown and Clarke cleaning out the vending machines and lone refrigerator in an employee lunchroom.
With the sun setting, the four land for the night on a small island in the middle of a wide river in a remote area many miles to the west of Indianapolis.
Chapter Six
USS Mount Whitney, Mediterranean Sea
October 7
Admiral Steve Gettins, call sign zombie killer, strolls down the empty passageway, his heels clicking on the hard surface and echoing off the steel walls. The deep lines around his eyes and furrows across his brow betray his apprehension. The situation in the Middle East was tense, with multiple terrorist groups seeming to spring out of nowhere. Every day brought a new challenge in keeping track of the fluid circumstances. However, that was nothing compared to what has transpired across the world in the past ninety-six hours.