by W. J. Lundy
“Why stay?” he said, passing her a plastic bear filled with honey.
“You could have stayed for me.”
“You knew where I went; you never came or sent word.”
Shaking her head, she stuffed her blankets and gear back into her pack. “We should get going; we don’t want to waste the light.”
They passed through the remains of the burned out town late in the morning. Garbage and weed-covered sidewalks flanked rusted cars on flat tires. Near the center of the town was a barricaded police station. Another last stand for humanity. Draped over coiled wire and sandbags were decomposed, leathered remains. Brad stepped close to one of the bodies and Chelsea grabbed his wrist, trying to pull him back. When he resisted, she let go, allowing him to step near the body.
A police officer lay on his back. The man’s face was gone to the skull. He wore a dark blue police jacket with an army green tactical vest over it. His rifle was rusted and frozen into his skeletal grip. Brad stopped and looked the man over, then let his eyes take in the full scene of the carnage. “One day they just made a final stand,” he said. “And nobody came for them; nobody came to bury them. Nobody will ever know about this battle; nobody will ever write about it.”
“Is this how the world ended?” Chelsea asked.
Brad looked up and felt the wind in his face as it began to snow again. He shook his head and looked away. At the edge of the police building was a line of squad cars and utility vehicles, all on flat tires except an old, diesel tow truck. He stepped closer, then turned back to Chelsea. “Could you get this running?”
She stared at the truck and nodded her head. “If you can get me something to jump the battery, I’m sure I could.”
“Well, you’re the mechanic. You got any ideas?” Brad asked.
She turned back and pointed at the police station. “Look for a generator. They would have had them out back.” Without waiting for his response, she approached the tow truck. Reaching through the open driver’s window, she popped the hood.
“Be careful,” he said, looking at her.
“I got it. Go find a generator.”
Brad looked back to the police building. He walked closer and followed the sidewalk lined with police vehicles to where it met a tall block fence. From the top, he saw a two foot long pipe and strands of barbered wire; following along, he found a rusted cipher lock with eight worn key buttons. Brad grabbed the gate and found it too sturdy to try prying open. He pulled his suppressed pistol and, leaning off to the side, he fired three times, the final shot cutting away the pin holding the cipher lock to the hasp.
“Are you okay?” he heard Chelsea call from the front.
“I’m fine, just opening a door.”
Brad pushed the gate in and saw fresh snow lined the parking lot; not a single foot print had disturbed it. He stepped into the yard and walked between dumpsters and empty pallets with FEMA markings. In the back of the yard was a neatly arranged row of black body bags, covered with just a dusting of snow. He avoided the area and moved closer to the police building. Near a bay door, he found what he was looking for. Beyond a pile of empty fuel drums and gas cans was a neat line of red generators. Brad moved along the generators and checked the fuel tanks, finding all of them empty. “Probably ran themselves dry after the attack with nobody left to fill them,” he said to himself.
He reached for a small gallon gas can and felt the liquid slosh around inside. Turning back to the generators, he searched them until he found one that had multiple power jacks and jumper cables built into the side. Grabbing both he returned to the front of the station to see Chelsea digging through a tool box in the back of the truck. He set the generator near the front of the truck, opened the gas cap, and prepared to fill it from the can.
“Wait,” Chelsea said. She pulled a canvas bag from the tool box and carried it to the street. Digging through the bag she pulled out two bottles of dry gas and a can of starter fluid. Chelsea took the gallon gas can and shook it. “This’ll help with the water,” she said before filling the generator. “Give me your pack.” Brad did as she said. She took their bags and loaded them into the back of the truck, tying them down with bungee straps.
“What about the truck?” Brad said. “You need to treat that too?”
“I hope not. The truck’s tank is full and if it’s stayed sealed up tight, we might be okay.”
“Might? And if not?”
Chelsea shrugged. “Fuel filter should help us out, but after that we keep our fingers crossed.” She finished filling the generator, moved it closer to the front end of the tow truck, and made sure the 12 volt cables would reach. She pulled out the hand crank and waved a hand to Brad. He took over, the cord pulling hard, but on the fifth tug the small generator came to life. Chelsea adjusted the idle and quickly had it revving.
“Brad,” she said.
He looked up. Her mouth open, he followed Chelsea’s gaze to a brick apartment building across the street. On the second floor, faces looked out at them. Cold gray faces with gnarled teeth, hands clenched in boney fists. “Start the truck!”
Chelsea stretched the cables to the truck’s battery and entered the cab. Brad moved beyond it and readied himself over the roof of a police car. The creatures in the window were now screaming. Brad searched left and right. How did he miss that building? It was scorched and burnt like the others, but somehow the Primals found it suitable to their needs. At the base of the building where a lobby would be, the building had a gaping hole. The front windows were gone and the door long removed.
He focused his fire there and waited for the first to enter his sights before he pulled the trigger. The first shot was met with an intensity of howls and high-pitched screams. He leaned into the rifle and pulled the trigger, dropping one after another of the approaching creatures. The tow truck cranked and groaned behind him as Chelsea cussed and swore at it.
He dropped two more leaping out of the rubble of the apartment building, then shifted his aim and fired again, the bolt locking back on an empty chamber. Performing a quick magazine change, he was back on target. He heard the diesel roar to life and screech as rusted parts awoke. Chelsea’s rifle joined the fight behind him as she yelled for Brad to pull back to the truck.
Squaring his hips, he moved backward while continuing to fire as he withdrew. He bumped into the already open passenger door and passed around it, piling into the truck. Sprinting creatures collided with the door, shoving it shut and trying to force their way through the open window. Brad reeled back away from their clawing hands. Chelsea was inside, her door closed. She reached over him with her pistol and fired point blank, clearing out the things to his front. The blast of the 9mm shattered his ears.
“Drive!” he screamed, pulling his own handgun and bringing it up before pulling the trigger into the faces of the creatures. The truck crashed back as it met the onslaught of Primals. He pulled the trigger until the weapon was empty, then used the head of his tomahawk to bash at and gouge the heads of the infected. Chelsea cut the wheel and worked the truck forward, crashing through the mass. The truck’s heavy, cleated tires made easy work of crunching through the mess of bodies.
As the last of the creatures fell from the side of the truck, Brad leaned back into the seat, his uniform and face bloodied. Chelsea gripped the wheel with white knuckles, blood spatter covering her cheeks. She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “Are you bit?” she asked.
Brad patted at his sleeves and gloves. Pulling the shemagh from his neck, he wiped his eyes. “I’m okay.”
Epilogue
The truck wound up Interstate 69, passing Fort Wayne, Indiana. Most of the road was clear, the wreckage piled and compacted into the medians. Obvious signs of a cleanup. There were painted messages from the Midwest Alliance on billboards with green arrows and directions to the safe zone. Brad drifted in and out of sleep, watching the truck break through drifts on the snow-covered highway. They passed by fields of destruction and undistinctive shapes of the w
reckage.
He kept his rifle between his knees, his hand holding the barrel as his head bobbed up and down. Days of being on alert and fighting had worn him down; he knew he was at his breaking point. She reached over and squeezed his shoulder. He looked up at her with tired eyes. She pointed through a thick haze covering the highway to a sign: Welcome to Pure Michigan; painted in bold letters below it: Entering the Midwest Alliance Safe Zone.
Looking ahead, he saw the soft glow of light shining through the mist. He asked Chelsea to stop the truck and cut the headlights. With his rifle ready, he stepped out onto the highway. The night air was silent, only the low idle of the truck making any noise. His boots crunched in the snow as he stepped ahead. In the distance, the mist glowed back like a lighthouse marking the way for a lost ship.
“It goes on forever,” Chelsea said, looking at the horizon.
Brad nodded his head. “As bright as the sunrise.”
He moved back to the cab and closed the door behind him. Chelsea continued on, driving toward the light. The wreckage on the sides of the roads pushed back farther until eventually, it was completely removed. Two lanes of cleared highway appeared, the high grass from the median strip mowed short, only a pristine layer of snow now covering it. At a sign for a highway junction, Chelsea suddenly stopped the truck, causing Brad to look up. Where the highway connected with an east-west interstate, the road was blocked. A twelve-foot-tall wall made of concrete and steel blocked their path.
Mounted to the tops of the gray barrier were bright spotlights. One directly to their front shined brightly, flooding the wall and illuminating a sign below. A green arrow pointing left with stenciled text below it read: Coldwater Crossing 10 miles. Then another arrow pointing to the right, Ann Arbor Crossing 90 miles.
“We stay away from Ann Arbor; I’m a Spartan,” Brad said, pointing to the left. Chelsea turned, driving slow and following the wall with the lights shining down over them.
The mist cleared away and they saw another search light pointed straight up into the sky, turning in small circles and marking the way. Lights on the tops of the wall began to turn and point at the tow truck.
“I think someone’s up there,” Chelsea said.
“Just keep going,” Brad whispered. Chelsea slowed and stayed to the center of the empty road until a bright spotlight from directly ahead blinded them. Chelsea stopped the truck, her hands still frozen to the wheel.
“Brad,” she said, her voice cracking.
“It’s okay,” he answered back. “Let’s go.” He put his hand to the latch and opened the door with a clunk.
She reached out and took his arm.
“It’s okay,” he said. Brad stepped out onto the street and closed the door behind him. He checked to see that Chelsea was doing the same. He walked to the fender of the truck and unclipped his rifle, making a show of placing it on the hood. He then did the same with his sidearm and tomahawk. He looked over to Chelsea and smiled at her. Stepping to the front of the truck, she joined him and he took his hand. Together they walked into the blinding light. He heard shouts of men and boots slapping the pavement as they moved toward them.
He felt her squeeze his hand as men in multicam uniforms emerged from the light, running toward them in two columns. The soldiers formed a line with their rifles up, but the weapons were pointed into the mist, not at them. Soon, the men moved into a rehearsed circle, surrounding them in a protective bubble as a big man with a bushy mustache entered the circle and looked Brad up and down.
Brad looked the man in the eye and extended his hand. “Sergeant Brad Thompson, United States Army.”
The man grinned and answered back. “Sergeant Rufus Brown, Michigan National Guard. Welcome to the safe zone.”
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About WJ Lundy
W. J. Lundy is a still serving Veteran of the U.S. Military with service in Afghanistan. He has over 16 years of combined service with the Army and Navy in Europe, the Balkans and Southwest Asia. W.J. is an avid athlete, writer, backpacker and shooting enthusiast. He currently resides with his wife and daughter in Central Michigan.
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Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Series.
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot is an introduction into the apocalyptic world of Staff Sergeant Brad Thompson. A series with over 1,500 five-star reviews on Amazon.
Alone in a foreign land. The radio goes quiet while on convoy in Afghanistan, a lost patrol alone in the desert. With his unit and his home base destroyed, Staff Sergeant Brad Thompson suddenly finds himself isolated and in command of a small group of men trying to survive in the Afghan wasteland.
Every turn leads to danger. The local population has been afflicted with an illness that turns them into rabid animals. They pursue him and his men at every corner and stop. Struggling to hold his team together and unite survivors, he must fight and evade his way to safety.
A fast paced zombie war story like no other.
Escaping The Dead
Tales of The Forgotten
Only The Dead Live Forever
Walking In The Shadow Of Death
Something To Fight For
Divided We Fall
Bound By Honor
Praise for Whiskey Tango Foxtrot:
"The beginning of a fantastic story. Action packed and full of likeable characters. If you want military authenticity, look no further. You won't be sorry."
-Owen Baillie, Author of Best-selling series, Invasion of the Dead.
"A brilliantly entertaining post-apocalyptic thriller. You'll find it hard to putdown"
-Darren Wearmouth, Best-selling author of First Activation, Critical Dawn, Sixth Cycle
"W.J. Lundy captured two things I love in one novel--military and zombies!"
-Terri King, Editor Death Throes Webzine
"War is horror and having a horror set during wartime works well in this story. Highly recommended!"
-Allen Gamboa, Author of Dead Island: Operation Zulu
"There are good books in this genre, and then there are the ones that stand out from the rest-- the ones that make me want to purchase all the books in the series in one shot and keep reading. W.J. Lundy's Whiskey Tango Foxtrot falls into the latter category."
-Under the Oaks reviews
"The author's unique skills set this one apart from the masses of other zombie novels making it one of the most exciting that I have read so far."
-HJ Harry, of Author Splinter
The Invasion Trilogy
The Darkness is a fast-paced story of survival that brings the apocalypse to Main Street USA.
While the world falls apart, Jacob Anderson barricades his family behind locked doors. News reports tell of civil unrest in the streets, murders, and disappearances; citizens are warned to remain behind locked doors. When Jacob becomes witness to horrible events and the alarming actions of his neighbors, he and his family realize everything is far worse than being reported.
Every father's nightmare comes true as Jacob's normal life--and a promise to protect his family--is torn apart.
From the Best Selling Author of Whiskey Tango Foxtrot comes a new telling of Armageddon.
The Darkness
The Shadows
The Light
Praise for the Invasion Trilogy:
"The Darkness is like an air raid siren that won't shut off; thrilling and downright horrifying!" Nicholas Sansbury Smith, Best Selling Author of Orbs and The Extinction Cycle.
"Absolutely amazing. This story hooked me from the first page and didn't let up. I read the story in one sitting and now I am desperate for more. ...Mr. Lundy has definitely broken new ground with this tale of humanity, sacrifice and love of family ... In short, read this book." William Allen, Author of Walking in the Rain.
"First book I've pre-ordered before it was published. Well done story of survival with a relentless pace, g
reat action, and characters I cared about! Some scenes are still in my head!" Stephen A. North, Author of Dead Tide and The Drifter.
SIXTH CYCLE
Nuclear war has destroyed human civilization.
Captain Jake Phillips wakes into a dangerous new world, where he finds the remaining fragments of the population living in a series of strongholds, connected across the country. Uneasy alliances have maintained their safety, but things are about to change. -- Discovery leads to danger. -- Skye Reed, a tracker from the Omega stronghold, uncovers a threat that could spell the end for their fragile society. With friends and enemies revealing truths about the past, she will need to decide who to trust. -- Sixth Cycle is a gritty post-apocalyptic story of survival and adventure.
Darren Wearmouth ~ Carl Sinclair
DEAD ISLAND: Operation Zulu
Ten years after the world was nearly brought to its knees by a zombie Armageddon, there is a race for the antidote! On a remote Caribbean island, surrounded by a horde of hungry living dead, a team of American and Australian commandos must rescue the Antidotes' scientist. Filled with zombies, guns, Russian bad guys, shady government types, serial killers and elevator muzak. Dead Island is an action packed blood soaked horror adventure.
Allen Gamboa
INVASION OF THE DEAD SERIES
This is the first book in a series of nine, about an ordinary bunch of friends, and their plight to survive an apocalypse in Australia. -- Deep beneath defense headquarters in the Australian Capital Territory, the last ranking Army chief and a brilliant scientist struggle with answers to the collapse of the world, and the aftermath of an unprecedented virus. Is it a natural mutation, or does the infection contain -- more sinister roots? -- One hundred and fifty miles away, five friends returning from a month-long camping trip slowly discover that death has swept through the country. What greets them in a gradual revelation is an enemy beyond compare. -- Armed with dwindling ammunition, the friends must overcome their disagreements, utilize their individual skills, and face unimaginable horrors as they battle to reach their hometown...