Screams vied with gunshots for supremacy in the still fetid air while the smell of rot and death hanging over the city was enough to dizzy Stephanie’s head. She clung to Chuck and his grip was like iron. He would never admit it, but he was frightened as well. She could feel his heart racing.
The shadows moved with the dead and the dying, with the infected and those who were clean and desperate to remain so. Their faces could rarely be seen. Usually there was just a glimpse of pale skin or a flash of hair as people ducked away out of sight.
They were the people from the wall who had run from it when they realized they were trapped. Two days without sleep, two days of hard labor, two days of fear that built up, greater and greater, had turned them paranoid. They hid from Deckard’s little group, afraid to be seen by anyone.
After all, who could be trusted? Who was sick and who wasn’t? Who was ready to eat your face off and who would put a bullet in your eye? No one knew. Many perfectly healthy people were shot to death for the crime of getting “too close” to someone.
Within hours the people of Hartford had become tribal in nature: those people on the inside of the group were to be helped and protected. Those on the outside were to be feared or killed.
The fearful, xenophobic people were dangerous; however, the zombies were worse, far worse.
Tens of thousands of them roamed the city at will, sniffing out the clean blood of the living. The undead were as voracious as they were strong and all but the stoutest doors could be ripped from their hinges.
When the doors came down, people fled into a city that no longer resembled a modern city. Fires burned out of control and dense black plumes of smoke could be seen rising in columns a mile into the air.
Deckard led his little group into this new hell. Within five minutes, everyone but him regretted their decision. They crept up Franklin Avenue, keeping to the shaded side of the street, praying to God that they would be able to make it at least to the diagonal road that General Frazer had spoken about, before they were attacked.
Their prayers were not answered. Three blocks into the city, a pair of black-eyed fiends stumbled onto the street in front of them. Deckard, followed by the rest, ducked behind the nearest parked car. “If they go the other way, we’ll be alright,” he said. They went the other way, but they were not all right.
The zombies were following a very light wind, breathing in the scent of fresh clean blood. They tracked the smell just up the block to a small mom and pop grocery store where a number of locals had barricaded themselves. The little group watched as the front door of the store was attacked.
Those inside climbed to the roof of the store and began shooting at the zombies. They had terrible aim. It took seven shots to kill two zombies and the booming sound of their guns could be heard up and down the street. In no time, more zombies poured out of the shadows and out of neighboring buildings—some coming from directly behind Deckard’s group and if it hadn’t been for Sundance and his keen sense of smell, they might have been caught unaware.
With just enough time to get away, the group ran down the closest street, one with quaint, little cottages and old trees that stood as silent sentries up and down the block.
The group was fresh meat and out in the open. In seconds dozens of the undead were pounding up the block after them. “This way!” Deckard said, crossing over the street. He hurried along the side of a house and into a backyard strewn with toys.
The fence surrounding the yard was a six-footer made of faded grey planks. Stephanie took one look at it and quailed. She feared she lacked the strength to pull herself over.
Chuck felt her hesitate. “Don’t worry, darlin’ I’ll get you over.”
“What about Sundance?” Fowler asked. “We can’t just throw him over. If he breaks a leg, Courtney will have my balls.”
Deckard had no intention of throwing a hundred pound dog anywhere. After giving the fence a quick once over, he took hold of one of the boards and hauled back on it with all his strength. It was only held in place by a few rusting nails and with a squeal of protesting wood, he pried back the board. A second board was yanked out, leaving a hole plenty big enough for them to get through.
The zombies were right on their heels as they slipped through the opening, but Deckard refused to shoot them. He feared giving away their position any more than they already had. Besides, the opening was barely a foot wide. The zombies stacked up at the hole as the first of them couldn’t contort itself properly to fit through with ease.
Eventually, after peeling back its grey skin like a molded banana, it slithered through. By then, the group was across another street and zipping through a second backyard. This one was a jungle compared to the neatness of the first. It was so overgrown that the weeds had become shrubs, the shrubs had become bushes and the bushes had become wild, many-branched green monsters that could, and did, hide actual monsters.
An entire family of infected individuals had crawled into them to hide from the sun. Only in the last few minutes had they finished their transformation into zombies. Deckard hurried past them without noticing, but when Chuck and Stephanie hobbled by, leaning on each other, the creature that had once been the mother of the family suddenly burst out.
Stephanie screamed and as Chuck released his hold on her shoulder, her injured leg buckled and she fell, accidentally pulling Chuck down with her. The mother zombie rushed forward, her black mouth open wide in hungry, evil joy.
This time, Fowler was the quickest. He swept up his rifle and plugged the mother twice in the forehead before she made it five steps. Right behind it came the rest of the family: three youngsters with teeth sharp as razors, and their lumbering daddy that was a huge mound of jiggling grey flesh dressed only in boxers. Fowler incorrectly gauged the larger of the zombies as the more dangerous enemy and dropped it with two quick shots, while the children moved, quick as adders.
Instead of coming forward in blind hunger, they spilt, dodging left and right so that Fowler’s next shot took off an ear, but otherwise did no damage. Deckard managed to get one of the little beasts with a three-round burst that spun it around like a top.
The other two were on Chuck and Stephanie so fast that no person could have saved them—only Sundance was quick enough. He flashed forward, his white teeth looking as large as daggers and his growl that of a wild beast. He stood over Chuck and Stephanie bristling in anger, and his sudden appearance stopped the child zombies, who could still remember an instinctual fear of large dogs.
They stopped long enough for Deckard and Fowler to correct their aim and fire. The two fell and, just like that, Sundance reverted from a hell-hound to a tail-thumping dog.
“That was close,” Stephanie said, as Chuck pulled her to her feet. She tried to hold herself up, but her muscles were quivering and wouldn’t stop. Her legs threatened to give out and she didn’t think she could stand without help.
“It was,” agreed Deckard, tersely. “Okay, if we’re all good, we need to move. I’m sure those gunshots were heard from one end of this city to the other.”
Stephanie tried to move, however, her legs wouldn’t listen and the quivering had made its way into her arms and chest. “I just need a second,” she said in a whisper to Chuck.
Deckard heard and turned on her. “You don’t have a second. This isn’t the time to get a case of the vapors. We have to clear the area before the stiffs descend on us like flies. Come on, suck it up.”
She tried again and failed again. Deckard looked as though he were about to say something scathing, but Chuck turned on him with flinty eyes. “Y’all might want to shut yer mouth. This isn’t a case of the vapors. This is what stage four lung cancer looks like after three rounds of chemo. You don’t just suck that shit up.”
The hard look on Deckard’s face softened. “You’re right. I’m sorry. How about I help her, Chuck, and you lead for a while. Just keep striking north until we get to that diagonal road.”
Deckard slung his rifle and then lifted
Stephanie to her feet. After the cancer and the chemo, she was as light as she was weak. He held her easily.
When Fowler had corralled Sundance, who had been sniffing over the bodies, Chuck set out, moving north, going through backyard after backyard. It took longer this way but it felt safer. They were less exposed except when they were crossing the streets in quick rushes.
Without Stephanie’s weight on his shoulders, Chuck felt stronger and the entire group moved along at a quick pace for the next thirteen blocks until they reached the diagonal. It was Maple Avenue and it had been a main thoroughfare before the zombies; now it was a main thoroughfare for zombies.
By then Chuck was flagging, coughing little bits of lung up and spitting them in the grass. Since they had thrown off the pursuing zombies, Deckard decided a break was in order. They found a two story home to rest in that overlooked Maple.
After clearing the house, Deckard sat in a north-facing window, mindlessly chewing his way through an MRE as he watched the road, looking for patterns in the movements of the zombies and hoping they would be drawn off by something.
Chuck and Stephanie ate half an MRE between them before falling into a deep sleep. Fowler ate and rubbed Sundance’s stomach. He too fell asleep with his headed cocked all the way over on his shoulder.
Full now, Deckard fought to stay awake. He had to get to Thuy before it was too late—this had been an urgent demand consuming his entire consciousness for the past twenty hours. But now, after three days of constant battles and crushing stress, he could barely think of anything but sleep.
His eyes closed at just after two in the afternoon. They all were so exhausted that they likely would have slept around the clock, but they were eventually woken by a low moan.
Deckard’s first thought upon waking was: A zombie got inside the house! He sprang up, gun at the ready, and took one step toward the door when the moan sounded again—this time from within the room.
It came from PFC Max Fowler.
“My head,” he said. Though he spoke in a whisper, they could hear the fear in his voice. “My head, it hurts. Deckard…my eyes, how are my eyes?”
Deckard moved just close enough to see the man’s eyes properly: they were very dark.
Chapter 17
1—4:46 p.m.
The New York Quarantine Zone
Anna Holloway’s head thumped just above her left temple, pulsing every second or two along with the beat of her heart. When the headache had first begun, she had felt a thrill of fear go through her. She had been frightened enough that, at the first opportunity, she had stolen away from the others, got down on her knees and begged forgiveness for the many inhumane acts she had committed.
She didn’t even believe in God, but she was a woman who always covered her bets.
That had been two hours before, during their long march south, which had left her feet blistered and her level of exhaustion so great that she was on the verge of collapse. Their escape was not going as planned.
Killing FBI Agent Meeks and stashing his bloodied corpse beneath a pile of stove-cut logs back in Montrose had been easy enough, but getting the group to believe that he had just “run off” proved impossible. Suspicious looks darted among them and later, as the group of five hostages and four hostage-takers began a diligent search for a boat to take them down the Hudson, Anna caught bits of whispered conversations.
The group was afraid of Anna and Eng and had every right to be, but they also feared the unknown. Montrose was an utter ghost town. It was deserted in a way modern Americans with their chaotic, busy lives simply couldn’t understand. The sound of their footsteps echoing among the empty buildings gave them the shakes. They clung to each other and kept to the center of the street in a little knot.
It was not a shock to Anna who overcame their fear first. It wasn’t Bob and Allan, two grown men, or Renee, Meg, or Jenny, the three state trooper dispatchers, it was Jack and Alivia, the teenagers.
“We need to go after them,” Eng whispered when the brother and sister left to use the bathroom and never came back.
“I don’t think so,” Anna answered. “They have a fifteen minute head start. They could be a mile away by now. You’ll never find them, and even if you could, what would you do with them? Kill them? Chain them up? How do you think that will affect the others? Not in a good way, I’d be willing to bet.”
Eng grumbled: “We don’t need any of them. We should kill them all. What if they run away, too? What if they alert the authorities about who we are and what we have with us?”
Anna was a spy and that made her a high-stakes gambler. She had been impressed with Alivia and Jack from the very start—how many other teens had managed to survive the Quarantine Zone on their own? Anna was willing to guess that it was an awfully small number. On the flip side, Anna wasn’t impressed with the adults. They were weak.
She addressed them, holding up the vial of Com-cells: “Two more runaways,” she said, with a little shrug. “They’ll probably be dead in a few days. Either they will starve, or they will get shot by someone thinking they’re zombies, or they’ll just die of exposure. I don’t really care one way or the other. What I care about is if they do something stupid like telling someone about us and about this.”
Anna held the vial higher, making sure that each of them could see it clearly. “If the police find out about the vial, they’ll come looking for it and there will be a confrontation and the vial will get dropped. This is the virus in its concentrated form. If its opened, it could infect everyone within a mile. Think about how fast the disease will spread. It’ll get to New York City in hours. Can anyone tell me what might happen if eight million people got infected?”
Renee, one of the dispatchers raised a small hand. “It would be the end of the world, I bet.”
“Yes, exactly,” Anna agreed. “My point to this is, let’s get through this safely and silently. Together, we have a chance.”
The speech kept more of them from running. It didn’t help them get further from the Zone.
Taking a boat down the Hudson and out into the Atlantic, where they could go anywhere they wished, was their first idea. The problem was that they were the last people with this idea. In a stolen Ford Expedition, they went up and down the river bank, going to every marina only to find all the docks empty.
The people in that region had heard about the endless traffic jams tying up the roads all through New Jersey and so they jumped in their boats…and in other people’s boats, frequently against the owner’s will, and headed down river.
“I guess we drive, then,” Anna said. It was a bad option. The traffic jams in New Jersey weren’t the only obstacles they would face. First, they had to get to Jersey and if they could fight their way through the growing hordes, they would still have to get into Pennsylvania where the borders hadn’t just been closed, the governor of the Keystone state had used the words: utterly sealed.
“Maybe there are boats further inland,” Renee suggested. “My uncle kept his boat on the side of the house, not at some marina. I bet there might be a few still around.”
Two hours were wasted driving around looking for a boat. They eventually found a little fishing craft that barely held the seven of them. After much cursing by all involved, it was hitched to the back of the Expedition and hauled out to a boat ramp that fed into the Hudson.
The engine was tested and the tank filled with gas. Despite the puny size of the boat, it seemed that nothing could stop them from getting as far from the Zone as possible. They made it only three miles before they were intercepted by a forty-five foot Coast Guard response boat that came roaring at them.
“The river is closed to traffic. Turn around now or you will be fired upon!” A pair of mounted M240 machine guns were all the authority the Coast Guard needed. Eng heeled the boat around so fast that Bob nearly fell in.
“Now what?” Eng groused.
Anna thought that was obvious: “We drive.”
Driving didn’t work, either.
They went back to the ramp where they had left the Expedition and took it south on I-9. They made it four miles before they hit what they thought was their first traffic jam. Both lanes were backed up as far as the eye could see. In the distance, Anna could just make out flashing lights.
“An accident?” she asked. “With everything going on, you wouldn’t think that the cops would bother showing up for an accident.”
They sat there waiting until Allan noticed something about the other vehicles in front of them. “Are those cars even on? Are there people in them?” For the most part the cars were so filled with household goods that Anna couldn’t see through the back windows. At Allan’s question, everyone piled out of the Expedition and discovered that there wasn’t a single person in any of the cars.
“Holy Christ,” Bob wailed. “Where is everyone?”
“I’ll go ask the police,” Anna said. “All of you wait here.” Eng wouldn’t wait and so the two of them marched forward until they came to a road block comprised of two police cruisers sitting nose to nose. An even dozen men crouched behind the cars. They weren’t police.
“Stop right there!” one of them barked. “Hands where I can see them.”
Anna left the vial in her pocket, raised her empty hands and smiled sweetly. “What’s going on? What’s all this fuss about?”
Her charm was wasted on them. None of them lowered their weapons and when the first man spoke again, he wasn’t any more polite. “What’s going on? Everything’s fucked up and you’re on the wrong side of the line, that’s what’s going on.”
Anna’s heart sank in her chest. Had the Quarantine Zone been enlarged again? She pushed the smile back in place and asked: “What line is that? The perimeter of the Zone is still miles to the north, isn’t it?”
The Apocalypse Crusade 3: War of the Undead Day 3 Page 25