by Lundy, W. J.
The screen door closed behind them, and Gyles turned to see Weaver on the porch. “Can we get the hell out of here?”
Gyles nodded, and they started moving back toward their Humvee when an old man in faded blue coveralls stepped from the back door of the pole building. He was holding an old lever-action .30-30 in his hands. He looked to them and back at the house. “How is my grandson?”
Frowning, Gyles shook his head.
“I see,” the old man said. “Where you boys off to?”
Gyles exhaled. “We were told the military had set up a roadblock on the highway. We were trying to find it when we bumped into Wayne.”
The old man squinted and turned to the driveway, pointing with the end of the rifle. “Follow the drive and take a left. Just past the grain silos you’ll see a gravel cut. Take that to the interstate and you’ll see where the Army set up its little roadblock.” The man looked back at Gyles and put a free hand to his chin. “I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”
“Why is that?”
“There was fighting over that way all night. Lots of bombs, machine guns. All sorts of things. The rumbling came at us until well after sunup. That fight is probably what pushed them crazy people toward our farm this afternoon. If I were you, I’d go the opposite direction from all of that.”
Gyles nodded his understanding. “I see.” He took a step toward the Humvee. “What are you all planning to do out here?” he asked.
The old man grimaced. “We’re set up okay.” He shook his head. “We should have moved to the cellar days ago. If we had… Steven would still be okay. We have canned goods, well water, everything we need in there. We first started hearing about those crazy attacks last week on the news. My wife and I have a small place in town, our retirement spot we moved to after I gave Wayne the farm. As things got nuttier on the news, we loaded up and came back here. We’ve been watching the news and the traffic. Was probably about four days ago when it got bad, and we started hearing the gun shots.
“But still nothing came out to the farm. We are located quite a hitch from town, and even if you are looking for it, you’ll miss the turnoff from the highway. It was just pure bad luck, I reckon, that those crazy people found their way to the farm this afternoon. Maybe it was the dogs barking. I don’t rightly know.”
“So, you don’t plan to leave then?” Gyles asked.
The old man pulled his rifle in. “You ain’t looking to make us, are you?”
Gyles smiled. “No sir; you are far better off than anything I’d have to offer you. We’ll be on our way and wish you good luck.”
The old man nodded. “Listen, if you go checking out the Army outpost, don’t you come back this way. We don’t need any more of them things following you here. And please don’t tell anyone about us. We’re hidden. I’d like it to stay that way.”
“Can do,” Gyles said. He pointed to the Humvee, and the men mounted back up. With the doors closed, Mega put them back on the gravel drive headed toward the military outpost.
Chapter Seventeen
Day of Infection Plus Ten, 1700 Hours
Interstate 81, Virginia.
“Take us in slow,” Gyles said.
On a high incline looking down, they already knew the military encampment was abandoned. Bypassing it wasn’t an option; it was the reason they were here, and they had to search it. They needed information and supplies. Directly ahead, covering both sides of the interstate and the median, the path was blocked by a long strand of wire and interspersed with military and civilian law enforcement vehicles. It was a barricade, a wall that attempted to stop the flow of traffic but must have quickly been turned into a defensive perimeter as things on the ground went sideways.
Gyles reflected on his own experiences at the lab and at the armory and cringed at the thought of what the troops here must have gone through. “Get us close and kill the engine,” Gyles said, surprised to find himself whispering.
Orange plastic barrels and concrete barriers funneled vehicle traffic from both the north and south lanes of the interstate into a single line that weaved onto the median. The once grass-covered field was now squared off by sandbag bunkers. A Stryker vehicle overlooking the entrance sat silently with a top hatch open. Like the rest of the bodies they’d seen since entering the interstate, the ones here were scattered on the ground in twisted poses. Gyles reached into a chest pocket and removed a shemagh that he wrapped around his face to cover the stench of death and decay that hung heavy in the air. Mega eased the truck up alongside the line of vehicles less than fifty meters from the makeshift gate and cut the engine.
They could see through the barricade; the path ahead was surprisingly clear for at least a hundred yards. Whatever had been holding this position was gone. Their vehicles and fighting positions overrun, the only thing left to let a traveler know that this position was once held, were bodies and spent brass casings on the ground.
The men sat still, holding their breath, heads not moving but eyes scanning the ghostly terrain around them. Every hair on the back of Gyles’s neck was up, and he could hear the heavy breathing from the rest of his crew. None of the trio was new to war, but this was something entirely different to them.
“This is bad,” Weaver whispered. “You sure about this?”
“It don’t mean nothing,” Mega answered, his voice cracking, his oversized hand squeezing the steering wheel. “It don’t mean nothing.”
They were looking directly into a kill zone. The pathway ahead was open; a narrowly constructed lift gate that once closed it was knocked from its stand. The sides of the lane had been blocked by hastily erected HESCO barriers—large fabric bags filled with stone to create walls—and sandbag berms. Along the face of the wall were strands of concertina wire now intertangled with bloated bodies. Soldiers dressed in ACUs still lay where they died, sprawled across the tops of barriers. Along the top of the wall places were cut out where mounted weapons nests once sat. A few of the big guns were still there, the barrels aimed up into the sky. Weaver leaned forward and pointed a hand at a body twitching in the wire ahead of them. The thing was wrenched into an unhuman pose halfway up the wall, its arm knocking into the wire.
“I see it,” Gyles whispered.
“You think it’s one of us—or one of them?” Mega asked, his head fixed straight ahead.
“If it’s one of us, then why is it on the wrong side of the barrier caught up in that wire?” Weaver said.
“Well,” Mega shrugged, “technically, we are on the wrong side of the barrier.”
“You want to climb up there and find out?” Gyles said. “Maybe ask him what team he is on, find out what his favorite color is?”
Mega’s head turned to Gyles, his eyebrows raised. “Yeah, it’s one of theirs, definitely.”
“Thought so,” Gyles said. Instinctively, his hand passed over the front of his vest, checking his magazine pouches and his sidearm. He then lifted his M4 and press-checked the magazine. “We’re going out there. We’re going to have a quick sweep, look for handheld radios, ammo, and weapons. Anything comes at us, we get back to the truck and button up, get the hell out of here,” he said in a monotone voice that left no room for discussion. “Mega, dial down your volume control to its lowest setting. Actually, just hit mute on that boom box.”
Without another word, Gyles put his hand on the latch and slowly pulled until it engaged, then eased the squeaking door open just enough that he could exit. He raised his rifle to the low ready, took three steps out from the Humvee, and took a knee. They’d done drills like this plenty of times, and the movements were second nature to him now. He could hear the light tapping of boot heels on the pavement and knew the other men were doing the same. In his head, Gyles counted to thirty and then stood, his head sweeping the surroundings. Nothing had changed.
The visual and aromatic feedback made him shudder. In the near proximity of death, his heart was racing from the surge of adrenaline. He knew if he let go of the rifle’s pistol grip, his h
and would be shaking like a leaf. He debated returning to the safety of the armored vehicle, locking up, and returning to the camp. As he choked back bile, he knew it was probably the smart thing to do, and nobody would question him for it. Nobody but himself. He came for a reason, and they had to press on. They needed ammo and answers.
Gyles clenched his jaw. Fuck it, we are here to work, and that’s what we are going to do. He lifted his leg and stepped forward. Conscious of every footfall, he focused on stealth as he moved toward the break in the wall. His eyes were drawn toward the twitching creature in the wire. His mouth had gone dry, every breath a challenge to hold in. He resisted the impulse to vomit when he got a closer look at the entangled man.
The former human’s neck was broken. He must have been partially paralyzed; the thing’s eyes followed them, its only mobile arm slapping the wire in a constant drum beat. The thwap, thwap, thwap against the concertina wire, every motion, sent a tremble down Gyles’s back. He wanted nothing more than to run a kill shot through the thing’s skull. But they had to remain silent. He swiveled and could see his men patrolling behind him in a single column, Mega in the middle, Weaver taking rear security. Both men’s eyes locked on the grotesque twitching creature.
Gyles looked at them and pointed two fingers at his eyes. Weaver swallowed hard and gave a knowing nod, turning back around to cover their rear.
Moving forward, Gyles found that the gateway was surprisingly clear of bodies. Just inside the perimeter, things weren’t as tidy. The dead were stacked up, and they ringed around fighting positions. Bodies were in clusters where individual battles took place against men in life-or-death struggles. Gyles’s own battle at the Vineyard Armory flashed to the forefront of his mind, and he froze, staring at the destruction of riddled bodies and scattered equipment. He swallowed hard, trying to get his mind back into the present, when he heard a low whistle from behind him. A light wisp, like a whip of wind. He turned and saw Mega pointing at something.
He wanted to be angry at the man for breaking noise discipline, but he was grateful for the distraction. He squinted, following what the soldier was pointing at. On the wall in one of the fighting positions, part of the sand bag barrier had tumbled away. Mangled corpses hung out of the wire over the wall. A uniformed man lay dead at the base of the wall. Gyles focused and half smiled; just to the right of the man was an MK19 lying on its side with the tripod legs in the air, an ammo can still partially attached. His eyes drifted to the right, where he could see the wooden crates of an ammo cache. There was ammo here, and by the looks of the boxes, a lot of it.
Gyles took a knee and let the men crowd in around him. He pointed to the 40-millimeter, belt-fed, automatic grenade launcher and looked at Mega. “Can we get that on the turret?” he whispered. He kept his finger pointed at the man, not allowing him to speak. “A nod yes or no will do.”
Mega grimaced and dipped his chin.
“Okay, you two recover that weapon then. Don’t dick around—just pack it up and get it in the truck; we can mount it later. Get back here and secure all of that ammo.” He exhaled, taking another pass with his eyes. He’d seen no movement and, surrounded by the walls, he felt isolated from the outside. There could be hundreds of them beyond the HESCO barrier walls but, inside, they were alone. Even surrounded by the death, he almost felt secure. “I’ll cover you while you work.”
Weaver flashed a thumbs up and, with Mega, stepped off toward the dead trooper and the MK19. Gyles turned back around, scanning, his eyes focused in on the Stryker. The eight-wheeled armored vehicle had a top hatch open and, walking further inside the perimeter, he could see that the back ramp was down. Why in the hell didn’t they button up? He straightened his body and continued to scan, walking closer. He looked over his shoulder and could see that Mega had the MK19 off the tripod and was cradling it in his arms while Weaver carried two large cans of ammo. They were moving back toward the Humvee. Gyles shifted his position to cover them, watching as they dropped off the weapon and then returned to ferry more ammo back to the vehicle.
He heard a static popping and hissing like the sound of running water and put a hand up. The men were on the return leg of an ammo run when they saw him and froze. Weaver stared at him and showed his palms to ask what’s up?
Gyles touched his ear and then pointed at the Stryker. He raised his rifle and shuffled toward the static pops. As he got closer, he could hear the tinny pops of a man’s voice. They crackled and snapped in a tin resonance. He moved to the rear ramp of the Stryker, swiveling his head to ensure that Weaver and Mega were still behind him. He closed in on the step that led to the rear of the armored vehicle. Looking in, he could see why it hadn’t been secured. The troops had been using it as an ambulance, a triage center. The floor of the vehicle was covered with bloody bandages.
He clenched his jaw and looked to where a dead man lay inside with his throat opened up. He hadn’t seen someone turn from the infection, but he imagined how it must have happened. He closed his eyes and heard the crackled voice again. It was from a radio. He looked back at Weaver, who recognized the same thing. Now energized, he moved up the ramp and into the vehicle. Below the open hatch was a radio station and a handset dangling from a cord. Gyles heard a man speaking. “…heavy casualties, request immediate resupply, we need ammo, supplies—” Gyles put the handset to his ear and said, “Any station, any station, this is India Two-Six. Over.”
There was a long pause, but the radio traffic grew silent, which Gyles took as a good sign that he’d been heard. “Any station, any station, this is India Two-Six. Over,” he said again.
“India Two-Six this is Anvil One-One. You are on the wrong net, please make your correction. Over.”
“Anvil One-One, we are…” He looked at Weaver, suddenly at a loss for words.
“Fuck it, tell them everything,” Weaver said. “Get us the hell out of here.”
“You are what, India Two-Six. Send your traffic. Over.”
“Anvil One-One, this is India Two-Six. We are in the wind. I don’t know what’s going on. We’ve lost our company. I have thirty-five souls in my camp, including civilian survivors. No communication with command, we have nowhere to go, we need immediate assistance. Over.”
“Wait one, India Two-Six. Over.” The radio snapped and returned to static.
“They are going to want to know where we are at.” Gyles panicked. They didn’t have a map or a GPS, but he still had the notebook with the interstate and highway mile marker on it.
“India Two-Six, this is Anvil One-One. Request full SITREP. Over.”
Gyles looked back at Weaver. “A situation report… I just told them we are completely fucked, what else do they want to know?” he said.
Holding his hands up, Weaver shook his head. “Request an extraction.”
Gyles smiled at the absurdity of it. “Anvil One-One. This is India Two-Six with 3rd Infantry Division out of Fort Stewart. My unit is down to six soldiers. We are with survivors of the 147th Aviation and local civilian survivors. We need immediate extraction; we have civilians that we need to get out.”
“Negative, India Two-Six. We have no assets available.”
“No assets?” He was tired and out of patience. “Listen, we need help. My company is gone. I have people here, and we need help.”
“This is Colonel Ericson, who am I speaking with?”
Weaver leaned closer. “Shit—Ericson. I know that name, he’s the boss over at Hunter Army Airfield.”
“Colonel, this is Sergeant First Class Robert Gyles.”
“Listen to me, Sergeant. There is no help out there. Nobody is coming for you. Do you understand that?”
Gyles’s heart thudded heavily in his chest, and his stomach retched. He took a deep breath and swallowed, speaking with his voice cracking. “I… I understand, sir. What are my orders?”
“You are on your own. If you are with the Third, the division is in a rolling retreat from Fort Belvoir. They are getting ready for a second assault to
take back the city.”
“Take back,” Gyles mumbled before hitting the transmit button. “Sir, we heard reports that Fort Belvoir is gone. Do we go anyway?”
“Not gone, but they are in a bad way.” The radio paused, the static popping before Erickson came back on the line. “Listen, son, you do what you need to do for your people, but my best advice is to dig in where you are at. Anyone still in the fight right now is circling the wagons. Nobody will be able to help you if you get out on the roads alone.”
“Understood, sir,” Gyles said, lying. “What about Stewart and Hunter?”
“Stewart is in bad shape, Hunter is locked down. I can’t send anyone after you.” There was a long pause, Gyles thought the connection had dropped before Erikson’s voice came back with, “Good luck, India Two-Six. Anvil One-One out.”
The radio popped and Gyles went to lower the volume before hearing a clatter outside—the sounds of metal falling and clanging onto the surface of the road. He knew what it must have been before having to ask. He looked back at Weaver, who was already on his rifle. The sights to his eye, the man’s hand flipped the selector switch to fire.
“Wait,” Gyles said, knowing the gunshot would bring on a frenzy.
Weaver pulled the trigger.
Chapter Eighteen
Day of Infection Plus Ten, 1830 Hours
Interstate 81, Virginia.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Gyles yelled, climbing over the vehicle’s commander seat, pulling himself through the open hatch and onto the roof. He looked out over the back of the vehicle and could see that Weaver had put down two infected charging at them from the rear. From the elevated position he could now see that the tiny perimeter was egg-shaped, completely walled in with a gate at each end. This spot was well-built, and textbook for a perimeter defense against a hostile force. They had sound walls and secure firing positions. But this wasn’t a conventional enemy they were facing. He scanned the openings.