by Lundy, W. J.
Gyles turned to him. “How do you know?”
“Too mechanical. He’s not thinking. He’s got a slight limp, but his expression is unchanged, no pain. No discomfort wearing a long-sleeve shirt and walking a blacktop road in the hot Virginia sun.”
“You see all that?” Gyles said, impressed at the observation.
“I’m a scout; I have to see those things or get popped.”
The man was within a hundred yards now. His pace had changed; he was moving faster and his head began to shift side to side. Luke turned and quickly walked back to the cab of the MRAP. Gyles looked for a bit longer then turned to follow. Inside the MRAP, the engine fired up and the big vehicle pulled forward. Luke cut into the far lane and drove around the infected man. As they passed, Gyles considered the crazed man’s eyes. They were glassy and dead inside. He saw no reason in them, no will to live. In the side mirror, Gyles watched as the man turned and began to follow them back down the hill.
“Maybe we should have put him down,” Gyles whispered.
Luke shook his head. “It’s not worth the time or ammo.”
Closer to the subdivision, the housing area lost the appeal it had from the top of the hill. Bodies littered well-manicured lawns. There wasn’t a home that didn’t have the front windows smashed. Cars were in driveways. Some with luggage on the ground next to them. Doors were open. The community reminded Gyles of those stories where an alarm went off and people raced to get away before a tornado struck.
“Probably caught in the dark. The horde moved over this place like a tsunami,” Luke said. “Nobody had a chance.”
“Where are they now?” Gyles asked. “Where did the infected go?”
Luke shrugged, keeping his eyes forward as he drove past the remaining homes, increasing his speed to create distance on the place. “I bet the wave doesn’t stop. Like the Doc said, these things want to infect everything before cooling down. They probably washed over this spot in no time flat, then continued north to the bigger cities.”
The driver slowed again and took them back east onto a hardtop two-lane highway—Virginia State Route 55, according to the sign next to the road. There were more cars now, many disabled in the road. Luke was having to slow often and leave the roadway to go around them.
Gyles sat up in his seat to get a better view. There were guardrails on the left and right, locking them in. He looked at Luke. “We could get stuck in here; you sure this is the route we want?”
Luke stared across at him for a moment with a look that said, Are you fucking serious? before lifting his chin toward the trees next to the highway. Taking the man’s hint, Gyles focused his attention further out; through the trees on either side of the highway and to the north, he could see the interstate. It was completely blocked. He looked closer and could see craters and destroyed vehicles, signs that the Airforce had put in some work here.
Eventually, the road they were on veered south before going north again, this time passing over the interstate, giving them an up-close look at the destruction. There was no spot on the interstate below that death hadn’t touched. Gyles shuddered and shook his head. “Nobody could have survived this.”
Luke sighed and took them off the overpass, away from the devastation.
As before, the road ahead was covered in trees, only passing the occasional home or small, one-stoplight town. Gyles looked at his watch and looked up at the sun. In broad daylight they’d only seen a few of the infected. The doctor was, once again, right about their nocturnal nature. Just as Gyles was thinking they were going to have an easy day, Luke slowed and eased the vehicle to the center of the road then stopped.
Ahead of them, the road was blocked. A large gravel hauling trailer was on its side, and just behind that, a pair of police cars parked in a V shape. Gyles leaned forward then looked behind him at Culver, who was already turning in the turret, searching for targets. “What do you see, Culver?”
A roadblock could mean plenty of things. In the old world it would have meant ambush; in this world, possibly nothing more than a massive crime scene. Either way, Gyles didn’t want to dismount his men unless he had to.
“I don’t see nothing,” Culver called out.
Luke looked at Gyles. “It’s getting late in the day; we need to keep moving or find a hide. I don’t like it, but we can’t go back—this is the cleanest route.”
Gyles nodded, and Luke put the truck back into gear, letting it slowly roll forward. Within fifty yards of the overturned trailer, he stopped again. The gravel trailer hadn’t flipped; they could tell it was intentionally turned on its side to block the road. The frame of the trailer and wheels pointed back at them, with mounds of dirt covering each end. The police cars were destroyed but not from bullets. The cars were dented in, and every piece of glass was shattered.
“I’m going to get out and see if there is a way around the road block,” Gyles said, looking at Luke.
With his eyes locked on the roadblock dead ahead of them, Luke nodded. “Watch your cornhole out there.” He then cut the engine, leaving an overwhelming silence as they continued to survey the scene.
Gyles looked back again. “Culver, I’m going out there; anything comes after me, don’t blow me up, okay?”
“You got it, boss,” the soldier sounded off.
With his grip on the door, Gyles released the combat lock then pushed out just enough that he could exit and drop down to the ground. As his foot hit the road, he heard the clinking of spent brass. Gyles surveyed the ground—9mm and 5.56 brass was scattered everywhere. He froze and turned out, scanning his close surroundings before looking back into the cab. “Someone had a hell of a fight here, expended a lot of rounds.”
Luke nodded. “Just see if I can squeeze around that barrier.”
Gyles exhaled slowly and took two crouching steps off the roadway and into the grass on the shoulder of the road. The terrain ran up slightly away from him, where it bumped into a tall chain link fence. The far side of the fence was lined with tall trees and thick brush, impossible to see through. He looked at it and shook his head; it would be tough to get across that bramble without being heard. Gyles raised his rifle to the low ready and stealthily moved to the front of the MRAP, stepping heel to toe. He gritted his teeth when he again kicked brass and heard it clinking along the asphalt.
Turning his head, Gyles looked up at Culver. The soldier was dropped down in the turret like a turtle with only the top of his Kevlar and dark-tinted goggles showing. Gyles considered going back. They had plenty of fuel—Luke could find another route. How hard could it be? Clearing his mind of doubts, Gyles halted and took a knee to check his near and far surroundings. He waited, straining for sounds of anything approaching, ensuring nothing had heard the MRAP. Drops of sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes. He blinked away the sting as he watched a line of ants work their way across the road in front of him. They marched on like nothing was wrong, like it was a regular day and the world wasn’t burning. He gritted his teeth and stood, again pulling the rifle into the pocket of his shoulder as he paced forward.
The police cars were directly to his front, parked with their backs to the trailer, the windshields facing him. He sidestepped to the right with his rifle up to clear the cars one at a time. Standing tall, Gyles moved just feet in front of the first vehicle’s hood. The windshield was broken, the glue holding it together pulled out. He could tell by the bloody ring surrounding the hole that someone was dragged through it. With a shiver, he stepped around the side. The driver’s window still in place, but the outside of the car was streaked with blood. He stopped and searched the ground. Where the hell are the bodies?
Gyles turned again to face the trailer. To the right of it was a high dirt berm. A foot path had been pounded into the dirt mound, leading to the top. Although his inner voice screamed at him to turn around and go back to the MRAP, he forced it away and took steps forward until he was just inches from the trailer. He held his breath and listened. Complete silence. Only his
breathing and heartbeat filled his ears. He moved to the right and faced the berm before placing a boot on its surface. It was more solid and hardpacked than he’d imagined. Looking back at the MRAP, he could just make out Luke’s face. Culver, standing over the MK19 in the turret, flashed him a peace sign.
“Fuck you,” he mouthed back, flipping the kid the bird. Gyles moved to the berm and committed to climbing it. Less than ten feet tall and with a low angle, he climbed it easily and was soon at the top. He stepped back and gasped, bile filling his throat. He was at the back of the roadblock, not the front. This was barrier designed to stop traffic from the east, to hold back those fleeing the Capital. Not people like him driving toward it. The roadway ahead was covered with the dead. Unlike the freeways and interstates pounded by the Airforce. The death and decay in front of him was the work of the infected. The smell and heat suddenly hit him in the face.
No longer able to hold it back, he stumbled forward and dropped to his knees, releasing the contents of his stomach. He clawed at the ground and raised his head again, gagging and eyes watering. He cursed himself and dropped to his ass, letting his legs stick out straight. The road went on to the horizon, the entire length filled with destruction and death. Buzzards sat on the ground, picking at bodies as the warm breeze rolled the stench toward him. “And this is the fucking cleanest route,” he snarled in a muffled voice.
He heard a clank behind him and turned back to the MRAP. Luke had his door open, checking to see if he was okay. Gyles waved him to go back then forced himself to his feet and wrapped a shemagh around his mouth. On the other side of the berm, there was another set of police cars. Near the dirt berms, a stack of fifty-gallon drums created another barrier on the corners at each end. Gyles pulled his rifle in tight and moved closer, looking down.
He considered the obstacles; if Luke hugged the corner, he’d make it around the barriers. But with wreckage that stretched countless miles ahead, even if they made it around the barriers, it would be a long haul. He shook his head again; they were committed. They could stick to the sides and make a way through the destruction or find a side road. Gyles turned to the MRAP and waved it ahead, pointing off to the side. The Beast’s engine fired up, and after a few seconds it was rolling forward.
Gyles climbed as close to the right side of the berm as he could and drew an imaginary line with his hand, directing the MRAP around the barrier. He stood and held his rifle up, looking out toward the congested road as Luke guided the MRAP. The driver expertly eased onto the shoulder of the road, squeezing between the dirt berm and the fence. He saw Luke’s face masked in concentration as he needled the vehicle through the gap like a surgeon.
Suddenly, the engine surged and the rear wheels spun, spitting mud and grass. The ground was too soft. The heavy MRAP began to sink in the grass and listed slightly toward him.
Eager to clear the spot, Luke got on the throttle and surged forward, all six wheels engaged and digging in. The MRAP listed more then settled, but in the correction, Luke oversteered and hit the stack of barrels. They clanged down, the pile spilling over the steel drums, smacking the concrete, bouncing and rolling into the dead below. Gyles turned and looked at Culver. The soldier was shaking his head rapidly to the left and right. Gyles pointed his index finger at him harshly as if to say, “Cut it out.”
The drums stopped their concert as they dropped to the ground and settled in the mass of bodies. The diesel engine ticked and hummed beside him. Gyles release his grip and exhaled. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest. Luke revved the engine and yanked the wheel, trying to free the stuck vehicle.
Then they came.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Day of Infection Plus Eleven, 1600 Hou
Near Haymarket, Virginia.
It started with roars. Not like a lion or the howling of a wolf, but the deep and manically enraged, fierce screams that only the violently crazed can develop when faced with death. Death that a person or thing no longer fears, a war cry from a monster with no soul.
Body tense and hands shaking, Gyles turned toward the highway of death. He watched them slowly rise among the smoldering wreckage. They must have been asleep in there the entire time. Or were they just waiting? Did they even have the ability to do that? He went to raise his rifle then saw the futility in the action; there were more of them than he had bullets.
He gasped as the brush and trees shook. There were more of them running at the fences, fighting their way through the tree lines. Bloodied and mangled faces fought through the bramble brush and pressed against the chain link fence.
Finally, he got his wits back and turned to the MRAP. Culver was in the turret, firing. Thunk, thunk, thunk—the 40mm grenades arced into the highway. Explosive blasts hit the vehicles on the road, but the things didn’t stop. They continued running as frags ripped them apart and tossed their shattered bodies. Thunk, thunk, thunk. More explosions. Culver was firing closer; soon they would be inside the arming range.
There was no time for Gyles to navigate the berm and barriers around to the passenger door. He ran and leapt to the roof of the vehicle. He landed just behind the turret, his momentum almost taking him completely over the side. He stumbled and tipped before feeling a tug at the back of his jacket.
“Got ya, Sergeant,” Culver shouted. He’d stopped firing and was pulling Gyles close.
Gyles regained his footing and, turning back, pushed Culver down through the hatch then dove in after him, head first. Culver was in his harness seat and they quickly became entangled. Weaver was there fast; he pulled the quick release and both tangled men dropped to the floor. Gyles heard the slamming of the hatch and the impacts of the infected against the vehicle at the same time. Luke pressed the accelerator, gunning the MRAP. The vehicle surged forward, the sides pelted like they were in a hailstorm, and so much screaming and pounding the men couldn’t hear each other’s yells.
Mega was holding his M240 across his chest, screaming. He wanted the hatch open; he wanted to fight. He stuck the barrel through a firing port in the wall and let loose a long stream of gunfire. The sounds of the weapon in the confined space racked all their brains. Sergeant Tucker grabbed him, pulling his shoulders down, and slamming him back into his seat. “Hold your fire,” Tucker shouted over the screams.
The rest of the men were flailing a mix of every emotion—from fear, to rage, to panic—all at the same time. Gyles pulled himself from the tangle and forced his body to the front. Luke was holding the wheel in a white-knuckled grip, screaming back at the mass of infected that was now on the hood, their faces pressed against the windshield. The vehicle rocked side to side, and Gyles fell back into the crew compartment.
“I’m losing traction!” Luke yelled. He cut the wheel toward the roadway.
They felt MRAP crunch and grind against abandoned vehicles on the left side. Luke shouted profanities again and cut the wheel back to the right while gunning the engine. The Beast surged forward then bucked violently. The back end bounced as it caught then lost traction. Luke cursed again and threw up his hands. He balled his hands into tight fists and sat back in the seat, defeated. The infected punched and slapped at the bulletproof windshield until their hands became bloody pulps. Luke opened his eyes again and cut the engine. He flipped a middle finger at the things frantically scratching at the windshield. “Bite me,” he said.
“What the hell are you doing?” Gyles yelled over the screams of the infected.
“We’re stuck. We ain’t going anywhere,” Luke grunted. “I’m just making it worse.”
Gyles panicked. “No—get on it, Luke—push through this mob. This is a damn C-7 diesel!”
Luke shook his head. “It’s not a question of horsepower; the ground is too soft on the shoulder and pushing against these things. The back tires are digging in, the front won’t even grab traction now. If we want to be able to recover it, I need to stop now, before it’s buried so deep we’ll need a wrecker to get it out.”
Gyles rocked forward an
d looked behind him. His men were balled up, their heads in their hands. Weaver was in the seat beside Culver, both looking straight ahead. Culver had his hands over his ears, mumbling to himself, “We can’t stay here… we can’t stay here… we can’t stay here…”
“I’m sorry, Gyles. This thing isn’t moving until we can get some traction under those tires.”
“We can’t go out there,” Gyles said.
“Not suggesting we do. Not yet, anyway. But in the morning maybe.” He looked in the back. There were six cases of MREs strapped into one of the seats. Luke pointed at them. “Give me that MRE box.”
“Seriously? You’re hungry now?”
Luke shook his head and rolled his eyes. “I need the cardboard, dumbass. I want to block up these windows. Maybe if they can’t see us they’ll forget about us and go away. You know how they act like a fat kid at a buffet—they don’t see any more chicken nuggets, they want to go home.”
“You think that’ll work?”
“I don’t know, but if their brains are fried, maybe it will,” Luke said, shaking his open hand for the box. “You have a better idea?”
“I don’t want to stay the night here.”
Luke laughed. “We’ll put on footie pajamas and have a campout. Mega can tell ghost stories and we’ll swap MREs. It’ll be fun. Seriously, hand me that fucking box.”
Gyles moved to the back and cut the ties on the top MRE case, pulling it open and dumping the contents onto the floor. He passed the box to the front then opened the next five. He broke down the boxes and returned to the passenger seat. They pressed the cardboard into the widows and used rolls of hundred-mile-an-hour tape, a type of military-grade duct tape, to seal them into the windshield and side windows. The block windows in the rear were still uncovered but so high off the ground, the infected couldn’t see in them.
It was still loud outside but not seeing the infected clawing and pounding at the windshield made the noise less terrifying. Gyles looked at the empty passenger seat in the front but showed no interest in moving there. He moved to one of the bucket seats in the troop compartment and fell into it. He pulled off his helmet, surprised it had stayed on his head during the entire ordeal. He looked over the men; they’d calmed down.