by Lundy, W. J.
“Use the girl’s body as a shield,” Ian shouted, lining up on the second one.
The head of the closest infected exploded into a mass of bone, flesh, and brains. That pushed the falling body into the second one, which caused it to stumble. Ian thanked the gods that these things were moving so spastically fast because what could have been a nudge or stumble turned into a full-on face plant for the infected, slowing the others behind.
Toby grabbed the straps with both hands and lifted the girl up then started to struggle with the weight in front of him, toward the open gate. Brandt and Erik had joined Ian and John, making a defensive wall of lead behind Toby to take down the infected that were an immediate threat.
Ian felt bad about sending him out there, but he did need to see what was in the satchel. He felt justified doing so because Toby had disobeyed a direct order to use the suppressed SCARs that their employer had provided for them, in turn creating this mess. It was a needed lesson. Toby had a history of doing things his own way, and Ian couldn’t have that. But risking someone’s life never seemed like a good way to teach a lesson. Ian felt it was a step he had to take because Toby had never had any formal military training, having been kicked out of boot camp for failing a drug test just a week into Basic. Despite this dark spot on Toby’s record, he was one of the brightest and most reliable of his operators, albeit a bit more cynical. Ian had hired him on a hunch in spite of the failed drug test, and as of yet, hadn’t regret it. Until today.
Ian dropped three more infected before Toby reached the gate and stopped. The infected seemed to be coming out of the forest from every angle, and the growing number at the end of the road made up Ian’s mind; it was time to ex-fil. The fence was designed to keep a few people out for a limited amount of time, but it wasn’t electrified, nor was it set in concrete, so the idea of it being a secure facility against that type of horde was fantasy, at best.
Ian slowed his breathing and refocused on the scene to heighten situational awareness before he leaned back into the optic. He scanned one to the right and two behind before swinging back to the right for a fourth target, which fell from Brandt’s rifle before Ian could shoot. He pulled up and surveyed again. Toby was inside the wire, and the closest runners were fifteen yards away and closing fast. The driver slammed the gate and struggled with the latch as they began to pile up on the other side, shaking the entire structure.
The tankers and their cargo inside the facility wouldn’t allow for a lot of bullets to be flung around. A round could penetrate the thin sides of the reefers, but the tankers were impervious due to their shape and thickness of steel. It would likely repel most projectiles.
Likely didn’t cut it in Ian’s opinion.
“Lock the gate!” Ian shouted, already worried about the fence holding against the thirty infected that were in sight. If reports from the other sites held true, more would arrive soon. Chain link was more of a visual deterrent than anything else—unless, of course, it had one hundred thousand volts running through it, or if the posts were set in concrete, and very few were, due to a time crunch while setting it up.
“Get your ‘bug-outs’ to the motor pool. And change your shorts if you need to.” With a smile, Ian addressed that last bit to Toby, who literally growled back. “Shut her down, Sparky. We move out in fifteen,” he said into his headset.
As Ian unhooked the satchel from the girl’s shoulder, he saw the empty holster on her hip and was impressed with the young woman. She must have been healthy and fighting back during the first twenty-four hours of the outbreak.
He wondered if she’d come from the resort area on the lake, and if so, whether she was the only survivor from there. He figured he was probably reading too much into it, but he respected her nonetheless and became determined to find out who she was. Ian turned the body over and opened her backpack. He threw her clothes out, looking for some kind of identification, which he found on a see-through placard attached to an inside zipper. He slipped his fingers in and slid out the paper with her name and address on it then shoved it into his pocket for later. Just as the evacuation siren started blaring, he noticed how heavy the bag was. He pulled out a couple of paperbacks that looked like YA novels and tossed them aside, as well as a notebook, slippers, and other miscellaneous items. He shoved a water bottle and some energy bars into his back pocket before looking into the bottom to see what was adding so much weight.
A box of one hundred .22 long rounds shined up at him, but they were useless; nobody carried small-caliber weapons on these forays. However, next to the rounds were two magazines that held something much larger than a .22.
“Holy crap, Deena, you were prepared. I wonder how they got you,” Ian muttered and pulled a beautiful Remington 1911 out of the backpack. It was Spartan in appearance, well-used, and completely utilitarian. He dropped the bag and carried the 1911 and extra magazines into his Quonset, where he traded out his Glock in the holster for the 1911. He stuffed the Glock and magazines into his bug-out bag. Ian loaded the side pockets with cold bottled water from the fridge, which was now off due to the encampment’s central electricity switch being pulled. He grabbed some hummus and crackers for the road since there was no telling when they would eat anything other than tepid meals from here on out. It’d been a long time since he’d survived on MREs, the military ration designed to be shelf-stable for years, but he suspected he would be doing so again soon.
Ian waited, knowing that he hadn’t seen all his boys come through the motor pool gate, which was substantially better installed than the main fence system. He looked at the trucks, trying to take a headcount while watching the yard, but there was too much movement and jostling to get into vehicles. Ian had taken the time to assign drivers with a wingman, but not seating for the others, and he regretted it now. It looked as if they were down a couple of bodies.
It was Ernie, the truck driver, who spotted them first from where he stood in the back of a deuce and a half. He pointed behind Ian with a look of horror. When he turned, he saw that a horde of infected was on the heels of Jean and Brian, who’d just rushed out of the coms shack. Jean had her bug-out, but Brian was empty-handed and running like he wasn’t thirty pounds overweight, which he was, if not more.
His shaggy red mop bounced atop his head as he ran, and the paleness of his skin pronounced the freckles in a way that seemed unrealistic. The infected were mere feet behind them and closing fast. One slip or fall and it was over for them. Ian stepped to the side and took a knee to stabilize his shot.
Swerve right so I can get the ones behind, Ian thought. Unfortunately, he wasn’t going to be able to take out the closest ones directly behind, but there wasn’t much he could do about that.
“Toby, Jose, on me!”
“I got the gate!” Ernie said.
Ian cleared out two behind them, but that left two more right on their tails and four that were a little farther back, but blocked by the angle of the runners. Jose set up on the far side of the gate to take those out, which still left the two directly behind.
Toby went completely out of protocol and left the security of the gate and right toward the running pair with his unsuppressed AR tight to his shoulder. One of the infected lunged and wrapped his arms tight around Brian’s legs, causing him to face plant into the dirt before sliding for a few feet. Jean kept pumping, knowing there was nothing she could do for him.
Ian looked at Brian on the ground, his features a mask of absolute horror as a familiar-looking infected crawled up on his back like a wanton whore, screaming and salivating, leaving puddles of drool and goo on his back.
John? Ian recognized the guard who had been helping him outside the fence when Toby got the satchel. Can it turn you that quickly, or was he already bitten?
Toby took advantage and pumped three rounds into the head of the one behind Jean and then two into John’s head before rolling him off of Brian and pulling the terrified man to his feet. Then Toby half-lifted and half-threw him into the fenced area of the mot
or pool.
Ernie slammed the gate home and set the latch just as eight twisted, screaming faces crashed into it. He jumped back and slid under one of Brian’s arms in order to help him over to the deuce and a half.
Ian looked at the mass of infected for a moment, almost recognizing the lost humanity within them. It was hard to see behind the vomit-stained chins and mucus that oozed from nostrils and mouths, as well as open wounds. With ashen-gray skin taking on the implant of chain link, he watched for a minute longer as their need escalated to a thunderous howl as more joined them. The fence started to bow inward from the weight. The stench was overwhelming, and Ian suddenly wanted to piss his pants as he saw urine and fecal matter falling from misshapen bodies. Their eyes were so bloodshot as to lock the iris in a sea of red. It seemed as if they pleaded with him to help them, feed them…that Ian alone could help them—but all he wanted to do was kill them.
As Ian and his group were on the move toward the tanker farm exit, he thought again how conveniently designed the facility was, almost as if they knew what they would be up against. Ian was grateful that it was; it meant that most of them got out, including Ernie. Of course, John was not one of them, nor, it seemed, was the man he attacked; Brian’s leg was bleeding, and they all knew what that meant. He would have to be isolated and watched.
Ian turned his attention to the deuce and a half in front of his Humvee, where the injured man tried to tend to his wound. How soon would he turn? Does everybody turn? Brian stared back at his boss, catching his eye. Jean, Ernie, and Toby were with him in the bed. They looked at him, not wanting to say what was on their collective mind.
Brian looked down at his leg and sobbed. Then, he pulled something out of his back pocket that looked like his billfold and tossed it to Jean. He didn’t have his bug-out bag or his rifle, both violations of protocol. He pulled more things out of his pocket and laid them on the bench next to him and then caught Ian’s eyes again; Ian saw resolution as the man held his small M&P 9mm in his right hand.
As the trucks started to slow for the last gate, Brian shouted, “I got it!” He hopped out to run around the sides and up to the sliding chain link gate. The dead weren’t there yet, but they were close and moving in at a heated pace.
Brian slid the gate open before dropping one of the infected with a bullet to the brain from his compact pistol. Two more reached the gate, and Brian took them down as the trucks passed through. The crew looked at the man, never expecting the chubby Army brat to display such heroism in the face of death. On a normal day, he avoided maneuvers and absolutely sucked on the range, yet there he was, guarding proven soldiers with a two-and-a-half-inch barrel and an eight-round magazine.
He fired again, the round sounding more like a pop than a bang and another infected dropped. He closed the gate behind the last of the vehicles and made as if to run to catch up, but then stopped. The look on his face was one of resignation. Brian knew what was coming next, and he could either prolong it or make it quick.
He put the gun up under his chin, but at the last minute, he pulled his hand down and shot at an infected that leapt for the back of the deuce. He missed and shot twice more before putting the gun under his chin again.
The vehicles were a good twenty-five yards away when Ian heard him shout.
“Empty! It’s fucking empty!”
The crisp ring of a NATO 5.56 round rang out, and Brian fell dead.
Toby pulled the rifle away from his shoulder and wiped some snot from his nose before he sat back down. Ian knew the man felt partly responsible for Brian getting bit, though it was his own fault for failing to respond to the warning sirens.
Ian read Toby’s lips as he spoke to Jean, who patted him on the shoulder. “Stupid kid didn’t start with one in the chamber.”
Then he looked at Ian, holding his gaze for a moment, before hanging his head for some shut-eye as the vehicle put more distance between them and the facility they left behind.
30
Sheldon Lake, Michigan
March 28th
Clay stood by the back door, looking out onto the covered porch. It was quiet, the fires across the lake casting long shadows. The black smoke hanging over the water nearly blocked out the bright stars above. He placed his hand on the knob and looked back to Andrew, who was still close behind him with Rufous by his side. The dog now wore a leather collar and leash. “Stay close to me, okay?” he whispered.
Andrew nodded and clenched the shotgun tightly to his chest. Clay tried to force a smile before turning the knob. The latch clunked, and he slowly let it open out into the cool night air. Unobstructed, he could hear the roaring fires across the lake, and a light breeze clacked nearby tree limbs together. Clay took a smooth step onto the worn porch floorboards. He stood silently, scanning the area. The scent of the burning homes was strong in the air. Looking down the sloping backyard, he could see his boat floating lazily, just where he’d left it.
Keeping the carbine in his right hand, he raised his left and waved for Andrew to follow him. They moved across the porch, down the steps, and into the damp grass. His side of the lake was still dark, the homes silent and the streetlights blackened. He moved quickly, willing himself not to run for the boat. He heard a low, throaty growl from the dog. Andrew tried to shoosh him, but Clay didn’t bother, instead increasing his pace. He knew if Rufous was agitated, there was a reason for it.
Another step, and he heard the sounds of breaking branches and crunching leaves. A scream broke the silence the same time as the dog’s growl turned to a vicious snarl. On instinct, Clay stopped and turned back, shouting for Andrew to get to the boat.
“What are you doing?” the boy protested.
“Untie the damn boat—I’ll be right behind you.” Clay didn’t wait to see if the boy had followed his instructions; there was no time. The shadows bounced out of the neighbor’s hedges, and green eyes reflected the flames of the burning homes. He brought up his carbine and aimed center mass at a hulking figure bearing down on him. He pulled the trigger, and the muzzle flash revealed a blood-covered face with gnashing teeth. Clay let out a shriek of his own as he took another step back and fired again.
Moving backward and downhill, he nearly stumbled. The first charging figure fell into a low fence, with more of them screaming and fighting through the hedges. They got tangled in the same fence as Clay fired blindly into them. When his rifle ran dry on an empty chamber, he turned and ran for the dock.
He sprinted toward the sounds of the barking dog as fast as his old legs would carry him. He landed on the wooden planks and could hear a scattering of footfalls following close behind. Clay spotted the boat at the end of the dock. Andrew had his shotgun up, aimed directly at him. Clay yelped and dove for the bow of the boat as the boy pulled the trigger. There was a bright flash, and pellets launched from the barrel, cutting down his pursuers. Before Clay could roll to his back, Andrew fired the other barrel. With a boom and a click, two empty shell casings landed near Clay’s feet as the boy reloaded.
Clay’s dive into the boat had pushed them into the water, causing it to drift away from the dock, but the creatures kept charging, splashing into the water and disappearing into the blackened depths. Andrew continued to fire. Two more booms and a clack, then shell casings bounced off the boat’s deck. The dog barked and howled as Clay crawled for the stern. He dropped the outboard into the water and started the engine.
The gurgling noise of the Evinrude engine enraged the creatures on the shore, pushing more of them into the dark waters. Clay let the boat pull away from them before he grabbed a light and shined it back toward his dock. His backyard was full of the creatures, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, screaming at him. They filled the waterline, pushing out into the depths until their heads went under the surface. Andrew pointed a shaking finger at hundreds of the things floating dead on the surface.
“Well, they ain’t swimmers,” Clay stuttered, knowing the words didn’t need to be said.
Andrew reloaded the
shotgun and raised the barrel again. Clay put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Save it,” he said. “They can’t get to us now.”
Clay cut the wheel, steering them into deeper water, and then aimed toward the channel.
Andrew looked over the bow then back at Clay. “You can’t be thinking of taking us down that,” he gasped. “It’s too narrow. They’ll be able to get to us.”
Clay put a finger to his lips. “If we’re quiet, maybe they’ll slip back into the trees.” He could see by the shock on Andrew’s face that the kid wasn’t buying it. Looking at his shaking hands on the steering wheel, he wasn’t so sure he was buying it himself.
As the boat pulled further toward the center of the lake, he cut the engine again and let them bob in the water. From this vantage point, he could see that the fires had bounced house to house and were now circling a third of the lake. If the breeze stayed steady, the entire shoreline would be engulfed by morning.
He reached into the Styrofoam cooler and pulled out a beer, offering one to Andrew, who shook his head no. “Suit yourself, kid,” he said, popping the top and draining the can before tossing it over the side.
He looked ahead; it was a thousand yards to the southwest corner of the lake. He could see the clearly marked channel that would take them from Bass Lake out onto Lake Michigan. The marina was well-lit, but the piers and moorings were empty. He’d love to stop in and trade out his old bass boat for something better equipped for the blue waters of Lake Michigan, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen without drawing attention.
He set the boat on a heading that would take them directly into the channel. Andrew glared back at him, shaking his head. “What’s the alternative, kid? You want to go back on shore, with them things?”
Andrew didn’t respond; instead, he moved to the bow and knelt with the shotgun across his knees. Rufous moved up by his side, whining. He put a hand on the dog’s head and pulled him close.