“Shu, look out!”
It was too late. Zomb-E-2 grabbed Shu and sank his teeth into the exposed throat. Blood erupted from the wound and gushed out his mouth as he began savagely tearing pieces out of Shu’s neck. I started to bring up the M-16 when I heard two quick shots ring out. Spec-4 put a 9mm round through both of their heads with her Beretta. They fell together, in a heap.
50 yards
“Screw the helmet! Get in!”
She dove into the open passenger side door as I ran around to the driver’s side. The second wave of zombies was less than 25 yards away as I slammed the door shut and we pulled the locking levers. I pressed the button and waited for the green light. When it came on, I started the engine and it roared to life as the first of the zombies dove on the hood.
“Can they get in?”
“Not a chance. We’ve got bullet proof glass and armor plating. Unless one of them has an AT-4[1], we’re good.”
“For now,” I muttered.
I slid the transmission into gear and mashed the accelerator to the floor. Spinning the wheels, I headed south towards Springfield. The powerful engine had no problems knocking its way through the leaders of the pack. As I jerked the wheel from side to side, the zombie on the hood went tumbling off into the median.
“Where are we heading?” asked Spec-4, catching her breath.
“Back into town,” I said, swerving around a knot of zombies in the road.
“Are you nuts? You do realize that there’s gonna be a lot more of those things there.”
“You’re welcome to get out anywhere you want, but I’m going back for my wife and kids,” I said.
“Somehow, I get the feeling we’re better off sticking together.”
As we approached the overpass at the town of Fair Grove, most of the zombies were well in our dust. We could see two Fair Grove Police cars, one on either side of the bridge. Four officers were desperately trying to defend the bridge from more than fifty zombies on each side. I started to slow down and look for a way up there, but the off-ramps were clogged with traffic on both sides.
“Tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing,” said Spec-4.
“Hold on to something,” I said as I turned and started climbing the embankment.
The wheels dug in and the powerful engine pulled us up the hill without effort. As we emerged at the top of the ramp, I rammed two parked cars and knocked them careening into a group of zombies. This had the desired effect of getting their attention. Unfortunately, it seemed to get their undivided attention.
Without slowing down, I rammed into the nearest mass of zombies. This took the pressure off of the four struggling officers, and they took the opportunity to run for the cruiser that I’d just cleared of obstacles. Two officers ran backwards covering the other two. One of which was practically carrying the other one, who looked injured. I turned a complete donut in the middle of the intersection, knocking one car sideways and scattering zombies like bowling pins.
Once the officers were safely in the car, I straightened out the Humvee. Then we shot down the south side of the embankment with the Fair Grove Police right on our tail. I bounced onto the road with a jolt, and I saw sparks fly off the bottom of the cruiser as it followed close behind. In seconds, we were flying side by side down the road towards Springfield. One officer rolled down the window on the passenger side and motioned for me to do the same. I tried to pull the latch and slide down my window, but it was almost impossible to do while driving.
I motioned for them to stop up the road where it appeared to be zombie free, for the moment. The zombies that were pursuing us were almost half a mile behind, and falling farther behind by the second. Once we topped the next hill, I started slowing down without pulling off the road. They matched my deceleration and stayed right beside me. As soon as we came to a complete stop, we all got out. The only one who remained in the vehicle was the injured Fair Grove officer.
“Thanks for the help,” said an officer whose name-plate read Griffith.
“No problem. We just happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“Where do we go, now?” said another officer, this one named Weaver.
“I was planning on heading back to the jail,” I said, shrugging.
“It hasn’t been overrun?” said the third officer.
His name-plate read Wells.
“Not as far as I know. By the way, how’s your injured officer? Is he hurt or was he bit?”
“Gunshot to the shoulder,” said Weaver. “He got hit by a stray round.”
“One of yours?” asked Spec-4.
“No, stray round from a group of red-necks in a pick-up,” said Wells, shaking his head. “They were driving past us earlier and shooting at zombies. Looked like they were drunk and having the time of their lives.”
“Yeah,” said Griffith. “We’d have gone after them, but we had bigger problems at the time.”
“Do you want to follow us, or meet us there?” I asked.
“We know the way,” said Weaver. “Besides, Wells lives on H Highway, on the way into town. We’re gonna stop by there and pick up some ammo and a few guns.”
“Alright,” I said. “Be safe and don’t get cut off. I’ll keep my radio on. Can you guys pick up the jail frequency?”
“Yeah,” replied Griffith. “We’ll tune in as soon as we’re back in the car.”
With that, we shook hands and piled back into our respective vehicles. They turned around and headed back a few hundred yards, to where H Highway meets 65 and turned off. We continued on directly towards Springfield.
Chapter Four
To The Rescue
“The supreme irony of life is that hardly anyone gets out of it alive.”
- Robert A. Heinlein
I thought that this was about as good a time as any to check in with the jail. I knew I couldn’t avoid it forever, although I was dreading doing it. The Sheriff probably wouldn’t be happy that we abandoned the roadblock. I just hoped that it wasn’t as bad for the rest of the county as it was for us. If it was, we were all screwed. With a resigned sigh, I reached over and keyed the mike on my shoulder.
“700, this is 829, over,” I said.
Nothing. Not even static.
I tried it again, but got the same results. Not even the chirp it makes as the handset activates. Pulling the radio off of my belt, I checked the faceplate. The battery was dead as the proverbial doornail. It hadn’t even chirped like it was supposed to, signaling that the charge was low. See what I mean about the crappy jail equipment? This battery should have been good for another six to eight hours, at least. But it had died completely sometime between when I left the jail and now. I couldn’t be certain exactly when.
Muttering obscenities, I tossed the radio into the back seat. Then I remembered that I’d snagged Henderson’s radio before we bugged out. I yanked it off of his belt and checked the charge. Of course, it was working perfectly. It was just off. That moron had turned off his radio. Turning it back on, I noticed that it was on one of the patrol frequencies. I quickly switched it over to the jail band and keyed it up. I was intensely relieved to hear the chirp of the set activation.
“700, this is 829,” I said, holding my breath.
“Go for 700,” came an almost immediate response.
“700, am I ever glad to hear your voice. I’m in route back to the jail.”
“Copy that, 829,” said 700. “Be careful on your way back, there are reports of rioting all over town.”
“Understood. My ETA should be about half an hour, the Gods willing.”
Another voice came over the radio. It was Kris Newberry.
“Wylie! Thank God! Where are you?”
“About five miles south of Fair Grove on 65.”
“We’ve had Dispatch trying to contact our people for over an hour, now. They said that they weren’t able to reach you and to assume that you were gone. We’re losing people all over the place.”
“I know. Of the fiv
e of us at the road block, two of us are on the way back. I’ll tell you all about it when I get there. The reason you couldn’t reach us was that my battery died and that moron Henderson turned off his radio.”
“Wylie,” she said, and I could hear the tension in her voice. “Have you heard anything about Amanda?”
“Yeah, I talked to Karen a couple of hours ago. They’re at the lake and they’re fine.”
“Oh, thank God,” she said, relief evident in her voice.
“Karen will take good care of her,” I said as comfortingly as I could over the radio. “I’ll go get them as soon as I get a chance. Right now they’re out on a boat in deep water, so they’re probably safer than we are.”
“Alright Wylie, just get here as soon as you can.”
“I will. Have you heard anything from anyone else from our shift?”
“The Lieutenant’s here,” she answered. “He’s in his office. He was in a car crash and broke his arm. Boyett was in Bravo Pod when we lost it.”
“What? We lost Bravo Pod!”
“Yeah,” she said. “Delta, too.”
“Was there a riot?”
“No. Someone inside was infected. It spread unbelievably fast in the pods.”
“How many officers did we lose?”
“There were just two, one in each pod. Boyett was in Bravo and Church from C Shift was in Delta. When we saw what was going on, we sealed the doors. We couldn’t risk them getting out and there weren’t enough of us here to go in after them. But so far, they’re still contained in those two pods.”
I didn’t know Church all that well. He had only been with us for a few months. He was young, only about 21 or 22, but he was eager to learn and did his best to help out. I kind of liked that about the guy. Although I really hadn’t had the chance to get to know David Church, he seemed like a good kid. I don’t know if he had any family or not.
I’d known Mike Boyett for a couple years. Boyett wasn’t a very good officer. He was also notoriously full of shit most of the time. He was about five feet six and weighed a little over 230 lbs. His uniform usually looked like it had been slept in. He was also one of those guys that it didn’t matter what you had done in your life. He’d done it bigger, better and before you. But, he was one of ours. Although I felt bad for his wife and daughter, I can’t really say I’d miss the guy. At least he was better than Henderson.
“You did the right thing,” I said, knowing how tough a decision that must have been to make. “Let’s hope they stay there.”
“Amen. I’ll fill you in completely when you get here.”
“Got it, we’re on our way. 829 out.”
Then, I did what I had been dreading doing since we headed back. I switched to patrol frequency and radioed in to dispatch.”
“829 to Dispatch.”
“Go ahead, 829,” said Dispatch.
“I’m back in route to the jail.”
“10-9? Say again, 829.”
“I’m back in route to the jail. Our position was overrun by rioters.”
“829, this is Sheriff Hawkins,” said an all too familiar voice.
“Yes, sir?”
“What’s the situation out there?”
“It’s pretty bad, sir,” I said. “We were completely overrun. We’re returning to base.”
“Negative, 829. You get back out there and keep that road closed.”
“No can do, Sheriff,” I replied, scowling.
“Why the hell not?” he demanded.
“Because your fucking rioters ate three of my team, SIR!” I snapped back, anger flashing in my voice.
I might have said sir, but that’s not what I meant.
“I don’t want to hear excuses, Grant,” retorted the Sheriff. “Get your ass back out there and HOLD!”
I was about to reply with something even less flattering than before when a much calmer voice cut in.
“829, come on back to the jail. You’ve done more than enough.”
It was the voice of Lieutenant Murdock.
“Copy that, L.T. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Fine,” snapped the Sheriff. “Get back here for reassignment. But you can bet your ass that the Lieutenant and I will have some words before you get here.”
I wasn’t worried about the L.T. He could take care of himself. The way things sounded to me, the Sheriff might not have enough officers left to call a department. Besides, if it came down to it, I’d quit and leave to go find my family. I wasn’t in the military anymore. I could leave whenever I chose to, and there wasn’t a damned thing the Sheriff could do about it.
I didn’t want to listen to Patrol traffic anymore, so I switched over to the county-wide emergency channel. It was flooded with calls. Some were calling for help, others were pleading for it. You couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Everyone was trying to talk at once, and from the sound of it everything was going to Hel in a handbag. I switched frequency again, to the alternate patrol frequency. The one not as widely used. Within seconds I picked up a call.
“To any available unit, this is 917, over,” said the voice. “I’m trapped on the roof of the visitor’s center at Valley Water Mill Park. Can anyone hear me? Over.”
“Valley Water Mill,” I said, looking at Spec-4. “That’s pretty close to us.”
“Do you think we can get there in time?”
“There’s only one way to find out. 829 to 917, I am in route to your position. I can be there in 15 minutes, maybe less.”
“Grant? Is that you?” said 917.
Then it hit me. I knew 917. That was Chuck Southard’s radio number. Southard was a “Roadie” but he started out in the jail. More importantly, he’d been on my shift and that made him one of us. Chuck Southard was my friend and I’ll be damned if I was going to leave him to die, or worse.
“Yeah, Chuck. It’s me. What’s your situation?”
“Pretty damned bad,” he said, matter-of-factly. “We’re stuck on the roof of the visitor’s center in the park and we’re surrounded by a whole shit-load of zombies.”
“Think you can hold for 15 minutes?”
“Hell, Wylie. I’d say I can hold till Judgment Day, but I think it’s here already.”
“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”
“I think we can hold, unless one of these bastards learns how to climb. They can’t reach us, but I’m out of ammo. I’m forced to defend myself with my charm and good looks.”
“So basically, you’re unarmed,” I replied.
“Yeah, up yours, buddy. Oh and by the way, my Charger’s on fire.”
Ragnarok Rising: The Awakening (Book One of The Ragnarok Rising Saga) Page 6