by JE Gurley
He turned to Mace. “What do you suggest?”
“We could concentrate all our fire around the gate. That might keep them back long enough for us to get out, but we had to drive pretty damned slow through that maze of wrecked cars and trucks coming in. Without momentum, they could mass in front of the bus and stop it cold. Then we would be sitting ducks.”
Garza sat on the edge of the short wall atop the edge of the building, his back to the zombies as if dismissing them and the threat they posed. “So, you were with Blackstone. Was it rough?”
Mace wondered why he had changed the subject. “Not as rough as slogging through the sand with a sixty-pound backpack and a gas mask.”
“No, I mean, well … I heard stories.”
Mace sat down beside him, removed his pouch of cigarette papers and tobacco from his pocket, and slowly rolled another cigarette. Renda was after him to quit, but he enjoyed the act of rolling them. It helped calm his nerves more than smoking it. Maybe I should roll them and toss them away. Nah, too wasteful. He stuck the cigarette it in his mouth and lit it before answering. “A lot was the same ole same ole. You didn’t know friend from foe most of the time. Some of the guys were a bit heavy handed, I suppose, but when the enemy hides in crowds and wears the same clothes as everyone else, you don’t take chances. I did my job. If I killed innocent people, well, innocent people die in a war. I came back. I’m not sorry I did.”
Garza nodded. “Yeah. I get it. I wasn’t casting stones. I did things I’m not proud of, but like you say, we made it home.”
As they sat there, Mace slowly became aware of the silence. The occasional growls and howls from the zombies as they fought for territory stopped. He stood and looked out over them.
“Son of a bitch.”
Garza turned at Mace’s statement. Beyond the crowd of waiting zombies, several dozen more approached carrying wooden utility poles across their shoulders. It was not the unexpected cooperation that stunned Mace; it was the fact that he guessed the use they were going to make of the long, wooden poles – scaling ladders.
“Get everyone up here quick!” he shouted.
Garza, also realizing what was happening, barked an order. One of the guards rushed to the opening in the roof and yelled down. Within minutes, everyone that could fire a weapon was on the roof, including Elliot, Vince, Amanda, and Trish. Mace watched the pole-bearing zombies approach. He fired two quick shots that dropped two of them. The utility pole fell to the ground and rolled away, but other zombies quickly picked it up and continued drawing nearer. They moved with such intent and purpose that it alarmed him.
“Start firing,” Garza yelled. “Don’t let them near the fence.”
They swept the zombie herd with a deadly volley of bullets from a variety of automatic and semi-automatic weapons. Dozens fell but it was like shooting whitecaps on the beach. The tide kept rolling in. Two poles reached the fence. The zombies carrying it placed it atop the wire, and then scurried up the pole and over the fence. They died in a hail of gunfire before they managed ten paces, but others were quickly taking their place. Mace saw that it was just a matter of time before sufficient numbers made it inside to present a problem.
“Keep firing,” he told Garza. “I’ll take some Molotov cocktails and get closer to the fence; see if I can stir things up.”
He spotted Vince and Amanda and motioned them to him. “Vince. I need your help,” he said, and raced for the bin where the gasoline bombs were stored. He looked back and saw Vince shaking his head at Amanda, who wanted to accompany him. She didn’t look happy at Vince’s decision to leave her behind, but she took a position at the edge of the roof and resumed shooting zombies. She was an excellent shot and brought down one of the creatures with each shot.
By the time he and Vince reached the parking lot outside the warehouse, half a dozen poles were in place and zombies were climbing over faster than the defenders could stop them. He prayed those on the roof would keep the zombies at bay long enough for them to reach the fence. Lighting the gasoline-soaked wick stuffed into a liter wine bottle, he cocked back his arm and tossed it as far as he could. Vince followed suit. The two Molotov cocktails landed on the fence beneath several of the poles and shattered, sending flames shooting high into the air. Burning zombies fell from the poles, writhing on the ground to extinguish the flames. Their tough skin prevented major burn damage except to hair and faces, but it made them easy targets for those on the roof. They died quickly under a hail of bullets.
He and Vince tossed Molotov cocktails until they had covered the gate and the fence on each side of it in a roaring wall of fire. Luckily, the zombies had concentrated all their efforts in the one spot. Mace hated to think of what would have happened had they different picked points around the entire perimeter to breach the fence. Zombies continued to pour through the flames, but most held back, their instinctive fear of fire working in the defenders favor. The utility poles were in flames, the creosote-soaked wood popping and hissing from the heat. He concentrated on zombies within the fence. One rushed at him, its ragged clothing in flames, its hair singed and melted to its scalp. He sidestepped the creature, drew his machete, and planted it in the zombie’s neck, withdrawing it as the creature fell at his feet. Vince had his pistol in his hand, firing at a small group rushing them. Two dropped from well-aimed gunfire from the roof. Vince shot two more in the head at close range. The remaining zombie stopped a few yards away, stared at the two of them, threw back its head, and howled in rage. Before he could question its bizarre behavior, the other zombies outside the fence took up its haunting call. The sound was deafening and unnerving, one of intense rage and fury. The zombie then chose Vince as its target and sprinted toward him. Vince raised his pistol; then began to back up as it clicked on empty. Before the zombie could close the gap between them, its head exploded. The creature fell and slid to a halt inches from Vince’s feet.
Vince looked toward the roof and smiled at Amanda, who had brought it down with a single Winchester .308 round from Vince’s Remington R-25. “God, I love that woman,” he said.
Over twenty zombies had managed to breach the perimeter fence. They all lay dead on the asphalt. Several dozen more lay piled against the outside of the fence, some burning furiously. As the utility poles burned and collapsed in broken pieces, Mace stood watching the zombies. The remaining zombies stood howling outside the fence for several minutes before retreating to the safety of the surrounding buildings. They had acted as a coordinated group, planning an assault and almost carrying it out successfully. This was something new. The fence was no longer an effective barrier. The Tucson Survivor Society’s refuge was no longer sacrosanct. They were already in a state of siege. They would have to relocate or face eventual defeat at the hands of a highly determined and fast-learning enemy.
Garza met them at the door, visibly shaken by the assault. “They didn’t act like dumb brutes,” he said. “They came at us as a unit.”
Mace nodded. “Something’s changed. They’re getting smarter, more determined. You can’t stay here. They’ll eventually get inside.”
“But all our supplies …,” he waved his hands in the air, “this is our home now.”
“You might be safe inside the building,” Vince said, “but how long can you go without seeing the light of day. I was in the Air Force, a Tech. Sergeant. I was stationed in an underground base. All it took was one person turning into a zombie, and it became a slaughterhouse. There was nowhere to run. Believe me, you don’t want that.”
Garza stared at him. “What do we do?”
“Leave,” Mace suggested. “Load up one of those tractor trailers with food and water, load your people in our bus, and leave. If the army comes in with gas, you’d die anyway.”
“Where can we go?”
“There are people on Mt. Lemmon,” Mace offered. “If you offer them a truckload of food, they might take you in.”
Garza frowned. “We know about them. We sent two men up there a few months ago.
They shot both of them on the road. One died and the other barely made it back. He died later. They don’t want visitors.”
Vince and Mace looked at one another. Neither suggested inviting them to Agua Caliente. Finally, Mace sighed. “It looks like we aren’t going anywhere for a while. I guess I had better radio Renda the bad news.”
Agua Caliente, Arizona
“You’re certain?” Renda asked as she sat on the edge of the bed, refastening her bra. She wore only bra and panties because Erin had just completed a thorough examination at her request. Even though Erin was a doctor and had examined her several times before, she still felt embarrassed being naked in front of someone, other than Mace, that she was around every day. Thankfully, Erin had chased away the workmen repairing the Level 4 lab with the equipment Mace had brought back.
“I’m sorry, Renda. There’s no doubt. The cancer has spread to your right leg. We could try a drug regimen, but …”
Renda smiled at Erin’s unease. “I know. I’m pregnant. That’s why I stopped taking my Paclitaxel in the first place. I knew the risks, but … you know.” Though she had suspected that her cancer had returned, having her suspicions confirmed hit her hard.
“You wanted a child. I understand. The baby’s fine, but I’m afraid the cancer will progress. If it was just a matter of amputating your leg…,” she let the sentence hang before continuing, “it’s too late for that. It has metastased to the bone, spread through your body. It would be like trying to stop forest fires as they erupt. I could try Tamoxifen.”
Renda shook her head. “No, no more drugs. How long?”
Erin hesitated. “It’s difficult to say. If I could treat it properly, five years. Now …” She lowered her head and turned away.
Renda felt sympathy for Erin. As a CDC virologist, Erin had little need for or chance to practice proper bedside manners. Her role as physician was much more difficult than as a researcher. Renda honestly thought that Erin was more upset by her news than she was. “I understand.”
Erin lifted her head suddenly and looked at Renda. “Does Mace know?”
Renda finished buttoning her shirt. “No, and I don’t want him to know until after the baby is born. He has enough to worry about.”
“After the baby’s born, we could start you on drugs. It might … delay the spread.”
Renda shook her head. “I don’t want to spend my time lying in bed sick. I want to spend the time I have left with my family.”
Erin nodded. “I understand. I can provide a sedative safe for the baby if the pain becomes too intense.”
“I have a slight twinge every now and then, but I can manage.” She pulled up her pants and snapped them; then stepped into her shoes. “Remember, this is our secret.”
“I’ll honor it, but I really think you should tell Mace.”
“Later.”
Erin’s sigh was the sound of pent up emotions escaping. “Okay. It’s your decision.”
Outside, the day promised to be sunny, warm and bright in stark contrast to the darkness swirling around in her head. She knew when the full impact of the return of her cancer hit her she would probably give in to a fit of crying and self-pity, but for now, she was too numb to cry. Just then, her baby kicked her hard, reminding her that she had at least one last task to perform. To bring life into a dead world was a daunting task. Erin had assured her, as best she could, that the child would be healthy and immune to the zombie virus. She wanted to believe that. She had to believe that. Otherwise, what did it matter that they struggled to carry on, to keep civilization going. She patted her belly and continued the short walk to the dining hall.
She didn’t have much of an appetite, but she grabbed a cup of coffee and sat at the table listening to snatches of conversation. Dale Cuthbert and Ang Lee were arguing about the placement of equipment. Other than Cy Adler, Charles Bemis seemed to have taken Seth Brisbane’s tragic death the hardest. He sat at the end of the table apart from the others staring at the untouched food on his plate. Several others were playing a word game that had suddenly become popular. She wished Mace were with her. She needed his arms around her.
When she had first met Mace in the FEMA camp in Marana outside Tucson, he had struck her as cold, uncaring and dangerous. She wasn’t sure why he had included her in his escape plans. He said it was because she refused to give up. Maybe he was right, but even when his survivalist friends had died freeing the remaining prisoners from the camp, including Jeb Stone, he had showed very little emotion. His stint in the army and his years with Blackstone Security in Afghanistan had hardened him, made him the perfect man to survive in a cruel world, but left him scarred. Slowly, over the months, he had opened up to her, and she had come to love him.
She knew that but for her, he would abandon the others to their own fates. He had little faith in crowds and detested being the one in control or the one to whom they turned in times of trouble, but only through his perseverance had they managed to survive so far. There were times that she heartily agreed with him and would have gladly left with him, but not now with a baby coming. Especially now. Unable to finish her coffee for the deepening, sinking feeling settling in her stomach, she decided to wait for Mace’s radio call. He had promised to contact her by radio at noon, just a quick message to let them know all was well. The military might intercept and trace a longer message.
The Ham radio was set up in one of the outlying sheds. She worried that Mace spent too much time there waiting for calls that never came, particularly one from Jeb. Now she was doing the same, certain Mace would call if possible. He had selected a frequency for his walkie-talkie that the Ham radio could receive. She whiled away the time in the choice of baby names, a pursuit that had occupied expectant mothers for millennia. For a boy, Mace was partial to Luke. The name conjured an image of strength but sounded too biblical. She preferred James, after her father. If the child was a girl, she liked Tia. Mace seemed convinced the child would be a boy and she had not been able to convince him otherwise. Strictly from a standpoint of repopulating the Earth, she wanted a girl.
Precisely at noon, the radio crackled to life. “Mace to base. Mace to base.”
She grabbed the mic. “Base here. This is Renda. Hello, love.”
The next words pierced her heart like a sharp knife. “Looks like daddy’s going to be late.”
12
Salt Lake City, Utah
Colonel Schumer watched the sky and prayed the snow would continue. It wouldn’t stop the coming assault, but it might slow them down. He had been standing on the runway since he had received word from the radar tower that two large bogies and two smaller ones were inbound with an ETA of one hour. It was barely enough time to prepare for his unwelcome visitors. He knew he should be thankful that they had sent only the two C-130’s and two escort jets, probably F-16’s. It would have been impossible to defend against a ground assault. Bahati had suggested shooting them from the sky as they approached, but his answer had been no. It might have been the safest option, but he wanted to deliver the same choice to the soldiers aboard the transports that he had offered his own men. They should be free to choose. Killing them would only incur a stronger retaliation.
He stood at the edge of the runway huddled against the driving snow. The bitter cold reminded him of winters in Northern Alabama as a child, except then, he had no warm place to seek shelter. The thin plank walls of the two-room tenant farmer’s shack in which he lived offered little protection from the wind, and the small coal heater produced little heat. He had survived that; he would endure this.
The roar of the two F-16’s as they flew low over the base shook the ground, but the low-lying clouds and the darkness prevented him from seeing them. He had ordered all radar and anti-aircraft missile batteries to go cold to avoid drawing any incoming fire. He didn’t want a war. A short time later, the two Hercules C-130 transports circled the landing field twice before touching down and taxiing to the far end of the runway. The loading ramps dropped and they imme
diately began disgorging armored personnel carriers and Humvees. Men scattered into the darkness. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, removed the flare from his coat pocket and lit it, holding it aloft and waving it over his head. The vehicles approached slowly, searchlights panning the field and surrounding buildings for targets. They halted twenty yards away, but he knew the .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the lead Humvee could easily cut him in half at the first sign of trouble. The footsteps of many men racing down the tarmac broke the stillness of the night. Overhead, the F-16’s made another pass.
A man dismounted from the lead Humvee and approached. “Colonel Schumer?” he asked.
“I’m Schumer,” Schumer answered, surprised that his voice didn’t squeak from fear.
“Colonel, my name is Captain James Buras. I have orders from General Hershimer for your arrest and return to Phoenix.” He stared into the darkness surrounding them. “Our Infrared scans show you have about fifty men nearby. We have more. Will you order your men to stand down and come quietly or do we fight it out?”
“First, let me ask you something, Captain. Do you believe in what you’re doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you think it’s right to capture civilians, treat them like lab animals, and bleed them for their immune blood?”
The captain’s tone became cold and hard. “I follow orders, Colonel.”
“That’s been the mantra for most of the torture and killing throughout history. Do you really believe following orders relieves you of personal responsibility?”
“It’s necessary for protection against the plague. Some die so that many can live.”
“You mean civilians die so that you might live. It used to be the other way around, Captain. That was the reason for a well-trained military – to protect its citizens. Look around you. Here in Salt Lake City, the civilian munies willingly donate their blood for Blue Juice. They do it because they care. We don’t sedate them, line them up like cattle, and drain them dry. Is this really what you signed up for, took an oath to preserve? Our leaders are frightened, but they’re more frightened of losing control. You can take a stand, Captain. You can decide right now that what you’re doing is wrong. Throw down your weapons and join us. We can make a difference.”