by Kirk Withrow
In a ghostly voice, void of expression and possessing just enough volume to allow it to be distinguished from an errant draft of wind, Lin said, “He’s dead.”
Uncertain he heard her correctly, Montes started to ask for clarification, but one glance at his friend made his throat seize like an engine left idle for far too long. A chill surged through his body as he processed the reality of her words. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, to tell her she was not a medical doctor, and she did not know what she was talking about. As hard as he tried to deny it, the image of Corporal Rocha’s face, with skin the color of the winter sky at dusk, told him the truth. Intermingled with the stale smell of dust and rotting cardboard was the subtle odor of death. Pre-death, really, like the scent often found in a nursing home or hospital right before the coroner is called. The cloying, sickly sweet odor was not that of death and decay, but more the smell of the absence of life.
Rooted to the spot, General Montes found himself every bit as immobile as Lin. As if he had been punched in the solar plexus, all the air seemed to rush out of his lungs leaving him shaken, panicked, and gasping for breath. The faint grunting and growling of a distant struggle was like an antidote to his immobility, pulling his mind back into the game. Abandoning his moment of grief, Montes grabbed Lin by the arm and dragged her forcibly around the counter.
“Someone’s outside. I don’t know what’s going on, but we’re not safe here. You’re not safe. I need to get you out of here. Do you understand?” Montes said, now back in full control. Although she nodded, the hollow, shell-shocked look never left her eyes.
A minute passed in what seemed like an eternity as they huddled silently behind the counter. Judging from the sounds coming from outside, it seemed as though there was still some sort of ongoing altercation. Montes listened intently, waiting for the right time to make his move. As he did, he caught a glimpse of Lin’s stoic, expressionless face and wondered if the woman would ever recover from all of this.
A noise like a rat moving across the cold tile floor shattered the eerie quiet within the room. So intent on what was happening outside the building, Montes hardly heard the sound initially.
Lin imagined some furry scavenger already moving in to claim a piece of the man that had fought so valiantly to protect her. Without warning, her face transformed from the expressionless mask to one of unadulterated anger. She popped up from behind the counter, intent on shooing the little beast responsible for the meddling noise. Instead, all of the blood instantly drained from her face, giving her a ghastly, cadaverous appearance in the pale moonlight seeping in through the store windows. A discordant shriek rived the air in the tenebrous room, dividing it into equal halves horror and confusion.
Montes leapt to his feet, unsure of what elicited such a response from the woman that barely reacted to Rocha’s death. His uncertainty died instantly when he saw the nightmarish thing sitting on the floor where Corporal Rocha’s lifeless body had been only moments before. Its head turned in jerky, uncoordinated movements, like a gear with its teeth worn flat, as though searching for the source of the screams. When it finally faced them, they got their first glimpse of its inhuman eyes.
The opaque, lifeless orbs adorned with black, reticular lines like nightmarish gossamer draped over frosted pupils, caused Lin to let out another plaintive cry. The infected Rocha rose to his feet ready to lunge in the direction of her screams, as though using the sound to echolocate them.
Stunned by the fact that the man they thought to be dead was moving in their direction, neither Lin nor Montes raised their weapon. Although something was not right about Corporal Rocha, their first reaction was one of joy, as their friend was now on his feet—standing just as Lazarus stood after his demise.
Lin knew that was impossible, that she had been wrong when she pronounced the soldier dead. There was simply no other explanation.
Their initial joy was short-lived as Rocha continued forward, undeterred by their cautious retreat and repeated requests to halt. As though he were a coiled snake preparing to strike, Rocha lunged toward Lin.
Having pieced everything together in the split second before, Montes knew what needed to be done. With the speed of a gunfighter in the Old West, he drew his pistol from the holster at his hip. As he brought the weapon to his chest and began to punch out toward the advancing Corporal, he realized he was not going to make it in time.
Out of the corner of his eye, General Montes saw Lin’s frightened face at the same time he heard the deafening blast resonate through the small store. A pulpy aerosol of dark crimson and gelatinous gray flecked with shards of white bone spattered both Lin and Montes. The vile mixture was like sandpaper as it peppered their skin, while the concussion from the close quarters shot felt like being slapped with an open palm. Eyes clamped shut reflexively, neither wanted to open them for fear of what they would find. When they finally did, they were greeted by Rocha’s nearly decapitated body lying in a crumpled heap at their feet—and the rifle barrel of a breathless Sergeant Garza.
With his pistol still raised, General Montes said, “What the hell?”
Lin, on the other hand, ran full bore toward the man as she bellowed, “Garza! I thought you were dead! How did you catch up with us?” She threw her arms around him and pulled him into a tight embrace, neither seeming to notice how filthy the other was. Pulling away slightly, she continued, “It was horrible! We aren’t sure what happened to Corporal Rocha, but… Oh my God! Thank you for saving us!”
After pausing to lay a hand on the shoulder of his fallen comrade, General Montes crossed the room briskly toward the two standing in an awkward embrace. When he reached Sergeant Garza, he gave him a solemn look before reaching out to shake his hand. “It’s good to see you, soldier. You showed up just in time, as you can see,” the General said.
The firm grip and the reassuring look in Montes’ eyes told Garza the older man did not harbor any hard feelings about the fact that he had just put a round through the brainpan of his longtime friend.
“Yes, sir. It’s good to see the both of you as well, but I don’t think this is the best time for catching up. The man I trailed here is still outside, and while he is injured, I don’t think he is completely incapacitated. He’s some sort of sniper, or at least has some military training. Any idea why someone is trying to kill you guys? Regardless, we need to think about getting out of here in a hurry.”
* * *
Groaning, the shooter rolled onto his back, the ground cold and damp beneath him. Although he was able to control his left arm somewhat, the movement was crude and accompanied by excruciating pain that sent blinding flashes of white-hot light searing across his vision, like so many tiny fireworks bursting in the night sky. A dozen bone fragments, created by the bullet tearing through his shoulder at high velocity, shifted with every movement; they ground and locked against one another at random intervals. While not pulsatile, blood poured freely from the wound in his shoulder, intensifying dramatically whenever he moved the arm. The metallic smell made him nauseous, and he surmised his apparent hypothermia was due to the heat lost concurrent with the blood.
With a great deal of effort, he tore several strips of cloth from his grimy shirt, which he used to fashion a pressure dressing and sling to support the useless extremity. Throwing his pack over his good shoulder, he tucked his rifle under his arm and turned toward the rundown convenience store. Silhouetted against the night sky, the dark structure sat quietly, as if goading him to try something. His lips twitched with unbridled rage before twisting into an angry scowl.
So many thoughts and emotions swirled through his corrupt mind that, had he been able to speak, they would have come out as a savage yell as each vied to be the first to escape. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of something light against the otherwise dark ground. Shifting his attention to the object at his feet, he bent down and scooped it up. Holding it at an angle to catch the dull moonlight, his malicious scowl quickly transformed into an equally malic
ious sneer that would not have appeared dramatically different to an outside observer.
“Sergeant Hector Garza,” the shooter said in a hushed tone that resonated with the subtle sibilance of an inland taipan. With one last sidelong glance toward the ramshackle store, the injured man slid the object into his pocket and slinked away into the darkness.
11
October 23, 2015
Dallas County, AL
“John, we need to stop soon. The truck’s getting low on gas, and only one of the spare cans has any fuel left.” Behind the wheel, Reams Wilkins waited for his friend’s reply before turning his attention back to the road.
Sleepily, John nodded his acknowledgment from the passenger seat.
“Our supply cache is getting rather thin as well. Might be a good idea to try to scavenge some food and water while we’re refueling,” Kate added from the seat behind John.
Turning to offer his agreement, John saw the fourth member of their group, Ethan Long. The battle-scarred former soldier was staring out the window at the desolate landscape, as it slid by like the eidolon of a world long since past. From his position, all John could see was the damaged right side of the man’s face—a large crater like the site of a miniature explosion where his cheek and nose should have been. Lost in thought, Ethan did not seem to notice as John stared at the deformity for a moment longer than was polite. Shifting in his seat, John directed his attention back to Reams, and asked, “Are you familiar with this area? Where do you think we should stop? Any ideas?”
After a thoughtful pause, Reams said, “There’s an exit a mile or two ahead, and a small town a mile or so beyond that. We could check those out.”
Despite the total distance being less than three hundred miles, they had already managed to burn through the majority of their fuel reserves without covering much more than a quarter of the journey. Countless obstructions forced them to back track or stop entirely to clear a path through the detritus littering the bleak landscape. Wrecks, abandoned cars, and small congregations of infected were but a few of the impediments they encountered as they traveled to Atlanta. What would have been an easy trip to make in a day on a single, full tank even in a gas-guzzler like the H2 before the plague, proved to be far more costly in terms of time and fuel than any of them had imagined at the outset.
On more than one occasion, each of them had voiced concerns about whether their decision to head to Atlanta had been the right one. Each time they did so, they avoided looking at John directly, not wanting to assign blame or otherwise alienate the man that was their de facto leader. Unfortunately for John, he did not have the luxury of averting his eyes when the same feelings of doubt surfaced in his mind.
When the gas station’s exit came into view, they were relieved to find it largely free of obstructions. A lone car, abandoned midway up the ramp with two of its doors left wide open, was the only real obstacle, and it was far enough toward the shoulder to allow the H2 unhindered passage. With daylight fading rapidly, the truck’s headlights cast a narrow swath of yellow light across the darkened fronts of the untenanted buildings. The lifeless husks of the simple constructions stood as a testament to a life that used to be, like the discarded shells of cicadas.
To John, such things served as a painful reminder of where they had come from, and what they had lost. While he would have welcomed the luxury of electricity, he did not miss many of the technologies now as defunct as the buildings before him. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and text messages could all stay down in their rightful place in Hell as far as he was concerned. They, like the plague, had already stolen so much from humanity in their own right by his way of thinking.
Cresting the rise at the top of the ramp, Reams pulled the truck to a stop. As though drawing a battle line, the all-encompassing darkness that engulfed the buildings seemed to square off with them, daring them to make a move. John got an uneasy feeling as he scrutinized the gas station, the small mom and pop country store, and the cheap, hastily-constructed hotel for road-weary travelers looking to spend as little time in the area as possible. John certainly did not want to stay there any longer than absolutely necessary. While he saw no clear cause for alarm, something about the area made him uncomfortable.
As the hotel was farthest from the exit ramp, they could ascertain the least amount of detail about it. A wrought iron fence surrounded the property, and they saw no sign of habitation—infected or otherwise. Directly in front of them, the gas station and the small market just behind it were also devoid of movement. Even so, they knew all too well that did not mean the buildings were safe. Noticing the large truck parked alongside the gas station, John and Reams shared an excited glance.
In an animated tone, John asked, “What do you think? Surely we’ll be able to find fuel here.”
The tanker truck set motionless. Reams felt confident there would be fuel on the truck or in the underground tanks. Either way, he had a good feeling about their chances of finding the gas they so desperately needed. “Yeah, I think we’ll be in good shape. The only reason a truck like that would be here is for resupply. The question is: which tank has the gas?” Reams said with a sanguine smile on his face.
“Reams, you and I will get the fuel while Ethan and Kate keep watch and provide security. We can check for supplies after that. Sound good?” John asked.
“Why don’t Ethan and I scout the area and check for supplies while you two refuel? Once you get going, siphoning the fuel really only takes one person so the other could keep watch. That way we can get back on the road a little faster,” Kate said.
John shot Ethan a concerned look, but he merely shrugged his shoulders as if to say that suits me fine. After a moment of consideration, John reluctantly said, “Okay. Just be careful. Even though this place looks dead, keep your guard up.” He felt a little foolhardy telling Ethan, the most combat seasoned of them all, to stay vigilant.
Weapons at the ready, John and Reams visually scouted the building’s perimeter. They saw no movement in or around the dilapidated gas station. A derelict four-door sedan that had seen better days even before the apocalypse set idly in the front parking lot. Aside from that, the tanker that held so much promise was the only other vehicle outside the station.
Missions like this had grown so commonplace for them over the previous month that they had the routine down to a science. Whether their goal was fuel, food, water, or anything else, they operated in a manner that kept their risk from any threat to a minimum. Ethan told them repeatedly about the importance of contingency plans and always maintaining a route of egress in order to avoid becoming trapped. While the danger posed by the infected remained fairly constant, that of the uninfected was far more variable, and thus more dangerous. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and desperate people did desperate things. They had witnessed that unfortunate truth time and time again over the last few weeks.
* * *
Moving silently, Ethan and Kate approached the sturdy wrought iron fence surrounding the hotel. Having been in the dark for nearly ten minutes, their eyes were well adjusted to the low light environment. When they reached the fence, Ethan held up his hand to signal Kate to stop. In a voice so soft it could hardly be called a whisper, Kate asked, “See anything?”
Without a word, Ethan shook his head as he retrieved several brightly colored latex balloons from a pouch on his vest. Decked out in his commando garb, Kate thought he looked like a deranged, militant clown getting ready for some jihadist kid’s birthday party as he inflated the balloons and secured them to the fence with a strip of tape. Knowing what he was doing, she waited patiently for him to finish, her eyes constantly searching for any sign of danger.
Such IDDs, or improvised distractive devices as they had taken to calling them, had been used to great effect on several occasions over the last few weeks. Having discovered that noise was one of the most significant means by which the infected located the uninfected, they quickly learned to exploit that fact. Anything capable of making
noise and being triggered to do so from a remote location, could serve as an IDD.
Ethan’s preferred method was popping strategically placed latex balloons with a pellet gun. The balloons were abundant, easy to store, and nice to look at once inflated, he joked. The pellet gun was virtually silent, and he could split hairs with it out to nearly thirty yards. He had used this tactic to successfully distract and deter the infected on multiple occasions previously. With the balloons in place, he could pop them one by one from inside the hotel if they were in need of a little extra room during their escape.
Ethan interlocked his fingers, forming a stirrup to help Kate over the fence. Although it was only six feet tall, she accepted and was on the ground inside the fence in a few seconds. With her pistol at the ready, she crouched and surveyed the parking lot for any movement as Ethan scaled the fence. The two moved in a bounding overwatch configuration that made it seem like they had been doing this sort of thing together for years. Ethan recognized Kate’s natural skill the moment they rescued her back in Hermitage Estates, and had since been pleased with how quickly she picked up everything he showed her.
Cover. Move. Cover. Move. Cover. Move—all the way to the front door of the unlit hotel. In discussing the best place to check for supplies, namely food and water, they assumed the hotel would, at the very least, have some provisions for the ubiquitous continental breakfast offered by such establishments before the plague. They did not know if there was a full kitchen or restaurant associated with the hotel but that would be a potential source as well.
Peering through the sliding glass doors, Ethan saw no sign of life in the lobby. As the doors required electricity to function, they remained motionless when the two crossed in front of the defunct motion sensors. With a silent gesture, Ethan indicated that he was going to pry the door open. Drawing a long, slender pry bar from his pack, he worked the tool into the narrow space between the two framed glass panes. Jimmying it from side to side, he wrenched the two doors apart enough to slide his fingers through. Despite pulling as hard as he could, the doors barely separated three inches. Frustrated, he hunched forward with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. Kate whispered, “Try pulling them again, and I’ll pry with the bar at the same time.”