Hastings had no problem with that, though the change in him certainly registered with him on a clinical level. Three weeks ago, he had viewed the American people as his charges, civilians who needed to be protected at all costs. The fall of New York and the death of his family had changed that. All he cared about was getting through the rest of the day. Fort Indiantown Gap was over three hundred miles away, and they were hardly taking the direct route. He had enough to worry about.
“Six, it’s getting clearer up ahead,” Hartman radioed. “Zombies are thinning out. Over.”
They were back in deep farm country, where only isolated farmhouses sat, apparently empty and desolate in the brightening morning.
“Roger that. How’s your Humvee holding up? Over.”
“Took a lickin’, but keeps on tickin’. Over.”
“Roger. Stay with it. We’re all with you. Over.”
“Roger that, Six.”
*
Sticking to the back roads, the small convoy wound through the rural countryside of western New York, angling toward Pennsylvania. Many times, they encountered zombie groups that shambled mindlessly along the road or, just as often, across it. The lead Humvee would slow just enough so that it wouldn’t get damaged as it rolled right through the mobs, crushing the reekers beneath its armored weight. Hastings’s pickup bounced over the wriggling corpses, and somewhere in one melee, it lost its right side mirror. He didn’t lament its passing all that much, though it did make maneuvering a little more difficult.
Near midday, they were progressing down a narrow rural road. They hadn’t seen any reekers in over an hour, and everyone thought that was a welcome relief. Over the radio, Hastings warned the soldiers to remain vigilant. The Humvee ahead of him began to slow, and Hastings nailed the brake pedal with his right foot.
“Hartman, what’s up?”
“Traffic ahead,” Hartman responded. “Most of the road is blocked. We’re going to need to dismount and move some cars out of the way.”
Hastings let the pickup drift into the left lane. He saw an irregular line of six or eight cars, SUVs, and pickups scattered across the roadway ahead. There had been an accident, and that had apparently led to a massacre. Some vehicles had tried to reverse course, but it hadn’t worked out. A couple were stuck in deep ditches on either side of the road, their doors open. The asphalt was stained with dried blood the color of rust, and shell casings gleamed in the bright sunlight. All sorts of things were strewn across the road—canned goods, some weapons, even a crushed box of diapers.
“Eyes out,” Hastings ordered. “Shooters, exit the vehicles and conduct a perimeter survey. Make sure the civilians remain in the Humvees. Guerra, you stay with the nineteen.” He brought the pickup to a halt, put it in park, but left the engine running. The last thing he wanted was to be caught up in a swarm of reekers while sitting behind the wheel of a pickup that refused to start.
He grabbed his M4 and pushed open the driver’s door after first taking a long scan to ensure there were no walking corpses near. The area seemed to be clear, so he stepped out of the idling GMC and brought his rifle into a low ready position. Birds chirped, and a gentle breeze wafted through the trees, making leaves rustle and branches sway. Flies buzzed around the remains of mortal combat.
Hastings eased forward, alert for the sounds of approaching reekers. He examined the ground as he approached, expended brass cartridges tinkling underfoot. The hollowed-out remains of a man lay off to the side of the road. The corpse was motionless, and its dust-filled eyes did not move when he got close. The man’s extremities had been gnawed off and his body cavity ripped open and emptied. Even the man’s face had been assaulted, his lips and nose bitten off. A Glock handgun lay nearby, its slide locked back, exposing an empty breech. The weapon was covered with a patina of dried blood.
Not far from the man lay an overturned infant car seat, the kind with the handle that could be used to lug a baby around. The seat’s bright, cushioned interior was smeared with blood and particles of flesh, the straps still pulled tight to hold a child that was no longer there. The car seat had served as a feeding bowl for reekers, the protective shell ending up as a prison for the infant. The man had probably been trying to make a run for it, carrying his child’s car seat in one hand, his pistol in the other. He had barely made it across the road before running out of ammunition.
But at least he tried. Hastings felt there was more than a little honor in trying to defend those you loved.
“We’re not going to be able to go around this,” Ballantine said.
Hastings turned and saw the big sergeant first class standing by one of the abandoned cars. The glass in all four doors had been shattered, and a dried gruel of blood and tissue coated the sills. A dead reeker lay at his feet, swarming with flies and maggots. Ballantine had sealed his facial armor, leaving only his eyes exposed. Hastings had left his in the truck.
Hastings turned and looked toward the head of the wreck. Reader and Tharinger were creeping forward, weapons at ready, in full battle rattle, their facial armor in place and blast visors in position. They were checking for reekers hiding amidst the carnage, but Hastings doubted they would find anything. The zombies didn’t hang around after they’d fed; they just kept moving, looking for new prey.
“We can’t pull around on the other side?” Hastings asked. On his side of the road, a deep drainage ditch was blocked by one of the pickup trucks that had apparently rolled over and left a wake of scattered items: packaged food, backpacks, and the splintered remains of some wooden chairs.
“Negative. Got another ditch on the other side of the road. Humvees might be able to make it but not the pickups.”
Hastings nodded. “Okay, we’re going to have to move these vehicles off to the side of the road. Make a passage big enough for us to squeeze through.”
“Might be able to scavenge some more goods, too, if we have the chance,” Ballantine said. “These all look like gas burners, so we can get some more fuel for our pickups.”
“Roger that. Let’s get going.”
Reader turned and waved his hand in the air. Tharinger was standing back, his M4 up and shouldered, pointing it at the front of the overturned pickup ahead. Hastings hurried forward with Ballantine close behind.
“What’s up?” Hastings asked Reader.
“I think we found the cause of the accident,” Reader said. “Check out the front of the truck.”
The soldier’s body language told Hastings he needed to be careful, so he stepped forward and edged around the front of the pickup. Thrashing about inside the remains of the grill was a reeker. Its back had been broken in the collision, and it was trapped inside the folded sheet metal and fragmented grill. The reeker looked at Hastings with rheumy eyes and barked out a gurgling snarl, reaching toward him with one raw hand.
“Well, is anyone surprised that a zombie caused it?” Ballantine asked. “They probably drove right through a herd of them. I mean, no one’s left alive.”
Hastings pulled out his brain bar and bashed in the zombie’s skull. Lifeless at last, it sagged inside the embrace of metal and plastic.
“Let’s get the road clear and get the hell out of here,” he said.
*
Even with the Humvees pushing some of the wreckage out of the way, it was tough going. The soldiers had to tear apart some of the wrecked cars with their bare hands to get them mobile enough to push off the road. They only needed to make an eight-foot-wide passage, but the damage done to most of the cars and trucks made that a difficult mission.
Adding to the delay were the usual things, such as bathroom breaks for the kids and the fact that two soldiers needed to stand watch at all times. The civilians couldn’t really help much—Diana was tethered to Kenny, and Kay Ballantine had to keep her two boys entertained. That meant one soldier would be manning the MK19, which was in the rearmost Humvee, while another stood bounding overwatch—moving through the formation with his rifle at ready, just in case the dead mi
ght appear. The growing heat of the day didn’t make the tasks any more pleasant, not to mention the smell of ripening corpses. Flies buzzed everywhere, and Hastings wondered if there was any chance of contamination from the bodies. Every time an insect flew past or landed on his uniform, he couldn’t shake the dread that it might be carrying the virus that killed the living and reanimated the dead.
As they worked, everyone kept an eye on the tree lines around them. Even though it was farm country, there were still patches of thick woods, and the trees could give hundreds of reekers enough cover to close on them if they weren’t vigilant. Every rustle or snap of a twig made the troops stop what they were doing and shoulder their weapons. They would peer through their optics, getting ready to open up on any threat, but no zombies appeared. The interruptions made the work even more stressful, but there was no way to avoid it. Also, the activity was fairly noisy with lots of bending metal was required, and that just ramped up the tension.
The team had just pushed one of the mangled cars off to the right side of the road when Diana emerged from the lead Humvee. She looked furious. She marched directly toward the soldiers, and Ballantine, seeing Hastings looking past him, turned toward her as well.
“Something wrong, ma’am?” Ballantine asked.
“Kenny just shit himself,” she said acidly.
Ballantine looked confused. “Well, why didn’t you let him go to the bathroom?”
Diana glared at him, shifting the small Sig rifle that hung from a strap on her right shoulder. “Because he’s fucking nonverbal and doesn’t say anything, that’s why. I had no fucking idea.”
Hastings sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. As he did so, his gaze happened across a battered box with the Pampers brand on it. He went over and picked it up. It was an unopened box of baby wipes. Wow, a lucky break. Finally. He turned and walked back to where Diana stood, glowering. Ballantine fairly towered over the small woman, but if she was in any way intimidated, she didn’t let it show.
Hastings held the box out to her. “Here.”
Diana didn’t take it. “What the hell is that?”
Hastings tapped the logo on the side of the box. “They’re wipes. For cleaning up kids after they’ve had an accident. Sorry, but it’s the best we can do.”
“You want me to wipe the kid’s ass?”
“Someone has to do it, and the rest of us are busy trying to clear a way out of here,” Hastings said. “So, yeah. I want you to clean the kid’s ass. Questions?”
“You do it, General. That’s not my gig.”
Hastings stepped forward and shoved the box into her chest, driving her back a step. “If you don’t start acting like part of the team, then you’re not coming with us. I’ll leave you right here.”
“Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?” she snapped, slapping the box out of his hands.
“Hey, guys, let’s keep it down, okay?” Hartman said, as he, Stilley, and Tharinger started working to get another vehicle off the road.
Reader was on the other side of the road, M4 held low. He glanced at the angry woman then went back to scanning the tree line.
Hastings put his hands on his hips and glared at Diana. “Lady, pull your head out of your ass, and do as you’re told. Figure this shit out. You’re not in a democracy here. You do as you’re told, or you get cut loose. You think you can do a better job out here by yourself? Then just keep trying to push my buttons, and you’ll have your wish.”
Diana opened her mouth to answer, but she let out a startled yelp instead. She jumped toward Hastings, spinning at the same time as she frantically tried to pull out her small rifle. Hastings and Ballantine both automatically took a step back, going for their own weapons, as a small figure crawled out from beneath the car they had been standing beside. The vehicle had already been driven off the road, so they had ignored it. It was a woman, her dark hair stringy and filthy with oil and dirt, her jeans and blouse just as dirty. Hastings raised his rifle and put his finger on the trigger. Just another reeker …
She looked up as she crawled forward. Her eyes were clear and blue and full of at least a vestige of life. He had already taken up the trigger slack. Another few ounces of pressure and his M4 would have fired.
“Shoot it!” Diana shouted.
At the same time, the woman’s lips moved, but Hastings couldn’t hear what she said. Was it a whispered help me? Hastings lowered his rifle and wondered how long she’d been hiding under the car.
“Geez, guys.” Reader walked up, raised his rifle, and fired a round right into the woman’s head.
The body bucked once then went limp.
“You asshole!” Ballantine thundered.
“What?” Reader looked around then down at the corpse. “I mean, it was just…” His voice trailed off when he saw red blood leaking from the woman’s ravaged skull. He lowered his rifle and bent forward at the waist, as if struggling to comprehend what he saw. “Oh, no.”
Hastings grabbed the man’s pack and hauled him backward a few steps. Reader didn’t take his eyes off the woman he had just murdered, thinking she was just another reeker.
“Get back to what you were doing,” Hastings told him.
“Jesus, I just killed a person?” Reader asked, his voice cracking.
Hastings spun him around, forcing Reader to look at him. The soldier’s blue eyes were wide with shock.
“Get back to what you were doing, Reader,” he said. “It happened. It’s over. I almost shot her, too, and I was right next to her. This shit happens. Now forget it, and get back to your mission.”
Diana laughed. “Oh, man. You guys are some pieces of work.”
“Fuck you,” Ballantine said. He probably felt a bit differently about what had happened, but Hastings knew Ballantine wasn’t one to start a fight with his superior officer in front of everyone.
“Oh, man,” Reader said, his voice quavering. “Captain, she looked just like a reeker!”
“I know, Reader. I know,” Hastings said, keeping his voice calm.
Behind him, Diana sat on the road where she had fallen after tripping over the box of baby wipes. She was giggling, but whether it was in true hilarity or utter shock, he couldn’t tell.
Stilley, Tharinger, and Hartman hurried over, weapons at hand. Guerra stood straight in the cupola, the MK19 still pointed in the opposite direction. The soldiers looked down at the woman lying on the road, bright blood leaking from her ravaged skull.
“Aw, fuck,” Stilley said, his voice loud and harsh, as always.
“Get back to work!” Hastings told them. “Double-time. We don’t know how many reekers in the area heard the shot, so let’s get to it. Reader, get on your fucking weapon. Now.”
“Roger that,” Reader said, and he finally turned away from the sight. But Hastings caught a glimpse of his eyes, and he knew that the young soldier was probably going to need some downtime soon.
Hastings nodded to Ballantine, and the sergeant first class finally asserted himself, corralling the soldiers and getting them squared away. Hastings hauled Diana to her feet, picked up the battered box of wipes, and shoved it into her arms. She took it.
“Do what you have to do,” he snapped.
She nodded and stepped away, no longer tittering. She glanced back once at the freshly slain woman then hurried back to the Humvee.
The soldiers found a new reserve of energy, and five minutes later, they had cleared a path large enough for the Humvees to push through. Guerra reported that he could see several figures coming toward them through a farmer’s field, and worse, he could hear movement in the brush off to the convoy’s left rear. Once they had shoved the last battered pickup out of the way, Hastings ordered everyone back to their vehicles. There was no time to gather fuel or supplies, though he did happen upon a case of flavored water and what looked to be a couple of bug-out bags. He grabbed one, and Tharinger grabbed the other before beating feet back to the convoy. As they mounted their vehicles, the MK19 opened up from the rea
r.
“Okay, got reekers in the zone, about eighty meters back. Over,” Guerra said over the radio.
“Roger that, Guerra. Break. Hartman, whenever you’re ready, go. Over.”
“Rolling, Six. Over.”
The lead Humvee trundled forward. Hastings put his pickup in gear and took his foot off the brake just as a reeker stumbled onto the road beside him. He considered rolling down the window and shooting it but elected to save the ammunition. Tharinger popped up in the lead Humvee’s cupola and slewed the .50 around until he had the zombie in his sights. A quick burst took care of the walking corpse, removing it from the threat scale.
One more down, several million to go.
*
Sticking to secondary roads wherever they could, the small column of vehicles skirted the larger towns and cities where possible. There were still zombies about, stumbling down the roadways or emerging from tree lies, sometimes in the hundreds. Three times, the herds were so large that Hastings ordered the column to reverse course and find a way around them—it would have taken too much ammunition to fight their way through, and the chances of losing a vehicle or personnel were too great.
Another interesting circumstance that caused some navigational deviations was the appearance of heavily fortified towns. Hastings was impressed that some of the small communities had actually erected substantial defenses, such as high fences and thick walls around parts of their establishments, complete with fighting positions and towers. They wouldn’t do much to stop a modern, mechanized attacker, but they would certainly slow down shuffling reekers. And given the amount of corpses surrounding some of them, they had done just that.
These Dead Lands: Immolation Page 12