by Hoaks, C. A.
“Head out, John. We’ve got to head back the way we came,” Harry ordered. “They’re coming out of the houses up ahead.”
The infected were drawn toward the sounds of the motorcycles. They were drawn toward the sound of the motorcycles.
“I guess we know what happened to all the creeps from back at that last little cluster of houses. Bastards follow the sound,” John commented.
“Turn right at the next intersection, John. If I remember right, it should end up behind what looked like an industrial park,” Harry ordered over the intercom.
“Got it!” John answered as he pulled his handgun and fired at the closest monster. A middle-aged woman in a housedress fell to the ground.
Liz pulled her own gun and fired twice as they pulled away from the moving horde of infected. As she secured her handgun, she heard John’s startled yelp.
John’s front wheel jerked to the side, and his handlebars pulled from his hands. He sailed over the front end, doing a loose-limbed summersault and rolled. When he stopped moving, he lay on the pavement spread-eagle.
Harry slammed on the breaks just as the front end of his bike jerked to the side. Liz clutched at Harry, but in the end, he and Liz were thrown from the machine and off to the side in a tumbling roll. The world became a blur of flying arms, asphalt shredding denim and driving gravel into her knees and elbows. She felt Harry bounce against her, then slip away. Suddenly, she slammed against a wall, and all momentum stopped. Liz lay still, gasping for breath. She heard a distant curse.
When her head cleared, Liz called out, “John? Harry?”
“Fuck!” Harry yelled. “Lizzy?”
Liz reached for the snap on her helmet. “Here.” She pulled the helmet from her head.
A bullet pinged off of the brick of the wall behind them followed by the loud report. Then another, and another.
“Get up…we gotta get to cover!” Harry yelled.
Bits of asphalt and gravel ricocheted from the ground as Liz realized they were under attack. She rolled over and saw she was close to the bike. She grabbed the strap of both their go-bags, then followed Harry as he crawled to the side of a building.
John grabbed his pack from his bike and crawled behind a concrete barrier. “Hey, you two okay?” he called out.
Liz looked at her scraped knees and elbows where blood was soaking through the denim. “I'm all right.” She turned to Harry and examined a knot on his head. He nodded slowly. “Harry’s a little banged up, but we’re good.”
John answered, “Fuckers killed my bike. The front end is trashed.”
Shots pinged off the concrete again. “They’re up high, at least half a dozen shooters.” Harry pulled his handgun and pointed to the corner. “We have to get the ammo bags and my rifle. It’s still tied to the back of my bike.”
When Harry made a move to reach across the open area between the wall and the bike, Liz pulled him back. “I can do it. You and John make sure no one has a chance to look up.” Harry started to protest, but she interrupted. “I’m a smaller target, and you two are better shots.”
Liz pulled off her helmet. Harry grabbed her arm and handed her a knife with the thick heavy blade. He stood and took her helmet. “When I toss this, they’ll fire. John and I’ll lay down cover fire. Get out there and cut the gun and bag loose, then get back here. You’ll have maybe ten seconds before they figure out what’s happening, so you have to get back by then.”
“I got this,” Liz whispered.
Harry stepped back and tossed the helmet underhanded across the street to clatter against a dumpster, where it hit the lid and fell inside where it thumped against the bottom with a loud crash and thud.
At the first shot by Harry, Liz ran to the back of the motorcycle. She squatted down behind the rolled bike and began sawing at the rifle strapping. While she worried through the leather, she could hear both Harry and John returning fire. The bag and gun dropped. She grabbed the strap of the bag, hunched over then hurried back to Harry’s side. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw dozens of infected converging on the street leading to the bikes.
The group attacking noticed Liz just as she slipped behind the corner of the building and two shots pinged against brick sending shards into the back of her leg. Harry peeked around the wall and fired two quick shots, before falling back to release a magazine, shove it in her pocket and slammed a fresh one into place.
“You okay?” Harry asked. When she nodded, he spoke into his helmet one last time. “Head north, John. We’ll be right behind you as soon as you’re clear.”
“Got it,” John answered.
Harry peeked around the building, fired and jerked back before answering fire could find its target. Liz pulled the rifle from the case and handed it to Harry. He pulled off his helmet and whispered, “Get low. Take two quick shots, then get back and take the bag and run after John. I’ll be right behind you after I send a couple rounds at that fat guy on the roof. I’m getting really tired of him shooting at me.”
“Got it.” Liz took the shots, backed around Harry, then grabbed the bag and ran.
Harry stepped away from the corner with the rifle pressed against his shoulder. He fired. A shooter across the street toppled from the top of a two-story building to the pavement with a blood-chilling shriek. One of the attackers on the ground rushed to pick up the injured man, but the infected attacked both before they could get to safety.
Harry retreated down the alley while the shooters concentrated their fire on the infected, attacking their comrades. Screams from one of the attackers ended quickly when a single shot rang out. Another shot silenced the second voice, left screaming in terror and pain.
Harry limped to where John and Liz waited at the end of the alley. John, with a backpack slung over his shoulder, slid Harry’s arm over his shoulder, and the trio hurried around the corner of the building with the sound of gunfire still echoing in the distance. Liz struggling to carry both her and Harry’s backpacks and gun bag kept her feet moving. At the first break between buildings, they made a left turn, went half a block, then right again.
The distant gunfire was reduced to single shots as if the shooters were singling out intended targets. The harried voices had long since faded. Finally, Harry pulled away from John’s grasp and rocked back against a wall.
“We have to find a place to hide out until they give up looking for us,” John announced. “I don’t think they intended to just take our rides.”
They each scanned the surrounding buildings looking for a hideout. Harry walked to the end of the building and looked down the row of offices and storefronts. Wandering infected stumbled into view at the far end of the industrial complex.
“We gotta move,” Harry whispered.
“You can’t, Harry. We have to stop and clean John up and tape your ankle.”
“Has to wait.” Harry picked up his pack and limped to the opposite end of the building and took a quick look. “Come on. We don’t have time.”
Liz picked up her own pack and the gun bag and began walking. John slipped up and grabbed the other strap to take some of the load. Liz gave a quick nod and followed Harry.
Harry led John and Liz down the alley, around a building, then through a maze of single story structures until they left the business park through a breach in the fencing and entered a wooded area. After nearly a mile Harry stopped, gasping for air. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
Chapter 19
Sound of Salvation
Tate gave Matt thirty minutes from dawn’s first light just in case he found a refuge or stayed in his ride for the night. When he didn’t show up, she cranked the engine of the white rig and headed across the highway to the weed-engorged cattle guard and the long-abandoned road. Once across the metal guard, the road quickly disappeared into the scrub grass and bare sand. She drove for ten minutes around large stands of mesquite, rocks, and dry gulley. Amid the weeds and scrub grass, she saw the first signs of blood and gore. The scattering of blo
od and remains made her breath catch in her throat. She downshifted and stopped then grabbed a small pair of binoculars from her bag and studied the scattering of blood and bones.
She scanned the area, she saw several infected surrounding a cluster of mesquite. At the edge of the thorn covered plants, she studied a mound of bloodied flesh and length of the bone. She looked closer and saw a split hoof at the end of the leg bone being devoured by an infected. She saw more and more remains of a massive feral hog. Several more of the infected followed a couple running piglets.
As Tate examined the area, she noticed movement amid the cluster of mesquite where the infected continued to press closer despite the thorns on the maze of bushes. She studied the movement and thought she saw an arm. She looked again and saw a hand, then a finger twitched, and a ray of sunlight flickered off of beveled glass. It was a bottle, a liquor bottle. With a grunt of disgust, she snarled. “Ought to leave his drunk-ass to be eaten.”
Matt must have crawled under the mesquite when the dead were distracted by the feral hog and piglets. Now with a dozen infected pressing closer to the brush pile, he was trapped by a pack of infected gathered at one side of the mesquite. She slid to the ground and quietly closed the truck door. She pulled her machete from the scabbard, brushed her hand across her handgun in the holster, then stuffed an extra magazine in her hip pocket. “Tell me I’m not doing this,” she mumbled before she opened the door to the cab. “Fuck!”
Tate studied the maze of mesquite brush and verified a trail through the brush leading out. She squatted low and made her way around a clump of brush and pile of rocks. She moved slowly between the rocks and thorned brush across the rough terrain.
Tate rounded a clump of mesquite and stood face to face with an infected man in a plaid shirt and jeans. He reached out and opened his mouth. Tate slammed the machete into the top of his skull. He fell like a sack of potatoes and remained still. Tate stepped on the side of his face and jerked the blade free. She stepped over the body and hurried around the next stand of brush.
With the death of the last piglet, the infected were losing interest in the scattered remains. Tate picked up her pace and crossed the last fifty feet to the back of the mesquite warren where she had seen the bottle glistening in the morning sun. She bent down and looked into the narrow passageway. “Hey, dumbass! Get your drunk ass out here!”
Matt groaned, for a moment he thought he heard a voice, but he couldn’t be sure. His head ached. He looked down and remembered he’d crawled in the mesquite labyrinth and gotten trapped by the roaming infected. He couldn’t fight dozens of them alone.
“Hey asshole! Get the fuck up and crawl this way. We don’t have much time before the lunch crowd comes looking for their next meal.”
Matt knew that voice; the woman with the orange hair. “Hey! I’m here!” he yelled.
“Shut the fuck up,” Tate whispered.
Matt looked from side to side in a hangover haze, then asked. “Where are you?”
Tate considered raising her gun and shooting him, but answered instead, “Behind you. Slink around back and make it quick. Natives are getting restless.”
Matt grabbed his pack and rifle, turned around and crawled toward the sound of Tate’s voice. “Ouch! Shit!” He cursed. “Shit’s stabbing me.”
He found a thinning curtain of vegetation, got to his knees and crawled under the upper branches and thorny brush. “Ouch. Fuck. Damn it.”
Tate used the machete to clear branches and moved toward Matt. The blade came down just as Matt stuck his head out from behind a clump of thorny green. The brush fell against his face and shoulder, drawing a thorn down his cheek.
“Whoa!” Matt complained. “You almost took off my ear.”
“Come on. You’re lucky it wasn’t your head,” Tate grumbled.
Tate turned on her heels and headed back through the brush and briars. She didn’t bother to see if Matt followed, just expected him to.
“I need a drink,” Matt mumbled as he stumbled after her.
When he was clear of the maze, Tate stopped and turned around to face him. “You have all those people in that camp counting on you, and the first time no one is looking, you get drunk. I don’t know what kind of dumbass you are, but it’s time for you to man up.” She slammed her fist into his chest. “If you get me chewed on by one of those fucks, I will personally shoot you. Now, shut up and keep up!”
Matt followed as guilt silenced any thoughts of protest. She was right. He was drunk when he led those infected to that road block. If he hadn’t been tipping the bottle, he would have noticed long before he drove up to it. All the signs were there, cleared roads and circles of charred ground. If any of those people died, it would be on him. They had a right to go after him.
By the time Tate worked her way back toward the truck, two infected were heading their way. The first was an old man in boxer shorts with the remains of a bathrobe still clinging to his emaciated body. His belly was distended, and a brown sludge trickled from his shorts and down his legs. Even behind Tate, Matt could smell the stench wafting up from the walking corpse.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispered and tried to breathe through his mouth.
Tate walked up to the old man and used the gun to blow a small hole in his forehead. He went down, and a farmer in bib overalls stumbled closer. Tate fired, took him down and turned to Matt. “Keep up.”
More infected turned and headed after them. Tate started jogging straight for the white truck in the distance. Matt refused to let the dehydration and pounding inside his head slow his steps. He felt pretty sure, as mad as the woman was, she would probably leave him. When they got to the truck, it was all Matt could do to keep from puking. He stumbled around the front of the vehicle while Tate climbed on the driver’s side of the big rig and cranked the engine. Matt opened the door, pulled himself into the seat, and slammed the door. He let his head fall back against the headrest.
Tate reached behind the seat and dropped two bottles of water in his lap. She picked up another, opened it and took a long drink. She ignored the infected surrounding the truck, slapping their hands on the doors and hood. Tate glanced at Matt. “You are a grade-A, fuck-up. You have a bunch of people looking for you to lead and protect them, and you’re a fuckin’ drunk. God knows why. You saved my life, and now we’re even. Clean slate.”
“You don’t understa….”
“Can it! I don’t give a shit what your drama is. Either step up and lead or get the hell out of my truck.” She looked totally disgusted.
Matt sat there for a long time without saying a word. Finally, he spoke, “You’re right. Everything you said is true, and my shit has cost us the Humvee. I owe you.”
“No. We’re even with who saved who, but you do owe those people better than you’ve been giving.”
“I’ll do better when we get back,” Matt answered.
“First you’re going to help me. And if you’re real good and don’t fuck this up, I know where you can get another Humvee. A really nice one. Not some Army piece of shit.” Tate answered with a grin.
“Okay. I’m in. What do I have to do?”
Tate grinned. “First, you call the camp and tell them you’re safe.” She tossed a radio in Matt’s lap. “Next, tell them we’re going on a supply run. And as for you, the entire fucking state is now considered dry, and you better remember it. I’ll shoot you in the ass if I catch even a beer in your hand.”
Matt called the camp. When Lawson answered, he stated he’d lost the vehicle and was going to try to replace it. Larry got on the radio and asked questions, but Matt shut him down.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t take chances and keep the camp safe,” He added. Tate laughed at the hang-dog look on his face. “Can we go now?” he finally asked.
Tate cranked the engine of the white truck. She slammed the beast into gear and rolled forward. Three bodies slid under the front tires of the rig on the right. She made a wide circle around a cluster of mesquite and headed bac
k to the road, leaving the remaining infected in the dust.
Chapter 20
The Takeover
Della, still dressed in an oversized t-shirt and boxers, tapped on the door of Steve’s motel room. “Military is here,” Della announced from outside the door. “You have to see this.”
“Calm down. Give me a minute.” Steve slid into the wheelchair and rolled to the door and opened it. He tried to ignore her shapely dark legs and concentrate on what she was saying. He looked toward the sound of heavy trucks and roaring engines.
“I think we need to be careful,” Steve announced.
“What do you mean? They’re soldiers,” Della questioned.
“Why here? The military being here makes no sense.” He pulled her inside and called over his shoulder to Zack, “Up and at ‘em, Zack.”
Steve pulled the curtains closed and turned to Della. “This is out in the middle of nowhere. Why would the military send troops here?”
Della looked confused. “Well, I don’t know.”
“Exactly. This small community is not strategic in any way at all. Not enough space to take in a significant number of survivors. Following that train of thought, I’m worried they’re not here under military orders. If that’s the case, they’re not here for the benefit of this community.”
Zack sat up and looked around. His eyes saw Della and chuckled. “Got some good looking legs there, Ms. Della.”
Della rolled her eyes and turned back to Steve. “So, what are you saying?”
Zack cringed as if hit, then grinned.
“I think we need to be careful until we know what’s going on with the military,” Steve advised, as he followed Della to the door. “Let’s get some breakfast.”
They all dressed and readied to make their way to the school. After a scowl from Della, Steve opted to not use his prosthetics. The wheelchair caused a few interested glances from the new arrivals in uniform but otherwise was ignored. When they got to the school, the community residents were a buzz of activity and rife with speculation about the advent of the military.