“Paddle. Hurry,” Barnes shouted.
Steele slung his carbine and grabbed an oar. Digging the paddle deep into the water, he pulled hard, straining the muscles in his back. He glanced at Ahmed paddling awkwardly away with one hand.
“We need to get under the bridge, where they can’t see us,” Steele yelled, working his oar.
Steele dug his oar into the water as if each stroke had the possibility of discovering gold, but the bogged-down boat moved sluggishly in the water. Bodies continued to drop all around them.
Painfully, the bridge shadowed above them as if they would never truly make it. A face blurred by Steele’s, its head and shoulders smacking the side of the inflatable boat. Like a seesaw, Steele was launched overboard.
The cool murky water rushed over his body, and enveloped him within its grasp. Sound muffled as he sank beneath the surface. Disoriented, he opened his eyes, trying to determine which way was up. He couldn’t penetrate the brown turbid water.
Things moved around him. Things out of view. Things that he did not want to identify. A ghostly white body crossed in front of him. A quick shove sent it floating away to the netherworld. He kicked with his legs to drive himself closer to the lighter milk-chocolate-colored water above.
The shadow of the bottom of the boat teased him. He breast-stroked with all his might, planning on grabbing the side and pulling himself into the boat. Everything would be okay. A moment later, an icy hand seized his ankle, latching onto his leg. He kicked hard, but it yanked him down deeper under the surface.
MAUSER
Downtown Pittsburgh, PA
Mauser didn’t know which was worse. Having an elevated view of the legions of death that marched for them, or being on the ground hoping to survive. He pushed open a steel flap wider and propped it open with a lever. He threw his damaged leg up on the seat, twisting his body into an L-position. He pointed the SCAR heavy out the window.
“Gwen. Grab a gun if there’s one lying around,” he shouted behind him. He needed some help. The clank of metal hitting the window pane next to him surprised him. She sighted in her M4, stock to her shoulder.
“Don’t forget those are different than the ARs; keep it off of three if you want to hit anything,” he commanded.
“I know,” she said from the side of her mouth. “Did Yates give the go ahead to shoot?” she asked, ready to go.
“Not yet.”
Thousands of former Pittsburghers marched upon the pathetic little convoy through the downtown buildings. They traversed rubble-filled craters put there by artillery shells. To the men on the ground it must look like a crowd, but from Mauser and Gwen’s elevated position the crowds stretched for city blocks, a St. Patrick’s Day parade of the dead. It was as if someone rang a giant dinner bell over their heads. Jesus Christ. From every direction, they came. Even from the Fort Penn Bridge they came bloodied, battered, and seeking their flesh.
Steele’s team was supposed to blow that behind us.
There was no time to worry about him now.
“What should I do?” Eddie asked. The older man wrung his hands in front of his body. He kept his head low as if the shooting outside might be at him.
“Can you shoot?”
“I’m okay, but I don’t see too well,” Eddie said, running a hand over his bald head.
“There is no point in a show of force against them. Keep our mags loaded.”
“I can do that,” Eddie said with a weak smile.
“Good man.” Nothing matters unless we get the mover up and running again. He voiced his thoughts: “We’re surrounded. If we don’t get this mover going, we will be trapped and overrun.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Gwen asked. Her voice was a bit higher than normal, nerves showing through.
“Just hold until Yates gives the command,” Mauser said. She would most likely miss from this range due to no fault of her own. Just not enough time downrange. The majority of the infected were still over two hundred yards away and she had to get a headshot for it to count.
“Fuck it,” she said. Peering down her sights, she pulled the trigger. Her M4 barked out loud. No infected fell, but she shot again and again in rapid succession until they did. Soon other cracks echoed from below combining with the rumble strip gunshots of mounted fifty-caliber machine guns.
Mauser nodded. “Copy that, Gwen.” Might as well get after it.
He zeroed in his optics, a short fat cross with a red dot that lined the circle optic. The infected were disgusting. Gray skin that had once been anything but. Limbs were missing. Clothes missing where they had been torn off as they met their grisly ends. Blood had blackened onto their faces and bodies. Others had fresh red running down their lips. Some recent unlucky sap whom they had caught, no doubt.
An end that he would most definitely share considering he couldn’t run or walk. He picked one out from the crowd. Damp brown hair curls that hung down below her chest, Pirates jersey loose around her waist. He tried to ignore the fraction of guilt for killing a woman as he sent a bullet flying her way at roughly twenty-three-hundred feet per second.
STEELE
Monongahela River, Pittsburgh, PA
The weight of the infected combined with his equipment dragged him further into the depths. The surface and the boat faded from sight, and Steele felt pressure building in his lungs, preparing to explode. The infected clawed up his leg with his long fingernails. Steele kicked down ferociously with his foot, the water dampening the impacts of his combat boot. The water turned darker and darker. He struggled upward with his arms in a panicked attempt to free himself from the infected’s grasp.
In a desperate final push, he bent down and pulled on his bootlaces. His chest tightened under his hurried exertion. His fingers grasped, ripped, and yanked with all his might. The infected scratched his hands and Steele let his boot release into its grasp. He scissor-kicked the water over and over.
The light from the surface became dimmed, and then grew lighter and lighter. He scrambled and moved his arms and legs furiously, reaching for the surface.
He burst through the surface of the water, gasping for air. He treaded water excitedly, taking deep breaths of the desperate air. Coughing painfully, he spun in the water looking for the boat.
Bodies were still crashing into the water around him. The infected growled as they floundered in the water. Dozens of the zombies surrounded him as if he were in a pool aerobics class gone wrong. Water sprayed his face, and although every nerve in his body screamed that he stay above water he ducked underneath the cold surface again. He swam away from the dampened sounds of struggling infected.
He made a poor figure cutting through the water, bogged down by his M4 carbine. He contemplated letting it sink to the bottom, but decided that if he did, his long-term survival was all but sealed. After a few timid breaths on the surface, he got far enough away from the mass of infected that he felt safe enough to tread water again.
He looked up, seeing that he was now directly below the bridge. Movement caught his eye near the large stone and concrete pillar. It was Barnes slowly waving in his direction. Big buffoon. At least he could have paddled the boat over to help me out.
Steele took a deep breath and swam a steady but determined pace for the small boat. When he finally reached its side, Barnes pulled him up by his belt. Steele flopped into the bottom of the boat.
“Gotcha, kiddo,” Barnes said.
Steele lay there gasping for breath. “You know, I haven’t been training for a triathlon. So a little help would have been nice,” Steele said in between breaths.
“Survival has a sharp learning curve. When I was a kid, my dad just pushed me in the deep end until I learned,” Barnes said.
Steele draped his legs over the side and spread his arms wide in the bottom of the boat. “Didn’t teach you any manners though,” he said with scorn.
Barnes smiled ruefully, “After that bastard hit the side and you went under, it was leave ya or join ya,” he sa
id.
“What happened to your boot?”
Steele gave him a pissed look. “One of them caught me under water.”
“We’ll grab you a new one off one of these guys. Plenty to go around,” Barnes said.
“Glad you made it back,” Ahmed said, patting Steele’s shoulder.
The boat rubbed against the large base of the stone bridge pillar. The water lapped boat and pillar alike.
“Hand me that water,” Steele said to Barnes. The heavyset EOD specialist tossed him a water bladder. Steele guzzled down fresh warm water and checked his gear. Thankfully, it was all still tied to the boat.
“You think I’ll grow another arm after going in that water?” Steele said.
“I can get you another arm,” Ahmed said, batting at another body in the water.
Steele stared up at the bottom of the bridge. “I assume that Ahmed isn’t going to make the climb.” Ahmed grimaced at the mention of his injury, trying to think of something to say; at the same time he seemed to be relieved to not have to go.
Barnes shook his head. “No, but its prob’ly better to have someone stay with the boat.” He eyed the water with disgust. “We’re going to need this pack here. About twelve of those bricks there. A few of these,” Barnes said, tossing Steele a bag. “Then we are gonna need a bunch of this wire here. Oh, and we can’t forget the clickers,” Barnes said. He tossed more items at Steele.
“Is that going to be enough?” Ahmed asked.
Steele’s experience told him yes, but he didn’t deal with explosives every day.
Barnes gave a bark of a laugh. “Of course. Of course. We prob’ly are only going to need about half that, but I like to be sure that my work always goes above and beyond the call of duty.” He sparked up a cigarette and rose his eyebrows twice.
Steele could sense a little of the off-kilter vibe coming from the man. He supposed that somebody who liked to play with things that go boom by choice had to have a few screws loose.
Barnes shoved the items in a large pack, and Steele stopped him.
“We should split up the gear evenly. If the rain of infected is any indicator of how many dead are on the bridge, then we should be prepared to each complete the task,” he said, eyeing Barnes. Barnes quickly nodded and handed over half of the demolition gear. Steele shoved it into his pack after emptying non-essential items, as if the climb up the pillar to the bridge wasn’t going to be awful enough just carrying his carbine, but he had to get the gear up there somehow. Steele hefted the pack. It was about forty pounds.
He looked over at Barnes. “This is too heavy. I don’t know if I can make it. Let alone you,” he said.
Barnes looked hurt by his comment. “Listen here, boy. I was making Ahmed’s people go boom in the first Persian Gulf War before you were out of elementary school. No offense, Ahmed.”
“None taken,” Ahmed replied.
“There has to be a better way. We don’t want you keeling over on us. I could climb to the top and then haul the packs up by rope,” Steele said.
Barnes nodded, but still looked hurt. “I could make it up there,” he muttered to himself. He readjusted the contents of his pack, counting the bricks of C4 on his fingers.
“I’m Egyptian,” Ahmed said. Barnes stopped counting. “You didn’t blow my people up in Persian Gulf 1.”
“Looked a lot like you,” Barnes said with a scrutinizing glance. He continued to check the equipment.
Ahmed sat in silence and Steele could tell he was bothered by the veteran.
Steele leaned close. “He’s an old war dog. You can’t teach him new things.”
“Someone taught him something at some point?” Ahmed said with a smirk.
“I’m sitting right here, you guys,” Barnes said. His cigarette dangled on the edge of his mouth. “And that’s a great idea. Make fun of the guy who is supposed to spot you as you climb.” Barnes handed Steele a thick climbing rope. “You first.”
JOSEPH
Downtown Pittsburgh, PA
Hundreds of the disfigured infected marched for him in their unholy parade. Sporadically, one would fall, and not get up, but most bullets were dime-sized nuisances ripping through their flesh and tearing out their backs. The piece of heavy black metal and plastic felt awkward in Joseph’s hands, as if they repelled one another. Soldiers on either side of him fired away.
“Help me,” Joseph screeched at one. The soldier didn’t even glance at him. He only continued to rattle of rounds in the direction of the horde.
“Help me,” he yelled at the other soldier, clutching his gun like an unwanted infant.
The soldier gave him an angry look and shoved Joseph back. “Shut up,” the soldier screamed at him.
The pearly-white eyes of the undead caused him to feel the contents of his bladder to run down his leg.
“Shoot, you bastard,” someone yelled at him. He held his rifle like a poisonous snake. A poisonous snake that provided his only defense against the infected. He tried to line up the sights of his rifle on one of the staggering corpses, but his glasses kept sliding down to the tip of his nose. He must look like a grandpa reading a newspaper. They weren’t made for this kind of thing.
He let the gun drop and put the barrel on the ground while he folded his glasses up and put them in his pocket. There. He hefted the butt of the gun back up to his shoulder and peered down the barrel.
The figure was much closer now. He couldn’t see the man’s facial features; he was a blur of mean filth. Joseph’s heart ripped erratically in his chest. He felt like he was going to hyperventilate. He had never killed a man before. I mean, this person isn’t really a man. Probably won’t even feel it. Can’t miss now. The silhouette filled his sights.
Joseph yanked the trigger feeling like an Old Western gunslinger in the movies. The trigger stuck in place, the audible click mocking him. Stiff as a corpse. No resounding boom. Nothing. He held the gun up close to his face, inspecting it for instructions.
“I know there is a button on here somewhere.” What is it? Safety, that’s it. “It doesn’t say Safety on here.” Only an S. His fingers felt the gun dumbly for buttons. The entire contraption was as foreign as a child reading their first book.
Joseph’s finger ran across an oval-shaped button and pressed it. His magazine clanked on the concrete below him. Brass-clad bullets lay unused inside their magazine home. He almost forgot the infected getting closer.
How could these brutes manipulate these weapons so quickly, and someone like me struggles to get the most rudimentary of functions out of it? The walking corpse was within five yards now. Joseph fumbled with anything that looked like a lever or a button on the weapon. Will this gun even fire without one of those clippy things in it?
He did the only thing he could do and thrust the rifle out in front of him to keep the thing away. He thrust out, forgetting his finger was on the trigger, and fired the gun into its face. The infected fell backwards and ceased moving.
“Got ’em,” Joseph said to the soldiers. “I GOT ’EM,” he yelled at the other infected. His battle cry caught the attention of others and an infected woman set her milky sights on him. He bent down and picked up the fallen magazine. His fingers floundered with it, banging it on the magazine well of the carbine.
The infected woman dropped and so did the one next to her. Joseph couldn’t see who was doing the shooting, but was thankful because it gave him time to figure this gun out. Get in there you clippy gizmo. The metal scraped on metal, and the pieces finally fit together, magazine in carbine. Finally, my machine gun is ready to fire. No sooner had Joseph placed the magazine into the carbine than somebody pulled him backwards by the scruff of his neck for the mover.
“Come on, killer. We are Oscar Mike,” a blurry red-haired Sergeant Yates said.
“Did you see that? I took one of them down,” Joseph said. He felt like a little kid looking for the praise of his father.
“That you did, egghead,” Sergeant Yates said. “That you did. Now if
you could only do it about one hundred million more times without getting your ass killed, then we could call this state of emergency over.” The sergeant’s broad blurry face seemed to be smiling at Joseph.
“I will do my best,” Joseph said.
Sergeant Yates roared with laughter. “Get in the fucking mover. You just find a cure for this thing. I will take care of the rest.”
Joseph found himself shoved and pulled upwards into the people mover. He blindly took a seat and threw his glasses back on. Everything was clear again. Everything aside from a long crack that now curved through the middle of his right lens. He didn’t remember breaking them. Maybe the recoil of the weapon? Men lay about in an exhausted wet mess of gear and people. Stinkin’ Lincoln leaned back, resting in the seat next to him, but Manson wasn’t there.
The people mover roared, gaining ground beneath it. Four thick mobile-lounge wheel-treads crushed the undead, and Joseph almost called out for the driver to stop. They must have forgotten some of the men. Clearly they had forgotten some of the men. Being left behind was surely a death sentence for anyone in the heart of this horrible inner city of steel and glass.
“Where are the rest of them?” he said. A little over forty men sat inside the vehicle cabin. He searched Mauser’s face for an answer. Mauser gave a terse shake of his head.
“Manson?” Joseph asked, turning to Lincoln. Without the other hulking soldier to smash the life out of him while they drove, he wouldn’t feel right.
Stinkin’ Lincoln licked his lips like he was going to say something, but didn’t. He jutted out his lower jaw, put his head on the steel window shade, and closed his eyes.
“Most of the men who went to the front didn’t come back. If it wasn’t for Colonel Jackson’s quick deployment, they never would have replaced the tire before we were overrun,” Mauser said.
The End Time Saga (Book 2): The Breaking Page 26