“Behind us, my ass,” Zack shouts, slamming the Volkswagen into reverse and stomping on the gas.
Through the rearview mirror, Dave watches two of the retched forms pound on the windows of the Mercedes, wanting desperately to feast on the corpse of his late father-in-law. A man he admired and respected. Silently cursing his lack of alternatives, Dave increases his pressure on the accelerator pedal, moving to take the lead and maintain the traveling formation they planned. He hopes Zack is not planning on backing up the entire way to the highway as he passes Joe and Ben idling in gear and waiting to fall in line. Once Zack is side by side with his brothers, he cranks the wheel and jerks the handbrake a split second later. The front of the Volkswagen switches places with the rear, nearly clipping the jeep with the front bumper. After unexpectedly completing a picture-perfect high-speed turn, Zack releases the brake and steps on the accelerator again, as more retched forms come out of the trees. Dave speeds down the narrow road, bouncing across the ruts and potholes, praying his son doesn’t get stuck. He promises himself again, to get rid of that low-riding, German piece of shit the first chance they get.
“Do you know how to fire that thing?” Joe asks Ben, sending a spray of dirt and gravel at the closing-in zombies as he follows the others.
“Do you mean the 50-cal?” Ben asks.
“Well, duh,” he replies, jerking the wheel to the side to avoid a deep rut in front of them.
“In theory,” Ben answers.
“In theory?” Joe replies.
“I mean, I’ve never shot one before, but I’m sure I can figure it out in just a few minutes. It can’t be that hard,” Ben says.
“But we don’t have a few minutes,” Joe shouts, gazing at the growing horde through his side mirror.
“Yeah, I guess not,” he says, leaning forward to look through his. “My bad.”
“My bad? You fucking asshole!” Joe yells, taking his eyes from the road and their pursuers to glare at his brother, before grabbing the walkie-talkie. “Hey guys,” he says into the radio, nearly crushing the talk-button in frustration. “We need to drive faster, or Ben and I are going to get our asses eaten. Normally I wouldn’t complain about that, but I mean it in a bad way, this time. Oh! Over,” he adds at the end.
“What the fuck, over,” Pam replies, turning to Dave with a sly smile. “Did you catch how I did that?” she asks.
“Good one, babe,” he replies, patting her leg.
“We’ve got the chain-gun thingy mounted to the back of the jeep, but neither of us know how to shoot it, over,” Joe replies.
“Fucking kids,” Dave mutters, pressing down on the gas pedal.
“Understood,” Pam says into the small radio as she braces for the probable impact.
Having heard the conversation, Zack accelerates to keep up with his father, using his car’s momentum to keep from getting high-centered. Joe follows closely behind him, knowing if worse comes to worst, he can always push his brother’s car all the way to the highway.
At their increased speed, it only takes a minute for the zombies to disappear behind them. Dave hopes none of the gruesome-looking fuckers pop out from the trees in front of them. His 4x4 or the armored jeep could most likely survive the impact, but the little Volkswagen would be totaled. Yet another reason to rid themselves of the vehicle, and Dave repeats his promise again.
The moment he reaches the highway, he checks his mirror, sees their sons behind them and breathes a sigh of relief. Out of habit, he flips the turn indicator lever up and turns right. Before Zack’s tires touch the pavement on 114, Dave has a wonderfully wicked idea that might buy them some more time. Reaching for the walkie in Pam’s lap, a smile begins to spread across his lips.
“Hey Ben,” he says into the small radio.
“I thought we agreed to use over, over,” Brigette says.
“Uh, right, over,” Dave replies.
“What’s up, Dave? Over,” Ben asks.
“What do you think would happen if you got on the jeep’s radio and told them exactly where to find their men?” Dave asks.
“You have to say, over!” Brigette shouts in frustration.
Chapter 11
“Major Brooks, what are your orders?” Brubaker asks his commanding officer for a second time.
“What do you think?” Brooks asks Nichols after waiting to give her reply to Brubaker’s question. It’s like she planned to consider Nichols’ advice. She had already decided her next move. The purpose of her question was to determine how willing the sergeant was to needlessly risk Brubaker’s life on a suspicion.
“It’s a trap,” Nichols replies. “And they didn’t even try to disguise themselves as… What were their names?”
“Gracey and Merriweather,” she reminds him.
“Right. Gracey and Merriweather. Like I was saying, they didn’t even try that lie again. They know we’re on to them. And I have to assume they know we know they know. Which means, if they know we know they know, they know we know the entire message was the lie,” he deduces.
“Make your point, Sergeant,” Brooks says, growing impatient with his stalling.
“I think they’re already dead,” he replies.
“I do too. But what would you do now, knowing what we know?” she asks.
“I wouldn’t risk losing any more men if that’s what you’re asking? You just got new ones,” he answers, glancing into his side mirror at the camo colored vehicles idling behind them.
“Major Brooks,” Brubaker prods a third time.
“Hold for orders, Sergeant,” she tells Brubaker before turning her attention back to Nichols. “Don’t you think we should gather more intel? Maybe find out if we’re dealing with a few lucky civilians or if there’s something else going on? But after last night, don’t you think we should know if there’s another operation pissing in our pool, so to speak? Given the fact we haven’t heard anything from Bolivar in over twenty-four hours. That sounds pretty organized to me.”
“Are you talking about a precision strike force or something bigger?” he asks.
“I’m not talking about anything, because we don’t really know anything,” Brooks replies. She stares at the mic for a moment before pressing the transmit button and lifting the mic. “Sergeant Brubaker, are you still there?”
“Right here, Major,” he replies, trying to contain his contempt. “Permission to take a squad with me to retrieve our men,” he asks.
“I’m going to cut through the shit because this clusterfuck already has us behind schedule,” Brooks begins without acknowledging the sergeant’s request. “Those soldiers have been K.I.A.”
“What the fuck?” Brubaker says. Luckily, it’s before depressing the transmit button on the mic. He fights to hide the contempt he feels for her and her callous consideration of his men. He considers repeating the message for her ears but takes a second to choose his words more wisely. “We don’t have any proof of that, Major,” he replies evenly.
“Wrong. I have all the proof I need. On the other hand, you seem to need some convincing,” she says, pausing again to allow him to respond.
“If you mean I’m not ready to just write off two men, then I guess you’re right, Major, I need convincing,” Brubaker says, practically spitting the words.
“That’s what I thought,” Brooks says, looking Nichols in the eyes as she delivers her orders. “You have exactly fifteen minutes to get your ass back there and then radio back to me. Either you get the proof of life you want so badly. In which case I’ll assume you’re bringing those idiots back here for a field court-martial.”
“Or,” Brubaker says, intentionally interrupting his commanding officer.
“Or to report you’re on your way back with their dog tags or their corpses. I don’t really care at this point, Sergeant, but I’d prefer whichever is the most expeditious,” she says coldly. “Either way, you have fifteen minutes. That’s one, five, to report back what you have. That means your ass is back here in no more than thirty mi
nutes, or you’ll be facing the court-martial. Any questions?”
“Permission to speak freely, Major?” he asks through clenched teeth.
“Denied,” Brooks barks. “I’ve wasted enough time on this. You have two options. You go now and only take Corporal Ferguson with you, or we all roll out and move west on 70. You decide, but the clock is ticking.”
“See you in thirty,” Brubaker replies. He adds, “Cunt!” after slamming the mic back into its cradle.
“Twenty-nine,” Brooks corrects, before gently setting her mic back into place and smiling smugly at Nichols. “I guess we’ll have our answers soon enough,” she tells him.
Jamming the jeep into gear, Brubaker sprays a fin of roadside gravel as he breaks formation and races back along Highway 114, having never given Ferguson the choice to wait with the major and the rest of the platoon. Just like Brooks, Brubaker knows this is a trap. Why else would whoever it was with their radio, send the message to begin with. But the bitch major left him no choice but either stand up like a man or tuck his dick between his legs and put up for the rest of his military career. But pride or not, he wasn’t stupid enough to go on his own. Ferguson might not be the best soldier in the platoon, but he could pull a trigger.
“This is it,” Brubaker tells Ferguson when he comes to a stop at the turn to the private road.
“Are you sure you want to go down there?” Ferguson asks, nervously searching the darkness.
“It’s not like we have much choice.”
“We could just go back and say we didn’t find anything. No one would know the difference,” Ferguson suggests.
“I’d know and so would you. Sooner or later, one of us would let it slip. Somebody would find out. And then what happens?” Brubaker replies, not bothering to wait for an answer. “I’ll tell you what happens. We get fucked. That’s what happens. And I’m not living the rest of my life with a court-martial hanging over my head.”
“But I just…”
“But nothing,” Brubaker interrupts. “Did you ever stop to think about what would happen if Merriweather and Gracey are still alive? Or worse yet, alive and make it out of here? Our names would be worth shit then. We’d be lucky if a court-martial is the worst thing that happens. No. We go down there, look around, and report in. Then we go back and when the time is right, I’m going to take care of that cunt Brooks.”
“What do you mean, take care of her?” Ferguson asks.
“She’s got a hard lesson coming to her. After all, officers get caught by friendly-fire all the fucking time,” he replies.
Images of Brooks in a variety of helpless positions twist through his thoughts as he cranks the wheel and makes the turn. The floodlights from the jeep punch into the black. The tunnels of light shift and bounce with every hole and rut, cutting across every turn. But there’s no sign of the missing men or their captors. Shadows dart along the edge of the road driven by the jeep’s acceleration. As the men drive deeper into the woods, the night collapses behind them, engulfing the road to their backs like a hungry animal. The air rushed through the open windows of the jeep and past their ears, making it impossible to hear the snapping of twigs and rustling leaves coming from inside the surrounding forest. As they make the last turn, the dilapidated metal structure and abandoned Mercedes with the shattered windows, come into view. Brubaker jams on the brakes and the jeep skids to a stop. He kills the engine and the dust cloud they’d created and had been chasing behind them, billows past and fills the beams from their headlights. Ferguson fumbles the flashlight from the center storage compartment and aims it out the window, trying to cut through the cloud of their own making.
“Do you see all those bullet holes?” he asks, illuminating the small SUV.
“Might be why they left it,” Brubaker replies. “There’re a lot of other tire tracks.”
“Do you think Gracey and Merriweather are in there?” Ferguson asks, moving the light around the sides of the vehicle.
“Too hard to tell, but I could see a lot more if you’d hold that fucking light still for a second,” Brubaker replies, punching Ferguson in the shoulder. The hit wasn’t intended to hurt him, but it was unexpected and causes the corporal to lose control of the flashlight and drop it out the open window. It bounces across the dirt, dancing an array of shadows into the bushes before coming to rest.
“Goddamn it. Look what you made me do,” he shouts.
“Well, get out and grab it,” Brubaker orders.
“I should make you do it,” Ferguson grouses as he pops the door and steps out. He takes the few cautious steps to where the flashlight lays and bends to pick it up. Wrapping his fingers around the barrel of the torch, his fingertips suddenly feel sticky and he instinctively points the beam of light at where it had sat. A dark, congealing liquid covers the spot in the dirt and reflects from the light cast upon it. The soft sound of rustling leaves from the slight breeze sends a cold shiver racing down his spine and Ferguson bolts upright, panning the light across the trees surrounding them.
“What’s that?” Brubaker asks, pointing to the far edge of the structure.
Ferguson follows the direction with the light and shines it on the spot. From Brubaker’s position, it’s nearly indistinguishable for the grass and dried leaves around it. But from Ferguson’s vantage point, the glint of light from the jagged end of bone sticking through the torn and bloody fatigues is obvious enough. Turning on his heels, he carelessly shines the beam back into Brubaker’s eyes as the forest around them explodes with sound and motion. Multiple figures, too many to count, come crashing through the brush like a tidal wave engulfing the beach. Momentarily blinded by the flashlight, Brubaker can’t see the doom racing toward them, but the shrill screams from his corporal paint the misery filled picture for him. The flashlight Ferguson held is knocked from his fist as a body slams against him, driving him into the side of the jeep. Another zombie crashes in from the side, forcing his knees to buckle as a third monstrosity gains purchase of the struggling, soon-to-be meal.
Without hesitation or consideration for Corporal Ferguson, Brubaker shoves the transmission into reverse. Backup lights flare to life at the rear of the jeep, illuminating the horde already filling the road they followed to enter the small clearing. He briefly wonders if taking the remaining pills in the little bottle would be enough to kill the pain of being eaten alive. But his mind snaps into survival mode as he floors the accelerator, plowing into the surging mob as he fumbles for the mic to the radio. The jeep is jolted to a sudden stop as several twisted bodies go flying from the impact while others are crushed beneath the run-flat tires. In desperation, he tries to radio for help, knowing they’ll never make it in time.
“They came out of nowhere!” Brubaker yells into the mic. He shoves the jeep into gear and pulls forward again, preparing to use the rear bumper like a battering ram to clear a path to his salvation.
“Say again, Brubaker,” Brooks replies calmly. “Who came from nowhere?”
“There must be hundreds of them!” he screams as he reverses again, doing less to clear his way than his first barrage. Zombies clamber onto the hood of the jeep and gnashing teeth lunge at him through the open window.
“Hundreds of who?” Brooks asks.
The jeep is buffeted from side to side as more infected press against it, trapping it in place by their sheer numbers. Brubaker frantically pulls his service pistol and clumsily chambers a round into the breach, as a set of crusted fingernails rake down his cheek. He fires blindly out the window with his hand clenched around the mic, broadcasting his demise. One. Two. Three bullets hit home, spraying blood and brains across the inside of the windshield.
“Answer me, Sergeant!” Brooks demands. “Who are they? Civilians or soldiers?”
Brubaker fires again, pointblank into the brain of a zombie that had managed to press himself through the passenger side window. He screams in pain as another gets hold of his shoulder, ripping a piece of meat free from the bone. His firing hand goes limp
from the excruciating pain and his pistol clatters to the floor before he can put a bullet into his own mouth as he’d planned.
“The infected, you fucking cunt,” Brubaker shouts, his last transmission filled with contempt and loathing. Hoping he came back with the chance to infect that bitch was his last cognitive thought as his rational mind left when teeth chewed into his face.
“I guess that answers that,” Brooks says to Nichols once the line went dead.
“I’m not sure what questions that answers for us. We already knew it was a trap before you sent him back there,” Nichols replies with disgust.
“Be careful with your tone,” Brooks warns him. “Yes. We both knew it was a trap, but we didn’t know what kind of trap. We heard hoofbeats and expected horses,” she mused.
“Come again, Major?” he replies.
“Do you remember what we speculated with our first incursion with the infected?” she asked.
“That they were a lot fucking smarter than we suspected?” he replied.
“No. The possibility that someone might be organizing the infected. Directing them like a weapon or a mobile tactical virus,” Brooks says. “And now, someone radios us, tells us exactly where to go and lo-and-behold, there’s a force of infected Stage Threes hiding in the bushes. Sounds pretty organized to me.”
“That’s still a lot of speculation,” Nichols replies, rubbing his face with his hands. “We don’t even know for sure if the infected communicate with one another or if they just operate with some kind of pack mentality.”
“I think we’re past the point of speculation, and all our vehicles have locator transponders, right? Specifically the jeeps?” Brooks asks, seeming to change the subject in mid-sentence.
“Yeah sure. Every military vehicle does. But we already know where Brubaker is. We don’t need a lo-jack for that,” Nichols answers.
“I don’t care about Brubaker. He served his purpose,” Brooks replies. “I want to know where that other jeep is. The one Gracey and Merriweather were driving. I’m betting whoever set all this up is still driving around in it.”
The F*cked Series (Book 4): Hard Page 14