As the vehicle’s climb came to an end, it tilted forward as it rounded the top. Now traveling down the slope on the other side into the green, open Congolese countryside, the survivors relaxed a little and, one by one, started to doze off as the perpetual motion rocked them into a trance-like state of exhaustion.
Even Tom found himself snoozing here and there, the ongoing banter between Amadou and Papillon, in the end, lulling him to sleep.
‘These two must have some weird inner connection,’ he thought as he listened to their laughter as they exchanged stories, the humour almost completely eluding him.
As the sun rose once more, the motley band of survivors all crammed together in the metal tin, which by nothing but happenstance had become something of a Noah’s ark among the dead, the dying and those in between, had gained new confidence. There was once again a certain energy among them. One of hope and confidence in their little community, which they had been forged into virtually overnight.
As they reached the flat northbound roads, where dense foliage and difficult terrain on both sides meant the dead were unable to gather in significant numbers, they stopped for breaks more frequently, allowing everyone to stretch their legs, get lost in their own thoughts for a little while and rest their eyes from staring at each other inside the small space of the carrier’s unexciting gunmetal grey.
They halted near a small plantation, where a view of expansive maize fields extended almost to the horizon. Papillon, Tom, and Amadou huddled together in a pow-wow for the first time to plot their way forward, whatever the destination. Tom again explained his plight and, much to his surprise, once Papillon heard that Amadou had already signed on for it, agreed without so much as a question.
“As long as I keep moving, at least I know I am alive,” he had replied, his statement as simple as it was profound considering the increasingly dead world around them.
Again to his surprise, Tom found nothing but agreement when they finally briefed the others on their rough plan, the comfort of community overriding the risk of facing the walking corpses alone enough to convince them. Within a short while, the APC continued its northward journey. Dangerously low on fuel, but high in spirit, the group put its faith in Amadou and his skill as a resident of these parts to track down whatever resource was needed.
And they weren’t wrong. Between Amadou’s area knowledge and Papillon’s driving skills, they managed well for the next few days. A gallon at a time, scavenged from generators at depots, camps, and other locations not to be found on any map, Amadou’s talent for scavenging kept them going. Going much further than Tom had initially been prepared to give them credit for.
The plan was to head north, hugging the slopes of the range separating Lake Albert to the east from the Congolese side, before making a turn at the White Nile inlet and taking the main road from Uganda to South Sudan. Once there, they hoped Juba International Airport would host the means for travel by air back to Nairobi. Amadou had argued for the shorter and more direct route north but soon conceded that road conditions, rebel activity, not to mention proximity to what they could now safely say was likely ground zero of the outbreak, would make for much more difficult and eventually slower going.
Now that they had covered the first 60 miles what would be a 300-mile journey, he could see that it had been the right decision. The further they moved away from the feeder routes towards the lake, the more the hordes of dead thinned out, turning into small clusters and, within another few hours north into individual sightings of corpses randomly staggering through the landscape. Papillon eased back a little, and they took turns at the wheel, allowing each other to rest and get better acquainted with each other and share their stories of survival.
Much like so many other unfortunate souls who would end up as fodder for the corpses, Faith, too, had been walking towards the lake in the hope of getting a seat on one of the boats. When she and her companions were accosted by militia, her two friends dragged away, kicking and screaming, she had managed to scramble into hiding until the soldiers’ search, and potshots into the underbrush finally subsided.
Bleeding and disoriented, she had wandered about without direction for hours until she had come upon another group, an entire church congregation led by its pastor, on its way to the lakeshore, escaping what they were sure was Armageddon. They carried with them the old, the sick, and those injured along the way, ignorant of the fact that those who were bitten would eventually become the authors of the entire group’s demise.
By the time they realized that the first of the injured church members had reanimated, it was already too late. The outbreak cut through the congregation like a hot knife through butter. Torn between survival instincts and their Christian duty to help, indecision for many turned deadly, as their fellow travellers, now devoid of such concepts and instead driven by nothing but insatiable hunger, quickly overwhelmed and consumed them. By the time Faith had put enough distance between herself and the group, she had already reached the first of the checkpoints erected near the lake, controlling the growing influx of refugees. Much to her surprise though, she had found it empty, but soon enough as she got closer to the masses that were pushing, scratching and fighting for every available inch on board the handful of vessels moored close to shore, she had seen why.
As the first shots rang out and panic rippled through the crowd, the first of the reanimated rose right in front of her; injured family members taken along in hope of a cure, but having succumbed to their injuries at one point or another while waiting for escape. She had found herself trapped between two fronts of the dead, and had it not been for Tom and Amadou entering the picture, she would have joined the legions of corpses now shuffling along the shores of Lake Albert.
The old man nodded in agreement throughout her narration. He finally introduced himself as Gautier. His story and that of his grandson David was similar. They, too, had begun their journey as a group of family and friends, persuaded by a wealthy relative to join him on the promise that his money and contacts would not only guarantee them passage across but set them up nicely once in Uganda.
They reached the lake without much issue, their large 4-wheel-drive proving a true advantage when it came to taking shortcuts through the rugged terrain. It was during one of the few rest breaks when they were attacked by one of the infected that their wealthy benefactor had panicked and left them in the dust while he himself sped off in their only means of transport. Pursued by the dead who quickly grew in numbers, much like Faith, they soon found themselves sandwiched between the outbreak ahead of them and hordes behind them. The rest, as they say, was history.
When it came to Tom to tell his story, he was careful not to give away too much. He neither wanted to spook the others nor reveal anything that could put them in danger, especially if it turned out the whole outbreak had indeed been engineered and those responsible keen to tie up any loose ends by plugging information leaks. Tom had been around the government types long enough during his military career to know first-hand what they were capable of.
He thus stuck to the highlights: his deployment to help with Ebola, his capture by the rebels, and escape with Amadou’s help. A detail Amadou especially liked and went to great lengths to paint what Tom thought was a rather colourful picture of what, going by his friend’s description, now sounded more like an adventure story than the harrowing journey it had actually been. Amadou was quite the entertainer as usual, and before long, he had everyone in stitches, often at Tom’s expense, who didn’t mind as long as Amadou’s vivid imagination provided the comic relief everyone so desperately needed.
Within two days, they reached the ominously titled A104, the main thoroughfare between Uganda and South Sudan, but much less of the kind of wide and well-developed interstate its name might have implied. Still, it made for much smoother travel than the country roads, and the constant stream of Ugandan refugees towards the north told them that they had made the right decision. Uganda, for all they could see, had already been
overrun, and if they had attempted to pass through on their way to Kenya, they, too, would have ended up besieged and quite possibly dead by now.
They passed busses laden with goods and people, stacked high above their roofs, precariously bouncing along at the point of tipping. On several occasions, they could see broken axels lying on the ground next to stranded vehicles having succumbed to overloading, their passengers standing by helplessly, now faced with several hundred mile’s walk along one of the hottest and dustiest parts of the country.
People were using any means of transport available. There were donkey carts with emaciated animals pulling loads of entire households, including families atop their belongings. There were people on bicycles and people taking turns at pushing carts. There were motorcycles with planks strapped across them, on which like circus artists in a feat of funambulism, families precariously balanced suitcases and boxes while trying to stay atop the entire arrangement.
There were people in wheelchairs hanging on to the back of trucks, there were camels and horses and cows, all carrying maximum loads of what people had trouble letting go of. The more unfortunate ones resigned to make the journey on foot, took turns at carrying babies, the old and infirmed, and small children too tired to continue. It was an exodus of biblical proportions as the long trek of machines, people, and animals trudged along in a perpetual twilight created by the plumes of red dust kicked up by its motion. Some viewed the APC with envy, others with ire and exasperation, but most just gazed ahead unfazed, their minds and bodies struggling against dehydration and the threat of complete desolation at what had become of their lives and of the lives of everyone they had once known.
The carrier’s air filter worked overtime, getting clogged frequently, and they had to halt more than once, taking great care to choose pit stops to free the system in locations away from the main road and its preying eyes. Each time, Tom and Amadou created a protective perimeter, getting low and scanning their arches for both the dead and living or anything else that could pose a threat. With such a large and noisy commotion over such a long distance, it was only a matter of time before either the infected or resident predators – both human and animal – would try to take advantage of the moving smorgasbord of the vulnerable and unprotected that now probably stretched all the way from Kampala to the South Sudanese border.
So far there encounters had been limited to isolated shamblers, as Amadou had christened the staggering corpses, and at some point, a couple of starving hyenas. But the longer the evacuation continued, the more likely this was to change, and since the dead followed each other like lemmings, once one of them identified prey, it was a mere matter of time before they would amass in similar numbers to what they had seen at the lake and make a beeline for the human buffet.
On Tom’s behest and faced with the real prospect of once more facing a large horde, they had developed a rough contingency plan. The APC had been doing a great job not only at keeping them moving but at keeping them alive, and although fuel had not been an issue thanks to Amadou’s area knowledge and the sheer number of still half-full trucks and buses that suffered terminal break-downs along the A104, it was the very risk of the carrier at one point or another suffering the same fate that had got them thinking about planning for the worst. An ammunition count had been conducted, and bug-out kits assembled, containing all the essentials for overland travel on foot in what was one of the most hostile environments on the planet.
Tom was pleased to hear Papillon’s report. There were three boxes of ammunition left for the top gun, and in addition to an M4 and two AK47s, complete with three full magazines each, they also had recovered two fully loaded Glock 17s from under the APC’s front seats.
“Not enough to fight a war,” Tom smiled, “but enough to get us out of a pickle.”
He spread out the bug-out kits and began checking their contents. Satisfied that they at least had a fighting chance if forced to abandon the vehicle, he nodded to the others, and they stowed the gear next to the rear hatch of the APC.
“This shitty filter isn’t going to make it much longer,” came Amadou’s voice from the roof. “The intake screams like a Hyrax!”
His red dust-covered head popped up from somewhere behind the open maintenance hatch.
“You look good as a redhead,” Tom grinned, earning him a stern look from the Congolese.
“I’m serious. Won’t be long and we will all be choking on this stuff inside this darn tin.”
“Guess we’ll be riding old school then?” Papillon chimed in.
“Old school?” Amadou looked dumbfounded.
“System up with the top down,
Got the city on lockdown,
Drive-by in the low ride,
Hands high when we fly by…”
Papillon’s French accent made the boy-band song seem even more absurd.
“Come on, man, I know it was before your time, but you can’t lose your sense of humour just yet.” He grinned.
Amado gawked, confused.
“I know that song…” Tom, busy with inspecting the carrier’s front assembly, piped up from behind one of the large wheels. “I’m not sure the original quite sounded like that, though!”
To his surprise and amusement, the large man jolted forward and, standing next to him, began dancing.
“What a night, So faaar,
Pulling up curbside in your car,
What a sight, You are,
Think I know somewhere we can park after dark…”
“Blue. I didn’t know you were into this kind of stuff, but good job, man. Nice song choice!”
Watching the giant swing his hips in sync with his off-tune voice was enough to almost send Amadou falling off the roof with laughter.
The other three survivors looked on dumbfounded. Papillon high-fived Tom and, as if nothing had happened, went back to work. Their mood lightened, they were soon back on the road, joining the endless caravan of evacuees towards the South Sudanese border.
CHAPTER 21
They reached the village of Nimule, less than 100 miles south of Juba, when the atmosphere once again changed. There had been heavy fighting between rebels, government forces, militias, and cattle rustlers along this stretch of road for years, and Tom fully expected contact as soon as any of the heavily armed groups laid eyes on their vehicle.
Now the absence of any of those normally in control of the area, let alone any sign of any other armed contingents - especially considering the thousands of civilians who under normal circumstances would make for easy pickings - not only made no sense but made Tom feared that perhaps they weren’t running from the virus but in fact, again towards it. If it had managed to leap ahead, hitch a ride on a commercial flight of a cargo plane, they were heading straight for another maelstrom of death and destruction.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Tom mumbled half to himself, and Amadou nodded in agreement.
Before long, their suspicions were confirmed. At first, the checkpoints and fortified positions they passed seemed but abandoned; many of them in a hurry, with ammunition boxes and unused equipment strewn about, but no troops, living or otherwise, to be seen.
Instinctively, Papillon slowed down the vehicle and Amadou took the gunner’s position, while Tom monitored their arches left and right as best as he could for any sign of activity. But there was nothing. Nothing but the tall, dry grass, the occasional rock formation, and the ever-present dust devils kicked up by the wind gusting across the barren landscape.
“Here we go…” Papillon grunted and slammed on the breaks, sending Amadou’s face straight into the .50cal’s assembly.
Tom had seen them moments earlier and braced himself for what he knew would be Papillon’s reaction. Ahead, less than 100 yards away, a group of soldiers had assembled in the middle of the road.
At a distance they looked normal enough, their fatigues somewhat shaggy and their formation a little rag-tag, but nothing unusual for these parts, where discipline came a distant t
hird at best and instead ferociousness and blind belief in the cause were qualities highly valued by both warlords and those in government who often controlled them. But even for an environment where military traditions let alone protocols didn’t mean much, these soldiers, if that’s what they were, seemed a little more uncoordinated than usual. They had lumbered about with no particular direction of movement until now, looking more dazed and confused than on mission or, in fact, on point.
“Ready to go when you are,” Amadou shouted through the hatch, chambering the .50cal before pinching his bloodied nose. “Oh, and a little warning next time. Please?”
“Hold it. Both of you,” Tom held up his hand while trying to get a fix on what was happening ahead.
“They look a little confused,” Papillon shrugged as the group of soldiers started moving towards them, bumping into each other, some of them dragging their rifles by the barrel.
Tom brought up the small pair of binoculars he had found during his initial scavenge-hunt inside the vehicle. He adjusted the focus and frowned.
“They are not confused.” He put down the binos and looked at Papillon with concern.
“They are dead.”
Tom’s heart sank at the realization that what he had feared had indeed come true. They weren’t running away from the virus any longer. The virus was already ahead of them.
“What do we do? What do we do?” Amadou sounded impatient as the group of soldiers continued to shuffle towards the APC.
He fiddled with the ammunition belt and checked the feed. Tom’s shoulders sagged.
“Save your ammo. Let’s just drive through them. We need to get to Juba before…”
He didn’t finish his sentence. It wasn’t necessary. They all knew the score. This fiendish thing had again outrun them, and the likelihood of it thwarting their plans escalated in the process. He felt like screaming but instead pounded his fist against the metal coffin that for now was home.
The Virophage Chronicles (Book 1): Dead Hemisphere Page 24