Zombie Fallout 16

by Mark Tufo

  “BT, come on, man!” I had my hands covering my head, not so much believing that in any sense they would protect me from the bullets but rather to preserve my hearing, should I make it. It was more than a few seconds until I realized it had stopped; I wasn’t going to look to see if the gunner was dead or just reloading. I heard the throaty roar of the other truck approaching and then two shots from BT’s much smaller M-4, then everything else was drowned out by the absolute thumping of the machinegun. I could feel the percussions in my fillings—he had to have been close. BT hadn’t killed him, but he had succeeded in pulling the stream of fire away from me. I was thankful for that but concerned for him. Glass shattered from above and rained down on the hood, sounded a lot like hail. I was in the clear for the moment, presumed dead, or plain ignored. It was going to be difficult for BT to get off a good shot when the return rate of fire was fifty times what he could offer.

  I wished I’d had the foresight to grab my rifle. I unfurled, a few pounds of truck debris rolled off. My first sight was the surprised expression of the driver who had been shot in the back by one of his own; that’s always a shock, and it doesn’t get much more treasonous than that. The pick-up truck was moving slowly, coming up on a broadside, though his ship was more of a battleship and mine a clipper. The person shooting the gun was a woman. (Not that it made a difference, just wasn’t what I was expecting. Is that sexist?) Her face was bunched up into a mask of hate, her teeth clenched tight, her eyebrows furrowed. Her blond hair whipped around her face from the recoil. She caught my movements in her peripheral vision, a fraction of a second too late. I had her lined up and fired a shot that nailed her high in the right shoulder. Her arm jerked back off the gun; she swung it down and was preparing to turn me into hazardous waste with the sheer amount of lead she wanted to fill me with. I shot again, the bullet whining harmlessly off the barrel of her gun. I was fucked. That was when BT made his triumphant return. Her body slumped back as he put two in her chest—oh she was hurting—but she wasn’t dead.

  “Fuck.” I was moving to go back out the passenger door, realizing she was wearing a protective vest of some sort. The truck was now even with mine. I more flopped out than jumped, staying close to the ground as she recovered from what had to feel like getting kicked by a kangaroo. She hosed down the truck like she was putting out a fire, then, when she felt like she’d got the job completed, she was back at it to the airport and BT. I rolled under the truck and toward them, they were still moving slowly, but by the time I was on the other side, they were turning in front of me. I lined up my shot; the bullet went in one side of her neck and out the other. She half-lifted her hands to staunch the flow, but they never made it as she fell out of the cab, her head cracking loudly on the pavement.

  “Get out!” I yelled to the driver, whom I had in my sights. He didn’t. As he pressed on the gas, I shot three times. At least one hit him, as his head slumped forward and pressed on the horn. The truck, in a slow self destruct path, smacked into the concrete stairs I had stepped off of some four years of my life ago. Maybe that is how time should be measured from now on. I always heard that stress kills, so it might make good sense to click off time by how trying something is. You meet your daughter’s new biker boyfriend, that costs you two months. A dinner with the in-laws, couple of weeks. Shopping at Walmart, two days; shopping at Walmart a day before Christmas, a week. Telling your wife how fat her ass looks in those new pants, year and a half. You get the idea.

  “Clear!” I shouted up after I pulled the driver out. BT had me covered from above. Eastman was helping Jackson out. You good back there?” I asked BT a couple of minutes later. He was manning the machinegun, and Jackson was between myself and Eastman.

  “I’m good. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  I quickly got us out of the airport and found signs for Route 75, for whatever destination that meant. “North or south?” I asked.

  “You don’t know?” Eastman asked.

  “How the fuck would I?”

  “I don’t know…I don’t know.” Eastman looked lost.

  “BT, any idea which way we should go?”

  “South, definitely south!” he shouted.

  I didn’t ask why he’d chosen the way he had, but once I started heading in that direction, I found out why in our rearview mirror. Hundreds of zombies were preparing to make our acquaintance. BT pivoted the gun but did not shoot as we were rapidly leaving them behind.

  “How’s the fuel?” Jackson asked.

  “Feeling better?” I asked him.

  “Head feels like I was drinking Tequila in Tijuana all night but without the strange and twisted recollections of the goings-on.”

  “Been there. Unfortunately, I remember most of it.” I shivered.

  “This truck is running strangely and the smell of it is off.” Jackson was thinking.

  I figured it might have something to do with the people we just liberated the truck from.

  “When it’s safe, pull over. I want to take a look under the hood. I have an idea. Until then, don’t make too much noise breathing,” Jackson said.

  When it’s safe could translate to when I drove off into the Pacific Ocean. I didn’t say anything.

  Route 75 turned into Interstate 480. I continued south until we hit route 80, that, I took west.

  “We’re not going to run into our bomb residue, are we?” I asked.

  “Further north, I think,” Eastman told me.

  “I think?”

  “I fly planes, Captain. Easy to tell where you are from twelve thousand feet. I’ve made it a point not to come to Nebraska.”

  There was a story there. Maybe at another point, when it’s safe, I guess, I’d ask about it. Went another ten minutes when Jackson asked me to stop.

  “What’s going on?” BT asked as we slowed.

  “Major Jackson wants to see the engine,” I told him.

  “Has it been hit?”

  “Top, I say this respectfully, but shut the fuck up.” Jackson had a hand up by his head as Eastman helped him out.

  “Brilliant. Kind of what I thought,” Jackson said. I looked for a few more seconds before lowering the hood, didn’t see anything that looked out of place. “They have a conversion kit on this. It can run on vegetable oil. Whatever you do, Captain, don’t shut this thing off. The oil has to stay at a certain temperature to operate.”

  My heart skipped a beat. Reflexively, I’d had my hand on the key, and had been about to shut it down when we stopped. For some reason, I’d stayed my hand.

  “Pull into one of the highway rest stops. We’ll refuel there.”

  “You sure?” I asked, not believing him. I’d heard about diesel engines that could be converted and even knew that some foreign militaries, namely the Russians, had them in their motor pool, but I’d never come across it. It only stood to reason that if I didn’t believe it, it could not exist. We hit the fast-food lottery at the next stop some twenty miles up the road: a McDonald’s and a Popeye’s Chicken. What I wouldn’t have done for food from either, hold the pickles. Never really knew how bad old grease could smell. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought the zombies were frying up some delicacies. Good thing about places that rely on frying foods is that they have oil delivered in five-gallon buckets. We stuffed as many in the bed as we could and still allow BT room. We were back on the road and moving at a decent clip; I was feeling good about everything, right until the radio attached to the dashboard crackled to life.

  “Reynolds? Hey man, you and Stillman missed your check-ins. Boss is pissed! Did you guys stop and get drunk again?”

  The three of us looked at it like it was going to bite.

  “Should I answer?” I wanted to know what to do.

  “And say what?” Eastman asked.

  “What are you doing way out on 80? And Stillman ain’t moved. Did you find the plane?” the tiny guy in the radio asked.

  “What the fuck?” I was looking around.

  “GPS, Cap
tain,” Eastman said.

  “Why does everyone have satellites? Don’t they know the rest of us are half a step away from the fucking stone age?” I was angry. “Do we stop and pull it out?”

  Jackson shook his head. “If they were smart enough to do a conversion kit, odds are the tracker has a failsafe and is tied into the electronics of the truck.” He looked for a moment at my blank expression. “We pull it, we’ll shut down. With tools and some time, I maybe could get around it, that, and if there weren’t…three of everything.” He was looking at his hand, fingers splayed. I got nauseous thinking about the fifteen fingers he could see wagging in front of his face.

  “You don’t check in soon, boss is going to send a fleet out after you. He really hates when people run.”

  Shocker: Knox wasn’t big on defectors. I had to try to buy some time. Eastman looked like he had swallowed a live salamander when I reached for the radio.

  “Yeah, this is Reynolds, calm your tits,” I said.

  “Calm your tits?” Eastman asked as I took my finger off the send button.

  “Yeah. That’s how brigands talk,” I told him.

  “Brigands?” Jackson asked.

  “We heard there’s a liquor superstore up the road, just going to stock up,” I added. There was an extended amount of silence before my blood froze. The next speaker didn’t need to announce his name, I’d recognize that voice in a coma. “Knox,” I said the moment he spoke.

  35

  Mike Journal Entry 19

  “I don’t know who you are,” Knox stated. “But you’ve made a grave mistake taking that truck. If you stop now and turn around, I will allow those of you that can benefit my army to join. Otherwise, we are going to hunt you down and execute you in the most unsavory way I can think of and, let me tell you, friend, I’ve had a lot of time to think on such things and plenty of opportunities to hone my thoughts.”

  “Ya know, Cocks, you tried to enlist us in your rinky-dink army some time ago, actually left me for dead, and my friend brained the living shit out of, like, a dozen of your dipshits. It’s going to be a hard pass from me, dawg.”

  “My god. You have the diplomacy of a honey badger,” Eastman said. If he meant it as an insult, he missed the mark.

  “Talbot,” hissed over the airwaves. “How?”

  “Killed your two crews, got this sweet, veggie oil-running beast, and one hell of a powerful fifty cal weapon. Thanks for that, Cocks.”

  “It’s Knox, asswipe.”

  “Whatever. You come for us and we’ll deal with you the same way we’ve dealt with all that have come before. Maybe you could use that depraved mind of yours to think up a nice memorial for all those poor souls.”

  “You’re dead.” I could about see his face turning bright red, his fists balled up.

  “I’m not, but you’re welcome to try. And, oh yeah, Cocks—go fuck yourself.”

  He launched into a tirade just as I shut the radio off. Eastman and Jackson were both looking at me with their jaws dropped a bit. I smacked on the glass to get BT’s attention. When he leaned down, I told him what happened. I would have ditched the ride in a hot minute if there was even a ten percent chance we could find another, but our only hope was to stay ahead of the pursuit. No chance we could shake them with that tracer on us. The truck, for whatever reason, wouldn’t go much past seventy. Maybe it was the type of fuel, maybe it needed maintenance; didn’t know and couldn’t do anything about it. Odds were extremely high they had faster vehicles. Hopefully, no drones, though. At this speed, we were twenty-two hours out from the carrier.

  “What’s the range of a CB?” I asked.

  “Three miles? Up to fifteen, I think, depending on terrain,” Eastman replied. “My father was a trucker,” he replied when I looked over at him.

  The carrier wasn’t going to be of any help; we were on our own. All was good for nearly six hours, other than the fact that I had to piss so bad I thought the tip of my dick was going to explode like a water balloon slipping off a hose nozzle. It didn’t help that I saw BT’s back to me and a steady stream arcing toward the road. I was wondering if it would be possible to get into a position where I could go out the window while also keeping my foot on the gas. We hadn’t seen any pursuit, but I could feel it in my bones, and stopping for even a minute was ground lost. Another hour elapsed; I was in physical discomfort bordering on distress. The tank was at half. I banged on the glass.

  “Dude, I have to piss now. You want to fill the tank then drive and I’ll get back there?”

  BT gave me the thumbs up. I’d been suppressing the urge to go for so long my muscles responsible for not having an accident were reluctant to release. “Oh. God.” I had my head down and one hand on the quarter panel of the truck. Eastman helped Jackson out for the pit stop to get his blood moving.

  “Full,” BT announced, tossing some buckets to the side. I still hadn’t finished. “What the hell?” BT was looking at the small pond I’d created. “I left the tube in the tank. The end with the funnel attached is in the bed. Don’t lose them—don’t let them fall out.”

  “Got it, I’m good,” I told him as I headed onto the back.

  A minute later, we were once again racing down the road. Ten minutes after that, I caught the first sight of Knox. I tapped the glass.

  “I see them,” BT replied.

  I could hear the engine knock and ping as he tried to get more out of the truck. He eased back down to the sweet spot. Fast, but not nearly fast enough. The only good news was that I had three full, fifty-cal ammo cans, plus the one I was using—easily over twenty-five hundred, Knox-destroying bullets. I would lose sight of the truck behind us for long stretches as we drove down a hill or rounded a curve, but it would always reappear, and just a little bit closer. Night had come and with it a light rain. I could make out three or four sets of headlights off in the distance.

  “How we doing on fuel?” I asked, leaning down.

  “Still over half.”

  “I’m going to fill it now; might be difficult to do it soon,” I said, watching as BT looked in his rearview mirror. I was holding the funnel between my knees while wrestling a five-gallon bucket and attempting to keep my balance while not pitching out. Oil was flying all over the place as it was caught by the wind; had to keep the flow below the lip of the funnel as a windbreak. Even then, I think I sacrificed a quarter of the bucket to Aeolus, the wind god. Not even the remotest clue as to why I knew that.

  “Almost full!” BT yelled out. “Little more.”

  My lower legs looked like the bottom of a fast-food bag full of fries, my arms not much better. Still did it—had to. I’d decided to sit. I had my back against the window; it didn’t matter that there was a half-inch of oil in the bed. I was already about as disgusting as one could get before soiling themselves. I think I even managed to get a few minutes of shut-eye at some point because Eastman had switched places with BT. I tried to puzzle out how that could have even happened. I finally decided that Eastman must have gone out the window, cat walked over the hood and into the driver’s window, then Jackson and BT had scooted over. It was the only scenario that made sense, and I was sorry I’d missed it.

  “You all right back there?” BT asked.

  “Pretty greasy; feel like I should be at an anime convention.”

  “Huh?” BT turned to look at me.

  “Fine. Little hungry.”

  “We’re halfway,” BT said.

  I hadn’t put it all together, but that sounded about right: eleven hours on the road. What didn’t make sense was why those pursuing us hadn’t closed in. “Where are we?”

  “Wyoming. Eastman says we’re about to enter Utah.”

  “Something’s wrong.”

  “What’s going on, Captain?” Eastman asked over his shoulder.

  “They should have caught us by now…we’ve been on route eighty this whole time; I’m wondering if they got ahead of us and are laying a trap.”

  “I was wondering the same thing,�
� Eastman said. “But out here, there are not many main arteries, nothing that would have allowed them enough speed to get ahead.”

  “What if he already has troops ahead of us?”

  There was a pause. “That, I hadn’t thought of. We’re not too far out of Salt Lake City. I could take fifteen down to seventy.”

  “How much time does that add?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. We’d be going south of our destination, then have to come back up…eight, ten hours.”

  I was positive Knox wanted to surround us, make it difficult for me to cover every avenue with the machinegun while they could pummel us from the front and the back. Definitely made sense as to why they hadn’t overtaken us yet. The vehicles behind looked a lot closer; whatever the d-bag had planned, it was going to happen soon.

  “Mike!” BT yelled.

  “Yeah, I see them.”

  “I’m thinking Salt Lake City is where they’re at,” he said.

  We whizzed past a sign that said the city was seventy-nine miles away. Adrenaline kicked up a notch but we were all running on fumes. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but when you’ve been up for over twenty-four hours straight, the mind gets fuzzy and the eyes heavy.

  “Ten hours. You’ve got this.” I was standing, hands on the gun. It was going to be time to use it soon. As we went through the city, I expected bullets to fly at any moment. When they didn’t, I began to lose my edge. Sunlight was creeping up behind us; it glinted off the seven trucks and two cars trailing maybe a half-mile away. They were theoretically within reach, though the amount of ammo I would have to expend to maybe hit something was not worth it. Those behind didn’t share in the sentiment. I reflexively ducked down as hundreds of bullets from the frontrunners whizzed by, some slamming entirely too close on the roadway.