Run (Book 2): The Crossing Page 5

  The rifle fire started a moment later, and the dead were re-killed quickly. Soon it was only the team that was moving. Boone kept his sidearm in the ready position as he advanced on the tank. “Let’s check that tin can. LAV One, you follow at twenty meters, LAV Two remain behind and stay buttoned.”

  Several rogers and affirmatives rang out, and the party moved forward as a cohesive unit. Rick and Boone cut a wide path right, Dallas and Usher left, Cole and Martinez down the center. They made it to the tank and checked under and around it.

  The carnage in front of the armored behemoths was becoming commonplace. Hundreds of bodies and smoldering vehicles dotted the road behind several concrete barriers. The windows on the vehicles were broken, and where not charred, bloody. It looked like the doomed civilians had tried to make a hasty escape from the infected city only to be met by a blocked road and two Abrams tanks. The dead had followed, and the folks had either been trapped in their vehicles, or made a break for it into the flat lands of Utah. At some point, the tanks must have opened fire with their one-hundred-five millimeter cannons because there were huge swaths of destroyed vehicles and shell-torn asphalt a few hundred meters forward of them. Several overturned or completely destroyed vehicles were off to the sides of the road, appearing to have tried to run the blockade and failed. Several of the vehicles and two large, green street signs had been peppered with what looked like buckshot from an enormous shotgun.

  “Jesus, they used M1028’s on these poor bastards.”

  The big Texan looked at Boone. “Wassat? A M28?”

  “M1028. It’s a canister round fired from the tank. Anti-infantry. It couldn’t have been pretty.”

  “Why would the army not let them out?” demanded Anna over the radio. She must have been watching through the monitors of LAV One.

  “Standard containment protocol,” answered Boone. “The army was trying to contain the infection.” He climbed on the Abrams and rapped his fist on the hatch. “Anybody home? This is Lieutenant Commander Boone of the US Navy. We can help you.”

  There was a screeching noise, and the hatch opened. A young man crossed his eyes as he looked into the business end of Boone’s sidearm. “You gonna shoot me?”

  “Of course not.” Boone stuck his hand down to help the man out of the belly of the M1.

  “I’m good,” the guy said and climbed out of the tank. There were mewling sounds behind him, inside the vehicle. The man had a white T shirt on, and it was covered in sweat and gore. “Thanks. I thought I was going to die in there. Jesus it was hot.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ben Griffith. I’m afraid you saved me only so I can die out here in the fresh air though.” He pulled his shirt up and there was a clear semi-circular tooth pattern on his side. The skin had been broken and he was bleeding from it. The wound wasn’t rank or oozing yet, indicating the man had been assaulted recently.

  They climbed down from the beige beast and Ben began talking.

  Ben’s story was the same as countless others. He didn’t flee the city when everyone else did, but got caught in his apartment too afraid to leave. He ran out of food and water and was attacked while scavenging. “Had to run, and this was the only way there weren’t any of the dead people. ‘Course that changed when I got to the cars here. Then there were plenty. The hatch on this tank was open, so we jumped in it and shut the lid just as those dead bastards were on our heels.”

  Rick looked at the man, “We?”

  “Yeah, I had Joe with me but he kept giving me away when I was trying to sneak around. He’s too little to understand when I tell him to be quiet.” He wiped his hand across his brow blinking in the sun, “I didn’t see the infected soldier inside the tank until he grabbed me and bit me. I got his knife from him and stuck it up under his chin, but by the time I was done, the other walkers were trying to get in there after me. There’s a pole inside the tank, I don’t know what it’s for, but it was great for pushing those dead ones off the lid. That was this morning. The only damn thing that works in this thing,” he jerked his thumb at the Abrams, “is the clock. And the radio, but I couldn’t figure out how to send, I could only hear.”

  “Where’s the boy?” demanded Dallas.

  Ben looked confused. “What boy?”

  “Your kid, Joe.”

  The man smiled, then gave a whistle. A small bark came from inside the tank. “Joe’s my puppy. I only got him two months ago, then the world ended.”

  “I’m sorry, son, but ya know you’re infected right?”

  “Yeah. I saw it all over the news for a week, then I saw it first-hand. Nobody gets better.” As if to punctuate his statement, he started a hacking cough, and spit up bloody sputum when he was finished. “Yup, fucked. I sure could use a gun for a minute if you don’t mind. At least one bullet anyway.”

  “Kid’s got balls, Boone. What we gon’ do with ‘im?”

  Boone looked angry and sad at the same time. “Are you sure you want to do this, Ben?”

  “Better than being one of them,” he said and pointed at a dead doctor stumbling toward them from the medical tent.

  Boone raised his sidearm and ended the thing’s misery with one shot. Then he looked at his crew, “Ush, Cole, cover him.” Both men raised their weapons. Boone ejected the magazine from his sidearm, flicking single rounds into his palm, leaving one shot in the weapon, and then passed it to the unfortunate man, who began to cry softly.

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I never even asked her out,” he raised the weapon to his temple. “Take care of my dog, will you?”

  Usher and Androwski tensed as the man lowered the pistol slightly. “Oh, one of the things I heard on the radio before you got here was to join the three. There’s a guy broadcasting that over and over again with instructions on how to get there, and that they offer safety, food, and shelter.”

  Boone was stunned. “When was the last transmission?”

  “A few hours ago. The group is supposed to be someplace south of I-80 in Nebraska. The guy said he was US military, and they have thousands of people there.” He raised the gun to his head again but didn’t pull the trigger. “I…I can’t,” he said and began to sob, lowering the weapon. He put the pistol on the road and looked back at the city.

  “Best if you do it now, son,” Dallas told him.

  “I never heard from my parents. They live just inside the city. I’m going to go look for them.”

  “Fair enough,” Boone handed him another bottle of water. “Stay quiet. I might recommend telling your parents that you’ve been bitten too.”

  “If I find them.”

  “If you find them.”

  Ben turned and started walking back toward Salt Lake City.

  When he was out of earshot, Dallas asked Usher, “How long you think he’ll last?”

  “An hour if he’s lucky.” He waved his hands at the bodies around him. “These are just the ones who made it out of town. There’s got to be thousands back there. I would have taken the bullet.”

  “Alright, saddle up,” Boone shouted as he picked up his handgun. “There’s nothing here we need, and there’s a rest stop sixty miles east of here. We’ll get some fuel there.” He keyed his radio. “Stark, monitor all frequencies for chatter. There may be a large group of survivors broadcasting from someplace in Nebraska.”

  “Do we make contact, sir?”

  “Negative, Cole, no contact yet. Our mission is the priority, and we don’t know if they’re friendly.”

  6

  Most of the screen was light gray, but it was dotted with some occasional white moving shapes as well. Anna furrowed her brows. “Shouldn’t they give off no heat if they’re dead?” A beagle puppy was asleep in her lap.

  “They must possess some residual warmth,” Chris said pointing at the screen. “I mean, I’m no scientist, but they are moving under their own power. They must be generating some type of heat.”

  The thermal optics in the LAVs were registering movement six hund
red meters away at the McDonalds restaurant on I-80 in southern Wyoming. They had seen nothing between Salt Lake City and here. Not a car, or a shambler, or a jackrabbit. Two other rest stops had been razed to the ground, and they had skirted all the towns along the way, preferring to stick to the scrub land and drive around. There was one can of diesel left between the two vehicles, and LAV One was on fumes.

  Dallas moved his finger across the screen, tapping the white moving shapes. “There’s only eight of ‘em. Let’s kill em and get the gas.”

  “Diesel,” corrected Boone, “and there are only eight that we can see. That place is huge, and there could be dozens that we don’t see.”

  “There might be, but there’s only two big rigs, and seven cars, how many could there really be? If we wait until sunrise, they can see us.”

  “Yes, and we can see them. We button up and wait for morning. Cole, you and Stark have first watch. Wake up Andy and Ush at zero-two-hundred, the rest of us will get up at oh-six. Let’s get some chow and some rack before we hit that station tomorrow.”

  Rick blinked sleep from his eyes as Usher gently prodded him with his boot. He cracked his back as he stretched, the LAVs had reclining seats for sleeping, but they were extremely uncomfortable. Rick wanted a quality night’s sleep in a king-size bed, with a continental breakfast the next morning. Fat chance. He settled for weak coffee and a pimento loaf MRE.

  After breakfast in bed, he made his way forward. He was startled to see a dead man in coveralls looking directly into the starboard camera. “That’s Victor,” Usher told him. “He’s been here since before Cole woke me.”

  “Is he the only one?”

  “You mean is he the only former-American that I’ve seen since taking over watch? No. I saw a few walk past us and go for the truck stop, but I also saw some walk off into the wild black yonder never to return.”

  “Why did you name him Victor?”

  “I didn’t. I would imagine his parents did. His name is on his coveralls.”

  “Oh. Nobody else came for a look?”

  “Some. They all moved on except for Victor. There’s been little activity at the truck stop, but my attention has been on my buddy Vic here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s extremely focused. Whenever one of the other Limas would come toward his side of the LAV, he would get riled and push them away. One of the speedy ones fought back for a second, knocking poor Vic down, but then it just ran away, and Vic stood back up and stared into the camera. Watch this.” Usher moved a small metal joystick below his monitor. The effect on Victor was immediate, his red eyes grew big, and he followed the camera with his entire head. He became agitated and put his dead hands on the hull of the LAV.

  “Maybe he was a mechanic, and he remembers something about vehicles,” Rick opined.

  “Either way he poses a threat.” Boone was also staring into the monitor now. “He’s infected, and his interest in us is irrelevant. They aren’t pets, Usher, they’re dangerous.”

  “Understood, sir. It’s just that this one seems different somehow.”

  “That’s even more reason to shoot him here rather than have him follow us.” Boone picked up his radio. “I hope everyone had a good breakfast. The plan is the same as before. We’ll drive LAV Two up to the truck stop and make some noise. The Limas will come and follow us back this way as we back up. We’ll dismount snipers at one hundred yards and take them out on the road. Seyfert, you’re on the LMG, and Andy, you’re on the Bushmaster for backup in LAV One, which remains on station at this location to conserve fuel. If we get in hot water, bring up the second LAV, and save our asses. Any intelligent questions?”

  “Yes,” answered Rick. “Usher told me that other walkers came and went in the dark. Where did they come from and where did they go?”

  “Good question, but I don’t know the answer. We’ll stay on our toes.”

  Victor got even more agitated as LAV Two fired up its engine and rumbled slowly toward the truck stop. The dead man followed them at a quick shamble. He loped along, swaying his arms instead of putting them out in front of him zombie-style. This creature was slightly faster than the other undead they had come across, but he wasn’t sprinting, and was clearly dead. There were bloody bullet holes stitched across the back of his coveralls, indicating he had been shot while his blood was pumping. He wandered after the LAV, and was soon very small in the distance. Cole radioed to Boone to let him know that Victor was coming behind them.

  True to the plan, LAV Two rolled up to the outskirts of the gigantic truck stop, and a baker’s dozen dead things took notice. As before, the LAV reversed and the snipers got out and took positions on the hot road. The thirteen undead were re-killed in less than a minute. Easy peasy. After a good five minute wait, no more undead came to greet them.

  LAV One thundered forward and met up with LAV Two, then both of them made for the diesel pumps. The passengers dismounted, and the LAVs locked all access points. Stark and Cole remained in the LAVs, and Seyfert was on the light machine gun for support, but the rest of the team made for the gas pumps.

  “No power. How we gonna pump the fuel?” demanded Dallas.

  Chris started looking at the ground near the pumps. “There have to be vents. There will be pumping equipment with long hoses someplace too.”

  “Chris, what do the vents look like?” asked Boone.

  Chris pointed at the ground. “Like that.” He indicated a small metal circle in the ground, slung his rifle, and went to one knee. He pulled ring tab, but the circle wouldn’t budge. “Locked. There should be keys in the office, and maybe the siphoning gear, which we should probably take with us.”

  “Yeah, and they’ll have food in there too,” Dallas said, throwing his chin toward the diner which was the main attraction of the rest area.

  “Can we pry the vents with the wrecker bars from the LAVs?”

  “Yes, Commander,” Chris answered, “but we can’t get the fuel without those vent pumps. They’ll have long hoses with a hand-crank mechanism for siphoning.”

  “I don’t like the idea of going in those buildings, son, are you sure we can’t get the fuel any other way?”

  “I can’t think of any, no.”

  Boone considered, pacing for a few seconds. “Dammit, alright. Cole, Stark, we’re going off mission to find some pumps, and maybe some keys for the vents here. Stay frosty. Cole, keep on the thermals and apprise if necessary.”

  “Roger that sir.”

  “Chris, you, Rick, Andy and me are going in the office building to look for keys and the pumps. Ush, you take Dallas, Martinez and Anna and check out the diner. I’m fucking sick of MREs too. Stay low and quiet. Maintain constant comms, but zero chatter, and use hand signals.”

  The team split and went to work. Androwski led his group into the office, which wasn’t locked. He shined his tactical light in a wide arc across the workspace. The place was big, but empty. It looked as if nobody had been here for quite a while, with no evidence of firefights and no blood or walking dead in the area. A corridor ran toward the back with doors on either side. The diner was attached to this building via that corridor. This section held travel accoutrements and a large counter area. Candy, bags of chips, road atlases, novelties, and magazine racks were prevalent, and Chris reached for a bag of Cheetos. Boone put his hand on Chris’s, and Chris was startled. Boone mouthed Not yet, to Chris, who nodded that he understood.

  Androwski panned his light back and forth, checking corners and behind the counter, but there was nothing. He pointed to Rick and indicated that he should follow, and they moved down the hall to the first door. Andy looked at Rick signaling with raised his eyebrows. Rick nodded and placed his hand on the door. Andy held up three fingers and Rick nodded again. The SEAL silently counted down from three, and when he reached one, Rick yanked the door open. The first room was storage, and there were cups and plates and napkins and the like, with a small sink and janitor’s equipment. Rick closed the door, and they repeat
ed the process on door number two.

  This room held an occupant. He was sitting in a chair with his head thrown back and his brains on the wall behind him. A small automatic was on the floor next to him, and there was one line scribbled on a yellow notepad on the desk: Too many, I’m so sorry, Barbara.

  Androwski picked up the weapon and flicked the safety on. He stuck it in his thigh pocket and they started to leave when Rick noticed a key ring on the dead man’s belt. They grabbed it and proceeded to the last door, which when opened held an assortment of crap, including two of the long hand pumps that Chris was so adamant about. Rick grabbed the pumps, and they retreated back to the desk area. The group moved silently outside, and Boone was all business.

  “Chris, Andy, get those cans filled ASAP.” He glanced around. “I don’t like this place.”

  Chris used the keys Rick had found to open one of the circular vent caps, and stuck a long hose down into the underground diesel storage tank. He put the other end of the hose into the five gallon can that Androwski had hurriedly brought up from LAV Two, and the SEAL started cranking the handle on the pump. The sound of liquid sloshing into the cans followed a few seconds later. Chris handed Androwski his pump and moved to a second vent cap to repeat the procedure and double their efforts.

  After the third can was full, Boone keyed his throat mic. “Usher, SITREP, what’s your twenty, over? Usher come in.” No response.