Omega Pathogen: Despair (3 page)

After two attempts, they were rewarded with the sound of the truck starting. Royce and Jim simultaneously reached for the heater. Jim got to the switch first and adjusted the temperature as high as it would go, but left the fan on low until the engine warmed.

“Gas?” Jim asked, while he looked around outside the vehicle in multiple directions for any attention the engine noise may have brought.

“Three-quarters of a tank,” Royce said as he put the truck’s automatic transmission into reverse and backed from the parking space. “Which way we going, Jim?” Royce asked as he approached the road.

“Right. I’d like to do a search around the hospital, working our way out in a concentric-type pattern. If we don’t find them . . .” Jim trailed off and after a pause continued, “Do you know where Ironwood Golf Course is?” Jim asked.

“Yeah, I know where it is. NE 39th Avenue and SR 24,” Royce answered.

“We camped there the night before last, maybe they headed back there,” Jim explained as he looked out the truck windows and continued to scan the area.

“Okay. A change of clothes would be great if the chance presents itself,” Royce said as he pulled out onto the road and turned right.

Working their way out from the hospital in a widening pattern, Jim and Royce came across convenience stores they hoped would have something to eat and drink. The first two were of no use; one had been burned and was nothing but four walls. The second was stripped of every food and beverage, even some of the shelving seemed to have been taken. The third store was intact, except for the window being shattered. Since it held more items and shelving and more places to hide, Jim and Royce had to spend more time as they carefully cleared the building. They were rewarded with some potato chips and six bottles of water.

After several more times of circling out from the hospital, Jim and Royce came upon a military surplus store. After another long search to clear the building, their prize was a change of clothes, four balaclavas, and three backpacks, all in urban camouflage. Other scavengers had taken all the ammunition and weapons before them. 

“Do you guys live around here?” Royce asked.

“We used to. We moved to Texas a few years ago,” Jim replied.

“Where at in Texas?” Royce asked.

Jim, not looking over at Royce, continued to scan the area as he responded, “Royce, if you don’t mind, let’s talk about this shit later.”

Royce looked briefly at Jim and then back at the road. He understood Jim’s mood all too well. “Sure thing,” Royce said.

Their search pattern continued to take them further away from the hospital as they circled further out. After a several long moments of neither man speaking, Jim asked Royce to stop the truck.

Jim pointed to a house they were nearly in front of. It looked like all the others in the neighborhood. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to grab some hose so we can siphon gas.” Royce stopped the truck and saw the garden hose mounted on the side of the house and strung out in front yard. Royce stayed seated in the driver's seat, alternating between watching Jim retrieve the hose and watching the surrounding area.

Jim cautiously approached the house and quickly cut about six feet of hose from a coil lying on the ground and returned to Royce’s truck. Royce resumed their drive through the neighborhood.

“Do you want to stop and check any of these cars for gas?” Royce asked.

“No. On the way back to the truck, I felt like I was being watched. Maybe its just nerves but I don’t like this neighborhood,” Jim replied.

After an hour more of searching, Jim and Royce stopped and filled Royce’s truck by siphoning a car at a gas station. They were also able to scavenge more water, sports drinks, and some junk food from inside the building. The men sat in the truck in the parking lot of the gas station and ate and drank while looking at a map Royce had picked up while they were inside. While they discussed their route Royce had fallen silent mid-sentence and began looking around.

“What is it?” Jim asked, although not sure why, he too started to look around.

Royce held up his right hand and continued looking in every direction, but kept coming back to stare to their right. “A car engine, I think,” he whispered. After about thirty seconds, Jim heard the noise as well. Simultaneously, Jim and Royce looked to their right. The Chevrolet Tahoe that was making the noise came into view.

Royce’s truck was parked with the front facing the road. The blue SUV approached from their right at a high rate of speed. Jim and Royce watched as the Tahoe braked and came to a stop just past the gas station parking lot. The tinted windows were covered with chain link fencing, prevented them seeing if anyone other than a driver occupied the Tahoe. The fencing had been cut to shape then welded and screwed to the frames.

Jim and Royce both gripped their firearms and watched the Tahoe. A single reverse light on the passenger side of the Tahoe came on and the SUV slowly backed up. After passing the front of Royce’s truck going as it backed, the Tahoe stopped again, and then started forward and turned into the gas station parking lot next to Royce’s truck.

Royce lifted Jim’s Glock from his lap and aimed it at the inside of his door, prepared to raise the muzzle over the door and fire out the window.

Jim gripped his AR-15 with both hands as he sat facing the driver’s door. The Tahoe’s door opened slightly and they heard a male voice shout in a southern accent, “Y’all don’t shoot, I ain’t a bandit.”

Both Jim and Royce maintained their positions and waited for the man behind the voice to emerge from behind the door.

“Either step out or drive the fuck on,” Jim yelled at the man, startling Royce and causing him to flinch, but he maintained his attention on the Tahoe.

The SUV’s door opened further and a pair of legs in jeans and western boots appeared under the door. After a pause, the man behind the voice peeked out from behind the door and then walked into the open. The driver of the Tahoe looked to be in his late thirties. He had a large revolver strapped to his right hip and his arms were held out to his sides. The man took a couple of steps toward Royce’s truck and then stopped.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Jim said to Royce, and exited the pickup.

Royce saw Jim from his peripheral vision as Jim walked around the front of his truck. Jim paused and looked around them and then his attention was back on the man that had exited the Tahoe.

Jim approached the man with his rifle held in the low ready position, prepared to raise the muzzle and fire at the first sign of danger. He hoped his reflexes would be fast enough. Jim walked within about eight feet of the man and stopped.

“What’s your name?” Jim asked, watching the man and eyeing the passenger in the front seat of the Tahoe that he could now see from his new position.

“Hank,” responded the man as he slowly extended his right hand to Jim.

Jim hesitated for a second and then released his right hand from the pistol grip of the rifle and shook Hank’s. “Jim. That’s Royce,” Jim introduced himself and motioned with his head toward Royce seated in the pickup.

Hank introduced the woman sitting in the Tahoe as his wife, Jen.

Royce exited his truck and approached the two men when he saw Hank and Jim seemed to be having a conversation. Hank’s wife, Jen, joined the three men standing in the parking lot. The four slowly relaxed their posture as they felt more at ease with each other during their short interaction.

Hank and his wife Jen explained that they lived about forty miles west of Gainesville in a small town called Chiefland. The actual city limits of the town had a population of only around three thousand people — more were spread out in its county, Levy — but its population was no more than sixty to sixty-five thousand.

Hank and his wife were preppers, and had been preparing for some sort of catastrophic event since they'd married in their early twenties. Hank and Jen were on a scouting mission for materials to finish construction on a fence they and some other survivors living on their farm had been working on.

From Hank, Jim learned that other residents on Hank and Jen’s farm had reported to Hank that they had seen a large black military-style truck yesterday while they were in the area searching for supplies.

Chapter 3

Members of Hank’s group had seen the MRAP being pursued by a large dark red Ford F350 pickup truck. The MRAP had been weaving back and forth, they guessed to prevent the faster pickup truck from overtaking them.

Jim questioned Hank more to get specifics about when, where, and the direction of travel of the vehicles. According to Hank, members of his group saw the MRAP heading south and gave the road number of SR 441. The best guess on when they saw the chase had been about an hour after Jim had entered the hospital yesterday.

Before going their separate ways, Hank gave Royce a hand-drawn map with directions to their farm. Wasting no more time, Jim and Royce headed east on SR 24 and in a short time were at the intersection of SR 441 where they turned right and headed south.

“You think these are the same people that shot your brother?” Royce asked.

“Same color and model of truck,” Jim responded curtly.

The time they spent searching for Jim’s family had used precious daylight. The time was approaching 12:45 PM; with the shorter days of winter, they would only have about five hours of sunlight left to keep the infected lurking in the shadows.

“Royce, stop for a second and let me get into the bed of the truck,” Jim said.

Royce slowed and came to a stop in the road. Jim retrieved a set of binoculars from his backpack.

“Keep the speed at about thirty miles per hour. I’m going to try to make sure we don’t drive into something we’re not ready for,” Jim said.

“Okay,” Royce replied and gave a nod of his head.

Jim stepped onto the road and said, “I’ll tap on the roof of the truck when I need you to go or stop,” and closed the passenger door.

After hearing Jim give the roof of the truck a couple light smacks, Royce eased the vehicle ahead and up to speed.

Jim stood in the bed of the truck and scanned the road ahead and even took the occasional look behind them.

It only took around twenty minutes before Royce heard three bangs from the roof signaling him to stop. He came to a stop and heard Jim call out to him quietly, asking him to step out of the truck.

Royce put the truck in park, got out and stood by the pickup’s bed. Jim didn’t speak; he kept looking through the binoculars. “What is it, Jim?” Royce asked.

“Motherfuckers,” Jim muttered with his lips drawn tight. Royce could see hate and anger on Jim’s face. Royce wondered then if he had made a bad choice when he escaped with Jim from the hospital. He reconsidered when he remembered how he had felt when his family were still alive and in danger.

Through the binoculars, Jim could make out the unmistakable shape of the black MRAP he and his family had traveled in from Texas. The MRAP was off the road about one hundred yards at a ninety-degree angle from the main road and apparently, despite its four-wheel drive, was stuck in mud in the marshy area due to its bulk of over forty thousand pounds. The large armored truck was buried deep, with the mud nearly above the tires.

Between the MRAP and the road, on firm earth, was the dark red Ford F350. The red pickup truck was parked facing the rear of the MRAP, but just off the road on the level shoulder. A copse of trees was between the armored truck and the ones that had chased it.

The pickup truck had been modified with what appeared to be steel sheets affixed to the bed enclosing it. He could see only the passenger side of the cab, but it too had been reinforced with some steel plating. The plate of steel over the window had a small slit for looking out or shooting, Jim guessed.

Jim could see a small campfire and two figures milling around behind the truck. They seemed to be making an effort to keep from coming into view of the MRAP. Jim suspected his sons were probably been taking shots at anyone that slipped up and came into their view.

As he slowly scanned and rechecked the area around both the MRAP and the red pickup truck, Jim noticed both living and dead bodies around them. He hoped that they were only those of the infected that had come during the night or part of the group that had chased his family. All the bodies around the armored vehicle had their lower bodies buried in the mud. Some were on top of those in the muck, and had apparently used the bodies of their brethren to try and gain access to the MRAP.

He spent a lot of time examining each one. He finally relaxed a little when he was satisfied none looked like family members or others in his group. Jim could see that many of the infected had obvious signs of having been a snack or dinner for some of the alligator population that was notoriously high in the marsh and swamp area of Paynes Prairie.

Jim focused his attention back on the red truck and those around it. Attached to the red truck was a trailer with an airboat. He reasoned the degenerates that had attacked his family were planning on using it to approach the MRAP. They hadn’t gotten the chance; his family, trapped inside, had kept them at a distance.

He couldn’t know for certain, but he and Royce didn’t seem to have been noticed, and he hoped to dictate the time when he showed himself. “Back us up the way we came. Go slow,” Jim said without removing his eyes from the binoculars.