Plague of the Dead (43 page)

    “Get out of the truck and let me see,” Rebecca said, her voice taking on a hard edge. She wasn’t asking. She was ordering Mbutu now.

    He obeyed, opening the door and swinging his long legs out, but remained seated. His right leg had a number of small entrance wounds, but nothing on the other side.

    “Shotgun wound?” Rebecca guessed. She was getting better with firearms every day-and the wounds they caused on carriers and the living uninfected.

    “Yes,” Mbutu said. He obviously had no intention of telling who fired that shot, but he didn’t have to. Brewster popped up behind Rebecca, a concerned look on his face.

    “I’m sorry, man, I’m so sorry-that shambler was crawling right toward you-I should’ve let someone without buckshot take him out. I’m so sorry, man!” Brewster went on and on, brushing his short hair back and pacing slightly. He leaned in, face next to Rebecca’s. She could feel his breath on her cheek, fast and shallow-a sign he was still running on adrenaline from the sortie, or a sign he was honestly worried about Mbutu’s well being. She figured it was both.

    “Friendly fire, man. What a bitch! I mean, shit, I could’ve accidentally
killed
you, man! He’s going to be fine, right? I didn’t, like, hit his femoral artery or any shit like that, right?” Brewster asked, betraying once more that he was a bit more educated than he let on most of the time.

    “He’s fine,” Rebecca said. “Back up. Your breath stinks, and you’re in my way. All he needs is a bandage and a small dose of painkiller right now. We’ll try to operate later.”

    “
Operate?”
Brewster asked, eyes going wide. “You mean, like, surgery? You’re not even a doctor! You’re just a volunteer medic! Oh, goddamn it, I killed Mbutu! This is it, man!”

    “Would you shut the hell up?” Rebecca asked, voice deadly calm. “All I have to do is get the buckshot out. Not a problem. I could literally do that blindfolded. But first we’ve got to get somewhere safer.”

    Thomas had been busy conferring with Sherman while Rebecca had been taking care of Mbutu’s wounds, filling him in on what had happened. They had acquired not only the lost crew of Mbutu’s truck, but a couple more rifles and another pair of hands-the man who had refused to open the door when they’d first arrived in Hyattsburg. He had readily agreed to come along when a group of about fifteen sprinters and just as many shamblers had spotted the soldiers boarding the truck. He knew they’d never leave the warehouse door if he stayed. It was a deathtrap. He’d jumped aboard Mbutu’s truck as it was pulling away, bringing with him a pack full of canned food and two rifles, both measly.22 calibers-but they were guns, and in the right hands they would do the job just as well as a.30-06.

    The group was assembled, and Sherman called for them to gather round the car.

    “Group! School circle!” Sherman called. “Time to tell you where we’re headed. It’s east. We’re heading due east. Our destination is Omaha, Nebraska. There’s a research facility there, top-secret. Only brass and base personnel know it exists. Its purpose is to study possible uses of deadly viruses. It is a fortress-and I do mean
fortress
. We’ll get there, meet up with my old friend-her name is Colonel Anna Demilio. She’s got PhD’s in virology, epidemiology, and general surgery. I have confidence that she’ll be able to do something about this situation. She might not be able to fix it-in fact, I doubt she can. But she might be able to help, and we’d be safe waiting there. She should be on her way there now. Does anyone think they’ve got a better plan or place in mind? Speak up, if you do! I want to hear ideas! We’re a democracy now, not the military!”

    People looked back and forth at each other, but no one spoke a word. A few who were kneeling in the front row shifted from foot to foot, eager to get moving.

    “Alright, then, group. We’ve survived Africa, Suez, we won the fight on the
Ramage,
and we pulled off a picture-perfect rescue in Hyattsburg, Oregon. We’ll do just fine, I think. Now mount up! Let’s get a move on! To Omaha! Hoo-ah?”

    Everyone, in unison this time, replied loudly and clearly. Some of the civilians shouted “Alright!” or “Yeah!” or “Let’s rock!” among exclamations in other languages from some of the foreign refugees. Even those who didn’t speak English among the survivors felt the excitement, and knew they were in a good position-for now.

    The trucks and car were loaded for bear with people and gear. Mbutu was driving his truck, Thomas was in the old car, and Krueger had taken over the utility truck.

    Brewster sat in the bed of Mbutu’s truck, casting glances at the big man’s bandaged leg and cursing his absentmindedness that had almost killed him several times since the whole shitstorm began.

    Sherman sat across from Thomas in the Topaz, seat leaned back, snoring slightly as he enjoyed the first real night’s sleep he’d had in days. Thomas was similarly exhausted, but his eyes were locked on the road ahead. He was soldier through and through. No rest until the mission was accomplished.

    Rebecca was in the back of the utility truck, checking her medical supplies. She felt proud of herself-the way she’d managed to snag herself the new clothing, the way she’d handled Mbutu’s wound, and the way she’d made fast friends with Katie Dawson, who sat across from her, head lolling on her shoulder as she drifted in and out of sleep.

    They were doing well, for now-heading East, through the forests of Oregon.

EPILOGUE

    THREE FIGURES CRESTED a hilltop near the edge of Washington, D.C. They wove their way through the debris-strewn street, avoiding the burning husks of abandoned cars and stepping gingerly over prone forms that lay unmoving on the pavement. Near them, a fallen power line spat sparks, sporadically lighting the road, and a few blocks away, a house was burning.

    The air crackled and rumbled as a low-flying jet passed overhead, sending a shockwave through the air. The figures turned, following the jet with their eyes.

    “They finally did it,” commented Mason, mouth turned down in a grimace. “Air strikes. It’s all gone by now.”

    “It couldn’t last forever,” said Julie, hefting her MP-5 to her shoulder with a sigh.

    The jet banked around to its left, slicing low through the air, and released its ordnance. A dull red light lit the faces of the three survivors as the firebomb hit and detonated. Miles away, they imagined they could still feel the heat off the explosion.

    “Like a dream,” said Anna. “Still feels like a dream.”

    “-And we’re still waiting to wake up,” Mason finished for her. “But I’m starting to doubt that’s ever going to happen. It’s a brave new world, Doc. We’ll have to make the best of it.
A brave new world
.”

    Behind them, another pair of jets streaked in, and dull reverberations in the air signaled the detonation of more firebombs.

    North was no good. Nothing left there. South-no good either. East was the Atlantic. There was only one way to go from the burning, overrun ruins of the capital of the United States.

    The figures turned westward, shouldering their weapons and shifting the heavy packs on their backs, scanning the shadows for carriers.

THE END