The Pandemic Sequence (Book 1): The Tilian Virus (13 page)

With a shout, Mike signaled to the four engaged in laying down the suppressing fire. Hearing his call, Paul swiftly backpedalled and took his place behind the wheel, while Lisa jumped into the passenger seat. Andrew and Jon repeated the action with the second SUV. The mammoth automobiles sped forward and tore through the Tils before them.

The sounds of the skirmish had attracted more Tils than Mike had expected. The hundreds that had surrounded the hospital several blocks away had followed the racket and been joined by twice their original number. Even with the formidable horsepower of the Suburbans, the thick mass of Tils forced the vehicles to slow to a steady crawl. An endless tide of infected cascaded over them, pounding on roof, hood, and windshield. Violent images of the loss of Tim Cornell that had marred the start of the mission screamed in Mike’s mind.

“Cover me,” Lisa commanded from the seat in front of him. Raising a shotgun as she dropped her window, she shot two blasts that shattered through the Tils. Mike lifted his twin side-arms, shot out his own window and used the weapons to keep the infected that swarmed around the left side of the truck at bay. From his periphery, he saw Lisa pull herself through the open window until she sat along the door frame. Armed with the last two grenades, she strategically tossed them into the crowded street in front of the SUV. Seconds later, two explosions cleaved a twenty-foot long opening ahead. Hoping to build enough momentum, Paul floored the gas and the truck barreled through a thick wall of Tils.

With Lisa safely returned to the interior of the truck, Mike looked behind them and was relieved to see the second Suburban breaking free of the attacking horde. As he looked out the rear window, he saw a bloodied, bare foot dangling from the roof above. Raising his guns, he emptied the magazines of their remaining bullets, tearing through the roof as he did. The bodies of two infected crashed to the ground behind the truck and rolled wildly under the powerful tires of the second truck.

The immediate danger now past, Paul glanced over his shoulder and said, “You didn’t tell us you wanted a sunroof, too, chief.”

The city slowly receded from view as they travelled the twenty mile stretch back to the base of the mountain. As he watched the buildings grow smaller with each mile, Mike began to wonder if he would ever see it again. He had called Tennessee home for over eight years, two of those years spent in much happier times. True, most of his life he had lived in the North, but the state represented his first step towards independent adulthood. He had gone from his parents’ home immediately to a college dorm. Once he graduated and settled here, he began to build connections with neighbors and bonds with friends that he had hoped would last a lifetime. He had believed that his evolution to maturity and the shrugging off of the last remnants of childhood naiveté would begin once he struck out on his own. Of course, he had not expected how quickly that evolution would have to occur prior to the outbreak. With a nostalgic sigh, Mike turned his mind to the future and said his silent farewell to the place that, for better or worse, had cultivated the man he was today.

* * *

The Suburbans reached the base of the mountain as the waning sun reflected its pink and oranges hues on the white hoods of the vehicles. It had been decided that they would bring the trucks as far up the path as possible and finish the rest of the journey up the narrowing trail on foot. With luck, the seven refugees could reach the mid-point and pitch camp before the full dark of night fell.

As Mike and the others worked to camouflage the trucks with branches and leaves, Paul removed various parts of each engine in an effort to make theft of the vehicles and their contents significantly more challenging to any interlopers that might happen upon them. Satisfied that the trucks and supplies were as secure as time allowed, the seven refugees began their hours-long hike.

Mike had been so consumed with the rescue and escape from the city he had been forced to detach himself from what awaited him at the camp. The lieutenant had looked barely alive from the massive amount of blood he had lost, his wound had reached down to the bone. Mike had grown to trust the old veteran implicitly. The man’s gruff nature had been irksome at first, but Mike soon came to understand that he would always get honest feedback from the lieutenant. The security team was mostly comprised of soldiers that had served with Steven Olinder, the rest he handpicked from the camp and trained himself. While not impenetrable, the site was quite well secured thanks in large part to the man’s military experience. Selfishly, Mike worried that Olinder had not survived his wound. If the camp was to head south, they would need that experience to survive the journey.

The sun set an hour before they reached the small camp, the exhaustion of recent events had slowed their progress. Near collapse, the group ate quickly, more out of habit than any real hunger, and soon Lisa and Andrew took the first watch as the rest faded into sleep. After a few short hours, Mike was gently roused from his slumber so that he could take the last watch with Pete Marshall. Groggily, he positioned himself against a large rock, the brief rest doing little to alleviate the ache in his muscles. He always preferred to take the last watch on missions. In the sadness and rage of the world, he was still able to enjoy the few moments of beauty as the sun crested over the mountains. Its warming rays caressed him, body and soul, and provided a greater relief than rest. With the ever changing chaos in which he lived, the constancy of the sun breathed a sense of life and hope. He relished those too brief moments as the world came to life each day.

Remorsefully, Mike stood in the early morning dawn and proceeded to wake the others so that the final leg of their journey home could commence. The trail steadily rose upwards as they hiked, the passage growing increasingly dense with trees. Though eager to return, he also felt the familiar mental exhaustion return as they neared the camp. He had always wanted to be a teacher, spending his days in a classroom sharing with students his love of history. Many of his peers, however, had been working towards advanced degrees in hopes of becoming a school administrator.

That path had never interested him, though. The duties of a principal had always seemed to him both tedious and daunting. A classroom required him to focus on small groups, whereas leading an entire school was an educational responsibility he had never craved. Now—six years later—he found himself carrying the heavy weight of being responsible not for others’ education but for their very lives.

Even with the extreme danger and stress an excursion away from the camp, Mike still felt more comfortable in action. The camp’s requirements often enveloped him in an oppressive melancholy. There had been days over the last few years that he had thought about simply disappearing into the darkness of night. Yet his sense of duty always overruled and he remained as the leader he had never sought to be. He understood the others’ optimism in going south. It was something he had felt many times over the years. In the beginning, he had longed to find a place of solace, a place where someone else could take charge and make the determining decisions. After the military base, and the other false glimmers of hope that followed, he had relinquished his optimism and surrendered to his fate.

The loss of so many lives as the survivors chased after each broken promise made Mike leery of salvation. It wasn’t until Paul and he had spoken in the tornado shelter, that he realized that perhaps his flagging spirit was hindering the futures of the camp’s refugees. The realization gnawed at him.
Maybe it’s time to leave them?
his thoughts echoed without reply.

* * *

The sun stood at its zenith as the camp came into sight. One of the sentries shouted their arrival and quickly a crowd rushed to welcome them. An excited chatter immediately broke out amid the camp. Within minutes the news of the underground shelter and the Cuban broadcast swept through the refugees. Appreciating the exuberant welcoming, Mike struggled to make his way through the crowd in the hopes of seeking the stillness of his make-shift hut. Michelle Lafkin, arm now properly splinted, pushed to the forefront and threw her one good arm around Andrew.
Hmm
, Mike thought with amusement,
that’s new
.

As he looked over the sea of smiling faces, he noticed that once again Derrick was absent. Making a mental note to speak with him, Mike’s eyes locked with Dr. Marena. Unlike the others, the doctor’s face was set with a grim, haggard look. Foregoing the comfort of his dwelling, Mike made his way over to the doctor.

“Glad you made it back,” he said, extended his hand to Mike.

“Thanks, you don’t look it, though,” he replied, as he shook the man’s hand.

“It’s been a helluva a few days since you left.”

Now walking off to the side, Mike said, “Bring me up to speed, Doc.”

In a hushed tone, Allen Marena updated Mike on the situation in the camp.

“The lieutenant isn’t doing so good. By the time he got back here, he lost a lot of blood. We tried a few transfusions, which seemed to work, but the infection in the wound is my biggest concern. I’m pumping him with antibiotics, but honestly, Mike, he’s still in critical condition. If I had an OR maybe, but there is just too much infected flesh and muscle to safely remove.”

Mike processed the information, his fear of losing the lieutenant seemingly coming to fruition.

“What about taking the leg?” he asked the doctor.

“Again, with an OR maybe. I haven’t done an amputation out here.”

“Can you do it or not?” Mike’s tone expressed his agitation.

“Yes, but that’s not the biggest obstacle,” Marena responded. “He said he doesn’t want me to cut the leg.”

“I don’t give a damn what he wants! We need him, one leg or two. How soon can you be ready to operate?” Mike demanded, his volume reaching the crowd, which now grew hushed.

“I’ll need an hour to get prepped. But, Mike, I don’t think he…”

“Is he conscious now?” he asked, cutting the doctor off midsentence.

“Yes.”

Mike began to walk with angry determination towards the medical tent.

“One hour!” he shouted to the doctor behind him.

As he threw back the tent flap, Mike was hit with the stench of death. It was not like the smell of the Tils and their victims. Rather, this was the scent of human descent into death. Laying still on the cot, tubes running into arms and nose, the lieutenant was ghostly white, paler now than when he’d seen him last. His breathing was labored, each breath clearly posing a struggle for the once indomitable man. Whatever anger and frustration Mike entered with slipped from him quickly upon seeing the fragile figure.

Pulling a chair up to the bedside, Mike sat down silently.

“Hey, kid,” Olinder spoke with a weakened voice, barely above a whisper. The effort required to speak was clear in his struggling tone.

“You know why I’m here, LT?” Mike asked gently.

“Yea, and you still ain’t gonna get my leg,” the withered man attempted to joke.

“We need you,” he told the veteran with certitude.

“Nah, kid. They don’t need me. And you just think you do. Truth is you’re the one that’s needed.” His words, though soft, tore through Mike with a staggering force. It felt like the old soldier had been rummaging around in his mind, reading a hidden diary of thought. He had told no one of his conflicted emotions, yet Olinder’s words carried such meaning that they had to be deliberately selected.

“I’ve seen the look, kid. I’ve seen it on the faces of the squad leaders I served under. Saw it in the mirror when I led my men in the second Iraq war.” The veteran’s breaths came in short, shallow rasps, like the tide as it retreated from the shore.

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore. If I’m what the camp needs…I just don’t know.” Mike’s voice broke with the exhaustion of both mind and body. He was surprised to feel a warm tear carve its gentle path down his cheek. He had let the years harden his emotions, fearing they would distract from survival. Yet in this moment, he let the dam break. He let the sadness, anger, fear, and uncertainty expose him to their power.

“I’d worry if you didn’t doubt, Mike. I’ve seen more people die because they were too certain. Good leaders doubt themselves.”

The statement seemed quite contradictory to Mike.

“They all look to me for the answers. But I don’t have any more experience with this than they do,” Mike said. For only the second time in six years he vocalized the fear of leading that had weighed so heavily upon him. His eyes searched the lieutenant’s face, pleading for an answer.

“Well, kid, that’s when you trust your gut and hope for the best.” Steve Olinder spoke the words with a compelling sagacity. Mike could not help but bark out a laugh; he was unprepared for the simple, Zen-styled wisdom from the ornery veteran. Laughing through his tears, he understood that what the lieutenant had said was exactly what he needed to hear, his plain words overflowed with more profundity than any eastern philosophy.

Think, Mike, THINK
, his thoughts screamed. The mini-SUV he drove was fast approaching the overturned tractor and the people stranded atop it. The metal shell of the trailer rested on its side, detached from the tractor. The number of infected that swarmed around it shocked him.
There’s got to be dozens of them
, his mind took a quick tally.
Too many to ram
.