The Zone (10 page)

It was not a great plan, just basic infantry tactics: maneuver element, cover/blocking element, flanking element; it put my survival at something of a question mark, based on my skill and a lot of unknown factors, but what the hell. I had been living like I was dead for too long- it was time to feel alive again. I had been a soldier once, an Airborne Ranger, serving in places unfriendly to Americans, a street cop in a tough city. I wanted to feel something other than useless-an opportunity to recycle what was left of my life, turn it back into something useful.

Which was my way of rationalizing the truth, the truth being that marching to the drums was what they had drilled into me since I was a kid. A choice that wasn’t a choice.

“Time to start,” I said into the radio, and settled the plugs in my ears. In theory they would protect my hearing from the sound of shooting while allowing me to hear conversations, although in practice they were only so-so on the conversation part. I did hear Charlie, who had kept the radio when he and Mick split up, say “Going on three,” and flipped the selector switch. I suddenly realized I had the magazine in place that was five rounds short but it was too late now. Weirdness making me sloppy-a lesson for a future I may or may not have.

Charlie crept close, then stepped out from cover and shot one of the standing sentries square in the head; he riddled another’s legs with shot and then trotted away north, not trying to take cover, just a heavy-set man trying for speed that his legs hadn’t had in a decade or more.

One of the sitting ones gave that moaning wail I had heard before, and then all of them were after Charlie, five moving fast and one limping along after. They might not be affected by shock, but damage to muscle tissue is still damage. Immunity to pain only goes so far.

Taking a page from Sergeant York I shot the limper first, and worked my way up from the back; I dropped three with head shots (one I hit in the jaw and had to shoot again) before they realized they were under fire, and only the last one figured out where I was, not that he enjoyed the information for long.

Charlie was yelling on the radio, but I saw the door to Tina’s truck hanging open so Mick had reached her-good, my plan had survived contact with the enemy, which is rare. Then I saw what Charlie must have been yelling about: thirty or forty more were coming north, probably out of the semi’s trailer. A hundred twenty yard head start wasn’t going to be enough for two tired men and a woman with kids, and a half mile wouldn’t have been enough for me. I tuned out the radio and opened fire.

The vehicles channeled them; I aimed low, trying for the pelvis and the transfer of energy from projectile to major bone structure. Knock one down, and the next three behind him piled up. Get the pelvis, and they wouldn’t move fast, although they did keep coming, and three hundred sixty feet is not terribly far.

A tracer round leapt into a belly, meaning I was five rounds from empty. Belly, belly, missed head, belly, missed belly, reach with left hand, grab mag, thumb on grooved mag release, pull down, turn wrist slightly, thrust up, fresh mag locks in place, thumb hits bolt release, bolt strips fresh round into chamber.

Belly, belly, head with blood halo, belly, belly, head. Focus only on the red sighting image, the next shot, squeeze, next target, squeeze. Forget Charlie, Mick, Tina unimportant. Only the next shot. Head haloes with escaping blood. Concentrate. Slow easy breaths. Caress the trigger. Next shot.

A tracer goes in next to a nose. Four shots, pull the mag, thrust into drop pouch on lower back, fresh mag slotted in, fire. Heads are bigger, torsos fill the sight. They’re close. Don’t think about it, focus, Belly, head, head, belly.

Too close, a tracer leaps out into a chest, the next round splits a skull, and I roll left, catch the chrome decorative rail, and awkwardly slide down the side of the van, the fasteners on my vest squeaking as they depreciated the paint job. A rush from the side catches three rounds point blank before the bolt locks back, the impact pushing them back. The side door ajar as I had left it, I’m in and slamming it closed, hit the switch and all locks
clack
down, secure.

For a second. Two fists crash into safety glass to my left, bowing it in; I pulled the Glock and when the fists hit again I double tap the half seen shape. No more blows but the glass is now a million crystals held together by habit. Bodies clamber up the short hood and pound on the windshield; I twist the control to laser sight and use the red dot and guesswork; five shots and the hood is clear but the windshield is a icy mosaic that needs one tap to empty the frame. Another struggles with the back door; I get his head after my fourth round fired through the window; the glass spider-webs but does not collapse.

Silence marred only by crystals dropping from sagging opaque windows. That wasn’t all there had been, but Charlie said they would get cautious when their numbers were low. The windows were tinted, I noticed, explaining why they had held together so long. They couldn’t see me, I guessed, but like they had with Tina, they could wait. OK, so could I. More importantly, I could plan.

Moving very slowly so that the suspension would not rock, I got my spare magazine and reloaded the Glock; there were only three rounds in the one I tucked away. One move at a time I shifted the empty mag from my M-4 into my drop pouch and slid a new one home. Something growled when I released the bolt, and I froze.

I reached up to turn off the hiker radio but it was gone, probably when I slid off the roof. No loss; Charlie and Mick weren’t in a position to come to my aid. Leaning forward cautiously I jerked the rear view mirror off its mount and carefully looked around. Nothing. OK. Working clumsily with my left hand, I used the multi-tool pliers to strip off two lengths of plastic edging from the captain’s chairs. A couple strips of duct tape gave me a two-foot rod to which I taped the mirror. I slowly cranked open the sun roof left-handed and eased my mirror out. I had to re-tape the mirror to get it in a better position, but it let me see that I had four left around the van. Three were standing, two by the door I went in, one by the hood. The fourth, leaking blood from a belly wound, was sitting next to a light blue Volvo a few feet from the front of the van. Not leaking very bad, unfortunately-I counted her as a combatant despite the wound.

Four. Not bad. Close in, but this was Glock range, and the two hundred thirty grain hollow points would have greater temporary effect than the M-4s ninety-grain 5.56mm. I had fourteen rounds to work with, no time to reload or switch weapons.

After thinking it over I extended my mirror and checked again.

Both hands on the Glock. Think it through-a plan, however rudimentary, shaves reaction time in a fight that lasts bare seconds. Generally, the first one to act wins.

Two rounds caused the windshield to collapse; I hit the one by the hood in the chest knocking him back, then in the forehead. The sitter I got as she struggled to her feet, one round through her hair, one through her throat, and the third in the temple.

A black man in a business suit that had been half-ripped from his torso was clawing through the side door widow; I put two in his chest as I slid across the bench seat and the third into his forehead. The fourth was over the dash and clawing past the captains’ chairs as I blew two holes in the dash, one through his left biceps, and the last one that locked the slide back square between his eyes.

My hands shook badly enough to make changing magazines difficult, but I finally got the one holding the last three rounds for the Glock slid home and the slide released.

A hundred yards north of the van I stopped to catch my breath, remove the earplugs, and listen. Some scattered shots, not close, a few small explosions very far south, not much else. I pulled the empty magazines out of the double holder and slid it onto the full mag in the M-4, and slotted a fresh magazine into the other side. Obviously, reloading fast was a major survival issue.

Heading north was the only option: I had to get home and reorganize. The night may belong to Airborne Rangers, but not in this burg: Charlie said they laid up during the day, so if they came out at night, a single shooter in the open would not stand a chance, vision gear or not. Nor would a vehicle make you safe; one of the bodies around the van had had compound fractures to both wrists from hitting the safety glass; if there had been more than four, I wouldn’t have made it. I was down to three rounds for the Glock and half the load I had started with for the M-4, and at the furthest I had been three quarters of a mile from my starting point as the crow flew, double that as the cripple gimped.

No sign of Charlie, Mick, or Tina on my trek back to the ramp, but I hadn’t expected any. Four saved and fifty-odd infected put down wasn’t a bad piece of work, but it put me no closer to my goal, although it had taught me a lot. The rules of the game were much clearer now. I could see why they were pulling back and declaring an exclusion zone: out in the countryside troops would fare better against the infected; in armored vehicles they would be completely safe-hell, they could just
drive
over them. But here in an urban environment it was going to be a bitch to operate.

The kid I had shot earlier was still where I left him, and I was surprised to see that the fire ants hadn’t found him yet.

Hiking back, as the stress chemicals died down and my heart steadied, I felt good. It had been a very long time since I had felt anything other than numb and used up. There’s a silver lining in every cloud-the whole world might be turning to chaos, but I was feeling decent for a change.

With my door locked and bolted behind me, I stripped off my vest, gloves, and sweatshirt, checked for blood splatter, and washed up. What a mess-the city was deeper in the shit than I had imagined, and me with it.

I was slapping together a quick sandwich when my phone buzzed. It was my ex-sister-in-law. “Where are you?”

“Still in the city. Have you heard anything?”

“Yes, they are in the projects, holed up, they just called.” She read off the phone number. “She lost her phone and my truck. I hope you plan to get into gear soon, Martin. We’re loading up into busses to be shipped God knows where, so I doubt I will be able to keep tabs on you.”

“I’m working on it.”

My ex picked up on the second ring. “Its me. You OK?”

“Yes, we all are. We’re hiding in an empty apartment with a couple other people. Where are you?” She was calm but tense; she always did well under pressure.

“At home. I headed towards you, but got turned back after half a mile. I’m working on a plan, though. Where exactly are you?” I copied down the building and apartment numbers. “Look, they come out in strength after dark, and they are drawn to noise and light, so black out everything, remember cracks under doors, and unplug or turn off phones. I’m going to come get you, but it will have to be during daylight. It might not be until tomorrow.”

“Martin, maybe you better stay put. There’s
hundreds
of them here.” Other than dealing with the kids she had always been level-headed and good in a crisis.

“I’ve got a plan, I really think it can work, but I need to get a vehicle first, and I’m not sure I can get it and reach you before dark. Shut down all phones and anything that makes noise. Call me at seven, I’ll know more then. Listen, you’re going to be okay. If you have to defend yourself, shoot them in the head, don’t mess around, there’s no law in the Zone.”

We didn’t exchange endearments. What we had was long gone, wasted. It had been real once, though. That was something, anyway. Not everyone gets even that.

Seven pee em was sundown. Ninety-five minutes from now. I scarfed down the sandwich and headed back downstairs.

New choices: drop the Maglite and batteries, the night vision goggles, cell phone charger, the CB radio. Loaded magazines to replace empties, and add three more magazines for the M-4, this time all full metal jacket which ought to be better for drilling through skulls. Add two magazines on the vest for the Glock, sticking with hollow points because at close range the extra knock-down could help.

My plan revolved around the idea that you needed either distance or a barrier to deal with infected. Safety glass was not an effective barrier, so if I wanted to travel I needed a vehicle that a bare-handed person could not claw their way into no matter how hard they tried. There were numerous military vehicles up to the job, and the department had a few specialized riot vehicles which would do, but they would certainly be in use and far from my current position.

In the civilian world the Motor Vehicle Code had visibility requirements and safety glass issues which made almost every private and commercial vehicle useless for my purposes. Except for at least one type: the ‘armored cars’ used to move money around. They were neither cars nor really armored, just trucks with a bit more superstructure framework, crash guards to let them survive attempts to disable them, and ballistic glass. An infected could beat his fists to pulp on them and never get through.

The movement of bulk money is always of interest to the police. I knew that about eight blocks from my home Lomas Money Services stored two trucks for over-flow work in this area; the building was unmarked because it is best not to give such information away, but I was hoping at least one was still there. The banks would have evacuated their vaults prior to the Zone being put in place, but it was quite possible they did it using ordinary trucks with police or military escorts to hide the nature of the cargo. During the Ike evacuation tens of millions of dollars were moved using hearses. No one thinks twice about police making a funeral escort.