The Zone (11 page)

Outside my front door I looked around carefully, but no movement, no signs of trouble. Maybe most were still laying up, like vampires. I wondered what they did in the dark. I wondered where I could get dynamite-this hole up in daylight thing could turn into a major weakness for them.

Eighty-five minutes left, I gimped west, sticking close to the buildings except where there were broken windows or open doors. Snipers weren’t the issue, nor deflected rounds following a hard surface, but being spotted. The infected didn’t seem terribly clever, but I did not have a broad range of experience; they might be holed up for the day, but that did not mean they wouldn’t be watching. I can’t out-run anyone.

Halfway there I heard a car, and stepped into the doorway of a secondhand clothes store; seconds later a metallic silver minivan came up the road doing forty. I didn’t see where the infected came from, he was just there in the road, he must have been hiding between a couple parked cars, maybe under one, a tall skinny black kid, teenager probably. The driver swerved, instinct most likely, swiped a sun-faded yellow S-10 pickup parked on the opposite side of the road, and lost it. It didn’t roll, but it swapped ends twice and banged against a telephone pole and a couple more parked cars. It stalled on the sidewalk, two tires flat and air bags deployed all around.

The infected poured out of a deli between the minivan and my position, at least thirty, and swarmed the van. I had my sight on one but caught myself, as I was maybe ninety feet away with no real cover. Last time I had had a distraction, more distance, height, and a cluttered roadway to work with. Here they would roll right over me. They would pay, but so would my ex and those with her.

I slipped away while they were dragging the occupants of the minivan out the windows. The screaming stuck with me…well, in one sense it never stopped.

At sixty-one minutes my target was in sight: an old gas station, the kind with two repair bays and an office, red brick with gray cinderblock where the windows used to be. I did a quick circuit of the building and then knelt by the back door; I could have gone in through the front, but you don’t overcome a lifetime of honesty in the first go.

The department had sent me to a course on lock-picking when I was in Tactical and it had in come in handy at times. It was also very useful for practical jokes, so I had kept the skills sharp. The dead bolt was good, and took six minutes; the knob lock was cheap and took less time than choosing and stowing the picks.

Fifty-four minutes, and I was stepping into the building. Luckily the alarm system was either down or turned off, because I don’t know much about them. The square bulk of a truck loomed in the darkness; I snapped on the M-4’s light and locked the door behind me. The big red and white vehicle was a bit canted: flat front left tire. There were spares in a rack and a tool bench, so all was not lost. I noted its bumper numbers and headed into the office. I used my multi-tool to pry open the key box on the wall and found three sets of keys with the bumper number stamped into brass disks.

A wall locker looked interesting, and its lock wasn’t too hard to open. Inside were three old Winchester pump shotguns, short barreled riot guns, with ammunition stacked at the bottom along with fire extinguishers, road flares, and a first aid kit.

Fifty minutes. I found the air compressor and got it started. The floor jack was in plain view, too, but the truck was at the jack’s top end rating so I had to work with extreme care. I wondered where the jack stands had ended up.

Twenty plus minutes of wrestling, cursing, and getting completely filthy followed; ironically, the lug nuts took less than two-usually they get put on with air wrenches by guys who thought a hernia was funny. Finally it was in place and bolted on. I checked the air in the other five tires and the spare, the fluid levels, and the belts-everything was good. The truck had a short metal ramp that came out of a slot under the back doors, for money cases I guessed; I rolled the two remaining tires from the rack and the floor jack into the cargo area and strapped them down. The cargo area was a simple box with a bench seat along one side and shelves along the other. Tie-down points and webbing let you haul all sort of things, and came in handy for the ties and jack. There was no connection to the vehicle cab except an intercom.

I transferred the contents of the locker to the cab, inserted the key, and said a silent prayer.

The diesel light came on-good deal; I had less than a quarter of a tank -not so good. At twenty-one minutes the engine jerked and shuddered into life, settling down to a steady rumble that boded well. I hit the gray plastic door opener on the visor and the garage door ratcheted up its rail. I closed the door again after I pulled out, and tucked the opener into the glove box along with a key that fit the front door that I had taken from the key box because the station was a secure place with a bathroom, and you never know when a bolt-hole might be handy.

It was about twenty-two urban miles to the project without detours; figure forty minutes without problems, longer if problems developed along the way. I had to gas up, too. Thirty-odd minutes of light after sunset.

I didn’t start rolling immediately. I could call ahead, they could be ready…to do what? I had no plan, just the equipment on me, no time to recon the target site, and the infected would swarm. They might not like daylight but I had ample proof they weren’t afraid of it, either. It boiled down to which was greater risk: hide all night, or an off-the-cuff rescue attempt with little preparation. Assuming I could get there before full dark, which was an assumption that had little room for error. In the dark we wouldn’t have a chance.

Finally I shifted the truck into gear and headed home. Prepare tonight, move at first light, have the whole day to get to the site, plan, and execute the rescue.

If I kept telling myself that, I found I actually didn’t feel like a complete heel for minutes at a time.

Cutting around a semi-blocked intersection I got a front-seat experience of an infected ambush: one second I was rolling around the wrecks at not much more than idle, the next I had infected swarming over the truck. It startled me badly, but after the initial shock I just picked up the pace a bit and rolled on while various disheveled infected hammered at windows that were harder than the bones of their hands. If I had been in a different vehicle, it would have been a fast and ugly end, but as it was it just one more surreal experience in a very surreal day.

The intensity of their assault cleared away most of my guilt and misgiving-seeing it up close hammered home that you either had a plan, or you were a going to get ripped up quick.

The gas station where I exchanged my propane tanks still had power, but it was deserted. I held the burning head of a road flare to the center of the front door until I smelled plastic heating and hit it sharply with a fire extinguisher; the safety glass burst into a mound of crystals with very little noise. I heaved the flare into the street and ducked under the push-bar into the store.

The camera system was internal, not satellite feed; I kicked in the office door and pulled the camera DVDs, including the hidden unit. The city was abandoned and people had become homicidal maniacs, but I wasn’t leaving any proof of my crimes-I felt guilty enough as it was. Looters are the lowest form of life there is-I consoled myself that this was more of a resupply towards saving my ex.

It took me a bit to puzzle out how to turn on the pumps; I dug through the drawer under the register and found the key to the exchange rack of the propane case. I took the entire stock of jerky, about a case of chips, three coils of bright yellow nylon rope, and sixteen twelve-packs of sodas. They were out of gas cans, but I grabbed packets of auto fuses and a couple gallons of coolant and a case of motor oil. Outside I took two propane cylinders before fueling the truck. Standing by the truck listening to the pump click, I watched the growing shadows and came to peace with my choice. Rash gets you killed, and that helps no one.

Chapter Five

I was cleaning the Winchester riot guns when the phone buzzed. I had unloaded the truck and parked it in the lot next to my place but a good forty feet away because it was tall, and I didn’t want an infected using it to try to get to my roof. There was no fire escape on my home, and I had no interest in creating an easy route.

It was my ex. “How are you?”

She sounded calm. “We’re all right; we barricaded the door, and have everything blacked out; we have some guns, but they haven’t gone above the second floor so far. I told the others you would come tomorrow.”

“I tried, but by the time I got the rig going there wasn’t enough time.”

“I know, Martin. This is your sort of thing, after all. If it could have been done you would have done it.”

It would have been easier if she had cursed me for failure. “Look, sunrise is at seven forty; I’ll be loaded and rolling by then. Its twenty-plus miles, and the roads are a mess, so it won’t be quick, but I’ll be there before noon. Call me at eight aye emm and I’ll know more. Now, how many are there in the complex?”

Numbers, building layout, compound layout; I sketched on the white board while she explained. It was bad-that was a high-population-density area. There were literally hundreds of infected.

“OK, I’ll let you go. I’m coming, I promise you, and I have a plan.”

“I know you do, Martin.” She paused, searching for words.

“If I don’t make it, it’ll
be because I’m dead.” I didn’t want her getting maudlin-I was having trouble keeping my voice steady as it was. We were through, but some things are never completely dead.

She managed a dry little chuckle. “This is straight out of those John Wayne Westerns you watch. See you in the morning.”

  I finished cleaning the riot guns, which desperately needed it. It was work for hands while I thought hard. When I was done I found my phone book and looked up the number to the Busted Wheel.

A man answered, sounding surprised when I asked for Charlie. “Who the hell’re you?”

“Martin. Tell Charlie we met on the access way where Tina was holed up.”

Charlie came to the phone a minute or so later. “I’ll be damned-I didn’t figure you made it. How did you get away?”

“Technically, I didn’t: I killed ‘em all. You get Tina and the kids safe?”

“Yeah. So what can I do you for?”

“I haven’t covered a lot of ground, but I’m betting there’s quite a few people holed up here and there; I got a truck, one of the armored cars used to move money. With some help, I figure a lot of people in poor positions could be moved to a secure location if I had some help.”

He was silent for a few seconds. “They’ve set up places people can evac through the Zone perimeter during the day. We figured if we could fix up a school bus like the ones the jail uses as transports we could get our people out. Your rig would be good for the initial extraction. Lemme ask around-not everybody wants to risk their ass doing anything but get out.”

“I’ve got some extra shotguns and some ammo if its needed.”

“Cool. Gimme your number and I’ll call you back.”

While I waited I made lists: stuff I had that I wanted to take, stuff I was going to need but would have to pick up along the way. Then I checked the directory and found places along the way that ought to have what I needed.

John Wayne movies. My ex always accused me of playing the hero. Getting out of Zone meant surviving, but that would be about it for a long while, a half-life as a refugee. I had survived before, and came away with a handful of ashes for a life-there were worse things than dying. Getting people out of the Zone, now, that was sounding more the thing. Useful. Productive, even. Back on the horse. Ring the bell.

The phone buzzed. “You got me, Mick, and one other, plus a couple guys who could use a ride to a machine shop and the bus barn. They’ll rig up the bus, and ferry people from the Wheel to the evac points. Good as its gonna get.”

“Where’s the shop and the bus barn?”

He told me and I found them on the map. “OK, we’ll deliver them, then I have to extract my family and some people with them. After that, anybody who comes to hand. Still game?”

“Why the hell not-my band’s gone and I’m too damn old to work up another.”

I cleaned my weapons, laid out what gear I was going to take, and copied the whiteboard diagram onto three sheets of paper.

A can of stew, the last lonely bag of salad in the fridge, and three Klondike bars made up my supper, and it felt like a condemned man’s last meal. Tomorrow was going to be rough-maybe I would die. If I did, so what? I wouldn’t care anymore and very few people would notice. I had friends, but by now they were scattered to the winds, and probably more than a few were dead or infected. I quit thinking about it. Everyone dies, and brooding about was either depressing or melodramatic. Focus on the mission, and be grateful that you have a purpose.

I listened to the radio, but there wasn’t much new, although they were now positively identifying the infected subjects as the core issue. Lethal force against infected was authorized, and they did warn that the infected were highly resistant to shock and non-lethal methods, although they did not go so far as to mention skull or spine targeting. It did mention that Tasers and tear gas affected them normally.