The Zone (12 page)

I tried calling various friends but got voice mail. Restless, I climbed up onto the roof. The street lights were still on, and the city looked pretty normal except darker. I watched a helicopter hovering at about two hundred feet shine a Zeon spotlight on the ground about a mile off. After a couple minutes a sudden horizontal gout of fire erupted in mid-air a couple hundred yards from the chopper and sparks streaked down to the lightened area. A few seconds later two sharp
bangs
reached me.

Scout bird using the spotlight to draw the infected, and when they were bunched up a gunship launched a pair of 2.75” unguided rockets into the crowd. The bangs were the rocket warheads bursting about fifty feet short of the target, sending hundreds of nail-like fletchettes into the kill zone.

Whatever the disease was that they had would kill them sooner or later, sooner from the labored way they breathed. Another week and this ought to be largely over, I figured.

Flares hung along the distant perimeter of the Zone, and an occasional tracer arced up into the sky like a supersonic firefly. The rattle of small arms fire could be heard if you listened closely. I wished them well; if the virus could be kept within the Zone, the problem would sort itself out. Hell, you could simply drive over infected with tracked vehicles-messy, but completely safe.

There were a couple fires blazing merrily to the east, old rat-hole neighborhoods burning out of control. A good chunk of the urban sprawl could be ruined if things took too long.

Noise to the north attracted my attention; at one time there had been a big sign hung off the corner of my building; whatever it had been was long gone, but the mount remained, a wrought iron bracket a foot wide and eight feet long thrust out from the northwest corner of the roof. I had thought about getting rid of it, but it was secured to
the cement frame of the building, and would be more work than it was worth.

Using it to lean on, I could see a mass of infected six or seven blocks down the street. I eyed the bracket for a moment, and then clambered down the ladder. I returned with rope and an improvised security belt which I lashed into place, a nylon hammock which I laid down to protect me from the thick layer of bird shit, an ironing board, coat hangers, duct tape, and a package of flex cuffs. Using the cuffs I lashed the legs of the ironing board to the lower supports; with a length of rope attached I could swing the board around to either side of the beam and lock it at the proper height to provide (after some duct tape and sections of wire coat hangers were added to critical joints) a stable platform at chest height when I sat on the beam. A second trip fetched a rifle, two boxes of ammunition and a pair of binoculars.

Sitting on the nylon covered beam, feet braced on strap iron braces that used to steady the long-gone sign, I focused the binoculars. The light was so-so, but the binos helped gather what there was.

Someone had tried to move under the cover of darkness in what looked like a bread van, maybe a snack chips vehicle, and gotten swarmed. The infected had waited at a choke point and mobbed it as it went past like hyenas going after a baby rhino. No doubt they had taken losses, but the vehicle had hit a power pole, and that was the end of things. The operators had fastened some sort of mesh, maybe sections of chain link fencing over the windows, but once the vehicle was stopped the infected had all the time they needed to pry it off. I saw flashes from within the vehicle, and the sounds of muffled gunshots reached me a second later, but there were too many infected and too few guns.

Carefully stowing the binoculars I loaded the rifle, a militarized Remington M700 in 7.62 NATO with a glass-floated bull barrel and a 4x-12x Leopold scope and settled earmuff hearing protectors on. I scooted back a bit (checking the safety line first) to rest the adjustable bipod on the ironing board.

7.62 NATO fired from a three-lug bolt action can kick, but the fat bull barrel offset most of the recoil, and the muff killed all noise but a modest cough when I squeezed the trigger. Four hundred yards down range an infected’s skull exploded. My next shot took out one infected, exited the skull, and slammed into the torso of a second.

They were oblivious; I was careful to pick targets at the back of the crowd and the shooting from inside the van helped confuse the matter. Working methodically I put down fifteen from the first box of twenty rounds. They had gotten the mesh off the windshield as I ejected the last of the twenty, and were wriggling in with enthusiasm despite the occupant’s best efforts while I reloaded from a fresh box. It was all over by the time I fired the last of the rifle’s five round capacity, having gotten two more kills and a couple non-head hits. I quit shooting at that point-although they were reported as not being inclined to look up, the distance lessened the height angle and the M700 had a pretty good muzzle flash at night. I did not want them noticing my place and staking me out-I had a feeling that once they cornered someone it would be extremely difficult to get rid of them.

I had gotten seventeen for sure, and the occupants of the van had dropped a dozen or so. Figure a couple crushed getting the van to wreck, and they had traded around thirty to take out whoever was in the van. One or two of those might survive to join the infected ranks, but it didn’t take a CPA to see that the infected were in a losing game, numbers-wise and time-wise. Soon the infection would start killing the hosts, and the crisis would pass.

But for now they had the home court advantage. Let me get my people out and evac whoever else holed up close to hand, and then I would get down to some serious infected hunting, really speed the process along.

I checked both doors, both windows, and the roof hatch before going to bed; I had my full combat rig and the phone by the cot and left the closet light on. I wasn’t afraid of the dark, but the dreams that would come after a day like today certainly would not be sweet.

They weren’t; the buzzing travel alarm waking me at 0630 was welcome. The utilities were still on and the infected hadn’t breached my defenses, so things were looking up.

A hot shower and a hot breakfast (fish sticks, canned corn, two cups of bullion) perked me up; I had done laundry last night while making phone calls and sniping off infected so I put on the same outfit I had worn yesterday.

Up on the roof, the fires had burned out or been air-bombarded; there was only one chopper in the air a long ways off, and something that took me a long time to figure out: a recon drone, the sort of remote control plane that can orbit for more than a day. The truck was intact and there weren’t any infected in view. I heard some shots popping to the northwest, and two singles far to the south, but not much else. I put down the hammock and crawled out on the sign bracket; there were some infected hanging around the wrecked van, but a lot less than there had been during the attack. It was still fully dark out, so either the bulk of the ambushers had moved on or holed up.

I had about thirty minutes until sunrise at 0740; I checked over my personal load and gear bag; I was also taking the shotguns and ammunition I had gotten with the truck. I wasn’t about to part with any of my own hardware, though.

At 0735 I slipped outside, the crisp fall air tasting good. I got the truck started and pulled around to my front door, loaded my gear, and headed out. It was a whole new world today; I knew what to expect, or at least more of what to expect, and I was in a vehicle well-suited to what I needed. I even knew where I was going. It was going to be a good day-the infected had better watch out: for a while at least I was back in the game.

The gas station I had broken into last night was undisturbed; I got the key to the ice vault and filled a cooler with ice and soft drinks, and took four sacks of canned goods and snacks because the people we picked up might not have had provisions with them. Taking stuff for other people was easier on my conscience-changing times, I supposed. Adapt, improvise, overcome.

At 0755 I passed the first infected I had shot yesterday; he was bloating pretty good, but was otherwise undisturbed. I was surprised: I had seen dogs around and there were buzzards in the air. Probably a case of too much to choose from-the city was a carrion buffet, I suppose.

The phone finally buzzed. “You OK?”

“Yes.” She sounded tired and shaken. “None came on our floor…Martin, you need to re-think this: there are hundreds of them here, maybe thousands. We peeked out around midnight and it looked like a free concert out there.”

“Have they holed up now?”

“Yes, but they’re not far.”

“Good enough. I’m in the truck and on my way to pick up some help, and then we will be en route. I’m thinking we’ll make our move around noon, but that depends a lot on what’s between here and you. Have someone check with me at 0930. Is there still a total of six adults?”

“Yes. Martin, this is stupid, you would need a helicopter to get us out.”

“Don’t have one. Look, if you had food and a better position I would say wait it out, but that’s not the case. This is your only chance.”

“Isn’t the Army coming?”

“Not anytime soon; I’m betting they’re having to struggle to hold what they have. The disease ought to start killing the infected soon, but that won’t be fast enough-I bet it’s a week before things calm down.”

“OK. You never listened before, no reason to expect you to change now.” I could hear a smile in her voice.

“I’m old and decrepit, babe, but I’ve still got a couple moves left. Get some rest-you’ll have to move fast when the time comes.”

I was almost as confident as I had sounded.

I cut through a neighborhood of post-war tract houses, tiny boxes on narrow lots, more than a few boarded up, and all scarred with gang graffiti. Bodies littered several yards, some obviously infected, the others uncertain. I went several blocks before stopping and leaning out the door to check what I saw: vultures and dogs had worried some of the corpses, but the ones I could identify as infected were untouched. Odd.

Crossing into a business district I swung into a parking lot to get around a snarl of wrecked cars jamming the intersection. Rolling carefully by I noticed a high-dollar Lincoln SUV with rims that probably cost four figures a set on the curb, its right fender crumpled into a traffic light support. It had expanded mesh bolted to the window frames, and must have hit the post at speed because an occupant had crashed through both the windshield and the mesh guard, coming to rest on the hood. I could have told them that auto body metal wasn’t thick enough to anchor metal screws, but I bet the mesh had
looked
cool.

From the look of the shattered body on the hood they had made their run last night and come to grief, although not without a fight: the corpses of a dozen infected were scattered abound, and the SUV body showed a lot of outgoing bullet damage.

No infected were in immediate view, and the area away from the wrecks was fairly open: there had been a fast food joint using the lot, but it was a foundation coated with burnt material and melted booths. Unless they were in vehicles there weren’t infected for a couple hundred yards. I used the binos to give the area a careful sweep, and then maneuvered the truck to within twenty feet of the SUV. I was figuring the late occupants of the SUV to be drug dealers, and very likely loaded for bear, making them worth taking a quick look.

Leaving the truck running and the driver door open for a quick exit, I eased up on the SUV, the Glock ready and the tactical light on, the M-4 hanging on my chest.

The driver’s door was open, and at least one window on that side had been breached, but that was the side nearest the wreckage, and I wasn’t inclined to go that route just yet. The windows were heavily tinted, but so far as I could see nothing was moving, and by now any infected inside would have noticed me.

The mesh over the front passenger window popped loose with the first pull, and two more tore it off completely. The door was locked, so I pressed the chromium steel point of the pencil-sized window punch against the center of the window and leaned on it, face averted.  The punch slid back into the steel sleeve until the spring released and the window instantly transformed into a mass of crystals of safety glass held together by a sheet of window tinting.

Pulling off my tactical gloves I donned surgical gloves and smeared a dab of Vicks Vapor-Rub into each nostril, filling the world with a minty burn; a rap from the butt of the M-4 emptied the window and released a gluey stench of blood and feces that was strong enough to register past the Vicks.

The front passenger was twisted with his back to me, a burly black male with his throat ripped out. The driver was sprawled on the roadway, only his feet in brand-new multicolored tennis shoes still in the SUV, and the back seat was a jumble of corpses, infected and uninfected alike.

Cutting the seatbelt straps, I pulled the passenger’s body onto the street, catching the stainless Desert Eagle, its slide locked back, that he had been gripping as he fell past. There was one loaded and two empty magazines for it on the floorboards, and a box of .44 Magnum rounds in a cup holder, all of which I confiscated. I found a stainless Beretta model 92 in the glove box and six boxes of 9mm hollow points inside the center console. There were shell casings liberally scattered about, but nothing readily visible, and I wasn’t really interested in moving bodies or crawling around inside. I tapped the rear hatch release with the M-4’s muzzle, not wanting to get too far into the vehicle and therefore cornered, and headed around to the rear of the vehicle, scanning my surroundings as I went. So far, no sign of living infected.

The cargo area held suitcases packed with clothes which I opened, dumped, and glanced over. I found was a duffle bag with a half-dozen kilo packages of white powder bound tightly in plastic and tape which I stacked neatly on the curb, an aluminum briefcase with bundled cash, and a black Raiders athletic bag full of boxed ammunition of various calibers.

Feeling more confident, I circled the SUV to reach the driver, who had a Tec 9 machine pistol, its strap tangled around his left arm, and another stainless Berretta 92 unfired on the ground nearby; three loaded mags for the Tec 9 were in the door pocket. The corpse on the hood had a stainless Taurus .357 Magnum revolver in a fancy shoulder rig; I appropriated the revolver and headed back to the truck, stowing the stuff I had found in the Raiders bag and taking the briefcase as well.

Back in the cab, I surveyed the intersection again, half circling it to get a better view. I hadn’t been a traffic officer or traffic investigator, but I had the basic course and had worked or helped at a lot of wrecks, and after eyeballing this mess, I came to the conclusion that it consisted of two parts: a central core of a three vehicle collision in the center of the intersection, and about ten vehicles which had tried to circle around this barrier and been close-assaulted by infected. Apparently they had worked the intersection for quite some time, picking off individual vehicles. I wondered why they had left and where they had gone.

From this pile-up and the van last night it was becoming very clear to me that they were cunning enough to recognize choke points and use them to take down vehicles. It was an unwelcome but important realization and proof that the rules of the game are always more complex than they initially appear.

I hit the stacked packages with five rounds of buckshot, leaving an expensive powder cloud behind when I drove off. Some good comes of each day the Lord sends.

I stashed one Berretta and a couple boxes of rounds for it (and the cash) in my gear bag, and combined the ammo from the truck depot with the rest of the hardware taken from the SUV in the Raiders bag.

The Broken Wheel was a low, long concrete and timber building in the middle of a sizeable parking lot;, and like most bars of its type in Texas, it had no windows and very solid doors. There were half a dozen vehicles parked in back, mostly pickups, and a guy with a rifle on the roof behind a barricade of fifty-five-gallon drums. He must have had commo with the inside because Charlie came out as I was pulling up, wearing a brand new brown duck hunter’s vest with rows of filled shotgun shell loops, and a red ball cap with a Coors logo.

He gave me a nod and a grin as I shut down the rig and got out with the Raider bag and the Winchesters, which I stacked on the asphalt. “Brought some hardware I picked up along the way.”

“You are an industrious SoB, that is certain,” Charlie pulled a Beretta out of the bag and dropped the magazine before racking the slide. “This is Miguel, he’s the third shooter I came up with. Miguel, this is Martin, whom we wrongly assumed was dead yesterday.”

Miguel was a Latino of average height and very solid build, with a shaved head and a neat mustache and connected goatee wearing a camouflage tee shirt and blue jeans; he had considerable tats on his arms, but no gang or prison ink. He didn’t look happy to see me, but then he didn’t look like a happy kind of guy so I didn’t take it personally. He did shake my hand with a hard dry grip.

“Miguel doesn’t say much and he doesn’t love the police, but he’s a good guy to have around,” Charlie said, dumping 9mm rounds into his pockets. “Martin’s a retired cop, says he’s disabled but I don’t believe it, unless bein’ crazier than a rat stuck in a two-inch sewer line counts. You both know Mick.”

Mick was wearing a wifebeater under an open bowling shirt; he came out as I was getting introduced to Miguel, and immediately pounced on the Desert Eagle.

“Mick, that thing’ll knock you on yer ass,” Charlie shook his head. “You don’t weigh more’n a buck twenny.”

Mick grinned but kept his own counsel. Miguel took the Tec 9, the Taurus, and one of the Winchesters; he already had what looked like a .38 stuffed in the back of his jeans.

“Well, we’re your army, Martin. Sorta the broke-dick brigade.” Charlie leaned against one of the pipe supports to the roof overhang and grinned at me, his shotgun cradled across his chest. “What do you got planned for today?”

“South of here, the Trellwood Projects, there’s six adults and an infant holed up, some being what’s left of my family. I’m in touch with them by phone. I want to get them out; after that, get anyone else out we can find. This truck can’t hold a bunch, but we can get into most places and its proof against the infected.”

Charlie nodded. “OK. Mick says he can juice the rig up a bit, put a roof rack and a trapdoor on top, hang some wire off it; he welds, does metal work. One of his crew is the one going to fix up the bus. They’ll bring the bus back here.”