The Zone (17 page)

Trevor had listened to Charlie: he had his people in a conga line, fastest in front. I was on the sidewalk yelling at them to get in and all the way to the back, then hit the radio to tell Miguel we were loading. The howl was raised by one of the scorched crew at the intersection, and repeated out of sight by another.

The word being out, I brought up the M-4 and opened up, aiming for a pelvis hit to knock them down; I put a head shot on the crawler who was making a highly motivated turn of speed given his infirmities

I checked behind me: five or six coming up the sidewalk at a dead run, and the survivors still jostling in an orderly line to the door, not moving too fast now that the head of the line was in the bus, but still moving. I shouldered through the queue and pulled off three head shots, two misses, and four solid torso hits, leaving Infected East dead or downed for the moment.

Turning back I saw Infected West was still closing, a couple burn victims and four new faces, but there were only three people to my right and four to my left. Back through the line, dropped both extra-crispy and one regular infected with head shots and knocked down the rest.

I turned east: the last survivor had passed me, and two infected were charging in, close, and a dozen a quarter block behind them. Two good head shots and a couple torso hits that dumped the leaders of Infected East, throwing the entire group into disarray and delay, but a tracer had gotten the second-to-last body hit.

West: three close, twenty or so coming up the sidewalk behind them. Someone at the bus opened up with what sounded like a .357, getting sternum, neck, forehead, and a wild shot off on the lead infected. I dropped the other two and headed for the door where a burly guy in greasy jeans and a stained white shirt with blue pinstripes and epaulettes was popping off the last two in a stainless hogleg at the west group. I fired off my last two at Infected East, who were moving at speed again but still further away than they needed to be.  I probably missed the entire group, but at least they knew I cared.

“Get in get in get in get in get in!” I screamed as I hobbled at best speed.
The burly guy hopped back with surprising grace and elbowed the door lever, snapping the doors shut close enough to slap me on the back.

Bob didn’t wait; he popped the clutch and had us moving before I made it up the second step. I felt a couple jolts as infected failed to get out of the way, and then we were turning, clear of the scene and picking up speed.

“Everyone take a seat and leave the windows alone; no shooting.” Reloading the M-4 and sorting out my mags, I found I was down to the mag in the weapon and the one in the bracket next to it.

“Nothing to shoot,” The burly guy grinned from the front seat. “Six was all I had, and this is the only weapon in the group.” The embroidered name tag on his shirt said Trevor.

“I’m Martin,” I offered my hand. “How long were you down there?”

“Since Saturday night, most of us. We certainly are glad to see you.”

“I can imagine.” I raised my voice. “Listen up: we are going to meet up with the other vehicle in our group, and then we will get you back to government-controlled areas.”

The looks on their faces was something to remember, too.

“It’s gonna be a solid hour to get them out,” Charlie announced after examining the map. “Bob’s decided to stick around for one more day, but since it will be getting dark before he makes it back to the Wheel I’m gonna ride with him. We got an e-mail, there’s a couple who made it to the Wheel ‘cause I listed that as our safe base of operations…”

“Bat-cave,” Mick interjected.

“… and they made a run. They can bunk there until tomorrow.”

“I’ll drop Miguel and Mick off at the Wheel, and make an ammo run. I’ll crash at my place, and come back in the morning. I want to get some better optics.”

I drove, Mick rode up front, and Miguel opted to ride in the back. I was tired, both physically and emotionally, and ready to call it a day. I suppose I should have felt guilty about leaving scores of other survivors trapped for another night, but frankly, I was used up. It had been nearly twelve hours of activity, planning, adapting, and to be honest, more Human interaction than I had had in months, plus several sessions of adrenalin-pumping action, and what you get from combat chemicals at the time you pay for later. I could
feel
the stress-induced poisons sloshing around my bloodstream. The only thing I wanted to do was get home and sleep; the only thing I had on my mind besides the basic operation of the truck and the automatic habit of watching for trouble was how to find ammunition so I wouldn’t have to dip into my own stock. Obviously my seven thousand rounds wasn’t going to last long at the rate we were shooting it up.

Mick was as tired as I was-he didn’t even comment when a half-dozen infected tried to over-run us at a choked intersection. I got one with the bumper, ignored the rest, and we kept rolling.

“Hey, check it out!” Mick suddenly pointed, startling me.

“Check what out?” We were turning under an elevated roadway, a wreck-strewn access ramp curving up to my right front; I looked about wildly, expecting hordes of infected.

“Stop the truck! Look there, under the reefer.”

It took a moment to realize he was indicating a refrigerated truck, one of a chain that took orders by Net and delivered them to your door, high-priced stuff. It had plowed into an RV which in turn had mounted a little pale blue hybrid. A dozen or so dead infected were scattered around. “OK, I see it.”

“Look that the puddle.”

The intercom clicked. “Why are we stopping?”

“Mick sees something.” I heard the roof hatch open and Miguel climb up. “OK, it’s a puddle of water under a cooling unit. So what?”

“Its dripping-man, its still refrigerating, probably an independent propane-powered system. Which means we’re lookin’ at a truck loaded with nice stuff. Steaks, roasts, all sorts of things. The Wheel has a great kitchen, but just chicken and burgers, and we fed a lot of people over the last few days. Supplies are low.”

“I see dead infected.” I wasn’t sure if Miguel was trying to be funny.

“The food truck there is still cooling, and Mick wants to shop. You want to cover us?” The radio beeped, meaning the batteries were low. It was used up as well.

Mick and I did a quick look around after getting out of the truck, but there were only the three vehicles immediately to hand; the infected had been dead at least a full day, maybe more. “Pull the truck up and load what you find interesting; I wouldn’t mind a steak or two to take with me. Porterhouse or T bone if I have a choice. I’m going to take a look at that RV.”

He looked at it. “Think they might be in there?”

“No, but the way I read this crash scene, the RV hit the hybrid probably Saturday night or Sunday morning. Either it was running from the infected or they heard the crash. The food truck just wrecked, driving too fast is my guess, probably this morning. Driver took off on foot. The thing is, the dead infected were shot by the people in the RV, which might mean this is our one stop shop.”

Easing up on the wreck, I studied the placement of bodies: one uninfected torn up at the foot of the open RV door, a Browning Hi-Power with the slide locked back nearby, and eight dead infected in a cone pattern focusing on him. OK, he had been in the doorway…no, the step was unfolded, he was sitting on the step, and they rushed him. He fired as they advanced, very good shooting, eight for thirteen or fourteen rounds. But not good enough, they got him.

I stuck the Browning in my dump pouch and eased up to the hybrid. The driver and passenger were dead, crushed when the RV hit them. Those little hybrids get incredible gas mileage, but they are suicide carts when hit by anything except another hybrid.

The RV only had the one door, so I smeared some Vicks into my nose and tried to miss the worst of the blood. Inside it was a luxury model, although they never intended it to smell that bad. The flies were pretty rough, fortunately just at the front.

The tableau there told the story: the driver was dead behind the wheel, a woman I guessed in her late fifties, of an age with the dead guy outside, nicely dressed; she had taken several bites to the face and neck, and a gunshot wound to the torso, no doubt the cause of the wreck. An infected, a young woman, Hispanic as were the two older corpses, wearing a night dress was on the floor behind the driver, hit multiple times.

The shooter was in the front passenger seat, a man of an age with the infected; both wore wedding rings, so the infected was likely his wife, and the older couple were one set of parents. He had a revolver in his lap, and a self-inflicted gunshot wound in his temple.

The wife is sick, and things are getting crazy. They meet up with one set of parents who have an RV and head out, the wife tucked away in a bunk. She turns, goes for the driver, and her husband tries to restrain her; there were signs of a fight, and he had bites on his arms, but you don’t stop an infected in hand-to-hand. He shoots her, but it’s a struggle, and the driver catches a round. Maybe the driver’s husband shot as well. The driver hits the hybrid. At some point later the younger husband shoots himself; the exact reasons are myriad. The older husband, probably in deep emotional shock, sits on the step of the RV until a group of infected show up, drawn by the noise of the wreck or just passing by.

There was a plastic pistol case on the booth table; the pistol was missing but a loaded magazine for the Browning was still in a form fitted compartment, which went into the dump pouch. One of the framed pictures screwed to the wood over the table had four smiling people standing in front of a vista of snowy mountains; none of the bodies present was in great shape, but it didn’t take a forensic wizard to match the photos to the dead. It occurred to me that they had vacationed in what would eventually be their tomb, and I decided thoughts like that were proof that I needed to stand down as soon as possible.

On a back upper bunk bed I found what I was looking for: three long guns in soft nylon cases, a blue athletic bag with shooting glasses visible in an outside pocket, an unopened case of 12 gauge, and a plastic store bag containing six boxes of 9mm hollow points. The athletic bag contained cleaning gear, earmuff hearing protectors, cleaning kits, a cased .22 target pistol, staple gun, and shooting gloves. I dumped the muffs to make room for the 9mm boxes and a bottle of bleach I found under the sink I intended to use on the soles of my boots. The gun cases had handles so I managed to get everything in one load, but I was glad I wasn’t going far.

“What did you find?” Miguel asked as I limped up, taking the case from me.

“Shotgun shells and nine millimeter, plus some sporting shotguns I haven’t really looked at. Enough for tomorrow, anyway.”

“I’ll put ‘em on the roof, Mick’s got the back full.” Miguel rolled his eyes.

There were a half dozen people in a panel van waiting at the Wheel; they were disappointed that they would have to stay the night, but took it well enough and with their help the food and ammo were quickly off-loaded and I was on my way home.

The streets were more ominous than yesterday; not really changed, but in how I perceived them. My abortive foot march yesterday seemed a year ago in experience-I had had no idea how lucky I had been that I hadn’t run into a sizeable group before learning the rules of the game.

I circled my neighborhood, watching carefully, but there didn’t appear to be infected within two blocks of my place; there were a couple standing watch at the choke point I had sniped last night, but I avoided that area. Pulling directly in front of my door, I dragged the boxes and my gear bag into the doorway as fast as I could hobble, then parked the truck forty feet from my building and stood in the open door listening intently: no wails, no running feet, good. I locked the truck and got indoors quick.

I dumped the food boxes in the fridge (the power was still on, amazingly), and staggered upstairs. Dumping my clothes and gear in a pile, I sluiced away sweat, road dirt, and some of the tension that was knotting my shoulders under a lengthy hot shower.

I barely made it to my cot before the darkness closed in.

It was pitch dark when I opened my eyes, the soldier’s knack of waking instantly. I was hungry, thirsty, and had a too-full bladder, but none of those were what had awakened me. I cursed myself for not leaving a light on, and listened intently. The noise that awakened me repeated itself, and I relaxed: a helicopter passing low overhead.

I had a flashlight clipped to a leg of the cot, and the power was still on; I dealt with my bladder and thirst, and checked the doors: still locked. It was nearly three-I had slept like the dead for nine hours straight. I felt a lot better mentally and a lot less weary, but on the flip side I was stiff and sore in a lot of places and my knee wasn’t happy at all.

One good thing about all the drama: I was back to sleeping normally, something that had eluded me since the House.

Since the water was on I washed the clothes I had worn, towels, everything I had in the place that needed it. I cleaned the M-4 the Glock, the Browning, and the Beretta, and sorted out my tactical load, things I should have done before I went to bed, but frankly, I had pushed myself too hard. I plugged in my phone, replaced the batteries in the hiker radio, reloaded magazines, and re-stocked my gear bag. I also stowed all the stuff I had looted from Radio Shack in the back room.