These Dead Lands: Immolation (39 page)

“War Eagle Six, Apache One Two is WHITE at this time. Over.”

“Roger, Apache One Two. I copy WHITE at this time. Over.”

“Apache One Two, out.”

Once the convoy turned onto US 39, they saw fewer abandoned vehicles, allowing them to move swiftly down the road. As they passed a residential subdivision, Guerra saw a small group of twelve to fifteen reekers milling around the entrance. The column’s noise roused them from their torpor, and they started moving toward the line of vehicles. The first few zombies walked right into the convoy’s path. One disappeared as the deuce ahead of Guerra’s vehicle slammed into it. The second was clipped by the big metal bumper and slammed to the ground, then the front tire rolled right over it. The truck kept going without pause. More reekers walked into the road only to be knocked down like bowling pins by the big trucks.

Man, you have to love the deuce and a half.
He glanced in the side-view mirror then did a double take. He could have sworn he saw a reeker walking in the road with a cell phone in its mottled hand, looking down as though it was texting. The ghoul was completely oblivious to the speeding MRAP that plowed right into it. Guerra let out a laugh, and the driver looked over at him.

“What’s so funny?”

“You won’t believe it. I swear I just saw a reeker walking into the road while texting, right before the MRAP behind us hit it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to run over shitheads who just walked into the street like that before all this happened.”

The driver chuckled. “I thought I was the only one who thought of shit like that.”

“Not even close, brother,” Guerra said. “The only thing that kept me from going ballistic and whacking motherfuckers on a daily basis here in CONUS was that it’s against the law. If this shit keeps up, I won’t have reason to worry. I can just run them over now.” He checked his watch. “We’re making pretty good time. Looks like we may make Phase Line BLUE on schedule, even with the delay back there.”

Just as Guerra was beginning to enjoy the quick pace and open countryside, the convoy came to a halt. Ahead was the bridge that crossed Swatara Creek, and someone had done a very good job of barricading it. Why they called it a creek Guerra couldn’t figure out, since it was as wide as most rivers he had seen.

Apparently, the bridge was what had kept the reekers and other vehicles from congesting most of US 39. The downside was that a huge group of zombies had amassed on the other side. Guerra estimated that about seven to eight hundred reekers were standing on the other side of the bridge and down the road as far as he could see. The calm sea of the dead was beginning to stir once they registered the noise from the convoy as it approached the bridge.

Guerra climbed out of his Humvee then clambered on top of the MRAP in front of his vehicle to get a better view. It didn’t look good.

From inside the MRAP, the turret gunner on the CROW system looked up from his video screen as Guerra leaned across the cupola. “Holy shit, Sergeant. There has to be
thousands
of reekers on the bridge and the far side.”

Guerra couldn’t argue with the assessment.
Fuck me! This is not good.
“Where the fuck did they all come from?”

One of the National Guard soldiers responded to Guerra’s rhetorical question. “Down the road a short ways on the other side of that bridge is Hershey Park Stadium. It’s a huge place, and they used it as a refugee evacuation site when this all started. Looks like the infection spread to everyone there.”

Even without all the reekers on the bridge, it would have taken a long time to push a hole through to the other side. The zombies made it an impossible task. Looking down at his map, he began searching for another way across the creek. There was a side road just before the bridge. He remembered when they had passed it, probably a hundred meters back. Using his index finger, he traced the side road on the map. East Canal Street snaked around and crossed the creek to the south of the larger bridge. Guerra knew it was a long shot. The smaller bridge could be closed, and even if it was open, there could be another sea of reekers waiting on the other side.

Time to find out.
Guerra climbed down from the MRAP and walked toward the rear of the convoy. He found Tharinger’s vehicle and pulled open the driver’s door.

“What’s up, Sergeant G?” Tharinger asked brightly.

Guerra waved him to silence. “Get on the horn and tell your BFF Stilley to get his ass up here. Now.”

“Roger, Sergeant.”

Tharinger made the call, and a few minutes later, Stilley came running up. The black soldier was covered by a sheen of sweat. He gave Guerra an award-winning smile as he stopped beside him, and Guerra almost had to step back. Stilley really,
really
needed a shower.

“You wanted to see me, Sergeant G?” Stilley asked loudly.

“Not really,” Guerra said, but he motioned Tharinger out of the Humvee. “Bring it in, guys.”

Guerra spread his map on the hood of the Humvee and outlined his plan. Stilley and Tharinger would take their vehicles down East Canal Street and recon the route, including the bridge, to see if the convoy could get through that way. After Guerra gave them their five-point contingency plan, he sent them on their way.

“Don’t get sidetracked chasing sparkly shit. Drive the route, and let me know if it’s good to go or not.” Guerra gave the two soldiers his patented dagger eye. “You both tracking?”

“Roger, Sergeant,” they said in unison.

“So what are you waiting for? You think I’m going to slap your asses or something? Move the fuck out!”

Stilley double-timed back to his vehicle as Tharinger hopped back inside his Humvee. Guerra stepped back as Tharinger started maneuvering the truck out of the convoy in order to turn it around.

Guerra studied the map, looking for other options, as he walked back to his vehicle. There were a few other options he could take if Tharinger and Stilley called back with bad news. Once he got to it, he climbed in and let the rest of the convoy know that he had sent out a recon to explore an alternate route. He informed the troops they’d be holding station for a while and would need to pull security. The other routes went out of the way and through some residential areas that would probably lead to a few standup fights, but he had to consider them, given the situation.

“Apache One Two, this is Apache One Three Alpha. Over,” Stilley said. The radio speakers did nothing to muffle his foghorn voice.

“Apache One Three Alpha, this is Apache One Two. Over.”

“Apache One Two, the route is good to go. Over.”

Thank you, God
. “Roger, good copy. Maintain current position. We will move to you. Over.”

“Wilco, One Two. Out.”

“So we’re going another way?” Guerra’s Humvee driver asked.

“Don’t sweat it, kid. You’re gonna love it,” Guerra said.

He stepped out of the Humvee and jogged up to the MRAP at the head of the convoy. He showed the map to the rig’s driver and explained the new route. Guerra then gave the order to turn the convoy around. Slowly, the soldiers got the entire column turned around and headed down East Canal Street. They turned left on Hanover Street, which would take them to the new bridge. At the intersection, they linked up with Stilley’s and Tharinger’s vehicles, which were pulling security near the other avenues of approach. Both men worked their vehicles back into their previous positions in the convoy with practiced ease, a skill they had gained while overseas.

The convoy moved down Hanover Street, rolling toward to the bridge. It was blocked at the far end by a traffic accident, but Guerra judged the obstruction wasn’t as bad as on the other bridge to the north. There were reekers on the other side but significantly fewer than at the larger bridge.

The five-tons pulled ahead and started pushing the wrecked vehicles aside. The reekers began shuffling toward the commotion. They came in small enough numbers that soldiers were able to pick them off easily. The only problem was that the five-tons were pushing the cars into other stranded vehicles, and moving past the blockage became more difficult as the cars started hanging up on each other.

One five-ton shoved several vehicles at once toward the center of the roadway. As Guerra was wondering just what the hell the driver was doing, the truck drove onto the shoulder… then disappeared off the side of the bridge.

“Whoa! Did we just lose a truck?” his driver asked.

“Get us up there,” Guerra said. “Let’s check it out. Hurry!”

The driver stepped on the gas and steered the Humvee to where the M939 had disappeared. Guerra let loose a sigh of relief when he saw the truck hadn’t been lost, after all. It was bumping its way up the other side of the ravine, the soldiers in the bed hanging on for dear life. The driver had found another way over the creek, allowing the convoy to bypass the blockage and come up on the other side of the road where the guardrail began. There was no need to waste more time trying to clear the wrecks at the end of the bridge.

“Lead five-ton, this is Apache One Two,” Guerra said into his radio handset. “Thanks for finding an alternate route, but next time, let me know what you’re up to. I thought we’d lost you. Over.”

“Roger that, One Two. Sorry for the worry. Over.”

Guerra acknowledged the response then told the convoy to put their vehicles into four-wheel drive and follow his lead. The newly discovered route would be impossible for an average vehicle to negotiate, but it wouldn’t be an issue for the military vehicles.

Guerra’s driver stopped the Humvee, put it into neutral, then shifted the transfer case to four-wheel drive. He eased the Humvee down into the ravine then drove the up the far side of the embankment and onto the flat ground of the shoulder. Reekers surged toward the vehicles, and the turret gunner in Guerra’s vehicle opened up with a short burst, cutting most of them down with the .50 before they could even get close.

But one made it all the way up to the driver’s side of the M939 and was clawing at the vehicle. The driver’s door flew open, and the corner caught the reeker in the head, sending it sprawling to the ground. As it slowly tried to get back up, the driver slammed the door, turned the wheels of the five-ton in the zombie’s direction, and rolled forward until the rear tires of the truck squashed the reeker like a bug. The soldiers in the truck’s bed cheered.

“Holy crap, did you see that, Sergeant? That was hooah as fuck,” Guerra’s driver said.

“Yeah, that was pretty hardcore, if I say so myself. Remind me to buy that guy a beer.”

More vehicles came up behind the Humvee, and they crept forward to give the rest of the convoy enough room to move up the hill. Meanwhile, the turret gunners and soldiers in the beds resumed picking off the reekers in the field of wrecked automobiles near the bridge, taking them down as the corpses made their way toward the convoy. Guerra didn’t like all the noise, but it was unavoidable. Once the last vehicle made it to the other side, Guerra gave the order to move out. The intersection of Hanover and US 39 was just a few hundred meters away, and the shoulder proved to be the fastest way to travel.

As the lead vehicle turned right onto US 39, Guerra spotted the Hershey Park Drive sign on the corner. Just across the intersection was the south end of Giant Center, which had been converted into a FEMA camp. The parking lots were covered by a field of tents and trailers. At one point, there had probably been several thousand people there. When the infection started to spread, it had found a rich, fertile seed bed from which to erupt.

As if to prove his thoughts were correct, a sizable group of reekers appeared across the way. Several runners broke away from the horde, sprinting toward the convoy. Several of the dead were shriekers, kids who had died from the initial infection or from reeker bites. Even though their tormented howls were made faint by distance and the shell of the truck cab, Guerra still shuddered a bit when he heard the plaintive cries.

“Keep moving, people,” he said over the radio. “Go as fast as you can, and don’t stop or engage the reekers unless you have to. We can’t afford to attract any more attention to ourselves. Over.”

Several “rogers” came back as the convoy snaked around the corner and moved south down Hershey Park Drive. The path was littered with abandoned cars to the point that the roadway was virtually impassable. The surrounding area was mostly open fields, so the convoy went back into four-wheel drive and moved off the road. The going was slow but steady, and they were able to achieve Phase Line BLUE at the intersection of US 39 and US 322/Paxton with relative ease, much to Guerra’s relief.

“War Eagle Six, this is Apache One Two. Over.”

“Apache One Two, this is War Eagle. Over.”

“War Eagle, we are BLUE. I say again, we are BLUE. How copy? Over.”

“Apache One Two, I copy BLUE. Over.”

“Apache One Two, out.”

*

The Lakota element
had already departed the airfield by the time the convoy had radioed in Phase Line BLUE. The Chinooks climbing out to their initial cruise altitude of five hundred feet when he got the call.