The Remaining: Fractured Part 28

Julia made a circle in the parking lot, blaring the horn the whole way, until Mike finally stopped running and turned around to see the Humvee pulling up alongside him. His wife threw open the door, leaning through Gray's legs as he desperately tried to maneuver the turret to bear on the horde. Between the rapid blasts of the .50 BMG cartridges, Harper could hear Gray yelling, his voice like the barking of an old c.o.o.n hound, "We need to go! We need to f.u.c.king go!"

Harper turned and looked out his open window at the street and the big open parking lot before him. All the exits out of the parking lot were suddenly choked with bodies, an imminent, inevitable avalanche of them pouring into the parking lot, coming straight for the Humvee, and Harper could see that there was no way they were getting out of this unscathed. He could see the bright red, .50 caliber tracers punching holes in concrete, ripping through bodies, one after another. The targets so jam-packed together, running shoulder to shoulder and back to front, that each projectile shredded multiple infected, tearing limbs and opening body cavities and causing great spurts of blood and chunks of humanity to fly up into the air in the path of each round.

And it was barely slowing them down.

We're f.u.c.ked. We're f.u.c.ked. We're f.u.c.ked.

Mike leaped into the vehicle, landing atop his wife.

Harper slapped Julia's shoulder. "f.u.c.king go!"

She slammed on the gas.

Gray screamed, because he knew what was coming.

The Humvee lurched forward, and at the same moment was slammed in the side by the wall of bodies. Harper felt his stomach flip-flop as he registered the sensation of being lifted. The engine roared but the vehicle seemed to stall. All around them the noise was unbearable, the stench sudden and overpowering. Hundreds of starved, savage faces screamed at them, wiry arms clawing through the open windows, trying to get to the meat inside.

The Humvee's front end suddenly pitched, the spinning tires ramming down onto crushed and trampled bodies, immediately grinding them down and sending up a great spray of blood to either side of the vehicle. Harper had the muzzle of his rifle just protruding from the window, amid all those grasping hands, and he fired indiscriminately, squinting his eyes and closing his mouth as the spray of blood washed back, both warm and cold on his face at once.

The Humvee trundled over the carpet of mangled bodies, found a patch of concrete on the other side, and caught some traction. There was nothing ahead of them but more bodies, a sea of bodies, all of them pushing in towards the Humvee so that the ones that reached the grill were immediately crushed. Not by the force of the vehicle, but by the force of the horde compressing them. They twitched and howled and jerked about against the ram bars, eyes bulging, bones crunching, blood erupting out of mouths and noses and ears, and then they disappeared underneath the vehicle as the others clambered wildly over them, some of them falling to their deaths under the tires or the feet of the horde, some of them vaulting onto the hood, only to catch a .50-caliber round and be flung off in pieces.

And all the while, Gray just kept yelling at them to go, as though he didn't understand that no matter how hard they pressed on the gas, the simple ma.s.s of humanity around them would not allow the vehicle to do more than plunge forward into bodies, get mired in filth and flesh, then plunge forward again when it found purchase. Harper could see the rise of the parking lot, the exits that led to the road and they seemed close, but didn't seem to be getting any closer. For one sickening moment he thought he felt them move backwards, but then they were forward again, toppling a wall of infected, only to be overpowered by another.

His rifle went dry, and he tried to reach for another magazine, but there were so many arms reaching through the windows that he couldn't fight them off and simultaneously load his weapon. He felt the rifle jerk in his grip, didn't want to lose that rifle, could not lose that rifle, so he just held onto it with both hands and began to pull back, ripping it back and forth like a dog rending something from another's grip.

He could barely focus on anything but his own terror. The filthy, blood-scabbed arms and fingernails black with grime that Harper could not even imagine, the faces behind them with their gaping mouths, reaching in desperately, trying to get him between their teeth.

In the turret, Gray's shouts suddenly changed in pitch. The aggression went out of them and it was pure fear, high-pitched and unmanly, and it sent shivers up Harper's spine when he heard the man scream, pride and all concept of shame lost.

He managed to rip the rifle away and turned his body inwards, avoiding the clawing hands that reached for him. In the same movement, he looked back, his heart pounding hard and fast and his eyes searching up into the turret for what was wrong with Gray. Now the man's legs kicked out, thrashed, his whole body convulsing. His screams were an ululating wave, and they reached a crescendo as his entire body seemed to lift out of the turret, like he was being sucked up by a tornado.

Harper dropped his rifle and lunged out with a cry of alarm, grabbing a hold of Gray's legs. "Gray!" he shouted, then to Torri and Mike, "Help me! Help me!"

But Mike just sat there, blank faced as ever. And Torri had the muzzle of her rifle in her window, firing madly with her eyes closed, blood from the bullet wounds she was inflicting splashing the window and speckling her face.

"Oh Jesus!" Gray screamed. "Oh Jesus get 'em off me!"

Harper pulled back on the legs, but Gray only cried out harder, the sound of the M2 silenced as Gray fought for his last moments. Harper could only see the light pouring in from the turret, could not see what lay beyond it, or what was happening to Gray's upper half, but the cries suddenly became gurgles and the legs locked out, the feet twitching about loosely.

"Gray!" Harper shouted. He didn't know whether to keep pulling at the legs or not.

The body lurched in his grasp, and then blood began to pour down it, into the cabin of the Humvee. Great gouts of it, and then flesh, and then coils of gut, pale and meandering. They dropped suddenly from the open turret and Harper recoiled as they wrapped his arm like a snake. Above them, dozens of hands and feet stamped on the hood of the Humvee, a hundred claws sc.r.a.ped against the metal and then dug into flesh, and Gray convulsed twice more as blood and urine poured down his pant legs. And then the only movement to his body was the thrashing of the creatures feeding on it.

"Julia!" Harper yelled, unable to control his voice. "Get us the f.u.c.k out of here!"

She didn't respond directly, just screamed out a curse.

Harper could feel the death in the limpness of Gray's limbs, knew there was nothing else that could be done for the man. Now it was their lives that were at stake, and he would not sacrifice the rest of them for the sake of saving Gray's body, no matter how sick it made him. He let go of the legs, and almost instantaneously the body was pulled through the turret. One great heave and it was just Gray's right leg dangling through the turret hole, and then that was gone too.

Mike seemed to suddenly realize what had happened. His voice was drunken, delirious with fear: "Oh my G.o.d! Oh my f.u.c.kin' G.o.d, they got Gray!"

Whether it was Gray's body that distracted the horde with the promise of a mouthful of flesh, or whether it was simply luck, the tires once again rolled over a pile of infected, found the concrete on the other side, burned through the slime of blood and caught traction. And when the Humvee lurched forward again, it kept going, the sea of bodies suddenly parting.

Julia hit the inclined exit at thirty miles an hour, almost left the ground, then screeched loudly and nearly spun out as she yanked a hard left-hand turn back onto the highway in the direction they had last seen their convoy only moments ago.

As they reached the pinnacle of the movement, Harper could hear the tumble of limbs falling from the roof of the Humvee. In the side view mirror he could see the bodies-Gray's and two others-hit the concrete hard and then roll limply along until they flopped off the road and into the ditch.

"Brakes!" he said to Julia.

She got up speed and then slammed them. They all flew forward, Harper catching himself before his face hit the windshield. But nothing else came off the roof.

"Okay, go!"

And then they rocketed forward again.

Harper twisted in his seat, shoved his head through the window as his fingers felt shakily for that magazine he'd been trying to get. The open window and the side of his door were a mess of gore, and even in the rushing wind of the moving vehicle, he could still smell the stink of it-all that blood mixed with s.h.i.t.

Behind them, the horde spilled back out into the roadway, running after them desperately, a never ending chase. How long could they run like that? At a full sprint? It seemed like they just kept going until they were dead. Until Harper or one of his team killed them.

Mike filled the sudden silence with sounds of panic. Each intake of breath a wheeze, each exhale a whimper, his whole body moving to the rhythm of his hyperventilation. His eyes were wide and red and building with tears.

Harper managed to get the magazine seated in the well of his rifle and charged it. He looked back at Mike, trying hard to mask a boiling anger that he had a hard time explaining even to himself. "Calm down, Mike," he said, his voice a little harsher than he intended it to be. "Take a deep breath and let it out slow." He wanted to slap the guy, get some sense back into him. "f.u.c.king get a hold of yourself, man."

"Hey!" Torri punched the back of Harper's seat.

Harper spun. "Hey what?"

Mike had his head in his hands.

Torri scowled. "I think he's been through enough!"

Harper punched the top of the radio console, his knuckles skinning and stinging. "We've all been through enough, for chrissake! What gives him the right to f.u.c.king tune out and cost us lives?" Harper felt his face heating up and he looked at Mike. "What f.u.c.king right do you have to tune out, motherf.u.c.ker? Your life harder than the rest of us? You had to do worse things than the rest of us?"

"Harper!" Julia yelled.

But Harper didn't feel like stopping. It came out of him as uncontrollably as vomit from a sick man. Bad feelings that needed to be purged. "Why is it that you get to go off into la-la land, Mike? What has happened to you that is so f.u.c.king unbelievably horrible that you're not f.u.c.king paying attention when I say on the radio to get in the f.u.c.king truck and get gone?! Gray's gone because we had to come back for you!"

Torri punched him in the face.

Harper grimaced, his fist balling and for a moment he thought he might punch Torri's nose through the back of her skull. But just then the radio squawked, and it seemed to draw them out of the moment so that the anger was pulled back from the tipping point, like a kettle being removed from a heater coil.

"Harper! Julia! You guys okay?"

Torri looked surprised at herself, but still angry at Harper.

Julia grabbed Harper by the arm, pushing him as though she were trying to get him to turn in his seat and face forward again. "Answer the radio, Harper. We're almost there."

In the back seat, Mike lifted his face out of his hands, somewhat in control of himself. "He's right."

Torri looked at her husband. "He's not..."

"He's right. He's right about everything."

Harper grabbed the radio handset, but looked back at Mike. "Just f.u.c.king forget it, Mike. Torri. Both of you, f.u.c.king forget I said anything. I just...got a little heated." Then he transmitted on the radio, "Yeah, we got out. We're coming up on you guys in just a second. Which building are you in?"

Radio static, then: "All the way down on your right. Last building. We're parked behind it."

Ahead of them, a drive opened. The trees to either side of the road drew back like curtains and they could see the big, square industrial buildings of the complex. Factories. Warehouses. Strings of small businesses that could not afford a storefront location.

Harper slumped in his seat, stared at the rifle between his legs, then picked it up.

Julia turned them onto the drive that led back into the complex.

For the moment, everyone was silent.

Harper looked out the window. Just looked at the pa.s.sing buildings with the mold creeping up on the siding, steady and insistent. And he shook his head, and his voice was just a whisper, barely audible to anyone but himself. "What the h.e.l.l is happening to us?"

CHAPTER 21: BRUTALITY.

Lee stared up into the sky as it turned from bright sapphire to a deep, murky cobalt. Like he was descending into the ocean, staring up at the dwindling brightness of the surface waters. He felt it too, like the compression you might feel on that descent-the sickness and fever crowding around him, making his brain fuzzy. The chill like that of cold waters that the sun hasn't touched in eons.

I'm good to go, he kept telling himself.

His mouth moved to the silent words.

His brain conjured a spliced series of images from his life. Nomex gloves giving the thumbs up. Eyes unreadable behind reflective visors. A medic shining a light into his eyes after an IED went off. The plunging feeling in his gut just before they hit a door. Near-delirium caused by cold and exhaustion and hunger, somewhere in a Florida swamp. All of these things preceded and followed by the same words.

I'm good to go.

I'm good to go.

Lee tilted his head, just slightly. The last sliver of sun shot the western horizon through with an infected-looking pink. A small, localized wound that didn't reach too far into the sky. It was almost dark. He listened and could no longer hear the sounds of the infected moving about below, and he could not recall when he'd last heard them. He could only hear the quiet thrum of the van, still sitting there, idling next to the curb. He thought he'd been in and out of consciousness, but wasn't quite sure. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. Maybe he'd been asleep for days. Time seemed like a slippery concept.

Gut-check time. He didn't need to take his pulse to know that it was fast and weak. He didn't need to run his tongue around his mouth to know that it was dry as paper. He was sick. He was dehydrated. These were facts that he knew without having to think about them.

You've got... It took mental pressure to squeeze some math out. Maybe ten hours left? Before you collapse. Maybe twenty-four before you actually die. He was fast approaching the point of no return. The point where he would need more than some water and antibiotics to keep himself alive. He would need an IV and medical attention, and he had about the same chances of getting that as winning the lottery.

Oh yeah...

A hint of a smile cracked his lips, caused them to bleed.

I did win the lottery once.

He thought of Frank. He thought of the gas station where they found the water that saved their lives, and the last scratch-off ticket, possibly in the world. A winner, no less. Payout of $100. Lee had kept the ticket, though he couldn't remember where it was now. Maybe he'd lost it.

He leaned up, felt his head pounding, but managed to right himself into a sitting position. Deuce lay at his feet and looked up, as though he was surprised to see Lee awake. As though he'd already counted him out and was simply sitting by his side, providing that last bit of comfort before he stopped breathing.

Lee touched the dog's neck. Scratched it with numb fingers. "Good boy," he whispered. "But I'm still here."

This is me dying, but I'm not dead yet.

He looked down at himself.

A rifle in his lap. One full, thirty-round magazine.

A knife in his pocket.

Three hostiles: Shumate, James, and the Quiet Man.

Based on the sound of Shumate's voice, he thought they were in one of the buildings across the street and nearby the van. The fact that they hadn't made a break for the van was proof that Shumate intended to make good on his promise that Lee would not leave the town alive. With the horde gone out of the street, it was possible that they were already making their way over to Lee, trying to find him before he had a chance to escape under cover of darkness.

And of course, there were the infected. However many there were. He hadn't taken a look when they'd been down in the street, because he feared that Shumate and his crew might have been watching the rooftop, waiting to take a shot at him when he poked his head up. But their presence nearby meant that noise was an issue. A sustained firefight was not an option. Using the rifle at all was only an option if he could knock out all three hostiles in a relatively short period of time and make it back to the van and out of town before the infected found him again.

So there was the knife.

Lee pulled it out of his pocket and stared at it. A trusty KABAR. Wood handle. Worn blade. Still sharp. Good tip. He spun the blade in his palm-regular grip to inverted-and dropped it. Tried again. Dropped it again. Tried a third time and got it. Felt a little more confident.

Still not a good option. Three against one was bad odds either way. Three armed men against one with a knife was worse, regardless of his training and experience. You could be the baddest motherf.u.c.ker in the world, and it would still be long odds. Tack on that he was weakened with fever and dehydration, and Lee had doubts.

Maybe if he had more time. Maybe if he could set up a defensible position on this rooftop or the next. Take them out as they came for him, and then be able to stick around while he waited for the infected to go back to their hole. But he didn't have that kind of time. His body wouldn't let him wait that long.

He supposed that escape was an option. Running. Hiding. Maybe he would make it out. The odds were better for that than a fight, for sure. He'd been trained to evade capture from worse people than Shumate and his crew. But Shumate was a painful reminder of something he had learned long ago. That loose ends always come back to bite you in the a.s.s.

Shumate had tried to hurt Lee. Not once, but twice. And Lee would be d.a.m.ned if he would give him an opportunity to do it a third time. Lee would not show restraint. He would not show mercy. Those were the policies of a world with order, and he did not live in that world. What Shumate would receive would be what he had given.

So he threaded the knife and sheath onto his belt. Checked the chamber of his rifle to make sure it was loaded. Then he slung it on his back and stood up. It took a moment for the light-headedness to go away. He told himself it was okay. Told himself that it was better this way. And when the faintness left him, he was calm. His breath was even. His hands were steady.

I'm good to go.

I'm good to go.

They stood in the attic s.p.a.ce of the building directly across the street from where they believed Captain Harden to be. Shumate, James, and that motherf.u.c.ker that never had barely anything to say. He'd introduced himself as Aaron, though James didn't believe that was his name. He didn't look like an Aaron to James and he'd failed to answer to the name on more than one occasion. "Aaron" generally seemed shifty to James.

The longer he sat in that attic s.p.a.ce, half covered by the brick wall, half peering out of some murky gla.s.s, trying to spy movement on the opposite rooftop, the more James became restless. His thoughts were restless, his body restless. His mind flitted from spot to spot, his knees always jumping, his feet always tapping out some rhythm or another.

Night was when Shumate wanted to make a move. Night was dangerous, though the infected had gone away. Night was when they would be expected to hunt down and kill some f.u.c.king Navy SEAL, Special Forces motherf.u.c.ker that didn't seem like much to James, but who Shumate spoke about like he was something.

James searched his memory of the man for anything that seemed more than a beaten-down vagrant, anything more than a skinny coward. But there was nothing. Aside from the guy managing to escape Sh.e.l.ley and Kev. Which wasn't hard, James didn't think. Considering the fact that he'd probably made his move when the two were f.u.c.king. They had some sort of something going on, James was pretty sure.

Of course, James had tagged it a couple times. That's for d.a.m.n sure. But Kev seemed to be the main man for Sh.e.l.ley, and everybody knew it. James had to put up with "sloppy seconds," as Shumate liked to call them, but after a month or so with no p.u.s.s.y around, it didn't seem so bad.