Dead World (Book 1): Dead Come Home (23 page)

So? Treat it like any other danger area. Find a way around it.

I already thought about that.

And? What’s the problem?

I’ve spent enough time in the desert to know that driving out into it unprepared is a bad idea. I’ve been trained to survive in it, but I also know how easy it is to
die
in it. If our vehicle breaks down, we’ll have no choice but to abandon it. That means we’ll be restricted to only the amount of food, water, and ammo that we can physically carry.

So? You take what you can carry and head for a built-up area.

Maybe in a normal situation … but not in this one. We’d be totally exposed. And if even one of things were to see us, a mob of ‘em would surround the first building we managed to find shelter in. Besides, like I said, this is the desert. It’s too easy to lose your way on foot.

Then you go around, but keep the city in sight.

And which side do I choose to go around? Left? Right? I don’t know the terrain in this area. Especially once we’ve left the road. The one map we have doesn’t show topography, so I don’t know what obstacles or natural formations might block our way. Suppose we get out there and run across a land formation that forces us to drive away from the city until it’s out of our line of sight? Then what?

Then you use basic land navigation. You use the formation as a landmark until the city comes back into view.

True … okay, but what about the depth perception issue? What about Private Doofus? He was at least somewhat familiar with
his
terrain … and he had both a compass
and
a way better map than I do. And we all know what happened to him.

Years ago, when Mike had been through desert survival training at the Marine Corps base in 29 Palms, California, affectionately called “29 Stumps,” there was a story the instructors were fond of telling. Any Marine who spent any length of time at 29 Palms eventually heard this tale of one ill-fated Marine’s death by idiocy.

Mike had always been terrible with names. And no matter how many times he’d heard the story, he could not for the life of him remember the name of the Marine. Eventually, Mike had just dubbed him “Private Doofus.” Because, in Mike’s opinion, the guy must have been a complete idiot.

According to the story, Private Doofus had been mistakenly left behind one night, out in the middle of the Mojave Desert, while standing road guard at the side of a dirt trail. His squad leader, probably tired from days of field training out in the desert, had forgotten that Private Doofus had been put on road guard duty, and reported to his platoon sergeant that all of his men were present and accounted for, without doing an actual head count. The entire infantry company loaded onto a convoy of trucks and returned to the base, each looking forward to a few cold beers and a semi-good night’s sleep on a cot of stretched, olive drab canvas … all but Private Doofus.

After nobody-who-knows-how-long, Doofus came to the conclusion that no one was coming back for him … though Mike decided it had probably been sometime around sunrise. So, he tried to walk back to the main base on his own … in the middle of the day … in the middle of summer … in the middle of the Mojave desert … with nothing but two canteens of water, one MRE, and a lightly loaded pack. As far as Mike was concerned, the guy should have just put a bullet through his head. At least that way, he wouldn’t have suffered so much.

Private Doofus’ squad leader didn’t notice him missing until his squad fell out for the next morning’s formation. The entire platoon looked high and low around the base, thinking maybe he’d had too many drinks and passed out somewhere. However, he was nowhere to be found. They dispatched the entire company when the hummer driver that was sent to retrieve Private Doofus (from the spot he had left only an hour before) radioed back that he was no longer there.

The Mojave Desert, unfortunately for Private Doofus, is extremely big. A widespread search turned up nothing. For years, the mystery of what happened to him went unsolved … until his skeletal, mummified remains were eventually found … less than a few hundred yards from a main road.

Private Doofus had done everything wrong, which ultimately resulted in his slow and grizzly death. His body was found in a makeshift shelter, which he’d constructed by draping a poncho around a dried up bush. However, the fact that the enclosed shelter did not allow proper air circulation, and was covered with the equivalent of a plastic tarp, turned it into a small oven. It was concluded that he had, quite literally, been cooked alive. It also appeared that he had stripped down to his underwear, trying to find relief from the heat. At some point, investigators came to the conclusion that he’d probably gone mad by the time he began stripping off his clothes. In the end, he was moving back and forth between two miserable and lethal situations. When Doofus would leave his shelter to get some relief from the heat, the sun would burn his exposed skin. And when he would return to the sweltering shelter for shade, he would get cooked. It was concluded that he died from a combination of exposure, heat stroke, and dehydration.

The saddest thing of all, in Mike’s opinion, was the fact that, when investigators opened Doofus’s canteens … one was still half full. Investigators assumed that he must have been rationing it for some reason. Mike could not, not for the life him, fathom how a person could be dumb enough to die of dehydration before even running out of water.

Mike was fairly confident that, even in the current situation,
he
could survive a trek through the desert, but he’d kissed away the idea of surviving on his own when he’d picked up Joseph. Then, of course, they’d picked up two more civilians … and infirm ones at that. He might have still risked the desert, had it only been him and Joseph. However, now he had an injured young girl and near-middle-aged man to consider.

Okay … so you can’t risk going around unless you’re willing to accept the possibility that you are likely going to be the only one who’ll make it out alive if anything goes wrong.

Well … I’m not.

Then it might be a good idea to adopt a policy that you don’t stop … not for
anyone
. Taking on any more civilians is only going to make things even more difficult.

Yeah, right. I vaguely remember telling myself something like that back when I first picked up Joseph.

Then why do you have an old man and a hurt kid in your group?

Because … I don’t think I can do things the way I used to … not anymore.

What
way
? You were following orders back then. Saving innocent lives wasn’t a part of your orders. Why the guilt? It’s not your fight, Mike … remember?

But
dammit!
I’m following
my
orders now! I’ve been carrying around this guilt for years, for not doing something, for not protecting people who couldn’t protect themselves! And every time I did, a part inside of me died. This isn’t the corps anymore. I’m not bound by orders that tell me who lives and who dies, who to kill and who to save. The only reason I am still alive is because I stood by and did nothing while innocent people were being killed right in front of me. And I did that behind the cover that I was “following orders.” If a man does nothing because he’s following orders, he’s still a soldier. But if a man does nothing … and lets innocent people die because he’s trying to save his own skin … he’s just a coward. And I am not a coward.

You’re not a soldier anymore, either.

No, I’m not … but I am still a Marine. And there are people who need me.

Okay … so what’s the plan, Mike?

We drive through it, straight through Roswell, taking the best route our map can show us.

And what if you and your merry little band of civilians run into trouble?

Then I do what I’ve been trained to do … I improvise … I adapt … I overcome.

And if that isn’t enough?

Then, most likely, I’ll die. But at least I won’t die for nothing … at least my death will mean something. The only reason I have life is because I let innocent people die. So … if I give my life to make sure that a few innocent people have a chance to live … that sounds like an even trade to me. I mean, isn’t it?

Are you still debating strategy? Or are you trying to negotiate with God?

“I
know
that, Joe! And I need you to pull
over
!”

“Okay, okay!” Joseph replied, his aggravation coming out loud and clear in his tone. “I swear, Mike. What is the deal with you sometimes?”

Joseph pulled the Blazer onto the shoulder and put it in park. He sat silently for a few awkward moments, staring at the steering wheel, expecting Mike to speak up. But he just sat there in the passenger seat, staring at the dashboard.

“Well, for the love of roses and donuts, Mike. Don’t keep us in suspense or anything!” Joseph growled, his frustration growing with the passage of each silent, nerve-wracking moment.

“Walter, would you step out with us for a second? This might not be something she needs to hear,” Mike said, nodding to the pale-skinned girl curled up in the backseat.

“Yeah … she’s still sleeping.”

“How’s she doing?”

“It’s weird. She’s clammy and cold … but that’s all. She hasn’t gotten any worse, it seems. She’ll be alright for a few minutes.”

Walter Reuben kissed his daughter’s clammy forehead and brushed her hair back with his fingers, gently tucking it behind her ear. He got out of the vehicle slowly, gently closing the door behind him so as not to wake her. He walked to the front of the Blazer, where Mike had a road map spread out across the hood.

“It’s less than 20 miles before we hit Roswell,” Mike said.

“Isn’t that a good thing? I mean, there’s got to be some kind of a base or something in Roswell … right?” said Walter.

“Yeah,” agreed Joseph, “the last radio transmission we picked up said there were at least a few rescue stations set up in Roswell.”

“And why, exactly,” proposed Mike, “would a city, out in the middle of the desert, hundreds of miles from any other city, decide to establish rescue stations?”

“I don’t get your point,” said Walter.

“Because the infection has already reached them. My God … It’s already here,” Joseph replied, his tone barely above a whisper. For a brief moment, he just stared into space. Then, as if coming to some horrific conclusion, his eyes shot towards Mike. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Walter demanded.

“Listen,” Mike explained, “Roswell is a fairly well-populated city, but it’s also in a pretty isolated area. If they’ve discovered the infection here, then there are only two possible outcomes. One, they identified the infection, figured out how it works, killed those who were infected, or at least reanimated, and they now have the situation under control.”

“Two, which is the more likely scenario,” Mike continued, “The infection has spread through most of the city. Those few cops and military lucky enough to survive the chaos of the initial outbreak have likely either holed themselves up somewhere or gotten the hell outta dodge by now.”

“About Roswell? I had already noticed it on the map a few days ago, but at the time I figured we’d be a lot closer to Arizona by now. But the constant traffic we hit coming outta Texas really screwed up our timetable.”

“But there’s no way you could have known Roswell would be infected.”

“You’re right. I didn’t know … not until earlier today when we picked up that broadcast about the rescue stations. Until then, I was hoping there was still a chance we could blow through Roswell, maybe loot or buy some supplies if we saw an opportunity, and get back onto the road without much trouble.

“Now, however, I’m pretty damned sure we’re gonna have to shoot our way through it and hope there’s still an open path from here to the other side.”

“We can’t just go around it? Take the
Blazer
off road?”

“And if the vehicle breaks down? Then what? We have too many people, one an injured child. Chances are that the desert would kill us before we could even make it back to the highway. The crows would be picking at our bones long before any of those things ever found us.”

“So,” Walter asked, “what are we going to do? We can’t sit here for too long.” He pointed across the hood, at the desert beyond the passenger side of the Blazer. Three zombies, at least a hundred yards away, were lumbering slowly in their direction.