Last Man Standing (Book 1): Hunger (14 page)
The sight of guns is comforting. We're in the back of a covered truck with an armed soldier - a real soldier, not a terrified cadet like Karl, or a sociopathic asshole like Sergeant Laurence - speaking into his radio in incomprehensible military lingo as the truck rumbles down the deserted highway. The sound of radio chatter almost lulls me to sleep, but Bishop nudges me in the side and mutters a few words to make sure I stay awake.
The medic shined a bright light in my eyes when we dragged our dripping bodies up the shore and found the military roadblock at the bridge toll booths, and he warned me that I probably have a concussion. He poured an irresponsibly large pile of Tylenol into my hands and told Bishop to keep me awake until we reached the camp.
I warned the soldiers at the roadblock about the infected reaching shore, and felt a weight lift from my mind as they assured me they had the situation under control. A 'mop-up crew' was working its way along the shore, taking out anything that moved. In fact, they told us, they were about to open fire on us until Bishop yelled at them as we approached.
I wouldn't have blamed them. Bishop looked half OK, but it would be hard to guess I wasn't infected at a glance. I caught sight of my reflection in the window of a toll booth, and if I was armed I'd have pulled the trigger without a second thought. My face was covered with blood, and my hair was plastered to my head. I barely recognized myself, but even if I'd been clean I would have noticed the difference.
It's in the eyes. I noticed them as soon as I saw my reflection. I've seen those eyes once before, looking out at me over a cold bottle of Singha at a rickety table in a bar in Hua Hin, Thailand. They're the eyes of Paul McQueen. They're eyes that have seen things we weren't meant to see. Things nobody should
have
to see. They're the eyes of someone who's lost too much.
I pull my cigarettes from my pocket, slip a damp one from the pack and try to light it, but the wick of the lighter is too wet to catch. The Zippo just sparks in the dark interior of the truck.
"You got one of those for me?" The young soldier asks. He slips a box of matches from a chest pocket and lights mine, then gratefully accepts a smoke with a crafty smile. "Don't tell on me, OK?" he chuckles, cupping the cigarette and ducking in his seat to make sure the driver of the truck behind can't see. "End of the world, and we're still not allowed to smoke on duty."
The truck turns off the freeway and onto a curved slip road, and I gaze out of the back in wonder. Beside the road I see buildings. Houses, stores, restaurants and gas stations, all with their lights on as if this was just a regular night. There are even a few cars on the roads, just driving along at regular speeds.
I can't fathom it. Ten miles away New York is a smoldering ruin, but here life is just humming along like always. There might even be people out there who don't know what's going on yet. People who stopped to fill up the car or grab a bite to eat after a day on the road, completely oblivious to the fact that the world as they know it is over. I envy them these few blissful moments of ignorance. I feel jealous that they get to to enjoy a little more time believing that tomorrow will hold no more surprises than a new episode of Game of Thrones.
To my right a new sight looms. Row upon row of military aircraft line up alongside passenger jets, behind which sit banks of olive green tents bathed in floodlights. It takes me a moment to figure out where we are, and my guess is confirmed when we pass beneath a large sign:
Welcome to Newark International Airport.
"Refugee camp?" I ask, flicking my ash casually out the back of the truck as if I see vast military camps every day.
The soldier nods and smiles. "Yep. I guess this is where we'll be calling home for a while. The airspace is closed, so you'll be living right on the runway. Pretty cool, huh?" His smile fades. "I mean not cool. Just... well, you know what I mean."
Bishop climbs to the back of the truck as we turn through an open security gate and drive onto the vast runway. He stares out at the scene like a giddy kid, mouth open and eyes wide as we pass dozens of rows of long tents, their open doors revealing dozens of camp beds in each. The tents never seem to end. I stop counting as we pass the twentieth row, each of them at least five deep. By the look of it each tent must hold at least a hundred people, so just those tents I've seen so far are enough to house 10,000, and still the truck passes ever more.
"How many people got out?" I ask, my voice weak.
The soldier flicks his butt out the back of the truck and shakes his head. "Some. Not as many as we hoped. We're setting up three of these places around the state, but I guess they won't be more than half full. It all just happened too quickly, you know?"
The truck rolls to a halt beside a tent emblazoned with a red cross, and the soldier nods towards the door. "They'll take care of you guys from here. Looks like you'll need a few stitches."
I reach up to my head and wince as my fingers reach the gash on my forehead. I keep forgetting about it. "So, what happens now?"
"Now?" The soldier shrugs, and looks out over the endless bank of tents floodlit in the darkness. "Your guess is as good as mine, buddy. But I don't think it's all over." He jumps down from the truck and reaches out a hand. "Something tells me it's gonna get a lot worse before it get better."
I hop down to the asphalt, clenching my teeth at the pain in my legs, and wait for Bishop to climb down behind me. "Worse?" I look back in the direction of New York. In the dim moonlight I can still see the tower of smoke climbing high into the sky from the ruined city. "How could it get worse?"
The soldier shrugs, climbs back beneath the canvas canopy of the truck and taps the side until the driver begins to move. "Don't tempt fate, buddy. Good luck."
"Yeah," I whisper, almost to myself. As the truck pulls away I feel Bishop's arm slip around my shoulder to support me, and he pulls me in the direction of the medical tent. In the distance I see rows of trucks pull onto the runway, each of them carrying what few survivors could be found.
How can this possibly get any worse?
Thank you for reading HUNGER, the first book in the Last Man Standing series. The second book, CORDYCEPS, is
available now exclusively at Amazon
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