Plagued: The Rock Island Zombie Counteractant Experiment (Plagued States of America) (11 page)

Twenty-Three

Holding your ground on a wall amidst a line of twenty soldiers as hundreds of angry civilian protesters poured into the square was one thing. Standing alone
against over two hundred blood-thirsty zombies with only a pistol and a prayer was another. Mason stepped in front of the doctor to shield her anyway. He was her only chance.

“They’re all open,” O’Farrell said hysterically. “How did they do that? Why?”

Mason didn’t answer. He looked over his shoulder to see her low hanging shoulders, the defeat even in her posture.

“Three minutes,” Mason told her.

“Three!? We won’t last one!”

Mason looked back at the horde and
aimed toward one of the infectious behind the leaders, a big body that lurched slowly, it eyes lost in a white haze.
Blam!
The zombie’s head snapped back as a spray of gore burst over the eager biters behind it. They followed the body down. Several biters in front turned, slowing to decide whether the carcass was worth fighting over. The whole horde slowed with them, unable to lurch free of their collective gridlock.

Mason held his aim
, selecting his next target. Not until they all start moving again, he thought. Several of the lead biters turned to try to get to Mason’s last victim. Like dogs, they growled at one another, pushing and shoving each other over inches of space. The largest of the lead zombies bullied his way into the circle, wrenching another off the body. Two other zombies stumbled over the newly fallen and again the wall came to a halt.

“Shoot another one,” O’Farrell suggested.

“Not yet,” Mason said over his shoulder. “This pistol only holds fifteen rounds.”

Mason stepped closer to the door and banged on the yellow button again, the one that triggered the bug zappers. He hoped they had recharged by now. Nothing happened.

Several of the lead zombies broke free of their pack and fanned out wide around the bodies covering the floor. The flow of biters had resumed. Mason stepped in front of O’Farrell again and raised his pistol once more, sighting what he thought might be his next target.

The door chirped
, and both Mason and the doctor looked toward it. It burst open and two soldiers rushed in, each leading with Tasers. As they swept, the weapons turned in both directions. One fired.
Snap!
Mason’s eyes bulged. The pins rushed through the air, streaming out a thin line of silk. Both needles struck the doctor in the chest and she began to convulse.

“We’re human,
” Mason shouted, holding his hands in the air. “We’re human. Shit.”

The fire extinguisher fell
out of the doctor’s hands and clanked onto the concrete as she toppled. Two more soldiers pushed through the door, each carrying noose poles. Mason caught the doctor as she slumped over, worried he would be struck with a residual shock.

“Hold the door,” one of the soldiers
, a sergeant, shouted behind him. His head swiveled to survey the scene.

The soldier who had shot
the doctor ejected the strings from his weapon and turned it toward the biters without a word. Mason held her by the armpits and turned her, dragging her toward the door.

“Get her out,” the
sergeant ordered Mason. “Set the line. Taze any that close in.”

Mason yanked the pins and wires from the doctor
’s chest and dragged her through the door. The last remaining soldier pushed past him and the door closed behind him, leaving Mason alone with the unconscious doctor in the dark courtyard.

Mason took a deep breath, his eyes wide from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. It kept him standing, at least. He knew it wouldn’t last, though. He lifted the doctor into his arms and looked around.

Mason stumbled across the courtyard with Doctor O’Farrell draped in his arms, toward what looked like Chavez’s Jeep. He trudged as fast as he could, listing one way for a dozen steps, then listing the other, his dizziness playing with his perception. To counteract the effect, he focused on one thought: reach the Jeep without dropping her. The alarm wailed from horns mounted on the roof of the prison complex. It was so loud he doubted anyone on the island would still be asleep.

Mason’s arms gave out as he lifted O’Farrell’s limp body
into the Jeep. He collapsed onto her as she fell into the seat. He stood with his weight propping her up, breathing hard, trying not to vomit all over her. He felt a wave of nausea lifting to his throat, but he swallowed it down and let out his breath. It worked to calm his stomach, but his head began to spin wildly. His eyes tumbled like a Newton’s cradle, swinging downward toward the center of his vision, only to be whacked back up to the right by his other eyeball.

He defied
the illusion of his senses and straightened, pushing the doctor against the seat. He grabbed the latch on the seat and leaned her back so she wouldn’t slump forward. Buckling her in brought another wave of nausea he again fought off. He used his hands to guide him around the hood of the vehicle.

The keys were on the seat.
The engine turned over easily and Mason backed them away from the wall, then turned the wheel and raced them toward the gate. The vehicle lights came on automatically. He took a wide turn to drive up beside a call box in front of the gate through the outer wall, the one called the Inside Passage.

Mason honked on the horn several times. He looked over at the doctor, still out cold and unaffected by the noise.

“Report,” a voice said through the call box.

“We shot this woman with a Taser,” Mason said, not looking toward the device. He suspected it had a camera. “She’s one of the lab workers. I’ve got to get her to the infirmary.”

The call box went silent and Mason wondered what kind of lie he might be able to concoct if pressed, or if he should tell them his own identity and give them his card. The one thing he did know was that any minute the door would open regardless and the rest of the response team would come pouring through.

The gate opened
, empty to his surprise. He drove into the man-trap and stopped to wait for the gate to close behind him.

“Turn off your lights,” a voice said through a speaker and Mason killed the engine. The gate boomed shut behind him and the
blacklights above hummed. Up until this very moment, it hadn’t occurred to Mason that he might register as a zombie, or that his eyes might be glowing as though someone had stuffed two little flashlights behind them. He leaned forward to look in the rear view mirror, but saw nothing but the bloody abrasions just below his eyes. He sighed with relief and heard the buzzing of the other door ahead of him.

He turned over the engine and put it in gear as light from other vehicles beyond the gate cast over him. Men came through on foot alongside the wall, each outfitted with full body armor, helmets,
Tasers, hand-guns, and catching noose poles. Mason pushed past the gate and drove onto the sidewalk to get out of the way of the queue trying to get in.

He took another deep breath and felt a wave of relief wash over him. The beams of his Jeep shone across the main road onto one of the Quonset huts, and his relief wane
d. What if this got out of hand? Someone had let out all the zombies. There were thirty men going back in there to try to contain nearly two hundred zombies.

Mason turned in his seat to look into the man-trap tunnel. The third Jeep edged in just ahead of the door closing behind it. Mason spun around again to look out over the base. He knew the head count on Rock Island. Even though it was a twenty-four hour facility, only ninety-six soldiers were stationed on base at any given time. Mason gauged that number against The Rule.
Two-to-one odds against all those zombies, which was more than sufficient to consider it overwhelming force, but at least they were contained to the prison complex.

The street ahead look
ed deserted except for the lights of another approaching vehicle. Mason waited for it to pass, leaning over the doctor.

“Doc.
” Mason gently slapped her face. She didn’t stir.

The other vehicle came out from behind the line of buildings, another open-top Jeep. Mason sat upright
again to put his own vehicle into gear. His headlights lit up the passing Jeep and Mason clearly made out the warden and Kennedy in the front seats. Another Jeep followed, then another. The driver of the third looked familiar too, but Mason couldn’t place him. His memories were too muddled.

The three Jeeps raced toward the bridge leading to the
Rurals, toward civilization. Like the prison complex, the bridge leading to the Rurals had a bus-length vehicular man-trap. Enough for three Jeeps, but not four.

“Shit,” Mason hissed. “They’re bugging out. Doc, wake up!”

The three Jeeps came to a stop in front of the bridge gate. Mason considered his options. He could force his way. There was room in the other vehicles. The thought only lasted a second, though. The Quonset huts ahead of him, the ones he knew held the sentry ring, yawned open to the night sky with a metallic creak.

“They’re going to blow the place,” Mason
groaned. He grabbed the doctor’s lab coat and shirt at the shoulder as he lurched the vehicle forward. He winced in pain as he turned the wheel using only his left arm. “Doc, come on, wake up!”

Mason rounded the corner, accelerating toward the Meat Market. Several street lights shone
over the nearly empty sidewalks. Two soldiers jogged across the road to avoid being hit. The checkpoint gate went across the road. It was just a wooden guard post. The soldier inside the checkpoint building leaned out, but retreated as Mason revved the engine to burst through the post. It cracked across the hood and windshield.

Mason felt the doctor stiffen. He looked over at her. His hand was still holding her shoulder so she wouldn’t slip. Her head turned side to side in the near darkness.

“What was that? Where am I?”

“Doc
,” Mason said with relief. “Kennedy is bugging out. We’ve got to get the hell off the island.”

“Jones?” she asked, turning her head toward him. She put her hand on his where he still gri
pped her coat and shirt. He felt her lean forward as she tried to sit upright. “Ow! My chest.”

“We’re almost there,” Mason told her, not letting go of her shirt. He let off the gas and coasted past the Meat Market, then slowed to take a wide turn into the parking lot behind it.

“What are we doing here?”

Mason clicked on his high beams as he drove between
the two lines of parked slaver rigs. Only two rows could fit in the lot because of their length and size. Mason knew the one that would stand out was the duck, the vehicle he was looking for. He hoped it would still be here.

“Jones, slow down
,” O’Farrell said anxiously.

Mason plied the brakes and the Jeep ground to a halt over the loose dirt lot. Mason took a deep breath, relieved at seeing the duck’s narrow nose sticking out of the long line of squared engines. Mason blew the Jeep’s horn.

“Jones,” the doctor said as he stepped out of the Jeep, blowing the horn again. She looked around nervously.

Mason started around the front of the vehicle. He felt another wave of nausea and dizziness wash over him.

“Hank, are you up there?” Mason called weakly. He leaned against the hood of the Jeep for support, looking up at the bow of the duck.

O’Farrell rushed to Mason’s side, putting her arms around his waist and sliding her head under his arm to help him stand.

“Hank!”

“Who is it?” the old slaver asked, leaning over the rail above with a blanket around his shoulders. “Kid, you look like shit!”

“Jones,” the doctor whispered. “What are we doing?”

“Hank,” Mason called to the slaver. “We need help. We need out.”
Mason started walking the length of the duck with O’Farrell’s help.

“Hang on, kid
,” Hank said, shrugging off his blanket to follow them toward the back of the vehicle. Mason’s strength gave out. He knelt down and tried to concentrate on breathing. The doctor removed herself from under his arm and knelt beside Mason. He dry heaved again, falling forward onto his hands. His whole body felt weak to the point that any moment he might collapse without the strength to even breathe.

“Kid, what’s wrong?” Hank asked anxiously.

“Jones, you need rest,” O’Farrell said.

“
And who’s she?” Hank asked gruffly. “Who are you?” He glared down at O’Farrell.

“She’s with me,” Mason said between quick breaths. His arms went limp and he fell onto his right side, gasping. Hank hovered
high over them both, watching warily. “We need to get off the island.”

“Kid,” Hank prodded.

“Right now,” Mason called as he rolled to his knees, fighting to recapture his lost strength. O’Farrell leaned down to help him. “No time to explain.”

Across the island there came a bright light followed by a deep, rumbling boom.

“What was that?” Hank asked, standing straight to look toward the sound. It came from the prison complex.

“Start the engine
,” Mason called as he used O’Farrell to help lift himself to his feet. Even she neglected him a moment to stare with surprise toward the light.