Plagued: The Rock Island Zombie Counteractant Experiment (Plagued States of America) (13 page)

Twenty-Six

A barrage of bullets struck the rear and side of the duck. Mason dropped to his chest. Half of the shots fired made no contact with the duck. He counted the sound of the guns firing against the swats over the duck and figured they had lost sight and were spraying in the area. It didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous.

“Kill the engine,” Mason said to Hank.

“I’ll lose control,” Hank objected.

“They can
’t see us. They only hear us.”

“Shit,” Hank grumbled as he let off on the gas. He reached a hand to the dash and turned the key. “We may not be able to start her,” were Hank’s words as the engine sighed its last knocking chug.

The
whit-dit-dit-dit
of two machine guns continued to fire, but the pelting of the vehicle eased almost immediately. One swatting of bullets came across the roof rack, then a second line of fire chewed at the aft deck, but then for as many streams of bullets that were fired, nothing came.

“Stay down,” Mason warned them. Even though they weren’t being hit, the machine guns were still directing fire into the channel.

“We’ve got to get the engine running,” Hank said. “Do you feel it? We’re tipping. We need the engine to straighten up or we’re going to sink.”

They continued to drift with the current and even Mason, whose head swam with dizziness, realized the port side was dipping further into the channel.

“All right,” Mason agreed reluctantly. “Start her up.”

Hank didn’t climb out of his hiding
hole. He reached up to the key and turned it. The glow plugs began to hum beneath the deck.

“Please start,” O’Farrell moaned. “I can barely swim.”

The engine whirred and chugged to life in one crank. Hank turned the wheel as he pressed the gas pedal. The duck straightened out and began to level off.

Mason looked up over the railing to see the island behind them, still glowing orange under a hundred small, unchecked fires. The toppled bridges were beyond his own firing range, but they were in range of
those rifles.

“Stay down, Doc,” Mason told O’Farrell.

Hank lifted his head above the dashboard to see ahead. The waterline was black, but the trees along the shore appeared in grey silhouettes that held up the night sky and all its stars. Hank veered the duck abruptly, tipping it more, turning it to port in an effort to drive straight at shore.

“Whoa,” O’Farrell
exclaimed as she fell sideways.

“Sorry, lady,” Hank said. “We need to get to shore.”

“Why are you heading
for
the Plagued States?” she asked as she crawled half of the way out from under the dashboard. Water was collecting in the foot well, dousing her pants.

“I don’t think we’ll get the warmest of receptions in the
Rurals right now,” Hank told her.

“But there are
zombies
over here.”

“Yup. And maybe that’ll keep those other bastards from looking for us,” Hank said as he turned the wheel again, leveling the duck as it drove straight for shore. The current of the channel carried them further from the burning island
. Mason sat up, relieved that they were now far enough out of range of the rifles. He saw the men on the remnants of the bridge carrying their injured colleagues toward the light of the Jeep parked there.

They didn’t even know why they had been ordered to shoot at Mason and the others. They were just holding the bridge as they had probably been ordered, afraid that the vehicle contained infected people trying to reach the
Rurals—their worst fear.

“Can we get up?” O’Farrell asked Mason.

“Sure,” Mason told her wearily.

She climbed out of cover and sat in the chair alongside Hank, who was struggling to climb out from under the steering wheel.

“I want to go home. I want to go to
that
side,” O’Farrell insisted, pointing behind them as she glared at Hank.

“Swim for it,” Hank told her, not looking her way. He stood
and looked over the windshield to gauge in the dark where they might reach land.

“What does that mean?
” O’Farrell glowered. “Jones, are you hearing this?”

“I am,” Mason said
weakly, pushing the palms of his hands into his eyes. The pistol stood between him and his own skin. He held it in front of himself and the inkling of a memory rattled in his head, but he couldn’t quite make it out. He knew it was a memory he feared, that one that gnawed at his dreams, kept him awake, haunted him for months before he ever came here. It was the memory that landed him in the hospital for evaluation, the place from which he had been plucked. And it was missing.

“Jones?” O’Farrell asked, looking at him worriedly. She
slid out of her chair and crawled next to him. Hank looked over his shoulder with mild concern.

“You OK, kid?” Hank asked.

“What’s wrong, Jones?” O’Farrell asked, a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“He wasn’t the first soldier I’ve killed
,” Mason admitted. “That kid on the bridge,” he added for clarification. He didn’t mean Chavez. Mason hadn’t actually killed Chavez as much as abandoned him anyway. “Before they shipped me here, I was in a psych ward. I mean I’m fine, I wasn’t crazy or anything. I just couldn’t cope. I mean, it’s one thing to kill an enemy, but one of your own—”

“Jones,” O’Farrell said softly.

“They’re just holes. I can’t remember my Christmas presents, or my girlfriend in high school. She exists. I know I had one. I’m not crazy.”

“Jones, you’re not crazy,” O’Farrell assured him. “
You’re the first person who has been cured while in transition. Everyone else we’ve cured was already a full-fledged zombie. Basic language skills have to be taught to them all over again. Their minds are wiped clean, but for you, you’re still mostly intact.

“Some of your memories may be gone
, though. Permanently.”

“
I used to wish I could forget,” Mason said. “I don’t know what’s worse.”

The engine of the duck revved.

“Hey, hey, I found us a beach,” Hank said excitedly. “We’re not going to drown after all.”

“Great,” O’Farrell said cheerlessly.
“Out of the frying pan, into the fire.”

“You’re looking at it all wrong, lady. In three days
, we’ll be at Biter’s Bend and getting out of this shit hole once and for all.”

“How are you going to manage that?” O’Farrell
asked skeptically.

“Let’s just say I know someone there who owes me a big favor,” Hank replied with a wide smile.

“How big?” Mason wondered aloud.

“About as big as the one you owe me, kid,” Hank said.
“And he’s got connections in all the right places.” Hank began whistling as he turned the wheel again to level the deck. The continued jostling of the duck reminded Mason of his nausea and light-headedness. Hank continued turning the wheel to keep them facing shore, then turning it the other way to level them off. They lurched side to side.

“I’m going to be sick,” Mason announced as he reached for the railing cable. He dry heaved over the side as O’Farrell held onto his waist.
When he slumped back, he shoved his pistol into its holster and collapsed onto his back.

“Jones,” O’Farrell asked as she tapped his face with the palm of her hand.

Her fingers were so cold, he thought.

“Jones, don’t pass out on me.”

“Doc, I got you out alive, right?” he said weakly, his eyes blinking as dark spots chewed away at his periphery.

She stared down on him with worried eyes, but nodded
. “Lieutenant,” O’Farrell said sharply.

Mason was so tired. His body had reached its limit
; his mind had been stretched as far as it could go. He closed his eyes and wondered if his nightmare still lurked somewhere inside. He hoped it was there. At least it would remind him of who he was.

Jones, Mason E., Lieutenant, Army Ranger, Expert Marksmanship Badge in Pistol and Small-Bore Pistol. After serving 26 months in Egypt, he returned to the United States for clinical evaluation and to enroll in a mental health treatment program following an incident in which he was forced to take the life of one of his own soldiers under his command.
After receiving a medical evaluation of minimal risk, he was assigned to the Rock Island Prison Defense Facility to serve out his remaining five months of active duty. At Rock Island, he was wounded by a subject infected with the consumption pathogen. Soon after, he caused a facility-wide prison escape. In the ensuing chaos, he evaded capture by his fellow soldiers, killing several, and directly caused the sentry ring to be utilized in defense of the country. He was last seen entering the Plagued States. His current whereabouts are unknown.

All went black and quiet.

The End

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