The Killing Floor (31 page)

Anne

The bus slowly reverses while Anne tries to pull the machine gun from under Evan’s legs. The Infected shot him. The man shakes violently, bleeding out, his eyes glassy and unseeing. Behind him, Gary sits with his back against the pole, wincing and licking blood from his lips.

“I can feel it in my lung,” he says. He sounds like he is being strangled. “The bullet. It went through Evan and popped into my chest.”

“I’m sorry,” she tells him.

Thrashing in his final death throes, Evan knees Anne in the face and pain flares through the lines of her scars. Above her, Ramona screams and fires her automatic rifle on full auto at the Infected clambering onto the hood of the vehicle.

Anne frees the gun with a final jerk.

“This is your fault,” Gary says. “It’s all your fault.”

She looks up in time to see Ramona fire her last round and slam the butt of her rifle into a man’s face before the hands reach in and pull her out into the mob, which tears her apart. Blood splashes onto Marcus but he ignores it, gritting his teeth, firing a massive handgun into the snarling faces with one hand while steering with the other.

“I’m scared,” Gary says.

This is what you wanted
, Anne’s mind whispers.

Your murdered your own children through your stupidity and arrogance and you can never be happy so you kill and kill and kill the Infected in the hopes one day your luck will run out and they will tear you to shreds and eat you like you deserve.

That day has finally come.

“It’s going to be okay,” she says.

Gary does not hear her. He stares into oblivion, his eyes blank, his face pale, his final expression one of pure terror.

Anne glances down at the machine gun in her hands and realizes she could just drop it. Dying would be that simple. She has already gotten enough people killed. Let Ray kill the world. What does she care?

Not yet. Soon, but not just yet.

They can have me, but only after a fight. They have to prove they are stronger. They have to earn it.

The will to survive floods her body with energy. She stands and levels the heavy weapon, putting her back against the pole for support and firing from the waist, holding the ammo belt with her other hand. The barrel lights up with muzzle flashes that fill the air with hot metal.

Anne screams with something like joy. This is how she wants to die.

The hot metal slugs punch through skulls and torsos, spraying brains and guts back into the crowd. Soon she can no longer see individuals, just torn and charred flesh and muscle and clothing, shattered bone, ripped organs and blood.

Then she no longer sees even this, struck by a vision of a single face, watching her without expression, as if lobotomized, a human face with an alien mind.

A human face constructed entirely of seething maggots.

No, not maggots. Monsters.

The face snarls with recognition and hatred before it explodes into millions of howling things hurtling into the void.

“
I am Life,” it tells her. “I am Life and you are the enemy of life. You are Death.”

Empty shell casings clatter across the floor. She grunts, sweat pouring down her face. Her arm trembles with exhaustion from the constant recoil.

The bus continues to gain speed. The Infected fall behind, howling and waving their weapons and shooting their guns. Anne lunges and slams the M240 down onto hood, hugging the stock and resuming fire.

The Infected collapse in waves under the withering fire of the machine gun.

“Come on,” she screams, her body jerking from the recoil. “Come and get it!”

The bus steadily puts more distance between them and the Infected. The tracers arc and drop among the crowd, punching more bodies to the ground. The ammo belt runs out.

Marcus stops the bus, turns and finds another way out of town.

Ray fled during the attack. The pursuit is back on. And Anne has survived again.

As with every other time, she is almost disappointed.

Cool Rod

Sitting in the shade of the Stryker, Rod watches his squad tear the plastic wrapping off their MREs and sink their hands into the yellow pouches, producing brown packets containing entrees and seasonings and HOOAH! energy bars. They compare meals and barter like Wall Street traders. Sosa trades a cigarette for Lynch’s hot sauce. Tanner puts his chicken fajitas on the market, but gets no takers. He takes a long pull on a stray bottle of water they liberated from the Walmart’s shelves and passes it on. Lynch suggests lighting some C4 to cook their meals properly, but the air is so hot the others do not seem interested. Sosa, constipated from the steady diet of MREs, calls his a
meal ready for enema
, making them laugh.

Rod joins in the laughter, enjoying the banter during this rare calm while Davis stands twenty meters away with his rifle providing security and Arnold monitors the recon equipment on the Walmart roof. He tears open his own MRE and inspects his beef brisket with mild disdain. It is not his favorite, but he needs the twelve hundred calories.

Hellraisers 3, this is Hellraisers Eyes, over.

That’s Arnold calling in from the observation post. Rod places his meal on the ground between his feet and keys the push-to-talk button on his headset, chewing. “Hellraisers 3 here. Go ahead, Eyes, over.”

Contact to the west. A uniform victor, moving fast, over.

An
unidentified vehicle
, Rod understands. “You got eyes on it, over?”

Not yet, over.

“Let me know when you get eyes on it. Hellraisers 3, out.”

Roger, Three. Out.

The others wolf down their meals, knowing what is coming, but waiting until he gives the order.

“We’ve got a vehicle inbound,” he says. “You know what to do. Let’s get to it.”

The soldiers take final bites of food and slugs of juice and scramble to their feet, pocketing their energy bars and candy for later. They snatch up their weapons and run off. Lynch stays behind to help Sosa pull on his flamethrower harness.

“Corporal, when you’re done there, go tell spooky and the doc we’re expecting company,” Rod says.

“Aieeyah, Sergeant.”

“Hart, I need you on the fifty,” he shouts, banging his fist against the Stryker’s armor. The gunner appears in the cupola, gives him a thumbs up, and grabs hold of the mounted heavy machine gun, locking and loading it.

Checking his shotgun, Rod walks to the checkpoint they built using sawhorses and STOP signs, placed in layers running every twenty meters along the road up to the gas station. The theory is Typhoid Jody will either stop, or try to bypass or drive through the roadblock.

If he tries to bypass or drive through, he will slow down, and the Stryker’s fifty will make quick work of him. If he fails to cooperate, he is a dead man.

Rod’s body rebels, his heart racing and his breath becoming fast and shallow, but not from fear. No, he is simply excited.
Can this really be it? Can this guy really offer a cure? If not a cure, maybe a vaccine, or even a weapon?

Is this the operation that ends the war and allows us to retake the country?

He whistles to get Davis’s attention. “Corporal, change of plans for you. I want you to find a safe spot fifty meters behind us, watching our rear. Same plan if something happens to me, though. You’re to take command.”

“Got it, Sergeant,” Davis says, jogging away.

Rod blows air out his cheeks, raises the hood on his MOPP suit, and pulls on his gas mask.

“It’s time to earn our money,” he says.

Hellraisers 3, this is Hellraisers Eyes, over.

“Go ahead, Eyes, over.”

I have eyes on the uniform victor. Range, about three kilometers. Break. It’s a military vehicle, Sergeant. An APC. Over.

“Shift to overwatch, Eyes. Hellraisers 3, out.”

Rod frowns at the waves of heat rising off the warmed road and wonders about the odds of this being a coincidence.
What’s an armored personnel carrier doing in this exact place at this exact point in time? Could this be our guy?

He had the impression Typhoid Jody is a civilian, but he might be military, and he might know how to drive an APC. Alarms flash through Rod’s mind.

How are we going to stop him if he’s driving an amored vehicle?

Fielding and Price approach in their bright yellow spacesuits, carrying what appear to be suitcases made of yellow plastic emblazoned with ominous biohazard symbols.

“Stay behind me,” he tells them.

The vehicle appears in the distance, approaching with a metallic scream, and crushes the first line of sawhorses before rolling to a sudden stop in front of the second.

Rod waves, his heart pounding against his ribs.

The turret turns rapidly, aligning the cannon barrel with the Stryker. Five shooters in a motley collection of military uniforms fan out from behind, taking cover and aiming their weapons at his men.

“Hold fire, Hellraisers,” Rod says into his headset.

“Any idea who they are?” Dr. Price says.

“I believe we’re about to find that out.”

The hatch opens and a large man appears. “Who’s in charge here?” his deep voice booms across the roadblocks.

Rod takes off his mask and pulls his hood down.

“I’m Sergeant Hector Rodriguez, Fifth Stryker Cavalry Regiment. And you would be?”

“Sergeant Toby Wilson, Eighth Infantry Division, Fifth Brigade—the Iron Horse.”

Rod grunts with respect. From what he heard, elements of Fifth Brigade fought hard all over Pennsylvania in the first days of the Wildfire epidemic, and were destroyed piecemeal. If Wilson is from that unit, he and his crew are among its few survivors.

This guy must have one hell of a story to tell.

“Where’s your original dismounts?” he asks, referring to Wilson’s infantry squad.

“Dead just like all the rest. We’re militia now.”

“Well, Sergeant Wilson, it’s an honor, but I’m going to have to ask that you exit my area of operations. If you want to pass through, you’ve got my blessing.”

“No can do, Sergeant. This is important. I need you to tell me about your operation.”

“What the hell?” Rod mutters, then calls back, “Go fuck yourself, Sergeant! Is that enough information for you?”

He hears his boys laughing at their positions. Wilson’s shooters continue to scurry to new cover, fanning out further on his flanks. Preparing for a fight. Soon, they will have him flanked on the left, where he’s weak. He doubts they know about Arnold looking down on them with his machine gun.

The situation is deteriorating fast.

“I ain’t playing with you, Sergeant,” Wilson says. “This is important. I’m going to ask one more time. What are you doing here?”

“I’m telling you for the last time: It’s none of your goddamn business, Sergeant.”

The next few seconds appear to stretch as nobody speaks or moves. Rod has a sense of everyone lining up iron sights on a human target, settling in for the order to fire.

“Sergeant,” Dr. Price says.

“If I were you, I’d get down, Doc,” Fielding says, kneeling behind cover.

“He’s right,” Rod says. “Get your ass down.”

“We’re looking for a man!” the scientist cries, rushing forward.

“Jesus,” Rod groans. “Get down before you get shot!”

Price ignores him, running toward the distant Bradley and shouting: “We’re looking for the man who brought the Wildfire Agent into Camp Defiance! We believe he is coming this way! We want to bring him to a special facility because we believe his blood may hold a cure to Wildfire! Come on, we’re all on the same side!”

Wilson whistles and Rod tenses, raising his shotgun and aiming it center mass at the figure sitting in the open hatch of the armored personnel carrier.

Go ahead, Wilson. I’m taking you with me.

Wilson has some connection to the camp, and has been tracking Typhoid Jody in the hopes of killing him. Simple justice.

To his surprise, Wilson’s shooters pop up from their concealed positions, weapons lowered.

“Good call, Doc,” Rod says absently, blowing air out his cheeks and lowering his shotgun. He watches Wilson jump down from the Bradley and march toward him unarmed. A woman exits the back of the Bradley and joins him. Rod gives the order to stand down.

“I want you back to observing the road, Eyes. Out.”

Roger that, Three. Out.

Rod steps out from behind the row of sawhorses, and jogs to meet Wilson and the woman.

“Looks like we’re on the same side, Sergeant Wilson,” he says, extending his hand.

“Sorry to step on your op,” the large man says, taking it.

“Hate to see what would have happened if we weren’t on the same side.”

“That’s a topic best avoided, don’t you think?”

“Agreed,” Rod grins. “And you can call me Rod.”

“Rod it is. I’m Toby. The guys call me Sarge. This is Wendy, my gunner.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ma’am.”

“Likewise,” she says.

Rod blinks as he shakes her hand, feeling his cheeks burn. Wendy smiles wryly in response.
God, this woman is gorgeous
. He introduces them to Price and Fielding.

“Anything we can do to help, Rod?” Wilson asks him. “We appear to have the same mission.”

“Let me be clear about something, Toby. Our orders are to bring the man in if we can. We are going to do everything we can to make this happen. If we can’t, well, then I’m afraid we’ll have to put him down. Those orders are not open to discussion or compromise.”

“Understood,” Wilson says with a nod.

“In that case I will take you up on your offer of help,” Rod says. “I could use your vehicle a hundred meters behind us and to the left, in front of the strip mall there, with your shooters deployed around it, out of sight, but accessible, and everyone in gas masks if you’ve got them. Provide rear security, and act as reserve.”

“Happy to do it.”

“What do you know about the man?” the scientist asks them.

“His name is Ray Young,” Wendy says. “We came across his trail yesterday, and we’ve been tracking him. Lost him somewhere after Mechanicsburg.”

“Why were you tracking him?” Fielding wants to know.

“He infected Camp Defiance,” Wilson answers. “We figured he uses spores. And if he’s using spores, it’s something we haven’t seen before, something unique. We thought we might be able to get him to where some scientists could take a look at him. Maybe come up with a cure.”

“That’s why we’re here too,” Dr. Price says.

“Smart thinking,” says Rod.

“Not me,” Wilson says with a grin. “We got a smart aleck kid named Todd on our team.”

“So what are we dealing with here, Sergeant?” Rod says. “Do you know the extent of his influence over the Infected?”

Wilson and Wendy exchange a glance.

“We had to shoot our way through two towns,” Wilson tells him. “The Infected attacked us, with weapons. Some of them had
guns
.”

“Fascinating,” Dr. Price says.

“I was thinking,
horrible
,” Rod says. “If Mr. Young has that kind of command and control over the crazies, he could be a hell of a lot harder to deal with.”

“After Mechanicsburg, we stopped being attacked, so our guess he went to ground between there and Spring Lake, probably up in Milford, which is around a ten-minute drive off the road.”

“The man is close, then,” Rod says, nodding. “Assuming he’s still coming east.”

As if to confirm his assumption, Arnold’s voice buzzes in his ear.

Hellraisers 3, this is Hellraisers Eyes. Contact, west. Repeat. We have contact.