Z Children (Book 2): The Surge (20 page)

That
was typical, though, for the necessary destination to be the closest to danger.

Dropping
to one knee, I waited while Ranger disappeared into the final white tent
preceding our goal. Soon, he popped back out and looked at me. A quick bob of
his head was my signal to enter the tent. Once inside, I began the useless
rooting for information. Miscellaneous bags, articles of clothing, personal
items—all scattered haphazardly among the numerous cots. This was the norm, nearly
identical to all the other tents we’d entered so far. I was pretty sure people
had been told to “lighten the load” once they’d arrived. In some cases, entire
suitcases of “memories” had just been abandoned.

I
tried not to look at the pictures.

That
made the situation more real. Plus, if I saw a walking dead that matched one of
the people in the photographs, then it would be harder to shoot the thing.
Yeah, I’d do it; I’d do whatever was necessary. But it would be something I’d
see when I finally closed my eyes. Another memory to make the Ativan ever more
necessary.

Stuff.
Just useless stuff. Like all Americans, these people had surrounded themselves
with junk that, in the end, didn’t help their situation in the slightest. Nothing
of use in any of the tents.

Ranger
was already out the door and halfway to our final destination by the time I
left the tent. I could see what was left of his hair standing rigidly at
attention. So close to the “game” now and Ranger was ready for a fight if it
came to that. We both knew that there were too many of them; a direct confrontation
would be unbalanced and more-than-likely, not end in our favor. I made a mental
count of the time it would take for me to get back to the truck if I ran
flat-out. Sixty seconds. One minute. I could do that. But then I considered the
angle of approach from the Z kids’ location to the truck and made another
estimate. Ninety seconds. One and a half minutes. That’s cutting it way too
close.

A
thirty second cushion.

Those
odds weren’t good.

 I
focused back on the task at hand. Ranger was already at the green tent. He was
being cautious, even more so than normal. He knew both our lives depended on
him knowing if the enemy was coming and warning me in time. He couldn’t miss
even the smallest detail of our surroundings, even the most indiscernible
change in stimuli. Once again, I thanked God he was with me. Seemed like I was
thanking the big man upstairs a lot lately.

I
brought the rifle up to my shoulder and kept my eyes open, allowing the reflex
sight to superimpose a red dot on them. With both eyes still wide and
unblinking, I maintained my peripheral vision and control of the situation. If
something was going to happen, I knew that it would be fast.

Slowly,
Ranger entered the tent dimness. I didn’t stay behind this time. I wasn’t
comfortable sending him in alone. I could feel the electricity of the information
running along my skin, causing my hair follicles to stand on end—a mirror to
Ranger’s still-existing fur. I closed the gap between myself and the tent
mouth, stopping just inside the flap and holding it partly open, letting some
sunlight penetrate the shadows. If I heard anything out of order, even so much
as wind blowing in a way that didn’t sit with me, I was lighting the place up.

After
what seemed like an eternity, Ranger stepped back into the arc of light created
by the half-open flap inside the tent area. With one more glance to ensure the
Z’s weren’t converging, I ducked fully inside.

When I
abandoned the opening, letting the tent flap fall closed again, the interior
space became dark—not totally dark, but dark enough to make me nervous.

I had
been there before—darkness and the monsters—in the hospital, but this time was
a little different. For one, I had Ranger with me. I also had a better light
this go. Pushing the button on the Sidewinder flashlight I’d gotten from Jesse,
I angled the bright beam towards the epicenter of the tent ceiling.

Everywhere
the light illuminated, I saw blood—dried and crusty.

Then there
were the bodies.

It was
a crimson carnival house of absolute carnage. Whoever these poor bastards were,
they hadn’t made the boat in time. This was a scene all too familiar to me—the
innocents left to rot, a byproduct of any war, this red war against the undead
being no exception.

Emotionless
,
that’s what I had to be right now.

I
started rummaging through the stacks of paperwork and grabbing anything that
might be useful. A couple of spare Beretta mags from a security guard—who
didn’t need them now and never would again—and a pair of fully-charged Motorola
handheld radios, charging station included, was as good as it got for spoils
from the unsettling tent.

As far
as intel was concerned, I’d hit the jackpot.

The
evacuation camp had been setup by various agencies banded together—FEMA,
regular Army, CDC docs, DHS guys and a handful of linguists. This show of
cooperation told me that the president had enacted Executive Order 13603,
establishing martial law for the entire country. It was a comfort in a way
because it proved that the government was responding. In another way, it made a
knot of discomfort form in my stomach. This made it a reality. It wasn’t just
Texas. It was everywhere.

But
where had they evacuated people?

I
began keeping a mental note of how much time I’d spent looking for answers.
Ranger was stationed at the tent opening; he’d warn me if something was about
to throw down. But even with his warning, I knew I’d have little time to react.
Things happened fast with the monsters. I found myself hoping that luck would
be on my side, even though I truly believed that trusting in luck was a damn
mistake. I just needed an answer. And I needed it now.

Nearly
ready to give up hope, I spied a briefcase on the ground. It wasn’t until I was
kneeling beside it that I saw the fingers still wrapped around the handle in a
death grip. The previous owner was sprawled across the floor, stomach against
the ground, head held onto the neck by a few pieces of surviving tissue.
Whichever little beastie had gone for this man had gone straight for the
jugular. I had to break his fingers to get it loose. The sound of each one
snapping shot through my brain, creating another ugly memory to dangle inside
my subconscious like a warped, blood-spattered Christmas ornament created by
some macabre decorator with a dark sense of humor.

Swallowing,
I lifted the briefcase onto a nearby folding table and unbuckled the dual
leather flaps that kept it closed. I fully expected to find the same useless
crap I had already run into—rosters, assignments, operating orders, contact
info,
et cetera
.

But
this was different.

The
proverbial damn motherlode.

Flight
lists—passengers, plane numbers, destinations.

They
were dispersing the population all over the place, and this FEMA-controlled
station was responsible for most of East Texas and West Louisiana. The
documents weren’t specific to this evac point, though—it outlined each response
camp, each end point. There were even updated specifics on how many people had
already been displaced.

Certain
people—and I made the quick intuitive leap that these particular people were
skilled in a way that would prove useful—were being moved to New Orleans for
ship transfer. Bad idea. Terrible idea. Sending more people into an already
densely-populated area. But these plans had been set up for war or a
predictable epidemic, a scenario that was nowhere near the radical scope of
what was going on. Set up by executive order…

My
mind did its thing, rushing backwards and forwards, accessing existing
information and forming connections, forming a fluid plan that could change.

This
wasn’t a situation for standard operating procedure. This was anything but
standard.

But
the brains at FEMA couldn’t change directions on their feet, not like I could.
I’d seen it before—the inability of government agencies to adapt to new
situations. They’d just keep throwing the same shit at a problem and pray that
it would resolve itself, that something they tried would stick. It was like the
damn flu vaccine, always based on the prior year’s strain.

Vaccines.

I
shuddered, still holding several pieces of the paperwork in my hands. Fucking
vaccines.

Looking
down at the paperwork again, I studied the markings made on the map, the large
star hovering over New Orleans. Then again, maybe they knew something I didn’t.
Not that I really knew a damn thing about what was happening other than what
Virginia and Chris rambled on about.

Once
again, I focused on the destination list. Seemed that the majority of planes
were going to Delamar first. I knew that area, trained there. Middle of nowhere
Nevada desert land. More than likely, they’d have set up a big refugee camp—the
dry lake bed would accommodate even the largest jet, runway-wise.

The
next most-popular evac location was designated only for 737s or smaller craft,
like the one that sat in ruins on the flight line. It was the Adirondack
airport which only had a six-thousand-foot runway which was barely enough room
to brake a jet. Skimming over the other destinations, my eye fell on one jumbo
jet that was sent to a place called Pine Gap…in Australia. Why would one plane
head there? The name sounded so damn familiar. Pine Gap. I couldn’t pull up the
information from my brain. I focused, trying to recall. The memory was nearly
up my throat, the taste of it beginning to form on my tongue…when Ranger let
loose with a low, warning growl.

Shit.

Shoving
nearly all of the briefcase paperwork into my shirt, I moved to Ranger, my
weapon ready. Peeking outside, I saw the game of “head” ball was over and the hunt
for an afternoon snack had begun. The Z kids were dispersing in every direction
with adults lumbering behind. It was time to move. I knew it, and Ranger sure
as shit knew it.

Leaving
Ranger at my six to keep an eye on the now-moving Z’s, I left the tent and
rounded the corner fast and quiet, only to stop short in my tracks. Standing
right in from of me, motionless and silent, was an adult Z—mouth open wide, a
trail of drool hanging from its chin. It was staring straight at me, through me
for a moment. Finally, there was a spark in its expression, a glimmer of
realization. When it began to open its mouth, I didn’t think, I just reacted.
Lunging, I drove the blunt front of the M-16’s suppressor into its forehead and
pulled the trigger.

The
crack of the round was quieted by both the can and the zombie’s head, but it
wasn’t enough. As the creature’s head exploded, the bullet continued its arc
through the air and a barely audible echo of sound floated across the otherwise
dead-quiet runway. Worse than that, the carrion birds in the immediate area—the
birds that I had so deliberately avoided disturbing—launched into the air with
a cacophony of screeches. I’d basically set off a loud, feathery dinner bell.
Come
and get me, you hungry mother fuckers. I’m right here, just follow the noise.

“Well,
shit,” I said calmly, calmer than any sane person would. Ranger responded with
a soft bark that could only mean
“fucking run, Grunt!”

So I
ran.

Flat-out,
my head exploding from the effort as blood rushed spastically inside my body,
trying to make it to my legs to keep me from collapsing. It made me recognize
once again that I wasn’t a young soldier anymore. And…my over-confidence,
sneaking around the tents and taking chances, might have just killed me and
Ranger.

I
could feel my feet slamming into the uneven pavement as my old Rocky combat
boots pumped faster and faster. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see them.
They were gaining ground. The ankle-biting boogeymen hungry after their
gruesome sport. They hadn’t started their pursuit from where I’d calculated;
some had gotten a good head-start, alerted by the gun. So my not-so-comfortable
thirty-second buffer was now closer to a holy-shit-I’m-dead five or ten
seconds.

This
was gonna end in a fight.

No way
to avoid it.

My
heart was about to explode and my lungs were gasping for air when I got to the
back of the truck. Ranger had stopped already and was turned to defend me.
Great gesture, but beyond stupid with the delivery truck door standing
wide-open and waiting for us.

“Get
in the truck, Ranger!” I yelled, as I turned and took a knee.

They
were on me; I would have never gotten in clean. Weapon up, selector switch on
auto, I gently pulled the trigger.

Short
controlled bursts.

I
could hardly keep the weapon on target because of my erratic breathing; the
ACOG virtually bounced with my heart. I pulled the trigger again and again.

Then
the weapon ran dry.

I
bolted, leaping into the cab and slamming the door. “Drive, woman!”

The
first Z kid hit the side of the truck and grabbed onto the side mirror.
Virginia gasped. Bonnie whimpered. Ranger growled.

To her
credit, Chris didn’t hesitate or grumble that I’d addressed her as ‘woman’. She
slammed her foot to the floor with a force that slightly rocked the large
vehicle. The wheels spinning made a sound akin to a high-pitched squealing and
the smell of burnt rubber wafted through the interior vents.

But
then the truck was launching forward, leaving the monsters in our wake. The kid
that was hanging on the mirror was caught so off guard that it didn’t have a
chance to tighten its grip. I leaned forward in the seat, watching the camera
system and the horde running after us. But Chris was going faster, faster than
I thought the large auto could go. They disappeared, little by little, until
they were ants on the horizon.