American Infection (Book 2) (6 page)

From the end of Brian's driveway to the minivan we had abandoned earlier was about a quarter mile. The truck rental place was halfway between the two. As we approached the rental building, Matt, Melissa and Dale crossed the parking lot. They would wait here, checking the windows, while the rest of us continued on to the van to carry back as much water as we could.

When we returned with the cases of water, Dale was standing on the building's front stoop and Matt was positioned at the back corner of the building, keeping an eye out for any surprises. We dropped the water at the bottom of the steps and Brian leaped up onto the stoop next to Dale. Peeking through the glass door, Brian gave it a slight tug. It opened. Brian continued pulling the door outward, grimacing as a bell gently jingled above the doorway. If anything was inside, it now knew we were here.

Dale took the door and held it in position while Brian slipped through. Dale waved me past him and I slid in behind Brian, rifle raised, scanning the lobby. Gray, industrial carpeting, wood paneling and a small waiting area with four plastic chairs and a magazine‐covered coffee table. Truck rental brochures lined the wall behind a small counter. Do people rent trucks so frequently that they need brochures? Also behind the counter was a cork board dotted with keys. Jackpot.

Brian waved for me to keep an eye on the hallway leading to the back of the building while he stood behind the counter and collected each key off the board. Moments later, I followed him out the door, down the stoop and into the parking lot.

Standing out in the open, Brian suggested a cargo van rather than a truck and we quickly agreed. There were a number of 20‐, 24‐ and 32‐foot options, but those seemed too big for our purposes. The vans had only one compartment and would be easier to maneuver. Brian jogged toward the row of vans and gave a slight tap on the side of each one, just in case anything was taking a nap inside. Satisfied that no infected were hiding in our getaway vehicle, Brian started working his way through the keys in an effort to unlock the van closest to the main road.

Matt was still standing lookout at the corner of the building as we began loading the van. It had large captain's chairs for the driver and passenger, but everyone else would be sitting on the floor. There were double doors on the side and at the rear. The interior was mostly metal, with three wooden planks running along each side, presumably to secure furniture and prevent it from sliding.

With the water and the duffel bags loaded, Brian started the engine. Rob hopped into the passenger seat. I offered Sarah a hand as she stepped up through the van's side doors, and then did the same for Melissa. Dale jumped in the back and shouted for Matt to hustle.

Matt started a slow jog past a row of six 20‐foot trucks in the center of the parking lot. Just as Matt approached the back of the van, Brian yelled something inaudible and I heard the sound of sprinting footsteps kicking up gravel. Matt turned around just in time to raise his rifle and fire a shot at an infected, but he wasn't quick enough to hit his target. Through the back doors I saw the infected man tackle Matt, knocking him to the ground below the bumper and out of sight.

Brian stomped on the gas and thrust the van forward a good thirty feet. The infected was on top of Matt, mouth snapping at his arms as Matt struggled to push him off. Dale raised his AR and pumped several rounds into the infected's back, propelling him off Matt.

Dale pointed his rifle toward Matt, as Matt convulsed on the ground, the same way Tom and Anne had twitched before they turned. Melissa, seated toward the front of the cargo compartment, screamed as she pounced on Dale and swatted his aim into the air. A shot fired, hitting nothing but clouds, as Matt's body went limp.

We all watched silently, expecting Matt to shoot to his feet, rage on his face. Rob had hopped out of the passenger van and stood with his rifle raised, waiting for the sign that Matt was no longer one of us. Even I had my rifle pointed out the back doors. But moments passed and nothing happened.

Slowly, Matt began to sit up, pushing himself off the ground with his elbows, shaking his head as if waking from an alcohol‐induced slumber. Melissa shouted his name and tried to slide past Dale, out of the van, but Sarah reached out and pulled her back. Dale raised his rifle again but I put my hand on top of the barrel and gently pushed down, shaking my head. We needed to see how this played out.

"Wait," Brian said, loudly and firmly. "Just wait."

Brian had gotten out of the van and was standing just to the side of the back doors. He had his AR trained on Matt, but his finger was off the trigger.

"Matt, you still there?" Brian asked, slowly inching toward our friend.

"Bri, you need to fucking put him down," Dale shouted.

Matt nodded, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. He started to stand, but was slow getting to his feet.

"Hold on there, compadre," Brian said. "Were you bit?"

"I…I don't know," Matt said.

Speech was a good sign. Still, something about Matt didn't look right.

"Bri, you better hurry this shit up," Dale said. "Shoot him now. Everything in a mile radius heard those shots and you wanna sit here and wait for this guy to eat us."

Matt turned to face Brian and those of us in the van simultaneously gasped. Brian cocked his shoulders and leveled the rifle. Matt's eyes were the same empty, black color as the infected.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Dale said as he raised his rifle again.

I turned and aimed my rifle at Dale.

"If you shoot him, I shoot you," I said. I trusted Rob and Brian to use discretion, but no way was this old fuck going to decide on his own whether or not Matt lived.

Melissa's sobs cut through the tension as she tried to squirm away from Sarah, but Sarah held tight.

I thought about Matt's father. Matt said his sister told him his father had been attacked in Philly the day of the outbreak. It sounded like an exaggeration and overreaction to the events, people wanting to believe that their situation was exceptional, even compared to the chaos that reigned around them. Everyone had attempted to rationalize what was happening those first few days. I'd only seen two people get bitten by an infected, and both had turned within fifteen seconds. This wasn't a coincidence.

"He's fucking immune," I shouted. Everyone turned to look at me. "His dad, whatever it is, he's gonna be alright."

Melissa started to cry, her sobs muffled by Sarah's embrace.

"I'm not riding in the same car if he's infected," Brian said without taking his eyes off Matt.

I grabbed a duffel bag, threw down the zipper and started rifling through it.

"We'll handcuff him," I said, pulling a pair of handcuffs from the bag. "That way we can keep an eye on him, see if he gets any worse. Matt, you okay with that?"

Matt nodded, still groggy.

"Fine," Brian said, finally lowering the rifle. "But he's your responsibility. And if he so much as sneezes in the wrong direction, I'm putting a bullet through his head."

"Whatever," I said. I turned to Matt. "Now hurry the fuck up and get in here so we can go."

Thursday, 3:30 p.m.

Route 1, according to the maps we'd printed at Brian's home, would take us northwest from Conowingo toward West Chester, almost in a straight line. The first seven miles, up to the Pennsylvania border, were uneventful. Farms lined both sides of the road, interrupted by the occasional diner or gas station, along with a couple houses set close to the shoulder. Most of the buildings and homes appeared undisturbed.

At the border to PA, Route 1 turned into a four‐lane highway, with two lanes heading either direction separated by a grass median. We passed a mall and I thought of that old zombie movie. I wondered if people were stuck in there now, riding out the infection. At least in the movie it seemed like a decent place to be. Lots of entry points, though. Surely not as safe in reality as the movie depicted it to be.

Approaching the town of Nottingham we saw reminders of the new world. Nottingham is home to the Herr's Snacks plant, cranking out various chips and dips. I was never a big fan of Herr's; I wanted to like them because they were from Pennsylvania and I tried to support local products, but they tasted cheap.

Around the plant a few neighborhoods had sprung up to house the employees. Most of the town's population must have tried to flee via Route 1. Cars were strewn across the road, on the shoulders, in the median. Some cars were abandoned, doors flung open with no sign of the occupants. Other cars had smashed windshields, blood splatter on the windows and a few contained half‐eaten passengers, limbless and gutted torsos spilling onto the pavement.

Brian carefully maneuvered through the traffic jam, occasionally using the bumper to push a car out of the way, as Rob kept a vigilant lookout through the front windshield.

Melissa hadn't stopped crying since we left Conowingo. She wanted to comfort Matt, but Sarah held her back and Dale repeatedly reminded her of the potential of contracting the infection. Matt, typically a man among men, sat at the back of the van, his right arm cuffed to a metal bracket on the door, knees to his chest, head hung low resting on his left arm.

We rode mostly in silence, aside from occasional chatter between Rob and Brian. Rob was the navigator, interpreting the maps, outlining our desired path to West Chester. There wasn't much to talk about. Here we were, going to West Chester to hopefully save Matt's parents, not knowing if they were dead or alive, and not knowing if Matt would get better or worse after being bitten. For all we knew, his parents could be gone and his condition could deteriorate until we had no choice but to shoot him. On the other hand, Matt and his father might hold the cure to whatever causes the infection. Still, not much to discuss with a better‐than‐not chance we were on a suicide mission.

After passing through the tangled mess at Nottingham, we were back to farm country. Route 1 was still four lanes, and we passed a couple lonely cars on the side of the road, but otherwise it was clear. A few miles later we turned onto Route 10, heading north. It felt good to be back on a two‐lane road, still surrounded by farms. Route 1 had safely served its purpose, but there was something ominous about a deserted four‐lane highway in the middle of the zombie apocalypse.

I decided it was time to end the silence. I sensed everyone was settling into a very negative mindset. And bringing Matt back into the equation was a good place to start.

"Hey Matt, how you feeling, buddy?" I asked. Matt lifted his head and turned to face me. I had to stop myself from reacting to the sight of his soulless black eyes. Melissa didn't help matters, letting out a sob and covering her mouth.

"I've been better," Matt said. His voice was flat, but I couldn't tell if it was from pain, exhaustion or just self‐pity.

"Yeah, join the club, man," I said. "But really, you hurting from the bite?"

"My side hurts, but I'm not sure if I actually got bit," Matt said.

"Then how the hell'd you get infected?" Dale said. I shot him a 'shut up and let me handle this' look.

"I don't know, I really don't remember much, it all happened so quick," Matt said.

I slid myself across the van floor toward Matt, one hand raised to let him know I meant no harm.

"You mind if I take a look?" I asked, gesturing toward his midsection.

"Jason, be careful, he's covered in blood," Sarah said.

"I will. I'm not gonna touch it," I said. Turning back toward Matt, I asked "Can you use your left hand to lift the shirt, maybe put your leg down so I can see?"

Matt slowly lifted his shirt to his armpit, grimacing as he did so. There were no bites. Instead, I found a gash halfway down his rib cage. The wound was elongated, like the shape of a pinky finger, and deep. There was significant bruising around the gouge, and blood had dried dripping down his side. It was definitely not a bite.

"Hey Dale, you know what this is?" I asked. I figured the veteran would be pretty familiar with the different types of wounds.

Dale slid closer, but maintained a safe distance.

"Fuck me," Dale said, opening his squinted eyes. "That's a bullet graze."

"A bullet graze?" Melissa asked, not understanding.

"Matt, can I see your arms?" I said. He held out his left arm, flipping it over several times. His right arm was handcuffed to the door, but he used his left arm to feel along it and shook his head.

"What about your neck?" I asked. Matt lowered his head, then tilted it all the way back and to each side. He pulled down his shirt collar as far as it would go on each side.

"Doesn't feel like I got bit anywhere," Matt said.

I looked at Dale. He knew I knew what had happened.

"What's going on?" Melissa said, catching my glance toward Dale.

"No way," Sarah said softly.

"I fucking shot him," Dale said. "When I fired at that infected fucker attacking him, the bullet must've gone through and grazed your husband."

Melissa's jaw dropped. She shook her shoulder free from Sarah's clutch and swung a right fist at Dale, hitting nothing but air. Dale let himself fall backwards out of her reach.

"You son of a bitch," Melissa screamed, before beginning to sob again, allowing herself to drop back into Sarah's comforting arms.

"Lissy, it's ok," Matt said. "If Dale hadn't shot that thing, it would've bitten me anyway." Turning toward Dale, Matt continued "I don't blame you. No one should."

For a moment, the only noise in the van came from rubber turning on pavement. Everyone else was convincing themselves that if Matt wasn't angry, they shouldn't be either. I was trying to convince myself that his infection was a blessing. If his blood held a cure, we could be sitting next to the most valuable man in America right now.

"You guys alright back there?" Rob said, turning around from the passenger chair. "This might get a little dicey up ahead."

I looked out the front as Brian gunned the engine. The van lurched forward, headed straight toward an infected woman charging at us down the middle of the road. The impact barely slowed the van, but sent a spray of blood across the windshield.