Crucifixion - 02 (20 page)

Forrest Avenue turned out to be Nathan Bedford Forrest
Avenue.  He is best known as being the first Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan,
but was also a brilliant general for the Confederacy during the Civil War and a
son of Tennessee.  Despite all of that I was quite surprised to see a street
named after him in the hyper politically correct times we live in…. er, lived
in, I corrected myself.  Not much time or place for political correctness when
the people trying to kill and eat you ran the gamut of color and ethnicity and
could care less if you were black, white or purple.  We were all finally and
truly equal.  Somehow I didn’t think this was the dream Dr. King was talking
about.  All of this ran through my head as the truck pulled to a stop in a
parking lot for a large home improvement store that sat at the intersection of
Forrest Avenue and the state highway we had followed into town.  People were
streaming into the parking lot by the dozens and I knew I needed to get them
organized.  We were fast running out of time.

Jumping down from the truck’s running board I turned to
Rachel when she dropped to the ground next to me.  “Did you see the hospital we
passed about half a mile back?”

“Yes.  Why?”  She asked, adjusting her rifle sling to free
her hair which she then whipped up into a quick braid to keep it out of her
face.

“My hands are killing me.  I can’t grip anything.  Would you
run back and see if you can find something that would numb them?  Something
that would be a local.  No morphine or valium or anything like that.”

“On my way,” she said, turning and dashing back up the road,
Dog running at her side.

I looked around at the quickly assembling throng and didn’t
waste a moment detailing several men to unload the trucks and organize the
weapons.  I was mentally cataloging and prioritizing what else needed to be
done when a loud horn sounded from behind.  I turned to see the largest
forklift I had ever seen approaching down the highway with a huge, steel
shipping container held a few feet off the ground in its forks.  Behind it were
three more forklifts with similar burdens.  I trotted over to meet the one in
the lead, stepping up on the side of the massive vehicle that was driven by Jim
Roberts.

“Where do you want it?”  He shouted over the roar of the
diesel engine.

“Smack in the middle of the intersection, running east and
west.”  I shouted back, pointing at the location and gesturing with my bandaged
hand.  Jumping down from the forklift I stood back and watched as Jim dropped
the first container on the asphalt.  The first piece of the wall, 40 feet long,
10 feet high and 10 feet deep was in place.  I saw Jim raise a walkie talkie to
his mouth and less than a minute later three more containers were in place and
we had 160 feet of wall in place.  The forklifts spun around and charged back
towards the rail yard.  The men were still unloading the truck and organizing
the cargo and I walked over to the large crowd and raised my hand in the air. 
They went quiet and pressed forward to listen.

“Glad to see all of you here!”  I shouted.  “We have about two
hours at most before the first infected start arriving and a lot to do to get
ready.  First, I need everyone experienced with a military rifle to move over
by the deuce and a half.”  I pointed at the truck and about 300 people
separated themselves from the main group and moved to the area I indicated.

“OK, next we need about a thousand sand bags.”  Immediately
a heavy set man stepped forward from the front ranks of a large group of boys. 
A quick look at their jackets and I realized it was a high school football
team.

“We’ve got that,” he said.  “Where do you want them
stacked?”

“To the right of the stacks of weapons.”  I pointed, he
nodded and trotted off with 80 football players at his back.

“We need ladders to get to the top of the containers.”  An
early middle aged woman stepped forward.

“I’m Jess.  I’m the manager of the Home Depot right there. 
Lots of ladders.  Follow me!”  She turned and headed across the parking lot, a
couple of dozen people falling in behind her.

“Radios.  Walkie Talkies.  We need at least 30, all on the
same frequency.”  I called out to the group.

“I own a CB and Ham radio shop.  Got you covered!”  An
elderly man headed for his car at the far side of the parking lot and a couple
of women joined him to lend a hand.

I spent another couple of minutes detailing groups to
collect water and medical supplies, then the second truck arrived and the men
that had just finished unloading the first one immediately set to work.  Four
more containers showed up a minute later and our wall doubled in length. 
Stepping over to the group that had served in the military I shouted out asking
for NCOs – Non Commissioned Officers or Sergeants – and was rewarded with about
30 raised hands.  I waved them forward to where I was standing.

“We’ve got,” I turned my head and did a quick count of
crates and did the math.  “Looks like 750 rifles.  I want to put 500 on the
wall along with our two M60s.  Each of you grab 25 shooters and make sure they
seem to know what they’re doing.  As soon as the sand bags and ladders are
here, get them a rifle and have them grab a sand bag on their way to the top of
the wall.”  The sand bags would be rests for the rifles and hopefully improve
the shooters’ accuracy.  “Doesn’t look like there’s enough bodies, so start
picking people you know that can shoot to fill out the ranks.  Get going!”

“You six stay with me.”  I pointed at six older men who were
standing closest to me.  Two of them had globe and anchor tattoos on their
forearms.  I might crack jokes but I’d never turn down help in a fight from a
Marine.  The other four were from the same generation but didn’t have the look
and when I asked found that two were retired Navy CPOs, one retired Air Force
and the other had been in the Coast Guard. 

“We need a 250 man ready reaction force,” I said and the two
Marines quickly nodded understanding and agreement.  A reaction force is held
in reserve to swiftly move into an area of the battle where there is a risk
that the front lines will be overwhelmed.  It can often mean the difference
between victory and defeat.  “Alpha, Bravo, Charlie and Delta.”  I pointed at
each one of them in turn as I said the designator for their piece of the reaction
force.  Having made a very spur of the moment assessment I assigned Navy as
Alpha and Bravo which would be the first units I called if we needed to use
them.  I expected them to have the least experience in a firefight and be the
least effective so I’d throw them into the grinder first.  My two Jar Heads
were Charlie and Delta.  Again the two Marines nodded their understanding of
what I was doing and the four of them set off to start rounding up shooters.  I
was left with the AF and CG non-coms and assigned one to put together a group
to load the lose ammo into magazines.  I had the other oversee the filling of
the sand bags, and when the football team was done with that he would conscript
them to be ammo runners for the shooters, collecting empty magazines for the
crew doing the loading and delivering full magazines back to the top of the
wall.

Everyone was scurrying around and I was surprised how
quickly all the people had jumped in to help.  Of course they’d all had a
couple of weeks of the apocalypse to get used to the idea that everyone needed
to pitch in if anyone wanted to survive.  Besides, there was a reason Tennessee
was called the Volunteer state.  More containers arrived and were quickly
placed.  The forklift drivers showed their skills, maneuvering the large
containers into place with an apparent ease that I knew only came from years of
experience.  The wall was quickly spreading out and I was starting to feel a
tiny little glimmer of hope, but reminded myself that the containers were only
10 feet high and we still had a lot of work to do and almost no time to do it
in. 

Ladders started arriving and were put in place to give
access to the tops of the containers.  Grabbing one of the men that was heading
back to get another ladder I told him to find as many cans of white spray paint
as he could get his hands on, then sent him running.  My plan was to have 500
shooters spread along the top of the wall, each shooter needing about five feet
of space, so I needed 2,500 feet of wall completed before the infected
arrived.  I did a quick count and came up with 16 containers, or 640 feet. 
Wanting a look I strode to the closest ladder and climbed, grimacing at the
pain as I gripped the rungs.  As I reached the top of the ladder and stepped
onto the roof of the container a rumble of thunder sounded behind me.  I turned
and while I couldn’t see the clouds in the dark sky I could see the play of
lightning through the clouds.  Shit.  All we needed right now was a storm.  I
turned back to the south and looked down the highway.  No infected were in
sight, but I knew that wouldn’t last long.

I spent a couple of minutes on top of the container,
watching Wilbur James and his grandson carry the two M60 machine guns up a
ladder.  They set them up to bracket the highway, each one settling in about 75
yards on either side of me.  I nodded my approval and as each of them started
working with a couple of teenagers they’d brought along to act as gun crews I
turned to look back to the north.  Four more containers were arriving and the
forklifts split when they reached the wall, two going to the right and two to
the left.  Another four containers.  Another 160 feet.  Two vehicles with red
and blue flashing lights were fast approaching and I climbed down the ladder to
meet them as another rumble of thunder, closer this time, rolled over the
town.  The air felt heavy and charged with energy and I expected we were in for
a hell of a storm.

When I reached the ground an ambulance led by Sergeant
Jackson pulled to a stop.  The driver side door of the ambulance opened,
activating the dome light, and I could see Rachel and Dog climb down out of the
vehicle.  A large pickup truck that I hadn’t noticed pulled in next to the
ambulance and the driver, one of Jackson’s officers stepped out and waved me
over.  Curious I went to the back of the vehicle where he was standing and
couldn’t suppress a big grin.  In the bed of the truck was a crated 60 MM
mortar and half a dozen crates of mortar bombs.  The officer was smiling too
and used his night stick to break off the lid on one of the crates of bombs. 
The crate held 20 HE – high explosive – bombs nestled into wooden cut outs and
padded with shredded cardboard. 

“Thought you’d like this,” he said, looking at the grin on
my face.

“You have no idea,” I said, pointing at a spot 100 feet
behind the wall and in the center of the highway.  “Can you put it all right
there?”

“You got it,” he said and jumped back into the truck to move
the weapon to the middle of the street.

Dog had trotted over and was nudging my hip with his head. 
I absently scratched his ears and turned as the man with the cans of spray
paint came running up, pushing a rattling shopping cart half full of spray
cans. 

“Where?”  He shouted to me without breaking stride.

“By the ammo supply.”  I pointed.  “Grab someone to be ready
to help you and stand by.  We need a few more containers first.”  He nodded and
ran to where I had indicated, pushing the cart to rest against the tall tires
of the truck, then looked around for someone who wasn’t doing anything.

A screech of tires sounded in the parking lot and an aging
Buick came to a stop.  The man that owned the radio shop waved from behind the
windshield then he and the women who had gone with him jumped out and started
loading up their arms with stacks of walkie talkies from the trunk.  He walked
over to me and I picked two of them, handing one to Rachel.

“Sorry it took so long.  We put batteries in each one and
set them all to the same frequency.  They’re ready to go.”

“Excellent,” I said.  “Hammond!”  I shouted to the Coast
Guard NCO who was making sure the football team was stacking the sand bags
neatly as they were filled.  He trotted over and I pointed at the radios and
told him to make sure each NCO received one.  He nodded, grabbed one for
himself and waved for them to follow as he set off to get our communications
distributed.

“Alright, in the ambulance.”  Rachel said, grabbing my left
arm and pulling me towards the vehicle.  She led me to the back and opened the
doors, climbing up inside and sitting on a padded bench that ran the length of
the wall.  I joined her and Dog jumped up as well, giving Rachel a look when
she kicked him out and made him wait on the ground just outside.  Rachel opened
a drawer and pulled out a pair of medical scissors that she used to cut the
bandages off each hand.  Thunder rumbled louder while she worked.

“I’d better do something to waterproof these when I
re-bandage,” she said without pausing in her work.  “Sounds like we’re about to
get soaked.”

Bandages off she examined my wounds under the bright lights
in the back of the ambulance and nodded to herself.  From another drawer she
produced more antibiotic ointment which was liberally smeared onto my wounds. 
Standing up she dug through her pocket for a key she used to open a couple of
locked drawers.  Leaving the key in the lock she picked through and pulled out
two different syringes wrapped in paper and a couple of different vials of
liquid, one clear and one cloudy and yellow.  While she was getting what she
needed Sergeant Jackson walked up to the back of the ambulance and stood next
to Dog.

“Are we going to be ready?”  He asked.

“We have a chance,” I said with much more conviction than I
felt, but I wasn’t going to let anyone see a shred of doubt.  Right now my
outward confidence was as important as any preparation we were making.  “How’s
the evacuation going?”

“The railroad guys are getting a train hooked up and I’ve
got men going through town and sending people to the passenger terminal.  I’ve
got to get back in a few but I got a call from the hospital that they were
under attack and I had to run over.”

He watched as Rachel inserted the smaller needle into the
vial of clear liquid and extracted enough to fill the syringe.

“You know she took the key for the narcotics cabinet there
from an EMT at gunpoint, then stole the ambulance.  All of this after she
threatened to shoot one of the doctors in the balls.”  I looked at him then
turned and caught Rachel grinning as she held my right hand and prepared to
insert a needle.

“He taught me everything I know,” Rachel sassed then the
needle went into the raw flesh of my hand and liquid fire flowed into me.

“Fuck me,” was the only reaction I made, but I wanted to
jump, yell, scream and flap my hand in the air like a maniac.  Fortunately I
didn’t because moments later the pain started easing and blessed numbness began
to spread across my palm.  Several injections later Rachel turned my hand over
and did the same thing on the back.  Finished with my right she moved and
started working on my left.  While she worked I tested the hand, making a fist
and squeezing, then wiggling each finger individually.  Not perfect, but at
least the pain was gone for the moment.  Finished with my left she started
bandaging me back up.

“Sergeant, is his pack still in your car?”  Rachel asked
without looking up from her work.

“Yes, ma’am.  Do you need it?”

“Please.”

Rachel finished the bandaging then slipped a latex glove
onto each hand to protect the heavy gauze and used medical tape to seal the
cuff of each glove around my wrist so water wouldn’t run down inside.  More
thunder, much closer, and Jackson returned and deposited my pack in the
ambulance.  Rachel opened it and looked through until she found a pair of thin
leather gloves that she handed me.  Slipping them on I secured the Velcro tabs
at the wrist so they were tight and tried my hands again.  I was able to open
and close my hands most of the way, but more importantly I could grip my rifle
and pistol without pain.  Without much pain would be more accurate.  I reached
behind my back and drew the Kukri, but wasn’t confident I could grip it tightly
enough to be effective with it.  Oh well, good enough for now.

“One last thing,” Rachel said, filling a much larger needle
and syringe with the yellowish liquid.

“Oh shit.  Really?” 

“Yep.  Stand up, turn around and drop your pants.”  She said
with a grin.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that to… Ouch!”  Rachel
jabbed the needle into my ass, probably harder than she would have if I hadn’t
been being a smart ass.  As bad as the needle was, the antibiotic hurt like
hell when she pressed the plunger.  A moment later, syringe empty, Rachel
pulled the needle out and swabbed the spot with an alcohol pad then pulled my
underwear back up and snapped the elastic waistband into place.

“Just because you were crucified doesn’t mean you need to get
a God complex.  You need a shower,” she said, slapping my ass on the exact spot
she had just injected then started straightening up the supplies she had used. 
The loudest peel of thunder yet sounded and Dog whined and jumped into the
ambulance with us, willing to risk Rachel’s wrath rather than stand out in the
open.  He pushed up against me and shoved his head behind me to look at Rachel
from a safe distance.

“Sounds like we’re all about to get a shower,” I said, properly
put back in my place.  I pulled my pants up and buckled my belt.

Stepping down from the ambulance I looked up at the wall and
an idea struck me.  I turned to Sergeant Jackson just as the first rain drop
fell, splattering directly on my nose.  Wiping the water out of my eyes I asked
him, “How many fire trucks in this town?”

“Three,” he said after a moment’s thought.

“Get them here.  Now.”  I said, turning back to the wall and
starting to count containers.  Four more had just arrived and the forklifts
were roaring back into town to get more.  I heard Jackson on the police radio
issuing orders and heard the acknowledgement that the fire department was on
their way.  He wished me luck and took off to make sure the evacuation was
progressing smoothly.  I didn’t think there was any way we could stop the
infected, rather my plan was to hold them at the wall for a while.  Hopefully
long enough to get all the people in the town loaded onto a train that would
head west towards Kansas City.

It took me a few minutes to finish counting and by the time
I was done four more containers were arriving.  I added them to the total and
came up with 44 containers.  1,760 feet.  We were getting there.  I dashed
forward and climbed the first ladder I came to and looked up and down the top
of the wall.  It was already impressive, but not enough, I knew.  Turning to my
left I started jogging along until I came to the end of the final container. 
Ahead I could see Forrest Avenue curve to the south and decided this was far
enough.  Running back I reached the center of the wall just as four more
containers arrived.  Climbing down I trotted to Jim’s forklift and gave him
updated instructions.  Only one container was going to the left, east, and it
was going to be at a 45 degree angle to the wall, the far end of it angling
south.  I had noticed the terrain quickly grew very rugged as I had jogged
east, and I expected that the more difficult terrain would help to keep the
infected funneled along the highway.  I hoped.

Climbing back down I found the paint guy, waiting right
where I’d asked, a woman standing next to him.  I started explaining what I
needed as soon as I walked up to them.  “I want the wall broken up into numbered
sections.  Every three containers makes up one section.  Start at the far east
end and the first three containers are number 1.  The next three are number 2. 
Got it?”

The both nodded their heads.

“On the top of each container I want the number of that
section painted every 10 feet, so you’ll paint a number four times on the top
of each container.  On the face of each container, right in the center, paint
the same number very large so it can be seen from a good distance.  Repeat back
to me what you’re doing.”  They repeated it back correctly and I sent them on
their way, the woman running east along Forrest Avenue pushing the shopping
cart, the man rushing up a ladder and heading east along the top of the wall.  I
wanted the numbers every ten feet so in the heat of battle if someone needed
help they didn’t have to look far to find their location.

Looking around I was pleased to see a large group of women
seated on the ground, surrounded by crates of loose ammo and empty magazines. 
They were loading the magazines and stacking them into waiting crates.  The
football team was organized and kept moving the full crates to the side and
placing empty ones back within easy reach of the women.  I dug the walkie
talkie out of my pants pocket and raised it to my mouth and pressed the
transmit button.

“All NCOs attention.  All NCOs attention.”  I gave them a
moment to hear their radios and listen, then started transmitting again.  “Get
your shooters armed and on the wall.  First unit on move all the way to the
east, then let’s fill from there.  Each unit spread out across three
containers.  Let’s go!”

There was almost immediate movement from the large group
that had been sitting quietly out of the way.  A man I recognized as one of the
NCOs stood up and 25 people stood and followed him to where the rifles were
neatly lined up by the two deuce and a halfs.  As each man, and woman, moved
down the line they grabbed a rifle, moved forward where they were handed half a
dozen loaded magazines, continued on to grab a sandbag that was held out to
them by one of the football players then climbed a ladder and headed east.  The
next NCO had his group lined up behind the first one and ready to go. 
Satisfied things were working for the moment I called Rachel on the radio and
told her where to find me.  It took her a minute but she trotted up with Dog at
her side.

“I need you right next to me,” I said.  “There will be
things that need done that can’t get done over the radio once the shooting
starts.”

“Whatever you need,” she said.

“Thanks.  And I want you to keep Dog with you.”  Rachel
nodded and we stood and watched the shooters continue to arm themselves on
their way to the wall. 

Containers were still arriving, Jim waving as he roared by
with another section of the wall.  Behind the last forklift three bright red
fire trucks arrived, swinging into the parking lot and coming to a stop, side
by side.  I walked over, Rachel and Dog trailing me, and met the fire captain
when he swung down from the lead truck.  He introduced himself and I shook
hands with him, suppressing the wince that wanted to form on my face when he
squeezed my hand.  I looked at the three trucks and quickly explained what I
wanted.  He grinned, nodded and climbed back into the cab of the truck and got
on the radio to explain to the other firemen what was happening.  I headed back
to the wall and climbed a ladder to the top, Rachel following as Dog sat at the
bottom of the wall and watched us.