Infected (Book 2): The Flight (8 page)

“What’s your plan?” L.C. asked as they began gathering the food from the break room.

“I have three-quarters of a tank of gas.  I don’t know if we’ll be able to drive all the way out of the city or not.  If we can’t, we’ll have to walk and find another vehicle somewhere along the way.”

“You’re a pilot,” Meagan said hopefully.  “Maybe we can rent an airplane and fly.”

“It would be a pretty short trip,” Mike objected.  “They said the President’s no fly order is being enforced by the Air Force.  Any plane in the air will be shot down without warning.”

“If the sickness is as bad as they’re saying, I doubt that order will be enforced for long.  There won’t be anybody left to fly the military planes and those who are left aren’t going to care about a private plane. Right now it isn’t an option, though,” Zeke agreed as he pressed on a piece of tape sealing a cardboard box he had filled with an assortment of food from the break room.  He handed the tape to John, who was carrying his own box to the vending machine in the corner of the room.

With a fire ax from the hall, John quickly knocked out the Plexiglas front and they began dividing the food between the two groups. 

“Do you mind if I grab one of those?” Mike asked as John pulled the row of Snickers out of the metal coil that dispensed them.

“You can do what you want with your share, but if I were you, I would hold off and grab something from the café.  The stuff up there will spoil pretty quickly when it’s no longer refrigerated.  The candy will last forever,” John suggested as he pulled the last of the snacks from the machine.

“Good point,” Mike ceded. “While you guys are working on this, I’m going to run up to the café and make a bunch of sandwiches for the road.  You want to give me a hand, Meagan?”

Thirty minutes later, everything of foreseeable value for the trip had been gleaned from the building and was being loaded into Zeke’s truck and John’s car.

As Meagan stretched to lift a box over the side of the truck bed, Zeke noticed her attire for the first time.  She was wearing a tight skirt that reached to her knees with slits running up a foot on either side.  His eyes followed her legs down to two inch heels that supported what he guessed was a hundred and thirty five pounds. 

“Meagan?” he asked.  “You go to the gym after work, don’t you?”

“Yeah.  Why?” she asked, her voice full of uncertainty.

“Do you have a change of clothes with you for after your workout?”

“Yes,” she answered suspiciously.  “I have a pair of jeans.  Why?”

“Because you aren’t going to be able to run in heels and a tight skirt and there’s a good chance running is going to be a big part of your immediate future.  You might want to change into your jeans and workout shoes before we leave,” Zeke suggested as he grabbed a pair of jeans and running shoes from the tool box in the bed of his truck and walked into the stairwell to change out of his slacks and patent leather loafers.

When Zeke returned to the garage, his truck had been moved.  Mike had parked it beside Meagan’s Accord.  One end of a red hose was buried in the Honda’s gas tank.  The other end disappeared into Mike’s mouth.  He suddenly spewed a geyser of clear liquid from his mouth as he lowered the hose into a bucket.  He coughed violently as he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coveralls.  “Every time I do that, I swear I’ll never siphon another ounce of gas,” he added to the end of a string of colorful vulgarities. He suddenly stopped when he saw Meagan staring at him. “I apologize for my language,” he said as he looked at her with embarrassment.  At sixty-one years old, he had been raised in a society where women were still esteemed and were to be protected and respected.  Although he felt no remorse for his use of vulgar language, he had been raised not to swear in the presence of a lady.  For that, he felt guilt.

Meagan smiled as she climbed into the back seat of the truck.  “Don’t worry about it, Mike.”

After they topped off both vehicles’ gas tanks, Zeke followed John’s car as it made a right turn out of the parking garage.  John took a quick left at the T intersection and Zeke turned right.  As he passed, he looked at the building where he had worked for the last five years. L.C., who was sitting in the front seat, voiced the sentiment Zeke was feeling. “I’ll probably never set foot in there again.  It was a pretty good place to work.”  As he spoke, his voice was devoid of emotion, but if the three in the car could have seen his eyes, they would have seen the sadness his voice failed to convey.

The four rode in silence for block after block.  Each seemed lost in silent thoughts too private to share.  As they continued through the business district, buildings shrank to single story edifices fronted with brick and rock rather than mirrored glass.

The well-lit streets were devoid of traffic, either pedestrian or vehicular. As Zeke slowly rolled through a red light, a police car shot out of a driveway at the far end of the intersection.  The blue lights illuminated as it turned left into the lane, coming nose to nose with Zeke’s truck. 

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Zeke stammered.  “With everything going on, he’s going to stop me for rolling through a light?” 

As Zeke leaned to the left to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, L.C. exclaimed, “Those aren’t cops, Zeke! Get us out of here!”  The cruiser’s front doors flew open and Civic pulled out of a lot behind them and slammed up against the truck’s rear bumper. As two men with baggy pants and wife beaters boiled out of the police cruiser, Zeke realized L.C. was right -- but it was too late.  They were trapped between the two cars with no room to maneuver. 

The driver walked toward the passenger side of the truck with a handgun in his right hand, hanging limply at his side.  “What da ya’ll got in there that I need?” he yelled angrily while raising his gun toward the truck.  “Everybody out.  Now!”  His partner stayed in the V between the body of the cruiser and the open door. He leaned against the car with casual disinterest, his arm resting on the roof.

L.C. had pulled his nickel plated pistol from its holster.  He pressed his gun and arm tightly against the door panel, hiding both from the approaching thug.  Zeke bent down, reaching for the pistol he kept beneath the driver seat.

“Forget it,” L.C. said calmly.  “I’ll shoot, you drive.  Put it in four wheel and when I drop him, put it in reverse and push that rice burner behind us out of the way. Once you have room, get us out of here.”

Zeke silently nodded in agreement as he pulled the gear shift on the floor into four high and reached for the gear shift on the steering column. 

“Not yet,” L.C. whispered as he rolled his window down.  “The reverse lights will give you away.  Wait until I shoot.” 

The unsuspecting hooligan casually strutted past the mirror, shoved the muzzle of his pistol inside the cab and screamed, “Get out!” 

L.C. raised his left arm as fast as a rattlesnake and tightly wrapped his hand around the slide of the pistol and pushed it forward to the windshield pillar while simultaneously raising his right arm with his own pistol to the gangster’s face.  Both guns went off at the same time.  The gangster’s bullet exploded a spider web pattern across the passenger side of the windshield.  L.C.’s bullet smashed into the thug’s cranium, dropping him beside the truck in an unmoving pile of wasted life. 

L.C. bellowed, “Now!” as Zeke was already pushing the shifter up two notches into reverse and smashing the gas pedal to the floor.  Plastic crunched as the front of the entrapping car was shattered by the pickup’s steel rear bumper.  The motion was slow at first as the truck fought to overcome the friction between the road and the tires on the car.  Once the small car began to inch rearward, giving way to the pickup’s weight and horsepower, the coefficient of friction between the car and the road decreased making it easier to push. Both vehicles picked up speed.  L.C. dropped the gangster’s pistol, which he still held in his left hand, onto the dash and leaned out his window. He slowly and methodically fired at the delinquent beside the cruiser who had suddenly gained a keen interest in what was happening and hid behind the door like the coward that he was.  The Civic pivoted around the rear bumper and slammed into the left side of the truck as Zeke braked and pulled the gear shift back into drive and once again smashed the gas pedal into the floor. 

The engine roared as the truck surged forward and shot passed the hijacked police cruiser.  L.C. fired one last round as the truck was even with the gangster, who was raising his gun in their direction.  The shot flew true and the kid, who was in his early twenties, fell backward into the police cruiser.  “Stop the truck!” L.C. yelled to be heard above Meagan’s screams in the backseat.  “The cruiser still has the rifle and shotgun in the gun rack.”

Before the truck came to a stop, L.C. opened the door, jumped onto the asphalt road, and began to run the fifty feet back to the cruiser.  Shots rang out from the red import.  L.C. hunched down low as he ran and fired two shots. His gun went dry and he instinctively grabbed for the spare magazine in a pouch on his belt.  Reaching the protection of the car door, he shoved the empty magazine into his pocket and put two more shots into the scraped driver’s side of the Civic.

Then, as if he had lost interest in the bullets slamming into the cruiser’s door, he reholstered his pistol and ducked into the car.  Slivers of glass spewed into the interior as bullets pounded holes through the windshield.  The interior began emitting a high pitched beep from the unlocked gun holder and L.C. emerged with an assault rifle in one hand and a shotgun in the other.  Slinging the shotgun over his shoulder, he began walking backwards toward the pickup while firing into the Civic with the rifle.

Whether it was because the overwhelming firepower had forced the shooter to take cover or because one of the bullets had found a meaty target, the gunshots from the Civic ceased.  L.C. slammed the truck door closed and shouted, “Make like a bread truck and haul buns!”

This time Zeke didn’t slow below forty for red lights.   Two times in the next mile and a half, cars pulled out of lots and accelerated to follow.  Both times Zeke romped on the gas and accelerated to seventy miles an hour.  Both times, the cars immediately pulled back into parking lots without pursuit, waiting for easier targets.

Shortly after outrunning the last of the car pirates, the road began to plug up with abandoned cars.  Initially Zeke was able to weave between the empty vehicles discarded in the lanes, but eventually the road was completely blocked.  Driving on sidewalks and in parking lots took them a little further.  When no more progress was possible, he turned down side streets.  They proved to be no better. 

It became apparent that continuing in the truck was not going to be practical.  “It looks like this is the end of the line,” L.C. commented dryly.  “We’re going to have to walk from here.” Before he got out of the truck, he handed the pistol he had taken from the gangster to Mike and gave Zeke the shotgun.  “If the two of you don’t mind, I think I’m going to keep the rifle for myself,” he said as he stepped out of the truck, rifle in hand.

“I’m okay with that,” Mike said as he opened the back door and stepped out beside L.C., slipping his newly acquired weapon into his waist band.  “You obviously know how to use it.”

Zeke reached under the front seat and pulled out a black pistol in a holster and fastened it to his belt before shoving the two spare magazines into his left pocket.  He racked a round into the chamber of the shotgun and topped the magazine tube off with a round from the shell carrier on the butt stock before slinging the weapon over his shoulder. 

As Meagan got out of the car and surveyed the chaos of the blocked street and people walking around aimlessly, L.C. commented, “I bet you’re glad you ditched your skirt and heels.”  She looked down at her jeans and running shoes and looked back up, silently nodding her agreement.  She was still in a state of shock from the chaos and violence she had experienced since leaving the office.

“Zeke, is there any chance you have a backpack in your tool box?” L.C. questioned.  “We’re going to have a heck of a time carrying all this food the way it’s boxed up.”

Zeke unlocked the tool box and pulled a day pack out.  “This is all I have,” he answered as he dumped spare clothes out of the bag and into the tool box.  “It will hold a little bit of the food.”

“How about this?” Mike said, pulling a rolling suitcase out of a nearby abandoned car.  Once the clothing was dumped into the backseat of the car the bag came from, the food was transferred into the case.

“Let’s make some tracks,” L.C. urged as he looked at the mob of people milling around without purpose.  It was as if they had never considered how to travel without a vehicle.

“Hold on a second,” Zeke said, pointing to a woman convulsing on the sidewalk.  “She looks like the infected people they showed on the news.”  He cut a T-shirt from his back pack into four pieces and tied one piece around his face like a mask.  “It can’t hurt,” he added, handing the pieces of white cloth to the other members of the group.

With cloth masks around their faces, the group started walking between the cars and people.  Just ahead a woman started screaming while attempting to maintain control of a backpack a man was trying to wrest from her grasp.  “That’s all the food I have!” she pleaded.

“It’s more than I have,” he yelled angrily as he backhanded her.  She lost her grip on the bag and fell to the ground, smashing the back of her head on the pavement.

The man stood over her as another woman ran and bent over to help her up.  A moment later, the good Samaritan looked up and yelled, “She’s dead!  You killed her!”

“It didn’t have to be this way,” the man argued.  “She should have just given me the bag.  I didn’t want to hurt her.”

The woman kept yelling, “He killed her!”

Three kids in their late teens gathered around the man who was clutching the backpack in his hand.  “Why don’t you hand it over to us,” the apparent leader of the group commanded as he bumped the man with his chest.

“But it’s mine,” the man protested.

“Actually, it was hers,” the leader said, pointing to the woman lying on the ground, her hair matted with sticky blood. “Now we’re going to take care of it,” he proclaimed as he placed his hand on the bag and attempted to pull it away from the man.  As the man tried to retain possession, another of the kids hit him in the side of the head.  He stumbled under the ferocity of the blow and dropped to his knees.  The leader kicked him in the gut.  The man doubled over in pain and the trio brutally kicked him until he fell to the ground and lay motionless.  The leader stood next to his head and raised his foot several feet off the ground and stomped down on the man’s head.  Unsatisfied with the results, he smirked and nonchalantly said, “I guess the human skull is stronger than I thought,” as he lifted his foot again. 

“That’s enough!” Zeke thundered before the foot could crash down again.  “Leave him alone.”

“And who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?” the kid asked cockily as he started closing the distance between himself and Zeke.

“I’ll tell you who I am,” Zeke said as he unslung the shot gun and took a step forward to meet the approaching kid.  “I’m the guy who’s going to blow your head off your shoulders and paint your buddies’ faces with your brains if you don’t move on.”  L.C. took two steps and came even with Zeke, leveling his AR-15 at one of the other kids in a silent request that he not cause any more problems.

“All right,” the kid said as he raised his hands even with his shoulders.  “You’re pretty brave when you’ve got that twelve gauge pointed at my head.  Without that, you would be laying next to him,” he tilted his head toward the unconscious man.

“Kid, you don’t know the kind of pain you’re about to bring down on yourself.  I suggest you get out of here before he sets his gun down and pounds you into the pavement.  Get going before I lose my patience and shoot you myself,” L.C. said and advanced toward the three kids.

Sensing they were severely outmatched, they turned and strutted away with the bag of food. 

After a mile or two, the number of cars thinned out to the point the road would have been drivable if they had a vehicle.  The road was still littered with abandoned vehicles, many of which were left dead in the lane, presumably out of gas.  Mike opened a door as they passed a late model sedan.  He stuck his head in it for a second and said, “No keys,” as he pulled back out.  “These people aren’t going back home and they aren’t going to be driving their car anymore.  Why do you suppose they took the keys with them?” he asked as he opened another door to look inside.

“It’s habit,” Meagan said, speaking for the first time in nearly an hour.

“I guess you’re right,” Mike answered, slamming another door shut. 

“What difference does it make?” Meagan asked.  “I mean, if the car worked, they wouldn’t have left it here, right?”

Mike shook his head in disagreement, “These cars work fine.  The only problem is they ran out of gas. We might be able to find some fuel around here somewhere.  If we can find fuel, we can drive.”  As he opened the door of a black Volkswagen Jetta TDI, he was greeted with the ding ding ding he had been looking for.  “Bingo!” he exclaimed as he pulled a single key from the ignition.  He reinserted the key, twisted it forward, and waited as the gauges came to life.  The gas gauge was pegged on empty. 

“All right, we ought to be able to find some diesel around here,” Mike said.  “There should be a semi somewhere close by with all of these warehouses.”   The others looked around.  They were in the middle of an industrial area of the city.  After walking through lot after lot and climbing over one chain link fence after another, they found a warehouse with a semi truck backed up to a loading dock.

Mike climbed into the cab looking for keys.  “Nothing!” he shouted down.  “We need a bucket and a hose and we can siphon some fuel for the car.” 

L.C. disappeared around the corner of the building and returned a minute later.  “Here’s a hose,” he said, carrying a big green coil of garden hose.

Zeke said, “I think there was a five-gallon bucket in the lot by the first building we looked at.”  He pulled himself up the fence which swayed back and forth under his weight.  His shirt caught as he swung over the top and ripped the side.  “Be right back,” he shouted.

“Be careful,” Meagan yelled after him as he jogged off into the darkness.

Zeke ran down the empty streets, backtracking to the first lot they had searched.  As he neared the lot, he saw another person walking toward him.  As the distance between them decreased, Zeke began to slow.  Something wasn’t right.  The approaching figure was moving with a very awkward gait.  It walked with stiff knees as it hobbled toward him. 

“Are you okay?” Zeke hollered to the figure.  It stopped moving and turned its head toward him as if it had just noticed him.  The security lights on the sides of the buildings that flanked the road didn’t provide adequate illumination in the street.  He still couldn’t make out any features of the individual.  Zeke addressed the person again.  This time, it responded with a howl that froze him in his tracks.  It eyed him for a moment and charged as he unslung his shot gun. 

Even with the awkward gait, it was fast.  Zeke knew he only had moments to respond before it reached him.  He was sure it was a sick person, but human life is sacred.  He held his fire as the distance shrunk.  The person’s features clarified as it drew nearer.  She was a teenage girl about seventeen years old.  Her shoulder length, auburn hair fluttered behind her in the breeze created by her forward motion.  And then he saw her face.  It was twisted in a savage fury.  Her lips were pulled back, showing two rows of straight teeth which were separated by the gap of her wide open mouth. Dark stains surrounded her mouth, running down her chin to her soiled shirt. She snarled and lunged toward him, her arms stretched out with grasping fingers, searching for a purchase on his body. 

Realizing the mortal danger he was in, but still resisting the screaming urges from his mind to shoot her, he sidestepped to the left and stroked her head with the hard plastic butt of the Remington clenched in his hands. 

The blow momentarily knocked her to her knees.  Before he could regain his composure, she was back on her feet.  Tilting her head back, she shrieked at the sky, and lunged at him a second time.  Again, he sidestepped.  He slammed the butt of the gun into the bridge of her nose as her head dropped toward his left arm which was entrapped within her iron grasp.  Her head snapped back in response to the concussive impact, but she didn’t release his arm. 

He hit her again and again.  Each blow visually devastated her face.  Her nose was a flattened mess of skin and blood.  Her left cheek bone was unnaturally caved into her face. The side of her head was saturated in blood from a split in her scalp. None of that seemed to have any effect on her actions and her grip on his arm remained as strong and unwavering as ever.  Images he had seen on the television of people being eaten alive flashed through his mind.  As he fought, he began to panic.  He tried to point the barrel of the shot gun at her, but they were too close to each other. 

Her other hand latched onto his arm like a vice and pulled it toward her cavernous mouth with unnatural strength. The Remington was now a hindrance.  He released his grip on it and moved his hand to her throat as the gun clattered against the hard asphalt.  He squeezed with all his strength, trying to strangle the life out of his assailant. 

Her teeth snapped together just short of his arm.  She snarled in frustration as he continued to keep his entangled arm mere inches from her mouth.  Zeke kicked at her legs and drove his knee into her abdomen to no avail.  As the battle raged on, his strength began to wane.  She fought with unwavering strength and ferocity, even after he felt her trachea crush within his grasp.  Nothing he did diminished her determination to consume his flesh.  He realized the outcome of the battle was already settled.  His resistance was simply delaying the inevitable.  He refused to give in, yet he knew he could not win.  She seemed to have a bottomless reservoir of power that he could not hope to match. 

His muscles began to tremble with fatigue.  His left arm pulled with as much force as he could muster while his right arm pushed her head away with an equal amount of force.  In an act of final desperation, he stepped into her and placed his right leg half a step behind her.  As he continued forward, her stinking breath blasted him in the face and the acrid stench brought an involuntary wretch from the pit of his stomach. 

His right leg tripped her up and she stumbled backwards, pulling him down with her.  Having anticipated the result of his action, he pushed away as far as he could and brought his knee up to his chest as he went down. She landed on her back and he landed on top of her, his knee crushing her sternum.  With his knee keeping her at bay, he pulled his right arm from her throat and grasped for the pistol belted to his side.  In a blinding flash, he pulled it free of the holster.  He slammed the end of the barrel tight against the side of her head and jerked the trigger.  The resulting explosion instantly ceased all signals from her warped brain and her body went limp beneath him. 

His shoulders slumped and his chest heaved in and out, desperately drawing hot, humid air into his lungs. A minute later, after having regained his breath, Zeke stood on shaky legs and walked around the building where he had seen the bucket.