The Great Wreck (31 page)

“Yep.
Couple miles, no more.”

“Then
get off your fucking lazy ass, take Cracker, and go get the bikes.”

“What?
The ten speeds?” Dan said slowly coming awake.

“No,
not the ten speeds you dumb goat-fucker. The motor bikes.”

Dan
had come fully awake then and shivered with fear. They only used motor bikes
under extreme emergencies, not for chasing someone down. Motor bikes were loud.
Motor bikes could be heard for miles. Motor bikes attracted attention from the
dead, “You sure about that, boss? We’ll probably catch up to him tomorrow on
foot…”

“He’s
got a bicycle, you dumb cunt. We’ll never catch him.”

Dan
sat there silently thinking they would be smart just to let the little punk go.
So what if he’d snatched a few things and boogied. More power to him. There was
plenty of shit left just lying around. He’d never say such a thing out loud of
course, he saw what Johnston had done to the last person would tried to change
his mind.

Dan
shuddered and started grabbing up his gear. He’d get the bikes, he’d follow
Johnston out after the kid, but if things got the least bit harry, Johnston was
on his own. Dan would just turn his bike around and head west back home leaving
Johnston to whatever his fate was.

*
     
*
     
*

My
watch alarm went off at 5:00 AM. The pre-dawn light was just beginning to wash
out the stars as I packed my gear up and shimmied down to the ground. I pulled
out my bike, loaded up, and then waited with the building between me and anyone
who might be to the west of me. I waited an hour until the sun peeked over the
horizon, then waited a bit linger until the entire sun was up. That should
blind anyone’s infrared or night vision goggles and at least partially blind
anyone with binoculars who might be to the west of me.

I
pulled out my radio and clicked it on to Channel five hoping if Johnston and
his men got close enough, Dunst could warn me. I started peddling. My muscles
were still sore but after a half an hour I was warmed up and riding smoothly. I
hit the I-10 freeway and turned right heading into Tucson. I rode harder than
usual hoping to put as much distance between Johnston and him men as I could
and get through Tucson before mid-day. I thought I could outrun Johnston. I
thought I could avoid the strange dead. I was wrong on both counts.

Two
hours later I was deep into Tucson when I saw the dead that Captain Dunst spoke
about and he was right they were far different than any I had seen before.
First, like every city I had been through, there were thousands of them. Maybe
tens of thousands. Many of them were partially eaten but the vast majority had
not decayed in the intense heat like the others in places like Blyth and
Phoenix had. These all seemed relatively intact.

And
even stranger, they were all standing still. Every last single one was standing
stock still in the streets of Tucson. Standing still and facing to the
northeast almost directly at a range of mountains that circled Tucson to the
north. They didn’t move. They didn’t make any noise. I was so shocked I rolled
to a stop and looked at them in all their silent masses.

I
didn’t look for long. I didn’t really care what the dead were doing so long as
they left me alone. I peddled along and not one turned to look at my way. That
was just fine by me. But ten minutes later, I heard them. Not the dead, but the
sound of motorcycles. Coming from the east and coming fast.

Johnston
and his men. Apparently they had figured out I was on a bike. Just then the
radio came to life with Dunst’s voice, “Thomas, you need to hide as fast as you
can. Johnston and his crew are coming in on motorcycles.”

I
looked around in panic. The dead were everywhere blocking all the roads and
buildings,

“There’s
nowhere for me to go!”

“Get
under an overpass! Quickly!”

“Johnston
will see me!” I said spotting a nearby overpass. Even crouched under it, I’d be
easily spotted by Johnston.

“It’s
not Johnston or his men you need to hide from. It’s the dead.”

I
looked around me and the dead were starting to react to the sound of the
approaching motorcycles. They had shifted nearly as one away from the north and
to the increasingly louder sound. I madly peddled off the highway and to the
underpass, dropping my bike and gear on the road and scrambled up the concrete
and hid myself as deep as I could where it met the underside of the highway.

*
     
*
     
*

Johnston
saw Thomas as he scrambled up into the underpass, “What a jackass!” Johnston
yelled over the howl of the wind and roar of the bikes. Little bastard hid in
plain sight!

Dan
nodded but kept his eyes on the wall of dead to their left and right. If one of
them even farted in their direction, he was turning his bike around and bagging
ass. It was only a matter of time before they turned and headed towards the
sound of their bikes. Dan would find out that would happen much sooner than
later.

*
     
*
     
*

I
watched as Johnston pointed towards me. I was dead. I took out my pistol and
waited for them to arrive. Turns out they’d never reach me.

The
dead turned towards the sound of the approaching bikes. They spotted the five
men as they raced east along the highway on their loud machines, then they ran.

I
watched as every single one of the dead in Tucson turned and ran as one huge
mass, descending on Johnston and his men as one liquid wave. I’d never seen
anything like that. They didn’t scream and didn’t moan. They just ran. They ran
as fast as sprinters and converged on the five as a single mass from both sides
of the riders, from the front, and from the back closing in, around, and over
the five screaming men like a single wave of water. I could hear the thousands
of pairs of feet above me, could see them on the frontage road to my left and
right. They were everywhere except in this small little crack beneath the
highway where I tried to
 
make myself as
small as I could.

The
first dead to reach them actually jumped taking the men off of their motor
cycles. I heard them scream for only a few second as hundreds of dead piled on.
And then it was over. The five men were completely gone. Only scraps of cloths
and bones and splashes of blood remained around the five
 
overturned motorcycles.

I
stayed under the overpass for nearly an hour waiting for the dead to turn on me
and do to me what they had done to Johnston and to the others. But they never
did. They simply returned to the streets of Tucson found their original
positons and turned north to stare.

The
radio broke the strange silence and Dunst whispered quietly to me, “Thomas, get
on your bike and get out of the city. If you are quiet, the dead will leave you
alone. Johnston and his jackasses riding those fucking bikes!” he said with
disgust, “Might as well have just walked right out into the middle of the
crowds naked and been done with it. Good luck Thomas. I hope you make it to
wherever you’re going.”

And
with that the radio went silent.

I
scooted down to the road and picked up my bike watching the standing dead. I
mounted it and got back up on the highway and continued east peddling slowly,
my legs already burnt out from pushing so hard earlier in the day, from the
drain of the terror watching Johnston and the others devoured, and from the
terror of thinking these strange dead might turn and swarm at me any second. So
the going was very slow and I made it out of Tucson late in the afternoon, I
stopped in a town called Benson. Their I found another airport, this one called
Southwestern Aviation and made my camp for the night.

Tucson
and Phoenix were now behind me and the great Arizona and New Mexican Outback
where ahead. I planned on staying here in Benson for a few days, resting and
resupplying my food and water. Once I had recovered, I’d plan my stops as I
hopped across the map, and be in Las Cruces within a week after leaving Benson.

I
stayed there for as long as I could. Each day I’d venture into the town and get
the canned goods and water I needed. I’d spend the better part of the day
sneaking around the few dead that were there. They weren’t like to the Tucson
dead, they moved around and groaned and farted their days away but I was taking
no chances. I kept clear of them in case they all turned at once and rushed me.

At
night I’d climb up the radio tower attached to the building roof I was camped
on and listen to the radio. I never heard from Captain Dunst again, and
certainly never heard from Johnston or any of the people he’d left behind. But
on the third night in Benson, I heard the far off voice of Sandia. Just a
snippet. Just a few words barely discernable above the hiss and crack of the
static. It said simply, “Sandi Station, signing off for…” then silence as the
atmospheric dynamics that let me hear them from so far away changed and I lost
their signal. But it filled me with hope. It let me know that after the weeks
and months of trekking across the Southwest Wreck, I might actually find
people. Normal people who were trying to make a life in the New World. I might
just find a small community safely hidden amongst the mountains of central New
Mexico and not just another rotting, burning hulk. I had everything I needed to
cross the desert to Las Cruces. I was rested and recovered would leave the next
evening.

*
     
*
     
*

Dusk
the next day came and found me ready. I pushed off and was back on the highway
before the dead could get very active. I headed east and fell into the mindless
rhythm of peddling, watching the road for wrecks, and weaving about the few
dead that had drifted onto the highway. They’d look up just as I passed them
and I’d be gone before they could alert the other dead nearby. I hadn’t seen a
sprinter, other than those strange dead in Tucson, since Phoenix. I wondered if
the heat of the desert killed them off or if they had just rotted too much and
became walkers. In any event, I think if I came across one, I might be able to
outrun it on my bike. It be three weeks before I found out if I could.

The
towns rolled by as I made my way across the desert. Benson became Wilcox.
Wilcox became San Simon and San Simon became Lordsburg. Somewhere between San
Simon and Lordsburg I passed a huge sign that said “Welcome to New Mexico! Land
of Enchantment.” I came to a stop and looked up at the big yellow billboard
with a green and red chili peppers painted on it. I was making progress and it
felt good to be leaving Arizona behind and finally reaching New Mexico. I rode
on.

Each
night I’d ride for four hours, then find my little commuter airport hangar top
and make camp. I’d stay in each of the towns a few days scouting around during
the daylight getting food and water. Then I’d rest up and switch back over to
the night schedule getting ready for my next leg across the Sonora desert.
  

Each
night I’d climb the nearest radio tower and plug in. I’d been listening for
Kailee almost every night since I’d left Phoenix and each night I’d pick up a
few voices, the mechanical voice telling me the current weather conditions, or
on the really good nights I’d hear Sandia. But not Kailee.

Somewhere
outside of Lordsburg, I had to stop after only two hours of riding. A mile
ahead of me the road was completely blocked. Not by wrecked cars or trucks, but
by a string of dead moving north. There were thousands of them that stretched
far to the north and south and at least twenty deep so there was no riding
through them and no going around. I began to panic. I was out in the middle of
absolutely nowhere without a town, rest stop, or gas station nearby. I could
turn back but that would mean two hours of wasted effort that I’d have to do
all over again in a day or two.

I
looked at the huge power line towers that ran alongside of the road. I’d been
climbing the smaller radio towers at the airports I had stayed at since I had
left Phoenix. I looked up at the nearest tower and could see a small
maintenance platform. It’d have to do. I peddled my bike off the highway and
along the frontage road until I hit the dirt maintenance access road that lead
to the base of the tower.

I
grabbed a small pack with my most vital equipment and covered the bike and the
rest of the gear with my tarp, then began climbing up the tower.

The
tower was about a hundred feet tall and the maintenance platform was nearly two
thirds the way up. I reached it and began to set up my camp occasionally
watching the streams of dead heading north. Where were they going? Where had
they come from? Were there other towns to the south of here or did they just
wander around in the dessert until something pulled them north?

I
finished tying down my camouflage netting and unrolled my sleeping bag. The
platform was wide and had handrails so I didn’t have to worry about falling off
while I slept. I put my goggles on and watched the moving lines of the dead
looking for a break. The trail of bodies went all the way south as far as I
could see until it disappeared behind some low hills. Same for those heading
north. I pulled off my goggles and decided I might be staying up in my perch
for a day or two until they dead cleared out.

I
climbed up a little higher and attached my radio cable to the tower and began
to flip through the channel, “Kailee, are you there?” I said and waited never
actually expecting to hear from here. For all I knew they were in Burbank by
now. Or dead.