“Corporal,” he said, “we got all four running and there’s plenty of fuel.”
Bretz smiled. “Good deal,” he said. “Make sure the truck containers are secure, and there’s nothing int he back that’s going to trip us up. Once that’s done, we’ll go inspect the trucks at the other site.”
Mason gave him a thumbs up and headed back outside.
Murphy let out a low whistle. “So, you boys are really headed into the shit, aren’t you?” he asked.
“That we are Sarge,” Bretz confirmed, “that we are.”
“Based on what I’ve heard about you and witnessed with my own eyes,” Murphy said, “those dead fuckers aren’t going to know what hit them.”
The Corporal barked a laugh. “Let’s hope you’re right, Sergeant.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The trucks were all lined up in the shopping center parking lot, in an area clear of zombie corpses. Bretz fired up his truck before looking out the window at Murphy, who gave him a thumbs up.
“You have everything you need, Corporal?” the Sergeant asked.
Bretz nodded. “Food, water, and weapons,” he replied, “everything a growing boy needs.”
“My men said they threw in some books as well,” Murphy replied, “give you something to do while you wait on us to come get you.”
The Corporal looked over into the bag on the passenger seat that had been left for him. He fumbled through and pawed a collection of snacks before finding a stack of books. He picked up one up, chuckling at the shirtless muscled man on the cover holding a woman at a dramatic angle.
“The Rose and the Rapier,” he read, shaking his head. “Well, it will be better than listening to zombie moans.”
Murphy grinned. “You boys be safe out there,” he said. “And I expect a full book report when I come get you.” He smirked. “That’s an order.”
“You’ll have it, sir,” Bretz replied with a laugh. “You watch yourself out there.”
The Sergeant raised a fist. “We have your trash can maneuver,” he declared, “so nothing can stop us now.”
The Corporal nodded and then pulled down on the truck horn a few times, letting out a deafening bleat. He picked up the CB radio and raised it to his lips.
“All right, everybody on com?” he asked, and waited as one by one, the other five soldiers checked in. “Okay, here’s what we’re doing,” he began. “Heading out to the north, the highway is about half a mile up. Hit the outbound lane and haul ass. I want a hundred yards between every truck when we’re out there. We have enough on our plates without risking an accident. Everybody clear?”
A chorus of “Yes, sir!” came through the speaker, and he nodded.
“Let’s move, then,” he said, and replaced the receiver to its holder. He rolled out, the rest of the squad falling in place behind him.
The drive to the highway was short, with the road mostly clear. Bretz looked out to the side at another shopping area, watching Murphy’s men get set up on the rooftops, squeezing off shots to pull the crowd towards them.
Bretz led the convoy up to the highway, making the turn onto the ramp, gaining speed as it went up. The road on the outer loop itself was mostly clear, with the occasional car left abandoned on the side of the road. The traffic on the opposite side was a bit more dense, with several people apparently trying to leave town as the mess had started and failing.
“That’s a hell of a rush hour over there,” Kent crackled through the radio.
“We don’t have those sorta issues where I come from,” Short piped up.
Kent laughed. “What is rush hour like in your hick town there, bud?”
“Only time we ever had traffic was when there was a cow break,” Short replied.
“What in the hell is a cow break?” Baker cut in.
“There’s hundreds of miles worth of fencing around the farms, and it wasn’t always the sturdiest stuff,” Short explained. “Those cows were tricky, always finding a way out. So it was a daily occurrence to see them wandering around the streets.”
Kent barked a laugh. “Man, that is some countrified bullshit right there,” he drawled. “I’m up in Chicago dealing with gangs, neighborhood pit bulls, rush hour traffic, lake effect snow and a thousand other things. Meanwhile, you’re getting outsmarted by cows. How in the hell did we end up in the same unit?”
“I dunno,” Short admitted. “Military brass probably saw you came from a town that thinks pizza is supposed to resemble a pie and thought you had a mental defect. Had to put you in with someone with a functioning brain.”
Kent snorted. “Don’t think I won’t run your ass off the road for badmouthing deep dish pizza,” he quipped.
There was a collection of laughter over the CB, and Bretz cut back in. “We’re going to have to table this debate,” he said, “because we’re approaching Overlake.”
The group calmed down, the seriousness of their mission taking hold once again.
The highway made a large turn around a bend, leading to Overlake, the next large suburb they’d have to pass through. As Bretz took the gentle curve, the road was packed full of zombies and cars up ahead, looking like a major pileup completely blocking the path. He slammed on the brakes, prompting everyone behind him to do the same.
The screeching tires were loud, squealing as the convoy suddenly came to a halt. A loud crash echoed from the back, and the Corporal’s eyes widened.
“What in the hell was that?!” he demanded through the radio.
“Hess done fucked it up,” Kent drawled.
“Wasn’t my fault you slammed on the brakes in the middle of a goddamn curve!” Hess exclaimed frantically. “Couldn’t see you in time!”
Bretz rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What’s the damage?” he asked.
There was the loud wheeze of an engine trying to start, and then nothing.
“It’s dead,” Hess replied.
“Ten minutes into the drive and we’re already fucked,” Baker drawled. “Fantastic.”
“Again, not my fault,” Hess said through his teeth.
“Calm yourself,” Baker shot back. “I wasn’t assigning blame, just stating
