The Killing Floor

No way that was a random thing. No single shooter shows up to take on a freaking Mongol horde of zombies. It was an assassination attempt, plain and simple.

Whoever it was, he was trying to kill me.

He finds this a truly terrifying idea.

Someone wants to kill me.

Nobody else in the whole world. Just me.

The question is why but the answer is not too hard to puzzle out.

Someone knows what you did to Camp Defiance. It’s called karma, bro.

“I ain’t a bad guy,” Ray growls, and spits out the open window. “It wasn’t my fault.”

Slowing the truck a little more, Ray lights a Winston with his steel lighter and blows a stream of smoke against the dirty windshield.

Was his attacker military? He kind of doubts it. He has a hard time believing the military decided to chopper in a single sniper to kill him.

If they really wanted me that bad, they would drop a cruise missile on my head.

No, he decides. Not military. The sniper was probably some vigilante. Whoever it was, however, he is still good. Not Ray’s idea of Tom Clancy good, but good nonetheless. And there is a good chance the shooter is still hunting him.

Then he laughs out loud. Next to him, Lola blinks rapidly.

“Maybe I’m not the one who should be scared.”

Ray remembers he has thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of people who would give their lives to save his without a second thought.

It was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen. As he ran from the farmhouse to the truck hidden under the tarp in the front yard, thousands of the crazies were clambering on top of each other like some kind of massive Guinness World Records stunt. Tallest human pyramid. Great Wall of China, made from human beings.

All to put themselves between him and the sniper’s next bullet. It was kind of humbling.

They pass a state police cruiser abandoned on the shoulder of the road. It gives him an idea.

“Whoever it is, if he keeps screwing with me, he’s going to get a bad guy. Am I right or am I right?”

Lola nods almost imperceptibly.

He slows the truck to a halt and shouts through the open window, “Leon, Foley, get out.”

Two of the cops vault over the side of the truck, landing hard on their boots. They approach the driver’s side window and regard Ray with open mouths, breathing like hyenas.

After he gives them their orders, he pulls back onto the road with a laugh.

Whoever you are, you made a serious mistake to fuck with me.

A roadside sign tells him he is approaching Sugar Creek. He slows the truck to a crawl, navigating a six-car pileup splashed across the road. Then he is on the main drag, driving past an ice cream shop and convenience store.

A man stares at him as he passes, too far away for Ray to tell if he is infected. More people are on his left. One of them waves. Ray waves back.

“Stay cool back there, guys. We’re going to bluff this out.”

He tries not to think of the spores floating out the window to be sucked into the truck’s back draft, maybe infecting these people.

Ahead, more people leave their homes and businesses to watch him approach, some of them waving. Again, he waves back.

“These people are a little nuts,” he tells Lola, who surprises him by laughing out loud.

Something is definitely wrong with these folks.

Then it hits him. They’re infected.

Infected teachers and waiters and cashiers and housewives pour onto the sidewalks, all waving at him like he is some kind of celebrity. Ray knows it’s fake. Either the bug is manipulating him or he is subconsciously controlling the crazies, but ultimately it doesn’t matter.

I like it.

Ray drives along at a snail’s pace, waving back.

“Look, honey. They’re waving at you.”

Lola raises her hand and waves feebly, her face a blank, more robot than human.

He stops the truck in front of a tangled pile of vehicles blocking both lanes of the road. Concentrating, he summons work crews to push the wrecks out of the way. Dozens of people swarm across the knot of vehicles. Ray lights another Winston and watches them work.

“Nobody ever treated me special like this before, Lola. Hell, I don’t want you to think I’m getting a big head or anything, but I could get used to it. I honestly could.”

The last wreck is moved aside. Ray throws the transmission back into gear and nudges the gas.

“Thanks for the help, you guys.”

The waves turn into Nazi salutes. A forest of hands pledging absolute obedience.

“That’s right,” he chuckles. He sees a man wearing a pistol in a shoulder holster and broadcasts, Bring guns to my boys here. And bullets. Whatever you can dig up.

Within minutes, several Infected run out of the mob, chasing after the truck to hand rifles and pistols to the boys of Unit 12.

“Thank you, my subjects. I shall never forget you.”

Now we’ll see if anyone wants to screw around with me.

He laughs and stomps on the gas, roaring out of town on squealing wheels. Lola smiles at the sound of his laughter. Ray notices an ant crawling across her face and brushes it off.

“That’s right, honey. It’s you and me against the world.”

What now? Stick to the plan. Go to Washington. Contact the Army. Make a deal.

Ray glances at the fuel gauge. The rig still has half a tank of gas in it. It feels a bit underpowered when he steps on the gas, but it runs true. It will get him to the city, or at least close enough to walk.

He pats Lola’s knee and smiles at her while he drives. He was hoping his return would offer him a second chance, and here she is in the flesh.

“We’re going to fix you, honey. We’re going to make things right as rain again.”

If they want me to cooperate, they’re going to have to cure you, too. That’s the deal.

Cool Rod

The lumbering Chinook heaves into the air with thundering rotors as the Stryker rolls out of the sunny field and onto the road, picking up speed as it heads toward its objective. Twenty minutes later, the Stryker’s gunner, standing behind the heavy machine gun, crouches inside the passenger compartment and says to Rod, “You should check out the birds.”

Rod opens the hatch and peers outside. The old, cracked country road, flanked by trees and telephone poles and marked by centerlines faded to mere suggestion, is empty. The wind in his face smells like green, living things. The sky is deep blue here, free of the smoky haze hanging over Washington like a permanent shroud. It feels free. It feels like home.

A cloud of black birds swirls over the distant town visible miles down the road. They are crows, scavenging, fighting over an unprecedented feast.

Crows will eat just about anything, including dead meat if it is soft from rot.

Rod’s smile fades.

“What’s it mean, Sergeant?” says the gunner.

“It means stay frosty on the fifty,” Rod tells him, closing the hatch over his head.