“It’s going to be okay,” she says.
Gary does not hear her. He stares into oblivion, his eyes blank, his face pale, his final expression one of pure terror.
Anne glances down at the machine gun in her hands and realizes she could just drop it. Dying would be that simple. She has already gotten enough people killed. Let Ray kill the world. What does she care?
The will to survive floods her body with energy. She stands and levels the heavy weapon, putting her back against the pole for support and firing from the waist, holding the ammo belt with her other hand. The barrel lights up with muzzle flashes that fill the air with hot metal.
Anne screams with something like joy. This is how she wants to die.
The hot metal slugs punch through skulls and torsos, spraying brains and guts back into the crowd. Soon she can no longer see individuals, just torn and charred flesh and muscle and clothing, shattered bone, ripped organs and blood.
“
Empty shell casings clatter across the floor. She grunts, sweat pouring down her face. Her arm trembles with exhaustion from the constant recoil.
The bus continues to gain speed. The Infected fall behind, howling and waving their weapons and shooting their guns. Anne lunges and slams the M240 down onto hood, hugging the stock and resuming fire.
The Infected collapse in waves under the withering fire of the machine gun.
“Come on,” she screams, her body jerking from the recoil. “Come and get it!”
The bus steadily puts more distance between them and the Infected. The tracers arc and drop among the crowd, punching more bodies to the ground. The ammo belt runs out.
Marcus stops the bus, turns and finds another way out of town.
Ray fled during the attack. The pursuit is back on. And Anne has survived again.
As with every other time, she is almost disappointed.
Cool Rod
Sitting in the shade of the Stryker, Rod watches his squad tear the plastic wrapping off their MREs and sink their hands into the yellow pouches, producing brown packets containing entrees and seasonings and HOOAH! energy bars. They compare meals and barter like Wall Street traders. Sosa trades a cigarette for Lynch’s hot sauce. Tanner puts his chicken fajitas on the market, but gets no takers. He takes a long pull on a stray bottle of water they liberated from the Walmart’s shelves and passes it on. Lynch suggests lighting some C4 to cook their meals properly, but the air is so hot the others do not seem interested. Sosa, constipated from the steady diet of MREs, calls his a
Rod joins in the laughter, enjoying the banter during this rare calm while Davis stands twenty meters away with his rifle providing security and Arnold monitors the recon equipment on the Walmart roof. He tears open his own MRE and inspects his beef brisket with mild disdain. It is not his favorite, but he needs the twelve hundred calories.
That’s Arnold calling in from the observation post. Rod places his meal on the ground between his feet and keys the push-to-talk button on his headset, chewing. “Hellraisers 3 here. Go ahead, Eyes, over.”
An
“Let me know when you get eyes on it. Hellraisers 3, out.”
The others wolf down their meals, knowing what is coming, but waiting until he gives the order.
“We’ve got a vehicle inbound,” he says. “You know what to do. Let’s get to it.”
The soldiers take final bites of food and slugs of juice and scramble to their feet, pocketing their energy bars and candy for later. They snatch up their weapons and run off. Lynch stays behind to help Sosa pull on his flamethrower harness.
“Corporal, when you’re done there, go tell spooky and the doc we’re expecting company,” Rod says.
“Aieeyah, Sergeant.”
“Hart, I need you on the fifty,” he shouts, banging his fist against the Stryker’s armor. The gunner appears in the cupola, gives him a thumbs up, and grabs hold of the mounted heavy machine gun, locking and loading it.
Checking his shotgun, Rod walks to the checkpoint they built using sawhorses and STOP signs, placed in layers running every twenty meters along the road up to the gas station. The theory is Typhoid Jody will either stop, or try to bypass or drive through the roadblock.
If he tries to bypass or drive through, he will slow down, and the Stryker’s fifty will make quick work of him. If he fails to cooperate, he is a dead man.
Rod’s body rebels, his heart racing and his breath becoming fast and shallow, but not from fear. No, he is simply excited.
He whistles to get Davis’s attention. “Corporal, change of plans for you. I want you to find a safe spot fifty meters behind us, watching our rear. Same plan if something happens to me, though. You’re to take command.”
“Got it, Sergeant,” Davis says, jogging away.
Rod blows air out his cheeks, raises the hood on his MOPP suit, and pulls on his gas mask.
“It’s time to earn our money,” he says.
“Go ahead, Eyes, over.”
“Shift to overwatch, Eyes. Hellraisers 3, out.”
Rod frowns at the waves of heat rising off the warmed road and wonders about the odds of this being a coincidence.
He had the impression Typhoid Jody is a civilian, but he might be military, and he might know how to drive an APC. Alarms flash through Rod’s mind.
Fielding and Price approach in their bright yellow spacesuits, carrying what appear to be suitcases made of yellow plastic emblazoned with ominous biohazard symbols.
“Stay behind me,” he tells them.
