The Undead Chronicles | Vol. 3 | Dead of Winter, page 21
part #3 of The Undead Chronicles Series
Molly glanced in the mirror on her side, squinting as though questioning something she saw behind them.
“What is it?” Bryce asked.
“I think we have company,” she answered.
“Ah, fuck,” Bryce said as he looked in the rearview, spying a large black Dodge pickup barreling down on them.
“How did he escape so quickly?”
“Apparently the military brass didn’t send a chump after me,” Bryce answered. “We’re going to have to deal with him here and now.”
Bryce pulled the car to the side of the road, stepping out and reaching for his firearm in one move. He took aim at the driver’s side of the truck, firing without hesitation, but intentionally missing the driver. Now the truck screeched to a halt, and idled momentarily as though the Marine wasn’t sure how he wanted to proceed. Superior officers weren’t present to give him orders, and he wasn’t about to listen to anything Bryce might say.
Stuffing his sidearm behind him, Bryce turned to Molly.
“Cover me,” he mouthed the words with barely any sound, so Linderman didn’t overhear him. “And if he does something stupid, take out a kneecap.”
Bryce stood, waiting for the younger man to exit the truck, which he did after about thirty seconds. When he did, the two men eyeballed one another, and Bryce could tell the Marine wasn’t accustomed to failing an assignment.
“Failure is an option,” Bryce informed him. “You can tell them you couldn’t find me, or I had a group that outnumbered you.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t going to happen,” the Marine replied. “You’re coming with me, even if I have to break both of your legs.”
“That might be frowned upon,” Bryce said. “And I would certainly fight back.”
“They said I had to bring you in alive, but they didn’t really provide too many guidelines about your condition when I did.”
Bryce stepped to his right a little bit, trying to determine if the young man found the knife and sidearm stuff in the front of the van. He didn’t immediately see any weapons, meaning the Marine likely hurried to find a vehicle, putting his own safety behind his determination to track Bryce.
“What makes you think you’re going to touch me without taking a bullet?” Bryce asked, knowing Molly already had her firearm aimed at the Marine.
Because he hadn’t stepped closer to the truck, Bryce left enough distance between him and his adversary to give Molly ample time to aim and fire. Even so, the determined, gritty look etched in the Marine’s face indicated he wasn’t going to simply give up and walk away.
“I’m ordering you to stand down,” Bryce said, playing his last available card before someone received injuries.
“My orders come from far above your paygrade, lieutenant commander,” Linderman said before he charged without any warning at Bryce.
Molly fired a shot, which clipped the young man in the leg, but Bryce immediately figured it was a flesh wound, because it didn’t slow Linderman one bit. Bryce prepared to strike the Marine in the jaw when he drew closer, but Linderman ducked low and scooped the Navy man up in one fell swoop, dropping him hard atop the concrete with a tackle.
Following that, he immediately went for Bryce’s sidearm, reaching around his waist, but Bryce slammed an elbow into the Marine’s jaw, buying him a few seconds. Unwilling to be taken hostage, or force Molly to take a shot she might not be willing to make, Bryce reached and snagged the sidearm, tossing it to the side so he and Linderman could duke it out without weapons. His maneuver angered the Marine, only causing the man to strike him several times. Bryce blocked a few punches that would have bloodied his face, but Linderman settled for a few good body shots that bruised his ribs instead.
While Linderman was incredibly fit, having been through boot camp and seen live action far more recently than Bryce, he let his anger get the better of him. Wrapping his hands around Bryce’s throat, he attempted to subdue his target by rendering him unconscious, but he also lost sight of Molly, as though she posed no threat at all.
Bryce knew he couldn’t reach Linderman’s face, or anywhere that might help him out of his predicament, so he tried prying the Marine’s strong hands off his throat, managing only to slow the process of him losing consciousness. He struggled to breathe, and Linderman appeared intense, as though he might not stop once he put the Navy officer out. Bryce continued to battle, but he retained the worse of the two fighting positions on his back.
“Stop!” he heard Molly scream as he began to fade.
His vision blurred, and his hearing felt as though earplugs muted every noise around him. It almost sounded like listening to a conversation underwater, unable to make out distinct wording, and Bryce knew he was fading fast.
Molly swung something at the back of Linderman, knocking him away from Bryce momentarily. Sucking in a few desperate breaths while the Marine focused on Molly, he spotted her holding a metal pipe of some sort, and Linderman clutching the back of his head. A few trickles of blood ran down his hand, and Bryce had no idea why the man wasn’t atop the concrete unconscious.
“Bitch,” Linderman muttered, standing to confront her, giving Bryce a few necessary precious seconds to recover.
Linderman took a few calculated steps towards Molly before his mind apparently realized a firearm remained ripe for the taking, mere yards away from the trio. Bryce’s mind reached the same conclusion a split-second earlier, but he couldn’t beat the Marine to the discarded gun. Instead, he sprung to his feet and tackled the man when he went for the gun. Both hit the ground hard, but Bryce used Linderman to break his fall, driving his head into the man’s chest, knocking the wind from him just long enough to create separation and keep the Marine from assaulting him again.
Bryce got to his feet to discover Molly had already recovered the gun, taking aim at Linderman, who slowly rose, feeling the effects of his various new injuries. He stared at both of them with a mix of anger and determination.
“It’s not worth it, kid,” Bryce stated. “We don’t want to kill you, and shooting your knees won’t help your cause. The dead love a warm meal that can’t run away, and you’ll never get back to your plane.”
“They need you back,” Linderman said through clenched teeth.
“They sent you,” Bryce reiterated. “Just you. If I was that important, they would’ve gassed up one of those cargo planes and sent a squad.”
“Resources can’t last forever,” Linderman said. “They’re being cautious.”
“No, they know someone else with this immunity of mine will come along. They’re gambling with your life, sergeant.”
“I’m just following orders,” Linderman said as though he still wasn’t about to give up.
“And I’m going to find my family,” Bryce said. “After that, there’s a good chance I’ll head back to the base, because I want to do my part. Do you have any family left, sergeant?”
“No, sir,” Linderman said with some bite on the second word, as though he thought Bryce might be verbally poking him. “Last I knew, they tried reaching kin in Alabama and I never heard from them again.”
“Don’t give up,” Bryce said. “Not until you know for certain. “You married?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Marriage, kids, it changes your world, Linderman. In a good way. I don’t want to hurt you, but neither you, nor a hundred of the infected can stop me from seeing my wife and son again. I was a moron for volunteering for a second mission, hoping to find the man who caused all of this. Sometimes it’s better to stick around and protect the ones you love instead of playing the hero.”
Bryce meant his words, and he could tell that Linderman didn’t doubt him. After a few seconds of thought, the Marine relaxed his shoulders, apparently knowing he wasn’t going to outmaneuver the duo that spent more than two weeks on the road together.
“What do I tell them?” Linderman asked, forming a sour smirk.
“You’ve got plenty of time to come up with something,” Bryce answered. “Don’t tell them I was dead, or that’ll look strange when I do return.”
Linderman fought off a grin, holding his hands up defensively.
“Fine. I won’t follow you again.”
Molly took aim with the sidearm at the Dodge, shooting one of the tires, impeding the Marine’s ability to follow them if it turned out he lied. The noise would also draw the undead, which might keep him occupied if he didn’t find shelter or another vehicle.
“Thanks,” Linderman said sarcastically.
“You’ve got a spare,” Molly said. “The next round won’t be in a tire if you follow us.”
Linderman dismissed the notion with a submissive wave of his hand.
“Good luck, sergeant,” Bryce said before turning with Molly to head for their car.
“You too, Commander,” Linderman said, addressing Bryce by rank as well.
A moment later, Bryce had the car heading east once more, and Molly turned to him.
“I still don’t trust him,” she said.
“Can’t say I do either, but I think he might have realized a losing cause when he saw one.”
“I wonder if his plane even had room for three,” Molly contemplated aloud.
“Probably not,” Bryce surmised. “And thanks for saving my bacon back there.”
“You’re welcome,” Molly said. “Now, just get our asses to New York before Mother Nature catches up with us.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
***
For the better part of two weeks, Brad Weir and Mike Mullins headed south, traveling the highways and roads that appeared safest. Former police officers, the two men had kept their uniforms out of a devotion to those they served with who didn’t survive the apocalypse. Although they had switched clothes several times over, they kept the uniforms in the packs they carried as they headed for South Carolina.
Weir didn’t tend to deviate too far from the course given to him by the people from his church who loaded up a bus and promised to take his family to a safe haven in South Carolina. He remembered hugging and kissing them all goodbye, taking it for granted that a dozen other people could band with them and keep one another safe. One of them was a fellow cop, and two were former military, or he would never have let his wife and kids travel ahead of him.
In truth, he needed to find answers for a colleague he hadn’t known incredibly well over the years, but Weir believed in an unwritten code that stated he needed to help his brother in blue.
Even after the answers, several other predicaments kept the duo in Buffalo, and then a random encounter ate at their moral compasses until they detoured to a Navy base in Virginia to provide information to the military brass. Some terrible truths came out during their travels, but they stuck it out, seldom arguing about much of anything.
“I wish I knew something more,” Weir confessed as they neared the state border between North and South Carolina.
“What do you mean?” Mullins asked from the passenger seat of the Ford Fiesta they found in a garage at the last house they cleared before a good night’s sleep.
“So many things could’ve happened. They could’ve changed vehicles a dozen times like we have, they could’ve gotten lost, or-”
“Don’t think like that,” Mullins said, trying to calm his friend.
“I’ve been thinking like this the whole time. I just haven’t said very much about it.”
Mullins stared out the window momentarily as a frail, male zombie dressed in a tattered suit swiped a hand at the passing Fiesta.
“We’ll be there soon enough.”
“And what if they’re not there? Backtracking all this way would take forever.”
“You left them in good hands, Brad, or you wouldn’t have left them in the first place. And you’re making me feel like shit because I held you back.”
Weir sighed weightily.
“I’m sorry. Look, you didn’t force me to stay. In fact, you really didn’t even ask.”
“Just the same, I’m eternally grateful you stayed behind. If I’d have found my family and I was all alone, I might not be here right now.”
Weir said nothing, getting the gist of what his friend meant. Now he found himself in the exact same position, and not knowing tore him apart from the inside.
He felt as though he and Mullins had discussed virtually every topic from their former careers to the military involvement, or lack thereof, in the post-apocalyptic world. Mullins had served four years in the Army, and felt more could be done than simply having military personnel reside at a base and restore the adjoining town. With their stored weapons and ammunition, he argued, they could begin to eradicate the threat and put the world back together before civilization fell backwards, literally centuries, to an age before electricity and functioning motor vehicles. Without fresh fuel, the vehicles they currently drove and dumped, would be roadside museums in his opinion, within the year.
“When we find your family, are we staying down here for certain?” Mullins asked, as though some different ideas ran through his mind.
“I guess it depends. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t like the way the military is handling things.”
“Planning a one-man coup, are you?”
“Nah. Those kids are following orders.”
“So are their leaders.”
“And their leaders are following orders blindly, from a hierarchy that barely exists. They’re probably hidden away in some bunker, unaware of the struggles we have up here.”
Both Mullins and Weir neared fifty years in age, so both knew about lifelong struggles and obeying orders, even when the orders weren’t sound.
“I don’t know what difference it would make, but I’d like to go back,” Mullins said as though his notion felt unrealistic.
“You were military,” Weir noted. “I know you don’t think they’re mindless robots just following orders. They need good people on their side, because pretty soon wearing a uniform isn’t going to make a difference.”
“How so?”
“That Nadeau guy obviously has followers, even now. Until he’s found and dealt with, there’s always going to be a threat.”
“You saying I should go vigilante and hunt him down?”
“I’m saying,” Weir started to reply when his eyes locked on something that concerned him ahead in the highway. “Oh, shit.”
“What?” Mullins asked, obviously not spotting the same issue.
“That’s the bus,” Weir said, his eyes wide with apprehension because the royal blue bus with yellow lettering was parked at an awkward angle along the slow lane and the highway’s shoulder.
He drew close enough to read the side of the bus, just to be absolutely certain.
Williamsville Baptist Church.
“Has to be,” Mullins muttered, taking notice of the New York State plate on the rear bumper.
When the car came to a stop, both men exited hurriedly, approaching the bus on either side, looking and listening intently. On the left side, Weir thought he heard a growl from inside that sounded like the undead, but he took notice of the thin, dusty layer covering the paintjob. He wondered how long the bus remained stranded along the road, and what happened to the passengers inside the vehicle.
Reaching the front, he and Mullins locked eyes, both knowing what needed to be done next. Mullins led the way to the hinged door on the right side, and gave the door a few knocks, noticing it wouldn’t take much to push it aside and step into the bus.
A single growl reached their ears, but it didn’t come toward them. Weir wondered if someone died on the bus before or after the other passengers departed. The sole zombie, assuming there really was only one, might be strapped to a seat, or trapped beneath a heavy object.
“Step back,” he warned Mullins before giving the door a moderate kick that caused the hinges to move the door slightly to one side.
He finished moving the door, sweeping it aside with his left arm and his right hand brought a Glock 22 from his work days to his side.
Still, nothing dangerous emerged, and reasonably sufficient sunlight pierced the windows, despite the dusty coating, so he stepped inside, cautiously looking around. He quickly noticed the source of the noise near the back of the bus, restrained by a seatbelt that barely allowed her to grope in Weir’s direction and growl at him.
He stepped down the aisle as Mullins entered the bus, both men looking to the floor for any initially unseen hazards. Once he cleared the aisle and reached the woman wearing a pink windbreaker and fashionable glasses, he studied her face momentarily.
“Recognize her?” Mullins inquired.
Weir thought back to everyone making their way onto the bus. He wished he knew more people from the church he and his family attended before the world fell apart, but he truly knew a handful of churchgoers who weren’t in his everyday life, and recognized almost as few.
“I can’t be sure,” Weir said. “A lot of people attended our church.”
“This isn’t a bad thing,” Mullins said, drawing closer to study the bite mark on the woman’s arm, which penetrated the material of her windbreaker. “She probably got bitten and strapped herself in so she didn’t hurt anyone.”
“I hope.”
“We keep looking,” Mullins urged. “They ran out of gas, or had a malfunction, and picked up another vehicle. We’re just a few hours away from their destination.”
“A few hours under ideal conditions in the old days,” Weir corrected him. “We’re at least a few days out, but you’re right. There’s no evidence that anything terrible happened to them.”
