Brian Keene (18 page)

Still, the wilds presented a problem as well. While remote areas had less humans, there were more undead animals to worry about. In the passenger seat, Worm cooed happily to himself, engrossed in a children's book that he'd found lying in the backseat. Baker gave him a sidelong glance and smiled, then turned his attention back to the road. It would be easier without Worm, of course. Baker hated himself for thinking that, but the analytical portion of his brain kept reminding him of it. Besides, what if something happened to Baker? What would become of his young charge then? Cold, rational thought dictated that it would be an act of kindness to kill him while he slept. Better than leaving him alone to face the terrors of this new world. He could never do that, though. He felt responsible for Worm. Who was he kidding? He wasn't an assassin
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151 some ruthless, emotionless killer.

Sure you are, said the voice in his head. You killed the world, Baker. You're a murderer. The greatest mass-murderer in history!

He mentally shrugged the voice away, and focused on their current dilemma. Towns were out. The wilderness was out. What did that leave? An island perhaps? There were islands scattered along the Susquehanna River, but they presented the same problem as the mountains or forests, only on a smaller scale. A rural farmhouse, removed from the rest of civilization? No, that didn't provide any more security than the wilderness. A small plane or a helicopter might be nice, like in that zombie movie he'd seen years ago on video. But even if he knew how to pilot one (which he didn't), where would they go after they went up? In the movie, the survivors had gone to a shopping mall.

Which brought him back to square one.

A billboard caught his attention.

INDIAN ECHO CAVERNS-EXIT 27-TEN MILES

He arched his eyebrows. A cave! He'd taken his visiting niece and nephew to the attraction several years before. He mulled over the possibilities; a deep, underground location, hidden from prowling eyes. Only one entrance and exit, so it was easily guarded. Perhaps most importantly, it was completely devoid of life; a tourist trap without the bats and other cave-dwelling creatures.

It could work. At least for now. At this point, anything was better than driving down the wide-open Pennsylvania Turnpike in a bright red Hyundai. He tapped Worm on the shoulder, gaining his attention away from the adventures of Self the Kitty.

"Do you suffer from claustrophobia?"

The young man blinked, uncomprehending.

"Are you afraid of caverns or being underground?" Baker tried again, but still his companion didn't

152 understand. He tried a different tact.

"Are you afraid of the dark?"

"Dawk?" This got a reaction. Worm considered the question and then touched Baker's arm. "Goht Bayker. No dawk."

"As long as you're with me, you won't mind the dark," Baker translated,
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and was touched. He felt a balloon of emotions welling up inside his chest, and remembered the promise that he'd made.

"Kihtee fuhnee," Worm told him, returning his attention to the book. His mind made up on their destination, Baker edged the speedometer to forty-five. He still wanted to be cautious, in case they came upon a wrecked vehicle, but at the same time, he was anxious to get there. He wondered how long their supplies would last them, but decided that it would be enough for the interim. Once they'd safely established shelter in the caverns, Baker could make a trip to replenish their stores. He also considered the possibility that the caverns weren't totally deserted. What if an employee or a tourist had turned into one of the undead and was holed up there? Even worse, what if somebody else, another survivor or a group of them, had already had the same idea and laid sole claim to it?

There were too many variables. They would just have to deal with the consequences when they arrived there.

The exit for the shopping mall flashed by, and Baker studied the landscape. Far below the exit ramp, scattered zombies could be seen shambling around the parking lot and fields. Incredibly, as he passed by them, two of the creatures turned their heads and pointed at the speeding Hyundai. Then, they flung open the doors of a nearby pickup truck, and hauled themselves into the cab.

He saw the truck's reverse lights in his rear-view mirror, and then the mall passed from sight. He stomped on the gas pedal and shot a reassuring glance at Worm, but the boy was oblivious to their pursuit. Nervously,

153 Baker appraised the situation. He had a head start; one that was broadening as the speedometer inched past seventy-five. It would take the zombies in the truck at least a couple minutes to maneuver out of the mall, up the ramp, and onto the Turnpike. If he could reach the next exit, the one for the caverns, before they regained sight of the car, they might be alright.

He decided against parking the car in close proximity to the caverns. It would announce their location on the off-chance that the zombies took the exit and drove around in search of them.

"Buherdz," Worm said suddenly, bouncing in his seat.

"What?"

"Buherdz!" He shouted now, clearly agitated, and pointed upward. The sky was black with clouds of undead birds. Crows and finches.
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Sparrows and robins. Cardinals and turkey buzzards. Thousands of them blotted out the sun, swooping downward in one massive flock. Soaring towards the car.

Gripping the wheel, Baker pressed the accelerator to the floor. The Hyundai protested, then the automatic transmission caught up with his urging and the car shot forward. As it did so, he heard a horn honking behind them, loud and persistent.

The truck was coming up behind them, and the birds swept in for the kill. Watching the airborne zombies out of the windshield of the cab, Private Warner was glad he was driving the truck. The HumVee sat five interior passengers, with a sling seat for the gunner topside. In Warner's case, he would have occupied that seat. But while he loved handling the .50

caliber machine gun, and even the occasional Mach 19 grenade launcher or TOW missile launcher, a series of botched missions had taught the unit 154 that when mobile, it was best to keep all hands and legs inside the vehicle at all times.

This was one of those times. Had he been manning the machine gun, he'd be easy prey for the swarming flock. The enormous round wouldn't do much good against so many small targets, and at six feet long and one hundred and fifty pounds, he couldn't exactly carry it around with him. Instead, he was driving a civilian box truck that had been commandeered weeks ago. Once used to ferry bread deliveries all over the state, it now served as a mobile detention unit, transporting prisoners back to Gettysburg. It was currently empty, but Warner had no doubt that would change before this reconnaissance mission was over.

Warner carried no illusions about what they were doing, nor did he care. He was on the winning team, and if cracking some civilian in the head with a rifle butt to keep them in line was what he had to do to stay on the winning team, then he was all for it. Besides, he figured, they'd been protecting these soft mother fuckers for so many years, it was about time civilians showed some respect and busted their ass for them. Forced labor and prostitution? Maybe-but at least they were alive. They should be grateful.

Warner had never had any illusions about his position. The way he saw it, he got paid to protect people from themselves; and cracking heads, whether they were a rioting protestor or a looter after a flood or tornado, was one of the benefits. He didn't care about the citizens he was sworn to protect. Most of them didn't deserve protection anyway. They wanted their houses and businesses kept safe, but they were the first ones squawking on the news when the media showed a Guardsmen taking out a few of the very same fucks they wanted protection from.
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Although he had never said it aloud, Warner secretly liked things the way they were now. He got laid on a

155 nightly basis, and who cared if some of them fought back at first?

Pussy was pussy, whether it was willing or unwilling. You just had to break the bitch down was all. He ate well, slept well, and got to utilize his skills. He was still alive, and more importantly, his life had purpose.

"Warner," Sergeant Ford's voice crackled over the radio. "You see that shit overhead?"

He keyed the mike, eyes still trained on the birds.

"That's affirmative. Something tells me they ain't flying south for the winter."

"Staff Sergeant Michaels says to stop. He wants to wait them out. If it looks like they're going to attack and they breach your truck, make for us. We'll cram you in until it's over."

"Roger that," Warner replied, as visions of beaks smashing their way through the truck's windshield ran through his mind.

"Warner's clear," Ford informed Michaels, warily eyeing the circling birds. He'd never seen so many at once. Their attention seemed, so far, to be focused on something beyond the curve in the road. In the back, Lawson and Blumenthal readied their weapons and fidgeted nervously.

"This entire mission has been a cluster-fuck," Michaels grumbled. "First York, now this. Schow's going to be pissed."

Their reconnaissance of York had found the town to be hostile; filled not just with the living dead, but with warring factions of skinheads and street gangs too. A large portion of the downtown district had been destroyed by fire, and most of the surrounding areas were inhospitable as well. Certainly not worth wasting manpower on. The bottom line was that York was unsuitable for a new base.

He turned back to the birds, in time to see most of the 156 group drop downward. One flank separated from the main body, wheeling back toward their location.

"Shit," Ford barked. "They've spotted us! Get on the horn and tell Warner to move his ass!"

Blumenthal turned to Lawson and whispered conspiratorially "No bunch of birds is going to peck their way through this tin can."
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"Maybe," he shrugged noncommittally, "but I'm glad we got the flame-thrower, just in case."

Baker swerved left, then spun the wheel to the right, searching for an escape, but the creatures were everywhere. The birds zoomed down upon the car. Bodies smashed against the windshield like living dead torpedoes, heedless of the damage being done to themselves. Whimpering, Worm clawed at his seatbelt and closed his eyes. The windshield began to crack under the barrage, and the cracks quickly spread. The sheer force of numbers rocked the car back and forth along the road. Each splattering body sounded like a rock as they pinged off the roof and hood. Baker turned on the wipers and blew the horn, but it did nothing to dislodge them.

Suddenly, the car slammed forward as something hit them from behind. The truck! In his panic, he'd forgotten about it. Terrified, he glanced into the rearview mirror.

The pickup truck was right behind them, close enough that he could see the leering grins of its two undead passengers. The truck sped forward and the car lurched again as their grille crashed against the Hyundai's rear bumper.

Metal shrieked as something drew its talons across the roof. Baker spun the wheel again but the car wasn't responding. The birds' bodies littered the road, and the

157 tires slid uselessly over them. More carcasses collected in the wheel wells, choking the tires and sending the car careening toward the guardrail. Just then, the truck rammed them a third time and the car began to spin. Now the birds pounded it from all sides, and the rear window began to crack as well. A crow forced its head through the shattered windshield and cawed at them.

The car shuddered to a halt and the cacophony of the assault grew to thundering proportions. Eyes tightly clenched, Worm placed his quivering hands over his face. Baker reached for the gun, knowing how futile the weapon it would be against this enemy. There was only one way out of this. There was a loud bang as something heavy landed on the hood. Baker peered through the feathery mass of wings and saw the eagle; once a proud symbol of freedom and democracy. Now symbolizing corruption and death. Spreading its massive wings, it darted towards the shattered windshield.

Baker put the gun to Worm's head and prayed that he'd have time to finish them both before the creatures reached them.

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Warner watched a squadron of birds break off from the rest of the formation and wing directly towards the truck and the HumVee.

"Oh hell!"

"Warner," Ford shouted over the radio, "get your ass moving! Now now now now NOW!"

Flinging the door open, he dashed toward the HumVee. Blumenthal emerged from the top-hatch, clutching an M-16 and urging him on. Something sharp whizzed by his head, and he felt a sudden pain. He placed his hand to his ear, and his palm came away red. Another bird snapped at his ankles, and a third clawed at his hair.

158 Shrieking, he clenched the bird in his fists and squeezed. It fought back, snapping at his hands and fingers with its razored beak, drawing more blood.

Warner stumbled, falling to his knees in the middle of the road. His back felt heavy, as the weight of more birds forced him to the ground. He rolled and thrashed, crushing them beneath him.

The HumVee backed towards him, and Blumenthal fired off a burst from his M-16. He managed to actually hit a few of the small moving targets, but the rest scattered, flitting out of range.

Warner pulled himself up, screaming as something pecked it's way into the back of his neck.

Inside the HumVee, Michaels' attention had been focused on operating the vehicle and not running over Warner. Ford was the first to notice the red Hyundai that careened around the bend in the road, spinning uncontrollably before it slid to a stop. A rusty pickup truck skidded to a halt behind it, and two human zombies got out of it.

"Christ," he muttered, then turned to Michaels. "We've got company!" Still firing, Blumenthal jumped out of the moving vehicle and ran towards the injured soldier. Warner was covered in feathery bodies. The birds chattered excitedly, picking at his exposed flesh, as he writhed in agony. Blumenthal took a few more strides toward him and then retreated as more of the creatures bombarded him. Screaming, he dropped the M-16 and flung his arms protectively over his eyes. Lawson clambered into the sling chair atop the HumVee and aimed the flame-thrower. A liquid orange burst roared through the air, setting dozens of birds aflame. He swung the weapon in a wide arc, and the rest of the airborne hordes retreated.