Divided We Fall (5 page)

Chapter 8

The aircraft banked
hard, creaking as it turned. Cloud felt his stomach drop and his ears pop; he
looked to the left and could see the tan of the desert and gray of the
mountains through his small portside window. The drab gray passenger
compartment sat empty, rows of seats ran down the center, and more webbed jump
seats lined the outer walls of the fuselage. Cloud looked up, stretching his
neck and staring at the exposed ceiling filled with twisting conduits and
mechanical tubing.

It wasn’t his first
time on a military transport. Back before he received orders to ride a desk,
Cloud had done his share of rotations to the sandbox both as a battalion and
company commander. The desk life was easier on the family but harder on his
ego. The field kept him young, the desk made him feel old. He looked around the
plane and shook his head. In those days, this aircraft would have been packed
shoulder to shoulder with men armed to the teeth and bulked up with armor and
equipment.
A real can of whoop–ass
they joked, crammed into seats so
tight it was hard to breathe. Cloud looked down at his feet and closed his
eyes; he knew those days would never come back.

His headset
squelched to life. Cloud shifted his focus and looked to the front; an airman waved
to catch his attention and spoke into a microphone.
“Sir, we are thirty
mikes out, on approach.”

Cloud pressed a
switch on the cord of his headset; he acknowledged the call and unbuckled his
lap belt before walking to the front of the aircraft. An enlisted man in a
baggy green flight suit stood near a bulkhead; he approached Cloud when he saw
him then handed off a yellow headset connected to a long coiled cord. Cloud
took it in his hand as the man leaned in close and shouted over the drone of
the engines, “Sir, the satellite phone is all linked up, ready to dial on your
order.”

Cloud nodded and
put on the headset. He pulled on a wire frame and set the microphone just in
front of his lips. Cloud closed his eyes and took a deep breath before
signaling the airman with exaggerated thumbs up, the indication for him to
place the call. Cloud heard a series of clicks as the call bounced through
satellite relays, searching for a viable connection. It took far longer than
usual but Cloud knew the network was degraded; some of the analysts even
predicted the entire system could be down in less than thirty days.

With no one left to
steer and align the birds, the orbits would degrade and eventually they would
fall to the ground. A loud, steady tone and the simulated dialing noise focused
him. Cloud rehearsed his lines in his head and waited for the call to connect.
A solid click and static buzz filled his headset.

“Sergeant Turner
here,”
a metallic voice said.

“Sergeant, we will
be landing soon; are you in position?” Cloud said.

Turning his back,
Cloud moved away from the airman to make his way across the center of the
aircraft. Finding the cabin wall, he placed his arm against it for balance then
leaned forward to a window where he could see the fast-moving terrain below. He
felt the pilot starting the plane’s descent.

“Ah… yes, sir. We
are on the north end of the Hairatan road, just past where the roadway opens
up.”

“Understood. We are
on approach; the aircraft will land in your direction, and we will spin one
eighty and drop the ramp. Do not approach the aircraft until the flight crew
directs you onboard. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. But, sir,
I have a—”

Cloud interrupted,
speaking over the man. “As long as you understand; any other questions can
wait. See you on the ground, Sergeant.” Cloud removed the headset and made a
slashing movement with his hand. The airman disconnected the call and quickly
crossed the aisle to retrieve the yellow headphones.

“Sir, you will want
to strap in; we’ll be landing soon,” the man said.

Cloud looked at him
apprehensively; he let his eyes drift over the rows of seats to the open cargo
bay of the aircraft. Along the back wall near the ramp sat a group of eight men
dressed in all black, armed with submachine guns and M4s, pulling on hockey
helmets, and dropping tinted goggles over their eyes. Not military men;
government contractors originally brought on for a paycheck, now working for
whatever it was the general promised them. It was no secret that the
contractors had the best food, best housing, and most freedom of movement
within the facility. It caused envy among the military technicians living
within the walls of the bunker, but that usually went quiet when it was time
for them to go out on a mission.

 “Are they ready?”
Cloud asked, looking back at the recovery team.

The airman nodded
his head. “Yes; as soon as the pilot gives the all clear, I’ll drop the ramp
and they’ll make the recovery.”

The overhead cabin
lights went from green to red.

The airman looked
at Cloud. “Sir, you really need to get strapped in.”

Cloud shook his
head and moved to the cabin wall, dropping into a webbed jump seat. He was
eager to be on the ground, to recover the Hairatan group, and make the
exchange. The sooner he could get the general’s mind off the girl, the sooner
he could focus on getting support for his family. So far, any attempt or effort
he made to discuss their recovery was thwarted. Cloud was beginning to think
that his family was nothing more than a pawn to the general, a carrot dangled
in front of him to keep him under control. Everyone had a weakness and the general
knew his.

Many of the men at
the facility had already deserted, returning home or fleeing to one of the safe
zones. After the initial facility lockdown and safely withdrawing from the meat
grinder, all available resources were moved into re-gaining control of the
nation. Region by region, they used everything they had to help secure bits of
the country and to pick up allies within what they then called the secure
zones.

Eventually, most of
the country was segmented into local alliances and locked in safely behind
walls. They formed a new means of communication between them and took control
of their local military assets. That left the Coordinated National Response
Team obsolete, and even unwanted. As national resources were depleted and more
and more requests for assistance had to be denied, the CNRT fell out of favor.

The CNRT was slowly
blocked from accessing military bases and airfields, their freedom of movement
greatly restricted. State governors demanded the CNRT disbanded and its
military might and fuel reserves transferred to local government control. The general
stood a hard line, arguing a need for a central government. His words were
ignored, but all of that changed with the discovery of Aziz and a race for a
cure. Now the CNRT was back on mission, and the alliances knew it. Some were
once again cooperating with the CNRT, while others—like the Midwest
Alliance—were hunting their own vaccine.

The general knew
that finding and controlling a vaccine would be the last chance at pulling the
nation back together; control of the cure would unify the alliances back under
the CNRT.

The plane bucked
hard and rattled. Cloud heard the wheels dropping and the whine of the gear
lowering into position. He looked ahead and could see the airman calmly sitting
in a rear-facing seat, waiting patiently. The plane bumped hard against the
road, and then he heard the wheels squawk as the pilot applied the brakes and
the engines were reversed. Cloud felt his body move forward with the
deceleration of the plane. The aircraft came to an abrupt halt and then spun
around.

The airman jumped
to his feet and ran to the back. Light filled the fuselage as the ramp dropped.
Cloud unbuckled his lap belt and got to his feet. He moved to the rear of the
plane just as the last of the men in black filed down the ramp. Cloud walked to
the last row of modular seats and stood waiting with his hands on his hips. The
ramp was down and obscured in bright dust; he couldn’t see beyond the bottom of
the platform.

 
“Sir, we have a
problem,”
the airman called out.
“Could you please join us on the ramp?”

“With the
aircraft?” Cloud asked.

“No, sir; the
count… Please, sir, I think it would be easier if you came down here.”

Cloud grunted; his
right hand reached up to check the Glock in his shoulder holster as he said to
himself,
What now?

He moved through
the open cargo space and to the top of the ramp. Standing next to the airman, wearing
multi-cam trousers and a brown cotton shirt, a bulky, bearded man materialized.
Beyond the pair, he could see the recovery team formed up and surrounding a ragtag
band of civilians and soldiers alike, all standing in a cluster clutching
children and bundles of belongings. Soldiers were in a guard position, watching
the road. Cloud took them out of his view and marched directly to the airman
and the bulky man.

The bulky man’s
rifle slung behind his back with the barrel pointed down just visible near his
hip. No rank on his uniform, the man’s posture identified him as a senior
non-commissioned officer. When the pair saw Cloud, they moved in his direction;
approaching swiftly, they met him near the bottom of the ramp. Although the
dust still swirled from the aircraft’s engines, the bulky man attempted to
force his way ahead. Cloud stepped forward and began to point a flat hand at
the stranger when the airman positioned himself between them.

Cloud ignored the
airman and looked over his shoulder at the newcomer. “Sergeant Turner?”

The man shifted to
the right to make himself seen. “Yes, sir. We’re all here; what’s the hold up?”

Cloud looked at him
sternly. “Sergeant, how many are in your party?”

Turner hesitated,
then looked up and locked eyes with Cloud. “One hundred and twenty-six—including
women and children, sir.”

“Do you think this
is a game? I told you twenty-five!” Cloud shouted.

Turner took half a
step up the ramp; his eyes swept the rows of empty seats, he turned and looked
into the expansive empty cargo bay, and then he looked back at Cloud. “Sir, I
can’t leave anyone behind. If we take our guns out of the fight, these
civilians are good as dead. Even with us here, I don’t think anyone will
survive the winter.”

“That’s not our
problem, Sergeant. I’m ordering you to get your men on this plane.”

Turner shook his
head. “Not going to happen, sir; you can court martial me,” he put his wrists
together, reaching to Cloud. “Do what you want, but we won’t leave these people
behind.”

Cloud turned and
walked back into the body of the aircraft, fully prepared to kick Turner off the
plane and order the pilot to take off. His thoughts flashed to his wife and
daughter—the real reason why he was here. “Dammit,” he shouted. Cloud spun on
his heels and looked the airman in the eye, “Get them on board!” he said.

“All of ’em, sir?”
the airman asked.

“Yes,” Cloud
answered. “And Turner? You can count on that court martial.”

Turner smiled and
moved to run out of the aircraft to recover his people. “Yes, sir,” he called
over his shoulder.

Chapter
9

Darkness quickly
filled the valley as the sun dropped below the distant mountains. Joe sat
huddled in the sporting goods store armed with his newly assembled battle mace.
His left arm was swaddled in strips of torn canvas that he had wrapped and tied
tightly to serve as protective armor. Joe’s back was pressed against the
counter, his eyes level with the bottom sill of the storefront’s window.

Figures paced along
the street, moving slowly toward the grocery store parking lot. Joe’s eyes
traveled along the dark lot to the row of trees where he’d left his truck. Two
hundred yards—a couple football fields—is all he’d need to cross. If he ran, he
could be there in minutes. The creatures still followed predictable patterns;
they would continue to be drawn to the store for at least the next day and then
slowly they would dissipate, returning to the smaller hunting packs. Joe didn’t
want to wait that long; he was hungry and thirsty, and he wanted to get back to
the cabin.

He sat silently
watching another pack pass by his current position then readied himself in the
doorway. He made sure the things were out of immediate earshot then readied his
hand on the door. Letting his right hand firmly grip his handmade weapon, he
squeezed tightly, feeling the sweat on his palm. His heart rate increased,
adrenalin beginning to surge in his body. Joe checked his pocket a last time
and felt the straps of the tiny backpack to ensure it was tight to his body.

“Well, guess it’s
time to do this,” he whispered.

Joe-Mac let the
door glide open and stepped into the dark. He stood on the sidewalk in front of
the store. The immediate area was empty, but he could hear the plodding of the
creatures’ feet as they slapped pavement far ahead. He turned away from them
and walked down the street, putting distance on the pack. Instead of moving
straight for his truck in a diagonal line, he decided he would navigate the
long way down the street and cut back up to it, hoping to stay hidden in the
shadows of the storefronts.

The moon drifted
out of the clouds, its lunar light making the concrete appear blue. Looking
into the lot, the figures lit by the light looked ten feet tall and made of
steel with their backs turned to him as they moved away and filed into the
market. Joe passed in front of a brick-faced auto parts store at the end of the
block and paused, crouching low. He heard the sounds of crunching glass. His
body tightened, his head moved left and right, but he was unable to pinpoint
its source.

Joe heard a loud
gasping and intake of air; he spun on his heels and saw a female staggering
toward him. Dressed in rags, her left leg moved awkwardly; the clothing at the
knee ripped away to reveal torn muscle. She lunged forward, the sounds
beginning to gurgle from her drooling mouth. Joe knew she was going to make the
howling noise, the one that alerted the others to prey. Not hesitating, he
launched himself at her, pushing off with his toes like a sprinter in the
blocks as his arm swung up violently. The rope-encased eight ball connected
solidly with the woman’s temple, her head snapping up and back from the force
of the mace. Joe heard her neck crack as her body lifted off the ground,
following its head.

She thumped to the
pavement and lay still; her head turned away and showcased a concave dent where
the mace had struck. He planted his feet and recovered, crouching and waiting
for the next attack to come. His head swiveled and his body turned while
searching; he picked up the sound of running feet, soon followed by the distant
moans. Joe turned toward the truck and ran. He could see the dark line in the
distance that he knew was the row of trees where his truck was hidden, and he
focused on it. From the right, Joe heard a scream; he turned in time to see a
man’s rage-filled face emerge from the dark. No time to plant his feet, he
pivoted while still running forward and smacked the man with a backhanded
tennis stroke, catching him in the throat. The man continued to scream as its
body went limp and crashed to the ground. Joe leapt away from its outstretched
limbs.

More came; he used
his canvas-wrapped arm to push a creature away before spinning on his heels and
crashing the mace onto the top of its skull. Not stopping, he continued moving
ahead until he was at the trees. He ran through them, twisting around foliage
as he heard the things behind crash through low-hanging branches and limbs. The
sound of the hunt increased as those in the market learnt of the new prey. Finally,
he saw the glint of moonlight off the fender of his truck. He made a last-ditch
dash, running with everything he had left. Misjudging the distance as his
vision clouded from the surge of adrenalin and darkness, he nearly collided
with the truck. He grasped the handle and pulled the door open before diving
across the bench seat. He quickly twisted and closed the door shut behind him,
his palm slapping the lock, securing it.

He heard the mob
crash into the truck, pulling back when they made contact, quickly surrounding
it. Joe’s 1979 K15 Sierra was far from standard. Dan made fun of him, told him
he should grab a new one from a lot in the city, or even one of the military
vehicles at the roadblocks on the highway. Joe laughed it off and said he
enjoyed the throaty sounds of the big V8, but really, he liked the way the old
truck looked and the heavy steel it was made of.

The exterior was
wrapped in tensioned barbed wire he’d carefully removed from a farmer’s fence. So
much epoxy and imbedded chicken wire coated the rear window, it was nearly
impossible to see through. The original side windows and windshield were cut
out and replaced with Plexiglas that Joe had painstakingly cut from a bank’s
sliding front door. He bolted the shatterproof and nearly unbreakable acrylic
to the truck’s body then used even more epoxy to secure rebar and strands of
barbed wire over it before he finished it with heavy coats of mirrored window
tint.

The Sierra pickup
was nowhere near an armored car, but it had saved his ass from the psychos more
than once. Joe reached under the bench seat and removed a red canvas bag. He
pulled out a foil package of hard candies and a bottle of water. He drank
thirstily while listening to the mob outside pound away at the sides of the
truck. They screamed as they leapt into the bed, feeling the planted shards of
broken glass and roofing nails pierce their feet. Joe grinned knowingly; he had
an argument with Dan about the glass. Joe said the things were reacting to pain.
Dan didn’t believe him and called the booby traps a waste of time.

In the early days,
the things would run through plate glass and raging fire to get at a survivor,
ignoring harm to their own bodies. In the months that followed, they began to
regain tactile sense; although not yet to the degree a human would—or even that
of a wild dog—more like a… well, Joe didn’t know what to make of them. Regardless,
they were changing and that worried Joe the most. Like the female; did she
really bump into Joe by chance, or did the others push her ahead and use her as
a probe in the shadows to find him?

The truck began to
shake violently as the mass surrounding it intensified. Joe exhaled loudly and
stuffed a piece of the hard candy into his mouth; he crushed it with his teeth
then chased it with another long gulp of water. He sat up in the driver’s seat.
The moon cast thriving shadows all around the vehicle’s hood. Through the heavy
tinted glass, it was hard to make out individual shapes. The noise of the mass
was deafening; they beat and pounded on the hood of the truck, snarling when
their skin or hands would find the barbed wire.

Joe grinned. He
liked this new life—although filled with fear, hardships, death, and starvation,
he felt it suited him better than schoolwork and juggling odd jobs. Even before
all this, life could have been easier in the city, but he loved the mountains
and his big trucks. Joe would rather spend a day on a roof than trapped on an
assembly line or in college; he figured that could all wait for later. He was
working as a ranch hand for Dan when it all started. The job didn’t pay much,
but it kept him fed and gave him a place to stay.

Dan was strong and
capable. Retired Army—or maybe a Marine, Joe couldn’t be sure because Dan never
talked about it. He was a hard boss to work for, but he kept Joe honest. He
saved Joe’s life several times at the start of things, teaching him how to move
around and how to conceal the property to keep people out. Although, nobody
ever came except for some of Dan’s family and a neighbor from farther up the
mountain. Joe frowned when he thought of Dan. He was really going to be pissed
about him losing the gun.

Joe grinned. “Well,
I better get back before the old man throws out my stuff and gives away my
bed.”

Joe let his hand
search the steering column; he gave the keys a quick jingle for good luck and
turned the ignition while he pumped the gas pedal. The truck roared to life; he
revved the engine in competition with the mob’s roars. He felt the engine’s
vibration combine with the pulsing and rattle of the mob. Even though he should
be afraid, the mass made Joe-Mac smile. His hand searched the ceiling, finding
the switches to the light bars. He flipped all of them on at once, and bright
halogen lights illuminated the space in all directions.

They pressed on all
sides against the truck, howling, pushing, and shoving to get closer. The
protective wire was gashing and slicing away skin; some ignored the pain or were
just forced into the jagged glass from others pressing it forward. Joe searched
the crowd, looking for the one. There was always at least one. The one that
kept its distance, the one that would push a wounded female out ahead, or
organize a mob. Joe dropped the truck into four-wheel drive and let it ease
forward, the V8 having no trouble moving the crazed out of its way.

He drove slowly,
allowing them to follow alongside. He spotted the loner at the end of the tree
line; she stood alone. Broad shouldered, long matted hair, nearly naked to the
waist, she looked directly into the bright lights of the truck, not flinching.
She didn’t run at him like the others did. She didn’t howl. She seemed to study
Joe in the same way he studied her. Joe kept the truck moving in a slow,
straight line; then when he was less than fifty feet out, he pushed the pedal
to the floor. The truck accelerated hard, throwing the creatures off the hood,
bouncing them to the sides. At the last moment, he cut the wheel sharply and
aimed for the broad-shouldered woman. She looked at the truck then her mouth
opened wide as her body tensed just before the impact. The steel brush guard
crushed her frame, the momentum tossing her up and over the cab of the truck
like a rag doll. For a moment, Joe thought he saw a look of recognition on the woman’s
face, that she knew what was about to happen… that she knew she was about to
die. In that moment, she almost looked human. He gripped the wheel tight and
pushed the ideas from his mind.

Joe steered out of
the sharp turn, looking for the center of the road. Maintaining his speed, he
cut the wheel hard and the tires squealed as he drove onto the tiny main
street. He left town, driving fast. He needed to get distance on this group
before he hit the narrow mountain trail that would take him back to Dan Cloud’s
cabin. The old man would for sure shoot him if he brought back any stragglers.