Escape from the Damned (APEX Predator Book 2) (12 page)

Jackson knew he was in trouble.  He needed space and he didn’t have it.  The closest zombie was on the ground, trying to regain its feet.  There were several others almost as close.  He tucked his head and began rolling away from the horde.  He could hear shots being fired as he did.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain under his left armpit.  He glanced at his shoulder as he continued rolling.  There, covered in blood was his bayonet.  Stupid!  Stupid!  Stupid!  Ok, time to stop rolling around with a sharp object, he thought.

He had opened enough space that he thought he could get up.  He jammed the butt of his rifle into the ground and used it to push himself up, careful not to cut himself again.

As he reached his feet, a zombie grasped the lapels of his uniform.  Jackson panicked.  He drove his bayonet under the chin of the zombie and into its brain.  The monster relaxed its grip and went limp.  Jackson pushed the zombie off the end of his rifle with his left boot.

Raising his rifle with his right hand, he fired several shots at the heads of the two closest zombies.  Both eventually fell.  He could still hear SSgt Brown and Sgt Procell shooting.  He turned and ran towards SSgt Brown.

He tried to raise his left arm.  He could, but it hurt a lot.  He wasn’t sure what he’d stuck with his bayonet, but he was afraid it was bad.

SSgt Brown could see Jackson break away from the zombies and run towards him.  Slapping another magazine into his rifle, he fired at the zombies closest to the young trooper.  He could see the blood stain on the front of Jackson’s uniform.  An ice cold wave of panic hit him.  No, he thought.  Not Jackson.

Finally the two troops had outpaced their pursuers. 

“You bit?”

“No, stuck myself with my fucking bayonet,” the trooper answered the big NCO.

Relieved, SSgt Brown pointed his chin towards the vehicles.  The two troopers didn’t stop.  SSgt Brown fired several more rounds before following them down the embankment towards the vehicles and the others.

“C’mon,” Sgt Procell urged.  “Let’s get him in the truck.”  Hands reached down to help pull the wounded trooper.

“What happened?” Jen asked as Jackson was lifted into the truck.

“I got myself with my own bayonet ma’am,” he answered.  She could see the embarrassment on the young trooper’s face.  He could see the look of relief cross their faces.  Really he thought.  I’m bleeding like a stuck pig and they’re relieved.  What a world.

“Get your shirt off,” she ordered.  He winced as he moved his left arm.  The truck lurched forward as Jen pulled his shirt free of his arm.

“How bad?” he asked.  The look on her face told him all he needed to know.

“Not sure yet,” she told him.  He felt something warm and wet running down his left side.  He reached for it.  Jen grabbed his hand.

“It’s blood,” she told him.  “Keep your hands away from it.  Let me get the bleeding stopped first.”

She looked to Kerry.  “Find me something to use as a bandage. Look in my bag and see if there’s some gauze or something.”  To Theresa, “put your hand right here and push hard.”  They all recognized the fear in her eyes.

She looked at them.  They knew.  Well, damn right she was scared.  That bayonet stuck him deep and it was bleeding a lot.  That wasn’t the worst of it.  The swelling in the armpit worried her more than the bleeding.  It means that there is more bleeding under the skin.  She knew that the brachial artery runs through the armpit.

Kerry handed her some gauze and began ripping a tee-shirt.  Jen moved Theresa’s hand and covered the wound with the gauze..  “Hold this,” she ordered Theresa.

Jen felt Jackson’s radial pulse.  It was there and strong.  Good.  That meant that the artery was probably intact.  Kerry finished tearing the bandage.  Jen tied it tightly around the young black man’s shoulder.  He cried out in pain as she did.

“Sorry,” she said quietly.

“It’s ok,” he said through gritted teeth.  “Kinda tight isn’t it?”

“Just making sure the bleeding stops,” she answered with a smile.  She hoped beyond hope that the bleeding would stop.

She rechecked the bandage after a few minutes.  It appeared to be clean and dry.  Good, she thought, the bleeding appeared to have stopped.  She would continue to monitor it, but she felt better about it.

She wondered how much blood the soldier had lost.  She didn’t have a blood pressure cuff in her bag.  So, she did the next best thing.  She checked his pulse in each wrist.  The pulses were equal, rate about 96.  Good, he hadn’t lost enough blood to send him into shock.

Satisfied that he was hemodynamically stable, she began rifling through the medical kit she had put together.  She couldn’t remember what medicines she’d stocked, but she hoped there were some antibiotics and pain medications in there.

Finally, she withdrew a bottle labeled Cipro.  She knew this to be a very strong antibiotic.  She couldn’t remember the dosage, but she figured 500 milligrams right now would be a good start.  She poured a pill out and handed it to the trooper, who was now sitting up.  He swallowed it down with a little water from a plastic bottle.

“Shit,” she exclaimed.  “I forgot to ask if you’re allergic to anything.”

“No ma’am,” he answered.  “I’m not.  What would happen if I was allergic to that stuff?”

“If your allergy is bad enough it could kill you.  So, let’s hope you’re not.”

The truck slowed to a stop.  Jen looked over the side.  She’d been so focused on Jackson that she didn’t have any idea where they were.  The highway was four lanes, and the median was almost 50 yards wide and flat at this point.  The Humvee and the truck were both pulled onto the center shoulder.

“How’s he doing?” asked SSgt Brown.

“He’s ok,” she answered.  SSgt Brown could see the concern on her face.  “I think I’ve gotten the bleeding to stop.”

“What about infection?” he asked.

“I gave him a dose of Cipro.  I think I’ll give it to him twice a day.  I don’t have any reference books, but that sounds about right for Cipro.”  She paused for a second.  “I think.”

“Well, if you think it, I’ll believe it.”

He turned to Sgt Procell who was next to him on the road.  “The sun’s getting low.  We’re sleeping in the trucks tonight.  Get everyone something to eat.  I’ll set up guard shifts.”

Dinner was not what they had become accustomed to.  During the escape, no one was able to load the LMTV with any food.  There was a box of MRE’s and a case of water that had been left there for just such an emergency.  Mike, Jen, Pvt Jackson, and Kerry had some food in their backpacks, but not much.  SSgt Brown hoped they would find food somewhere tomorrow.

The group spent the night huddled together for warmth in the open back of the LMTV.  Mike, SSgt Brown, Theresa and Sgt Procell split the guard shifts.  When Theresa wasn’t on guard, she was curled up close to Jackson.  She told Jen that she just needed to feel him breathing.  Jen understood.

Day 22

Jen removed the gauze from under Jackson’s arm.  The bleeding had indeed stopped.  She also noted that he had a hematoma, which is a collection of blood under the skin, that had not grown any larger.  She pressed gently on the baseball sized mass.  The young soldier winced in pain.

“Sorry,” she said quietly.  She continued her inspection for another minute.  Satisfied that the wound showed no signs of infection, she carefully re-bandaged his wound.  “How’s the pain?”

“Pretty good Miss Jen,” he answered.  “It really only hurts when I move it around.  It’s just sore the rest of the time.”

She reached into her bag and withdrew an olive green piece of cloth.  SSgt Brown had told her it was called a cravat, like the 60’s neckerchief.  She folded it crossways, making it into a triangle.  She then expertly tied it around his neck and under the arm, making a perfect sling.

“There,” she announced.  “That ought to hold it still.”

“Ma’am, I can’t shoot a rifle with this thing on.”

“Could you shoot it without the sling?” she challenged.

“I guess not,” he said quietly.

She looked around.  Mike’s pistol caught her eye.  “Mike,” she called him over.  “Would you mind if Private Jackson were to borrow your pistol for a while?”

He shook his head as he took the holster and pistol from his belt.

“I’m going to want that back,” he said as he handed it to the young trooper.

“Yes sir.  Thank you, sir”

“No problem.  Just get to feeling better”

Jackson smiled.  He had liked Mike from the night they’d met.  “Yes sir.”

They ate breakfast, joined by Theresa.  She had gone “to tinkle.”  Jen and Mike couldn’t help notice that their food supplies were running low.  Each had a candy bar and they shared a bottle of water for breakfast.

“Ok guys,” SSgt Brown announced.  “Let’s get moving.  Mike, you ride with me in the Humvee.”

Mike jumped down from the truck and climbed into the driver’s seat of the military vehicle.  The big NCO climbed in next to him.

“How much do you know about Monroe?”

“Not much,” Mike replied.  “It’s pretty big.  I’ve heard it’s a pretty rough town.  I-20 goes through it.  That’s about it.”

SSgt Brown didn’t say anything.  As has been the case for the past three weeks, whatever lies ahead, they’ll find it eventually.

“How’re we looking on gas?”

“’Bout a quarter of a tank,” Mike replied.

SSgt Brown thought about that for a minute.  He knew they needed food and water, but if they didn’t find gas quick, they were going to be walking.

“Let’s go,” he ordered.

They passed several gas stations as they approached the city.  All were either full of cars or actual zombies.  SSgt Brown couldn’t help but notice that some of the zombies were in bloody military uniform.  He guessed they were from the 101
st
Airborne, like Sgt Procell.  They should have passed through here about ten days before.  Looks like they ran into trouble here, he thought.  This isn’t good.

Finally, they found a gas station that appeared to be deserted.  Mike pulled off the road, up to the pump.  They climbed out.  The pumps were dark; no juice.  Mike pulled the Hummer to the row of caps that covered the fuel tanks.  SSgt Brown opened each one and sniffed.  He found the one that smelled of diesel.

“We need to find something to pump this stuff out,” he said.  He saw Sgt Procell.  “You guys go inside and see if there’s a pump or something.”  He looked at Theresa.  “Take the rest of the kids and load up on food and water.  Make it fast and stay together.”

Kerry, Mike, and Sgt Procell approached the front of the convenience store.  The door was one of the automatic sliding doors.  With no power, it just sat motionless.  Sgt Procell pulled out his combat knife and wedged it between the doors.  He was soon able to get his fingers, then his entire hand through the gap.  Mike joined in.  Together they were able to pull the door open.

The trio entered the small convenience store and fanned out.  Mike saw a shelf that was filled with automobile light bulbs and window decals.  There he found a small plastic pump.  It didn’t look long enough to do what they needed it to do, but it was a pump.

Walking to the soda fountain, he found several tubes that were very close in diameter to one end of the pump.  They found some duct tape and slipped one end over the other, taping the edge when they were done.  Mike was satisfied with the extra six feet of tail the pump had, and ran to the truck with it.

Kerry and Sgt Procell helped the kids load some food and water into the LMTV.  Theresa made the big score of the day.  She found 6 bottles of fruit juices on the shelf that were ok to drink warm.  Since the power was out, they all assumed that the contents of the freezer would be spoiled.

After fueling both vehicles, SSgt Brown ordered his little band of survivors to continue east on the interstate.  He couldn’t help but notice the number of cars pulled over or stalled in the westbound lanes.  Where were all those people?  Is it going to look the same way on the other side of town?

Twenty minutes later he found his answer.  They could see it long before they reached it.  There before them was just about the biggest traffic jam SSgt Brown had ever seen.  There were cars in the median.  There were cars on and off of the shoulder.  Some cars had tried to cross over the westbound lanes and gotten stuck in the median.  Some had tried to go around the other way and become stuck on that side of the road.

“Turn around,” he ordered Mike.  “Take us back to the last exit.”

Mike did as he was told, eventually driving east in the empty westbound lanes.  They pressed on.

Terry and Holly were on another foraging mission.  Sam had sent them west towards Monroe to see about finding some more ammunition.  They had used quite a bit when a group had tried to raid their home last week.

Terry was driving the Ford F-150 at about 100 miles per hour.  He’d driven this road almost every day for the past two weeks.  The only time he’d seen anyone alive on the road was when all those soldiers had gone through.

Holly had found a rock and roll CD on their last trip out.  Terry had the music up as loud as it would go.  Who cared right?  No cops around, the 21 year old thought.

Terry Briton was a college dropout from around here.  His daddy had always told him that he was going to college after high school.  Terry never had a choice.  Then when he was 19, in his third semester at ULM, his mother died of a massive heart attack.  She didn’t have insurance and his dad wasn’t going to be able to keep paying for school.

Terry had joined the local fire department.  There, he found his calling.  In this part of Louisiana, most of the calls were to rural areas.  He had gotten himself qualified in water rescue and was training to become an EMT.  Then the world went to hell.

Terry thanked his lucky stars every day that he was at the station when the news broke of the dead rising.  He was on the pump truck that day.  They had just worked a traffic accident with the medic unit, and were back at the station.  Suddenly the dispatcher reported violence at the hospital.  The medic unit never returned.

Captain Reynolds left the station in the sprint car with LaRue.  Thirty minutes later, they called in over the radio and reported that they were heading back and that they needed to shut the doors, and were not to respond to any more calls.

About that time, Holly who is Captain Reynolds’s daughter got a phone call on her cell.  It was her dad.  She had told everyone in the station that her daddy had said something was up and they needed to be prepared to hunker down in the station for a long time.  She didn’t say what.  He wanted them to run home and gather supplies and their families.

Terry’s dad was at work when he got home.  He tried him on his cell but it went straight to voicemail.  He gathered everything he could and left his daddy a note.  He glanced in the rearview mirror as he accelerated down the driveway.  That was the last he saw of his boyhood home.

When he got back to the station, several of his fellow firefighters and a few family members were there.  Over the next hour, a few more returned.  About half of the shift chose to stay home with their families.

For the last three weeks, the eighteen survivors had remained locked inside the rural Ouachita Parish fire station.  Every day, firemen and their family members would strike out to find food, water, and fuel.

That was where Terry and Holly found themselves on this cloudy day on I-20.  Terry glanced at Holly.  He’d always thought she was attractive, but not attractive enough to suffer the wrath of Captain Reynolds.  He let himself fantasize for just a moment.  He imagined what it would be like to just stop the truck out here and just let nature take its course.

“What?” She asked with that coy little smile.

“Nothing,” he answered.  “Just thinking.”

“I know what you were thinking about,” she told him.  “It’s ok.  Dad’s not out here.”

Is she serious?  He stared at her, contemplating.  Still driving 100 miles per hour, he didn’t see the sand colored Humvee bearing down on them as they rounded the corner.  The music drowned out the honking of the horn.

Mike threw the wheel hard to the left and jammed on the brakes.  Tires squealed and for a moment the Hummer began to fishtail, but Mike was able to quickly correct it.

The LMTV, still in the right hand turn however, was not able to avoid the speeding pickup.  The pickup struck the heavy military truck in the front left corner and began spinning.  After the rear of the pickup struck the left side of the still moving LMTV, it flipped several times, coming to rest on it’s now caved in roof.

Sgt Procell was able to keep the LMTV from wrecking into the trees that lined the road..  He brought it to a stop about 500 feet from the pickup.

“Is everybody alright?” he asked as he stood in the turret ring.

The civilians in the back looked like they’d been thrown around a bit, but everyone was moving.  They all shook their heads and answered in the affirmative.  The Humvee pulled up next to them.

“You guys ok?” asked SSgt Brown.

“I think so,” Sgt Procell answered.  “Who the hell was that?”

SSgt Brown and Mike dismounted and walked to the pickup.  The roof was partially caved in on the passenger side.  The front end of the truck was completely crushed.  There was glass everywhere.  SSgt Brown noticed the Maltese cross on the back windshield.  Someone was trying to crawl out of the driver’s window.

The young man was wearing a ball cap, sweatshirt, and blue jeans.  SSgt Brown could see there was fresh blood on the front of the t-shirt, and the man didn’t seem to be trying to move his right arm.

“Procell,” he yelled as he and Mike ran to the truck.  “We have a live one.  Help us out over here.”

When they reached the truck, they helped pull the driver out.  SSgt Brown could tell he was in worse shape than he thought at first.  He was breathing fast and shallow, and his breathing was pretty noisy.  That was what had caught the older man’s attention.

“Jen!  We need you!”

Jen arrived just as they were pulling the passenger out of the vehicle.  She could see that the body was limp, feet dragging behind it.  The hair and build told her it was a woman.  The head flopped oddly and blood poured from her face as the two men dragged her from the truck.  Sgt Procell looked to Jen and just shook his head.  Jen knew what that meant.  She only had one patient to deal with.

The man was in his early twenties she guessed.  He obviously hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt.  He had lacerations to his face, and he’d obviously broken his nose.  There was an abrasion and a big goose egg already forming on the left side of his forehead.  He was awake, but writhing in pain and not answering questions.

As she kneeled down to assess him closer, she could tell that his breathing was indeed rapid and shallow.  She pulled out a pocket knife and cut the man’s shirt.  There, on his chest was a bright red, circular bruise.  The boy had hit the steering wheel when the cars hit.  This wasn’t good.