Plague of the Dead (14 page)

    Between the convoy and the harbor were the carriers.

    There were a scant few compared to the horde they had faced at Suez. Denton doubted he would ever again cast eyes on a group that large. Nevertheless, they were in the road, shambling or running out into the streets from houses and storefronts, or pulling themselves out of shadowed alleyways.

    Sherman’s voice boomed through the radio.

    “Convoy drivers, we have carriers in the roadway. Do not engage or decelerate. Plow through!”

    Brewster nodded to himself and downshifted.

    The road was wide enough to allow for some maneuvering room. The trucks drifted out of their convoy formation, giving Brewster and Denton a clear view of what lay ahead. The lead truck, (the one carrying Sherman,) swerved sharply, and jolted. Brewster saw the tattered remains of a carrier twisting under the axles. The truck spat out the body, which rolled to a slow stop in the center of the road.

    “Fucking right, man!” Brewster shouted, pointing.

    “Watch the road! Watch the road!” Denton admonished.

    Brewster dropped his hand back to the wheel. The second truck scored a direct hit and gore sprayed around the sides of its cab. A few drops of blood splattered back onto the windshield of Brewster’s truck. A moment later, the second truck wavered, and the terrible sound of rending metal ripped through the air. The truck jolted to a dead stop, decelerating from forty-five miles per hour to zero in less than a second.

    It flipped, end-over-end, and landed upside-down on the road, skidding roughly into a storefront. The walls of the store shattered, sending debris flying into the roadway. Brewster raised a hand to protect himself as a beam of wood smashed into the windshield of the truck, leaving a spider web of cracks behind.

    “
What the hell?”
Brewster breathed, casting a backward glance at the smoldering truck as they passed.

    “Axle locked up!” Denton shouted. “Watch the road! The road, Brewster!”

    “There had to be thirty people in that truck!” Brewster exclaimed.

    “No time! They’re gone! Keep driving!”

    The carriers were getting thicker. The noise was drawing them out. Trucks were running over shambling forms left and right-Brewster managed to steer a pair of tires onto the sidewalk, smashing one of the carriers under them. The thump was sickening, but strangely satisfying to the private first-class.

    Denton hung his head out the passenger side door, trying to catch a glimpse of what lay behind them. The bulky tan canvas of the truck’s bed blocked most of his view as it whipped about in the forty-mile-an-hour wind streaming over the moving truck. Brewster weaved the truck around a jutting curb, giving Denton the glimpse he was hoping for.

    “Oh, that’s wonderful, eh?! Half the city’s behind us!” he yelled, sliding back into the cab and tossing Brewster an exhausted glance.

    “Sprinters or shamblers?” Brewster asked.

    “Sprinters, mostly. Think maybe this town got hit hard and fast by the virus? Looks like they all got sick with it. Not many wounded.”

    “Let’s worry about that after we leave here breathing, alright?” Brewster said.

    A crash from ahead of them drew their attention. The lead truck had crashed through the chain-link gate at the entrance to the city’s harbor. The trucks sped into the open parking lot and skidded to full stops close to the docks.

    The town of Sharm el-Sheikh was a tourist trap. That would be working to the advantage of the soldiers and refugees in their hurried escape from the Sinai peninsula. Because of all the tourism dollars spent here, there were a number of well-kept speedboats and even a number of luxury yachts moored in the harbor. The parking lot the trucks had pulled into was large and open, terrible for defense, but the dock itself had only three access points: small ramps of wooden planks that ran down to the dock proper.

    General Sherman dropped down from the lead truck and squinted out across the harbor. There were more than enough boats for the people in the convoy.

    But one problem remained.

    “Keys,” Sherman said. “We need to find the keys to the boats!”

    “Sir,” Thomas growled, appearing at the general’s side. “There.”

    Thomas pointed out onto the docks where a boathouse had been constructed. There was a vending machine set out front, and a number of bright signs were nailed to the wooden siding. It had every appearance of the dock’s main office.

    “Check it,” Sherman said, gesturing with his left hand. His right drew his sidearm. “Everyone else: If you’re unarmed or a civilian, get out on the docks and into a boat! Stay together, and take the largest vessels you find! Soldiers, on me! We’re holding the ramp to the docks!”

    Brewster was assisting people out of his truck, reaching up to pull them down one by one. He heard Sherman barking orders and stepped back, unslinging his rifle and charging the handle. He only had one and a half magazines left. He hoped they would be enough.

    Most of the civilians had rushed out onto the docks as soon as they were down from the trucks. What few remained on the paved parking lot were hurrying towards the access ramps, which were also quickly being filled by any soldiers still carrying ammo.

    “Drag those crates over!” Sherman was shouting. “Form barricades!”

    The soldiers were busy dumping anything heavy and solid they could find at the top of the three ramps. Coils of rope, empty coolers, cargo crates, stripped prop engines-all found their way into the rapidly growing piles.

    The last refugees pulled themselves over the crates to relative safety just as the carriers began arriving outside the gates to the parking lot.

    Sherman cast an eye over the ragtag band and their hasty fortifications. It was clear to him that they couldn’t hold for long. The barricades weren’t high enough to stop the sprinters, and even the undead shambling carriers would be able to pull themselves over given the time. His eyes drifted over to the harbor’s main gates, where the carriers were beginning their run across the parking lot. There were hundreds in total, he estimated, most still out in the streets beyond the gates. They would come at the soldiers in a steady wave until they overran them or were all killed. Sherman wasn’t sure his men had the ammunition and accuracy to win such a fight. His eyes moved south, to the access ramp on which he stood. There was something itching at the back of his mind.

    The soldiers were pressed up against the barricades, rifles to their shoulders, eyes against the iron sights. Sweat trickled down their foreheads and their hands shook almost undetectably as they waited for the carriers to move closer.

    Sherman’s head shot upright. He had remembered what it was that was bothering him.

    “The ramps!” he shouted, drawing glances. “These ramps are detachable! You can remove them!”

    He had seen similarly constructed docks before. The access ramps could be folded up onto the pavement or down onto the dock itself, or they could be removed entirely. He had no idea what the purpose behind the mechanism was, but the seemingly useless bit of trivia could end up being their salvation.

    “Look for pins or bolts! Figure out how to get these things off!” he shouted, holstering his pistol and kneeling quickly, running his eyes and hands along the frame of the ramp.

    On the opposite end of the dock, Brewster heard Sherman’s idea.

    “Shit, yeah!” he said, looking back and forth at the soldiers around him. “He’s right! I’ve seen these things too!”

    Brewster flattened himself out, hanging his head and shoulders over the edge of the planks, desperately looking for whatever it was that bound the ramps to the dock.

    “They’re coming closer, sir!” shouted Sergeant Decker, flicking his safety off. Similar clicks issued from up and down the line of soldiers. “Do we fire?!”

    Sherman looked up. The carriers were more than halfway across the pavement, advancing swiftly, spreading out as they got closer.

    That, in his opinion, was quite close enough.

    “Open fire!” he ordered.

    The distinctive staccato chatter of M-16 fire ripped across the docks as the soldiers opened up. Bursts of viral blood sprayed up into the air as rounds drilled through fevered foreheads, dropping the first line of carriers in their tracks. The second line was right behind them, deftly negotiating their way around the corpses of their former comrades and charging straight at the line. They fell a moment later as a second fusillade hit them, but the infected advance had gained a yard.

    Brewster cast about wildly under the ramp as he heard the shots. He knew he didn’t have much time. His eyes settled on a small steel chain that dangled below the planks. He reached out a hand to grab it, but it dangled just out of his reach. He pushed himself farther, hanging out over the blue water, and managed to snag the chain with his ring finger. With a gasp of achievement, he wrapped his hand around it and yanked. Whatever the chain was attached to, it was wedged in firmly. He pulled in his breath and pulled with all the strength he could muster.

    The chain popped free, pulling a stout metal pin with it. The access ramp shifted under Brewster, hanging loose. He grinned in victory and pulled himself to his knees, turning and cupping his hands around his mouth.

    “There’s a pin at the top of the ramp on the underside! Pull it out!” he yelled. He saw Sherman and Decker on the other ramps look in his direction and nod. Responsibility fulfilled, Brewster grabbed up his rifle and jumped to his feet, taking in the scene.

    The carriers had covered three-quarters of the parking lot and were nearly on top of the defenders. Corpses littered the pavement, dozens of carriers lying face-down in pools of blood. It was time to add to the casualty list.

    Brewster drew a textbook sight picture on the forehead of a shambler and fired off a round. He watched with satisfaction as the carrier went down, twitching, in a heap. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Decker rising to his feet on the other ramp, holding a chain and pin in his hands. Two ramps were ready. General Sherman was having difficulty, apparently, as he was still reaching underneath his own ramp.

    Brewster picked off another carrier, this one a sprinter. It fell facedown, skidding a few feet as it burned off inertia, coming to a rest in a tangled knot of limbs, a neat hole drilled through its forehead.

    “I’m out of ammo!” yelled a soldier, stepping back from the barricade and dropping an empty magazine from his rifle. Brewster moved up to take his position, resting his own weapon on the crate in front of him. The steady firing position gave him some added accuracy-time to put it to good use. Brewster let his training kick in. He acquired a target, drew a sight picture, and fired. Target, sight in, fire. Target, sight in, fire.

    The carriers were almost completely on them now. The sprinters were too fast and too numerous. By the time one fell, another had already run around the falling corpse and gained a foot or two. Brewster sensed the situation deteriorating. Sherman had better hurry. He sighted in another carrier and pulled the trigger.

    
Click
.

    Brewster swore, pulling himself upright and pinching the button that released the rifle’s magazine. He let it drop to the ramp, forgotten, as he slapped in his full-
and final
-ammo magazine. As he did so, Sherman stood upright, waving a pin and chain over his head.

    “Everyone back down the ramps, get on the dock!” Sherman yelled.

    “Fall back!” Decker echoed, waving his wounded arm overhead. The soldiers pulled away from the barricades, backing down the ramps, still firing.

    As the last soldier cleared his ramp, Brewster slung his rifle and dug his fingers between the wooden planks. He pulled, and the ramp rose a few inches before crashing back down.

    “Someone help! It’s too heavy!” Brewster yelled. Corporal Darin appeared a moment later, grabbing hold of the ramp alongside Brewster. Both heaved, pulling the ramp into a vertical position. It hovered there a moment before wavering and falling back. Darin and Brewster barely had enough time to dive out of the way as the ramp hit the docks. It left a six foot gap between the dock proper and the pavement.

    “Hoo-ah!” Brewster shouted, pumping an arm in the air and throwing a taunt at the carriers, who were now grouping around the barricade, pulling aside the obstacles in an effort to get at the men beyond.

    Decker and Sherman had also managed to pull their ramps back, sealing the docks off from the parking lot. The soldiers filtered back towards the boats, keeping a wary eye on the carriers as they did so.

    Brewster unslung his rifle again, holding it angled down. He decided to conserve ammo-the dead and infected were cut off for the time being.

    “Sir!” came a cry. Sergeant Major Thomas appeared in the boathouse door, holding key rings above his head. “I’ve got ‘em! Keys to four of the yachts!”

    “Right!” Sherman yelled back. He turned to look at Decker, who stood about ten feet away on the adjoining walkway. He said, “Looks like we’ll make it after all.”

    Darin and Brewster turned away from the mass of carriers on their end of the dock and headed toward the boats. Behind them, with no warning other than an uttered snarl, one of the carriers decided to go for it.

    It came barreling through the barricades, launching itself from the edge of the pavement and sailing ungracefully through the air. It hadn’t so much jumped as ran out over the water, but it had the speed it needed. It hit Darin from behind, knocking him to the planks, and tried to bury its nails in the back of his neck.

    Brewster was shocked into inaction, but the moment passed quickly, and he lowered his rifle with one swift motion and blew the back of the carrier’s skull off. The infected body hung over Darin for a moment, then slumped over the side of the dock and splashed into the water below.

    Darin, wide-eyed, sat up slowly. “Thanks.”

    “Don’t mention it,” Brewster said, resting his rifle on his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get out of here before another fucking Evel Knievel wannabe tries his luck.”