The Ashes of Pompeii (Purge of Babylon, Book 5) (22 page)

At first there was a loud series of
popping
sounds, like small explosions ringing out one after another underneath them. Then the truck spun, and Will imagined Barnes inside fighting for control of the vehicle. Olsen might have even screamed. Or it sounded like someone was screaming behind him, the voice slightly muffled by the wall between them.

Will went from looking at the divider wall behind Leo to staring back down the highway as the car skidded off course, tires screeching as the brakes clamped down and the stinging smell of burnt rubber filled the air. A moment later, the front bumper dug into the concrete and the F-250 was no longer on the highway.

That was when Will leaped out of the truck. It wasn’t anything he had planned, but he was already being flung anyway by the vehicle’s chaotic flipping momentum, so he decided to stop fighting it. His one hope of surviving was to get far enough from the tumbling vehicle not to get caught—and dragged—underneath it.

Then he was sailing through the air, the wind rushing against his face, grinding metal filling his ears. He blocked the noises out and curled his body inward, doing his best impersonation of a flying human ball, just before he slammed into the highway on his right shoulder. The pain lanced through his body as he tumbled once, twice, and three times before unfurling his legs and arms in an attempt to stop his momentum.

He finally came to a stop on his stomach and was turned in the right direction, allowing him to see the truck as it rolled down the highway on its side, roof and undercarriage taking turns digging gaping divots in the concrete pavement as it went. Pieces of the F-250 flung wildly into the air around it, falling back down to earth just as the vehicle—or what was left of it—rolled one final time and…settled. It had left large chunks of glass and aluminum and metal in its wake, along with thick bloody swaths from bodies it had dragged.

The M60 that was once soldered onto the roof was nowhere to be found, leaving only the twisted legs of its bipod behind. He was thinking about the weapon, about all the other guns that were inside the truck, and where they were now. Tossed free, most likely, along with his newly acquired M4.

What the hell happened?

He was alive, even if his arms and legs were numbed from the collision. He had somehow been tossed almost across the road and now lay in an unmoving pile against one of the guardrails.

Will managed to pull himself up from the scathing hot floor and onto his knees. His palms were cut and bloodied, and he was pretty sure that the warm sensation dripping down both sides of his face was blood. Although it was hard to concentrate, he looked around anyway, searching for bodies. That long and thick trail of blood had to have come from someone
(someones)
.

The sun glinted off a long strip of something metallic lying in a jagged line back down the highway. Linked square-shaped objects stretched from one side of the two lanes to the other, sharp spikes at the end of them pointing in the air.

Police spikes. Christ, they put police spikes on the road and Barnes drove right over them.

You idiot, Barnes, I told you, you were going too fast…

He was still trying to come to terms with what had happened, how Barnes had screwed them over, when sudden movements in the corner of one eye caught his attention. He turned around as men in camo uniforms were climbing over the middle concrete divider. Had they been there the whole time? Probably, given the presence of the spikes on the road. This was the plan all along. Stop them without firing a shot.

Maybe they’re not so dumb after all.

There were a half dozen of them. Or maybe five dozen. He couldn’t be certain because they seemed to be multiplying the more he tried to focus.

There was more movement from behind him, the shuffling of boots against concrete. He turned around (something red—blood?—flicked away as he did so) as another half dozen men in camo were rising up from the fields of swaying grass along the feeder road. They looked like serpents coming out of the ground.

Snakes in the grass. With assault rifles.

One of them stepped over a body (Leo? Ray?) that had been tossed all the way across the highway, while a second man paused to check the prone figure’s pulse before standing back up and moving on a few moments later.

The first group of men was converging on the truck, resting on its crumpled roof. The loud
crunch crunch
of boots on broken glass and metal were almost as loud as the
drip drip
of gasoline from the overturned Ford’s tank. Smoke drifted from the battered hood and one of the wheels, now missing its tire, was still spinning in the air.
How long was it going to keep doing that,
he wondered.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t reached for the Sig Sauer in his hip holster yet. It was within easy reach, so close that it wouldn’t have taken much to move his hand toward it. Except that hand was covered in a thick film of blood that
drip dripped
from his fingers to the concrete, where they appeared to sizzle as if they were hitting a frying pan.

Christ, it’s hot out here. Didn’t the weather just cool down?

You know what they say about Louisiana. If you don’t like the weather, just wait a few…

Wait, or is that Texas?

The soldiers were now moving cautiously toward him, but no one had fired a shot yet. He kept waiting for it
(Here it comes, here it comes)
but it never happened. He blinked at the first few faces before they started going out of focus and it became impossible for him to see more than just clouds.

Bloodied red clouds.

He didn’t even feel anything when his face hit the concrete the second time.

*

“Is he still
alive?” a voice asked.

“I think so,” a second voice answered.

“You think so?” The first man chuckled. “You better hope he lives, or it’s your ass on the line. You told me those spikes would work.”

“They did work.”

“So what happened?”

“I don’t know. The guy must have lost control of the truck, or pulled the steering wheel too hard or something. What happened back there wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like that, anyway.”

“Yeah, well, looks like you just got one of your nine lives back, because he’s awake.”

Will opened his eyes to sunlight flooding in through tall glass windows. Too bright, and he immediately had to close his eyes again.

He was alive, but at the moment he wished he weren’t. Every inch of him hurt and there was an incessant banging in his head, like a thousand drums going off at once, that wouldn’t go away. He couldn’t open his eyes a second time and didn’t want to. His entire body felt sticky, as if he were covered in syrup.

Blood. I’m lying in my own blood.

Can someone spare a towel?

“Who is this guy, anyway?” the second man asked. “Why’s he so important?”

“Don’t you worry about him,” the first one said.

That voice. It sounded familiar.

Mason.

The short dickhead in charge of the ambush at Route 13. In charge of more than that, for all Will knew. Was Mason behind the ambush? And, more importantly, he wondered if the man knew where his M4A1 was…

“Just keep him breathing until nightfall,” Mason was saying. “Can you handle that?”

“I’m not a doctor,” the other man said. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m not guaranteeing anything. The guy was in shitty shape even before the truck flipped.”

“He had a little vehicular accident earlier today.”

“So he was already hurt. You can’t put it all on me.”

“The spike strip was your idea, remember?’

“I told you, it wasn’t supposed to do that. If this guy dies, it’s not my fault.”

“Well, shit, Rick, if you can’t keep him alive, then what the hell am I dragging you around for? Might as well put someone else in charge of him, right?”

“I’ll keep him alive,” Rick said quickly.

Will didn’t entirely believe Rick, because the man hadn’t been all that convincing. It sounded like poor Rick was afraid for his own life and was saying whatever Mason wanted to hear.

Join the party, buddy. You and me, up a creek without pants on.

“So it’s true?” Rick said. “She’s coming here?”

“You scared?” Mason asked.

“Shit, yeah. Aren’t you?”

“If you’d seen all the things I’ve seen, Rick ol’ buddy, you wouldn’t be. Now, less questions, more action. Your job is to keep him alive for another three hours. Can you handle that?” Mason’s voice sounded like it was coming from across the room this time. “Get it done, or, well, you know.”

The sound of something opening and closing.

Then, silence.

Will couldn’t be certain how long that lasted, before the man who had stayed behind
(Rick)
said, “You hear that? Three hours. That’s all you got left.”

Three hours…

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Rick said. “For saving your life. Truthfully, I don’t even know how you’re still moving around even before I got my hands on you. I guess the painkillers help, huh?”
Clinking
noises. “You’re running out of those, by the way. Don’t worry, we got plenty of refills. Lucky you.” Then, Rick chuckled. “Well, not really lucky you, but…you know.”

Yeah, I know, Rick. Fuck you, too.

He gave up what little fight he still had in him and slipped back, back into darkness.

*

The next time
he woke up, he felt cold, hard floor underneath him. He was getting some feeling back, which meant the thrumming pain coursing through every inch of his body, from head to toe, was worse. Much worse. He wanted to call Rick over and demand those refills he had been promised, but when he tried to open his mouth, the only thing he heard was air escaping his lips. Very, very soft air. Even breathing was difficult.

At least the sticky sensation he had felt all over his body from earlier was gone. He guessed that was because his blood had
(mostly)
dried since he last woke up. Given how much he was bleeding after the highway, he wouldn’t be surprised if there were parts of him still leaking plasma.

“Your job is to keep him alive for another three hours,”
Mason had said.

Three hours.

Three hours until what? He should know this. It was right there, at the tip of his very dry tongue—

Wait. How much time had he lost since the last time he was awake? Hopefully not too much. That would make escaping difficult if it was—

Night.

It was dark outside the glass windows, the blackness overwhelming everything, including the long stretch of interstate road and the…

Eyes. Black eyes, like endless oceans of tar looking through the tall panes of glass back at him.

Ghouls.

A lot of them. Hundreds.
Thousands.

So many that the parking lot outside
(A gas station? Was he in another gas station? Christ, how many of these places were there along the highway?)
was carpeted with them—a sea of pruned flesh swaying against one another. They were deathly silent, as if biding their time, waiting for something.

He expected them to attack the store at any moment, to smash their limbs and skulls against the glass to try to bash their way in like rabid dogs. But they didn’t assault the store. In fact, they hardly moved at all.

Movement.

He wasn’t alone inside. A pair of camo print uniforms shifted in the darkness in front of him. Two men, their backs to him, the barrels of their rifles outlined against the moonlight pouring into the front half of the store. There were shelves to the left of him and the counter along with an abandoned cash register to the right.

Weapons. He needed weapons.

If the soldiers knew he was awake, they didn’t show it. Or seem to care. And why should they? He only had to look down to see that his hands were bound with zip ties, as were his ankles. Again. This was becoming the worst kind of déjà vu.

His head continued to throb, and for some reason both his palms were tingling. Oh, of course. When he was flying down the interstate, he had stuck out his hands to slow his slide. That hadn’t exactly been the smartest thing he had ever done in his life. As a result, the skin was torn and bleeding, though someone had since treated the flesh and wrapped gauze tape around both hands.