first convoy of rumbling five-tons out of Cortlandt, New York split up at the junction of I-9 and Interstate 84. Three went west, three east, and three north. No one knew which way was best, and by best they meant safest. The soldiers in the backs of the trucks didn’t have a clue exactly where they were or where they were going. For the most part they were stone-faced and quiet, except when they whispered questions that no one could answer:
“Is the disease airborne?”
“Will these masks even work against it?”
“Why did we leave the Strykers and the 50 cals back at the base?”
“This sucks, man. Why us?”
“When’s chow time?” Will Pierce asked, determined to be cool about the entire affair. He was pretty sure he could deal with the zombies when the time came, in fact, he was looking forward to it. Half his life was spent on his Xbox, living in the land of Make-Believe where blasting the slow, stumbling hordes of undead was a daily occurrence. His only gripe with the situation was the MOPP4 gear. It was hot as fuck and in the heavy black gloves, his hands felt fat and slow. The gloves would be the first thing to go when the shit hit the fan.
Despite the heat and the sweat crawling down his body, PFC Max Fowler was trembling. He was having trouble coming to grips with the loaded gun that sat upright between his knees. First off, one simply did not travel with a loaded gun. Every hunter knew that and every recruit straight out of basic training knew it as well. The only reason a person would travel with a loaded gun was if he expected to use it soon after exiting the vehicle.
Every time the truck slowed, Max would stare out and grip the weapon tighter. He had made the mistake of dragging his feet all morning and now he was going to pay the price. He had been the last into the truck and now he was going to be first out, first to confront whatever it was that had the entire 42 nd Infantry Division scurrying like ants.
“It’ll be cool,” Will told him, slipping him a wink. “You’ll be with me and I ain’t gonna let no...” The truck lurched, suddenly and there was a grinding of gears. The ride became rough; they were driving on the shoulder now, passing the lines of cars and semi-trucks that were being kept from entering the quarantine zone. There was a mile of ugly traffic to pass beyond. It was a loud, messy affair. People blared their horns and cussed. Some rode on the shoulder or on the grassy strip between the north and south bound lanes, while others tried to get in among the army trucks so they could pass through the barricade.
“Don’t they watch the fucking news?” Max asked. The news stations had been pretty crystal clear about the road closures. The mess of cars made no sense to him. “Why on earth would anyone want to go into a quarantined zone? Jackasses.”
“You never know. Maybe they got family inside The Zone ,” Will suggested, unofficially setting the slang that would be used by every soldier before the week was out.
After practically plowing cars out of their way, the convoy came to a shuddering halt just shy of a state trooper barricade. Immediately, Lieutenant Warren, one of the platoon leaders, was out of the cab bawling: “Three men! I need three men!”
Max went stiff on the bench. As he and Will occupied the last two bench seats, they were the logical choices to exit the truck, however, from his position Max could see the hundreds of vehicles they had just passed and he could see the hundreds of angry faces in those vehicles. In front of them, on the other side of a flimsy looking barricade, was another mass of cars even greater in number, and the people in them were both angry and very afraid. They were screaming to be let out of The Zone. It sounded as though a riot was seconds from erupting.
There were six cops manning the barricade and Max couldn’t see how three soldiers were going to make much of a difference.
“Let’s go!” Lieutenant Warren demanded
“Is the disease airborne?”
“Will these masks even work against it?”
“Why did we leave the Strykers and the 50 cals back at the base?”
“This sucks, man. Why us?”
“When’s chow time?” Will Pierce asked, determined to be cool about the entire affair. He was pretty sure he could deal with the zombies when the time came, in fact, he was looking forward to it. Half his life was spent on his Xbox, living in the land of Make-Believe where blasting the slow, stumbling hordes of undead was a daily occurrence. His only gripe with the situation was the MOPP4 gear. It was hot as fuck and in the heavy black gloves, his hands felt fat and slow. The gloves would be the first thing to go when the shit hit the fan.
Despite the heat and the sweat crawling down his body, PFC Max Fowler was trembling. He was having trouble coming to grips with the loaded gun that sat upright between his knees. First off, one simply did not travel with a loaded gun. Every hunter knew that and every recruit straight out of basic training knew it as well. The only reason a person would travel with a loaded gun was if he expected to use it soon after exiting the vehicle.
Every time the truck slowed, Max would stare out and grip the weapon tighter. He had made the mistake of dragging his feet all morning and now he was going to pay the price. He had been the last into the truck and now he was going to be first out, first to confront whatever it was that had the entire 42 nd Infantry Division scurrying like ants.
“It’ll be cool,” Will told him, slipping him a wink. “You’ll be with me and I ain’t gonna let no...” The truck lurched, suddenly and there was a grinding of gears. The ride became rough; they were driving on the shoulder now, passing the lines of cars and semi-trucks that were being kept from entering the quarantine zone. There was a mile of ugly traffic to pass beyond. It was a loud, messy affair. People blared their horns and cussed. Some rode on the shoulder or on the grassy strip between the north and south bound lanes, while others tried to get in among the army trucks so they could pass through the barricade.
“Don’t they watch the fucking news?” Max asked. The news stations had been pretty crystal clear about the road closures. The mess of cars made no sense to him. “Why on earth would anyone want to go into a quarantined zone? Jackasses.”
“You never know. Maybe they got family inside The Zone ,” Will suggested, unofficially setting the slang that would be used by every soldier before the week was out.
After practically plowing cars out of their way, the convoy came to a shuddering halt just shy of a state trooper barricade. Immediately, Lieutenant Warren, one of the platoon leaders, was out of the cab bawling: “Three men! I need three men!”
Max went stiff on the bench. As he and Will occupied the last two bench seats, they were the logical choices to exit the truck, however, from his position Max could see the hundreds of vehicles they had just passed and he could see the hundreds of angry faces in those vehicles. In front of them, on the other side of a flimsy looking barricade, was another mass of cars even greater in number, and the people in them were both angry and very afraid. They were screaming to be let out of The Zone. It sounded as though a riot was seconds from erupting.
There were six cops manning the barricade and Max couldn’t see how three soldiers were going to make much of a difference.
“Let’s go!” Lieutenant Warren demanded
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