Chapter Ten – Trapped
There's something happening here
What it is aint exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Telling me i got to beware - Buffalo Springfield
"So, where now?"
Ben Kimball's question hung in the air unanswered as the Pontiac cruised down the street, doing a steady twenty and jouncing whenever it hit one of the potholes that the city council had never gotten round to fixing. Of course now, potholes were the least of the council's worries.
Tom, the Remington propped between his knees with the safety on, looked into the side mirror and saw County General Hospital retreating behind them. As he watched, a red-orange flower bloomed from a set of windows in the upper left wing of the building, and solidified into a pall of black, oily smoke. There was a three-vehicle smash blocking the road ahead; two cars and a truck. One car lay under the trucks front wheels, and was so wrecked that it no longer resembled an automobile, but rather a twisted, meaningless piece of junk.
Don Jackson twisted the wheel, and the Pontiac mounted the grassy median strip that separated the opposing lanes, swerving around the wreck. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw a pale, blood-spattered arm hanging limply from the truck's cab.
"Can I put the radio on, Don?" He asked. "I'm gonna try to find some news."
"Sure, good idea."
"I'll do it." George Evans, who was practically wedged in between the driver's and the passenger's seats, leaned forward and switched on the radio, grimacing as Lady Gaga began assuring him that he would never reach her telephone.
Tom breathed a small sigh of relief. Apparently, it hadn't gotten bad enough for them to suspend regular programming – not yet anyway. George flicked through channels until he reached WGN, one of the major news stations.
"-have been reported in Brighton Park and Ashburn. At 111th Street Station, all services have been cancelled due to reports of a body, or multiple bodies on the line; we'll have more on that when we can get it. We're still receiving more reports on that incident at…uh, County General Hospital, Morgan Park, where most of the violence is reportedly centered. Several eyewitnesses report gunfire and loud explosions, so if you're in that area I'd recommend you steer clear."
The station went on to play a pre-recorded message from the Deputy Police Superintendent. As Tom expected, it was the usual vague, unhelpful bullshit that the police brass often spewed out when they either had no idea what was going on, or had some idea, but didn't want anybody to know it. The Deputy Superintendent concluded by saying that there was no cause for alarm (completely disregarding the fact that thousands, maybe millions of Chicagoans had seen a severed hand fall to the ground on live television only a matter of hours ago), and advised people in unaffected areas to continue their day-to-day business as usual.
"Continue day-to-day business?" Joe repeated, as if saying the words out loud would make them sound less ridiculous. It didn't. "That's crazy; they should get everyone out while they can!"
"They probably want to avoid panic." Don suggested. "If everyone drops what they're doing and runs for the hills, there's gonna be chaos on an epic scale."
"And if everyone stays where they are, then they'll die." Sandra said, her eyes haunted by memories of the carnage at the hospital. "Surely they know what's really going on by now?"
"Believe me, they probably do." Tom concluded quietly.
"Which brings us back to my question," Ben Kimball said, putting emphasis on each word. "Where are we gonna go from here?"
Tom thanked God for what must have been the umpteenth time that Vicky was visiting her parents in New England. They lived in some seaside town called Ogunquit, Maine, nearly a thousand miles away from Chicago. Tom's own parents, wanting to leave the hustle and bustle of the city behind when they retired, had moved to Allerton, Illinois. It was pretty far away, but who could tell how fast this thing would spread? Perhaps it wasn't far away enough. Perhaps nowhere was.
A chopper soared overhead, its underbelly bristling with armament, its rotors beating at the air as it disappeared over the rooftops in the direction of The Loop, Chicago's central commercial district.
"I…I mean, we should probably, uh, get out of the city while we can, right?" Ben Kimball commented as he watched this dark omen pass over.
"What?" Don Jackson said. "And go where? I've got a job, a house, a mortgage; I can't just drop everything and leave."
Tom saw the logic in Don's argument. He might not have had any family in the city, but he had a house and a job that he couldn't afford to leave behind. And whilst his job as a police officer was mainly a way to help put food on the table and keep a roof over his and Vicky's heads, he still felt a sense of duty. There were men and women wearing the same blue uniform as him who would be out there at the roadblocks this morning, without a clue about what was going to hit them. The ones that didn't go around assaulting bartenders and breaking into houses were decent, honest people, and Tom couldn't run away while they fought and bled and died on the streets.
"Forget the house, hon." Christine Jackson advised her husband from the back seat. "What's important is that we get to safety."
"I know, but…Jesus." Don thumped the wheel in frustration. "I still don't understand any of this. I mean, everything's just happening too fast, first people are trying to eat us, and then…oh my God, I shot someone."
Don's eyes fell on the 9mm that lay on the dashboard. His wife leaned forward and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"You had no choice, buddy." Joe said. "None of us did. Whoever these people were…before, they're not human now. They can't be. Now it's a case of kill or be killed."
In the back seat, Sandra turned to Dr. Allen, who was squashed up against the window, massaging his forehead woozily.
"Are you feeling okay, doctor?" She asked. "You had a hell of a fall back there."
"Yes, I think so…" The man said. "Where…where are we? We were leaving the hospital and then…"
"You fainted, Chuck Norris." Kimball remarked. "We had to carry you out of there."
"We did?" Joe asked. "I thought that was Tom."
"I fainted?" Dr. Allen asked. "I don't remember. We were running, and then…oh." Recollection came into the doctor's eyes, and he leaned forward, putting his head in his hands as the dam of temporary amnesia burst and the images flooded back into his mind.
"Okay, so the way I see it, we have a few choices." Tom offered. "We can get the hell out of dodge and leave the city right now, stick around and hope this thing doesn't get any worse, or split up and go our separate ways. What do you guys think? Anyone have any family in the city they need to get in touch with?"
"Yeah, how about my ex-wife?" Ben Kimball suggested sarcastically, before laughing a little too loudly.
George Evans' wife had died three years back, he told them, living just long enough to see his son get hitched and move out west to start a family in California. Dr. Allen had a wife and kid back home in Aurora, about thirty miles to the west. It was pretty far away, but the doctor faced the same question that Tom did when it came to his parents in Allerton; was it far away enough? Ben Kimball on the other hand, made it clear he didn't have anyone in the city he gave a rat's ass about. Tom didn't know whether to roll his eyes or feel sorry for the guy.
"I need to get in touch with my mom and dad." Sandra said. "Can I borrow someone's cell phone?"
While Sandra spoke to her parent's with increasing frustration on Don's cell phone, Tom kept his gaze fixed on the passing streets. They were just under a mile away from the intersection of West 111th, where he, Joe and two dozen other cops had been attacked by the swarm of undead earlier that morning.
"Turn right here, man." He advised Don. "You don't want to go on West 111th. There was a whole horde of them out there earlier."
Don nodded, turning the wheel and taking a detour up 107th. A station wagon cut across them, its roof piled high with cardboard boxes and suitcases that were practically bulging with clothes and other possessions. It swerved, tires screeching, and one of the suitcases that hadn't been properly tied down fell off and burst open on the ground, spilling clothes and underwear across the street.
"That was close." Don said, turning on the wipers to get rid of a bra that had plastered itself across the windshield. "It looks like we're not the only ones trying to get out of here."
A second later, and Tom saw why. Most of the doors on this street had been broken down and now lay on the driveways of the houses they had belonged to, a testimony to the relentless strength of the undead. Windows were smashed, allowing curtains to flutter in the breeze. A car lay canted in a ditch with all four of its doors hanging open, and its engine still running. Tom cracked the window an inch, and caught a whiff of that familiar rotting meat stench floating on the wind; the final, definitive sign that they were now passing through undead country.
Don thumbed a button on the dashboard and the Pontiac's doors locked with a reassuring clunk.
"Keep your foot down, Don." Christine said quietly. "Don't stop for anything."
The car's engine was worryingly loud amid the unnatural silence of the street, but if there were zombies in the houses around them, its constant drone failed to attract their curiosity. They were most likely too busy feasting on the houses former occupants.
Then, out of the corner of Tom's eye, movement. A man with his shirt soaked in blood lunged from the shadows of an open door, flying straight off the porch steps and landing flat on his face. Whatever these things were, they were fucking stupid, that was for sure. The car sailed past him as he clambered upright and shot after them, giving chase with long, loping strides.
"He's chasing us," Joe said, twisting around to look out the rear window. "I thought zombies were supposed to be slow, dammit."
Don's response was to put his foot down. The needle on the speedometer jumped to thirty, and then climbed steadily. The zombie kept up with them for about two hundred yards before its attention was caught by new, easier prey and it veered off from the chase, making a beeline for an open garage door. The Pontiac took the next left, taking them past Mt. Greenwood Cemetery, with its wrought-iron fences and meticulously-tended hedges. Tom eye's scanned the landscape of rank-and-file grey headstones, flitting to the statues of angels with their cold stone eyes staring right back at him. He saw no toppled headstones; no areas were the ground had burst open as the shambling masses of the undead clawed their way back into the sun; no signs of disturbance whatsoever. Wherever this encroaching infection was sprouting from, Mt. Greenwood Cemetery was not it. They drove on.
"Dad, come on," Sandra was saying. "Why would I be telling you to do this if…yeah, I'm fine, but you need to…look, just do it, okay? No, she won't mind…yes, I'm sure. Okay, I have to go, now listen; it'll be for two days maximum…I'll be there as soon as possible, I promise. Okay, goodbye. I love you."
Sandra flipped Don's phone shut, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes with an irritated huff.
"Well they're going to stay with my Mom's sister in Milwaukee. It's not that far away, but it's better than them staying here."
"Did you tell them about the, uh…zombies?" Joe asked, the last word almost inaudible.
"No, of course not." Sandra said, handing Don's phone back. "I just told them that I'd seen these riots firsthand, and I thought it would be a good idea for them to head to Aunt Sally's for a while. They've been meaning to go anyway."
Next, it was Dr. Allen's turn. The M.D. nearly dropped the phone twice in his haste to dial home, and was biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. Tom heard a muffled dial tone ring out twice, before it was replaced by a single unbroken bleep.
"No signal." Allen said weakly. He hit the redial button twice more, and both times he was confronted by the impassive electronic bleep that blocked him from his family home in Aurora.
"Let me take a look." Joe said. Dr. Allen passed the phone over, and Joe held it up to the Pontiac's low ceiling. "Yep; it's dead. I can't get a signal at all."
"Damn cell phones," George said. "Can't make head or tail of 'em; there's bound to be a lot of folks trying to get hold of the emergency services though, that's for sure. Phone networks probably can't cope with the strain."
Tom nodded, hoping that was the explanation, and that another, more sinister one wasn't lurking below the surface. Dr. Allen burst into tears.
They were on West Monterey Avenue, which connected to the highway via an interchange. The street was deserted, the houses and businesses still and silent. More than once Tom felt the weight of someone's gaze through the windshield, and saw fingers poking through the closed blinds of someone's home. Twice he saw bodies lying by the roadside. Don drove through a red light on the empty intersection and took the Pontiac down the highway's entrance ramp.
"Aw, crap." Tom groaned, running a hand through his hair.
All three lanes of the highway heading south were blocked by legions of honking, gesticulating, angry motorists, their vehicles crammed in bumper to bumper. The traffic jam stretched out for at least a quarter of a mile before disappearing around the corner. This tailback was physically no worse than the usual rush hour congestion that blocked the city's highways, but there was a frantic, on-edge atmosphere that pervaded the interstate. More fists were being shaken than usual, more horns were blatting angrily, and more cars were nudging the vehicles in front of them as though an epidemic of road rage had infected the minds of Chicago's commuters. Overhead, the sky was darkening, heralding the approach of a rain shower that would do nothing to improve the moods of the motorists.
"What's the fucking holdup?" Ben Kimball asked, leaning over the driver's seat to get a better look.
"The whole highway's blocked," Don said. He gestured out the windshield in disbelief and exasperation. "Jesus, this could go on for goddam miles."
"You want to keep driving?" Tom suggested. "I'll walk down and see what's going on."
"Okay, sure." Don flicked the turn stalk and edged his way into the snaking traffic, whilst Tom unbuckled his seat belt and replaced the magazine in his Glock, making sure he had a couple of extras just in case. The Remington he handed to Joe; walking down the highway with a loaded shotgun wasn't a good idea. If his blood splattered uniform didn't alarm people, then that certainly would.
"Be careful, man." Joe advised as Tom stepped out of the car.
"I will." He replied. "Keep the doors locked."
Tom shut his door behind him and set off down the highway, heading south in the direction the traffic was facing. For every dozen or so cars, there was at least one that had some item of luggage on its roof. A lot of these people were simply commuters who had gotten snarled up in the traffic on their way to work in the southern districts of 'Chicagoland'. However, like Tom and his group, some of them had set off with the express intention of leaving the city, only to have something stop them.
Curious gazes were shot from the people in their cars as their eyes were drawn to his stained uniform. Tom didn't blame them; he was covered in the blood of God knew how many people, with a helping of parking lot dirt thrown in for good measure, and he was fairly certain that there was at least one shoe print stamped across his back. He must have looked like a hell of a poster boy for the Police Department.
Tom walked on for about fifteen minutes, during which time the traffic remained completely stationary. The stench of exhaust fumes was steadily thickening in the air, making his stomach pitch and roll. Still, anything beat the rotting meat smell of the undead, which the highway was thankfully free of – for now. As Tom passed under the bridge at 119th Street, the rain began to patter down on the roofs of the cars, and the wind picked up, stirring litter in the gutters. Winter was coming, no doubt about it.
Good luck running from zombies in two feet of snow.
That was when Tom saw the barricade. Two eight-wheeled armored trucks had been parked, nose to nose, across the highway, making all three lanes impassible. The same had been done in the opposite three lanes, the ones that led into the city. Angry scenes were unfolding at the head of the traffic jam, as frustrated motorists confronted the squad of soldiers patrolling the barricade, shouting and gesticulating with mounting anger, only to be met by what seemed to be silent indifference on the part of the armed men. Still, silence was a better response than a hail of bullets. Tom was torn between retreating back to the safety of the car, and marching straight up to the roadblock to find out what the hell was going on. He had been lucky to get away from these psychos once before, whoever the hell they were, but doubted he would manage it a second time.
Tom took a deep breath, hitching up his belt and smoothing out the creases in his uniform. He started to walk down the highway, feeling a lot like a man about to stroll into a lion's cage. Suddenly, a guy was in his face.
"Hey, you're a cop right?" The man said. "What the hell's going on here? These guys can't just close the highway like this!"
"It's under control, sir." Tom said. "In the meantime, you should get back in your car and wait."
"But this is ridiculous!" He protested. "What gives them the right to just seal everyone off like this? I oughta go over there and-"
"Sir, those men at the barricade aren't screwing around, okay?" Tom said frankly. "Don't mess with them. You want my advice, get back in your car, and lock the door."
"Right, sure." The man said quietly. His anger had momentarily subsided, allowing him to clearly notice Tom's bloodied clothes, and his overall battle-weary countenance. He cast another curious eye over Tom before retreating back to his vehicle. By this time, the rain was falling thick and fast, and Tom could feel the first drops of water trickling down his face, leaving clear tracks like tears in the mud and grime.
Here goes nothing.
Tom picked out one of the soldiers at random, a motionless statuette of a man guarding the end of the barricade, nearest to the highway wall.
"Uh, hello there." Tom said, hoping he sounded amiable enough.
The soldiers head turned, and he looked at Tom through the lenses of his gas mask, down which rain was running in rivulets. For a moment, Tom was certain he would get no response. Then;
"Yes?"
The soldier's reply was terse, if not exactly rude.
"Well, I just wondered if you could tell me exactly what's going on here." Tom said. "Only, you guys seem to have blocked off the whole highway leading out of the city, so…"
"No."
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that." Tom said.
"No." The soldier repeated. "Information is on a need to know basis."
"Right." Tom replied, elongating the word in his uncertainty of what to say next. "Only, I'm a police officer, so I was wondering if you need me to provide any, uh…assistance."
"The situation is under control sir, now please step away."
"It's just-"
"Step away, sir."
"I was-"
"Sir, I won't tell you again." The soldier warned. "Step away."
"Alright, listen here." Tom snarled, as his fear melted away and his desperation turned into anger. "I don't know who the hell you people think you are, but you can't just block off the highway for no goddam reason, and then stand there and give me that 'need-to-know basis' crap. I'm a cop, in case you didn't hear me the first time, and I have a right to know what the fuck is going on here, you got that?"
The soldier was silent. Christ, if only Tom could see the man's face, and gauge his emotions. He was still very conscious that there was a loaded assault rifle between the two of them, and it was in the hands of a man whose buddies had no qualms about gunning down civilians.
Okay, Tom thought. One last gamble.
"It's the zombies, isn't it?" He asked quietly, his voice barely audible over the musical patter of the rain.
The soldier's head twitched slightly. To anyone else, it would have been unnoticeable, but Tom had been trained to study body language since he joined the force. There was no doubt that Tom's question had caught the man off guard.
"You know what I'm talking about." Tom continued. "I can tell. Listen, if there's something going on-"
"Sir, I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." The soldier interrupted. "We're here to protect the public against the ongoing riots in-"
"Bullshit!" Tom cut in fiercely. "Who the fuck do you think you're kidding? I've seen people missing limbs running around like finalists at the goddam Olympics. How do you explain that?"
Silence from the soldier. The rain continued to pour steadily down. Behind them, cars honked and men shouted.
"You've done something, haven't you?" Tom asked. "And now you're all here to cover it up. What was it, huh? What the hell did you sons of bitches do?"
Then, Tom heard it. Over the drumming of the rain and the cries of angry motorists, came the growingly familiar snarl of the undead. He span round, his hand already going for his gun, as his eyes tried to track down the source of the sound. There – a man in a White Sox cap was slamming his bloodied fists against the windshield of a car, howling at the screaming family inside. Tom drew his gun and sighted down, but before he had the chance to fire, a gunshot rang out somewhere off to his left. One of the soldiers on the barricade had already dropped to one knee and blown the zombie's brains out the side of its skull with his rifle.
Tom lowered his gun slowly as four soldiers peeled off from the barricade and stormed up the highway to where the man's corpse lay. Two of them grabbed him; one by the arms and the other by the legs, and they began to carry him away. Meanwhile, the other two went over to the car that the undead man had come from. Tom saw one of them reach inside and forcibly drag out a screaming woman sitting in the passenger seat. Her arms were covered in bruises and scratches were she had tried to defend herself against the reanimated corpse that was once her husband. As she was pulled from her vehicle, one of the rear doors opened, and a crying young boy that could have been her son ran out, only to be grabbed under the arms by the soldier and lifted, kicking and screaming, in the air. Tom started forward without even a half-assed plan in his head, his hand unfastening the holster on his belt.
Someone seized his arm and held him back. At the same time, the barrel of a gun was thrust under his jaw.
"Don't get involved." The soldier hissed, his voice venomous. "It's none of your concern."
Tom's equally venomous response was cut off by the sound of an approaching engine. A man on a Yamaha bike came roaring towards them, zipping in and out of the cars, sending people sprawling in their attempts to get out of the way. There was a gap at the end of the barricade, where the rear bumper of one of the military trucks was separated from the highway's edge by a space of about seven feet. With a twist of the throttle, the biker shot straight for it, closing the gap between him and freedom within the space of seconds.
Behind Tom, one of the trucks roared to life. A soldier, sitting up in the cab, threw the gear back and hit reverse. The truck, all twenty tons of it, rolled backwards on its enormous wheels, closing the space between the rear bumper and the highway wall. For the biker, there was nothing to be done. With a sickening crunch, he collided with the truck's chassis with enough force to shatter his helmet. His visor, streaked with blood, looped through the air and clattered to the ground at Tom's feet, whilst the Yamaha screeched under the truck's tires, leaving a burst of sparks in its wake.
A tsunami of fear swept down the highway, obliterating common sense and reason with its uncanny ability to replace clear thinking with blind panic. The drivers of the vehicles closest to the barricade were the first ones to lose it, throwing their cars into reverse in their attempts to get away, only to end up causing a multitude of fender-benders as they smashed into the cars behind them. The highway was filled with the sound of smashing glass and tinkling metal.
More screams rang out. Tom saw half-glimpsed figures lunging amongst the vehicles, lurching lopsidedly after their prey.
This place is going to hell in a hand basket, Tom thought. Time to check out.
Tom threw his head back, connecting solidly with the soldier's mask, and simultaneously smacking the barrel of the rifle away from his face. He twisted round, wrenching free of the man's grip and placing both hands on the gun; one on the barrel and the other on the shoulder stock. The soldier fought with remarkable strength, and Tom's feet were being dragged forward across the tarmac even as his hands refused to relinquish the weapon.
"Fuck – zombie!" Tom cried, staring at an empty space behind his opponent. The ploy worked, and the man threw a split-second glance over his shoulder. A split-second was all Tom needed. He wrenched the assault rifle from the soldier's grasp and slammed the stock of the weapon into his throat, sending the man staggering back, spluttering and clutching his throat. Tom turned and ran; sprinting straight down the breakdown lane with the assault rifle, an M4A1 carbine with both selective-fire and full-auto settings, clutched in both hands. Behind him, the soldier grabbed his pistol from the holster on his vest, and took aim. Tom Everett's rapidly retreating head was directly in his sights when a man scrambled over the hood of a nearby car and began to lurch towards him. The soldier made a minor adjustment to his aim and fired, blowing apart the creature's head. When he turned back, the lucky cop had disappeared. To hell with it, the soldier thought. He had bigger fish to fry now.
Further down the Interstate, Joe stood with his arms resting on the open car door, one ear cocked to the steady stream of generally useless crap issuing from the radio. The Kimball guy was sat on the grassy verge at the edge of the highway, smoking a cigarette and glancing up and down the Interstate. Joe reminded himself to keep an eye on the guy. He had no doubt that Kimball would end up getting them all killed if it meant an opportunity to save his own ass.
"You okay, hon?" A hand on his shoulder. Sandra.
"Fine," He said, smiling. "You should stay in the car; it's not safe out here."
Sandra made a dismissive gesture with her hand, looking up and down the unmoving columns of traffic. Many people were abandoning their cars now, and venturing up the highway to find out what was going on. Some dumbass on a Yamaha went speeding up the Interstate, doing an easy fifty. The dumbass was going to get himself, (and most likely someone else) killed if he wasn't careful.
Beside him, Sandra bit her lip, her eyes going cloudy.
"You know…" She started, before trailing off and shaking her head.
"What is it?" Joe asked.
"Nothing; forget about it."
"Go on." He nudged her gently. "You can tell me."
"It's just…" Sandra turned her face up to his, and for the first time Joe saw the first real traces of fear in his fiancée's eyes. "Those things – whatever they are – I don't want to end up like them."
"That isn't going to happen." Joe said fiercely. "I swear, I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."
"I know, I know." She replied softly. "But the bites are the vector of infection, no doubt about it. When someone gets bitten, that's it – you join them. Am I right?"
"Well, I don't know any more than you, but…yeah, I guess. Where are you going with this?"
Sandra opened her mouth, and closed it again, apparently struggling to make the words come out. Eventually she said;
"I need you to promise me that, if it happens…if I get bitten…that you'll end it. You'll-"
"Whoa, what the hell?" Joe asked incredulously. "What are you saying?"
"I'm not scared of…of dying." She said, looking him straight in the eye. "But I've seen those things and I don't want to be one of them. If I get bitten, I need you to promise me that you'll do the right thing."
"Sandra, that's crazy," Joe protested, his head whirling. "I'm not gonna-"
"Do you love me?"
"Of course I do."
"Then, if it does happen, you'll do it. Please."
Joe opened his mouth to respond, when the crack of a gunshot rang out somewhere in the distance, cutting Joe's words off as abruptly as if he himself had been shot. Ben Kimball jumped to his feet like a deer startled by the crack of a hunter's rifle. Thin screams were rising somewhere down the highway; in the direction Tom had taken. They were followed by the discordant jingle of what could have been a car crash.
"We're leaving." Ben Kimball announced, squashing himself back in the car. "C'mon, let's go."
"We're not going anywhere." Joe said. "Not until Tom's back."
"What the fuck, man?" Kimball protested. "Have you heard the shit that's going on up there? You're buddy's already dead. Let's get the hell out while we can."
"Can we even get out of this?" The old man asked Don Jackson. "Looks to me like we're blocked in front and back."
"We might have enough room to drive up on the grass if we're lucky." Don said. "At this point a few scratches on the paintwork are the least of my worries."
"Well then what the fuck are you waiting for?" Kimball cried. "Get moving!"
People were streaming north, away from the direction of the gunfire. Joe couldn't spot a single blue uniform among them.
C'mon buddy, where are you?
Tom vaulted over the hood of the car closest to him, doing his best to ignore the blood-soaked windows, or the fact that the vehicle was rocking and reeling as though someone was having a hell of a good time inside. In reality, Tom knew that they were probably having anything but.
A man in a torn-up sweater and grey khakis hit the ground in front of Tom with the unmistakable crunch of a breaking nose. He let out something that was probably supposed to be a snarl, but came out more like a wet gurgle. When the guy rose to his feet, Tom saw why. Everything from his chest cavity to his left hip had been pretty well eviscerated. Tom could see the pale outline of the man's ribs poking out of what remained of his ruined chest. Behind them was a dark, glistening shape that could have been his heart. Whatever it was, it was still and silent now, along with all the other major internal organs. But for some impossible reason, whether virus or witchcraft, the man moved regardless, paying no attention to the crippled state of his body.
With a grunt of disgust, Tom lifted the M4 and squeezed the trigger. The carbine was a lot bigger than anything he had fired before, but any lack of accuracy was compensated for by the short range of the target. The 5.56mm bullet split the top of the zombie's head open and painted blood and brains across the white paintwork of the van behind it. Tom leaped over the zombie's corpse and sprinted the rest of the way, weaving in and out of panicking motorists who were now abandoning their cars en masse. Twice he tripped on something lying across his path; and neither time could he bring himself to look back and see what it was.
Carrying the M4 by the shoulder strap, Tom jumped up onto the hood of an abandoned black Lexus, and from there onto the roof of the van behind it. From this vantage point he thought, or maybe vainly hoped, that he could make out the small grey roof of the Pontiac, perhaps about forty yards away. Another ten miles or so beyond that was the skyline of Downtown Chicago, dominated by the dark steel and glass sentinel that was the Sears (Willis, dammit, Willis, Tom reminded himself)Tower.
Something crashed into the side of the van hard enough to rock it on its heels, forcing Tom to jump off before he fell and broke his neck. Another one of them was in his face; a big guy in a shredded suit that wouldn't have looked out of place on a downtown business executive before it became splattered with its owner's blood. Raising the M4 again, Tom squeezed the trigger; in the eye, out the back of the head. The procedure was becoming disturbingly familiar. The cooling corpse had barely hit the ground before Tom was running past it again, listening out for the sound of footsteps running after him. He didn't want to risk shooting a glance over his shoulder in case he ran right into one of them while looking in the opposite direction. Still, the chaotic sounds around him were melting and merging into one another like paint on a canvas, and it was impossible to tell if anyone was chasing him by sound alone. All Tom could do was keep running and hope for the best. It felt as though he had been doing that almost none-stop for the past three days.
The whicker of rotor blades thudded through Tom's heart as a chopper swooped overhead, ropes dropping from its body. More soldiers began to rappel down to the highway, firing their weapons with a one-handed accuracy that had to be seen to be believed. Tom had no idea who these fuckers were, but they were straight out of a Tom Clancy novel, that was for damn sure.
Tom squeezed between the rear bumper of a red Fiesta and the hood of the SUV behind it, and ran up onto the grass at the edge of the highway. From here he could run straight up the grass and be off this fucking highway for good, if he wanted to. But the others were still down there, waiting for him. If they were still alive, that was.
Don't think like that, of course they're still alive.
A man came scrambling up the grass on all fours, like a rabid dog, snorting and grunting as streamers of blood issued from his mouth. Behind him came a further seven or eight sprinting corpses, their dusty-marble like eyes fixed on him. Tom fumbled with the switch on the M4A1's body, flicking it from single-shot to fully automatic with fingers that were shaking like those of a man in the final stages of Parkinson's disease. He slammed the stock clumsily to his shoulder again, and let the carbine roar away on full automatic. Unlike Ben Kimball, he had the proficiency not to let the recoil push him over, but that didn't mean his shots were going anywhere useful. One burst riddled an abandoned car's driver door with bullet holes; another tore a zombie's arm off at the shoulder, with absolutely no reaction from the arm's owner whatsoever. There was a black circular tube mounted under the M4's barrel, with a trigger just in front on the weapon's magazine. In desperation, Tom hefted the barrel up slightly, and without stopping to think properly, lest hindsight stay his hand, he squeezed the trigger. There was a quick phut as the projectile left the tube and arced through the air. An almost unbearable second followed in which Tom began to regret even pulling the trigger. He was too close, too damn close, he could end up being-
The grenade hit with a bang, right in the midst of the oncoming zombies. Tom tripped backwards and covered his head with his hands. Between his splayed fingers he saw a severed leg go whirling over his head. Dirt, blood and soil pattered back to Earth around him.
Oh Jesus, that was fucking crazy.
Tom got shakily back to his feet and took off again, throwing one last look over his shoulder. In spite of the explosion, they were still coming after him. Those who had lost legs were dragging themselves by the hands, their nails digging up tufts of grass. One man's head, decapitated from its body, was still staring after him, gnashing its broken teeth futilely.
Tom ran, and never looked back.
Joe raised the pistol, and shot the zombie through the chest, staggering it long enough to get a bead on the thing's head.
Bang.
It slumped to the ground, as the second shot destroyed its brain once and for all. The fucker had come from nowhere, and had nearly gotten him. The situation was worsening; more and more people were fleeing their cars, leaving themselves open to attack. Joe found himself whirling around, trying to look everywhere at once, a feat that would have been a lot easier if he had eyes in the back and sides of his head.
"That's it, get back in the car man, we're getting outta here." Kimball yammered from the back seat.
Joe ignored him, still scanning the tumult for any signs of a dude in a blue uniform. Where the frick was Tom? He couldn't just leave him out here, but every second they stayed meant the chances of their escaping were shrinking rapidly. Every second put the others in danger, and he had sworn a promise to Sandra that he wouldn't let anything happen to her. He wasn't going to renege on that so long as he lived.
Ah shit, I'm so sorry dude.
Joe turned back to the car, ready to tell Don to put his foot down and get them all out of here. But that was when Ben Kimball, who had been eyeing the object on the Pontiac's dashboard for the past five minutes, decided to take his chance. He lunged forward and swiped the 9mm handgun from beside the steering wheel, and proceeded to point it at Jackson's head. Pandemonium erupted.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
"Oh my Christ, put that thing down!"
"Son, I really don't think you want to do this!"
Kimball ignored them all, keeping the trembling pistol trained on the side of Don Jackson's head. Don sat ramrod straight, his eyes fixed on the rear of the car in front of them, his face expressionless.
"Listen, I don't want to hurt you," Kimball was saying. "But if you don't start the car, I'll...I'll…"
"You'll do what, tough guy?" Don snarled. "You don't have the guts, you fucking coward."
"Mr. Kimball, I think you need to sit back and think about what you're doing." George Evans weighed in, with the ever calm and reasoned voice that Joe was already starting to respect him for.
"George is right, sir." Joe said, keeping his voice calm in spite of his rising anger. This dumbass was putting them all in danger. "Just put the gun down and…"
Things happened very quickly after that. There was a primal screech over Joe's shoulder. He span round, bringing his pistol to shoulder height, as the woman ran at him, still screeching and groaning.
Bang.
She went down, as the last bullet in Joe's clip embedded itself in her forehead. In the car, Kimball's attention was momentarily torn away from Don. The momentary lapse of concentration caused an involuntary slackening of his index finger, which was still on the M9's trigger. George Evans saw his opportunity and grabbed for it – literally. One of his knotted hands wrapped around Kimball's wrist and forced it upward. The gun went off with a bang that temporarily deafened the occupants of the small Pontiac, punching a 9mm hole in the car's roof. Christine Jackson was next into the ring; she went for Kimball's face with her nails, leaving angry red scratches down the man's right cheek. Joe ran around the back of the Pontiac, intending to pull open the door on Kimball's side and haul the bastard out if necessary. As it happened, someone else got there before him.
"Hey, asshole." A voice said.
Kimball turned his head just in time to see the butt of Tom Everett's rifle smash into his left temple. As he slumped back in his seat, the gun fell somewhere into the back seat area. Dr. Allen leaned forward to catch it, ended up juggling with it for a few seconds, and finally got it by the barrel without triggering it off.
"Good to see you, buddy." Joe said, feeling a grin stretch across his face in spite of himself. "What the hell took you so long?"
"Uh, zombies, commandos, helicopters; you know, the usual." Tom replied. "Don, you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, thanks." Don turned around, glaring into the back seat. "But what do we do with him?"
"Nothing, unless you want me to pull him out and leave him to the zombies." Tom said. "Listen, I know that sounds tempting, but he's not a threat anymore. I'll cuff him if it makes you feel better, man, but I don't think leaving him to be slaughtered is the right move."
"Yeah, you're right." Don said. "Just don't expect me to trust him again."
"Gotcha." Tom said. "Can you get us out of here?"
"Uh, I dunno." Don admitted. "We're blocked in front and back, only way out is to take the embankment straight back up to the street."
"Fuck it; go for it."
In the end, they made it; just. The Pontiac screeched, its tires spewing up mud and bits of grass, and Tom was horribly certain that it would stall and start rolling back down to the highway, where they would probably wind up smashing into the blue Chrysler they had been stuck behind. But Don slammed his foot down one more time, and with a final screech the Pontiac jumped forward onto the sidewalk, and then dropped slightly, jouncing them all in their seats as they hit the road.
"Nice work, Don." Tom clapped him on the back.
"Thanks, but uh…where now?"
"I don't know. They had the whole highway blocked off down there; trucks, guns, the whole deal. I wouldn't be surprised if they're roping off the whole city right now."
Dr. Allen turned to stare in morbid horror, his eyes practically bugging out. The idea that they might be trapped here in the city was a new and totally horrifying concept to him.
"You're saying we might be trapped here?" He asked, horror-struck.
"I dunno…maybe." Tom said. He couldn't think of another damn thing to say; he felt exhausted, and as the levels of adrenaline in his body fell, all he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep. Shoving the thought aside, Tom leaned forward and turned in the radio.
"-in both Ashburn and Westside, along with those reports we had earlier of the explosion at the Green Line station on Lake Street. The police cordon in Avondale along North Milwaukee Avenue is still in effect, and they're not letting anyone through, so I'd recommend you avoid that area.
"Jack is there any word on a possible motive of these rioters? Is this violence racially motivated in any way?"
"That seems to be the official line that the police are taking, Ben. However, I can say from personal experience that the people participating in these attacks seem to belong to many groups regardless of race, age or social occupation. I personally saw a man in a suit carrying a pistol walking down Milwaukee Avenue about ten minutes ago, so…"
Tom listened, shaking his head. There was no talk about the soldiers; about the armored vehicles or the helicopters; nothing about County General or the barricade on the highway.
"It's spreading," Dr. Allen noted. His eyes were wide with fear. "Avondale, Morgan Park, West Side…if this virus keeps spreading it could be all over the city by tonight."
Tom dug his knuckles into his eyes, warding off the fatigue that was threatening to envelop him. The highway was screwed, so there was no chance of them getting out that way. And if I-57 had been sealed off, it was a sure bet that the other major highways, such as the Kennedy Expressway, the Eisenhower, and the Stevenson were all closed. Were these guys honestly planning to throw a cordon around the whole city? Could they do that?
If they couldn't escape, they would have to find some place to hole up. Somewhere fortified, that could be easily defended. But where?
"Drive on, Don." Tom said wearily. "We'll think of something."
Don spun the wheel doubtfully, and the Pontiac rolled up Vincennes Avenue like some small creature scurrying through the underbrush, trying to evade the teeth of a fierce predator. In the distance, unseen to those in the car, the afternoon sun caught the windows of Downtown Chicago's doomed skyscrapers, and they glittered like hoarded treasure for one of the last times.