The Pandemic Sequence (Book 1): The Tilian Virus (28 page)

As he reloaded, Mike looked to his right and squinted into the darkness. Though the muzzle flashes and high beams severely damaged his night vision, he could still make out the faint sights of a second front waging along the western fence.

Two? Two attack points?
he thought with dejection.
We’d be lucky to hold them back at one with all of our guns
.

“Derrick, take the Jeep and tell the others to fall back to the house.”

Without replying, Derrick quickly returned to the vehicle and sped off into the direction of the other battle. Issuing short orders, Mike instructed the men and women beside him to withdraw to the farmhouse. Before any objection to the retreat could be voiced, the ear-ringing squeal of breaking timber marked the collapse of another large section of the fencing. With the gap spreading to well over thirty feet wide, it was evident that defense of the barricade was over. Mike’s goal now was to reach the house and determine some method of escape before the entire farm was overrun.

In unison, as the Tils swarmed through the destroyed fencing, the security line abandoned their defensive positions and began the retreat. Even with bullets streaking through the darkness, they were merciless in their advance.

Racing backwards, Mike could see the Jeep’s headlights drawing closer to the homestead. Those that had been defending the western breach were piled into the small confines of the vehicle. Assured that the others would reach the farmhouse safely, Mike turned his attention back to the enemy bearing down on him. Unlike a typical foe, the infected were undeterred by the hail of gunfire raining down on them. He realized that any attempt to slow the Tils to cover the retreat would only result in losing precious ground and time. With quick shouts to his companions, he ordered a cease fire and instructed them to make a headlong dash to safety.

With no light by which to navigate the rough terrain, Mike and the others stumbled frequently as they sprinted towards the house. Despite the cold, his legs burned with the effort he demanded from his muscles. Still a half mile in the distance, he saw the Jeep reach the farmhouse. After a brief pause to unload its passengers, the Jeep joined the other vehicle now hurtling to rescue Mike and the security team. Men and machines met in seconds and he struggled to maintain his grasp on the roll-bar as the cars cut sharp turns to return to the house.

“I want a full retreat from the house!” he shouted above the roar of the engines. “Security will hold the line while the cars shuttle everyone else to the east gate.”

The vehicles would cover the two mile stretch to the eastern gate quickly, but Mike knew that at least three trips would be needed to safely transport the refugees, with a fourth to rescue those that provided cover.
Fifteen minutes
, he told himself,
we just need to survive for fifteen minutes
.

Upon reaching the house, the security members dispersed with more exactness than he had expected. Forming a quarter-circle in front of the structure, they used the brief minute before the Tils were in range to reload their weapons. Derrick rushed up the porch and began ushering frightened refugees into the two waiting vehicles. Screams and tears of confusion echoed into the vacuous blackness of night. Sparing no time for collecting supplies or possessions, the cars lurched into motion, carrying the first group of refugees to safety. Without the headlights, Mike and the remaining survivors depended on the few flashlights they had to break through the dark. However it was the guttural sounds of the Tils that gave away their proximity.

To his rear, Mike heard Erik drop additional ammunition and weapons by each of the fighters. With relief, he reached back to grab the magazines he had not taken with him earlier. Fanned out in a Mafia-style hit formation, over a dozen men and women stood firm and fired into the ever-encroaching mass of Tils. Even with the overwhelming firepower, Tils still managed to break through the line. Mike could hear the screams of humans as infected descended and attempted to feast.

At his immediate left, Mike saw the yellow and red flashes of an M-16 arc into the dark sky above as one of the refugees fell to a Til. Turning, Mike drove two bullets into the infected, but he saw the damage had already been done.

“Kill me!” the man pleaded as the convulsions began to shake his body, his blood already beginning to force the change. With a silent curse, Mike fired a shot into the man’s head. Only in the brief flash of the muzzle did he see the face of Tyler Aaron.

Minutes passed with stubbornly slow speed before the headlights returned for the second, and then third, collection of refugees. As more Tils broke through the line, Mike thought he heard Andrew scream for his mother in the distance.

The bodies of fallen Tils created a short-lived impediment to the advance of the endless stream of attackers. While most climbed over the corpses, others began to shift around the obstacles, forcing the refugees to expand their range of defense.

“Into the house!” Mike commanded as he inched backwards up the porch steps. Even with a two mile head start, he knew the distance was short enough for the Tils to pursue their prey tirelessly. Though he hated the sacrifice, he knew his next actions could possibly turn the tide in favor of the refugees’ safe escape.

The armed defenders fell back inside the house and quickly barricaded the front door. As Mike raced through several rooms, he could hear the crush of bodies slamming into the home’s exterior. Windows smashed and the sounds of gunfire returned before he finally found the large, red plastic container in the basement. Climbing the stairs, the pungent liquid splashed through the nozzle and began to soak into the wood flooring.

The scene in the front rooms was one of horrifying chaos. Tils pressed through the broken windows, unaware of the glass shards that scored their flesh. Bloodied hands groped blindly and tore away at the window casings. The sheer weight of their number pressing on the outside walls caused the house to groan in dwindling defiance.

“Fall back to the kitchen!”

Hearing Mike’s command, the men and women turned with surprise to see him standing with the gasoline container, its redness now glowing from the flashlights trained on it. Doubt passed through their eyes, followed by the inevitable sadness of comprehension. His own glare silenced all objections and without argument, they set their jaws and followed his order.

Once cleared, he began to splash walls, floors, and furniture in the front rooms. The angry snarls of the infected grew more persistent as he walked before them. Arms reached out for him from the window openings, but his mind refused to acknowledge their presence. From the kitchen, someone shouted that the vehicles had made their return. Passing within inches of the snapping teeth of a Til, Mike turned to exit the room. His hand dug into his pocket and withdrew a battered match book. With a swift strike, Mike let the match fall to the ground, and a soft orange-red glow flickered along the wet floors as the room roared to fiery life. The macabre faces of the Tils grew even more grotesque in the light and heat of the newly born inferno.

As the vehicles drove away, he did not take his eyes from the massive fire that engulfed the farmhouse. No Tils were seen following them. Instead, as he had hoped, the mindless infected continued to pour into the home. Two years of peace and safety had been the cost of the refugees’ escape. Even from two miles away, one could see the funeral pyre of memory and flesh raging into the early hours of dawn.

* * *

The days that followed were marked by fatigue, hunger, and a thick depression that enveloped everyone. As the group continued their march in search of shelter, tears flowed unchecked down the faces of even the strongest souls. In all, six had fallen during the attack on the farmhouse. Mike had only a passing familiarity with most, but it was the loss of Andrew’s mother Sarah that carved the deepest wound. He was told that she had been bitten while trying to protect her son. The boy, who had been the one to end her life, spent the last two days in silence, taking little water and no food.

Not that there was much food to be shared. With the suddenness of the attack, there had been no time to pack supplies for an extended journey. Stomachs growled painfully as the refugees, many still clad in bedclothes, walked steadily for the mountains in the east. Their route was through abandoned farms and small towns, and many voiced their desire to resettle at a farm, but Mike feared that another such location would soon only meet the same fate. If the food supply for the Tils was running low in the more developed areas, their dispersion into the rural communities was sure to continue.
No,
he thought, his eyes locking on the peaks miles ahead,
the
mountains are all that’s left to us.

And so they trudged on, seeking shelter in the night and marching through the daylight, their vehicles out of fuel and abandoned miles back. Mike insisted on a brisk pace, driving the refugees to their limits. He understood their weariness but he was possessed of a dogged determination to reach the mountains with all possible speed. He blamed himself for the loss of lives and shelter, and was willing to endure any hardships the road might offer in order to avert future losses. Wrapped in his solitude, he urged the others to walk further than their bodies believed they could.

With Mike’s unrelenting persistence, the refugees soon found themselves deep within the wooded protection of the Cherokee National Forest. Even with spring still some weeks off, the forest’s evergreens stood tall and full, a welcome sign of life for the fatigued travelers. At the base of the Great Smoky Mountains, hundreds of thousands of acres reverberated with the sounds of birds and other wildlife.

A small collection of picnic tables and fire pits filled a clearing off one of the many trails. Though so close to their destination, Mike could feel his own body rejecting any further request for movement.

“Okay, let’s stop here for the night,” he instructed.

As the refugees slumped to the ground, a loud rustling of branches and leaves was heard from the direction of a heavily wooded area. Exhaustion evaporated and immediately several refugees leapt up with guns at the ready. Mike signaled for a small group to begin to close in on the sound.

From the trees emerged a young man, Mike estimating the two shared a similar age, carrying the body of a buck across his shoulders. Heedless of the weapons drawn on him, the man walked towards one of the many fire pits at the camp site. The man moved with the casual grace of one well-experienced in the outdoors. Easing the animal’s weight off his back and onto the ground, he then wiped his hands on his weathered jeans. Mike slowly lowered his gun as the man approached him with a hand extended in greeting.

“I saw you guys coming about an hour ago and from the looks of it y’all are in need of a good meal. This area is as safe as any. They haven’t been coming into the woods, yet,” he began. Then, with a glance to men around him, “Anytime you guys want to lower those guns would be great. I could use a few hands dressing the deer.”

As Mike shook the man’s hand in disbelief, his mouth worked to form some sort of reply, but words failed him. The man’s affable, and apparently fearless nature, was stunning to Mike’s current mood. He had spent the better part of the last seventy-two hours struggling to keep alive. Yet, here was this man, and his dead deer, strolling through the woods offering a shared meal. In the darkness of recent losses, Mike could almost feel the hope of a new beginning.

“Oh, I’m Paul, by the way,” the man said. “Paul Jenson.”

An endless cavalcade of bullets streamed through the air, showering Mike and Lisa with glass fragments from the windshield and passenger-side windows. Hugging the wide surface of the minivan, the two waited for a lull in the attack before risking exposure by peering over the vehicle’s thick metal protection. Gazelle, though fearless of Tils, cowered next to Mike, the deafening sounds of gunfire forcing her tail and ears to slump. Several feet in front of them, the body of the man who only moments before had warned of being followed lay sprawled out on the cracked roadway. A large portion of his face was missing. Given the damage to the refugee, Mike knew whoever was attacking them was in possession of large, high-powered weapons capable of deadly force at a distance.

The projectiles continued to rip through the air forcing Mike and Lisa to stay pinned in their current location, though he left his crouched position and pressed himself to the surface of the road. Under the confusing maze of vehicles, he was able to see several other refugees likewise sheltering themselves from the ambush. There were a handful of unmoving bodies scattered along the road as well.

Resuming his crouch, Mike closed his eyes in an effort to focus his hearing on the direction of the shots. Even with the poor acoustics of their environment, he believed the majority of their enemies’ attack was centered ahead, with only a few gunmen hidden within the foliage along the highway’s shoulders. As for their numbers, Mike knew he would not be able to get an accurate count unless he got closer.

Leaning closer to Lisa, he shouted over the gunfire, “We have to move up! Keep low and watch your flanks!”

Nodding her acknowledgement, she made a quick check of her weapons and angled herself to follow Mike’s lead.