The Pandemic Sequence (Book 1): The Tilian Virus (5 page)

“Like hell I’m not. Our best security went out with Michelle and the others. The camp can’t afford to have you run off to play hero without protection,” the ranger replied. “And don’t give me that bullshit that the guys going with you are protection. You and I both know they’re green. They haven’t seen action beyond securing the camp.”

Mike knew he was right, though he hated to admit it. With the lieutenant and his men gone, what security force remained was compromised of refugees that, while skilled with firearms, had not seen the same kind of fighting that seasoned the camp’s main security.

“I need someone to run the camp,” Mike said, quickly turning to his second reason for Paul to stay behind.

“I thought that was Derrick’s job.”

After the loss of Jenni, Mike and his second in command had likewise disagreed with Derrick’s ability to perform his duties. Paul had seen the toll the loss had taken on the boy just as Mike had. Stubbornly, and perhaps incorrectly, Mike refused to ask him to step down. In truth, his own doubts about Derrick had played a part in his telling Paul to stay behind.

Mike knew Paul well enough to understand that once the ranger’s mind was set on a course of action it would take a herculean effort to deter him. In many ways, he knew that the ongoing debate of the last two days was fruitless and that Paul would win out in the end. Mike gave him credit though; Paul had never debated him on the point in public. He believed too strongly in the chain of command to question Mike’s leadership where other ears could be listening. With a nod of consent, the two made their way to the center of camp and joined the four others that waited to begin the journey.

The security and foraging teams had begun their own journey eleven days earlier. They were now four days overdue from their scheduled return. The buzz of worry swept through the camp quickly. Mike did his best to avert the obvious tension that was building among the refugees. But, like dust on the wind, the anxiety had spread beyond the point of containment. Two days ago he addressed the camp, informing them of his plans to lead a search party. The intervening time was spent gathering food, water, and medical supplies. Mike had been tempted to have the doctor join them in case one of the missing was injured, but had quickly rejected the idea. The doctor’s lack of fitness would only serve as a hindrance, and his skills might be needed in the camp.

Following the same trail the others had used, it would take two days to get off the mountain, and, if they could find a working vehicle, a third to reach their destination. It was just after dawn as the group set out. With somber goodwill, several of the refugees wished the party safety on their journey. Mike had hoped that Derrick would see them off, but as his eyes drifted to the isolated tent at the other end of the camp he knew those hopes were empty.

The trails leading down the mountain had been cleared by the lieutenant’s scouts, thus making the journey for his team less perilous. By the time they stopped for lunch, he was pleased to see that they had covered more ground than expected. As with the first hours of the hike, the group remained in relative silence as they ate. He knew the thoughts of his companions without asking, for Mike’s mind raced with the same concerns. The team that the lieutenant and Michelle had led totaled thirteen refugees, eight of which were skilled fighters. What could they have encountered to delay such a large group?

Andrew Weyland, the youngest of his team at eighteen years old, was the first to notice the dark storm clouds pushing in from the West. Not wanting to squander the ground they had gained, Mike ordered the party to pack up and resume the hike. They managed to buy four more hours before the first of the rain began to sting their faces. Though the trail rapidly began to turn to mud, they trudged on until the sucking at their boots forced them to make camp for the night. With tents pitched and a low fire burning, Mike and his men ate the chicken and rice one of the women from the camp had packed for them. After the meal and the cooking gear was cleaned and packed away, Paul and Andrew opted to take first watch. Sleep was elusive as Mike listened to the two outside his tent.

“What do you think happened to them?” Andrew questioned.

“Don’t know, kid,” was Paul gruff reply. He did not have the answer and any speculation would just fuel the teen’s anxiety.

Andrew and his mother had been some of the first people Mike and the survivors of the school had met on the road. Just twelve at the time of the outbreak, the boy had grown up in a world that, to him, had now become the standard. A lanky youth with dark blonde hair and green eyes, his family had been farmers two counties over from the school. The virus had taken his father and three siblings, leaving Andrew and his mother, Sarah, to survive the aftermath on their own. Understandably, he had been withdrawn and nearly mute from the shock of what he had witnessed when Mike and the others found them stranded together on the road. Lost in the world, Sarah eagerly accepted the help of the strangers, and she and her son had joined them.

When their second camp was overrun by the infected, Andrew’s mother stumbled as she and her son attempted to flee with the others. Clubbing the infected that immediately pounced on her, Andrew was able to drag her to safety. Unfortunately, in the attack, Sarah had been bitten by one of the Tils that swarmed through the campsite. Andrew was forced to watch in horror as the virus took hold of his mother and she began the “change.” When her predatory eyes fell on the boy before her—prey now and no longer a son—he scrambled backwards on the ground with tearful screaming. Her mouth curled into a vicious snarl as she advanced on the stricken child. As he stumbled in a panicked escape, his hand brushed across the gun of a fallen refugee. His arms shook as he pointed the weapon and fired, his mother falling dead at his feet as sobs ripped from his body. It was three days later, in a make-shift camp that the escaped refugees had constructed, before Andrew spoke of the incident. His voice through the retelling was hollow and empty.

Mike had lost six people the night the camp was attacked. Andrew, like so many others, had become an orphan to the Tilian Virus. Refusing to let his mind create scenarios of a similar fate befalling Michelle and the others, he forced his attention back to the present.

“He’s working on it. Sooner or later he’s bound to have some luck,” Paul replied to a question Mike had missed.

“I know, but those people…they scream so much when he’s…you know,” the teen said falteringly.

“You gotta stop looking at them as people, kid. Unless the doc studies them, they’re gonna be infected like that forever.”

“But, Derrick…I mean, he still sees them as people,” Andrew said.

Mike could not see him through the tent, but he knew Paul’s face reflected the sorrow in his voice when he replied, “It’s different for him.”

The conversation trailed off and the silence of the wooded camp allowed Mike to drift into a brief slumber.

* * *

Morning saw the group of six continuing their trek down the mountain; the storm of the night before had left the trail muddy, but not impassable. However, the rain had washed away the boot impressions left by Michelle and the others that his team had been tracking. Whatever happened to them had happened in the city, as the footprints thus far had only led down the mountainside.

The roads, more distinct as they made their way, were filled with abandoned cars. When the infected began displaying the end results of the virus, motorists stuck in the evening rush hour commute had abandoned their vehicles in an attempt to escape the onslaught. Even from this height, Mike could see skeletal remains—bones picked clean by the infected and wildlife and sun-bleached—that littered the pavement.

The closer they got to the road, the more his team lost the relative protection of the trees that covered the mountain. Even with the storm, they had reached the base of the mountain a few hours before nightfall. Now, any watching eyes would easily be able to see the six hiking figures.

“All right, keep alert guys,” he instructed the men. He motioned Paul to one side and conferred with him about their options.

“What do you think? We have about four hours of daylight left. Do we make camp? Or find a truck?” he asked the ranger.

Paul’s eyes scanned the surrounding area, as he replied. “Once we start an engine, we have to keep going.”

In the stillness of the post-infection world, any sound, especially that of a truck’s engine, would rouse the Tils from docility. If there were any in the area, the noise would have them swarming down on the team immediately. Mike disliked the idea of traveling at night, even by truck, but he loathed to lose any usable hours, and he was anxious to find the others.

“There are three trucks that could work if you wanted to keep going,” Paul said as he pointed down the road. Mike saw the SUV and two extended cab pickups. If they were going to travel at night, he was not going to risk having anyone ride in the bed of a truck.

“Okay, let’s do it.” Mike rejoined the others and laid out his plans. Within minutes, the group had reached the SUV, a dark red, ’08 Chevy Blazer.

Tim Cornell, a part-time mechanic prior to the outbreak, lifted the hood and began to inspect the truck’s condition, as the others took point around the vehicle.

Several minutes later, Tim made his diagnosis.

“The battery looks good, the oil is not great but it will get us where we need to go. The engine looks like it should crank up. I need ten minutes to siphon gas from these cars and fill the tank,” he informed Mike, wiping sweat from his shaven head. With Mike’s go-ahead, the mechanic got to work.

Time ticked by slowly as the team waited, eyes glued to the area, scanning for any sign of movement.

“Mike, we got company,” Paul hissed. Mike turned to follow the ranger’s stare. In the distance, about a quarter mile north of their position, he saw it. A lone figure walked among the abandoned cars and trucks. Still too far to see much else, it was clear that whoever it was, it was headed towards Mike and his men.

“Tim, how we doing?” Mike asked over his shoulder.

“The tank was dry, if we’re gonna make it without having to stop I need to get it at least half full,” he replied while quickening his pace.

Instinctively, Mike reached to his chest holsters and removed his twin Glocks, disengaging the safeties. Loaded with extended magazines, each pistol held thirty-three rounds a piece. With an additional twenty magazines on his person, and more in his pack, Mike knew he had enough firepower, but discharging a weapon would attract much unwanted attention from any Tils nearby. If the truck was not ready, that could mean an extended firefight, and that was something Mike hoped to avoid. Tils tended to remain in an area once they spotted prey, and he planned on returning to the mountain via the way they had come.

As the figure ambled closer, Mike could now easily make out the tell-tale sign of an infected: the side-cocked head.

“How much longer?” he asked, forcing the concern to remain hidden from his voice.

“Five minutes.”

“You have two,” Mike instructed.

As the mechanic finished siphoning from a nearby car, he made his way back to the SUV, titling the gas can into truck’s tank and mumbling, “Then why’d ya ask?”

Ignoring the comment, Mike kept his eyes on the infected, now only a hundred yards away.

“
Andrew, Erik, and Shane get in the truck…
slowly
,” he ordered. As the three men eased their way to the rear passenger doors, the infected stopped its approach.

“Mike…” Paul began, but was cut off by a bestial growl that erupted from the Til. The infected then sprang into a full sprint, bearing down on the SUV. As the creature raced towards them, other forms began appearing from the road, howling in predatory rage.

“Dammit,” Mike shouted as he and Paul began opening fire. The first Til fell after six rounds, but it was quickly replaced by several dozen others. Mike heard shots being blasted from the SUV behind him. With a glance, he saw that Tils had sprung up on all sides, and the men in the truck were firing on them.

The silence that had previously blanketed the afternoon was split apart by the screams of infected and the gunfire from the men. In his periphery, Mike saw a Til jump onto the hood of the car to his left. Three shots took it down, but the swarm was too close now to hold them off with any real assurance. He quickly expelled the spent magazines and slammed his weapons down onto a pair of full ones strapped to his thighs. Without surrendering more than two seconds, he was once again unloading into the seething crowd.

Paul, armed with an assault rifle, held off the Tils on the front passenger side as best he could. With the virus destroying all pain receptors in the body, the infected were undaunted in their approach. Head and heart shots were the only immediate way to bring them down. Andrew and the others inside the truck had their doors ajar and were firing shotguns at the attackers, keeping them away from the mechanic as he worked. Finally, Tim’s voice rose above the chaotic din, announcing that he was finished.

“Get in the truck, NOW,” Mike shouted to Tim and Paul. Racing backwards and firing at the Tils closest to them, the three men jumped into the front seat of the truck.

In the driver’s seat, Tim turned the key to start the Chevy’s engine, but the effort was met with only a brief rev.