Days Of Perdition: Voodoo Plague Book 6 (17 page)

Backup for the dead sniper had arrived, and they had come in
force.  Three pickups had pulled up at the closest intersection, staying just
far enough back to be out of sight.  Several men, I didn’t get a good headcount,
had started moving down the street in our direction, hugging the dark
storefronts. 

Martinez, cursing in Spanish, shoved Dog onto the floor and
reached for a button that wasn’t there to lower her window.  She had forgotten
it was a police Suburban with the seat she was in intended for the
transportation of prisoners.  She screamed at us and Rachel fumbled around and
hit a switch that lowered all the windows in the vehicle at the same time.

Shoving the muzzle of her rifle between the bars protecting
the side window glass, Martinez started returning fire, a moment later Rachel
joining in.  All I could do was drive and try to get us out of range as fast as
I could.  Gas pedal flat to the floor, the engine roared as we picked up speed,
the two women keeping up a steady rate of fire.

Bullets were finding the big, black vehicle, but Rachel and
Martinez’ return fire was forcing them to keep their heads down and their
accuracy was suffering.  I thought we were almost home free when another pickup
screamed out of an alley on my side of the road.  I swerved and the other
driver turned at the last second so instead of a T-bone collision the two
vehicles struck on their front corners. 

The impact was loud, metal rending and glass shattering, but
both vehicles were big, heavy American steel and kept going.  The truck was
pushed away by the force of the collision then slammed back into the driver’s
side of the Suburban, metal grinding on metal as it accelerated and stayed
pressed against me.  Four men in the back of the pickup were struggling to
regain their balance and bring their weapons to bear.  If that happened, they
were at point blank range and we were dead.

I yanked the wheel to the right to get a few feet of
separation then steered back into them.  The heavy vehicles slammed against
each other, knocking the men in the bed of the pickup off balance.  Martinez
had swiveled around in the back seat and opened up with her rifle.  One of the
men took three rounds in his chest and rose up, his body going above the cab of
the truck.  The slipstream caught him as he died and flipped him over the
tailgate where his body came to rest on the pavement.

The pickup slowed a half a second before one of the men in
back was able to start firing his rifle.  His rounds struck the rear side of
the Suburban instead of punching through Martinez’ door as he intended. 
Without conscious thought I realized what the other driver was trying to do. 
He had slowed enough to align his front bumper with my rear bumper and was going
to slam into it sideways and send me into an uncontrollable spin. 

This is called a PIT – Precision Immobilization Technique –
maneuver and was originally developed by a police department in Virginia, but
made famous by the LAPD with all of their high-speed chases.  The best way to
counter it is to not keep driving in a nice, straight line and let the pursuit
vehicle get in position to deliver the blow.  Lifting my foot off the gas I
stomped on the brakes as hard as I could, the SUVs big off-road tires screaming
as we suddenly decelerated.

The pickup had already started swerving towards us, but my
sudden braking prevented him from executing a successful PIT.  Instead, the
truck shot past us, its lateral momentum causing it to keep drifting until its
right rear side impacted the Suburban’s left front.  I jammed the accelerator
back to the floor and steered hard left into the truck as it slammed into us.

I had a scary moment when I thought I was going to lose
control but finally got us back in a straight line.  The pickup was ahead of us
now, fishtailing as the driver sawed the wheel back and forth to overcome the
violent sideways shove I’d just given him.  The pickup was whipping violently across
the road, one of the men in back finally losing his grip and tumbling out.

We were less than thirty feet behind and I had the throttle
wide open when his body struck the grill of the Suburban.  I more felt than
heard the thud as he was thrown over the hood.  For an instant his face was
against the windshield, terror filled eyes staring at me, then the glass
shattered, bowing in towards us but holding in its frame at the last moment. 
He was thrown over the roof of the SUV and I heard a couple of bumps as he
tumbled along the top before falling to the pavement behind us.

I stayed on the gas, closing the gap with the pickup.  The
driver was starting to get it back under control when I rammed into the rear
bumper.  It was a hard impact and I had hoped it would be enough to cause the
truck to lose control, but it did the opposite and helped him straighten out the
heavy vehicle.  Moments later bullets started punching through the damaged
glass as the guys in the back found their balance and were able to bring their
weapons up.

“Knock the glass out!”  I shouted to Rachel, swerving to not
make it any easier for our attackers.

“How?”  She screamed back over the roar of the engine and
wind noise whistling through the bullet holes.

“Use your feet!  Kick it out!”  Martinez shouted from the
back seat.

Rachel lifted her feet onto the dash, scooted her ass
forward and braced her shoulders against the seat back as she started battering
the compromised windshield with the soles of her boots.  She did an admirable
job of focusing on the task as I kept us swerving and the occasional bullet
punched through, showering us with powdered glass.  Finally it popped lose and
I reached forward and helped push it out of the way.

Now I could see, but the wind whipping directly into my face
was intense, immediately causing tears to form in my eyes and blurring my
vision.  The truck in front of us was swerving, the driver intent on not
allowing me to get next to him and attempt my own PIT maneuver.  Rachel laid
her rifle on the dash and started pumping bullets at them.  I drew my pistol
and joined the fight, driving with my left hand while I shot with my right.

Neither of us was finding a target, but we did manage to
keep their heads down and stop the incoming fire.  Ahead I could see an intersection
as a major east-west road crossed our path.  At the last moment I jammed on the
brakes and cut the wheel to the right.  We were still going fast, probably
close to 60 miles an hour, and the Suburban started to drift to its left as I
held the wheel to guide us through the turn.

The pickup shot through the intersection, unprepared for my
turn.  From the corner of my eye I saw the one unbroken taillight come on as
the driver stood on the brakes but I didn’t have time to check on what they
were doing.  The SUV was still drifting, the rear trying to come around and
send us into a spin.  Steering slightly to the left I fed some throttle, hoping
to straighten us out, and slowly we started to come back into line.

“Look out!”  Rachel screamed.

I took my eyes off the pavement directly to our front and
looked up to see a road full of infected coming our direction.  There wasn’t
time to tell male from female before we blasted into the front ranks of the
pack at speed.  Some bodies were knocked aside, some battered under the tires,
others flying off to the side.  That would have been fine, but a female was
flipped over the hood and slammed through the opening where a windshield would
normally be, bouncing off the dash and landing on Rachel and me.

The infected are tough.  Impervious to pain and injuries.  A
normal human would have already been in shock and immobile by the time she
landed face down in my lap, but the female began thrashing and trying to bite
the instant she landed.  I couldn’t risk using my pistol and having a bullet
travel through and go into me, so I settled for grabbing her hair and yanking
her teeth away from my legs.

She screamed and fought harder, but fortunately she had
sustained a lot of injuries when first hit by the Suburban’s grill guard.  She
might not have felt or reacted to them, but she must have broken both arms as
she was unable to use them to any degree of success.

“Kill this bitch!”  I shouted at Rachel, keeping my foot
down on the gas and pushing us through the herd.

“Here!”  Martinez shoved an eight-inch stiletto through the
wire cage separating the back seat from the front.  Rachel snatched it from her
hand and rammed it into the back of the female’s head.  The infected went limp
and Rachel started to lift and drag her lower body towards her open side
window.

“No.  Put her up on the dash.  Her body will give us some
protection.”  I shouted over the constant thuds of infected against the vehicle
as we smashed our way through.

It took some doing and a lot of help from Rachel, but we
finally got the female’s body over the steering wheel and resting on the dash. 
She blocked the entire lower half of the opening, and no sooner did we have her
in place than another infected was thrown over the front of the hood.  This was
a male and he slammed into the dead female, almost pushing her back into our
laps, but Rachel and I braced the body until I was able to lean forward and
shoot him with my pistol.

Finally the small herd began to thin, then we were through,
roaring down a dark, empty street.  I looked in the mirror and could see the
herd pursuing, but there was no sign of our attackers in the pickup.  But just
because they weren’t chasing us through a herd of infected didn’t mean they
weren’t racing down a parallel street to intercept us.

Keeping the speed on, I wrenched into a tire screeching left
at the next intersection to get us heading back north.  The male slid off the
hood, body tumbling across the pavement where it slammed to a stop against an
abandoned car.  The female stayed in place, more inside the vehicle than out.

“Everyone OK?”  I shouted to be heard above the engine, road
and wind noise, looking around to try and see my three companions.

“I’m good,” Rachel responded in a shaky voice, turning to
look through the cage into the back seat.  Dog stared back at her and stuck his
tongue through the wire to lick her hand when she held it up.

“Fine,” Martinez said from the back seat, but I didn’t like
the way she said it.

Scanning the area I didn’t see any immediate threats and
braked to a hard stop in the middle of the road.  Jumping out I yanked the rear
door open, pushed Dog aside when he greeted me and climbed into the back seat.

“Rachel!”  I shouted and a moment later she opened the far
door, supporting Martinez who had been using the door for a backrest.  With the
doors open the dome light was on and I could see blood soaking the front of
Martinez’ shirt.

Rachel worked on Martinez while Dog and I stood in the
street keeping watch.  I shot a couple of females that came running out of an
alley, but so far they were the only threats we’d seen.  Stepping to the
driver’s door of the idling Suburban I reached in and shut off the engine so I
could listen for any approaching vehicles.  The fuckers that had attacked us
were still out there somewhere, and I had no doubt the only reason they weren’t
climbing up our asses at the moment was they just hadn’t found us.

I didn’t understand their mentality.  Never had.  I’d
witnessed the same behavior in half a dozen third world countries over the
years.  There always seems to be a group of guys who think that because there’s
no civil authority they have the right to impose their will on anyone and
everyone.  Most of the time they’re the only ones with guns and the people
can’t stand up to them.  More than once I’d been pleased to show the bad guys
the error of their ways. 

Reagan had been President when I earned my beret, and he had
never hesitated to send in some boots to kick ass when some two-bit warlord
decided to act out.  Granted, it usually happened to coincide with US security
interests in the region, but there were still plenty of times it was just
because he didn’t like bullies.  After Reagan, the backbone in the White House
steadily softened until we wound up being openly challenged by every piss ant
dictator on the planet.

They knew they could thumb their nose at us and we wouldn’t
do anything except whine and cry to the UN and go through a series of
self-flagellating exercises in front of the world’s media.  Personally, I
wished for Teddy Roosevelt to return from the grave.  Walk softly and carry a
big stick. 

The US military was the biggest stick the planet had ever
seen, but somehow our politicians decided it was better to talk and threaten
and gnash their teeth for months or years while people were dying, or while
some regime led by a mad man developed nuclear weapons and openly stated they
wanted to use them on us or one of our allies.

International politics are really no different than high
school.  If someone knows they can do something to you and get away without any
real repercussions, guess what?  You’re going to find yourself stuffed into
your locker with your underwear around your head.  But if they know they’ll get
a bloody nose for crossing your path, life is generally a much more pleasant
experience.

I shook my head, dismissing my musings before I got any more
distracted.  There wasn’t time to be worrying about things I could do nothing
about, or that no longer mattered.  I needed to be focusing on watching for
infected and listening for shit heels, as Sergeant Timmons had called them.  I
couldn’t help but grin, thinking I’d probably have become friends with the man
if circumstances had been different.

Circling the Suburban, I glanced at Dog who was on high
alert but not showing that he was detecting any threats.  Stopping at the
driver’s side rear door I looked in on Martinez.  She sat in the middle of the
seat, vest and shirt off as Rachel worked with a suture kit.

“How is she?”  I asked, turning my head to check the area.

“Nothing life threatening,” Rachel answered without looking
up.  “ She took two rounds.  One through her left bicep.  Tore the muscle up,
but missed anything vital.  The second one was a through and through in her
right breast.”

“Ouch,” I said, taking a closer look at Martinez’ chest.

“No shit, sir.”  Martinez gasped in pain as Rachel kept
sewing.  “But at least now I’ve got an excuse to get the boob job I’ve always
wanted.”

I snorted, tried to hold in the laughter but failed. 
“There’s probably some tire inflator in the back.  Want me to grab a can?  We
can pump up your tits through one of the bullet holes.  Save you a fortune in
plastic surgeon fees.”

“There’s something seriously wrong with you two,” Rachel
said, shaking her head as she worked.  “You, go away so I can concentrate.  And
you, quit laughing unless you want your stitches to look like something from a
Frankenstein movie.”

I took the hint and moved on after giving Martinez a wink. 
Damn the woman was tough.  She was sitting there joking but had to be hurting
like hell. 

Dismissing those thoughts I turned my head when I heard the
faint sounds of an engine.  The vehicle was still a good distance and the noise
echoed in the empty streets, but it sounded like it was approaching from the
south.  We needed to start moving before we were found again.  If they showed
up in force we were in trouble.

“How long, Rachel?”  I asked.

“Five minutes.”  She said.

“You’re going to have to sew while I drive,” I said, Dog and
I climbing into the front after I shut the rear doors.  “We’re going to have
company before then.”

She didn’t say anything, just reached up and turned on the
overhead light that had gone out when the last door closed.  I started the
engine and gently accelerated, not wanting to make the suturing job any more
difficult than it already was.

I got us up to 45 and held that speed.  Any faster and the
wind in my face was too strong and I was constantly having to wipe tears out of
my eyes.  What I wouldn’t give for a set of goggles or even a pair of glasses. 
Anything to protect my eyes.  Dog, on the other hand, seemed to love the idea
of a missing windshield.  He sat up straight on the passenger seat, head thrust
forward and looking straight ahead into the wind; nose twitching and I swear a
smile on his furry face.

  A few minutes later Rachel trimmed the final stitch,
smeared some antibiotic ointment on the wounds and set the med kit aside.  She
dug through Martinez’ pack and found a clean shirt which she helped her slip
over her head, then got her vest back in place.

“How do you manage it?”  Rachel asked me as she dug through
the med kit.

“Manage what?”  I asked.

“Driving around with topless women,” she said.  “First me in
Atlanta, now Martinez.  You must think you lead a charmed life.”

While speaking, Rachel had found a vial of antibiotic and a
large syringe which she filled and held up to the light.  Tapping it to work
bubbles to the top she gently pressed the plunger to purge the air.  I chose
not to respond to her comment, instead pulled out the GPS while Martinez leaned
over on the seat and pulled her pants down so Rachel could administer the
injection.

96 miles to go.  Not far, but too damn far in today’s
world.  I concentrated on my driving and what I was going to do to Roach when I
got my hands on him.