The Zone: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Infection Chronicles Book 1) (10 page)

Alarms were buzzing. Steele glanced to the cockpit. Blood was spattered against the windshield. Mitchell was dead, and so was the copilot. The duffel bags of titrillium slammed from bulkhead to bulkhead as the CAV spun out of control. The force would be enough to kill you if you were unlucky enough to get smashed by one. The heavy bars clattered against the hull.
 

Clink.
 

Clash.
 

Slam.

The CAV careened toward the ground. Impact in three…

Two…

One…

BAM!

The composite metal buckled and crunched. Glass shattered, spraying razor sharp shards through the air. Steele felt bits of debris pelt him in the face. The CAV tumbled and rolled and tore apart. The air was a mix of fire, exhaust, sparks, smoke, glass, and dust.

Steele felt his body slammed in every direction. The world was a blur. What was left of the metal hull groaned and scraped across the concrete. It finally ground to a stop, rocked up, then slammed down into its final resting place. 

Steele felt dizzy and hazy. His vision was blurred. He wasn’t sure if he had passed out for a moment or not. Everything hurt. His neck and back were already spasming. His body was numb with adrenaline. He didn’t think anything was broken. But he’d find out soon enough when he would try to move.

Black smoke filled the air. The engines were on fire, crackling and popping—what was left of them, anyway. Steele could smell fuel and hydraulic fluid. He unbuckled his safety harness and dropped out of his seat, slamming to the ground. His body was vibrating from the rush of adrenaline. He tried to stand, but his legs were wobbly. He felt like he had stepped off a boat. He sunk back down to the ground. A sea of concrete.

After a moment, his head cleared a little. He tried to stand again when he felt a hand on his arm, pulling him up. Steele instinctually spun away and drew his sidearm. He lined the blurry figure up in his sights. Steele squinted to focus on the man. It was Xavier—the man who’s life he had saved earlier. Now it seemed he was returning the favor.

Xavier held his arms up in the air and frantically yelled, “Don’t shoot. We’re here to help.” He was standing with several other men, some of whom were armed. 

Steele looked them over, then holstered his weapon. He glanced over himself. No broken bones. No puncture wounds. Just scrapes and bruises. But he’d be sore as hell tomorrow.

His eyes flicked down the street—the other half of the fuselage was strewn about, smoldering. His heart sank. He hoped everyone was okay.

Twisted wreckage and debris was strewn across the street. He saw one of the black duffel bags of Titrillium. His eyes scanned the street. There was another bag fifty feet away. And another scattered beyond that. 

Lurkers were starting to stumble into the street. 

Steele ran to the smoldering section of the fuselage and climbed in. When he rounded the tattered bulkhead, Parker was helping Chloe out of her safety harness. She kneeled beside Chloe and checked her for injuries.

“Are you okay,” Parker asked. 

Chloe nodded.

“Does anything hurt?”

Chloe shook her head.

Parker winced with pain as she stood up.
 

“Are you alright?” Steele asked.

“I’ll live.”

“Where’s Delroy?”

Parker shrugged. 

Chloe’s big eyes darted about, frantically searching for Mr. Carlisle. 

Steele launched back into the street. “Delroy,” he yelled. “Delroy.” His voiced boomed, echoing off the brick warehouses.

There was no response.

Steele’s eyes surveyed the area. More lurkers were staggering into the street from the alleyways. His eyes stumbled across Delroy’s body, twisted amongst the debris. Steele dashed to him and checked for a pulse. He felt the faint blip on his fingertips. Delroy was still alive.

A jagged bit of metal had punctured his thigh and was protruding. Delroy was starting to regain consciousness. 

“Hi Major,” Delroy slurred. “I got a big hunk of metal sticking out of my leg.”

“I know.” Steele looked him over. “Anything else hurt?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

Xavier ran up to them. “We must go. The streets are getting dangerous. Raddick's thugs will come to scavenge the wreckage and make sure you are dead.”

“Who’s Raddick?” Steele asked.

“I’ll explain later. Come.”

“Can you stand?” Steele asked Delroy. 

He nodded. Steele slung Delroy’s arm around his neck, and lifted him up.

Delroy wobbled on his good leg. Xavier supported Delroy’s other side. 

“See the black duffel bags,” Steele said, pointing them out. “Have your men gather them up, along with any weapons you can find.”

“There’s no time,” Xavier pleaded. His voice was laced with frustration and urgency. 

“Just do it,” Steele said. 

Xavier called out to his men and instructed them to retrieve the titrillium.
 

Two 9mm shots rang out. Steele snapped his gaze to the source of the sound. Parker was taking out lurkers that were crowding the wreckage. More and more infected were filling the streets.
 

Steele could hear the clatter of an engine approaching in the distance. He glanced to the end of the street. His eyes caught sight of Mr. Carlisle lying in the roadway. The doll was frayed and charred. It was resting not far from one of the duffel bags.

Steele’s eyes widened. Chloe was dashing for the doll. 

“Chloe, come back here,” Steele screamed. He glanced to Xavier to make sure he could support Delroy on his own.
 

Xavier nodded.

Steele lowered his goggles and drew the blade from behind his back. He charged down the street, slicing through a few lurkers. Their bodies crumpled and twitched. 

It all happened in a flash. Before Steele could get halfway down the street, the black Vantage 250 roared to the end of the block. The machine gunner in the truck bed opened fire on Steele. Rounds ripped through the air.
 

Steele dodged and took cover behind a parked car. He sheathed the sword and drew his 9mm. It was the only weapon he had. Metal and glass exploded as the .50 cal peppered the vehicle. But Steele couldn’t return fire—he’d have been cut in half. The barrage of bullets kept him pinned down.

A man dashed from the truck and snatched Chloe. He put a gun to her head and drug her back into the cab. She was kicking and screaming.
 

Tires spun, spitting gravel. The engine clamored and  the Vantage lurched forward. Steele chased after it, firing at the tires as it sped away. It squealed around a corner and vanished. The truck was gone as quick as it came. 

Steele screamed like a madman. He gritted his teeth and his veins throbbed. His face fell into his hands, crestfallen. 

Several lurkers staggered towards him. Steele ignored them for the moment. Too caught up in his own grief. He was responsible for Chloe. He promised her he’d keep her safe. It brought him back five years—back to the day Madison was taken.

A snarl ripped Steele out of his trance—an infected was pawing at him.
 

The blade of Steele’s sword slid against the leather scabbard as he unsheathed it. He whipped the sword around, slicing the lurker’s brain in half. The thing plunked down against the concrete, and bloody sludge oozed from its cranium. Steele slashed again and again, dropping the stiffs that surrounded him. But there were more coming. Lots more.

He scooped up Mr. Carlisle by his ear and barreled toward the tattered black duffel bag. He hefted it up, and the precious metal bars inside clanked together. He took a last glance around, then dashed back toward the wreckage. 

Parker was trying to hold off several lurkers. She emptied one 9mm magazine, then reloaded and kept firing. At the shredded fuselage, Steele dropped the bag and joined in the fray. His blade slashed and carved several infected, turning them into headless, quivering corpses. All while holding a mangy stuffed tiger.

“I’m sorry,” Parker said. “I turned around, and she was gone.”

Steele scowled at her. His disappointment was obvious.

Parker gathered several weapons and extra magazines from the wreckage. Xavier's men collected the other bags of titrillium. Then they led them through a maze of alleyways, to a basement underneath a storefront. 

The space was a small community of Xavier's family, friends, neighbors, and strays that they had taken in. They had been living there since the outbreak, and had managed to stockpile a good bit of supplies. The basement was dim and smelled like a gym locker room. Dozens of people living in close quarters with no running water. The air was thick and ripe. 

Xavier considered himself a bit of an amateur prepper. Long before the outbreak, he had begun the process of converting the basement underneath the store into a survival bunker. Xavier knew that the odds of survival in a disaster scenario went up if he had a well rounded team. He had recruited friends and family to help with the prep. Xavier and his men began scavenging and stockpiling anything that would enhance their long term survival. They had rigged solar panels on the rooftop and had a small amount of power. They had also hauled several tons of dirt and mulch up to the roof and built a small garden. A rooftop garden would be less dangerous to maintain, and less risk of theft. 

In the basement, they had built rows and rows of bunk beds. There was a storage area, a kitchen area, and a general living area. The shower consisted of a tarp, a plastic baby pool, a bucket, and a sponge.  

There was a rainwater catch on the roof that funneled down to fifty gallon plastic barrels. Fortunately, the average rainfall in this area of the country was rather high. The runoff water was mesh filtered to remove larger particulate matter. All kinds of things can be in rainwater—pollutants, microorganisms, birds shit. A major concern among a cramped community like this was the spread of disease. Microorganisms and bacteria present in rainwater could wreak havoc. The average  virus has a size of .05 microns. Xavier had set up a filtration system to purify the drinking water. A reverse osmosis system with a .0001 micron filter membrane.

The other main sanitary concern was human waste. Fortunately, the toilets in the storefront would flush if you filled the tank with rainwater.

It wasn’t the best place to ride out the apocalypse, but it had gotten them this far. Though it wasn’t likely to get them much further.

XAVIER AND ANOTHER man helped Delroy to a bed. He grimaced and groaned as they set him down—the shrapnel still in his leg.

Steele wasn’t a medic, but he’d seen plenty of battlefield injuries. “Hang tight, I’m going to get you fixed up.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me?”

Steele took his med-kit from his pack. With a pair of scissors, he cut away the fabric around Delroy’s wound. Then he disinfected the area.

“You got anything to numb me up?”

Steele injected a local anesthetic around the wound. Then he gave Delroy a couple of pain pills and an antibiotic.

The basic principles of wound care for punctures applies for shrapnel wounds. Though, these types of injuries are particularly wicked. The first rule is don’t remove the object right away. You’ll want too. Most likely the victim will want you too. They are usually screaming for someone to do it. But don’t grab the shrapnel—it’s likely to be blistering hot. Get them to a safe space and irrigate the wound.  

Let the shrapnel cool. Obviously, transporting them to an advanced medical center is the best option. But that’s not always possible. Shrapnel wounds aren’t likely to bleed very much and typically don’t need direct pressure. Irrigate the site, locate entry and exit wounds, and remove the object with forceps. And lots of antiseptic. These types of wounds are notorious for infection. It’s essential to thoroughly evacuate the wound of all debris before stitching things up. Always be sure to apply a regenerative bio-gel within the wound to speed recovery.

Steele did all of that with textbook precision. “There. Good as new. Anything else hurt?”

“What
doesn’t
hurt?” 

“Get some rest. This ride is a long way from over.”

“Thanks, Doc.” 

Steele stood up and wandered through the basement to find Xavier. He was playing cards with his girls, Abigail and Ava. Steele was waiting for him to finish, but Xavier paused his game.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Steele said.

“I’m sorry about your casualties,” said Xavier. “Was the girl someone special?”

“Isn’t every child special?” 

“Indeed,” Xavier said, glancing back to Abigail and Ava. “We have food, water, and shelter. You are welcome to stay here as long as you like. But here, we follow my rules. Is that understood?”

Steele nodded. “Thank you for your hospitality.” 

“We’ve tried to make life as normal as possible here. We have enough food to last another month, maybe six weeks. Then it gets a bit tricky. Living in the city, there’s not much opportunity to hunt for food. We have some agricultural grows on the roof, but it’s not sustainable. Cultivating in an open field is dangerous for many reasons. Not to mention the produce will likely be stolen by other refugees, or Raddick's men.”