The Infection

The men launch themselves to their feet as she stands painfully, visibly trembling, touching the back of her head and wincing. She shrugs off their hands and walks to where they were sitting, taking a place next to Sarge and accepting a drink of water in a plastic cup.

“Well, then I’m going, too,” Ray says.

“The hell you are,” Sarge growls. “You’re not one of us.”

“But she’s one of us. If she goes, I’m going. It’s that simple. I made a promise.”

“Yeah?” Sarge glares at him. “To who?”

“To a lot of fucking dead people,” Ray snaps back.

“Ray is coming with us,” Wendy rasps.

Sarge scowls but says nothing.

“Are you all sure about this?” he says.

“Yes,” the survivors murmur, looking down at their bowls.

“What about you, Wendy?”

“You were right,” Wendy says. “It’s not safe here for us.”

“Can you do it?”

“You’re not going without me.”

“All right,” he says.

The room falls silent as they consider their reasons for wanting to go.

“I hate it here,” Todd says finally.

Ethan says, “I actually love it. But I have to get to Harrisburg.”

“We’ll get you as far as we can, Ethan,” Sarge tells him.

“It will be good to get out of here for a few days,” Paul says. “Maybe I’ll go all the way to Harrisburg with you. This place is unclean. God doesn’t live here.”

“Where exactly does he live, Preacher?” Ray asks quietly.

“Where? Out there, friend. With them. They are his agents.”

“Get your sleep tonight,” Sarge tells them. “We’re training tomorrow. The morning after that, we’re going to drive out there and blow a hole in that bridge.”

He adds, “I hope this is what you want.”

FLASHBACK: REVEREND PAUL MELVIN

He remembers seeing the half-eaten remains of the children defiling the altar of his church, blood running down its sides like the afterbirth of some grisly sacrifice to a pagan god. He remembers his shoes squishing on the wet carpet, stepping over the bodies of his congregation surrounded by clouds of buzzing flies. He remembers the mob marching out of the haze singing and waving their Bibles and banners and weapons. He remembers how they hung the Infected on a traffic light at the intersection of Merrimac and Steel, how they demanded that he bless them, how he told them their war was just. He remembers the screams, the popping guns, the newly Infected lying twitching on the ground, the final shouting as the last of the mob made a stand and were overrun in the smoke. He remembers telling them not to be afraid as they died.

He remembers walking home through the smoke while the screams rose up from the city all around him. He remembers walking home intent on letting Sara infect him so that they could be rejoined. He remembers finding his house on fire.

Like Job, Paul lost everything he loved.

As with Job, God allowed it.

THE BRIDGE

When the survivors left Pennsylvania, they crossed a sliver of West Virginia, a piece of ground stabbing north like a spike, before finally entering Ohio. The Veterans Memorial Bridge connects Steubenville, Ohio and Weirton, West Virginia—six lanes of modern superhighway carrying U.S. Route 22 across the Ohio River. Nearly twenty football fields in length, the cable-stayed bridge consists of steel girders and beams supporting a composite concrete road deck, the entire structure suspended by cables fanning out from the two support towers, a common design for long bridges.

Before Infection, thirty thousand people crossed this bridge every day. Now it is a funnel for more than a hundred thousand Infected moving west away from the still-burning ruins of Pittsburgh.

♦

The Bradley roars east on Route 22, leading a convoy of vehicles including several flatbed trucks stacked with explosives, armored cars and four school buses packed with soldiers and fitted with V-shaped snowplows on their grilles.

The rig slams into an abandoned minivan and sends it spinning onto the shoulder of the highway without breaking its stride. The crash makes Wendy flinch.

“We’re going to practice a rapid scan,” Sarge says.

Wendy blows air out of her cheeks and nods. She moves her left hand to wipe sweat from her forehead and bangs her elbow again.

“Mother,” she hisses. Sitting in the commander’s seat directly adjacent to Sarge in the gunner’s station, her body is almost surrounded by hard metal edges. Not much room to do anything except work the joystick that controls the turret and weapons systems.

She peers into the integrated sight unit, which provides a relay of what Sarge sees, overlaid with a reticle to help aim the Bradley’s guns. The highway slices through the rolling hills to the horizon, flanked with green. Smoke is still pouring out of Pittsburgh, darkening the eastern sky. The horizon shimmers and pulses with heat waves.

“Hey,” Sarge says. “You’re sightseeing.”

“It’s hard to take my eyes off the road.”