The Infection

He adds to Steve, “Not that it matters. We could get on the eastbound highway and still go west. It ain’t like somebody’s going to write us a ticket for driving the wrong way, right?”

Except maybe Wendy, he thinks, suppressing a grin. He briefly wonders what she sees in him. Aside from the uniform and the values it represents, he does not consider himself to be anything special—a “big lug,” the kind of guy that beautiful girls like Wendy would consider a valuable friend, but not a lover. Most girls like that fall for the gunner with his square jaw and surfer build.

Steve says nothing, glued to his periscope.

“All right, Steve?”

“Not now, Sergeant,” the gunner says, his voice tight, gritting his teeth.

“What do you see? What’s going on out there?”

Steve turns away from the periscope with a wince, making Sarge’s heart skip a beat in sudden alarm. His face is taut. Droplets of sweat glisten on his forehead. His eyes are gleaming like those of an animal caught in a steel trap.

“See for yourself.”

“But…”

“There is nothing wrong with the equipment,” the gunner tells him.

“This interference…”

“What you are seeing is real.”

“Steve…”

“Look, Sergeant. Look again.”

Sarge concentrates on the images unfolding on the commander’s optical relay and gasps as the tumbling, seemingly random shapes begin to coalesce into monsters.

The Bradley hurtles down the road, punching cars out of the way or flattening them, surrounded by a ragged column of creatures joining the exodus out of the burning city. Little baboons hobbling on insect legs. Lumbering and tentacled behemoths. A leathery wall impossibly covered with screaming human faces. Giant balls of flesh, like ticks bloated with blood, strutting on spindly tripod legs. A thing with massive lobster claws where its hands should be. A half dozen other species. And of course, hundreds of Infected marching like refugees in their grimy and tattered T-shirts and uniforms and business suits and jeans and dresses. The murmuring of the Infected competes with the constant roar of the rig’s engine.

The fire appears to be flushing everything out of their hiding places tonight. The conflagration soars into the air behind them, flowing into the sky and coming back down in a constant rain of ash on this parade of monsters.

“What are these things?” Steve asks in a childlike voice. “What does this mean?”

♦

The survivors look at each other with gaping eyes in the dark, hot interior of the Bradley, gasping for air and scarcely able to believe they are still alive when so many thousands of people were either claimed by the Infected or burned alive in the fire. Every breath astounds them. Their bodies are slick with sweat and their old street clothes, already damp from washing earlier in the day, cling to their flesh. It is so hot it feels like they are being cooked in a microwave. They can barely move, almost buried in boxes and bulging plastic bags and gallon jugs. Cans and bottles roll around their feet, making a sudden clatter as the Bradley takes a sharp turn. Ethan is stuffed crumpled into a corner, breathing shallowly, ignored.

Anne is experiencing a deep sense of contentment to be back on the road. She finds familiar comfort in the drone of the engine and the smells of fear and body odor and burning diesel. They are safe here, for now, in the Bradley’s dark and sweltering metal stomach. She opens a bottle of water, takes a long pull, and passes it on. She welcomes the road. This is where she is meant to be.

Sitting across from her, Wendy covers a private smile with her hand.

Anne stares at her, wondering what could possibly be worth smiling about right now.

Wendy sees her watching and says, “Did you ever do something on crazy impulse and it turned out to be the best idea you ever had?”

“No,” Anne says, struggling to remember a time when that might have been true.

The cop frowns and turns away. Anne did not mean to offend her. Sometimes, she feels like she no longer knows how to be a real person and connect with other real people in a real way. Everything she thinks, feels or remembers ultimately winds up taking her to a dark place in her mind where people die over and over. She does not know how to tell Wendy that she lived most of her life obeying her impulses, and that they eventually got everybody she loved killed.

♦

“Ducky’s hurt,” Steve says. “He says he’s okay, but I think he’s hurt real bad.”

Sarge says nothing. He waits for the gunner to continue.