The Living Page 4

  In the gloom, shouts and orders barked. There would be eight of them inside right now, another eight on the perimeter. The others, those not on duty, would respond to the klaxon alarm sounding. Her body buzzed with fear, but her training would see her through. Once a month, they walked through a simulated attack on the warehouse, using paintball guns. They ran every permutation they could think of - a single attacker, a pair, a dozen. Everyone had a job, everyone had a position to hold. The drills were useful, if only to remind them of the danger surrounding them.

  Outside, small-arms fire peppered the complex. Over that, she could hear the booming staccato of their .50-cals, raking the barren grasslands any would-be attackers would have to traverse. The complex was well fortified, difficult to approach. They were well armed, well stocked. She told herself these things so she wouldn’t wet herself. Fear wrapped its hands around the deepest part of her soul, her innermost thoughts, choking them with dread.

  Another boom shook the warehouse, knocking Rachel off her axis. Adam grabbed her waist and pulled her to the ground; her knees banged hard against the floor, sending shock waves of pain reverberating through her legs. To the west, a terrific rumble and clatter as part of the roof caved in. Bits of concrete and sheetrock rained down on the warehouse floor.

  “RPGs,” he said. “Missiles.” His voice was calm and steady. She hoped his steely resolve bubbled from a deep reservoir of strength; she worried it came from somewhere else entirely. That he was resigned to their fate, that sooner or later it would all go bad, so there was no point in worrying about it.

  They climbed back to their feet and sprinted the last fifty feet to the exit doors. Rachel got there first, panting, sweating yet cold at the same time. Her hair fell into her eyes; she took a second to tie it off into a ponytail with a hairband she found in her pocket. Stupid hairband might save her life.

  “Ready?” she asked her father.

  He nodded.

  A large shipping container sat nestled in the tall weeds about twenty yards from the door; it would give them some cover as they approached the maelstrom. Still, she was cautious as she pressed the door’s release bar, opening it slowly, an inch at a time, staying low. She wriggled her way through the narrowest of openings and made a beeline for cover. It took no more than ten seconds, but it felt like an eternity, like she would never get there, like she would be cut to ribbons right there, and she would die without having done a thing to protect their home, to protect Will.

  She made it unscathed, gasping, her back pressed against the container’s cold metal skin. Adam scooted in behind her and took up a position at the other end of the container. Crouching low, she risked a peek around the side, looking toward the perimeter fence. The staccato susurration of gunfire was inside her head, inside her skin.

  The land here sloped downward slightly, just enough to give them a tactical advantage over any assailants. Through the M4’s scope, Rachel saw a flurry of activity in the distance, about a quarter mile off. Clouds of dust swirling into the morning sky. A lot of activity. The biggest attack they’d faced in years. This day had always been coming, no doubt about that. Did it matter whether it was today or six months or a year from now?

  “See anything?” she asked her father.

  “Here,” he said, tossing the field glasses toward her.

  A scan of the scene turned her stomach to liquid. A dozen vehicles, Hummers and pickups mostly, skittering across the barren landscape. Where were they getting the fuel for such an assault? The gasoline and diesel pooled under the nation’s countless gas stations had long since gone stale. Some enterprising survivors had fashioned a biofuel that was not nearly as efficient as standard gasoline, but it worked, and it was more valuable than virtually anything on the market. That told Rachel this was a very serious threat.

  “It’s a big one,” she said.

  “Let’s not panic,” he said. “They want the warehouse intact. They have to be careful with how strong a move they make.”

  Always clinical, always thinking, her old man. She’d been like that once, back before Will. Motherhood had injected an X factor into the equation, the variable you could always predict and never predict at the same time. Now she raced to the worst-case scenario, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200. They were outnumbered, outgunned, they would all be marched out into the plains and executed one at a time. They would burn the warehouse to the ground. They would roast Will on a spit and eat him for dinner because meat was hard to come by these days. An itch to sprint for the trailer and run for the hills with her son crawled up her back like a bug.

  She looked east and west, the land clear to each horizon. The vanguard appeared to be concentrating its forces to the north. This had its pros and cons. They needed to check their rear, make sure they weren’t trying to run a bait and switch, a smaller contingent sneaking up their ass. A frontal assault could mean the attackers didn’t know what they were doing tactically. And it would be easier to defend. Just hold them off. Eventually, they could wear them out.

  Her ears perked up at a new sound in the distance. A grinding groan. She peered around the corner of the container again, staying low. The advance team had stopped firing; in fact, they had retreated a little. But the groan grew louder. She scanned the horizon beyond the trucks and picked up a cloud of dust on the horizon.

  She spun the small focus wheel, bringing the cloud into sharp relief. It looked more and more like a living, breathing thing as it drew closer. Her skin tightened and gooseflesh popped up along her arms. A tempest, a dark menacing thing here to swallow them whole. Then the grinding stopped, and the cloud dissipated, revealing the threat in all its steel horror.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, lowering the binoculars from her face.

  “What do you see?”

  “It’s a tank.”

  #

  One at a time, the others retreated, joining them behind the relative safety of the container. Out on the plains, the attackers remained still and silent, perhaps reveling in this sudden shift in the balance of power. The tank was about two hundred yards away.

  “We need the other .50-cals,” Adam said. “And the RPGs, where are the goddamn RPGs?”

  “Over there,” a voice called out.

  Rachel glanced to her left and saw two men kneeling near the fence, the missile launchers propped up against their legs. They looked so pathetic, like oversized dart guns.

  “Dad, it’s over,” Rachel said. “We have no chance against that thing.”

  “The tank is a bluff,” Harry said. “They can’t use it if they want to take the warehouse.”

  “He’s right, honey,” Adam said, and immediately her jaw clenched with annoyance.

  Harry dispatched three teams to retrieve their heaviest weapons, her warnings falling on deaf ears. They would make their stand here whether she liked it or not.

  “Listen to me,” Rachel snapped. “That tank will cut through us like we’re not even here. It’s not worth it.”

  “Not now, sweetie,” Harry replied.

  Her body bristled with rage. They were talking to her like she didn’t have a brain. Like she was a child. Talking down to her, in that way men talked to women when they didn’t want their input. Because she wasn’t a man, she couldn’t assess the situation and see they were one hundred percent screwed? One thing the apocalypse hadn’t changed, blatant sexism for sure.

  “We’ll set them up behind the sandbags,” Adam said.

  “Let’s stack them higher,” Harry replied. “Build a blind for each gun.”

  “Good idea,” Adam said. “Ready?”

  She watched them discuss it like they were out duck hunting. It was madness, pure madness. Their guns, their precious rocket launchers would be worthless against the tank. If they wanted to go down this rabbit hole, they could do it without her.

  “This is suicide,” Rachel said. “I’m going to get Will.”

  “The hell you are,” Harry said in a low but firm voice.

  She
turned back toward him and found his pistol in her face.

  “No deserters today,” Harry said.

  “Put that thing down,” Adam said.

  “Shut the hell up, Fisher. You know the rules.”

  Adam looked at his daughter.

  “He’ll be fine,” Adam said.

  She stared down the barrel of Harry’s gun, wondering if he would do it. And then she saw Erin’s face there, floating in the black O of the muzzle, and she could hear the thousand conversations she’d never heard, poison in Harry’s ear about how terrible a mother Rachel was, and how she could do a better job raising that boy. She squeezed the barrel of her M4, its muzzle pointed toward the ground. She’d never get it up in time and there was no doubt he would shoot her, cut her down where she stood. She glanced around at the others; no one made eye contact.

  “Put it away,” she said finally, her shoulders sagging. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I won’t hesitate,” Harry said.

  “Enough,” Adam said. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Rachel steeled herself and ran on Harry’s signal, not really giving it any thought, following orders now. They would die today, she was sure of it, and maybe it wouldn’t have mattered whether she stayed here or went after Will. As she sprinted for the perimeter fence, she waited for that sound, the throaty boom signifying another launch of the tank’s hellish spawn that would bring this all to an end.

  “There, there, and there,” Harry said, pointing, directing traffic.

  They shifted sandbags, passing them from one set of hands to another, as they modified the wall to accommodate the guns. As they worked, the first two teams returned, straining under the weight of the guns.

  A burst of static interrupted the discussion.

  “Good morning,” a woman’s voice said, her voice booming across the flatlands. “My name is Nora. We want the boy.”

  Rachel’s stomach flipped. She took to the binoculars again. Poking out of the tank’s hatch was a middle-aged woman, probably in her mid-forties, holding up a megaphone. She had a lean build, and her hair was cropped close, sprinkled with a little gray. A pair of tortoise-shell glasses framed her narrow face, making her look more like an accountant than a post-apocalyptic bandit.

  They wanted Will.

  They knew about Will.

  But how? And what did this woman want with him?

  “What boy?”

  “The child,” she said. “The one born after the plague.”

  “There are no children here.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Hey, how about you kiss my ass,” Harry called out, his deep, booming voice holding its own against Nora’s, even without a megaphone.

  “You have three minutes to surrender,” Nora said, ignoring him. “If you give him up, walk away, no one has to get hurt. If you don’t, we will kill every last one of you.”

  She said it matter-of-factly, without a trace of emotion, as though it were a speech she had given a dozen times before. Perhaps she had. As she spoke, her confederates took up positions around her, using their trucks as cover.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me,” Harry shouted. “I believe I said, ‘kiss my ass.’”

  Three minutes. Time enough to make a break for it, save her son, get the hell out of here. Take her chances. Another minute or two, Harry wouldn’t have time to deal with her desertion. She could feel that ancient maternal pull drawing her toward her son.

  “We’re not surrendering,” Adam said.

  “Amen to that,” Harry added.

  She exhaled a sigh of relief. At least they weren’t so far gone they’d sacrifice one of their own.

  The six guns arrived, and they began setting them up outside the perimeter, three across. They adjusted the sandbag walls, leaving gaps through which they could open fire. As she watched them position the guns, a profound understanding washed over her. There could be no surrender. This warehouse was everything to them, even with its dwindling food supply. It had sustained them for nearly a decade, with its mushy vegetables and bland beans and energy drinks, its paper plates and toilet paper. They would die to defend it because without it, they were as good as dead anyway. Where would they even go, she and Will, if Harry had let her go?

  The seconds ticked away, her mind filling the empty moments with flashes of the past, the years they’d spent here, from the brutal battle to take it through all the work to protect the warehouse. The long hours walking the perimeter, the sandbags, the razor wire, the weapons training. The total abandonment of any other pursuit in this post-Medusa world. Maybe that had been a mistake, looking back, but again, it was hard to second-guess defending the warehouse above all else.

  “One minute,” called out Nora.

  “You. My ass,” replied Harry.

  They would be in the tunnels by now. She wondered if she would see him again. Probably not. Dammit, Eddie, you’ve got to step up and take care of him now. You don’t have to be the goddamn father of the year. Just be there more than not.

  “Time’s up,” Nora said.

  The tank roared back to life, hitching once and belching a plume of bluish exhaust from its innards before beginning its slow roll. Then the M256 120mm gun fired once, sending its sabot round screaming across the empty plains. A second later, the projectile slammed into the north wall of the building, which exploded in a cloud of dust and smoke and rubble. Three pickups followed in the tank’s wake, using the steel beast for cover. Each was equipped with a machine gun mounted in its bed, the gunners at work.

  “Kill the trucks,” Harry barked, the panic in his voice evident. “Kill them now. Then we focus on the tank.”

  “No,” Adam interrupted. “If we don’t kill the tank now, the trucks won’t matter. Concentrate all your fire on the tank.”

  The whistle of a rocket-propelled grenade filled the air. It hit the face of the tank and exploded, but the tank burst through the resulting curtain of smoke and kept rolling. Another RPG let loose, this one missing the tank but obliterating one of the pickups. Joe, Rob, and Hung were at the guns, trading uncertain looks as the ammunition boxes ran dangerously low.

  “That’s an order!” Harry yelled. “Fire!”

  The air swelled with the clipped sound of the guns unleashing their ordnance. But the third gun, manned by Joe, remained silent. He looked to Adam and then to Harry and then back again.

  “What do I do, what do I do?”

  Rachel shoved Joe aside and took control of the gun.

  “Ready?” she yelled over the din.

  Hung nodded, threading a belt of ammunition into the heavy gun. As she waited, she sighted their targets, focusing on the front windshield of the tank.

  “Now!”

  She pulled the trigger, eyeing her target through the rifle’s scope. She’d never fired the .50-cal before; the powerful recoil ripped through her like an earthquake. Her teeth tingled, her bones vibrated, her eardrums trembled as the gun chewed through its ammunition belt.

  She tensed every muscle of her body as she readied to fire the fully automatic gun again. On either side of her, the guns blazed away, the rounds ticking away like a meth-fueled metronome. The bigger men were having a bit of an easier time with the M2’s recoil. But still the tank came, mercilessly chewing up the distance between them, the guns having had no effect.

  “Aim for the treads,” Adam called out.

  She re-sighted the weapon and fired again, over and over until she couldn’t feel it anymore, until her muscles burned, until her fingers were numb. Sweat flowed down her forehead, stinging her eyes, but there was nothing she could do about it. The gun required every ounce of strength, every little bit of fight in her.

  But still the tank came.

  The surviving pickups had spread wide, leaving behind the cover of the tank. Their flanks were terribly exposed now. Behind her, a flurry of activity, orders shouted, chess pieces moved into position.

  One truck moved in close, no more than twenty yards from the
fence, turning at a ninety-degree angle before coming to a stop. Harry and Adam emerged from the cover of the shipping container, laying down cover for the big gunners. But the pickup had come in close, too close for comfort. A burst from the pickup’s gun caught Joe in the legs, dropping him to the ground. Screams of agony filled the air as blood pooled underneath him.

  They were at a tipping point now, Rachel could sense it. A charge in the air, everything going sideways all at once. She pushed Joe’s cries out of her head and zeroed in on the tank, which was now no more than fifty yards away. Another few shots. The satisfying twang of several rounds hitting the chassis of the tank, for all the good it did. She might as well have been shooting it with a water gun.

  The tank fired again, a bloom of flame erupting from its huge muzzle, and its round opened another gaping wound in the building’s façade. They had to fall back. Staying here was suicide.

  “Fall back!” she called out. “Fall back!”

  She tried taking the gun with her, but the weapon was too much for her wasted arms, rendered into jelly. Leaving the gun behind her, she risked a peek over her shoulder as they scampered toward the building. The tank rolled through the outer perimeter like it was tissue paper, turning sandbags into dust, the metal fencing folding in over itself. Then it rolled over Joe, still lying there; she looked away before the inevitable horror that followed.

  Like ants fleeing an angry boot, the group of about twenty streamed back through the door. Inside, the group scattered, taking up defensive positions behind shelving deep in the building. Pulses of fear ripped through her. Her breath came in ragged, labored gasps. Breathing had become a chore, how had she ever breathed without reminding herself to do it every two seconds?