First chance I’ve had time to write since it all hit the fan. Dave and the new guy are asleep and there’s nothing to do but replay what happened in my head, over and over. Maybe writing it out will help me sleep. Don’t want the Ambien I’ve got too much of- makes my head cottony. Lethal debilitation, that is.
The plan was solid. We waited until dark, sitting in the shadow of overgrown hedges, trying to get a bead on any possible moaners or crawlers in the no man’s land between the neighborhood and the picket. Field was clear; Military was keeping their clear zone cleaned of moaners.
We crept out, slow. Saw spotlights mounted up, but they didn’t switch on at dusk. Dave thinks they were infrared, which means we wouldn’t have seen them anyways. He’s probably right, because they started rotating in the darkness. The sliver of moonlight would reflect off their glass plates every few turns.
Still, Dave guaranteed me that we'd be good. “Don’t be a little child about it,” he told me. “IR goggles won’t see at this distance.”
So we crawled, slow as snails, into the field.
It was actually working. We’d crawl five or ten feet, side by side, then Dave would twist the volume dial just enough to see if we got a signal. When we inevitably didn’t, we’d inch forward, and try again. Slow and stealthy.
We were about thirty feet from the trees when the sirens started. And oh, they blared. Think they were air raid type sirens. Loud, and getting louder. Then they popped red flares into the sky. Bright as little suns, lighting our field like midday on mars.
Not too proud to admit it, I’d have peed myself if I had anything in the tank when those lights burned on. Dave would’ve screamed if he didn’t have to whisper: “Shut up, and DON’T MOVE.”
I thought he was just nuts again, what with them obviously having seen us. The lights, the sound, all of it must be for us, I thought.
Can’t think of many time’s I’ve been more happy to be dead wrong.
Soldiers screamed and pointed, and what do you know, a dirtbike rockets out from the hillside, towards us. Somebody got on a bullhorn and screamed that ‘Knox County is a restricted zone, under martial law through’ blah blah blah. The legalese didn’t matter to me; After all, I was already stuck inside.
Must not have phased the biker, either. He would’ve kept rocketing toward the city had it not been for a well aimed shot to the back tire. Rear wheel disintegrated, and he lost his seat from under him. The rider fish tailed twice before separating from the bike. Only thing that saved his life, too.
The bike kept rolling, momentum bringing it to the very edge of the neighborhood, and the emerging goners. Like a drunk in a marathon, the lead goner stumbled to the bike, hoping for it’s first hot, screaming meal in weeks. More followed.
There hadn’t been many dead in that area, but every one came calling when the army started the ruckus. Twelve exited the woods, heading toward the carnival our field was becoming.
As the military got distracted by what the megaphone squawked were ‘India Eights’ on ‘Perimeter North’, the old man and I made our exit, all plans of stealth radio forgotten. I was up and running, more adrenaline than blood running through my veins. Turned to make sure that the gunmen weren’t targeting me and saw Dave had stopped entirely. He’d picked up a new pet. The rider had come to a stop some eight feet away from us. Dave helped him up and ran into the trees.
Of all things, did we really need extra weight on a night escape? With lead zipping by and every goner within earshot heading toward us?
Decision was out of my hands. The old man just can’t leave a man behind, even if it gets us killed.
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