Or did he? He looked at the map. The humans were driving north… they would want an open, flat place with no tall buildings. Steve’s fingertip traced the roads.
There… Lincoln Park.
Just south of where he was now.
Considering the abandoned cars blocking the streets, it would take the fire engine about five minutes to reach that location.
Steve’s biker gang could be there in four.
ON THE ROAD
Clarence Otto was soaking wet.
Tim Feely had yet to master the water cannon. He’d mishandled it twice, the errant, full-force blasts almost knocking Clarence off the truck to land at the feet of the pursuing horde. The big vehicle smashed its way north. The road had narrowed. Not as many tall buildings here, far more three-, four-, and five-story constructs. Snow-covered bare trees lined the sidewalks. It couldn’t be far now… maybe four more long blocks to go.
Clarence returned fire as best he could. He had only three rounds left in his Glock. Subzero temperatures and wet clothes made his body shake so bad he could barely aim.
Margaret’s blood is in that water…
He felt she was with him again. Not the husk he’d killed in the store, but the Margaret of five years ago. His wife. His love. They were fighting this nightmare together.
Roth was down: a bullet had shattered his right collarbone. He lay there on the ruined hoses, his body tossed left and right by the endless collisions — no one had time to help him.
Klimas had Roth’s SCAR-FN rifle, was firing single shots to the right side.
Cooper Mitchell knelt on the hoses, taking careful aim to the left. He was laughing; he sounded just as insane as the crazies running after the fire truck.
“You want some?” he said, pulling the trigger. He looked at a new target. “Oh, you want some, too?”
Klimas had ordered Clarence to cover the rear. With the way Engine 98 swerved and slammed and smashed, anything beyond the ten-yard range was an impossible shot.
Constant obstacles kept the truck from outrunning the wave of pursuers. Bosh avoided what he could, but for the most part he just plowed through anything that was in the way.
The muscle-monsters were faster than the people, faster than the hatchlings. Four of them had pulled ahead of their fellow Converted and were only ten or fifteen feet behind the truck — if Bosh slowed down, even for a few seconds, yellow-skinned beasts would jump right into the back.
Clarence aimed carefully, trying to gauge the engine’s continuous impacts. He fired at the lead muscle-monster. It twisted a little to the right, blood visible on its chest, but it kept coming. Clarence aimed lower, fired again: the creature clutched its belly. It slowed, unable to keep up. Clarence aimed at the next one, fired — his slide locked back. He was out of ammo.
He turned to face forward. Little Tim Feely aimed the water cannon to the right, shooting a long, spreading spray at the hatchlings, people and muscle-monsters that poured out of buildings, desperate to get at the still-accelerating fire truck.
Klimas dropped, blood pouring from his knee. He reached both hands to grab it; his SCAR-FN tumbled over the side to clatter against the snow-covered street.
Roth had yet to get up.
Cooper fired his Sig Sauer — his slide locked back. His weapon was also out.
A hatchling scrambled over the right side and shot toward Klimas. The SEAL saw it coming, managed to get his hands up in time. Tentacles wrapped around arms: Clarence saw what lay on the bottom of those pyramid bodies — thick teeth made to tear off huge chunks of flesh.
Clarence reached to his belt. He gripped the handle of the knife he’d used to kill his wife. Klimas pushed the hatchling against the inside of the equipment box. Clarence drew the blade and drove it into the plasticine body. The hatchling let out a high-pitched squeal. Clarence lifted the knife and flicked the creature over the side.
Klimas’s knee was a bloody mess. He grimaced against the pain, but held out one bloody hand.
“Can I have my knife back?”
Clarence handed it over. He never wanted to touch the thing again.
He looked forward over the truck cabin’s roof. Another wave of bad guys rushed down the middle of the tree-lined street, coming head-on.
Bosh floored it.
Engine 98’s flat face hit people so hard the cabin rattled with each impact. Bodies flew in all directions. The truck wobbled and bounced as killers of all kinds fell under the wheels, spraying blood onto the snowy street and even up onto the sidewalks.
And then, there were no more attackers in front. Bosh had driven through, broken free. Clarence looked out the back.
Hundreds of them — no, thousands — filled the street, a rushing mob straight out of a zombie flick. The closest ones weren’t even fifteen feet away.
Tim was still aiming his spray off the right side. Clarence grabbed his shoulder. Tim yanked back on the cannon’s valve-handle. The spray of water quickly faded and died, dripping down onto the bed’s hoses. His face was a sheet of blood; a round had grazed his forehead.
Clarence pointed to the rear. “You wanted them concentrated.”
Tim looked. He’d been wide-eyed the entire time, terrified of everything, but now his fear vanished.
Tim Feely snarled.
“Come get some,” he said. He pointed the chromed cannon at the chasing horde and shoved the valve-handle all the way forward.
A concentrated blast shot out, hit a muscle-monster in the chest. Tim moved the stream side to side, knocking people down, kicking up a huge spray that soaked everyone around them.
And still the mob came on.
SLOW RIDE
Engine 98 slammed into something big, catching Tim unawares and smashing into the back of the pockmarked cabin. The blow stunned him. He blinked, tried to clear his vision. When he looked up, he saw Clarence manning the water cannon.
Clarence aimed high, creating a wide, spreading spray that rained down on the army of pursuers.
How many had been exposed? Five hundred? More?
Tim hurt so bad. Every bone, every muscle, if not from jarring impacts then from the endless shivering. His hands were so cold he couldn’t move his fingers, which were curled up as if they still gripped the water cannon’s handles.
Far behind, he saw some of the pursuers — soaking wet, chests heaving with big, deep breaths — giving up the chase. They would die within twenty-four hours, but not before, hopefully, exposing dozens of others.
We did it, Margo… we did it.
Tim looked around. Roth was moving again, struggling weakly to rise. Blood matted the right shoulder of his letterman’s jacket. Just to the left, on the other side of the cannon’s base, Klimas clutched at his bloody, ruined knee.
And in the middle of the bed, Cooper Mitchell, standing tall and flipping a double bird at the pursuers.
“How’s that taste, motherfuckers?” Cooper grabbed his crotch and shook it. “Lick it up! Lick it allllll up!”
Engine 98 lurched. A grinding noise joined the diesel’s gurgle. The truck started to slow.
Tim saw the street signs: State and Banks. They weren’t far from Lincoln Park now. Two long blocks and they’d be on the green grass.
He heard a noise up above. There, two spots far off in the sky… helicopters?