“A crash? Over.”
“A crash, sir. I think you should send Kirn and Wills out here. Over.”
“They’re moving up the road,” Jamie said, raising his gun and setting the butt of the rifle against his shoulder. “It sounds like tires.”
“Tires?”
“Yeah. Something moving. Fast.”
“Corporal Marks reports the sound of a moving vehicle,” Erik said. “Over.”
“Who the hell could be moving out there?” Sergeant Armstrong asked. “Over.”
“I don’t know, sir, but I think we should—”
A bus barreled around the corner and began heading straight toward them.
“REQUEST TO OPEN PERIMITER GATES TO LET CIVILIANS IN!” Erik screamed. “OVER!”
“YOU ARE NOT OPENING THOSE GATES!” Sergeant Armstrong screamed back. “UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCE!”
“THEY’RE GOING TO PLOW THROUGH THE FUCKING GATE IF WE DON’T LET THEM IN!” Jamie roared, swiping the remote from Erik before the sergeant could finish. “WE HAVE VISUALS OF A DOZEN INFECTED TRAILING BEHIND THEM—FRESH, RUNNING INFECTED. THEY ARE GOING TO PLOW INTO THE GATE IF WE DO NOT OPEN IT! I REPEAT, THEY ARE GOING TO PLOW INTO THE GATE! OVER!”
“Corporal, if you disobey my orders, I swear I’ll—”
Jamie pushed Erik aside, hurled his rifle over his shoulders and threw himself down the ladder as fast as he could.
The sergeant’s orders notwithstanding, they’d either open the gate and let the civilians in or they’d die. There was no question about it.
Running as fast as he could, dodging around hunks of loose metal and boxes of military supplies, Jamie pushed himself across the apartment building’s parking lot as fast as he could, desperate to outrun the barreling vehicle and open the gate. Behind him, Erik struggled to make his way down the ladder, but was hung up by his military fatigues in the process. With no time to wait, Jamie grabbed onto the gate, pulled apart the intermixing locks and chains, and hurled the gate to the side.
A moment later, the bus came barreling toward him.
He had just enough time to jump out of the way before the vehicle tore into the parking lot in a scream of rubber and metal.
CHAPTER 4
“Is everyone all right?” Steve gasped, looking back at them.
“I’m fine,” Ian breathed. “Dakota?”
Dakota nodded, reaching up to wipe a bead of blood off his face. He came back with the side of his wrist covered in red. “Yeah, I’m ok,” he managed, finally able to take a breath
“My name is Private Erik Roberts,” a voice outside the bus said. A lean man in military fatigues stepped forward and knocked on the side of the bus. “I request that you remain inside your vehicle until we have more personnel present for your own protection.”
“Our own protection?” Ian asked. “What the hell are they talking about?”
“They’re military,” Steve said. “It’s standard procedure.”
“How do you know?”
“I used to be a marine.”
“Used to be?”
“It’s a long story.”
Dakota closed his eyes. Outside, the soldier who introduced himself as Private Roberts began calling to someone, only to be silenced a moment later by a screaming voice that came out of the building in front of them.
“Sounds like they’re in trouble,” Ian said.
“They probably didn’t have clearance to let us in,” Steve suggested. “Oh well, we’re safe. That’s all that matters.”
The three men that came out of the building immediately stepped toward the bus. One man—presumably the commanding officer—gestured the other two to the front, while Private Roberts stood at the side, waiting for further instruction. The man Dakota had seen open the gate came forward and stood at Private Roberts’ side, lips pursed and face devoid of expression.
You saved our lives, Dakota thought.
The commanding officer stepped forward and gestured the door open. “You boys have made quite the ruckus here,” the man said, stepping onto the bus. “I’ll have you aware that you’ll be strip-searched once you leave the bus.”
“Yes sir,” Steve said, standing. He pressed a hand to his forehead and saluted the officer. “Lance Corporal Steve Earnest at your service, sir.”
“A marine. Are you still active-duty?”
“No, sir. Haven’t been for three years.”
“Reason?”
“Injured on the battlefield.”
“I thank you for your service, Lance Corporal Earnest, though I don’t necessarily appreciate your sudden entry.” The man trained his eyes on Dakota and Ian. “Your friends?”
“Dakota Travis,” Dakota said.
“Ian Shaw,” Ian added.
“We came from up north,” Steve said. “We spent two days fortifying the bus to get us here.”
“Regardless, you brought a good amount of infected here with you. That I don’t appreciate. However…” the man paused, “since there’s no way I can safely remove you from this facility, I’ll allow you to stay. Please step off the bus and do as Private Roberts tells you to.”
“Yes sir,” Steve nodded.
Dakota stepped forward, careful not to brush against the officer, and made his way off the bus. Once outside, the lanky Private Roberts waited for Ian to remove himself from the vehicle before he instructed them to remove anything from their pockets, then to step forward and remove their clothing.
This is embarrassing. Dakota was already reminded of high school gym class the moment Steve stripped off his shirt. The ugly scar on his left arm stood out in stark contrast against his evenly-tanned skin, confirming his discharge from the marines with its presence alone. The man who’d stood next to Private Roberts the moment before now examined Steve’s body for bites or other wounds. Once he deemed Steve appropriate, he waved Dakota forward.
“One down without taking your shirt off,” the man chuckled, reaching forward to brush Dakota’s hair aside. “Blunt wound, sir.”
“I hit my head on the dashboard,” Dakota replied.
The military man smiled. Dakota stripped his shirt over his head, undid his belt, then let his pants fall to the ground. He stepped out of his underwear with a humble humility he would have never had in a similar situation.
“You’re good,” the man said, pressing a hand against Dakota’s shoulder. “My name’s Corporal Jamie Marks.”
“Nice to meet you,” Dakota said, surprised at the gentle squeeze the man offered. “I’m done then?”
“You are.” Jamie wagged a finger at Ian. His eyes immediately fell to the tattoos on his left arm. “How old’s the ink?”
“Couple of years. I had it touched up three or four months ago.”
“Nothing recent?”
“Nope.” Ian stripped his shirt off. His massive, muscled frame was nearly completely covered with tattoos on his left side.
“Anything we should know about you?”
“Other than that I was in a gang up until recently?” Ian asked. “No. Nothing at all.”
“Your pants and underwear, sir.”
Ian obliged. A swirling tribal tattoo adorned the skin on his right calf, but otherwise he had no tattoos on his lower body. Corporal Marks quickly scanned Ian’s body, taking careful note of the bruises on his side, then looked up at the bandage on his arm. “What is this?” the corporal asked.
“Gunshot wound. I got grazed yesterday.”
“May I see?”
“I’m not stopping you.”
Private Roberts came forward. He took a first-aid kit handed to him by another man in fatigues and opened it up, sliding the rubber gloves over his fingers. He made short work of the bandaging on Ian’s arm, then confirmed it to be a gunshot wound a moment later. “Just a glancing hit, like he said. It looks like the bullet only took off the top layer of skin.”