When morning broke, the two had set out at once. It had taken a while before Brandon was able to free himself of the knot that had formed in his back.
Whenever they caught the distinct sound of a helicopter approaching, their hearts began to race. Although he would never admit it, Gregory was normally the first to react. His eyes would scan the skies and he would run a few steps toward the nearest tree line or building. Only once he saw that Brandon wasn’t following would he stop and look guilty. The truth was, Brandon wasn’t playing the tough guy, he simply couldn’t see where the chopper was and, more importantly, who it belonged to. Part of him would have loved to see an Apache streak by as it raced to give the enemy some payback.
Payback or not, the carnage he’d witnessed at the train was still fresh in his mind. As the morning wore on, more and more survivors from the attack joined the trek toward Dyersburg, many walking in small scattered groups and all of them looking like something from one of those old-fashioned zombie movies.
A sign up ahead welcomed them to Dyersburg, but what kind of a welcome would they find when they arrived? Would they all be branded as cowards for having run for their lives? What was considered brave when the people around you were being hit with 23mm rounds from a Chinese attack helicopter, their bodies literally exploding before you? It was the Z-10 helicopter. Brandon remembered the sleek design and tail wheel from a video game he used to play.
During the attack, he’d wanted so badly to stop and help whoever he could. But that chopper, circling overhead, spitting out death all around them had made that impossible. The event had offered them their first truth about war. Sometimes you didn’t have a choice other than to save your own skin.
A few random buildings dotted Highway 51 which presumably ran through Dyersburg. Of course, none of them knew where they were headed. The plan had been for the train to pull into the station where a sergeant would assign them to units. But in less than five minutes that plan had been shot to ribbons.
“I’m so thirsty,” Gregory said, dragging his feet.
The sweatshirt and jeans he was wearing were caked in dirt and singed in places. So too was the t-shirt Brandon was wearing. In the mayhem, they’d even been forced to abandon their backpacks along with the filtered water and snacks they’d brought for the trip.
To their left were what appeared to be storage sheds, the kind you paid money for every month in order to keep all the stuff you could no longer cram into your garage. Past that a ways was a white pillared building with a sign out front that read “Dyersburg Funeral Home” and etched underneath “Respect, Compassion, Dignity”.
Brandon pointed in that direction. “Maybe we can find something to drink in there.”
Gregory didn’t look so certain. “I’m not sure. It looks closed.”
“Of course it’s closed. Everything is closed now. I went to a funeral in Knoxville when Grampa Appleby passed and I seem to remember a vending machine or two. Worst case, we can drain what’s left in the water heater.”
Gregory was focused on the road ahead, as though wishing for a better option. In the distance, only the outline of small buildings was visible. But more importantly, the stretch that lay immediately in front of them was a long and empty one. The sun was climbing higher in the sky every minute, cooking their exposed flesh and increasing their already overwhelming thirst.
When it was clear that Gregory wasn’t interested in checking the funeral home for something to drink, Brandon began heading there himself.
“Hey, where you going?”
“I already told you. You keep going if you want.” But Brandon knew exactly what Gregory would do. A moment later, the boy appeared by his side, huffing and out of breath. There was no way he was gonna set off on his own.
“We may get in trouble for trespassing. Maybe we could ask someone coming up behind us for a drink?”
Brandon stopped and glanced over his shoulder at the people coming this way and spotted a group of three. Two men and a woman who was stouter than both of them. Walking slow and looking dispirited, none of them were carrying any bags, backpacks or otherwise.
“I think we’re all in the same boat, Gregory. In fact, you just gave me an idea.”
“I did?” Gregory’s face lit up.
“Yeah, maybe if we can find some buckets inside, we can fill ’em from the water heater and leave them by the side of the road for the other people coming up behind us.”
“But won’t the water be bad after sitting there all this time?”
“Probably,” Brandon answered, “that’s why we’re going to throw in a few droplets of bleach. What funeral home doesn’t have bleach?”
Gregory let out a nervous laugh. Brandon could tell the kid was worried about zombies or some other form of monster he’d seen in Hollywood movies. But computer-generated bogeymen didn’t frighten Brandon because the horrors of real life were so much scarier.
Chapter 23
Shouting pulled John from the dream. All at once, thoughts of Nasiriyah and his old JTAC Lewis were swept away like a fine mist before sunrise. The analogy was apt because early morning light bled into his bedroom from outside, informing him that it was dawn.
Another sound entered his awareness: a quick repetitive thudding of rotor blades. A helicopter was approaching Oneida and the single question coursing through John’s tired mind as he threw his clothes on and grabbed his AR was whether it was friend or foe.
Diane sat up in bed with a start. “What is it?” she asked, rubbing her eyes and craning her head to listen.
A manhole out near the back door of the mayor’s office led to the storm drain, a location they’d decided to use as the town’s air-raid shelter should the need arise. “Get Emma and take her underground.”
Diane blinked and then threw the covers off.
Charging through the front door, John saw heads peering out from windows and doorways. Everyone had the same question on the tips of their tongues.
Although he hadn’t acquired a visual, John knew what an Apache gunship sounded like and this wasn’t it. Whatever was flying around the airspace above Oneida had a blade rotation that sounded much faster than the Apache.
Down the street, John caught sight of Moss, who waved him over before disappearing into an alleyway. Darting across the open space and then hugging the walls of the nearest building, John made his way over. When he arrived, John discovered a pickup parked in the alley, the one Moss had mounted with that .50 cal machine gun. Standing on the truck bed clutching the dual grips was Moss, smiling down at John like a giddy schoolkid.
“I got spotters climbing the cell tower on the edge of town,” he said, “to get a better look at this thing. One of them’s a pilot and aircraft nut who used to fly the bushwhack trails up in Alaska. If the bird’s ours, he’ll know it.” One of Moss’ men sat in the driver’s seat, waiting for orders to move out.
“You’ve been watching too many movies,” John said, concerned firing on the chopper might only get Moss killed. “Where’s the Stinger?”