A few seconds later, the young woman stood at the screen. “What?”
“Go to the back of the house, look through the windows, and find that first truck. Can you do that?”
“Sure.”
“Jenny, wait.”
“What?”
“You ever shot before?”
“I grew up with a survivalist.” Her voice remained even, as though he’d just asked her if she knew how to whistle.
Sean smiled, knowing then that Jenny would be an asset to the group. “Grab a rifle and bring it with you.”
“Three men on the ground,” Addison yelled out. “Got out of the middle truck. Now it’s driving through the field across from us.”
“What about the men?”
“Shit, they’re climbing the hill.”
Sean swept the field with the scope. The men from the woods had continued their advance. Their bodies were out of sight, but the tall grass bent in their wake.
He had four rifles and several boxes of 5.56mm cartridges. Hard to tell if he had enough to waste on a few warning shots. At some point, the ammunition would be a commodity. The men knew someone was at the house. A fight seemed inevitable if they remained. A couple of rounds in the air might initiate a retreat.
Jenny ran through the house toward the screen door. “Two men got out of the truck. It drove another half-minute, then two more guys got out and headed for the woods behind us.”
“They’re surrounding us.” He ran his left hand through his hair. It came away feeling slick with sweat and grease. “Okay, you said you can shoot, right?”
Jenny nodded.
The hill was steeper on the other side of the house. It would take those men longer to make it to the top.
“I want you to go join Addison. Open up the front windows and take out the guys coming up the hill. Wait until you hear my first shot, though. Once those guys are down, she stays put, and you go back to the bedroom and take out the men you saw get out of the truck.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about me. You two work as a team, stay in communication. There’s only so many of them, and they’re dumb enough to be out in open with nowhere to retreat.”
“You sure they’re here to hurt us?”
“Jenny, listen to me,” Sean said. “If they were a welcoming wagon, they’d have come up the driveway. These guys are boxing us in. But they’re doing it all wrong. A couple go down, you can be sure the rest are gonna run.”
She glanced down at the rifle. “Okay.”
“Jenny, what have you killed before?”
Her cheeks colored and it seemed as though she had to force herself to maintain eye contact. “A deer. Once. Lots of target practice.”
“Excellent.” Sean lied. “Targets downrange. That’s all they are. Take a deep breath, steady yourself, pull the trigger. Then repeat until all the targets are on the ground.”
Jenny turned and a few seconds later Sean heard her pass the instructions on to Addison.
A moment later, Emma was behind Sean. “What’s going on?”
“Some bad men are here to hurt us.” No point lying to her. Once the gunshots erupted, she’d figure it out. “Go get Barbara and bring her into the bathroom. Both of you lay down in the tub. I mean it, all the way down. It’ll protect you.”
“What if she won’t go? Dad, she’s been out of it since we got here.”
Sean considered this. “In a few moments, I’m going to open fire. If she isn’t up when you hear the first shot, then go alone. We’ll protect her best we can.”
Then without a goodbye or I love you, Emma was gone. Sean hoped it wouldn’t be the last time he saw her.
He paused for thirty seconds, allowing everyone time to get where they needed to go, and to prepare themselves for the fight ahead. He’d explained it so simply to Jenny. Fact was, he knew nothing about these men. Odds were at least one had some military training. All it took was one. The former soldier could have passed on a few techniques. It looked like this wasn’t the first time they’d done this. As bullish as their tactics were, they’d work against unarmed and untrained people.
Rolling up the way they did, in plain sight, diesels rumbling, told Sean that they didn’t count on him being there.
He scanned the field and located one of the crawlers. Through the scope he saw a patch of blue. It moved into full view.
A hat.
Sean slowed his breath, and in turn his pulse. He counted three beats, exhaled, then fired. Crows evacuated the woods. Their squawks filled the air after the echoes of the shot faded.
In the field, next to the man Sean had just killed, another rose to his knees, swiveling at the waist with his rifle held to his shoulder.
Sean swung the barrel two inches, aimed for center mass and pulled the trigger. A crimson bloom erupted where the man’s heart used to sit intact. He fell to the side as two other men rose from the grass and began running toward the tree line.
Where’d the fourth come from?
In the time Sean sighted the first runner, two more shots were fired, and not from his weapon. He flinched in response. He ascertained they had come from within the house.
“Got him!” one of the women screamed.
Sean’s next shot missed its mark. The two men were halfway between the fallen bodies of their comrades, and the woods. He might only have one more shot before they slipped from view. It had to count. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and returned the rifle stock to his shoulder. He adjusted to the scope. Aimed at the broad back of one of the men. Pulled the trigger. The shot melted with several others that took place around the same time.
From elsewhere, the group returned fire.
Sean’s target dropped where he had stood. The other guy stumbled as he looked back while continuing to sprint for the woods. Sean started to line up his shot when the fascia board above him exploded into hundreds of splinters.
He looked left, toward the woods behind the house. Two men were snaking through the final wave of trees. Sean forgot about the remaining runner and instead turned and fired three rounds. He hadn’t counted on hitting one of the men, but judging by the scream he heard, he had. The figures continued their approach, so it hadn’t been a serious wound.
The men fired several shots, smashing windows and hitting the house with thudding sounds.
Sean burst through the screen door, snapping it off one of its hinges. Jenny, who had been walking away from Addison and the front windows, stopped and stared down at him.
“Two out back,” he said.
Without hesitation, she rushed past him.
“No,” he said. “Go to the back, like we planned. I got this.”
She stutter-stepped, then followed his instructions and made her way to the hallway.
Sean looked for Addison and was taken aback at the sight of Barbara on the couch with her hands wrapped around the side of her head. She was crying. Marley was barking. He ignored both and said, “How many did you guys take out?”
“All three coming up the hill.” Addison’s eyes were wide with adrenaline. She brushed back her dyed red hair, looking at Sean like she wanted his next command to be for her to spill more blood. He’d turned the woman into a rabid killer in a matter of minutes.
A series of shots were fired from the back room. Three, four, five in rapid succession. Another two shots followed.
“Watch the back door,” Sean said, rushing toward the hallway.
Jenny knelt on the floor, rifle resting on the window ledge.
“You okay?” he said.
She nodded without looking back. Like a hawk, she looked for any sign of movement from her wounded prey.
“Get them?”
“One. The other ran.”
“Don’t let up. There’s still those two that came out of the woods. Watch for them.”
As he left the room, there were more shots, followed by a scream from inside. Sean raced down the hallway. The echo of his prosthetic against the hardwood floor sounded as loud as rifle blasts.
A man stood in the doorway, aiming his rifle at Barbara. Sean fired two rounds before the guy could react. Both hit the guy in the abdomen. He fell backward, breaking the remaining hinge and taking the screen door with him to the ground.
“Where’s Addison?” he shouted.
Barbara continued to scream. She held her left hand over her right shoulder. Blood seeped through her fingers.
“Christ, not now,” he said.
This wasn’t the time to take care of her, not with at least one more man prowling around the house. He saw Addison on the floor and his heart sank. Enraged, Sean headed outside, stomping on the bleeding man’s stomach.
“Come on you bastard,” he called out to no response. Rounding the back corner, he found the third guy running into the woods. Sean fired three times, but all shots appeared to miss.
He finished the guy on the porch, then went back inside to deal with the likely death of Addison.
Only she was sitting up when he got in, leaning against Marley. Blood trickled down her forehead. Barbara remained on the couch, her arm the same color as her shirt. Her face pale. She’d stopped screaming.
Not a good sign. Shock might be setting in.
“What happened?” he asked Addison.
She shrugged. “I think something fell.”
He inspected the wound, then began searching the kitchen for anything he could use for medical purposes. There wasn’t much of use in there.
“Jenny, Emma!” Sean called out.
He heard doors open. The sound of rubber soles on the hardwood floor. They appeared at the mouth of the hallway.
“We’ve gotta go. Jenny, grab a few towels out of the bathroom. Emma, come help Addison with Barbara. Get her to the back door and wait.”
A long minute passed. Sean paced from the front to the back, peering out the windows. One of the trucks had pulled to a stop about a quarter mile from the house. Another was parked, all doors open, at the base of the hill. What happened to the third? Where did the woods behind the house go? Who was waiting on the other side?
Everyone waited where the screen door used to hang. Sean exited the house first and provided cover for the women.
“Addison, you drive. Jenny, help secure Barbara, then you’re on gun duty with me.”
Seconds later they slipped into the shady veil of the woods.
Chapter 9
Two hours in the water. Most men Turk’s age couldn’t make it that long. Hell, putting up with the filthy gas- and oil-laden harbor would have drowned half upon contact. The toxic water coated his skin like slime. He estimated the distance was roughly three miles from the Coast Guard station to the Atlantic. The Ashley River dumped into the Charleston Harbor, which opened up to the ocean. On either side were the tourist beaches. Those provided the best opportunity. He’d have to exercise caution around the jetties, which produced powerful currents where the mouth of the harbor met the tumbling ocean. Exhausted, Turk would be a dead man if he got caught in one. Didn’t matter that he’d spent twenty years as a SEAL. The powerful pull of the water would carry him out. In his weakened state, there would be no getting back to shore.
Turk swam through the harbor, looking for a salvageable vessel. Despite dozens of wrecks, he found nothing of use. Survivors and other scavengers had taken the life rafts off every ship large enough to carry one. Communication equipment and GPS units had also been looted. Even the damn life preservers were gone.
Two choices remained. Dive into the depths of the murky harbor and search for a boat on the bottom, or start swimming toward the mouth and head either north on Sullivan’s Island, or south to Folly Beach.
The first question he had was which way would most survivors have gone? Heading into the Atlantic wasn’t ideal, not with the types of ships that littered the harbor. The open water saw waves fifty feet high. Storms were killers. If the captain didn’t know what areas to avoid, the boat could get trapped in a current and never get out. It was thousands of miles before they were guaranteed to hit land. And even then, whether Europe or Africa, they’d face the same issues they had here.
South brought warm weather, which made it easier for survival.
For us and them.
North might be a solid choice after winter had passed. If the afflicted remained even a trace human, the cold would dwindle their numbers. Food sources would disappear. The elements would win.
Those with experience might decide to remain at sea. Find the Gulf Stream and live off the catch. Or they might take their chances and make their way around the southern tip of Florida and settle into the gulf. The Bahamas, Turk’s ultimate destination, was another option. It contained hundreds of small islands where the virus likely hadn’t taken hold. And even if it did, how many could there be on a small island?
Zombies can’t swim.
But could the afflicted?
Turk wasn’t sure, but every time something brushed against his leg he sure as hell had the urge to get out of the harbor.
Moving was the best choice. Without the right gear, diving in search of a wreck was a pointless exercise. The water offered zero visibility. Turk would have to rely on touch alone. He’d end up wasting time and energy.