Stillness reigned for a few minutes, while the convoy team observed their surroundings. The area was once a middle-class neighborhood where the blue light of dawn would normally bring the rush of school and work. Instead, lawns that should have been finely manicured were overgrown, and garbage piled high on the sidewalks. Vehicles littered the streets, and every house hinted at a tragic story. The words “dead inside” were scrawled on a garage door. A sport utility vehicle was wrapped around a tree, dried blood on the windshield. A toddler’s tricycle sat motionless in a driveway, and missing person’s signs covered telephone poles and trees. As they passed through an intersection, they saw a roadblock flanked by sandbags. The fortification was abandoned, and two machine guns sat pointing at the sky. A half-dozen corpses lay scattered about the ground, and a single walking cadaver in military uniform leered at them as they drove by.
“Did you hear what happened to Convoy Twenty-Six?” Miguel’s voice cast out over the network. Soldiers couldn’t help but pass the time by sharing stories — horrible as they might be.
“No, what?” someone’s voice asked inquisitively.
“They got to their DDC and started loading up people and supplies. They didn’t know it, but a group of armed civvies had taken over the place. So when the crews were out of their vehicles, the civvies ambushed them.” Miguel continued.
“Man…” someone interrupted. The thought that they could be walking into just such a trap, did not appeal to anyone.
“So the remains of Twenty-Six starts heading back to the dock and gets to the checkpoint. Of course, they don’t have the pass code — probably didn’t even know there was a pass code. Control turns them away, but they decide to keep on going.” Miguel stopped, letting the anticipation build.
“What happened?” Another voice shot back, unwilling to let the story end without closure.
“What do you think happened? We’ve been consolidating bits and pieces from convoys for weeks now. You ever hear of anyone or anything from Twenty-Six? Cap blew the whole convoy to ash!” Miguel answered. “Control does not fuck around with fleet security. There are two Black Hawks in the air every second of every day, and if they have orders to bring the heat… that’s what they do.”
Silence crept back in, and more signs of an otherwise normal community that had tried to survive the rise of the living dead became evident. A white billboard read, ‘There is a vaccine! Supplies limited. Call 1-800… ’ The rest of the number was obscured by red graffiti stating, ‘you killed my brother.’ As they passed a grocery store, a large sign plastered on the wall depicted a woman wrapping her children in a protective American flag. A dark figure leered at them next to the words: ‘Stay safe. He’s not your husband anymore.’
Government efforts to guide public behavior always had an element of patriotic propaganda in them. Pamphlets on how to construct a barricade properly were stamped with official government seals, and had testimonials from patriotic celebrity sponsors. Federally subsidized advertisements that provided information on how to sterilize water properly, or store food were always rife with nationalistic imagery. The undead crisis was handled so poorly that the government had spent its last remaining days in a state of damage control, desperately trying to repair widespread public outrage. Their efforts to advertize a contained threat and a priority of public safety, simply added to the perception that leadership was incompetent. Hordes of ravenous ghouls rampaged through every city in the world, and the failures of leadership were plain to see.
“Anyone hear what happened to Convoy Ten?” Sergeant Ornstein asked. Sergeant Ornstein had only been with Convoy Nineteen for a few days, but the man had seen a great deal while he was passed around from one destroyed convoy to another.
“I don’t think that’s a good story to tell…” Pam began, only to be shouted down by everyone who wanted to hear another tale.
Sergeant Ornstein continued. “I think it was about four months ago. The lead car of Convoy Ten decided to take a detour and grab his family in some out-of-the-way neighborhood. Everyone else in the convoy sees this, and decides they want to take a detour, too. So they decide to hang together and get everyone’s family and whoever else they find along the way. Whole convoy starts tearing off around California and stopping at every house they can… they really had their shit together, too. Made sure not to pick up anyone who was sick or turning- screened everyone with their own DDC doctor. They were real American Heroes… modern day Robin Hoods… who broke with military command and brought hope to the people stuck outside the DDCs. Everyone loved them.”
“Ever see a vehicle with the number ten written on the side?”
“Yeah,” someone’s voice responded over the network.
“That’s a nod to them. That’s a statement saying, ‘I’m here to help and I’m not with the military.’ It was a big deal. In an ocean of hopelessness, that one image that spells hope can spread like fire.” Sergeant Ornstein continued. “So anyway, the crews are really feeling good about themselves. They were picking people up outside of L.A. — crazy shit, going to places that you can’t even imagine. Just when they’re feeling invincible, like they could drive to New York and back with someone’s long-lost Grandma, they run out of gas.”
“What? How does a convoy run out of gas? How stupid can you be?” Carl chuckled in disbelief, but glanced down at his fuel gauge just to check.
“Their plan was that they’d get gas wherever they could on the road, while they looked for a place to set up long-term. They didn’t realize that all the gas stations had been looted. So there they were, stuck just outside L.A., when every WD in the city starts crawling after them. I heard the firefight lasted all day, but in the end, every soldier and every civilian was swallowed up by the dead.”
“So if Convoy Ten is gone, how’d you hear the story?” Pam asked.
“I heard it from someone in the communications room at Control. As soon as Control realized the convoy had gone rogue, you can bet your ass they did everything they could to get it back home,” Sergeant Ornstein answered. “He said the last thing he heard over the long-range channel was everyone yelling that they were out of ammo, and then nothing but screaming. Then… and I don’t know if I buy this part… I think he just made it up to scare us, but… supposedly, after the screaming stopped… a few seconds passed before this deep raspy voice comes over the comm: ‘send more troops.’”
Stillness washed over the convoy again, as chills ran up their spines.
“How many convoys are left?” someone asked over the network.
No one answered for a minute, until Pam replied, “I’m not sure, us and maybe six others.”
“No way. Convoys aren’t supposed to operate with fewer than five cars. You think there are thirty five vehicles left? I bet there’s only two or three, counting us,” Carl replied.
Pam shot him an angry look and covered her microphone, “Carl!”
Carl looked back at her confused. “What?”
“You really think we need to be telling people we might be the last convoy in San Diego?” Pam remarked. “Maybe there’s three convoys left, hell, maybe we’re the only convoy left, but our guys don’t need to know that… and we sure don’t want them letting DDC civvies know that.”