“Okay, gunners. Hold your fire,” Carl ordered.
Highway 805 sat at the base of a rise that obscured Miramar. While the highway itself was littered with the broken down vehicle graveyard and wandering dead that was typical of all San Diego’s out-bound highways, the adjacent hillside was relatively clear. Atop the peak of the rise, stood a battered fence where dozens of mindless undead gathered on either side. Some were turning in impotent pursuit, while others were corralled by the chain links of the military base they had overrun. They watched the convoy pass with blank stares or lazily rolled their heads back and moaned. A thirty foot pole stood every couple of hundred yards along the fence. Mounted atop the poles were loudspeakers blasting out a recording on an endless loop. The convoy team and their passengers sat silently while the monotone male voice calmly spoke; “Keep out. Danger. This is an infected zone. Do not enter. Keep out. Danger. This is an infected zone. Do not enter. No Entran. Peligro. Este es una zona infectada. No Entran. Peligro. Este es una zona infectada.
“What isn’t an infected zone anymore?” Miguel grumbled, as Nicole wrapped his leg in a splint with a length of tape.
“That message has been running for months. It wasn’t until after Miramar was overrun that things got really bad. Whoever made that message probably thought he was doing San Diego a favor,” Pam replied. “How many desperate people got it into their heads that all they had to do is make it to Miramar and the U.S. military would take care of them? Hearing that message might have been heartbreaking, but it probably saved lives.”
A few minutes passed and the repeating message began to fade into the distance. Highway 805 merged into highway 5 and the convoy continued to make its way through and around the human wreckage of the zombie apocalypse. A burnt-out gas station still displayed prices for regular unleaded fuel at $242.99 a gallon. Earthen graves crowned by plain white crosses dotted the hillside by the hundreds. The words ‘Do not open. Dead inside,’ were scrawled on the back of a tractor-trailer in large red letters. One empty and blood-stained truck sported a large sign on its tailgate that read, ‘Girls! Girls! Girls! $20.’ Right next to it sat another gore-covered truck with a sign mounted atop the cab that read, ‘Canned Vegetables: $70, Canned Soup: $50, Canned Pet Food: $30.’
The living dead slowly wandered amongst it all, their mangled forms meandering between vehicles. Heads turned to acknowledge the military convoy that passed through their midst. Hollow moans passed through cracked and bloody lips as they stumbled forward in pursuit.
“Specialist Grace?” A voice came over the network.
“What is it?” Pam responded.
“We have a Dr. Kelly Damico in our car that’s asking to talk to the commanding officer,” The voice came back.
Pam looked over to Carl, who kept his eyes on the road but nodded back to her. “This is Sergeant First Class Carl Harvey. What can I do for you, ma’am?”
Kelly’s voice came back over the network. “We need to be screened. We’ve all had contact with WDs and we need to make sure everyone’s checked out before we’re admitted into any secure areas.”
Carl thought for a second before answering. The request was simple enough. Every soldier and civilian in the convoy had been in a life and death struggle with the walking dead. If any one of them were knowingly concealing a bite or unknowingly bitten, entire ships could be in danger. He glanced at Miguel and the blonde woman, Nicole, in his rear view mirror, and thought about Miguel’s leg. Was his leg broken or was he bitten? What would happen to him if he had been bitten? He considered the consequences for his wounded comrade.
“Yes, ma’am. I will call ahead and make sure a screening facility is set up before anyone is transported to the fleet,” Carl answered. “Specialist Grace, call ahead to San Onofre and have them set up a screening area. We need everyone checked out.”
Pam did as she was ordered, and the vehicles continued in silence. Minds began to wander. Was it possible to be bitten and not know it? Was that scratch actually a bite? Was the infection transmitted in ways other than bites? Was that bruise a sign of infection? After all this time, after all their sacrifice, would some of them be denied transport to the fleet?
“So how you gonna prove that isn’t a bite, Miguel?” Pam awkwardly tried to break the tension, but she realized how bad the joke was as soon as she heard herself say it.
“That’s not funny!” Carl replied with a scowl. “I’m sure people who aren’t infected get turned away all the time because of injuries that look like bites. Your leg is just broken, right Miguel? I mean, I heard it break. It sounded like a break.”
“It’s a break,” Miguel grumbled.
“It sounded like a break,” Carl mumbled. “I won’t let you get left behind.”
Pam looked at Carl and back to Miguel. Awkward silence passed until Pam punched a button on her headset. “San Onofre, this is Convoy Nineteen approaching from about a mile south. Five vehicles, eight crew, and a dozen or so civilians.”
“Copy Convoy Nineteen. We’ve been expecting you. The south gates will be open. We’re kinda short-handed, and we could use some strong backs.”
“I can help!” Nicole answered immediately.
Pam furrowed her brow in confusion. Civilians, as a general rule, were content to sit back and watch military personnel do the grunt work. “Sure thing, San Onofre. We have some people who can lend a hand.”
Dome-like cooling towers loomed into view as the Humvees approached the power plant. A helicopter had just taken off, and it was heading toward a large gray military ship just offshore. A second helicopter was returning from the same direction. Along the perimeter of the power plant, was another tall razor-wire fence reinforced by sandbags and protected by watchtowers. The undead gathered in gangs. There was very little gunfire around the perimeter; however, the entrance was another story.
The vehicles made their way toward the gates where two ten-man teams of marines stood in formation and fired their rifles at the ghouls wandering about the immediate area. Hundreds of bodies lay about the ground in crumbled heaps already, and the soldiers were adding more with every shot. Mortar teams within the compound were raining death into dense swarms. The roadside resembled a crater-marked moonscape inhabited by shattered corpses… pulling themselves along on mangled limbs.
The marines broke formation, followed on foot, and closed the gates as soon as the convoy was inside. No sooner had they retreated than the screeching forms of hungry dead pressed themselves en masse against the fence.
“Look…” Pam pointed out the window as the convoy pulled to a stop in front of a small office building. The rolling hills of the California coast stretched south, north, and east as far as the eye could see. Endless ranks of walking dead shambled about in loose packs. Slowly and implacably, they converged on one point — the San Onofre power plant—and the activity within.
“Sergeant First Class Harvey?” a uniformed man with the insignia of a Lieutenant Commander approached the lead Humvee. His hair was disheveled, and the pits of his arms were stained with sweat.
Carl stepped out from his driver’s seat and saluted. “Yes sir?”
The man appeared anxious and nervously chewed his bottom lip. He kept his eyes fixated on the wailing ghouls massing on the fence as he spoke to Carl. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Holt. I need you and your drivers to pull your vehicles over to the Building Two loading dock, so we can load them up with supplies.” He pointed to an area bustling with activity. Twenty or so civilians and soldiers milled about, stacking boxes and bags of equipment. “Chinook helicopters will then deliver them to the U.S.S. Boxer. I need some of your men to help with Building One.” Holt gestured to a smaller building connected to the cooling towers that appeared to be set up as a living area with clothes lines, lawn chairs, and a fire pit outside the main entrance. “The screening center you requested is over there.” He gestured to a sad-looking area sectioned off by police tape and shower curtains. “Understood?”