“Nice… so some poor bastard gets a hang nail, and now he’s stuck on a roof with a dozen infected.” The sarcastic soldier interrupted.
“Fine! You can bunk with Private Wensel while we’re on ship! At least I’ll have a warning when he tries to chew your dick off!” The two soldiers began to argue.
Nicole and her son continued past the group as the soldiers began shouting back and forth. The argument was intensifying, and she had all the information she needed. Vince would not be allowed to join the fleet, and the two of them… after all this time stranded in the DDC… would be abandoned atop a building with potentially infected strangers. That would not do.
As Nicole approached Building Two, a heavy set older man in a sweat-stained button-down groaned, as he stepped into the nearly unbearable heat. He added a box to a stack sitting just outside the entryway, and shielded his eyes from the intense sun. He huffed and puffed for a few seconds, resting against a brick wall. He watched while a marine in the distance systematically punched his bayonet through the fence and into the skulls of leering ghouls.
“Need a hand?” Nicole asked as she approached the heavyset man.
The man continued watching the marine, but nodded, “These can go out to the landing pad.” He gestured to the stack of boxes. “Or the Humvees… whatever… the faster we make space, the more junk we can move out of here.”
“I’m on it.” Nicole said, noting the black ink on the man’s hand.
“Jesus, they’re angry today.” The man answered back.
“Who?” Nicole asked.
“The ghouls… it’s almost like they know we’re leaving… almost like they know this will be their last chance to come after us…” Soldiers and civilians continued to bustle in and out of Building One.
“It is,” Nicole forced a smile.
“Damn right,” he nodded. “Make sure and get your ticket out of here.” He held his ink-stained hand up, smiled, and then turned to look at Vince. “If you help your mom, little man, you can go on a boat ride. Does that sound cool?”
Vince nodded shyly, and the man smiled once more before disappearing back into the building.
Nicole looked through the supplies for a few brief moments before she found what she was looking for. She grabbed a stack of linens, tossed them on top of a couple crates, and began to carry the boxes across the parking lot toward Building Two.
“Whoa! That’s heavy! You need a hand with that?” A voice called.
Nicole craned her neck around the boxes and saw a soldier moving toward her. He too sported a large black ink mark on his hand, and seemed intent on taking the boxes she carried off her hands.
“No!” She shouted and turned the boxes away from the soldier. “I mean… I have these. There are some really heavy ones by the door, though. I can’t get those,” Nicole answered. She looked around at people’s hands and noted the number of ink stains were already at about one in five. Kelly Damico was using ink to mark the people she had cleared for transport to the fleet, and she was working very efficiently — too efficiently. Soon, more than half the people here would be cleared. Shortly after that, anyone without a mark would conspicuously stick out among those that did have a mark, and be urged to be screened immediately so everyone could leave as quickly as possible.
The soldier nodded and walked past her. She continued toward Building Two, her eyes focused on the group of Humvees that sat in a neat row, their trunks open and partially filled with cargo.
“Honey, I need you to climb into the back of that truck and give mommy a hand.” Nicole ordered her son in a hushed voice. The back of the vehicle was half-full with supplies already, and would be stacked to the roof before long.
“Okay!” Vince said excitedly as he ran to the back of the Humvee.
Nicole followed her son and set the boxes on the tailgate. She wiped the sweat from her brow and glanced around, waiting for an opportunity. A helicopter took off from the landing pad, and another was approaching. Soldiers and civilians, boxes in hand, gathered round to load the aircraft as soon as it landed. There wasn’t going to be a better opportunity than now, so Nicole made her move. “Go! Climb in! Go!”
Vince scrambled into the back of the truck, eager to help his mother. Nicole climbed into the vehicle and quickly pulled the boxes in behind her. She curled into a tight ball next to her son. In the next motion, she flung linen over herself and Vince and sat as motionless as possible.
“Vince, I need you to listen to mommy very, very carefully,” Nicole whispered. “This isn’t a game. You need to sit absolutely still. Do you understand me?”
“My hand hurts and I don’t feel good,” Vince replied.
“I’m sorry, honey. Mommy will take care of your hand later, okay? Just please stay absolutely quiet. Take a nap if you need too.” She tried to communicate the seriousness of the situation to her son.
Vince nodded.
Minutes felt like hours, and the brutal heat of the California sun began to turn the vehicle into an oven. Soldiers packed more supplies into the Humvee, shoving boxes into every spare inch until it was full. They closed the doors and trunk, and what little fresh air Nicole and Vince had from outside, was now denied them. The sun beat down on the roof relentlessly, and the heat became nearly unbearable, but mother and son remained absolutely still.
They sat for hours. Nicole’s legs cramped painfully and Vince, already drenched in sweat, wet himself — but they did not move. The sun eventually set, and mercifully, the interior of the vehicle began to cool.
Vince awoke from a nap and rubbed his hand tenderly. “My hand hurts, mommy,” he whispered. “It really hurts.”
Nicole slid her hand under the seat slowly, and felt around for the first aid kit. “You’re such a good little boy, you know that? You’re being so strong for mommy. Mommy is so proud of you.”
Vince smiled.
Nicole pulled antiseptic, gauze, and tape from the kit. “Let me see your hand.”
Chapter 29
Carl fished a cigarette out of his pocket, placed it between his lips, and took a deep drag. He had found a secluded area next to a dumpster by the loading dock. The red and orange light of the setting sun cast long black shadows. The ships waiting off shore were silhouettes atop the shimmering yellow ocean. It had been a very long day.
He had been operating on nicotine and caffeine since leaving the San Diego Naval base. Carl dug a chocolate bar out of his front jacket pocket, and he stared at the grey-brown bag for a few moments. Exhaustion had taken his appetite, however, so he thrust the candy back into his pocket.
Building Two was nearly empty. Everything, even the vending machine contents, had been hauled out to the Humvees or helicopters for transit to the fleet. Now, civilians were being loaded up with food rations, clothes, and other living essentials from Building One.
The sound of a car banging up against the interior of the fence got Carl’s attention. About a hundred feet away, a few young marines scrambled out of an old Ford Contour. The Marines started propping wooden beams against the fence to aid the car in acting as a buttress. While they worked, they would periodically stab ghouls through the fence with their bayonets. Civilian vehicles and wooden beams had been put in place every thirty or forty feet. The dead snarled on the other side, their numbers swelling into a host of inevitability. Despite the marines’ effort to reinforce it, Carl knew that the fence would eventually give way.
Carl imagined the fence collapsing, and a sea of death washing into San Onofre like a tsunami. Ghouls would swarm in, and the living would be helpless to hold back the tide of claws and teeth. His legs burned. His arms and shoulders hurt. His head and back ached. He had reached his limits, and there was a part of him deep down that just wanted to sit where he was and take whatever came.