A formation of four planes appears, roaring high overhead.
The noise fades as the planes stream into the distance. Todd watches them go with pride—after all that’s happened, the Air Force is still holding it together—then resumes his search.
Minutes later, the roar builds again, cascading over the hills.
You guys lost or something?
The planes scream into the valley, flying low like gray birds of prey. Todd flinches with alarm as their searing roar crescendos.
One by one, the planes release bombs that plummet toward the ground, whistling as they fall.
WOOOOOOOOO
Just above the ground, the payloads burst in flashes of light, replaced by clouds of black objects hurtling toward the earth.
Holy shit—
The ground sparkles.
Cluster bomb, he realizes as the air pressure around him changes.
Thousands of explosions ripple across the valley floor with an ear-splitting crackling, devouring it in seconds. The bodies of the Infected fly apart, trees explode into splinters, the farmhouse and outlying buildings dissolve in bursts of flaming matchsticks. The puffs of smoke congeal, roiling into seething waves of smoke and dust.
The planes split up, veering left and right, and circle the valley.
Todd looks down at the scene of devastation in disbelief. The ground is still trembling. Body parts begin to rain around him.
Holy shit. He dives under the nearest tree for cover.
The ground stops shaking but arms and legs, hands and feet, grinning faces and bits of bone continue to plummet onto the hill, shredded and smoking, along with flaming bits of wood and chunks of hot chewed metal.
“Cut it out!” Todd screams, unable to control his fear and revulsion. “Stop!”
The roar fills the world.
The planes return, flying low to the ground, and strafe the valley floor with Gatling cannons spraying dozens of rounds per second. Todd can feel the electric buzz of the cannons in his forehead, deep in his chest, in his teeth.
Something crashes into the branches over his head. A human head, shattered to a pulp, flops smoking at his feet followed by a rain of leaves.
“Sons of bitches,” Todd says, feeling rage unlike anything he has ever felt, so strong he wonders if he is infected. His cannot hear himself scream. “Motherfuckers!”
The boy runs into the grisly downpour, howling at the sky, and stumbles over a naked, mangled torso. Falling to his knees, he grips a handful of earth and flings it at the departing planes, already just dwindling dots in the sky.
“You didn’t have to do this!”
His rage spent, he looks at the smoke and dust drifting across the wasteland of the valley floor, his ears ringing. He presses his forehead into the grass and moans.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he whispers into the dirt.
All I wanted to do was say goodbye to her.
Alarm bells ring in his brain, warning him to get out of here. The noise will attract every monster within miles. The sun is falling, and he will be caught out in the open in the dark. But he does not move.
I need a little time with this, okay?
It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.
IT’S NOT FAIR.
He raises his head and gazes down at the scene of Biblical devastation. A massive wall of smoke rises above the valley, reminding him of Pittsburgh. Piles of the dead lay half buried in dirt. Nothing moves. The land has been scrubbed of life.
He stares at it for over an hour, watching the shadows claim the land.
The air fills with a rhythmic shrieking sound, growing louder. Snapping out of his reverie, Todd jumps to his feet and runs to the tree where he left his rucksack and carbine. Shouldering the weapon, he flicks the selector lever from SAFE to BURST, and waits.
The high-pitched rhythm is too regular to be a monster. It’s a machine, close enough for him to hear the roar of the engine. The shriek sounds like tank treads.
The beat-up armored vehicle crashes through the foliage fifty yards away on the hill, chugging puffs of exhaust, and grinds to a halt at the top of the slope, where it stands idling. Whoever is inside it is apparently stunned by the scenes of devastation in the valley below.
The sun is bleeding into the horizon. Todd could get away from these people easily if he wanted. He doubts they have spotted him. All he has to do is back into the trees.
He needs people, however. Shouldering his rifle, he steps away from the tree, hands raised in the air, and approaches the vehicle.
I hope these guys are friendly.
As he closes the distance, he spies the legend on the turret through the humid, smoky air: BOOM STICK.
Despite the horrors he has seen, Todd laughs. It is the laugh of the Infected, a sound one cannot easily distinguish from crying.
A dismembered leg falls from the sky and thuds onto the turret with a final arterial spray of blood, bouncing into the grass. Two bearded men and two women, dressed in motley uniforms, scurry from the back of the tank, glaring at him over the barrels of their rifles.
Todd keeps his hands in the air, his heart racing.
“I don’t know you,” he says, starting to worry.
The Bradley’s hatches open and Sarge and Steve emerge.
“Oh my God,” Todd says, swallowing hard.
“Hey Kid,” Sarge says, using his old nickname. “Where you been?”
Todd barely notices them, his attention focused on the beautiful woman striding toward him in a black T-shirt and baggy camo pants, a police-issue pistol slung low on her hip.
“Wendy,” Todd says, bursting into tears.
She breaks into a run and launches herself into his embrace.
“Hi, Todd,” she says, grinning.
Dr. Price
Travis tells Fielding to take off his watch and any jewelry and badges. To remove anything sharp in his pockets, such as pens or keys.
“Step into the coveralls,” Travis instructs him, finding a certain satisfaction in giving the man orders. “Now get the boots on. After that, we’ll put on the facepiece.”
Fielding pulls on the suit, flexing his hands inside the attached black gloves, while Travis closes the zipper running diagonally from his hip to his throat. Using the coupler, he connects the air hose to an appendage jutting from the mouth of the faceplate.
“Now we’ll put the air tank on your back using the harness,” Travis murmurs, concentrating on his work. Fielding’s breath hisses rhythmically through the respirator. “How does it feel?”
“Hot as hell, but it works,” Fielding says.
“Now you even sound like Darth Vader.”
“Very funny, Doc.”
“We put the suits on using the buddy system. I check your suit for rips and you check mine. The idea here is to achieve an isolated atmosphere within the suit. If one germ gets in, you’re toast. Especially check for holes along the seams.”
“Got it,” says Fielding.
The soldiers are returning on their motorcycles. Travis watches as Sergeant Rodriguez walks away from the Stryker to greet them. He likes the sergeant, wishes Fielding were a little more like him. It’s too bad they are enemies.
“Hope they brought the spray paint back so we can cover up this yellow,” Travis says.
“I would keep it,” Fielding tells him. “The yellow makes us look friendly. We want the guy not to see us as a threat, so he doesn’t get spooked or decide to attack us.”
Travis unzips the man’s coverall and then removes the facepiece and harness. “Do you really think he might attack us?”