Part 10 (1/2)
Doc and Billy quickly moved across the overpa.s.s like thieves in the night. Through their NODs, they saw a pileup of cars thirty meters out. They'd need to negotiate this Jenga pile of steel in order to reach the other side.
The first leading edge of the swarm began to trickle beneath the overpa.s.s. The main river of corpses approached rapidly. The smell sickened Doc when the wind s.h.i.+fted, pus.h.i.+ng those rotting molecules into his nostrils.
Doc knew that the unforgiving and lethal thing about a swarm like this was that the head of the undead snake could be led and altered by anything. Stray dog, deer, a still-functioning car alarm-anything.
”Doc, we might wanna hold here at the middle of the bridge and see where they go. I don't want to pick the wrong side. Could be really bad,” Billy suggested.
Doc thought for a moment about the worst-case scenario. What if the swarm split and they spilled onto the overpa.s.s from both sides? No factor. ”We need to get over those cars and a few hundred meters ahead. We have about two hours before we have to head back to arrive home before sunup. We'll wait a few, but I don't like it. Take a look.”
Both men peeked over the guardrail up the river of undead. Although visibility through the NODs didn't give them long-distance resolution, they still knew they were looking at a mile-long and thirty-foot-wide ma.s.s of creatures. Neither of them wanted to do the math on that one.
The flow rate of the undead river increased from trickle to stream. Just over halfway across the overpa.s.s, Doc and Billy began to low-crawl, not because they needed to, but because they were so G.o.dd.a.m.ned scared. It was like ducking when getting out of a running helicopter-unnecessary, but not really a bad idea either.
They reached the vehicle wreckage. The walking river below was at peak flow, causing the overpa.s.s to vibrate. Doc again risked a peek over the side and saw at least a half-mile of moving corpses on either side of the bridge. The things didn't seem to suspect that potential prey was spying on them from above. Some of the ghouls tried to break away from the pack, but returned quickly, again attracted to the loud rumble of the swarm.
”Let's take a break and have some chow,” Doc suggested.
”Sounds good. We got at least twenty minutes.”
They tore into expired energy bars and drank the wine of iodine as the bridge shook underneath and the oblivious dead river ravaged down a derelict road to nowhere.
20.
Arctic North Crusow, Mark, and the other three outpost survivors met in the conference room adjacent to the control center. The station's military consultants, Bret and Larry, as well as He-Wei Chin, the outpost scientist, stood together, still wearing heavy, ice-crusted cold-weather gear. He-Wei spoke very broken English and was sometimes a source of politically incorrect comedic relief for the rest of the survivors. Before posted in the Arctic, He-Wei was a Chinese national applying for U.S. citizens.h.i.+p status. He had volunteered for duty at Outpost Four to speed up his application process. Expedited citizens.h.i.+p was one of the incentives of arduous duty while serving in the U.S. Arctic research programs. Everyone called him Kung Fu, or just Kung, because of his pa.s.sable resemblance to Bruce Lee.
Even though Crusow, Mark, and Kung had spent the past several months living with Larry and Bret in a place barely bigger than a modern s.p.a.ce station, they didn't know much about them except that they were military men and part of the mission here before the s.h.i.+t hit the ice.
Many American operatives who were alive before the undead rose up suspected that there were hundreds of covert facilities around the world, many using missions to conceal their true purpose. Outpost Four had been publicly drilling for core samples before the fall of man, but so had every other outpost on the ice-facilities owned by a dozen other countries.
Larry and Bret never discussed their military status but their haircuts and demeanor gave it away upon arrival. Just like all the other fresh meat before, the new crew members would touch down in a modified C-17 aircraft outside the wintering-over season. There were new faces every time, but the same haircut and att.i.tude remained.
Now Larry was very ill, his condition worsening over the past few weeks. Mark thought that Larry might have come down with a bad bout of pneumonia. They used up half of the outpost's remaining antibiotics on him with no measurable effect. Larry could barely stand most of the time and Bret was often observed helping him to and from the different areas of the outpost. At least Larry was considerate enough to wear a face mask.
They couldn't risk anyone else getting sick, especially Crusow. They'd all likely be frozen inside of eighteen hours if Crusow was killed or incapacitated. He was the one who kept the generators running on schedule and also somehow formulated rudimentary biofuel using the dwindling chemicals and surplus food fats on hand. He wasn't one of the expendables, to be sure.
”Okay, thanks for showing up,” said Crusow, addressing the small group. ”I won't waste time in telling you that we've made contact.”
”With who?” Bret asked excitedly.
”The USS George Was.h.i.+ngton.”
”We're f.u.c.kin' saved!” Larry exclaimed, coughing loudly inside his mask.
Crusow frowned, saying, ”Not really. They're in the Gulf of Mexico and couldn't make it here even if they wanted to. We're on the Pacific side of the Arctic Circle and even if it were spring and if they had an icebreaker s.h.i.+p, it would take them too long. We'd run out of supplies by then and be in the solid state, literally. We need to start thinking about contingency plans.”
Larry coughed again, shooting crud inside his face mask. After a spell of cursing and changing masks, he asked, ”What plans? We might as well be on a Martian outpost. Without a rescue party, we'll be blocks of ice in a month or two.”
”Yeah, maybe so, but I ain't giving up either,” Crusow replied, a little louder than he wanted. Taking himself down a notch, he continued: ”It's true we're low on fuel, but I have a plan that might work.”
”We're listening,” Bret said.
”I've modified the Sno-Cat to run on biodiesel. This means that more of the remaining regular fuel can be used to keep this place at least warm enough to support life, say fifty degrees. We'll need to start sleeping in our cold-weather gear to conserve fuel and we'll need to start chopping off the outer limbs of this facility. We're spread out now as it stands and that wastes a lot of juice. Larry, you and Bret are going to need to suck it up and move into the crew wings and seal off your areas of the outpost.”
”Wait a G.o.dd.a.m.ned minute!” Bret yelled. ”Why do we need to move here? Why not the other way around?”
”Listen! Either you two move in with us, or you freeze! I control the heat, the darkness, and the light, and I'll be shutting you down in forty-eight hours. It's nothing personal-I need to be near the equipment and I'm not moving to the military wing with you and Iron Lung here.”
Neither Larry nor Bret responded. They knew the hand they were dealt. Crusow could see their eyes s.h.i.+ft. They were both military and both were likely calculating a way to regain some leverage. Crusow didn't trust them, and probably never would.
After a moment, Larry coughed and asked, ”We're lower on biodiesel than we are on the regular stuff. How are you going to make enough to keep that Sno-Cat full?”
”This is the part that gets a little weird and maybe dangerous. We've been brewing the biodiesel with old cooking oil up to this point. We're getting low because I've been running one of the generators on it to conserve the good stuff. I think I may have found a source of animal fat that might give us enough fuel to run that Sno-Cat a hundred miles, inside thin ice, and maybe, if there are any out and about and within portable radio . . .”
Bret interrupted, ”If you're talking about killing the sled dogs, I'm all for-”
Crusow cut Bret off mid-sentence. ”No, we're not killing the dogs. We might need them. Stop worrying about food, Bret-we have enough stored here to last us a while with everyone gone or dead. There's not really enough fat on those dogs to get us enough fuel needed to make any sort of difference anyway.”
”Well, what is it then?” Larry asked impatiently.
Crusow made eye contact and said, ”We're gonna have to rappel down the gulch and have a reunion with some of our old friends. Some of them were overweight. The fat on them has been frozen and preserved. There's probably a few hundred pounds worth at the bottom. We'll be able to make enough diesel to get the h.e.l.l out of here and, if lucky, some to spare.”
”You are ape-s.h.i.+t crazy, Crusow,” Larry said.
”Maybe so, but unless you can think of a G.o.dd.a.m.ned better way to keep these generators running with enough fuel in reserves to run that Sno-Cat off this ice shelf, I'd keep your mouth shut. Besides, you're too weak to make the trip down the gulch and back up even once, so you have no say. It's over two hundred feet, mostly straight down. We'll need two people at the bottom to rig the bodies to the ropes and two up top with the dogs to pull them up.”
They all looked at each other, waiting for someone to say something about the plan. Crusow didn't give them any time to think about it.
”Okay then. Which one of you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds is going down there with me?”
One week from Oahu Saien and I have learned at least some of the routine of submarine life. We understand the hierarchy of privilege and although I had sea legs from my time serving onboard navy s.h.i.+ps, it is a culture s.h.i.+ft serving onboard a submarine. I have been helping out in the radio room, mainly for selfish reasons. I have used the access to dispatch communications back to the USS George Was.h.i.+ngton, letting my Hotel 23 family know I'm okay. So far, no one onboard has voiced opposition.
The most recent message from John: ”Tara sends love”
Although only three short words, even these brief dispatches really help. I've been gone less than two weeks; it seems like longer. Without email, it takes me back to a time where communication was more personal, more valued.
I wonder how many young adults of the ”me generation” died during the outbreak while checking the signal on their smartphones or posting an inane update to their social network pages?
It probably went something like: OMFG, they're breaking down the door!
As self-centered as those kids were, I still wish they'd survived. I've unfortunately put a lot of skinny pantwearing creatures into the dirt from whence they came since all this started.