Adam Baker - Impact

It was something to do, something to say. The rifle round had ripped a massive hole in the man’s gut. Torn him wide open. Shredded organs. Massive internal haemorrhage. He had a couple of minutes left to live.

‘Hey,’ said Osborne. ‘Akingbola.’

‘What?’

‘It’s all right,’ said Osborne, gesturing to the blood-soaked wound in his belly. ‘Shit happens. Don’t beat yourselves up over it.’

He sat looking out of the shattered windshield. His face was white. Blood on his lips. Eyelids drooped in a terminal drowse.

Trenchman cranked the ignition, tried to get the engine to engage. Weak revs. He gunned the throttle, worked the gears forward/reverse. No traction.

Akingbola leant out the shattered side window, shielded his eyes from swirling sand. The wheels were bedded so deep they were barely visible.

‘We’re not going anywhere.’

Trenchman turned up the air con. He angled dash vents so Osborne got a cool blast on his face.

‘Probably ought to save the battery,’ said Akingbola.

‘For what?’

Osborne watched sand accumulate on the buckled hood of the limo.

‘Infected,’ he murmured. ‘Pretty far gone. Almost rotted down to bone. But smart. Never seen them act that way. Sly. Strong.’

‘Yeah,’ said Trenchman. ‘Swimming around in the sand. I’d call bullshit, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Something new.’

‘You think the fuckers can learn? Evolve?’

‘Maybe there are different types. Maybe we shook a nest of boss-level dudes.’

Osborne took a deep, shuddering breath and sagged in his seat. Then he straightened his back and widened his eyes, like he was trying to stay awake, fighting for a few seconds more life.

‘Red jumpsuit. Notice that? Thing was wearing a red jump suit.’

‘Must be pretty close to the target point. Agency black site. God knows what they were doing out here.’

‘Might be more of the bastards. Head west. Get to the hills. Three or four miles of dunes, then you reach hard ground. Face the fuckers in the open.’

Trenchman nodded.

‘Okay.’

Osborne reached out and stroked the dash vinyl. He looked at his right hand front and back, rubbing his fingers together like he was saying goodbye to his sense of touch.

‘Guess you guys have a choice. Leave now and face the storm, or wait until later and face killer heat.’

Trenchman nodded.

‘Personally, if I were in your position, I would wait until later. Wouldn’t want to be blundering around in a cyclone.’ He smacked dry lips. ‘Got a drink? A real drink?’

Akingbola tossed Trenchman a plastic miniature cognac. Trenchman unscrewed the cap and held the little bottle to Osborne’s lips. He sipped. Blood diffused through the bottle of amber liquid turning it near black.

Osborne reached for a vest pouch with a trembling hand and popped the flap. He gave Trenchman two clips of 9mm. He opened another pocket and took out a compass.

‘Take every can of Coke, every pack of peanuts. Fill a bag. Don’t leave anything behind.’

Trenchman nodded. He took the compass and mags, and stuffed them in a pocket.

Osborne leaned forwards, like he had something urgent to impart.

‘And don’t forget. They’ll need you in the winter garden.’

‘Winter garden?’

Osborne closed his eyes, leaned back and died.

Trenchman watched him a while, watched residual colour drain from the dead man’s face.

He turned to Akingbola.

‘Let’s go.’

‘What about the storm?’

‘Fuck the storm. Let’s get out of here.’

The storm at its height.

The fuselage buffeted by a heavy crosswind. Slam and jolt, like in-flight turbulence.

Hancock sat in the pilot seat. He balanced a signal mirror on the flight console, angled it so he could see his reflection. He flicked open his lock knife and attempted to shave. He slowly dragged the blade across stubble.

The cabin shook.

He cut his upper lip.

Brief flash of anger. Fingers tight around the knife hilt in a white-knuckle death grip, like he wanted to stab.

He gently massaged his bandaged scalp, breathed slow and willed shit-happens acceptance.

He blotted a bead of blood on the cuff of his flight suit.

‘You okay?’ asked Noble.

Hancock ignored him. He looked out of one of the unbroken windows and watched swirling vortices of dust.

Noble got to his feet. He gripped a wall spar and braced against the roll.

Energy bars scattered on the gunner’s console. He ripped a wrapper with his teeth, spat plastic, then ate.

He offered Hancock a bar.

‘Hungry?’

‘Better save those,’ said Hancock. ‘We’ll need them for the trip.’

Noble gathered up the bars and stuffed them into a backpack.

‘What time is it?’ asked Hancock.

‘Eleven, give or take.’

‘Aim to set out around eighteen hundred. Sundown. Day turning to evening, desert starting to cool. We ought to get some sleep in the meantime, I guess.’

A sudden gust shook the plane. The flight deck shuddered. A blast curtain tore open. Hancock flinched from the stinging sand-blast. He reattached fasteners, lashed the screen back in place with fresh tape.

Frost leant across the pilot seat and looked out of one of the intact windows at the storm.

‘How long before it lets up, do you think?’

Hancock shrugged.

‘No idea. Got to blow itself out sooner or later.’

Frost looked down on Hancock’s head. Swollen, angry flesh beneath the chute bandage.

Faint smell of rot.

‘How long since that wound got cleaned out?’

‘About twelve hours.’

‘Maybe I should take a look. Dress it fresh.’

‘I’m okay.’

‘Looks pretty inflamed.’

‘Unless you can pull a fully manned ICU out your ass, there’s not much to be done.’

Frost sat next to the backpack. She took a map from a side pocket and shook it open.

‘We reckon to cover between ten and fifteen miles a night, is that right?’

‘Yeah. Although we have no real way of charting our progress, no way to measure the miles. Basically, we walk until we reach water or drop dead in the dirt.’

‘I’ve been mulling it over,’ said Frost. ‘We’ve got to head north. Not right away. But once we reach habitation and get ourselves fixed with a vehicle, we ought to head north soon as we can. Best chance to escape radiation. Bombs were just the start. Sooner or later every nuclear power station in the world will blow. Failsafe cooling systems can keep reactors stable for a while. After that: meltdown. There are a bunch of atomic power plants to our south in California. Diablo Canyon. San Onofre. Another big one at Palo Verde, Arizona. Best head in the opposite direction, put them far behind us. I vote we head for British Columbia.’

Hancock shifted in his seat. He folded his arms and closed his eyes.

‘No need to over-think the situation,’ he said. ‘No need for elaborate plans. Got to take things day by day. Right now, all we can do is walk and hope to strike lucky. Best thing we can do is rest.’

Noble lay on the floor and dozed, soothed by gentle white noise from the CSEL positioned near his head.

He snapped awake.

He snatched up the radio and held it to his ear.

‘Hear that?’

Frost jolted from sleep. She rubbed her eyes.

‘What?’

Noble upped volume and held out the radio.

Steady hiss.

‘All I can hear is static.’

‘There’s a voice,’ insisted Noble.

Frost took the handset. She held it to her ear and listened hard.