environments proved to be the most hazardous to the uninfected. There were too many buildings, abandoned cars, and alleys in which the Tils could build their dens. Mike recalled with a shudder the first den he and the refugees had stumbled into. Less than half of the twenty-two with him then had survived to see the following day. It had been a costly mistake, a mistake he had ordered and one that still brought him screaming out of his sleep most nights.
The truck rolled to a stop in an intersection of what was once a booming business district. Guns at the ready, the five men stepped onto the cracked macadam of the street. They quickly formed a passable military diamond formation that, at least in theory, would protect them in all directions. A small grocery store, their intended target, lay a block north of their current position. Proceeding with caution, the team made steady progress towards the store. The street was littered with bones, the only graves the fallen would ever know. Though the scene was gruesome, Mike was relieved that there were no fresh bodies to indicate a Til presence.
The glass door entrance to the market was shattered and Mike stepped gently on the fragments as he led the others into the store. The shelves were mostly bare, having been scavenged by other survivors many times over the past six years. He had learned some errant cans usually remained if one looked diligently enough. Aisle by aisle, the team found no sign of their fellow refugees. They did, however, find the rotting remains of infected. Paul made a quick inspection of the corpses and surmised that they had been killed within the past few days. The casings on the floor matched the ammo that supplied the camp’s arsenal.
“Best I can tell,” Paul said, “they made it this far, which means they probably headed over to the hospital.”
Mike agreed with Paul’s conclusions and ordered the team back to the truck. The hospital was four blocks to their east and should have been the last destination of the scavenging mission. The drive took longer than it would have before the outbreak, as he was now forced to weave the truck through a maze of haphazardly abandoned vehicles.
A block from the hospital Mike eased the truck to a stop.
“Jeez,” Paul said, fear and awe clear in the tone.
The front entrance to the hospital was surrounded by a seething mass of infected. Some threw themselves at the thick glass doors, while others howled with rage, pacing like caged lions.
“There’s gotta be two hundred of ‘em,” Andrew spoke from the back seat.
“Our guys must be pinned down inside. No way those Tils are that worked up unless they know there’s a meal in there,” said Shane.
“We have to assume those are our people in there. Any suggestions on getting them out?” Mike asked.
A few moments later the sound of gunfire tore through the air, accompanied by the blaring of the truck’s horn. The Tils, already in a hunting frenzy, abandoned their attack on the hospital and charged down the street towards the truck. When the distance between the infected and the vehicles was less than one hundred yards the truck reversed its direction and began to cruise back the way it had come. The Pavlovian Tils, snarling as their new prey attempted to escape, hounded behind the rear of the Chevy, and within minutes, the entrance to the hospital was cleared of infected.
The truck, driven by Shane with Erik in shotgun, was receding from view with the Tils still in pursuit. Mike, Paul, and Andrew crept from the sanctuary of one of the many abandoned store fronts and hastily ran to the hospital entrance. The glass doors were locked, but shattered easily with shots from Mike’s side-arms. Once inside, the three risked detection by calling out for the missing. They crossed the lobby, its floor covered with papers and files long since discarded, and pushed through the double doors into the first of many long corridors. With nothing but their own echoes
The truck rolled to a stop in an intersection of what was once a booming business district. Guns at the ready, the five men stepped onto the cracked macadam of the street. They quickly formed a passable military diamond formation that, at least in theory, would protect them in all directions. A small grocery store, their intended target, lay a block north of their current position. Proceeding with caution, the team made steady progress towards the store. The street was littered with bones, the only graves the fallen would ever know. Though the scene was gruesome, Mike was relieved that there were no fresh bodies to indicate a Til presence.
The glass door entrance to the market was shattered and Mike stepped gently on the fragments as he led the others into the store. The shelves were mostly bare, having been scavenged by other survivors many times over the past six years. He had learned some errant cans usually remained if one looked diligently enough. Aisle by aisle, the team found no sign of their fellow refugees. They did, however, find the rotting remains of infected. Paul made a quick inspection of the corpses and surmised that they had been killed within the past few days. The casings on the floor matched the ammo that supplied the camp’s arsenal.
“Best I can tell,” Paul said, “they made it this far, which means they probably headed over to the hospital.”
Mike agreed with Paul’s conclusions and ordered the team back to the truck. The hospital was four blocks to their east and should have been the last destination of the scavenging mission. The drive took longer than it would have before the outbreak, as he was now forced to weave the truck through a maze of haphazardly abandoned vehicles.
A block from the hospital Mike eased the truck to a stop.
“Jeez,” Paul said, fear and awe clear in the tone.
The front entrance to the hospital was surrounded by a seething mass of infected. Some threw themselves at the thick glass doors, while others howled with rage, pacing like caged lions.
“There’s gotta be two hundred of ‘em,” Andrew spoke from the back seat.
“Our guys must be pinned down inside. No way those Tils are that worked up unless they know there’s a meal in there,” said Shane.
“We have to assume those are our people in there. Any suggestions on getting them out?” Mike asked.
A few moments later the sound of gunfire tore through the air, accompanied by the blaring of the truck’s horn. The Tils, already in a hunting frenzy, abandoned their attack on the hospital and charged down the street towards the truck. When the distance between the infected and the vehicles was less than one hundred yards the truck reversed its direction and began to cruise back the way it had come. The Pavlovian Tils, snarling as their new prey attempted to escape, hounded behind the rear of the Chevy, and within minutes, the entrance to the hospital was cleared of infected.
The truck, driven by Shane with Erik in shotgun, was receding from view with the Tils still in pursuit. Mike, Paul, and Andrew crept from the sanctuary of one of the many abandoned store fronts and hastily ran to the hospital entrance. The glass doors were locked, but shattered easily with shots from Mike’s side-arms. Once inside, the three risked detection by calling out for the missing. They crossed the lobby, its floor covered with papers and files long since discarded, and pushed through the double doors into the first of many long corridors. With nothing but their own echoes
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