Odyssey Read online

  He paused. “Maybe we should switch vehicles. Pick up something on the opposite end of this used-car lot.” The Ford had gotten badly banged up in the fuel-tank explosion. And relying on it for a thousand-mile drive, in which their survival depended on their mobility, perhaps wasn’t the greatest plan. Also, the missing windshield was going to be a problem at highway speeds.

  “I picked this truck for a reason,” Sarah replied. “Maintainable, readily available parts – and no advanced electronics that can fail, then be impossible to service. Also, most important, it runs on diesel.”

  Homer knew that made sense. The gang on The Walking Dead might be able to hop in any abandoned car and start it up with no problem, but reality didn’t work that way. Aside from dead batteries with sulfated plates, rotted hoses and belts, and corroded plugs, the main problem was using gas that was more than a year old. The hydrocarbon in the fuel would begin to separate, turning it into a gummy varnish. They were still refining gas back in Fortress Britain.

  But they sure weren’t here, in fallen America.

  Adding fuel stabilizer, shortly after production, could add some shelf life. But the only way to avoid the inevitable degradation of sitting gasoline was to seal it up without air. And they could be pretty sure every vehicle tank, gas station underground storage tank, and fuel tanker truck they came upon would have air pockets. If they tried to run the result in this truck, or any vehicle or generator, they would clog the fuel system, from the fuel lines to the injectors. Cleaning that out would mean pulling everything apart – which, in fact, Homer had recently had the displeasure of trying to do, on the boat Alpha hijacked on Lake Michigan.

  And without success, in the end.

  The only exception to this rule was diesel, which had much better aging characteristics. The main concern would be microbial growth, but microbe contamination was nothing like a certainty with diesel fuel, as oxygen breakdown was with gasoline. The microbe slime – actually their excretions – could also potentially clog up fuel systems, but could just be filtered out if necessary. However, the main point was you could run across diesel that had been sitting for ten years and was still viable. And there were a lot of diesel sources in America, mostly for the semis and other heavy vehicles that ran on it.

  What you didn’t have was a lot of smaller vehicles that ran on diesel. Maybe there would be another one on this onramp, Homer thought, scanning the skewed ranks of abandoned cars. Maybe they could even get one started.

  But probably not.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Go. But negative on the lights.”

  Sarah gripped the wheel, then hesitated. “But what if it’s completely blocked up ahead? Before we get clear?”

  Homer exhaled. It was true these cars probably hadn’t failed to reach the highway for no reason. And, while that reason might or might not be that the passengers had turned into flesh-eating freaks, that was also a compelling reason not to get jammed up in there with them.

  “We’ll deal with that then,” he said, unholstering his SIG P228, with attached suppressor, and placing it in his lap. He gave her a smile. “Anyway, don’t worry. Cars roll.”

  “Good enough.” Sarah eased them forward.

  * * *

  The first stretch they were able to weave through. The drivers here had stopped before they strictly had to.

  But that didn’t bode well for what lay ahead.

  What did bode well was that the passengers of the first dozen vehicles had either exited and legged it or, if they were still inside, had properly died. Actually, there was a third very real possibility – they just weren’t being roused from their slumber by the quiet rumble of the Ford creeping by.

  Basically, Homer and Sarah weren’t being attacked. Yet.

  As instructed, she kept the headlights off. As Homer intended, this helped with not waking the dead. But it also kept them from seeing whatever was inside the other cars, which had the unintended consequence of keeping their stress levels down.

  But soon the scattered and skewed tailgate party turned into a stacked-up parking lot. Sarah took them into the emergency lane – and then up onto the verge. There were a good 15 feet of that between the road and the treeline. But it was also hard to see if it was clear all the way down to the highway, due to the curve of the onramp. She also couldn’t really make out whether there was debris or obstructions in the grass – which she only realized when they bumped over something square and hard.

  “Shit,” she breathed.

  Homer was already powering up his helmet-mounted NVGs to spot for her – when the crunch of breaking glass sounded behind them, followed by the higher-pitched sound of glass shattering on the blacktop. Looking back, he could make out a pair of arms waving out a window, on their side. And he realized they were now basically stuck in a narrow tunnel between the stopped cars on the left, and the treeline on the right.

  Back in the day, they would have called this a killzone.

  And, farther behind the arms, he could make out a passenger-side door being shoved open – presumably it hadn’t been properly closed, as the dead aren’t good with door handles – and two figures tumbling out… accompanied by the first low moans.

  They had now woken up the tailgate party.

  And the clock was ticking. Moaning always drew more.

  Sarah slowed them, but the truck rolled up onto something else in the verge, then came down with an ugly rock on its springs.

  “Can’t see a damned thing,” she muttered.

  Homer realized he should have driven this stretch, NVGs on. But it was too late now. Anyway, at this rate, he was going to have to start shooting in a minute. And that wasn’t a good development.

  “Hit the lights,” he said. “Do it. Get us out of here.”

  When she splashed the area ahead with the truck’s beams, it instantly revealed what they had both anticipated, and feared. The verge was indeed strewn with crap abandoned by fleeing refugees. That was manageable. What wasn’t was 60 feet farther on, where the space between treeline and parking lot had been blocked by a big-ass Cadillac SUV, turned sideways. There was just enough space to get around – if they could split their own truck in two, and go around either side.

  “Keep going,” Homer said, taking another look out back at the crowd converging on them from behind. “Stop ten meters out.”

  “Got it,” she said.

  “Stay here,” Homer said as the vehicle rolled to a halt. “Keep an eye on our six.” He leapt out the passenger-side door, pistol up, gripped in both hands.

  And he moved forward, alone.

  * * *

  Sarah twisted at the waist and tried to make out dark and indistinct movement behind them, on the grass and among the cars on the road.

  It was hard to tell for sure, but they seemed kind of close – then again, not yet dangerously close. She faced forward in time to see Homer reach the front bumper of the SUV in the headlight glare, then disappear again, clearing around in front it.

  And then he was out of sight again.

  And she was alone.

  The night seemed to wiggle on all sides of her.

  And those missing front and rear windows loomed large.

  * * *

  As Homer emerged on the far side of the SUV, he could see the ramp was clear beyond it, all the way to the Interstate. Saying a silent prayer of thanks, he pulled open the driver’s-side door of the Cadillac and cleared the interior – no one home. He holstered his pistol, put the vehicle in neutral, verified the parking brake wasn’t set, planted his feet, and—

  A high-pitched hiss sounded from behind him.

  He spun and drew at the same time. In what of the headlights made it through and around the SUV, he found himself looking at something he could have gone his whole life without seeing.

  A little girl, perhaps three or four, was sticking the top half of her torso out a car window, rolled down a third of the way, just enough for her tiny body. But that body was not only a deathly pale col
or, tinged with black and purple, but was also way too far into decomposition to still be above ground. Angelic blond hair clung to her mottled scalp. She hissed again, through purple lips, and reached out for Homer with tiny grasping fingers.

  As much of an abomination as this was, even worse was all the other movement coming to life inside the car, bigger bodies. But her little one, blocking the small gap in the window, was keeping the others inside for now. Homer turned again and put his shoulder down. The damned Escalade urban bling-mobile weighed nearly three tons, but the verge was level, and slowly it began to roll across the grass toward the treeline—

  More sounds of crashing glass. Still pushing, Homer looked over his shoulder – and saw either the weight of the girl, or more likely the flailing of her family behind her, had taken out the window, and now the girl tumbled out of it, followed by at least one sibling, a little boy, older, also blond, also hissing…

  The grille of the SUV thunked into the base of a tree.

  Homer moved to the rear bumper, checked the clearance, and ran back to the Ford, pouring himself inside. As he pulled the door closed, Sarah put her hand on the gear shifter…

  * * *

  But once again hesitated.

  Now she could see the two former children, little boy and littler girl, staggering through the gap between the Cadillac and the other abandoned cars. They stood in the only path she could take to get them out of there. In the bright glare of the headlights, they looked like – well, just a couple of kids, small, vulnerable, innocent, and angelically blond. The only real difference was they didn’t shield their eyes from the lights.

  Oh. And the little girl also had a two-foot sliver of glass stabbing her through the abdomen. The wound didn’t bleed.

  Banging sounded on the back of the truck. The crowd from behind had reached them – and was about to fall on them.

  Sarah steeled herself and put the truck in gear. No choice.

  “No – wait,” Homer said, looking at the two dead kids ahead of them – but somehow seeming to see something else, as Sarah looked across at him, eyes equally wide.

  She saw him draw and raise his pistol, and then looked forward just in time to see his two suppressed rounds hit the foreheads of the boy and the girl – followed by two more, dropping the two parents, stumbling forward behind them.

  “Now,” Homer said. “Go.”

  Sarah blinked once – and floored it.

  The Expedition rocked over the four bodies, they squeezed through the gap, and the riot of vehicles on their left fell away, as she took them up onto the blacktop, accelerating fast and smooth in a straight shot, merging onto the Interstate. Out on the highway, all six lanes were clear.

  She stole another glance over at Homer, in time to see him holstering his weapon – and swallowing heavily.

  She also swallowed before asking, “You okay?”

  Homer nodded. “Fine. They’re in a better place now. And they’re together with their parents.”

  In the reflected glare of the headlights, Sarah could see him remove a gold crucifix from under his tactical vest and rub it, perhaps unconsciously. And she somehow knew he really believed what he had just said. Within minutes of meeting him, she told Handon that Homer’s soul just came right out of his eyes – that he looked like an angel fallen to earth. And now she figured she knew where that came from.

  From his faith.

  But when he took off his helmet and put it down in back, she could also see his hair, and noticed for the first time its lovely straw-blond color. And she realized he had really been seeing something else, when looking at those two undead kids. And that the tone of his last words belied the meaning he tried to convey.

  On one level, yes, he almost certainly believed what he said, that his faith in resurrection was real. But below that, it also sounded like he’d been trying to convince himself. As if his faith was being tested. Sarah knew they were on a quest to find his family, despite the odds against their survival being huge.

  What she didn’t know was that Homer believed in omens.

  And this wasn’t likely to have been a good one.

  Neither of them were laughing after this second escape.

  Odysseus

  It was a long time before either spoke again. Not least because, at highway speeds, with no windshield, they were going to have to yell to do it. The wind in their faces was fairly outrageous. Then again, Homer thought, you get used to anything.

  And, hey, Jeep Wrangler owners do it on purpose.

  Then again, those guys tended to drive along the beach at 15mph, not on the highway cross-country. This was going to be a problem.

  But, for the moment, Homer didn’t mind the silence the wind noise enforced, the virtual solitude, and time for reflection. When one of them did finally speak, it began with a laugh – Sarah’s. This was prompted by Homer coming out of his reverie, glancing at the dash, then pulling his seatbelt across him and buckling in.

  “What’s funny?” he asked, half-yelling.

  “I thought SEALs weren’t afraid of anything.”

  Homer smiled into the wind. “There’s not being afraid, and then there’s getting hurt doing something stupid. A lot of military personnel have gotten killed in rollovers.”

  “Hey,” Sarah said, touching chin to chest, where her own belt was already fastened. “You’re preaching to the preacher on that one. I was a cop. I’ve seen way too many dead idiots in MVCs.”

  Homer nodded at the dashboard again. “Also, you’re currently doing ninety-five.”

  “Figured you’d approve. Isn’t there some military notion of tactical speed, like for convoys?”

  Homer smiled. “Don’t suppose there will be many IEDs on this route. Or ambushes. But, yes, I do approve.” He glanced at his digital map again. “If we can average this speed, we’re looking at a total travel time of ten hours and change.”

  “Which means we have a chance of catching your carrier before it sails. Right?”

  “Before it steams. But, yes, we’ve got a chance. Assuming no more mishaps.”

  Sarah imagined that last word was tinged more with hope than with certainty. She let a few beats of wind noise spool out. “Did you know someone? Who died in a rollover?”

  Homer shrugged. “I knew someone who got hurt. But he was a special case.”

  “Okay, I’m intrigued. And we’ve got time for stories.”

  Homer smiled sadly. “Adam Brown.”

  “A SEAL buddy?”

  “Yes. But before that, he was just a small-town boy from Arkansas, a high-school football star, who had to overcome a lot of demons before he made it to the teams.”

  “What kind of demons?”

  “Self-destruction. Drug addiction. Trouble with the law.”

  “The SEALs let in people like that?”

  “They let in people who can overcome anything. He not only beat all of that in the end, getting married and becoming a devoted husband and father. But he also had his right hand crushed when that vehicle rolled over on it in Afghanistan, plus lost an eye in a training accident.”

  “So that was the end of his career, then.”

  “No. It was just the beginning. He taught himself to shoot all over again – with his off hand and his off eye. And then he made it into the top-tier SEAL team. You’ve got to understand that guys who make it to that level do so by moving, shooting, and seeing better than all but a tiny handful of people on the planet. So picture a right-handed quarterback forced to throw with his left arm, then making it as a starter in the NFL. Except with one eye. And people shooting at him.”

  Sarah shook her head. “He sounds like an amazing man.”

  Homer smiled again. “He was. But not for those reasons. In Afghanistan, Adam was tormented by the sight of Afghan children going around shoeless in winter. So he asked his wife to skip the care packages and send kids’ shoes instead. He personally distributed over five hundred pairs, plus socks, on one deployment alone. He kept a notebook where he m
arked down their sizes. Going around with that damned eye patch of his…”

  Sarah smiled. “I’d love to meet him.”

  “I wish you could. He was shot and mortally wounded on a raid in the Hindu Kush.”

  “I’m sorry. What happened?”

  “It was a classic mission profile for us – high-value target, deep in an area that was solid bad guys. No American forces had ever been to that valley. We needed to get in fast and hit hard, and were told that if we were still there after sunup, we’d run out of bullets, because we’d be fighting the whole valley.”

  “Let me guess…”

  “Yep. The terrain was a total nightmare, even worse than usual for those mountains, the helos couldn’t land, and we had to rope in. Then it was cliffs, avalanche paths, streams and rivers we had to ford. We still would have been all right – but, for political reasons, we had to have an Afghan contingent along with us.”

  “And they couldn’t keep up.”

  “Right again. We all but had to carry them. Took six hours to infil. On the target, we took some AK fire. Five minutes later, aircraft reported movement all over the area. The whole valley sort of woke up and started to maneuver in on us. We couldn’t call in air support because we didn’t know how many women and children were in the village, or where. Finally, we got badly pinned down by a shooter inside a residence. Adam instantly volunteered to go in. ‘I got it,’ he said. He was always Mr. I Got It. To get to the house, he had to climb over a stone wall, and as he rolled over the top, a shooter we hadn’t even seen raked him with AK fire. It caught him in his side, between the armor plates. Being attacked from all sides, we had to carry him to an emergency HLZ, farther out, stopping under fire to do chest compressions. We thought if anyone could pull through, it was Adam. But he lost too much blood. And it took too long to get him out.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah said again. “I guess there’s no justice in this world. And sometimes you just go down to bad luck.”

  Homer smiled, sadly. “Bad luck was when we cut off his pants to expose a leg wound – and found he was still wearing the Batman underwear his kids gave him.”