Adam Baker - Impact

The limo approached Vegas from the east, high speed down the interstate, kicking up a dust plume. V8 turbo roar. A marine stood in the sun roof like he was manning a gun turret. Face masked by sand goggles. Shemagh wrapped round his mouth and nose bandit style. He held an AR-15.

Frost and her companions in the passenger compartment. Zebra upholstery. Blue floor lights. Jolt and sway. Clink of bottles in the mini-bar.

One of the grunts in the driver compartment turned and leaned over the partition. Full flak and K-pot.

We call these trips Thunder Runs.

Yeah?

First journey was tough. Hotwired a Peterbilt and bulldozed our way down the nine-five, shunting vehicles aside. Hung out the side door providing cover fire. Tore up my shoulder like tenderised steak. Stuffed tissue in my ears. Had to rotate weapons in case my barrel started to melt. Long fucking day.

Frost nodded. She looked out the smoked glass window. Bleak desert.

But now we got a route. A clear path in and out the city. Pedal to the metal. Dont stop for anything or anyone.

She nodded.

Mind you, its never pretty. Infected folk hear us and walk into the road. Dont have the smarts to jump aside. Women, children. God awful mess. Sometimes it gets so bad we have to run the wipers.

Thats why we take turns to drive. Doesnt seem fair to put it all on one guy. Sight of them hitting the fender. Sound of them going under the wheels. Preys on your mind.

She turned her attention back out the window hoping, if she broke eye contact, the guy would shut up.

You dont have to look. Guess thats what Im saying. When we reach the city. Might be best just to close your eyes.

McCarran International Airport, Las Vegas.

Sentries manned the wire.

A two-man sniper team stationed in a squat watchtower. Faces striped with zinc cream like war paint. A crate of ammo and a piss-bottle. A portable sound system pumped Motrhead. Forty degree heat. Crazy boredom.

Rotted revenants, shambling skeletal things that had once been human, scrabbled at chain-link, anxious to reach aircrews they glimpsed walking between hangars and geodesic living quarters.

Scope reticules centred on a forehead. Focus/refocus. Distance-to-target calibrations.

Check out the fat guy, said Osborne.

Which one?

Construction dude. Tool belt. Keeps looking up at the razor wire, trying to remember how to climb.

Hope he doesnt remember how to cut. If these bastards figure how to use clippers, were all fucked.

Osborne set his rifle aside. He drained dregs of Cuervo Gold and hurled the bottle towards the fence. Smash of breaking glass.

He picked up his Barratt once more and rested the bipod on the planked wall of the sanger. Eye to the scope.

The infected man climbed chain-link. Shirt streaked with blood and pus, face knotted with metallic tumours.

Look at him. This guys fucking Nijinsky.

The rotted construction worker reached razor wire. Barbs tore his flesh.

Give me some red tip. I want to light this fucker up.

Standard full-metal jacket rounds swapped for a clip of incendiary cartridges.

Crank the charging handle. Cross-hairs centred on the bridge of the guys nose. Black eyeballs. Pitiless like a shark.

The guy hissed as if he could hear the sentries seventy-five yards distant.

Lower the cross-hairs. Centre on his open mouth.

Gunshot.

Skullburst. Head blown apart. Blood-spray and magnesium fire. The guys hard hat span and landed in the grass.

Give me a drink.

All we got left is Bud.

Tab-crack. Head thrown back.

Fucking piss. We need to hit the supermarkets again. Liberate some fucking cigars and shit.

Can-crunch. Belch.

A fresh survey of the crowd pushing at the fence.

Cross-hairs centred on a young girl, couldnt be more than seven. Ragged party dress. Metallic scalp tumours pushing through blonde hair.

We should hose these fuckers in aviation fuel and toss a match. Save some ammo.

How many rounds we got left?

Couple of days. After that we better get the hell out of Dodge.

Trenchman climbed the ladder. The shooters hurriedly threw a jacket over their beers and killed the music.

Hows it going, boys?

Pretty good, sir, said Osborne.

Trenchman could smell booze-breath. He ignored it.

The Hummer should be with us in five, ten minutes. Cover fire, all right?

They listened. A silent city.

Distant engine.

Any word when we might get out of this place, sir? Munition running low, and more of these fuckers every day, pardon my French.

Twenty-four hours and were done with this shithole. Pack our gear and hit the road.

Can I ask where we might be headed?

Yet to be determined. But anywhere is better than here, right?

Fuckin A, sir.

So stay sharp. You got our backs until then.

Gonna get bumpy, shouted the grunt.

Elevated freeway. Blurred glimpse of incinerated storefronts and wrecked automobiles. Crooked phone poles. Burning billboard for a magic show at the MGM Grand.

A swerve down the off ramp like they were heading for The Strip, then sharp left and jump the kerb into the grounds of Bali Hai Golf Club. Manicured fairways turned to meadow. They tore across the grass, spraying turf. They skid-swerved sand bunkers and an ornamental lake, flattened a couple of marker flags, whipped a dead irrigation hose. The driver ran wipers to clear mud.

Stay in the vehicle until we get through the gate. Gonna be plenty of shooting. Just sit tight until its over.

They jolted across Vegas Boulevard and slammed through a tear in the airports old perimeter fence.

They headed for the inner compound. Razor wire, floodlights and watchtowers. Troops corralled like POWs.

The shooting began. Distant crackle of cover fire. Infected mown down so the compound gate could be pulled wide.

A belt-fed .50 cal opened up close by. Concussions like hammer blows. Frost covered her ears.

The limo skidded to a halt. Frost almost thrown from her seat. She gripped the stripper pole for support.

Remember, said the driver. Just sit tight.

Sporadic gunfire. Troops eradicating a bunch of infected that managed to infiltrate the compound when the gate pulled back.

A gum-smacking marine knocked on the side window. All clear.

Frost opened the door and climbed out. She shielded her eyes. Emerged from a bubble of smoked glass into brilliant sunlight. Heat radiated from baked asphalt.

Watch your step, said the grunt.

Bodies sprawled on the ground. Men, women, children, felled by precise headshots.

She kicked through scattered shell casings. Skull fragments crunched underfoot.

She looked around.

The airport terminal buildings had been abandoned to the infected. She could see deformed figures in the B Gate lounge and control tower. Atlantic arrivals. T-shirt slogans in French and German. Big-ass Nikons slung round their necks. She watched them butt themselves bloody against plate glass as they tried to reach troops milling down below. Some of the blood smeared on the windows was black and crusted. Must have been throwing themselves against the glass day and night for weeks.

Rather than defend the entire airport complex, the garrison had fenced two runways and a couple of hangars, made a temporary home in a bunch of tents and Conex containers.

Beyond that was the Vegas skyline. Burned-out casinos. The onyx pyramid of the Luxor, punctured and smouldering like it took artillery fire.

Frost was joined by Pinback, Guthrie and Early. All of them in Air Force flight suits, backpacks slung over their shoulders.