Convergence Read online

  Only able to get a few restless bouts of sleep, I glance at my watch and note that the sun should have risen half an hour ago. I work my way to the hatch and listen. It seems all quiet on the other side, which in itself doesn’t mean a bloody thing. Easing the hatch open a touch, I peek through the crack and don’t find the shoes or feet of something waiting for me to emerge. Pushing it open, I place my weapons on the floor and hop into the cab, making sure to keep my profile below the windows.

  Easing up to the windows, I peek outside and find what I expected. Zombies are gathered in the train yard, some moving in groups while others meander off by themselves. I search for speeders that might be hidden among the ambling mass, but don’t see any that are behaving in a more coordinated way. That doesn’t mean that there aren’t any hiding out of sight among the rail cars. That possibility aside, the hundreds milling around makes it impossible for me to exit the train and head toward Indian Hill without being spotted.

  In the cab, I hear their muted moans, all of them creating a nearly continuous low rumble. This train yard has witnessed several battles, the bodies of those vanquished lying along its length. There are a few fresh corpses, the bodies reddened where sunlight strikes their skin, identifying them as night runners. And, if there are dead night runners, then there are most certainly more of the zombified ones laired somewhere in the city. But, those aren’t a concern in the light of day, and I feel no urge to venture back into that urban nightmare.

  There are fewer zombies shuffling near the station. Assuming speeders don’t come running, I could stand on top of the engine and plink the zombies to clear an open path, but shooting them all would consume a lot of my remaining ammo and take time that I’d rather spend heading toward Indian Hill. As it stands, with at least a ten-hour walk ahead of me, I won’t reach the town until close to dark, provided my journey is unmolested.

  My other option is to spend the day and another night in the engine and hope that the zombies clear out. The very thought of spending twenty-four more hours cooped up makes me a little anxious. It’s not undoable, but I’d rather not sit in the cab and count bolts. I could cause a distraction, but there’s really nothing inside that could create one big enough to allow me to escape.

  “Fuck this,” I mutter, reaching for the door handle on the station side.

  Cracking the door open, I shoulder my M-4, moving the selector switch to semi. The groans of the dead grow in volume and the reek of so many is nearly overpowering. It’s like walking into a high school locker room on a Friday afternoon. Only much worse.

  Near the rear of the engine, there are three zombies gathered in a semi-circle, probably exchanging recipes. Long shadows stretch along the tracks from the low sun, the sunlight nearly in my eyes, but the filter on the scope removes a lot of the glare. I place my reticle on the head of the one on the right, exhaling as I squeeze the trigger.

  The light snap of recoil pushes against my shoulder. With a muted cough echoing off the side of the engine, the round streaks between the metal railings that extend along the side of the engine. The bullet strikes just under the eye beside the nose, the solid bone causing the round to splinter and angle upward. The eyeball pops from the impact, the pieces of bullet penetrating unimpeded. They tear through the socket and into the brain before slamming against the inside of the skull. The zombie drops straight down as if it suddenly didn’t have any legs, and collapses on the gravel.

  Quickly reorienting my sight before the first one hits the ground, the other two are slowly turning their heads. But they’re too late, as I send a second projectile and then a third. The sound of the suppressed rounds is lost in the moans of the horde gathered in the vicinity. The bullets rapidly cross the intervening space and slam into their heads, one impacting at the temple and blowing chunks of bone and brain matter from behind, the yellow glare from the sun turning a faint pink. The other hits the head right at the nostrils and smashes its way through to the brain. The two zombies join their brethren on the ground with a crunch of gravel.

  Taking care to keep quiet, I ease the door open wider. Most of the zombies on the station side are taking leisurely strolls either along the tracks or on the platform. Sliding outside, I scope each one that presents itself and send it a greeting, slowly working my way from the rear of the engine toward the front as I add more bodies to the number already decaying in the light of the new day. Between shots, I quickly glance around the area to ensure that the ones from the other side don’t give me an unwelcome surprise. It takes some time; I go through nearly an entire mag before I can declare the station side area clear.

  Replacing the near empty mag, I survey the entire yard. So far, the zombies haven’t noticed that some of their friends who attended the party aren’t showing up to the keg. I ease outside and sneak along the walkway, my carbine held ready for any that may want to throw a surprise my way.

  Halfway down the catwalk, I ease down one of the steel ladders, careful not to brush up against the chain or bump my M-4 against the railing. The moans coming from the other side of the engine are loud, the low notes seeming to vibrate everything. From my new ground view, I can’t see as much as I could atop the train, but the way still looks clear.

  Reaching down, I pick up one of the large stones from the track bed. Stepping away from the engine, I heave the rock up and over the train, aiming opposite to the direction I intend to travel. The stone arcs in the morning air, vanishing from sight on its downward trajectory. There’s a loud clang from the other side as the rock slams into the side of a boxcar. The moans take on a different note. I wait a minute. The zombies won’t exactly be racing toward the sound, but will most likely slowly meander as if they couldn’t really be bothered to show up at all.

  After the seconds tick off, I turn and quickly walk across the tracks to the station. Running might create too much noise, although with the low rumble of the zombies, I doubt they’d hear my feet pounding on the rocks. However, I don’t want to chance there being one with a hearing aid that might point me out to its friends.

  In the shadows of the station, I work my way behind the boxes from where I watched the whistlers and zombies fight. Across the tracks and past the engine, I see a mass of zombies gathered near a line of boxcars. Satisfied that I may have a clear path, I crouch-walk in the shadows, heading east to make my way along the lines of rail cars sitting in their sidings.

  Leaving the station grounds, I hop down and edge toward the security fencing a few yards away from a string of boxcars and flatbeds parked along an outside track. Stepping out from the shadow of the station, the morning sun bathes my shoulders in warmth. The shrub-filled high plains surrounding the town will soon heat up, and the sweat will begin flowing. The soft breeze blowing at my back will provide some cooling and the trees at the edge of the plains will provide shade, but the nearest are still miles away. I’ll have to make my way unseen across the open plain before having any chance at finding true cover.

  Creeping between several bushes, the moaning of the zombies filling the train yard behind slowly begins to fade, along with their toxic smell. Watching the nearby line of rail cars, I nearly stumble over the lower part of a leg poking up at an angle from the ground. One shoe is lying nearby, along with the shredded remains of a sock and strips of darkly stained cloth that I assume used to be part of the pants. The leg is mostly skeletal with a few dried tendons glued to the shin bones. Teeth marks mar the flesh showing near ground level, the skin still pink. I’m tempted to dig up the rest of the body just to see it, as I haven’t yet observed a whole body that has become entombed. However, my goal is to get clear of the yard and city as quickly as possible, and with the time it will take to reach Indian Hill, I don’t really want to spend what little I have digging up living corpses.

  I pass on, again wondering if those entrapped feel pain or have any thoughts. Are they continually feeling their last moments? The flesh certainly indicates that decay hasn’t set in—at least, it appears healthy. But there’s no sign
of blood flowing. The only way I can see that happening is that those poor souls are in some kind of stasis. I can’t imagine what it would be like if that condition passes and they’re brought back to awareness. Most would die almost instantly given their situation, but there would be a moment of confusion, fear, panic, and agony.

  Near the outskirts of the yard, I hear the crunch of stones grinding together. I’m instantly on guard, bringing my M-4 to bear and aiming toward the sound’s direction. I ease around a scrub bush taller than me, looking through the tangled branches toward the end of the line of rail cars. My heart leaps into my throat as I see a zombie staring directly at me with a couple of others behind. I instantly know that it’s a speeder because its body doesn’t look like it’s about to disintegrate. I also know that I’m in a little trouble because I peeked right when the speeder was looking in my direction. With the wind at my back, I wasn’t able to smell this small group.

  Without hesitation, the speeder launches forward with a scream and its arms waving like it’s Black Friday and I just unlocked the doors. With the distance quickly closing, I step out and shoulder my carbine. The cloudy eyes, the deeply bloodstained chin and teeth etch into my mind as I quickly scope in and put the tiny crosshair on the speeder’s face. No pinpoint aiming, just put the sight somewhere on the head. I snap the trigger, sending a quick burst. The rounds clearly impact, the face obscured behind a misty dark spray. The speeder’s head snaps backward under the forceful impacts, the feet continuing forward. One of its legs flies into the air as it falls backward, and the back of its head smacks into one of the tracks with a loud crack. It lies still, dark-colored blood flowing down its face and soaking into the greasy hair. The thick black liquid streams down the rusted track and pools on the tarred railroad tie.

  Backpedaling, I move the sight to the next one leaping over its fallen buddy. My burst is initially too low, the first round slamming into the neck with a wet smack. The next bullet hits the soft part under the chin and rips the tongue most of the way from its attachment before it hammers into the base of the skull. The third projectile splits its lower lip, the bottom teeth shattering and forced into the back of its throat. The round then angles upward, plowing through the upper palate, ripping through the sinus cavity, and forcing its way into the soft tissue of the brain. Black blood fills the speeder’s mouth, gushing outward in thick clumps—the same dark liquid pouring from each nostril. In mid-leap, its body goes limp and it slams into the ground face-first, skidding across the stones and leaving a dark smear.

  Another burst and the third speeder’s face is torn apart by high-speed projectiles ripping the flesh and shattering bones. It falls to the ground like a sack of meat. Knowing that the sounds of their screams will draw the zombies behind me, and possibly other speeders, it’s time for me to get the fuck out of Dodge.

  If I can get away quickly and remain out of sight, then the zombies up the tracks will give up after a bit and go back to their slow shuffling dance party. I could climb onto one of the box cars and lay low, but then I’d be right back in the same situation as at the engine. So, the key is to get away and not be seen doing it. Reaching down, I grab several stones and, like before, toss them over the line of boxcars in the direction of the rail yard. Several hollow metallic clangs follow, hopefully diverting the zombies away from the screams of the speeders.

  So far, I’ve made it perhaps a half-mile, emptying an entire mag in the process, and being surprised by a group of roving speeders. Suddenly, the thirty miles seems like a trip to Mars.

  I wonder what the solar system here looks like, I think, glancing skyward.

  Many of the sidings end, a few merging with others in a declining number of tracks until two sets lead outward across the plains. Knowing that zombies could be closing in behind, I quickly scope out the terrain. The tracks are on a raised bed with fence lines and telephone poles marching in tandem along the sides. A dirt access road parallels the tracks. Past the barbed wire attached to fence poles, scrubland stretches to the surrounding tree lines.

  I don’t see anything moving on either the tracks or across the prairie. My chief concern is that I will be easily visible to anyone who cares to take a look. If there are whistlers monitoring the town’s exits, they could be on me in a matter of minutes. I need to reach the tree lines a few miles away without that happening. With another glance behind, I adjust my pack and set out.

  Out on the plain, the breeze brings an occasional stink of death and decay. Tiny spirals of dust spin in the road as stronger gusts blow past. Several imprints show in the dirt, but the most recent are days old with the tread patterns rounded and covered with a thin layer of dust. I’m staying off the road in order not to leave prints of my own, instead walking at the base of the raised track bed. It’s slow going as I have to circumvent the small shrubs growing at the bottom and stones that have rolled down. The level of the tracks is nearly head height, so I’m attempting to use the height to hide my silhouette. However, that puts me in a position where I can’t clearly see to the other side, so I occasionally climb higher and peek over the crest to ensure that I’m not missing anything.

  The distant tree line grows larger as I work my way along the tracks. While I keep my eyes and ears open, my mind is in a continual spin of thoughts. They mostly center around how in the hell I’m going to get back to my world. I’ve been here for countless days and feel no closer to finding a solution, let alone understanding this place. There is the distinct possibility that this could be a one-way trip, which will go on my “this sucks big time” list if it turns out to be the case. I’m going to be one pissed-off individual if I’m stuck here. Even though the world I’m from is messed up, it’s not as bad as this place, and at least I had Lynn, my family, and friends. I had been all comfortable in my retirement, but something felt the need to interrupt that peace.

  One worry about being stuck here, aside from the personal loss, is that I’m not sure it’s survivable in the long run. There are just too many threats—mistakes are bound to happen. Even without missteps, there’s such a thing as just bad timing. I’ve done a hundred things that seemed damn near impossible—snuck through secure areas with active patrols, penetrated secure facilities—but all of those involved short-term mechanics. I could remain completely focused for the duration, but I always knew there was a tall glass of cold beer waiting on the other side. Here, there just might not be another side. This could be as good as it gets.

  Several times I think I see a discarded bag of Phritos tangled in the limbs of the bushes or pick up the very faint odor of a dropped roach, but it always ends up being just wishful thinking. I’m hoping that Mike and Trip are somewhere ahead, and I’m eager to see what’s guided them to Indian Hill. I pass by a set of tracks angling off the main branch, heading across the plains and into the distant tree line. It’s the line that eventually leads to, or at least close to, the quarry surrounded by security fencing greater than should be needed for such a place.

  I pause and reconsider continuing after Mike. Everything I found leads me down the set of tracks diminishing in the distance. It’s like the place is pulling at me. The urge to march in that direction is so strong that I find myself taking a step down the branching line.

  That quarry holds the key, I’m sure of it. If not the actual key, then something fucking important, I think, contemplating my options.

  There were times on missions when I felt similar things and acted on them, turning all of the pre-planning on its ear. Each and every time, they turned into something, whether that was finding a reaction force that we hadn’t known about, or one time, finding that our target was a ruse and a trap, the actual target located elsewhere.

  I’m torn. Toward Indian Hill are Mike and Trip, but my gut instinct is to find out what’s at the quarry. If it does provide a key to the way back home—leaving Mike and Trip here—I’m not sure I could live with that. I know if that happened to me, I’d find a way to cross dimensions and throat-punch the both of them. I
could go to the quarry, then find Mike and guide them back if anything is there. But by that time, he and Trip could be anywhere, and I’d have wasted more time. The best solution is to meet up with them first and then return.

  “Okay, fuckers, I’m coming. But we’re coming right back,” I mutter, rising from a crouch and crossing over the rails.

  The sun is rising toward its zenith as I approach the tree line. The change from prairie to forest is as abrupt as if a line was drawn, with the two sets of tracks continuing unimpeded through the midst of tall trunks. The swath of cleared land between the trees through which the rails run goes straight for a while and then makes a corner around a shallow hill. Dense growth forms along the edge of the woods, the green boughs of fir trees swaying in the light breeze. In the woods, tall trunks stretch upward, their limbed tops reaching for the sun. The thick covering overhead is nearly complete, with only an occasional streak of sunlight making its way through a break.

  I have no idea where in the hell Mike and Trip are, but I picture Trip carrying a case of Phritos while walking alongside Mike and telling stories of going to the moon or riding a unicorn.

  And I’m choosing to journey toward that?

  I quietly edge my way through the outlying brush, carefully parting the branches to minimize sound, and enter the forest. As I step past the last of the dense shrubs, I feel a sense of relief. I hadn’t realized how tense I was in the open, but now that I’m somewhat back in a comfortable domain, my anxiety level has substantially decreased. With the time that it’s taken me so far, I highly doubt that I’ll reach the junction at Indian Hill before the sun sets. So now I have to worry about finding a secure place before darkness sets in.