“Look,” she says, pointing under the bridge. Two figures wade into the water, swimming away. Again, they stumble, sinking below the surface like rocks.
The workers in hazmat suits push the final evacuees toward the center of the bridge and seemingly out of nowhere soldiers in black uniforms and face masks rush in with barricades.
“What the heck?”
“Maybe they’re blocking the area from Eaters?” Mom says, always the optimist.
“Maybe,” I agree, but the feeling in my stomach doesn’t. Something is wrong. I climb up the door to get a better look. What I see doesn’t make me feel better. The entire group looks like cattle ready for slaughter.
The helicopter loops around depositing snipers on rooftops, before vanishing as quickly as it arrived. The beating propeller disappearing into the sunrise. Two school buses pull up to the bridge and the tension in my stomach fades. Maybe this is on the up and up. The feeling subsides completely as the unmistakable cries of Eaters break the quiet morning and the snipers move—picking them off like a carnival game. We watch for an hour as each person is scanned, processed, and moved into two lines. One group goes on one bus, the others move to the other. From here I can see that the processing includes an injection.
“What do you think that is?” I ask.
“Maybe they’ve figured out an antidote? A vaccination?” We both know it’s possible. That men and women like my father have figured this out.
I spot a flash of red. “There’s Paul, he made it.” He goes through the intake and then dips in between the buses. From here it’s impossible to tell which one he boarded.
By the time the process is over the sun is creeping toward the sky. “Should we have gone?” Mom asks.
“No.” I shake my head but the low rumble of the bus is comforting. They probably have air conditioning. Food. Water.
I’m beyond ready for this to be over when the first bus pulls away from the bridge. The cab of the truck has started to bake as the heat of the day warms the roof. The cracked door only allows so much air and without the helicopter there isn’t much breeze. We can’t leave. And the longer we stay in the hot cab water becomes ever more precariously close to drying out. We wait, trapped, for the second bus to roll out but there’s some sort of delay.
“Maybe we should consider another route out of town,” Mom says, fanning herself with a pizza flyer from the floor of the truck.
“It’s too far,” I say. We’d analyzed the map. This was the fastest way out of town and in the right direction. “Once these guys leave it should be okay. They’ve even taken out most of the Eaters in the area. It should be pretty safe.”
“Then we wait,” she says.
The beat of helicopter blades slices through the air. Maybe they’re back to pick up the snipers. Whatever the reason I’m just thankful for the current of air pushing through the door.
“Oh, thank God,” I say. Sure enough they drop ropes over each building and the gunmen climb up and enter the helicopter.
The aircraft makes a sudden turn, swooping back over the bridge. I notice a convoy of military vehicles pass, the bright white hazmat suits visible through the open windows. I glance back at the bus, waiting for it to follow but it doesn’t. Shadows move inside the darkened windows, the people obviously getting restless.
Feeling similarly impatient, I push the door open to allow in more air. Once the sun hits the peak of the sky, Mom and I will have to move. It’s too hot in here.
Over the sound of the returning helicopter, I turn to her and say, “You about ready—”
Kaboom! An explosion rocks the 18-wheeler, the pavement and even my teeth. The ground shifts beneath us, while dirt and debris rain down over the windshield and I grab the door, closing it tight.
Through the tiny patch at the bottom of the windshield I can see the ball of fire. “It’s the bus,” I say. “They hit the bus.”
“They?”
“They had to of, don’t you think?” Another explosion follows and I reach for my mother’s hand. We sit in silence waiting for the next wave.
“Why? What are they doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they kill them all?”
“I don’t know.”
“Paul—” She starts, fighting back a sob. I cut her a look. I can’t. It’s too much.
“He was on the first bus. He’s okay.”