Chapter 23: The Shame of Victory

                                    

                                          
Nearly everyone volunteers for the sake of the group. "I should go, I'm the one that got you into this mess," my Dad says as everyone goes silent, not wanting to say that they agree. Besides he must feel that he owes a payment for the vial of life-saving serum. 
                          
						
                          
"I'll cover you," my statement gets an uproar. People are shouting that I can't risk it. "I have to go, he's my Dad," I come back, not willing to lose him again, "plus I was the one who insisted on coming. You guys can still cover from the top," I insist. 
                          
						
                          
I hop down first; the circle immediately tightens but the shooters on the top take them down. My Father follows, crouching down by the wheel, taking his knife and hitting the biters on the head, then slipping them out. The friction is too great though, and the bodies won't slide out. 
                          
						
                          
"You almost done?" I shout, not willing to turn my head, letting down my guard. I hear a deep grunt, sounding somewhat like a no. "Need help?" I question. "What if he can't do this alone?" 
                          
						
                          
"It's fine," he manages to say and I refocus on the intruders. They come at us, their hands flailing wildly in hopes of coming across a piece of flesh to consume and satisfy.
                          
						
                          
They come in different heights and ages. There's one biter that looks barely older than five. Her blonde hair is matted with blood, her stomach so tight that you can count her prominent ribs and her eyes are dead; she's gone even before I shoot her in the head. 
                          
						
                          
There are so many people here; they have come for safety and have died in some massacre. All have become infected with the disease; it has slaughtered them down to the bone. This camp was annihilated so long ago, yet all of these biters have stayed. Maybe there was someone left in the brain; tiny but there. 
                          
						
                          
I force my mind from this line of thinking. These beings were murderers; they crawled up in the middle of the night to strangle you to death and then eat your carcass. 
                          
						
                          
"Almost done Em," my Dad peeks up from the lodged wheel and I am slammed back to the immediate situation. I turn around to see him crouching on the ground, kneeling by the wheel, furiously working to free it. 
                          
						
                          
"Emma," Aiden's voice sounds through the air. I look up and everything goes light with clouds. Then I feel a cold hand grip my shoulder. The hand is harsh and slimy, the dreadful scent of death wandering from its limb to my body. A spine chilling sensation courses through my muscles, causing them to tighten reflexively.
                          
						
                          
I can hear the mouth opening, going for my neck. The argument, on the top of the truck of whether to shoot or not, suddenly stops. I struggle to turn around but already the swarm is closing in. Then there's gunshot, the hand slips away and I attempt to turn my body away from it. I end up being taken down, the body lying on top of mine; the empty soul is heavy, I can't pull him off. I can hear the dragging of feet, creeping along the road, closer to where I am pinned down. 
                          
						
                          
The swarm towers over me, casting shadows against my Father and the car. He's shouting for them to come to help, that his daughter is still there but they encourage him to leave, that he's finished. I can hear the engine roaring to life. I hear them driving away, leaving me hear to die but then the walking bodies go past me, not acknowledging me under the body. Maybe the repugnant stench of the biter is repelling them away, masking my own living aroma.
                          
						
                          
I know I have to get out of here but the truck is long gone. The dust particles are picked up from behind the tires, now free, blowing between the feet of the biters. 
                          
						
                          
The swarm slowly dies down, not moving, trapping me. Fear envelopes me. I'll be trapped here and in this damned world I'll die of starvation or dehydration and not this lethal disease. 
                          
						
                          
I try to roll to the side but a lump in my pocket prevents me from doing it. I remember, the radio is still in my pocket. I can communicate with them but the conversation will be one way. I reach my hand down, trying to avoid arousing suspicion. I take deep, foul breaths. Particles of decaying skin fly in and out of my nose. Finally, my hand grips around the cold, hard machine. Then I weave my hand back up to my head. 
                          
						
                          
Suddenly a biter stops, looking down oddly at me, its lost eyes in a deep place of wonder. Its hand reaches out, its knees bending downwards. Then unexpectedly, its bones snap and the body collapses; the bone sticks outwards from the wound, causing a tidal wave of blood to spray like a hose. It covers my face, masking me as one of their own.
                          
						
                          
I take the radio and press the transmitting button and speak, "I'm still hear, please I'm stuck," desperation fills my hollow voice. I'm trying to stay quiet, not draw attention, "I'm stuck under a body. They're all around me but the body on top of me is protecting me, masking my scent. Please come back," I say to the emptiness. I 'm not sure if anyone hears me or not. "I'm gonna die here if you don't come back, I know you can't respond but just come back," I shut off the radio and shove it back in my pocket. I don't know how long I wait, listening to the endless groans from the bodies. I hear the occasional crow, scavenging for food, flying above the huddle. There's never silence, always the sliding off feet and friction of the worn down road. I keep my eyes closed, my breathing even, giving all of my energy into not gagging at the poisonous stench. 
                          
						
                          
Out of the blue I hear the constant spin of blades, coming from high in the sky. A helicopter is flying above. How can that be? I can hear it landing beside the swarm. There's the noise of boots on the ground, army talk between three or four men.

                          
 "Remember, the main goal is to obliterate 
                          
						
                          
the swarm, get the bombs ready," I hear them say and fear rushes through me. They can't just blow this place to hell; I'm here and alive. 
                          
						
                          
I listen to every voice in hopes of gaining information. I know that I can shout out to gain attention but it won't just get theirs, and I know that the biters will get to me first. Then I hear someone yell "Sergeant, wait, there's a heat signature."