Tuesday began the way every Tuesday had begun for the last six months. It always started with the 0430 alarm on Tamara Alvarez's watch buzzing against her wrist as she struggled to break out of the dreamscape.
She killed it on the first vibration, rolled off the cot in the corner of the Stryker, and sat there for a full thirty seconds letting the chill of the canvas floor bite into her bare feet. The vehicle smelled of diesel, gun oil, and the aroma of body oder from the several other people crammed inside. She could even hear someone snoring in the back which was nothing new.
Tamara pulled on yesterday's socks, then yesterday's uniform pants, then the same sports bra she'd been wearing since Sunday because clean laundry was a luxury, not just for her, but the rest of the battalion. She didn't bother with the rest of her uniform as it was still dark and the inside, and the Stryker was warm enough from body heat.
She laced her boots by feel, double-knotted them the way her father had taught her when she was eight, rolled her neck until it cracked, and climbed out through the top hatch.
Outside, the quarantine zone was quiet except for the low hum of generators and the occasional cough of a distant sentry. The sky over the dead zone was grey and faded, the same as every morning since the flare. She checked her watch again to see 0441, which was early, and early meant right on time. Tamara dropped to the pavement, slung her M4, and started her loop.
First checkpoint was the south-facing tower on the former 42nd and 8th. She climbed the scaffolding the engineers had welded together from old subway grating. Specialist Kim was up there, cheek welded to his rifle stock, eyes red from another twelve-hour shift.
"Morning, Sergeant," he mumbled without looking up.
"Morning, Kim. You eat yet?"
"Cracker and half a Red Bull at 0200."
"Red Bull? Where on earth did you find one of those?" She pulled a foil-wrapped breakfast burrito from her cargo pocket as she awaited his response.
"Okay, it's not authentic, just some flat carbonated garbage, but it does wonders to recall on the good ol' days, yeah?" he responded sheepishly as he eye balled her burrito.
She smirked and set it on the sandbag next to him. "Eat before you pass out, shoot a civilian, or worse, take me out."
Kim managed half a smile. "Yes, Sergeant."
She left him to it and kept moving.
Next came the vehicle park, where she checked the fuel levels on the three Strykers assigned to Bravo Company, signed the log, tapped the hood of hers twice for luck as an old habit. Then she walked the perimeter wire, eyes scanning for fresh breaches, new graffiti, anything that looked like someone had tested the fence while she was sleeping.
Nothing today. Good.
By 0530 the sun was thinking about coming up, a dull bruise behind the cloud cover. She stopped at the chow tent, traded a pack of cigarettes she didn't smoke for two cups of the premium coffee some of the higher-ups kept under lock and key. It still tasted like battery acid though. She carried one back to the Stryker for Rodriguez, who was finally awake and cursing the light.
"Rise and shine, Princess," she said, handing over the cup.
Rodriguez took it with both hands like it was holy water. "You're a saint, Tee."
"Yeah, well, saints don't have tower guard at 0600, so drink fast."
They sat on the back ramp in silence for a few minutes, watching the city pretend it was still alive. Somewhere down the avenue a single traffic light was still cycling red-yellow-green for nobody.
Tamara checked her watch again. 0542.
Time to start the day for real. She stood, stretched, and started walking toward the main gate. Tuesday was always the worst day for runners and she had a feeling today was going to be worse than usual.
Tamara reached the main gate catwalk and settled into the familiar rhythm of waiting.
Nothing moved on the avenue yet. Just the usual graveyard stillness. The wind pushed a shredded plastic bag down the double yellow line as the faint clink of a loose street sign rocked in its frame, the soft electric hum of the wire that told everyone on the other side, this far and no farther.
She rested her forearms on the cold metal railing and let her eyes do their work. First, the near field, or as she referred to it as the kill-zone which was of concertina and caltrops, was left still undisturbed.
Then the middle distance, an abandoned mass of taxis, a burned-out bus, a child's stroller lying on its side with one wheel slowly spinning whenever the wind caught it.
Finally, the far end where 8th Avenue disappeared into the haze, there was nothing but grey shapes and deeper grey shadows.
She counted heartbeats the way her father had taught her when she was learning to shoot. Her father was an ace at this sort of thing, though he never explained why or how he developed these skills. She assumed it was his military training, but he always said he worked a boring desk job while he was enlisted. To be honest, she picked up on the hints as she joined the military herself, but the words were still comforting. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.
One-one-thousand.
Two-one-thousand.
Three-one-thousand.
At thirty-seven-one-thousand she saw it, it was the faintest flicker of movement, half a mile out, maybe more. There was just a suggestion of color cutting through the grey, nothing to be concerned about. Yet.
She didn't reach for the radio yet. If she responded too early, it could simply be a reflection, or it could be a piece of debris catching the wind. So she waited, patiently.
Forty-five-one-thousand.
Forty-six--
The bright colored resolved itself into the roof of a Penske box van creeping along at under ten miles an hour, headlights off, moving like the driver was trying to keep any warning from the dead, to ensure that they made it to the city unmolested.
Tamara's stomach settled into the familiar knot she only ever felt on Tuesdays. Of course, it had to be a Tuesday. Who hated Tuesdays? There was someone… Was it a cat? Something about that reference was wrong. She didn't know, she just knew shit was about to hit the fan.
She lifted the binoculars that hung from her neck on a piece of 550 cord and brought the truck into focus.
The driver was male, mid-twenties, beard patchy, eyes wide and bloodshot. Hands locked at ten-and-two exactly, like he was gripping the wheel as though he were terrified he were going to be pulled over. Oh to be pulled over, such petty discrepancies. Those were the days, or so her father told her.
No passengers were visible in the cab.
She lowered the binoculars and simply watched, letting the truck close the distance on its own terms.
Eight hundred meters.
Seven hundred.
The driver eased off the gas a little more. The truck slowed to a crawl, engine note dropping to a low grumble that barely carried.
Six hundred.
Tamara raised her right hand, palm open and facing the truck, a universal symbol for stop and be recognized. She kept it steady, shoulder-high, no aggression yet.
Five hundred meters.
The driver saw her. She watched his eyes flick up to the gesture, then to the barricade, then to the soldiers she knew he could now make out on the catwalk and behind the Humvees.
His foot came off the accelerator completely. The Penske rolled forward on pure momentum, slowing, slowing…
Four hundred meters.
Tamara allowed herself the smallest exhale.
Come on, kid. You're almost there. Just stop and talk. We can resolve this, we can protect you.
Three hundred-eighty.
The truck's forward motion dwindled to a lazy drift.
Three hundred-fifty.
She could see the driver's lips moving now as though he were speaking, or rather praying to some long lost god.
Three hundred-twenty.
And then his eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror.
Whatever he saw in that mirror drained every drop of color from his face.
His foot slammed back onto the accelerator.
The Penske roared like a wounded animal and charged forward.
Thirty meters.
Tamara's voice was ice over the radio.
"Weapons free. Driver failed to comply. Engage. Shoot to kill."
The .50 cal spoke first in a flurry of bursts that tore into the vehicle. The windshield disintegrated upon contact. The driver's head snapped back, then forward, blood painting the inside of the cab in a red fan, but his dead foot stayed welded to the accelerator.
The moving vehicle kept coming as it reached Twenty-five meters.
Twenty.
"Engine block!" she ordered.
Lee walked the .50 lower. Rounds tore through the hood in a ripping snarl. Steam and oil erupted. The engine coughed, seized, but momentum is a cruel god.
Fifteen.
The truck drifted left, dead driver steering by weight alone, aiming now at the barricade itself.
Ten.
Tamara vaulted the railing, boots hitting pavement hard enough to rattle her spine. She landed running.
Five.
The Penske slammed into the lead Humvee broadside. Metal screamed. The Humvee rocked up on two wheels and crashed back down. The box van kept shoving, trying to bulldoze its way through, tires spinning uselessly on blood-slick asphalt. Then there was an instant heartbeat of stunned silence. Then the roll-door exploded outward.
Infected poured into the gap like water from a ruptured dam, the dead pouring in from nowhere, at least nowhere they had seen prior. Black veins, clouded eyes, the unmistakable jerky gait of the undead pulled them forward to feast on the living, but Tamara was already moving.
She dropped to a knee behind the second Humvee's tire, rifle up and fired three shots. Crack. Crack. Crack.
Three down before they cleared the truck's shadow.
"Lee, keep the .50 on the truck! Everyone else, staggered line, now!"
Boots pounded behind her as the ready reaction squad sprinted from the guard shack.
The first wave of infected hit the open ground.
Tamara rose, advancing two steps, firing controlled bursts to maintain aim.
Crack-crack. Crack-crack.
A woman in a nurse's scrubs dropped.
Crack-crack.
A teenage boy in a high-school letter jacket folded.
She kept moving forward, her boots crunching over spent brass, voice steady.
"Left flank, watch the cut-through! They'll try to spill around!"
The .50 overhead thundered again, chewing the Penske's cab into scrap, keeping any latecomers pinned inside.
Ten meters from the burning truck the tide thinned.
Tamara slapped a fresh magazine home, charged the rifle, and kept walking into the smoke.
An infected lunged from her blind spot, a big guy, construction vest, rebar protruding from one shoulder.
She pivoted, butt-stroked him across the temple, and put two rounds into his chest as he fell.
Another came low and fast. She sidestepped, drove her muzzle down, and fired point-blank into the top of its skull.
The air stank of cordite, burning diesel, and the copper-sweet reek of the dead.
Her squad was behind her now, rifles barking in staggered rhythm.
Twenty infected down.
Thirty.
Forty.
The last one, a child no older than ten, hospital gown flapping, stumbled out of the smoke and stopped, head cocked, as if confused by the noise.
Tamara's rifle came up.
Her finger never took the slack.
The Penske's ruptured fuel tank chose that moment to fully ignite.
A roaring fireball swallowed the truck, the remaining infected, and half the barricade in a single orange-white bloom.
The pressure wave hit Tamara like a freight train.
She flew backward, rifle torn from her hands, world spinning.
She had time for one coherent thought before the back of her skull met the Stryker's front grille.
Not like this.