The Survivors: Book One

February 16th, 2013

Near Roosevelt, Utah

1

"Harrison to Eagle One. Twelve o'clock, high."

Adrian looked up from the roadmap he had splayed across the steering wheel, eyes narrowing on the huge black cloud coming over the distant hill towards them. It moved like a badly-trained platoon, spreading an evil shadow over the land, and Adrian leaned forward, "What the hell is…Shit! Convoy halt! Put it in park, and get down as low as you can!"

Doing 35 mph, he slammed both feet down, reaching for the trailer brake. Pulling the curved handle, he applied the clutch as he downshifted through half the gears, and then tugged the rear controls harder. The semi shuddered, grinding as the tires started to lock up and thick white smoke rolled from the back wheels.

Left hand straining to keep the heavily-loaded truck straight, he let go of the chicken-stick, using the pedals again, and the semi ground to a halt. "Neil, Kyle, get that truck of turkeys away from us!"

"What is it?"

Adrian groaned as their birds began clucking loudly, responding to the faint echoes, and were answered. "Everybody stay down! Fate sent us another wild card!"

The sickly flying birds headed straight for the convoy, an enormous flock of possible contamination. Adrian had enough time to wonder what species they had been - seeing bald wings and dead, black eyes - before all the flock arrived.

Birds began slamming into them, shattering windows, banging off doors and hoods with awful thuds, sending blood and guts flying as the blind, feetless radiation victims came in for a landing. They flew through open windows, pecking, calling to each other ceaselessly, and were killed by the vehicles nauseated occupants with horrified feet and fists. They squelched against trees, ripped apart on sharp, bare juniper branches, and hit the ground with wet, sickening thuds, the cloudy wind gusting them down faster than even the Eagles could handle. The flock was uncountable.

Adrian watched, knowing the sounds of their guns wouldn't be enough to carry through the din of birds calling, screams, glass cracking, and awful, wet thuds. A fire of some kind? Loud stereos?

Now holding his vest over the cracked, gore-splattered windshield, Adrian saw Kenn step out of his truck, and knew instantly that the Marine was about to work his bolt and make himself look good doing it. About damn time!

That's exactly what Kenn was thinking as he quickly climbed onto the roof of the school bus. Birds were diving in for sightless landings all around him, and he began blowing the air horn he'd taken from his glove box. The kids had their windows down and were being pecked and scratched by the incoming birds. Sick birds, and he knew Adrian would be relieved that only a couple had gotten through. The lower half of the glass was taking the brunt of the aerial assault so far.