Convoy 19: A Zombie Novel by Mark Rivett Read Free Book Online

Caught between the trailer and the parked Humvee, the semi-truck went the only place it could – up, sideways, and directly toward Sergeant Harvey.
    Carl dove out of its path. In the next moment, the semi smashed into the top of the hummer Carl had taken cover behind, crushing the gunner and the crew inside.
    The semi-trailer careened through the row of military vehicles, sliding on its side. Loose from its hitch, it pushed aside two other Humvees and smashed a huge hole in the blockade before skidding to rest behind the breach. The Convoy was now split, separated by the wreckage of two Humvees and a semi.
    “COVER!” Carl screamed. Two vans pulled up to the convoy’s right and two more pulled to the convoy’s left. The armed civilians fired at any military target they could see, and Carl was -- for the moment -- exposed. Taking aim with his rifle, he let a volley of fire erupt into the driver of the nearest van, who vanished behind a spray of blood that covered the windshield. Without a moment’s pause, he back-pedaled to another Humvee, where one of his drivers had taken up a defensive position. The driver was firing at the attackers while another soldier pulled a badly wounded gunner into cover.
    Attacks by civilians were common, but none had been this brazen or desperate. Civilians in mock-military formation poured out from within the four vehicles. Five, then fifteen, then thirty people joined the vicious firefight, laying down an oppressive onslaught. The convoy teams were outnumbered, badly hurt, and squads of militants were closing in around them. Though the firefight was undisciplined, there were bound to be a few lucky shots that would, one by one, dispatch every member of the Convoy team. There was no chance any one of the civilian attackers would make it to the naval base – let alone the fleet offshore. That fact would not save the convoy soldiers’ lives.
    Pam shoved her laptop in her backpack and drew her rifle. Three attackers were creeping up the right side of the highway from around the wreckage of a car. She took aim, pulled her trigger, and the man in front dropped. The other two grabbed their wounded friend and tried to retreat into cover as they fired back at her. The exchange caught the attention of one of the Humvee gunners who had been able to mount his weapon. In a thunder of fifty-caliber machinegun fire, the two men and their wounded companion convulsed like bloody rag-dolls. The demonstration of power gave the attackers momentary pause.
    Bullets clanged and popped around the Humvee gunner hunkering down between the armored plates of the hatch. He was elevated and well armored, but drawing fire. Carl looked for anyone firing at the gunner. Wherever the gunner sprayed his torrent of death, attackers dove for cover or died in a violent plume of red mist… but the attackers continued, popping out from their hiding places to take pot shots when they could. Carl looked for anyone who took more than a second to aim, or exposed themselves a little too much…and killed them or forced them back into cover.
    Miguel had drawn his pistol and taken position behind the open door of a Humvee. The pistol was effective, but nowhere near as accurate as a rifle – or destructive as the mounted gun he was used to using. Calmly, he took aim at a woman firing a rifle out of the sliding doors of one of the vans. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, he saw a grey, rotting hand reach around from the back of the parked van, grip hold of her shoulder, and jerk her back out of view. He knew instantly what had just happened.
    “WDs!” Someone screamed through the communications network. The acronym, Walking Dead, was adopted by the military to sterilize the threat they faced.  Somehow having a military acronym was little less horrifying than calling them “zombies” or “ghouls.” Those were fictional terms for fictional creatures, but these monsters were all too real.
    Being distracted momentarily by the