The Last Marine
Chapter 37: Hell’s Highway
CHAPTER 37: HELL’S HIGHWAY
The moment Quinn stepped into the open, the world seemed to slow down. The nearest infected, a dozen of them milling between the cars, turned their heads, their vacant eyes locking onto him. A low, hungry moan rippled through the group. They began to shuffle towards him.
"Now, Hex," Quinn said into his walkie-talkie, his voice calm and steady.
A fraction of a second later, a deafening car horn blared to life from across the highway, a sustained, piercing shriek that cut through the moans of the dead. It was followed by another, then another, as Hex’s rigged noisemaker kicked in.
The effect was dramatic. The infected shuffling towards Quinn stopped dead. Their heads swiveled in unison towards the source of the louder, more persistent sound. Their simple, singular minds had a new target. They turned and began to move away from Quinn, a small but significant portion of the horde drawn to Hex’s diversion.
It was the opening Quinn needed. He ran, his feet pounding on the cracked asphalt, weaving between the derelict cars. He reached the massive fuel tanker, its silver skin dull in the fading light. He did not hesitate. He pressed the steel bit of the heavy-duty drill against the lowest point of the tank and pulled the trigger.
The drill whined, a high-pitched, metallic scream that was a dangerous sound in this quiet, deadly place. A few nearby infected, their attention not fully captured by the horns, turned back towards him. Quinn ignored them, putting all his weight into the drill. The bit chewed through the aluminum skin. A dark, viscous fluid began to seep out around the drill bit—gasoline.
He pushed harder. The bit broke through. A torrent of fuel gushed from the hole, splashing onto the ground. The powerful, acrid smell filled the air.
"Phase one complete," he grunted into the walkie-talkie. "Get ready."
He pulled the drill free and sprinted away from the tanker, not looking back. The fuel was now pouring out in a steady stream, forming a dark, growing pool on the pavement before beginning to snake its way down the slight incline of the highway, a black river of potential fire.
The infected he had ignored were now closing in on him. He dispatched two of them with his axe, but there were more coming.
"Hex, now!" he yelled.
From his hidden position, Hex fired the road flare. It shot into the sky, a brilliant red comet that arced gracefully before descending towards the spreading pool of fuel.
The world erupted in a wall of fire and sound.
The gasoline ignited with a deafening whoosh, a wave of orange and yellow flame that roared to life, consuming the pavement, the nearby cars, and the closest infected in a heartbeat. The fire followed the stream of fuel, creating a burning river that flowed away from the bridge, a brilliant, terrible spectacle of destruction.
The horde reacted as one. The combined stimulus of the intense light, the roaring sound, and the searing heat was an irresistible siren call. The thousands of infected packed onto the bridge turned away from their silent vigil and began to move, a massive, unified tide of bodies, towards the fire.
It was a vision from hell, beautiful and terrifying in its scale. And it was their only chance.
"Lena, go! Now!" Quinn screamed into his radio.
From their hiding place, Lena emerged, pushing the children and a terrified Clara in front of her. "Move! Stay together!" she commanded, her voice cutting through the roar of the fire.
They began their desperate trek down the embankment, towards the relative safety of the riverbank. Quinn and Hex, their own paths cleared by the raging inferno, converged, their objective now to provide a rear guard.
But something was wrong. The diversion was not as perfect as they had hoped. While the vast majority of the horde was drawn to the fire, a significant number—hundreds, at least—were not. They seemed confused, caught between the instinct to move towards the fire and some other, unseen command. They milled about on the bridge, a chaotic, agitated swarm, effectively blocking the path to the maintenance ladder.
"They’re not all moving!" Hex yelled over the roar of the flames. "Something’s holding them here!"
Quinn saw it too. His grand gambit had only partially succeeded. They had a path, but it was still guarded. They were out of time. The fire was spreading faster than he had anticipated, and the smoke was beginning to create a thick, choking cloud.
There was no other choice. They had to go through.
"New plan!" Quinn shouted. "We fight our way to the ladder! Stay close!"
He led the charge back towards the bridge, plunging into the chaos. The world became a claustrophobic nightmare of smoke, fire, and violence. The heat from the burning river of fuel was intense, baking one side of his face. The smoke was thick, acrid, making his eyes water and his lungs burn.
Infected lunged at them from out of the smoke, their forms silhouetted against the flames. It was pure, close-quarters butchery. Quinn’s axe rose and fell. Hex’s shotgun boomed, each blast a cannon shot in the swirling chaos. Lena, using her scalpel with deadly precision, protected the children, her small form a whirlwind of desperate defense.
They fought their way to the base of the massive concrete pillar. Above them, the maintenance ladder seemed to stretch up into an infinity of smoke and darkness.
"Get them up!" Quinn yelled, pushing Lena towards the ladder. "Go!"
Lena began to climb, pulling a terrified Lily up with her. Clara followed, then the other children, their small, dark shapes disappearing into the smoke.
Quinn and Hex held the base of the pillar, a desperate, back-to-back last stand. The infected were swarming them now, drawn to the sounds of their fight. Quinn’s arms were leaden, his movements growing slower. Hex was down to his last few shotgun shells.
They were being overrun.
Just as the last of the children scrambled onto the bridge deck above, a new sound cut through the chaos—the roar of a powerful engine.
The Armored Personnel Carrier at the military blockade, the one they had assumed was disabled, suddenly lurched to life. Its headlights cut through the smoke, and it began to move, plowing through the wreckage and the infected, straight towards them.
For a heart-stopping second, Quinn thought it was another threat. But then he saw who was in the driver’s hatch. It was Ben, the young man from the clinic. He was not dead. He was covered in blood, his face a mask of grim determination, but he was alive. His diversion had led him not to his death, but to the APC.
"Get on!" he screamed, his voice barely audible over the engine and the fire.
He brought the massive vehicle to a grinding halt beside them, its heavy machine gun spraying fire into the horde, clearing a precious pocket of space. Quinn and Hex did not need to be told twice. They scrambled onto the back of the APC, pulling themselves up onto its metal hull just as a wave of infected crashed against its sides.
Ben threw the APC into gear and plowed forward, a relentless juggernaut of steel. They drove straight through the last of the blockade, the vehicle’s massive weight crushing cars and bodies with equal indifference. They were through. They were on the other side.
They roared down the highway, leaving the fire, the smoke, and the city of the dead behind them. Quinn looked back. He saw Lena and the children on the bridge, safe for the moment, their small figures silhouetted against the burning sky.
They had made it. Bruised, battered, and diminished, but they had made it through hell’s highway. They had survived the gauntlet.