The Inevitable Zombie Uprising (8)

Chapter Four: Charging

“I am the law, and I am the judge! I am the oppressed, and there is the oppressor! Through him I have lost all that I loved, cherished, and venerated – country, wife, children, father, and mother. I saw all perish! All that I hate is there! Say no more!” – Nemo, Captain of the Nautilus

An aging tractor-trailer is not the typical culprit for the epicenter of doomsday. It might support any sort of enterprise, haul any sort of goods, and supply any number of truck stops with their basic income. At the outside, it might take part in a terrible vehicular collision. Ending the world seems out of their league. Of course, there are exceptions to every rule.
A single rider, dressed in a racing biker's body armor, tore over twisting country roads on his Yamaha. The gravel had been insignificant for his quarry, but for him it was a serious danger. He pushed the engine harder as he kicked the gears and rounded another curve. Catching up would be a challenge. He'd called for backup, but doubted anyone was able to respond. “This is a war, I know, and a hidden one. We're taken a lot of losses, but we're close to really winning. And really close to exposure. Bloody Hell its hot under all this. Stupid sun.
Focus. You've got to focus. You might well be the only thing that can stop that truck, and if they make it to a real city – probably an airport too, knowing them – it'll be the bubonic plague and the potato famine and the Spanish Flu, and every strain of smallpox known to man all mixed into one. An invisible incubation period, guaranteed spread-on-contact, who knows what horrors they mixed up.” Another sharp turn. Rocks fly, the bike slips, and recovering nearly sends him off the road in the other direction. “Damn, I'm glad no one lives out here.”

And so he went on, his thoughts racing in roughly the same circles, as the sun passed its off-center zenith. The wind had torn at him in the morning, but by noon it subsided – except to the constant buffet he forced his steed though. Within a few minutes, he caught sight of his prey, still a few miles off. Far enough back that they might not have seen him, yet close enough to catch. Finally.
For the first time that day, he shut off the engine. It was quite impossibly to check the gadget that functioned as a map while riding, and he would not go in alone on a hard target with no plan.
“We know the trucks are explosive now, so I can't just hit it. My best odds are in ambush. Kill the driver, stop the truck. Kill the guards, solve the problem. Besides, they're wolves. Killing them is the plan anyway, right?”
He chose an probably intersection, quietly thanking the detail on his GPS, and spent another hour overtaking his quarry. That was the hard part. Everything else would be habit.
Densely wooded thickets along the road hinted that this land once belonged to the forest. With a tiny roll of netting, they also became a simple blind. A powerful rifle assembled with quiet, reassuring clinks. The waiting began.
The sun seemed even hotter now. The sniper's blind had every characteristic of an oven. Insects buzzed lazily, mindless that the declining year would soon freeze them into hiding. Perhaps the flies would be gifted some carrion today. Another idle thought. Protection or not, this heat is getting to my head.

A dust plume appeared on the horizon. The truck appeared for a moment, then dissipated below a hill. Now it was in range, as soon as he could see it again, he could shoot. One second. Five. Patience. Fifteen long seconds. Too long, they've seen me somehow.

In the cab of the truck, a different discussion was being hashed.
“Here? Why here? This road goes nowhere!”
“Trust me, Vincent. There's a little bridge on some private land that might not be on his maps. Just smash that gate down and keep going.”
The gate protested loudly, but gave instantly. Their Peterbilt gained another interesting 'character scrape,' the the tires soon crossed that barrier.
“You saw the dust. Someone was chasing us. You saw it turn away – if they were after us, they probably went to set up an ambush.
“Or you're being paranoid, and costing us time by taking us though some poor dude's cow pasture. We'll probably have to turn around and then they'll catch us.”
The long hours awake, a couple days' worth, might have edged on his nerves a bit.
“Trust me. I'm navigating. That's what I'm here for.”
“Fine. But if you're responsible for our failed genocide, I'm gonna put you on report.”
Leo laughed. Not the sort of sound one makes out of humor, but a nervous, edgy sort. A combat-tense laugh.