An Apocalypse Family (Book 1): Family Reunion (9 page)

“That pistol, it can load both .45 rounds and .410 shells. As far as I can figure, he shot both of them with .45 rounds, then sat down and did himself with a .410.”

Max nodded. “Yeah, he didn’t want to risk flinching and ending up a vegetable.”

Lisa had gone to the other end of the counter and was holding up a ledger.

“He left a note,” she announced, and went on to read it out loud. “Whoever finds this, we decided as a family that we did not want to live in a world that was ruled by zombies. Take whatever you want, 12-29-16-12; Mel, Trina, and Beth.”

“That’s pretty fucked up,” said Max, lowering his head.

“Let’s move some supplies in for the night and get some extra protection against those doors,” I said, not wanting to dwell on the three lying there.

“Don’t you think we ought to at least move them out of here?” Lisa asked.

“Yeah… Max and I will put them in that dumpster out front,” I answered unenthusiastically.

We wrapped them up in a tarp we found in the back room. I just opened the door, went in, and looked around, shining my light on all the stored equipment. I never once thought about the possibility that freaks could be in there. Luckily, they weren’t.

Max vetoed putting them in the dumpster; instead, we loaded them into the back of his truck. We then went for a ride and placed them in a vacant lot about six blocks away.

Driving back, my mind wandered as it was wont to do while I wasn’t busy figuring out how to stay alive.

J, I miss you, I will find my way there no matter how long it takes. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I wish I could hit the rewind button, go back, and fix this. Survive baby, just survive…

“Hey, shithead, stop dwelling on it,” Max said, looking over at me.

“What?” I said.

“You’re beating yourself up over shit you cannot change. I can see it pulling you down.”

“Thanks, Sigmund.”

I turned back to the window.

“Hey, pull in here!”

Max did as I asked and pulled into the gas station.

“Look, let’s not mess with the fuel today. Let’s just get back and get shit squared away at the gun shop,” he said to my back as I walked away from the truck.

“I’m not worried about the fuel,” I said over my shoulder as I bent down, picked up a trashcan, and threw it through the window of the gas station.

I climbed through and grabbed a carton of Marlboro Lights and a six-pack of lighters. I got back into the truck and said, “Go.”

He didn’t say another word. I’d quit smoking a few years before and started using an e-cigarette, which had stopped working about an hour into this ordeal. I ripped into the carton, smacked the top of a pack on the heel of my hand a couple of times, then opened it and lit a cigarette. The smoke curled around my face as I took a drag, sucking it down into my nicotine-starved lungs.

As I exhaled, he just said, “Aw, shit.”

He reached over and grabbed a pack. After a few minutes of us sitting there quietly smoking, we both just started laughing. Lisa shook her head.

“What the hell, give me one. Doesn’t matter anyway, right?” she said.

As soon as we got back to the gun shop, we got busy setting up for nightfall. We draped tarps over the windows and pushed a heavy gun safe over to the doors, laying it down sideways to get it off the casters. It looked like it would be enough, but we got a second one and did the same.

“There, that’s not going anywhere,” Max said.

“I hope not. Still, let’s set up our stuff in the back where there are no windows.” When hiding from things that go bump in the night, I am a firm believer in two zones of protection.

We moved into the storage room and tried to make it as comfortable as possible. We still had some daylight left, so we set out to enhance our weapon load. Max gravitated to the shotguns, and I wanted to find a 1911 .45. I found what I was looking for right away—two sets of matched Sig Sauer 1911 C3s, a smaller version of the 1911. Each had a 4.2-inch barrel, rosewood grips and polished steel frame with a seven-shot magazine.

“Hey Lisa, come over here and check these out.”

She made her way over and I held one out for her to see.

“Wow, I like the feel of that,” she said, moving it around, checking the balance.

“Yeah, it’s a .45, with a lot more punch than the M9 we have now. Now, let’s find some comfortable holsters.”

It didn’t take long to find two sets of holsters that would work. With two guns each, the math was easy. “Seven rounds, plus one in the pipe, will give us sixteen rounds each,” I explained. The same number of rounds as the M9, but with much better knockdown power.

“Sold!” she responded with a grin.

We found two extra magazines for them, in addition to the one that was in the case. The C3s had tritium sights for low-light situations, and all around, I thought it was a better handgun than the M9.

“We’ll hit the range in the morning and get you familiar with them,” I said as she continued to admire her new friends.

Max came over carrying two tactical shotguns.

“Wilson Combat? Never heard of them before,” I said as he handed one to me.

“They take the Remington 870 and add a few bells and whistles, like the 120-lumen light with quick-on button.”

Max pointed out each feature to me as he listed them aloud. “Eighteen-inch barrel with a modified choke, Trak-Lock ghost-ring rear sight, and ramp front with tritium insert.”

He flipped it over and continued, “The follower is neon green, makes it easy to see in the dark.”

“What’s a follower?” Lisa asked.

“It shows you where to stick the rounds when reloading. It takes six 2 ¾ shells or four 3-inch magnums. There’s a clip here to carry six extra rounds.”

“Nice find,” I said.

“Yeah, there’s a lot more here that we can use, but it’s getting dark. You guys wanna eat and call it a night?” Max asked.

We were all beat, and it sounded like a good plan to me. We took our new weapons and ammo back to the storage room and fixed some MREs. There was a short couch long enough for Lisa to stretch out on and a couple of old lounge chairs. We flipped for who had watch. Max didn’t get his finger up fast enough, so he had first shift.

“Wake me in four hours, Bro.” I crashed onto the La-Z-Boy and quickly fell asleep.

Carla sat next to Jake’s cot in the hastily created triage tent of Mercy Southwest Hospital. Their travel north interrupted, as Jake’s flu was worse than he’d let on. He started the day with a headache and nausea, but the further they drove, the sicker he became. At Lauren’s insistence, Carla had finally relented and made the call to go to the hospital, and they veered off Interstate 5 toward Bakersfield at five o’clock.

When they turned off the Rosedale Highway onto Old River road, the two lanes of northbound traffic in front of the hospital were closed and tents were erected on them. It took four hours to get Jake situated and examined by a nurse, who spent just a few minutes with him and wrote a number in red on the back of his hand.

She turned to Carla and asked, “Have you been vaccinated?”

Carla shook her head no.

“Roll up your sleeve.” Carla blanched and asked why.

The nurse said matter-of-factly, “It’s too late for me to inoculate him, but I have the vaccine and you should take it.”

With tears running down her face, Carla took off the shirt she was wearing over her spaghetti-strap camisole, but as the nurse came at her to administer the vaccination, Carla had a premonition.

“No! I changed my mind. I don’t want it.”

The nurse wasn’t in the mood; having too much to do, she dismissed Carla with a, “Whatever, lady.”

Lauren and Steve had gone to find a hotel, but they had already gotten the vaccination at the Naval Base in San Diego,
or had they
?

Jake stirred and opened his eyes. His dry lips cracked as he smiled at Carla. “Hey beautiful,” he croaked. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a drink in this joint?”

Carla held a cup of water with a straw up to his mouth so he could get a sip. He coughed up what little water she got into him. Carla kept wiping him down with a cool washcloth and he slipped back into unconsciousness a few minutes later. They were giving him fluids via IV, but his body was burning them off as quickly as they were going in.

The doctor finally visited a couple of hours later and asked Carla if Jake had been awake at all. When she said yes, that he’d been awake for a few minutes, the doctor said that was a good sign and left.

Two hours later, Jake’s breathing became labored and then just stopped. Carla screamed for the nurse, but no one came. She tried to do CPR and gave up only when the nurse finally showed up and pulled her away. Carla was devastated; she folded to the pavement and lay there weeping. The nurse helped her onto a chair and stayed with her until she was finally able to get somewhat under control.

She called Lauren and told her that her dad had passed. Lauren started with the questions that couldn’t be answered before giving up and handing the phone to her husband while trying not to give into the shock. Steve got on the phone.

“I’m so sorry. Carla…” he started, but the Navy chaplain knew there were no words that would ease the pain she was feeling.

“Jake loved you, Lauren, and Conner, so much. He’s no longer in pain,” he continued, trying to find the right words. At a loss, he simply admitted, “There is nothing I can say that will help you hurt less; just know that we are here for you.”

Carla asked Steve to bring Lauren back to the hospital and hung up. When the nurse told Carla they would have to take the body away, she asked with an angry edge to her voice, “Can’t you even wait until my daughter gets here to say her goodbyes?”

“I’m sorry, but we have to take precautions with deaths from the South African Flu. We don’t have the space to quarantine you, or we would do that as well. Has he been in contact with anyone else in the last twenty-four hours?”

Carla laughed mirthlessly. “Are you kidding me? He has been in contact with literally hundreds of people in the last twenty-four hours!”

The nurse tried to keep her cool. “Ma’am, I am just trying to help here. I should be at home with my family! His body will be cremated and his ashes will be sent to you once this has all settled down.”

Carla knew her anger was misplaced. She walked away, over to Jake’s cot. She got down on her knees next to him, ran her fingers through his hair, and then put her hand on his bearded cheek.

“I love you, Jacob Floyd Wilford. I will always love you. I will be with you again; save me a seat.” She kissed him gently on the forehead, stood, and walked out of the tent, not wanting to look back, knowing that it wouldn’t change anything.

Carla called and arranged to meet up with Lauren and Steve. Lauren had made it through the denial stage and onto anger, and like Carla, directed her wrath at the hospital. “What the hell, they aren’t going to release Dad? What the hell!” she repeated.

She regained control on the twenty-minute drive back to the hospital. When she saw her mom, however, they both broke down again into a sobbing hug that lasted several minutes. Steve just stood back, giving them the space and time to deal with the suddenness of Jake’s death and the hole he left in their hearts.

They got back to the hotel and talked about getting some food, but no one was hungry. They flipped on the TV for some kind of a distraction. The news was following the South African Flu.

“Do you want me to turn this off?” Steve asked.

“No!” they both said at once.

“We need to see what’s going on, and we need to talk about what we’re going to do,” Carla added.

The 24-hour news network’s background banner declared
BREAKING NEWS
. That could mean anything these days, the term so overused as to be completely irrelevant. The ticker at the bottom of the screen, however, made the banner actually seem relevant, as it scrolled a running tally of the dead in Europe and South Africa. The total deaths in South Africa were over 200,000, and even the UK had risen to over 85,000. The ticker continued even though the station was running a commercial for erectile dysfunction.

Back from the commercial break, the anchor began speaking after the
BREAKING NEWS
graphic spun up behind him:

“More disturbing news just in from our correspondent Jim Covett, covering the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. Jim?”
The camera cut to the remote unit outside the Pentagon.

“Thanks, Chuck. High-ranking officials here are denying the rumors that U.S. military personnel are reporting in sick by the thousands across the country and around the world. There are also unconfirmed reports that many have died and that we have lost contact with several key bases in remote locations such as Diego Garcia. One official, who spoke to us on conditions of anonymity, said that six different overseas bases had gone dark this evening, and that efforts were underway to reestablish contact. Other reports from Stuttgart Army Air Base in Germany claim that some of the personnel have attacked their own troops. These reports have been officially discounted due to the extreme nature of the attacks and reports of cannibalism. The Joint Chiefs
are furious that anyone would slander our troops with such unbelievable claims…”

Steve turned the channel to another news program and the reports were more of the same. A woman reporter standing outside of a large hospital was speaking.

“We are receiving reports from all over the country of hospitals being overwhelmed, like this one behind me here in Los Angeles, by the number of cases of South African Flu, and those seeking the vaccination against it. They are now requesting that only those who have not already contracted the flu come to the hospital for vaccinations. All those showing symptoms of the flu should remain at home, drink plenty of fluids, and get as much rest as they can. They are admitting there is nothing they can do for—”

All of a sudden, the report cut off and a graphic filled the screen reporting that a technical problem had occurred and that the station would come back on shortly. Steve changed the channel, only to see the same screen. Every channel he tried carried the same thing.

“That’s strange,” he said, and looked over at Carla, who was busy trying to make a call.

“I can’t seem to get a call out. I keep getting an ‘all circuits are busy’ message.” She then sent a text and got a
send failure
message.

“The system must be overwhelmed by traffic,” Steve offered.

“Well, we need to discuss what to do now,” Carla replied, throwing her cell phone on the bed. “If we go home, we will have to make arrangements for Conner to stay somewhere until graduation.”

Lauren shook her head. “Mom, do you really think he’s going to want to wait around up there for two weeks for graduation with all that has happened?”

“No, you’re probably right. We can just send him money for a plane ticket.”

Carla seemed lost in thought. Steve stood up and put his hands on his hips. “Look, I know that with what’s happened, you want to get home, but we’re about twelve hours from Portland. I suggest we load up the Land Rover and head in that direction. I don’t think any of us are going to get any sleep tonight, and I think we need to get to Conner.”

Carla thought for a moment and then nodded slowly. “Regardless of what happens, I don’t want to tell Conner over the phone like I did with Lauren. I should have waited, but I was kind of in shock.”

“It’s okay, Mom.” Lauren put her arm around Carla and gave her a gentle squeeze.

They loaded up the Rover and got back on the road. Steve volunteered to drive. He was amped up from drinking coffee all night. Carla and Lauren rode together in the backseat, holding hands and talking quietly about Jake. Every so often, one of them would break down into tears and the other would provide comfort. This went on until both of them fell asleep, worn out by the constant grind of grief.

It was 3:00 a.m., and Steve was feeling really weird. The white lines on the road dimmed, then suddenly got brighter. The oncoming headlights seemed painfully bright. He would flash his high beams, only to have the other vehicle flash theirs back to indicate they were not already on. His head hurt, and he would be cold one minute and hot the next.

“Hey Lauren, you awake?” he asked.

Lauren stirred from a half-sleep when she heard her name. “What’s up, babe?”

“I have got to stop and get gas and something to drink. I’m feeling weird.” Steve felt stupid; he was just tired and needed a break.

“That’s fine, honey, just use the debit card,” Lauren said, not really processing what he said. She turned to her other side and drifted off again.

Steve saw a sign for a gas station at the next exit and pulled off the freeway. As he pulled up to the gas pump, Lauren woke up again and asked where they were.

“Just north of Stockton,” Steve snapped at her. He slammed the door and went to pump the gas.

Carla awoke at the slam of the door. “What’s that all about?” she asked.

“I don’t know; I just asked where we were and he got all huffy.”

Lauren was sitting up, looking back at Steve. He was fumbling with the gas cap, then he turned around and staggered toward the storefront of the station.

“What is he doing? I told him to use the debit card.” Lauren got out and yelled at him, “Honey, just use the debit card!”

He didn’t turn around or even acknowledge her. Lauren went around the Rover, swiped her debit card, and started pumping the gas, fuming at Steve’s behavior.

Carla cracked her door and said, “Don’t sweat it, sweetie. He’s tired and we’ve all been through the mill tonight.”

“That’s no excuse for being a total ass, Mom,” Lauren said. She finished pumping the gas and got back in the car, taking the driver’s seat.

“Come on, Lauren, don’t react like this; you’ll just make it worse.”

“I don’t care, Mom. He has no right to be mad at me, dammit!”

They sat there for five minutes, then ten. Lauren was working up a good head of steam; she was really going to lay into him when he got back to the car.

“What the hell is he doing in there?” she snapped, banging on the steering wheel.

“Calm down, honey. Let’s drive over there and pick him up at the front of the store.”

Lauren started the Rover and chirped the tires, swerving around the pumps, and pulled up in front of the store. She put the Rover in park and looked through the store’s windows, trying to see Steve. There he was, leaning over the cashier’s counter, covered in… blood?

Lauren screamed and started to get out of the Rover. Carla had seen the same thing from the backseat and grabbed Lauren by the arm. “Wait!” was all she said.

They both looked on as Steve pulled the attendant over the counter to the floor and continued the vicious attack. He was tearing at the man’s throat with his teeth, pulling mouthfuls of flesh and sinew. Blood was spurting a foot in the air from the man’s neck as Steve raised his head and let out a shriek that they could hear clearly.

Lauren began sobbing and screaming, “What is he doing, what is he doing?”

“Move over!” Carla commanded Lauren. She leaned over from the backseat and pulled her daughter over the console into the passenger seat. Carla squeezed into the driver’s seat, threw the shifter into reverse, and slammed her foot down on the accelerator. The Rover’s V8 responded, tearing at the asphalt with both rear wheels smoking. Carla swung the nose of the Rover around and shifted into drive, not even waiting for it to stop. The Rover bucked and the gears crunched into place. She sped toward the exit, narrowly missing first the pumps, then the sign pole. When the Rover was back straight on the road after slewing around two corners, Carla slammed on the brakes and put it in park. She opened the door and puked what little contents her stomach held onto the side of the road.