Elements of the Undead: Fire (Book One) (4 page)

His father, an unemployed mechanic, had taken a different approach. He understood the economic realities of Mexico; he saw firsthand the desperation of young men with nowhere to go, with nothing to do. He feared the lure of the drug cartels and realized it was only a matter of time before they swept his son into a life from which he would never return.

“The
gringos
love us when times are good,” his father had said. “But if things are bad, like now, they will turn on you and make your life miserable. Don’t ever forget that.”

There was a rustling off to Cesar’s right, on the other side of a patch of barrel cactus.
Conejo
. “Rabbit,” Cesar whispered to himself, practicing his English.

        
He thought of his cousin Efrain.
Is he here
?
Is he lying feet from me, only bones, or did he make it? Maybe he was caught and is sitting in jail?
Efrain had left for Idaho three months earlier, but had never reached his destination. His disappearance, another sad example of the risks involved in going north, had been the talk of the town.

Cesar banished the thought from his mind and continued walking. A short, rock-covered hill rose in front of him. He started climbing. From the other side, below his line of sight, he heard shouting. Cocking his head, he tried to catch the words. It took him a moment to realize they were speaking English.
What?

A crippling spike of fear tore through his gut as he crested the rise and got his first glimpse of the scene below. Two white men stood at the front of the line talking to Miguel, the
coyotero
. They carried menacing assault rifles and were dressed in desert camouflage from head to toe.

Cesar’s first impression was
border patrol
, but upon closer inspection, he realized he was wrong. Neither man wore insignia on their uniform, nor did they have the close-shaved, professional look he associated with the patrol. Also, one was grossly obese, his belly tumbling over his belt like a sack of flour.

The fat man pointed at him. “You! Up there! Get down here!”

Cesar complied, picking his way carefully down the hill until he joined the rest of the group. As Cesar watched, the fat man barked at Miguel in staccato English, gesturing wildly with the barrel of his gun. His jowls shook like fresh
jalea
every time he moved his head.

Even more than the sun and the heat, Cesar feared bandits. But these men were something else—something new.

“What do you think is happening?” whispered the woman behind him. Cesar shrugged, trying to remain calm despite the ball of nausea percolating in his gut.

The fat man fired a short burst into the air. Everyone stopped talking. The woman moved closer, and her fingers sought out his arm. “
Tengo miedo
,” she whispered.
I’m scared
.

“It’s okay,” Cesar lied.

The gunmen turned away and conversed in hushed tones, gesturing repeatedly at Cesar’s terrified group and pointing north.

Cesar put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Get ready to run.” She shook her head vigorously and gestured at the other woman standing to the side with one of the children. “I can’t. That’s my sister and her daughter.” Closing his eyes, Cesar said a quick prayer for the woman and her child.

He checked his rear, looking for other gunmen. It was clear
.
He visualized a canyon system they had passed a half-kilometer back where he could hide.

Miguel took a step forward, got in the slim gunman’s face, and poked him in the chest. The man laughed and nudged his partner in the ribs. Cesar tensed, preparing for the worst. Faster than Cesar would have expected for a man his size, the fat man raised his rifle and leveled it at Miguel’s face.

One of the children began to cry, calling for his father. Time slowed to a crawl. The gun against Miguel’s head became his everything for an interminable instant, the bridge between the life and death. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Crack!
Miguel spun away and fell to the ground. A hawk cried out far above them.

“Does anyone else have a problem?” the shooter bellowed.

Cesar swallowed, his throat his own desert. As the murderer trained his gun on the remaining survivors, his partner kneeled beside Miguel’s body and rolled it over. He rifled through the pockets until he found the dead man’s wallet. Flipping it open, he pulled out a handful of pesos and American dollars and dropped them on the corpse’s chest.

We’re going to die now,
Cesar realized with sudden clarity.
Right here. My family will never know what happened to me. Like Efrain.

Behind him, the woman was praying, repeating the same bible verse.
“Padre me protege porque he pecado…”

The man finished his search, and finding nothing of value, got to his feet. He whispered something to his partner.

With a wave of his gun, the fat man pointed at a towering saguaro. “Okay, everyone. By that cactus! Turn out your pockets!” The time to run had passed. Cesar had no choice but to comply. He cursed his cowardice and went to stand beside the cactus.

“On your knees!” the gunman screamed, his high-pitched voice sounding like one from a little girl on a playground. Cesar fell to his knees, closed his eyes, and tried to think about his family.

The men raised their weapons.

Seven

Taos, New Mexico

Jack realized Becka had reached the end of her patience when she hauled herself from the pit and plopped down in the grass. She stripped off her gloves, drew her knees up to her chin, and sighed.

“Okay, Bob Vila,” she said with a tired grin. “If that’s a fuel-oil tank, then tell me why it’s buried in our front yard.”

Jack shrugged and gazed at the ground between the house and the barrier, mentally tracing a long-dormant oil supply line to the furnace, which now ran on propane. “I guess that’s how they did things—”

The phone rang, interrupting him

Jack scanned the yard, searching for the phone, then spied it on the front porch where he had left it earlier.

“I’ll get it.” He climbed to his feet. “I need to hit the bathroom anyway.”

Grabbing the cordless phone from the top step, he answered the call.

“Jack! Oh, my God! I’m so glad I got you!” his mother cried from the receiver.

He straightened up, suddenly alert.
Something’s wrong with
t
he girls.
Before he could ask, she uttered the magic words, “Don’t worry. Maddie and Ellie are fine.”

Jack breathed a sigh of relief.

Her voice reedy with concern, his mother asked, “Have you seen the news this morning?”

“No. We’ve been—”

“Well, turn it on. Now.” Jack’s mother was not one to argue with. At sixty-four, and after raising six children, she knew what she wanted, and she didn’t take
no
for an answer.

Jack made his way through the door and grabbed the remote. When he turned on the television, the flatscreen snapped to life, filling the room with the saccharine soundtrack from the girls’ favorite cartoon series. He hit the mute button.

Ellie
, he thought with a smile. Oldest by a minute and a half, Ellie had an all-consuming passion for everything on the Cartoon Network.

“Ok, Mom. The TV’s on.”

“Good. Now go to CNN.”

Jack fumbled with the buttons, landing first on a gardening show. Cursing, he punched in the numbers again and was rewarded with the CNN logo. A thick red banner crawled across the bottom of the screen. The words ‘Martial law declared,’ printed in tall, bold, white letters, screamed for attention.
What the hell?
He cranked up the volume.

The camera cut to a long-distance shot. The commentator babbled frantically, talking over the remote reporter. Jack recognized Times Square. It looked nothing like he remembered. The camera swooped to street level.

Chaos
. That was the only word he could think of to describe the events playing out on the screen. The streets seethed with people struggling with each other, dashing every which way. The faint
pop-pop-pop
of gunshots echoed somewhere off-camera.

Wait.
He moved forward, trying to get a better view.
Is that…?
As if reading his mind, the camera panned and tightened on a man in a business suit sawing into the neck of a police officer who was lying in the middle of the street. Jack stared in fascinated disgust as two women joined the scene.  One went for the officer’s midsection, and the other latched onto an upper thigh. Blood arced through the air, and the man on the ground writhed in pain. Then he was still.

Jack gasped. “What’s happening, Ma? Did someone attack New York again?”

She let out a low sob. “No… No one knows. Several hours ago, people started getting sick and attacking each other... It’s everywhere. It’s awful…”

Jack was incredulous. His heart pounded. He felt sick to his stomach. “That’s impossible! Everywhere? Who…?”

“Yes. Everywhere. All over the world. Washington, London, Cairo…. everywhere.”

He couldn’t process what she was saying. “Hold on, Mom.”

He went to the front door. “Becka! Something’s going on. Come inside! Quick!”

As he returned his attention to the television, the live shot vanished, replaced by the scrolling
‘Martial law declared’
message and a studio shot. A frazzled-looking young man, not an anchor Jack recognized, fiddled with his tie from his seat behind the main desk.

From off-camera, a staffer appeared and handed the anchorman a slip of paper before dashing back out of sight. The commentator scanned the note and frowned. He reached to his neck and loosened his tie, then wiped his brow. He seemed to age ten years in an instant.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve just learned the president has declared Washington a complete loss. The government is evacuating.” He gave a nervous cough and looked to one side. A million thoughts ran through Jack’s mind. He had friends on the east coast, some in Washington. Becka touched his arm, and he jumped.

“Sorry,” she said. “What’s up?”

He gestured at the television. “There’s something going on back east.”

“It’s everywhere!” his mother corrected. He had forgotten he was still on the phone.

Becka flipped over to MSNBC. Then Fox. The same story was playing on every channel.

Massive simultaneous attacks were occurring around the globe. People were turning on each other and acting like cannibals for no apparent reason.

“The kids!” Becka exclaimed, concern lining her face.

“Mom says they’re fine.” Jack took her hand.

“I’m scared.” Becka said with her eyes still glued to the screen.

         He returned his attention to the phone. “We’ll be over in a few, Mom.”

“Okay.” She sounded distracted.

“What is it, Ma?”

She paused for a heartbeat, then answered, “There’s someone at the door.”

Jack’s breath hitched in his throat. “Don’t open it. Lock it and wait for us to get there,” he ordered.

“I’ll see you soon, dear,” she replied. The line went dead.

Jack handed the phone to Becka and went to the kitchen to get his keys.  She was still standing there, staring at the television, when he returned. He put his arm around her shoulder. “Becka, honey, we need to go now.”

~~~

Five minutes later, he was banging on his mother’s front door. “Ma! It’s us! Let us in!”

The lock
snapped
loudly, and the door swung open. His mother motioned them through, slamming the door behind them and throwing the deadbolt once they were inside. “Did you see anything?” she asked, peering through the peephole.

Confused, Jack shook his head. “No. Everything looks normal.”

“Is that your son?” a man’s voice called out from the next room.

Jack’s pulse quickened. “Who’s that?”

His mother waved him off. “Don’t worry. It’s only Mr. Carhart, from next door. He can’t get in touch with his family in Atlanta.”

She ushered them into the living room where they found Mr. Carhart sitting in an easy chair nursing an enormous glass of scotch. He looked miserable.

“Where are the girls?” Becka asked immediately.

Jack’s mom pointed at the ceiling. “Upstairs, napping.”

“I’m going to go check on them.” Becka looked at Jack with an obvious invitation to join her.

Jack hesitated, looked at his mom and then back at Becka. “I’ll be right up.”

“Okay,” Becka said.

As Becka climbed out of sight, Jack turned to his mother. “Have you heard anything else about what’s going on?”

She motioned towards the couch. “Yes. But you’re going to want to sit for this…”

Eight

Boise, Idaho

Bump
.

“Welcome to Boise, ladies and gentleman. The time here is ten forty-three AM. The temperature is seventy-eight degrees. We hope you enjoyed your flight and that you choose to fly with us again.”

Huh?

“Please remain in your seat with your belts fastened until the aircraft comes to a complete stop.”

Kevin Salerno opened his eyes and blinked.

His mouth was gummy and dry, as if someone had stuffed it with damp wool.

“You must’ve had a long trip,” a voice on his right said. Kevin turned his head, following the sound. Sitting next to him was a middle-aged woman with big hair and a little too much makeup for her age. She held a paperback on her lap with her thumb tucked in to save her place. She looked like she was expecting an answer.

“Uh huh,” he said noncommittally.

The plane was still rolling, but Kevin unbuckled his seatbelt anyway. His seatmate gave him a disapproving frown. The plane bumped to a stop, inched forward a few feet, then stopped again. The plane repeated the process twice more before they reached the gate. A chime sounded overhead, and all of the cabin lights flickered to life. The air conditioning kicked in, sending a stream of cool air against his forehead.