Here We Stand (Book 1): Infected (Surviving The Evacuation) (12 page)

“Do you think they can contain it?” Helena asked.

“Possibly. If it’s really only spread through blood and saliva, then it’s easy to avoid infection.”

“As long as you have the supplies to stay inside. You were right. They’ll run out. The power will go, and then…” She shivered and turned the music up.

At about the same time that song ended and another began, they turned onto a wide, four-lane road that ran roughly east to west. A blue hatchback had been driven into the ditch, a hundred yards from the turning.

“Must have crashed,” Helena said. “Hey, you’re going too fast.”

“There’s someone in the front seat.” Or something. “It’s moving.”

“Then stop. Stop! We have to stop!” She grabbed at the steering wheel.

“Okay, okay.” He slowed, and pulled in, fifty feet from the crashed car. “You know what it is, right? It’s a zombie.”

“It might not be,” Helena said, getting out. “You shouldn’t assume. It might be someone hurt, someone like us, someone… oh.”

He followed her out and saw what she’d seen. He’d been right. It was a zombie, sitting in the driver seat, and now trapped inside by the seatbelt.

“Do you… do you think he put the seatbelt on so he couldn’t get out and infect other people?” she asked.

“Maybe.” He took a step closer. The person the zombie had been was on the younger side of thirty, with a face that looked oddly familiar. “Do you recognize him?”

“Me?” Helena asked.

“I think he was on TV.”

“We should do something,” she said firmly.

“Kill it, you mean?”

“No, I… well, yes. I suppose.”

“There’s no ammo for the guns,” Tom said walking back to the truck. “It’s trapped in there, so we should leave it alone. There’s no point putting ourselves in more danger than we have to.” Other than the tarpaulin there was little in the truck beyond an electric lawnmower and a thin layer of soil. He heaved the lawnmower out of the back. The casing was cracked, and the wire had been cut through, six feet from the handle.

“What are you doing?” Helena asked.

He grabbed the cord and pulled it free. “Should be long enough.”

“What for?”

“You’re right; we have to do something. We need fuel, yes? Maybe that car crashed when he turned, maybe not, but there might be some gas in the tank. If there is, he doesn’t need it anymore, but that gasoline might mean the difference between life and death for us.”

“You can’t be serious,” Helena said, still twenty feet away. “You’re going to syphon fuel from the car while… while that thing is in the front?”

“Yep.” He walked back to the car. The zombie, which had been rocking back and forth in its seat, began moving more violently. Its hands beat at the dash, the door, the window. No, he thought, not beating. Its arms were moving, and the hands were hitting objects, but there was no aim behind the blows. Only when he was satisfied that the seatbelt would trap the zombie inside did Tom pull the fuel cap free.

The zombie slammed his head into the window. The door rocked.

Tom slid the wire inside.

An elbow slammed into the door. Then its head. Elbow. Arm. Head.

Tom pulled the wire free. The bottom eight inches were damp. It wasn’t a rigid cord, and he didn’t know the size of the tank, but there was gasoline in there.

Metal creaked. The car door shook.

Tom took a step back, and another.

“We should go,” Helena said.

“There’s fuel there. Not sure how much, but it might be more than we’ll find anywhere else.”

“Anywhere except a gas station,” Helena said, “but, okay, fine. We need some hose and a container, right?” She headed back to the truck.

“Other than the water bottles,” Tom began, “I don’t think—” There was a sudden, sharp snap from inside the car. The seatbelt had broken. The zombie was free. It slapped its face against the window, and then its hands. The car rocked, the door shook, and Tom knew the lock wouldn’t hold for much longer.

Panic replaced the calm of a moment before, and he looked around for a weapon. Upending the lawnmower, he peered at the blade. It was sharp, but firmly attached and so deeply recessed within the casing that the only way it would do any damage was if it were dropped on the creature’s head. The handle, however, was made of two connected sections. One folded back on the other for storage, and could be extended when in use. Two small clasps connected each section. He pulled, trying to jerk the top half of the metal frame clear.

“Tom!” Helena ran back toward the truck. He kept his eyes on the car, tugging and twisting the metal frame free.

The zombie slammed its head into the window, and this time it broke. Fragments of glass lacerated the zombie’s face and tore at its scalp. Hair and skin were torn off, leaving a red-brown fluid, darker and thicker than blood, to ooze down the car’s paintwork. The creature didn’t notice. It didn’t stop moving. Only the uncoordinated way it pushed its shoulder through the window before its hands slowed its progress.

Helena was back at his side, carrying the empty shotgun as if it were a club. Tom hefted the lawnmower’s handle. The hollow, U-shaped piece of steel felt absurdly light.

The zombie kept squirming free. They could drive away, but they
needed
that fuel. He ran forward, raising the handle above his head, stabbing it down, but had to jump back as the creature’s arm came through the broken window. It swiped a hand through the air, missing his legs by a hair’s breadth. Then, with its torso outside the car and only its legs still inside, it sagged forward. Tom stabbed down with the hollow-handled piece of steel. There was a crack of bone, and the handle stuck, but with less than an inch inside the creature’s skull. He tried pushing, but the zombie still thrashed. Its hand reached out and caught around Tom’s leg.

“Like a nail!” Tom yelled. “The shotgun. Like a hammer. Quick!”

Helena ran up, and Tom leaned back as she swung. The stock hit the metal at the point where it bent at a right angle. The metal went in another inch. The creature spasmed.

“Again!”

But Helena was already swinging. The stock hit the handle. It went in another eight inches. The zombie sagged, motionless.

“Thanks,” Tom said, taking a step back. Helena did the same.

“I..” She dropped the shotgun. “I…” She doubled over, and threw up.

“I found this in the back,” Tom said, holding out the bag. Inside were twenty packs of pecan and peanut butter cookies. “There was a photo I.D. for a grocery store. He worked there.” He threw a glance back at the car. The zombie still sagged half in, half out of the window. Brown-red fluid dripped to the ground through the hollow metal rod embedded in its skull. “He wasn’t on television. Must have had one of those faces. The kind you easily mistake for someone else. Here. Eat something.”

“I don’t think so,” she said as she took the bag. “Was there much gasoline?”

“A couple of gallons.”

“Enough to get us thirty miles?” She gave a hollow laugh. “This is my new life, is it? This is the fruition of all my dreams?”

The only replies that came to mind were either trite or a lie. He said nothing, letting the radio fill the silence as they continued driving west.

That morning’s first sign of life came twenty minutes later when a two-seater vanity-mobile shot past them on the outside lane. As the fuel needle resumed its inexorable descent toward the red, more vehicles filled the road.

“They don’t look like refugees,” Helena said. “It’s like they’re trying to get somewhere.”

“They probably are. Out of the city to their country homes, or to relatives or somewhere. Yesterday they couldn’t believe what had happened. Today, they’re worried they’ve left it too late.”

Tom slowed the truck, pulling into the side of the road.

“Are we out of gas?” Helena asked.

“Not yet,” Tom said.

Ahead lay hills covered in a light dusting of snow. His attention was on the interstate, visible slightly below them and two miles to the north. A trio of helicopters buzzed over a hive of military activity. Trucks, tanks, and other equipment were being set up on the highway.

“Are they setting up a checkpoint?” Helena asked. “That’s good, right?”

“Is it? What are they going to do with the people they stop? I think… yeah, I think those are tents, aren’t they? Is that what they’re going to do? Hold them there? They won’t be able to send them home.”

“Maybe. And maybe it’ll be terrible for the people who end up trapped out here, but it’ll stop the infection. Except it won’t, will it,” she added, her tone changing. “The infection’s ahead of them. Behind them. They’re concentrating people in places with no walls to protect them, no food to eat, and no water to drink.”

“And then there’s this road we’re on,” he said. “People will get around the interstate. All they’ve done is moved the troops from their bases in towns that they could otherwise have protected. Moving them back to somewhere they can do some good will take time. Too much time. The infection will spread. This wasn’t the plan.”

“There can’t have been a plan for this,” she said.

“Ironically, there was. Well, not exactly this. There were plans for pandemics, and for outbreaks that began in Manhattan. The military was meant to support the civil power on a local basis. Command was meant to be decentralized to secure towns, cities, and… hell.” He walked back to the truck.

“I don’t suppose we could beg some gas from the military?” she asked. By way of reply, he started the engine. “No,” she said. “I suppose not. Maybe we’ll find more zombies in crashed cars.” She gave a short, brittle laugh. “No, this is not how my life was meant to be.”

There were no more crashed cars. Twice, they pulled over next to vehicles abandoned by the side of the road. On both occasions the tanks were dry. Once they saw a zombie drifting down the road. Tom sped up, swerving around the creature.

“If those cars were abandoned,” Helena said, turning in her seat to watch the zombie disappear, “then we should have seen the passengers, right? Hitching along the road.”

“And if we see them, we’ll stop,” Tom said. “For all the good we can offer.”

“I meant that… I mean, someone might have stopped, right? Picked them up? But if they didn’t… I mean, where did that zombie come from.”

He knew what she was saying. “Try not to think about it,” he said.

Chapter 12 - Gas

Pennsylvania

They were running on fumes when they saw the sign for a gas station. The relief of seeing it was open was tempered by the presence of the police. The filling station was at a T-junction. A police cruiser was parked across the left-hand lane, effectively blocking it from traffic. Two other police cars were parked on the edge of the lot, facing in opposite directions. He couldn’t tell if those vehicles had police officers inside, but he counted six in the gas station with another ten civilians carrying long guns and wearing high-viz vests. Tom had given little thought to Powell since they’d left the apartment behind, but he was now all too consciously aware they were driving a stolen vehicle. They had no choice; they had to stop.

“If they ask, say the truck was abandoned on an empty street,” Tom said. “There was no sign of the driver. No one answered the doors in the nearby houses. We knocked. We shouted. There were people there, but no one wanted to help.”

“You mean we shouldn’t tell the cops that we stole the truck at gunpoint?” In a less sarcastic tone, she added, “They look like they’re expecting trouble.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

Ahead, a hybrid they’d been tailing for the last four miles turned into the gas station. The driver was waved down by one of the civilians and directed to a pump. Tom slowed and came to a stop next to a pump. He wound down the window as a cop approached.

“We just need some gas,” Tom said, pre-empting the officer’s first question.

“Where are you from?” the cop replied.

“Fort Lee,” Tom said.

The officer gave a thoughtful nod. “And where are you heading?”

“To my mother’s,” Helena said. “In Erie, near the lake.”

The cop gave another nod. “Just the two of you?”

“That’s right,” Tom said.

The cop clicked his teeth and looked at the car ahead. The driver had opened the door and stepped out. She was arguing in hushed tones with the civilian who was taking a step back with each vigorous gesticulation of the woman’s arms. The cop reached a decision.

“Four gallons,” he said. “That’s all you get. You pay cash. I need to see it now.”

“How much is it?” Tom asked.

The cop gestured to the sign by the road. It displayed prices that hadn’t changed from the week before.

“You’re not charging more?” Tom said.

“Nope. You get the fuel, you keep going.”

Tom understood. “We need more than four gallons to make it to Erie.”

“Maybe so, but you’ll have to find the rest elsewhere. Four gallons is all you’ll get. Can you pay?”

Tom pulled out the stack of bills from his pocket. The cop’s eyes widened at the sight of them.

“My life savings,” Tom said.

“And not worth a fraction of what it was yesterday,” the cop said. From his tone, he wasn’t talking about the money.

“Jack?” the cop called to one of the civilians, before heading toward the arguing woman.

“I’ll fill her up,” Jack said. “You pay inside.”

“Can we get food and water?” Tom asked.

“The diner’s closed. There might be some supplies left. But when the tank’s full, you’ve got to leave.”

Tom took that as his prompt and got out. Helena followed him into the store. If the digital bleep of the opening door was a reminder of normality, the rows of empty shelves were an indication of how much had changed.

“Do you have a restroom?” Helena asked the couple behind the counter.

“Through the back, hon,” the woman said.

“Anything for sale?” Tom asked, as Helena made her way to the back of the store.

“In the cabinet,” the man said. His voice was as cold as his eyes. His hands were hidden behind the high counter.

“Thanks.”

The cabinet contained a motley assortment of wilting pre-packaged sandwiches, stale doughnuts, and milk.

“One doughnut, one sandwich, one quart of milk each,” the man called.

“No fruit?” Tom asked.

“Nope,” the man said.

“You started rationing?” Tom asked, picking through the meager selection.

“Nope.”

“We’ve got to share it out equally,” the woman said. “As to their needs, and as to our ability. It’s little enough, but it’s what we can spare.”

“Fair enough.” Tom carried the food over to the counter. “You had many people coming through here?” he asked.

“Enough,” the man said.

“You’re the ninety-third this morning,” the woman said, she held up her hand. In it was a click-button counter.

“Is that a lot?”

“Nope,” the man said.

“There’ve been no truckers,” the woman said. “Not today.”

There was something off-putting about the woman’s civility. The man’s near-mute suspicion was closer to a normal reaction, as much as anything could be called normal.

“How much do I owe you?” Tom asked.

“There’s the gas, and let’s see,” the woman said. She ran a finger down a long list before methodically ringing up each item on the register.

“That’s all?” Tom asked, looking at the total.

“You can pay more if you want,” the man said.

“It’ll go off if we don’t sell it,” the woman said.

“Fair enough,” Tom replied, wanting the encounter to be over so he could get back in the truck. “Do you have any maps?”

“Local?” the man asked.

“No. We’re heading west.”

“Here.” The man finally detached a hand from whatever firearm he was holding, grabbed a pair of maps from somewhere below the register, and dropped them on the counter. “No charge.”

“Thanks,” Tom said. Before he had to come up with any more small talk, Helena returned.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Your truck’s waiting,” the man said. “It’s time to leave.”

Helena raised an eyebrow. Tom said nothing as they went back outside. The woman who’d arrived before them was still arguing with the police officer.

“You need to leave,” the attendant, Jack, prompted. Tom didn’t need the encouragement.

“Strange place,” Tom said, as they drove away. “Like civility is barely holding on at the surface.”

Helena picked at a doughnut before placing it back in the bag uneaten. She reached for one of the packs of cookies. “Did he give us four gallons of gas?”

“Almost exactly.”

“And how far do we need to go?”

“About a hundred and forty miles.”

“Hm. Then we’ll be on foot for the last eighty of them. That’s a week of walking.”

“Probably. I doubt we’ll find anywhere selling more gas. Nor do I think that place will be selling it for much longer. There was something… weird about it. Did you sense that?”

“Who cares? We’re not going back.”

Silence settled for a mile, at least within the truck. Outside, an increasingly regular stream of traffic overtook them.

“Where are they going?” Helena muttered. She turned the radio back on.

“That’s confirmed.” It was the same woman they’d been listening to before. “There are widespread outbreaks throughout Chicago and New Orleans. The details are different, but the stories are the same. The roads out of the cities are flooded with people. Help can’t get in, and stranded motorists can’t get to safety. People… okay, this isn’t confirmed, but I’ve got six different video clips that show the same thing. People are putting their infected loved ones into anything with four wheels and are trying to take them somewhere. I don’t know where. Hospital? Who knows? The internet’s creaking under the strain, but I’ve seen rumors flying around that there are safe places out there. I don’t know how they start, but there aren’t! Think about it, people. Why would Salem be safer than San Francisco? As for Greenland, how would you get there? You can’t drive!” She took a very loud breath. “So… yeah, I have to give you the official message. Stay at home. Don’t go looking for your loved ones. The interstates are now closed. The military, at least the ones who came here yesterday, they said that they’re going to close the local roads soon. They didn’t say when, but seriously, wherever you are, you’re safer there than trapped on some highway. If you haven’t got any supplies, ask your neighbors for help. We’ve got to work together. These days, a good fence is only going to help if your neighbor is behind it with you. What? Oh. Yeah. Brad’s saying I need to tell you about the CDC guidelines. I don’t know why, I mean, you could work these out for yourself. Don’t get bitten. If you are, isolate yourself. The virus is transmitted through blood and saliva. If you get it on your skin, wash it off with bleach or other high-strength detergent. Destroy— What? We are? Okay, we’re back online, and we’ve got some information coming in. I’ll put some music on while we sort through it.”

A song came on, one of those upbeat, instantly forgettable tunes. Helena tapped her fingers on the window in time with the beat. Tom watched the road, viewing each passing car with a new, deep suspicion.