Here We Stand (Book 1): Infected (Surviving The Evacuation) (17 page)

“Tom!”

A figure was moving down the dirt road toward them.

“Is… is that…?”

“I don’t know.” He walked back to the porch and picked up the crowbar from where he’d left it when they’d arrived at the house. When he got back to where Helena was standing, the figure had managed another four steps.

“Hello!” Helena called and then clamped a hand over her mouth. The figure staggered another pace and then collapsed.

Helena was already sprinting toward the figure before Tom had started running. A hundred yards, and halfway there, he knew it was too late. The figure began to rise, the arms moving with that uncoordinated erraticism of the undead. Helena staggered to a halt. Tom did the same.

“I’ll… I’ll get the gun,” she said, turning around.

“No. We have to save the ammunition.” He hefted the crowbar. It wasn’t the first time he’d used one in a fight, and that other time, not long after he’d arrived in America, came back to him. A dark alley, a large gang, a soul full of justified rage. He didn’t remember the fight itself, just the emotions ripping through him beforehand, and the bleeding, moaning bodies afterward. This time was different, and in so many ways. The zombie, a woman, wore a police uniform that was ragged, torn, and covered in too many stains for all that blood to have been hers. How had she gotten so far, been infected, yet stayed alive long enough to reach here?

Her head tilted to one side, her mouth opened. A ragged hiss escaped perfect teeth. She swung an arm out. He raised the crowbar and took a step back. She swung again. With each swing, her leg came forward, and she took a step, almost as if the arms were attached to her feet by strings.

“Tom!” Helena called, anxiety clear in her voice.

The officer clawed at the air again. As her arm came down, her head was exposed. Tom swung. The iron bar slammed into the side of her head. Bone cracked, seemingly louder than a gunshot. The zombie collapsed. He stared at the body, and then bent down.

“What are you doing?” Helena asked, coming up to join him.

“I want to know who she was. Where she came from.”

Gingerly, he prodded her pockets, until he found a wallet. “Officer Shawna Williams, from Indianapolis.” He stood. “Sidearm’s gone. No ammunition left.”

“Is that all you care about?” Helena asked.

Tom looked down the road. “No. But she’s dead. There’s nothing we can do to help her.”

“We can bury her.”

Tom said nothing. He was listening to the sounds of the forest, trying to tell if there were more zombies coming.

“I said we should bury her,” she said.

“Load up the car first. If there are more, I’d like to be able to get out of here.”

They dug the grave at the side of the road. By the time it was four feet deep, two hours had passed, and no more zombies had appeared.

“That’s it,” Tom said. “The ground’s too cold, and the roots of these trees are too thick for us to get it any deeper. Unless you want to try again?”

“No.”

With crowbar and shovel, they rolled the body into the grave. To Tom, that destroyed any solemnity in the occasion.

“We can’t bury everyone,” Helena said. “But this… this will have to do for all the others.”

Tom could understand her emotion. He didn’t agree with it. Dead was dead, and they’d done nothing more than waste two hours digging a grave that was shallow enough that the body would be dug up by any scavenging carnivore. Assuming that animals ate the undead. He decided not to voice that question out loud. They filled the grave.

Helena went inside, and back into the shower, staying there long after she would have washed off the dirt. Tom stripped his muddy, dirty, ragged, stained suit and bundled it into the washing machine. He locked the front door and moved the chair close to the window with a view of the road. With the shotgun beside him, he tapped away at the refresh button, trying to find a signal. When he did, he went through the other messages he’d received. There was no reply from Bill, but there was one from someone else in Britain. A submarine commander to whom Tom had sent that first message about Prometheus, back before he knew about the zombies. The message contained two words. “Prove it.” Tom formulated a reply, attaching a few files that he thought might. Then he turned back to the track, watching as the sun set, and thinking about evacuations, about Britain, and the past.

Chapter 18 - The Road to Washington

February 24
th
, Pennsylvania

“You ready?” Tom asked. Dawn was still an hour away.

“Let me finish the coffee,” Helena said.

“You want to savor your last cup?” he asked.

“No, it’s not that. It’s Officer Williams. The other zombies didn’t seem like people. Abstractly, I knew they were, but not in the sense that I could see the living person in that un-living face. Maybe it’s because I know her name, I don’t know. It’s… well, now I can see that happening to me. Infection, death, coming back, you know?”

“Not necessarily. It doesn’t have to be like that.

“I’m not being a defeatist, and I don’t want it to happen, but it could, and I’m trying to be rational about it. I mean… I’ve never really thought about my own death. It’s never seemed imminent before. I guess you have?”

“Yeah. Since I was a kid.”

“Some traumatic incident?”

“I saw my family die,” he said. “I ended up running with a gang, being a gopher for drugs and guns. I came to America to start a new life… Well, no. I walked into a bloodbath, and walked out of it carrying a bag of fake passports, and laundered cash. Half of the money was in dollars, and the passport with a picture that looked most like me was from the U.S. That’s why I came here.”

“Oh. I guess that explains a lot. Me, I…” She downed the coffee. “I expected that the world would keep turning, and that though tomorrow would be more or less the same as yesterday, next week would be much better than the last.” She put the cup in the sink. “We should go.”

“You don’t have to come with me,” he said.

“We’ve been through that. What’s the alternative? Stay here? There’s enough food for a week. Less, if the power is cut, but the food
will
run out, the power
will
be cut. Unless you left the car, it’s not like I could drive to the store. If we don’t get to Washington, there’s a good chance there never will be any stores, not anymore. No, I’m coming. I’ve packed all the food that’ll keep. It’s mostly canned peaches and some crackers.”

“Can opener?”

“And spoons. We need anything else?”

“Weapons. Here,” he placed a hatchet on the table. “It came from the tool shed.”

She picked it up uncertainly.

“Bullets run out,” he said.

With a sigh, she slid it into the belt of her borrowed clothes. “Did you find a flashlight?” she asked.

“No. I’ve got some matches, and a couple of candles, but no flashlight.”

“And the route?”

“Stay off the interstate, and head south, east, then south again until we hit Gettysburg. Then keep going until we can’t.” He pulled on the hat.

“You look ridiculous,” she said with forced cheerfulness and a brittle smile.

“Thanks.” He glanced at her jeans. She’d had to trim six inches off the legs, but despite her inexpert tailoring, she looked far closer to respectable than him. The washing machine hadn’t been kind to his suit’s silk and wool blend. Blotchy white patches from where he’d doused the more suspicious stains with bleach added an ugly contrast to the original dark grey. “Maybe we’ll start a new trend.”

As they drove past Officer Williams’s shallow grave, he tried not to look. Helena turned in her seat, watching until the road curved and it was out of sight. The track ended at the road they’d walked down the day before. A hundred yards to the east was an abandoned van. Tom put his foot on the brake.

“I think that’s how Officer Williams got this far,” Tom said. “We better check it.”

“What for?” Helena asked.

Tom didn’t answer because he wasn’t really sure. For other people? Other zombies? He was still uncertain of his motivation when he threw the doors open and found the van was empty.

“You think we should see if she left a note, or letter, or something?” Helena asked.

“She drove this far, ran out of gas, got out, and stumbled toward the only turning she’d seen, hoping she’d find people, and safety with them,” he said. “She died. Knowing any more won’t change anything, or make it better.”

“What if she left a letter to her family?”

“And if we took it, and if we ever found them, what would we say? That Shawna Williams is dead? How would that help them? As long as they don’t know, they have hope. Contrary to what you might think, that’s often all we have.”

They drove east until they reached another, equally ill-maintained road that led south, curving in and out of the forest. It was almost peaceful until a yellow sports car appeared from nowhere and sped past at over a hundred miles an hour.

“Wonder where they’re going,” Helena muttered.

“I wonder why they’re heading south,” Tom said. A minute later, a car traveling almost as fast overtook them. As dawn properly arrived, more vehicles passed them. A few were heading north, but most were going south. At first, one would disappear around a bend before another appeared. Then there were two in sight at all times, then three, four, and, after forty miles, they were part of a long stream of traffic.

Helena tried the radio, twisting the dial, muttering, “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing,” until they found the woman they’d heard a few days before. The signal was faint, but her words were clear.

“For those of you keeping track, add Hawaii and Alaska to the places where the outbreak has spread. I’ve seen messages saying that there’s no virus in Greenland. I don’t know how that rumor started, but don’t believe it. Why should they be different from everywhere else on the planet? The British news is reporting that there are no outbreaks there, but that’s for domestic consumption, people! They’re saying that to keep order. Besides, Britain, Greenland, you can’t drive there, so stop trying. And stop trying to drive to the coast. What do you think’s going to happen, that there are boats there, waiting to take you out to sea? Any ship’s captain with an ounce of sense would already have set out. The rest, well, I bet the crew would already have mutinied and done what the captain should have. Stay inside. Seriously, look at these creatures, these zombies. They can’t last forever. If we can hold out for another few days they’ll start dying. If you go out, you’re going to get killed, and come back to attack us.” She took a breath, and when she continued desperation had been replaced with weariness. “The ports are closed. The airports are closed. The interstates are shut. Just stay inside. We’ve got a message here that says that the president is going to make an announcement… Brad, you’ve not written when. What? Oh, okay, so we don’t know when. They said they wanted us to keep broadcasting, but they don’t give us anything to tell you, let alone…” The voice descended into muttering. “Some music now, we’ll be back in ten.”

Helena turned the radio down but not off. “Doesn’t sound good. Have you noticed the traffic’s all heading south? No one’s going north.”

“I had.” The other lane was empty, and for the most part, the traffic was still staying in the correct lane. Even so, they were managing fifty miles an hour, and the traffic was moving freely.

“They have to be heading somewhere. What’s due south of here?” Helena asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe a—”

“Hey, did you hear that?” Helena turned the radio back up.

“The FEMA camp at Winchester has been closed. They don’t say which Winchester but they want me to say this: refugees coming to this camp weren’t being flown out. They want me to stress that. It was a rumor. A myth. It wasn’t true. A cargo plane crashed into the runway in the early hours of this morning, killing hundreds of people who’d run on to the tarmac in the hope of catching a flight. Dozens were infected due to a passenger on the—”

“Look out!” Helena yelled.

Tom’s attention had been on the radio. He’d not noticed the RV weaving across the road toward them. The cars in front had, and had swerved around the coach. Tom spun the wheel. The RV slammed into the side of the car, and they were pushed off the road. The wheels bit into gravel and mud. The car spun, skidded, and slammed into a pine tree. The airbag exploded. Tom was stunned.

“Are you okay?” Helena asked, pushing her airbag out of the way.

“I think so.”

“You sure? You’re bleeding.”

He raised a hand to his forehead. It was only a small cut. “I’m fine,” he said, rubbing his neck. “I’m fine. What’s a little whiplash between friends?”

“Yeah, well next time, I’m driving.”

His arms worked, so did his legs. His hand was sore, and so was his neck, but that was all. He tried the door. The handle wouldn’t move. He saw the reason and should have realized it before. The door was dented inward and jammed shut.

Clambering across the passenger seat, he followed Helena outside, and then had to catch hold of the roof to steady himself.

“You okay?” Helena asked.

“Just dizzy. It’s fine. It’ll pass.”

Helena, seemingly unscathed by the accident, began a methodical examination of the vehicle. “Front tire’s gone, but we’ve got a spare. Bumper’s gone, but we don’t need that. The— oh.”

“What?”

“We need a new engine. The tree’s buried in this one.”

He blinked away the spots from in front of his eyes. “How far did we get? Sixty miles? Probably less, and not all of it was due south.” A thought came to him. He looked north. There was no sign of the RV, just a red sedan, heading toward them. He raised a hand, waving at the driver. The car didn’t stop.

“I guess we’re walking,” he said.

“You could try calling for a tow-truck,” she suggested.

He opened his mouth to tell her what an idiotic idea that was, but why not? He took out the sat-phone and paused. “I don’t know a number.”

“911?” she suggested.

“Right. Yeah, of course.” He dialed. There was a brief busy tone before the line disconnected.

“It was worth a try,” Helena said. “We could try hitching. I mean, there’s all this fuel. That’s got to be worth a ride.”

“Try it.”

Helena walked closer to the road. As a car drew nearer, she waved her arms. It moved into the other lane, accelerating past.

“See?” Tom said.

“No,” Helena replied. She tried it again. This time, the driver aimed the car straight at her, and she had to dive out of the way.

“On foot, then,” she said. She grabbed the bags. He picked up the shotgun and slung it over his back, keeping the crowbar in his hand. He held out a hand for one of the bags.

“Can you manage?” she asked.

“I’ll be fine.”

She clearly didn’t believe him, but reluctantly handed him the bag.

“No first responders. No police. No phones, even,” Helena said as they walked. “Maybe when things do come back, it’ll be different. There’ll be blood tests before you can board a flight. Or maybe people won’t fly any more. Maybe the kids will all be homeschooled, never going outside from one year to the next.”

“Maybe.” He wasn’t listening. His attention was divided between the traffic and the woodland surrounding them. His thoughts were on where the people were heading. That woman on the radio had said something about a FEMA camp near an airport. In itself it meant nothing, unless there was some rumor going around the creaking internet that you could fly out of the danger zone. Was that where these people were going? It wouldn’t be long before there were more crashes. Not long after that, this road would blocked. So would all the others. The entire nation would grind to a halt. Helena’s fears about a changed world would seem like a glorious fantasy. It was too late. Certainly by the time they got to Washington, it would be far too late. They couldn’t walk there. He pulled out the sat-phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Nate.” There was no answer. “There’s a trail over there, you see it?”

“Shouldn’t we stick to the road?”

“No one’s going to stop, so we’ll be walking all day, and at the end of it, we’ll be on a stretch of road, not dissimilar to this. Except, by then, we’ll be surrounded by other refugees. All of whom will want food, water, and shelter that probably won’t be there. But the zombies will be. No, we need to get away from people. Maybe find another remote house where we can steal a car.” He tried the sat-phone again. Still nothing. “Or a clearing where a helicopter can land.”

“Or bicycles,” Helena said, following him into the woodland.

The sound of traffic vanished, replaced by creaking branches, and the rustling of rotten leaves.

“Or dirt bikes,” Helena muttered, but a lot quieter than before.

Tom was dialing the number for the ninth time, and the third time he’d told himself that the next time would be the last, when a mechanical thudding of rotor blades broke the silence.

“Did you get through?” Helena asked.

“No,” he said, looking up, back, around, searching for the helicopter. Wherever it came from, it disappeared to wherever it was going without them catching sight of it. Silence returned, more complete than before. He took that as a signal to put the sat-phone away.

The trail thinned, widened into a clearing, and then disappeared.