Here We Stand (Book 1): Infected (Surviving The Evacuation) (18 page)

“I read somewhere,” Helena said, “that if you blindfold people and tell them to walk in a straight line, they’ll walk in a circle, almost always returning to where they began.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Tom said. Did moss grow on the north side of trees, or the south?

“My point is: do we know which way we’re going?”

“I was thinking of that myself,” he said. “This way, I think.”

“That’s north.”

“You sure?”

“The sun sets in the west, rises in the east. Come on.”

He let her take the lead.

In his mind, the rustle of leaves became the shuffle of undead feet, the creak of branches became that of breaking bone. The sigh of wind became the hiss of air escaping through necrotic lungs.

“I think it’s funny,” Helena said. Her voice was such a welcome relief against his dark thoughts that he laughed. “Not that funny,” she added.

“Sorry. What were you going to say?”

“That for all we achieved, all we’ve built, people are inherently incapable of walking in a straight line.”

The day wore on. Sometimes they stopped. They saw no one, heard no one. Tom was a city boy, through and through. He’d grown up in a world of alleys and roads, concrete and steel. Trees belonged in parks, and never in such profusion as this. There was no escaping the truth. They were lost.

By mid-afternoon, the sky was overcast. They stopped at a stream to fill their water bottles. With no better direction to travel, they followed it, even though it was taking them down a hill Tom was sure they’d just walked up. But streams led to rivers, and those to lakes. People fished in those, and that meant roads. That reasoning kept him going until the stream grew so wide they had to make a decision as to which side of it they should walk on. They decided to cross. Helena managed it safely. Tom slipped halfway over. He lost his footing on the slick rocks. His leg plunged into the ice-cold water. The chill seeped up his leg and drained away the remaining heat.

“Keep going,” he said, brushing away Helena’s concern. There was nothing else they could do.

An hour later, they spotted their first sight of civilization since that morning.

“We have to stop,” Helena said.

“Not yet. Not here.”

“No,” she said. “You need to rest.”

He was too embarrassed to admit that was true and too cold to argue. The two-floor building was about four weeks away from being a house. The roof was in place, and the two walls he could see looked finished, though not painted. Plastic sheeting covered the windows. The yard was nothing but mud, ruts, and congealed concrete.

“Do you think that pit is meant to be a swimming pool?” Helena asked.

“Or where they were going to put the septic tank.”

Leading from the house, and disappearing into the woodland beyond, was an unpaved track. Even from fifty yards away, he could make out the heavy tread of construction vehicles, but there were none on the site.

“Hello?” Helena called out.

There was no answer. The back door was locked and secured with a padlock. So was the front, but it only took one twist of the crowbar to break it. The house was empty and sparsely furnished. There was a black leather couch and matching armchair in the living room, and a mattress in the master bedroom, all still in their plastic wrapping. Next to the mattress was a pile of broken wood, discarded screws and an instruction leaflet, torn up in frustration, then taped back together during the owner’s attempt to construct the self-assembly bed. Throughout the house, the floors were bare wood, still covered in sawdust. Rolled carpets had been stacked in one of the smaller bedrooms. The kitchen cabinets had been fitted. The stovetop lay on the floor, waiting to be installed.

The protective plastic sheet rustled loudly as he collapsed into the armchair. A half-finished house? At least they’d be dry. He kicked off his boots and peeled off the socks.

“You can dry those in another room. Or throw them out,” Helena said, collapsing on the couch. “No water’s coming out of the faucet. There’s a chimney for a wood-burning stove, but that hasn’t been delivered.”

“Right.” He had a strong desire to close his eyes and sleep. “Can you start a fire?”

“Of course,” Helena snapped.

“Great. Do that. Boil up that water we got from the stream.”

“How? Because you know what we didn’t bring with us from Dr Ayers’s house? Pots, and there aren’t any here.”

“Oh.”

“It’s fine. I’ll figure something out. We can use the cans the peaches are in. Boil those up first, I suppose. I mean, hot food is hot, right? Warm peaches. It’ll be a new delicacy. What are you going to do?”

“Walk down the track, find out if it leads to a road. Maybe there’s a city on the other side of those trees.”

The track took a meandering path through the wood. When building the house, they’d chosen the route that would be easiest to clear. After half an hour, it ended at a two-lane road. A hundred yards away, a tree had fallen down, partially blocking one lane. Other than that, there was nothing to see. No signs, no mailbox, not even a conveniently addressed statement of ownership warning off trespassers. There was no clue as to where they were.

A ray of sun broke through the clouds, adding a shimmering glow to the water-filled pothole. He leaned against a tree, watching the shadows slowly encroach on that patch of light. They weren’t going to make it to Washington. Not on foot. They’d not seen any zombies during the day, but that didn’t fill him with hope. Quite the opposite. They’d crossed no roads, no logging tracks, and barely any hunting trails. The logical explanation was just as Helena had suggested. They’d walked in a large circle. No, they weren’t going to reach Washington on foot, but was there any point trying? Max might have left the capital. If he hadn’t, other than warning him of the conspiracy, what advice could he give that experts couldn’t? There were people who spent their lives planning for disasters and emergencies. Wasn’t it simply arrogance that made him assume his counsel had value? More likely he’d be doing nothing but wasting Max’s time.

Wouldn’t it be better to identify the conspirators first? He could imagine himself back in the Oval Office, pointing at one conspirator after another, presenting damning evidence against each in turn. But then what? They wouldn’t go quietly. Could the secret service be trusted if he suspected the FBI had been compromised?

Powell had come from somewhere around here, so didn’t it make sense to try to hunt him down? Of course, for that he needed information, weapons, and supplies, and the only place he
knew
he’d find them was hidden beneath his cottage in Maine. There was less chance of reaching there than the capital.

The clouds closed, the ray of light disappeared, and the golden water filling the pothole turned dark once more. He headed back to the house.

Chapter 19 - Trapped

February 25
th
, Elk County, Pennsylvania

A snuffling rustle cut through Tom’s dreams. It came again, louder, rudely tearing him out of a restless sleep. He opened his eyes. It was coming from the other side of the front door. Was it a bear? Did they have those in Pennsylvania? Then came a slow, rasping scratch. Fingernails. He stood. The plastic sheet he’d been using as a blanket crackled to the floor. There was a thump from outside. Then another. He knew what it was. Zombie.

It might have been due to exhaustion, but the mistake he’d made was clear. The house was a mile from the road. The undead were people. How would they get out here? Like Officer Williams, they would have driven. Bitten, infected, thrown out or left behind, they’d turned. The zombies they’d become had followed the road, chasing one passing car after another until—

There was an almighty thump from beyond the door.

Until they saw the light from the fire Helena had lit. Or perhaps they’d smelled the smoke, or—

Another thump.

However they came here, it didn’t matter. He found himself edging around the chair. It was foolish, a childish illusion of security.

Thump.

Was it they, or it? How many were out there? He concentrated, listening more carefully. There was a soft slap of flesh against wood, then a harder bang. One. There was only one. There was no comfort in the realization.

He grabbed the shotgun from the ground, raised it to his shoulder, and aimed the barrel at the door. Closer, he needed to get closer. He forced himself to take a step toward the unseen foe.

Thump. Slap. Sigh.

Another step. Another. He was eight feet from the door. Close enough. He breathed out, his finger curled around the trigger, and he realized what he was about to do. He forced his hand away from the stock. Blowing a hole through the door wasn’t smart. There might be only one out there now, but what if more came?

He had to open the door. He rehearsed the scene in his mind, but there was no way he could do it while keeping the shotgun aimed at the zombie. With his eyes on the door, he backed away until his foot banged against the bottom-most step. From outside, the thumping slap of flesh against wood became more strident. Walking backward, he went upstairs, not hurrying until he reached the landing.

Helena had taken the room with the mattress, and lay on top, curled in a nest of packaging paper and plastic sheeting.

“Helena,” he whispered as loudly as he dared.

“What?” she groaned.

“Helena!”

“What?”

“There’s a zombie outside.”

She sat up straight. “Just one?”

“I think so,” he said, though the dark demons of doubt questioned whether that was the case. “I want you to open the door so I can shoot it.”

It was a long minute before she replied. “You sure?”

“It’s now or in the morning, and will you be able to sleep knowing it’s there?”

“I could’ve, if you’d not woken me,” she grumbled, pushing her way clear of the paper.

He went first, shotgun leveled at the door, only realizing how foolish that was when he stumbled on a stair.

“Are you sure it’s a zombie?” Helena asked, slightly too loudly.

The creature answered for him, letting out a low rasping hiss before thumping a palm against the wood.

“Open the door,” he said, raising the gun high. “I’ll fire.”

“Be careful. Of me,” she added.

He breathed out, aiming the gun at where he thought the creature’s head would be. “Now.”

She pulled on the handle. The door opened. There, movement. He pulled the trigger. The gun roared, and the shot sailed over the diminutive creature’s head. It staggered into the room as he hurriedly chambered another round.

“Shoot it! Shoot it!” Helena called.

It was too close. He swung the butt of the gun into its face. It staggered back a step. He did it again, and again, until it was level with the door. Not thinking, letting the terrified, animalistic part of his brain take over, he punched the shotgun into its chest, and then at its knee. There was a dull pop, and as the creature took another stumbling step, it collapsed onto the porch.

“Shoot it!” Helena yelled. Tom didn’t hear her. He slammed the shotgun down on its skull, over and over, until the creature was still.

Slowly, he straightened.

“Back inside,” Helena hissed, dragging at his arm. He stood, immobile. “There may be more,” she said.

Those words cut through the fog. He looked around at the moonlit woods. All seemed still. A light snow had dusted the ground, but the sky was once again clear.

“There’s nothing there,” he said. His skin began to prickle in the chill.

“And no sound,” she said. “No animals. Get inside.”

He did, and she closed the door behind him.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I’m going back to bed.”

He stood near the door, listening to the sound of her feet going up the stairs. A door closed. There was silence. His racing heart began to slow.

He shifted his grip on the shotgun, touching the bloody gore coating the butt. In the kitchen, he found the bottle of paint thinner, and doused his hands. At first by firelight, and then by the light of the tablet, he cleaned the shotgun. Where he’d found white flecks of bone on his suit, he’d doused them in the corrosive paint stripper. The room filled with the odor of the flammable liquid so he stayed away from the fire, letting the embers burn low.

Knowing he wasn’t going to sleep, and not wanting to sit alone with his darkening thoughts, he turned the tablet back on. He wandered from window to window, trying to get a signal for the sat-phone. His mind began to still. The activity log showed Bill Wright had been accessing the files that the algorithm had scoured from the internet. There was a message from him, a request for advice regarding his evacuation plan. Tom didn’t trust himself to reply. He would be too likely to say something that should only be said in person. Instead, he brought up the satellite feeds of North America. Even accounting for cloud cover, the sleeping continent seemed darker than before. Maybe an evacuation would work for Britain, but it was too late for it to be tried in America. Even if Farley died today, would it matter? The world had been torn apart. Whoever remained, and whatever they rebuilt, it would never,
could
never, be the same.

He went back to the files on the remote server, and began clicking on them at random. Some he deleted, others he flagged for Bill to watch, though he was no longer sure why. He came to a video of a woman standing in front of a tool bench. She was demonstrating how to make weapons from items found in an ordinary home. There was a theme of heavy weights and sharp points attached to poles and broom handles, but it was something. Certainly, it meant more than nothing that this individual was taking her time to try to help others, even in this weird twenty-first-century way.

Another video contained a call to fight, and the more he looked, the more of those he found. People talking into the camera, saying goodbye to unidentified loved ones, before signing off. Too many of them closed with a variation on the election slogan, of choosing a place to stand, and doing so together. He felt his throat tighten at the repetition of a message he’d suggested not because he’d believed it, but because it looked good on a poster and had tested well with focus groups. These people believed it. In face after desperate face, he saw that they needed to. But these were individuals with only the resources they had to hand. He wondered whether the people in the videos knew that it was unlikely anyone would see their last testaments. He might not be able to help them, and the reality was that most of them were probably already dead. But he could ensure that if or when civilization was rebuilt, these messages would become the epitaph of the old world and the moral foundation of a new one.

He brought up a subroutine he’d created himself as an academic exercise intended to improve his programming skills. It remotely turned on the electricity supply to his cottage in Maine and then booted up the servers he’d installed in the hidden room beneath the basement. Another few clicks, and the files were being transferred from the cloud. If the server farms went down, there would be a copy. A few more keystrokes, and he had it set up so the power would turn off again when the server was full.

If
the server farms went down? No, when. And he was assuming that he would ever get there. There was Nate, of course. He picked up the phone, but changed his mind. He’d call the kid in the morning and make sure he was going to leave. It would be a dangerous journey, but nowhere was safe, especially not Washington. As for himself?

The tablet beeped. There was another message from Bill. Tom stared at the screen. The man was complaining about being trapped in a warm room in a city where the power still worked.

“Doesn’t know how lucky he is.”