Left With the Dead (5 page)

There was a long pause before Falcon came back. “Terminator, this is Falcon. I don’t know how much I can tell you, but things aren’t improving. We’re trying to contain New York City, but there are outbreaks happening all over the country. Mostly on the East Coast, I think. Florida, DC, the Carolinas, Maryland, New Jersey…seems like wherever there’s a major seaport, these things are getting in. Homeland Security is trying to lock down the coastline, but that’s not really happening. All airspace has been sanitized for the past eighteen hours after a plane landed in Chicago with zeds on it. Don’t know much about the West Coast, but things have been pretty quiet over there. Over.”

“Falcon, Terminator. What about Europe? Over.”

“Ah…Terminator, I’m not sure. Russia’s gone dark, and a lot of Eastern Europe too. Germany and France are fighting zeds in their own countries. Seems like Britain and Switzerland are still hanging tough, along with the northern European countries, but beyond that, I don’t really know. The BBC was still broadcasting last I knew, but I haven’t been able to check into that lately.” There was another pause. “Sorry man, the questions you’re asking are way above my pay grade right now. Over.”

Gartrell digested that for a long moment. The news, while not unexpected, was still chilling. Was the United States falling before a…a zombie apocalypse, like in the movie
Dawn of the Dead
?

Jesus, what about Laurie and the kids? Is the cabin remote enough? Can they get to it? Can they defend it?

“Terminator, you still there? Over.”

Gartrell pushed the thoughts of his family away for the moment. “Roger that, Falcon. Terminator’s still here. Listen, when do you think you might be able to report back on an extraction? I’m here with a mother and a special needs child. If things go to hell, I’m going to be in a pretty tough spot. Over.”

“Terminator, Falcon. Roger that, I get what you’re saying. We’re going to do our very best, but for the time being, you’d better just lay low. Over.”

“Falcon, listen to me. I’ve been in this position just a few hours ago, and we had a fortified location with enough food and water to last for weeks. We had several Special Forces hooahs and troops from the 160 SOAR to keep the goblins at bay, and we still got pushed out. These things, they can bring a hell of a lot of mass to bear. I’m in a fourth floor apartment, man. If these things decide they want to come up and see what’s on the menu, the only thing that’s standing between the stenches and a kid and his mother is me, and I’ve got about ten seconds of combat time before I’m weapons dry. I don’t mean to sound like my mascara is starting to run, but you get what I’m saying here? Over.”

“Roger that, Terminator. Get what you’re saying a hundred percent. But I’m telling you the truth, we don’t have the assets to get you out just yet. I’ve heard there are some Chinooks spooling up from a Pennsylvania National Guard unit—other ‘Hook units from Connecticut and upstate New York are standing up now. Those are your best shot, but they’re not here yet. As soon as they come in, we’ll send something your way. Even sooner if another unit makes it on site, but for now, you have to wait. Over.” Falcon sounded sincere enough, but Gartrell knew the man was just a public affairs officer. How much horsepower could he possibly have? Even though PAOs were part of the Army structure, Gartrell had very little faith in a media wrangler whose only job was to blow sunshine through innocuous press releases.

“Falcon, this is Terminator. Roger your last. We’ll keep our heads down and do the best we can until we can get some support. What do you recommend for a contact schedule? Over.”

“Terminator, Falcon Four. Let’s talk in sixty minutes, hooah?”

“Roger Falcon, sixty minutes. Terminator Five, out.”

Gartrell slowly removed his radio headset and rubbed his eyes. Despite having fallen into a dreamless sleep, he still felt exhausted. And his body ached—all his joints were stiff and sore, and his thigh muscles twitched and burned. He forced himself to his feet and walked into the microscopic bathroom that adjoined the bedroom. A shower stall was to his left. To his right was the toilet, and dead ahead was a small sink with a medicine cabinet. He looked at his face in the mirror there, and was surprised to see just how haggard and run-down he looked. His cheeks, chin, and neck were covered with blond-brown razor stubble that was sprinkled liberally with gray. The creases in his forehead and the wrinkles around his dark eyes and mouth seemed as deep as canyons. The skin beneath his eyes was puffy, and dirt marred his features, serving only to exacerbate his overall unhealthy look. He looked at his hands. They were covered with grime, as was his uniform. First Sergeant David Gartrell definitely looked like a troop who had been to hell and back again.

And to think it’s only starting.

He opened the medicine cabinet. Inside was a box of cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, a tiny bottle of Tylenol that expired almost a year ago. He opened it and dry-swallowed two of the caplets inside, then turned to the toilet. After he lifted the lid and undid his trousers, he hesitated for a moment. The water in the toilet bowl was clear and clean. Water might soon become a precious resource. He turned and pissed into the sink instead, and listened to his urine wind its way down the drain. He was certain the lady of the house would disapprove of his measures, but if she ever discovered his transgression and made to complain, he would remind her of his foresight should it ever come to pass they needed the water in the toilet bowl. Just the same, when he was finished he opened the sink faucet. A small stream of water trickled out before the pipe started burping air, and he turned it off quickly. At least enough water had run down the drain to reduce the smell of his urine.

And it’s the small pleasures I take comfort in
, he thought.

He then inventoried his gear.

###

The rest of the apartment was dark and gloomy with the shades drawn. Gartrell stepped quietly into the kitchen and took a quick inventory of the items out in plain view. Ignoring the usual fixtures—microwave, toaster, coffee maker (
God, some Joe would taste fucking awesome right now
, he thought), other kitchen appliances—he saw there were bags of chips, half a case of bottled water, four two-liter bottles of Pepsi, a box of cookies, half a loaf of Martin’s potato bread. He smelled something rank and sour coming from the stainless steel waste can standing near the doorway to the dining room. It was the stench of feces, still odious beneath a liberal dose of Lysol. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and slowly walked into the dining room.

Jolie was on her knees before a small boy with hair the color of russet that made Gartrell think of copper. Jolie looked over at Gartrell as he stood in the doorway. Her red hair hung in her face as she pulled up the boy’s jeans and buttoned them. She still wore the clothes from the night before. Her face was pale, drawn, and her gaze was uneasy. The boy turned to him as well. He was absolutely beautiful, that kind of beauty that only small children seemed to have, completely unsullied, almost angelic. His skin was fair, like his mother’s, and totally unblemished. His blue eyes widened when he saw Gartrell, and he took a step toward his mother and put a hand on her cheek. He made a small mewling sound in the back of this throat, and Gartrell watched his beautiful expression become marred by the onslaught of sudden fear.

Gartrell slowly leaned forward and smiled as gently as he could, ignoring his protesting knees and back. He knew he looked like hell, and he didn’t blame the kid for being scared. Hell, he was only a few steps away from having Hershey squirts in his drawers himself.

“Hey there,” Gartrell said, his voice low and friendly, a tone he didn’t have much occasion to use outside of his family. “How’re you doing, little guy?” He didn’t move any closer, and kept the silly smile on his face. He had only one chance to make a passing impression, and he didn’t want to blow it. There was no telling how long the three of them would be cooped up together, and if most of that time could be spent without the boy screaming and yelling in terror because a strange man was in the apartment, Gartrell was ready to move heaven and earth to make it happen.

“His name’s Jaden,” Jolie said.

“Hiya, Jaden. I’m Dave, and I’m very happy to meet you.” Gartrell kept a bouncy, bubbly tone in his voice.

Jaden moaned again and pushed himself into his mother’s arms, his face pressed against her shoulder. She smiled and hugged him against her, whispering into his ear. The boy did not cry, but he held onto her for dear life. His small body shook.

“Do you want me to go back into the bedroom?” Gartrell asked.

Jolie shook her head and continued whispering to Jaden, rubbing his back as she planted small kisses on his head. Gartrell straightened up and watched them in the gloomy living room. From the corner of his eye, he saw the goods piled up on the dining room table. He stepped toward it silently and took a quick inventory. More water. Batteries, of all sizes. Cleaning supplies, and Gartrell wondered idly if things such as oven cleaner could somehow be used as a weapon. Bottled juices. Boxes of bandages, over-the-counter medications, and someone’s Oxycontin prescription. A box of shotgun shells, which brightened Gartrell’s day until he saw they were .410 caliber, far too small to be used in his AA-12. Paper towels, toilet paper, paper napkins. A bag of apples, still hard to his touch. Three containers of wet naps. Gartrell opened one and used several sheets to clean his hands, then ran a few over his face for good measure. The moist, white towelettes were almost completely black by the time he finished.

When he looked up from his work, he saw both Jolie and Jaden were watching him from the living room. Gartrell smiled at the boy, and this time Jaden didn’t look away. He made good eye contact with him, and Gartrell knew that was a good sign.

“You look more human now with some of that grime scrubbed away,” Jolie said.

Gartrell felt suddenly self-conscious. “Well. I really don’t clean up all that well, but I guess anything’s an improvement. I’m sorry if I interrupted you, and I’m sorry I frightened Jaden.”

“It’s okay. It was going to have to happen sooner or later. I want him to see you, so he gets used to you. It’s probably better to have it happen now, while there’s still some light.”

Gartrell nodded, and he smiled at the boy again. Jaden only stared back, his face impassive. He studied Gartrell for several long moments, then slowly turned away and reached for a plastic Sippy cup equipped with a straw. He put the straw in his mouth and took a long drink, his gaze back on Gartrell.

“So he can’t speak?” Gartrell asked.

Jolie shook her head. “Only a few words. No real sentences yet. He goes to a special needs preschool on Second and Sixty-Eighth, but school’s obviously out now.” She ran her fingers through Jaden’s hair, brushing it into place. “He loved it there. He was starting to make friends with some of the other children, and they had children there without disabilities, so he could interact with them. He came a long, long way in less than a year.”

“He’s beautiful,” Gartrell said.

“Yes. He is.” She reached out and gently grabbed Jaden’s chin in her hand and turned his face toward hers. She kissed his forehead and looked into his eyes. “Say hello to—Dave, you said your name was?”

“Yeah. Dave Gartrell.”

“Say hello to Dave, sweetie.”

Jaden only sucked on his straw and slowly looked back at Gartrell. Gartrell winked at him again, and this time he was rewarded with a tiny shy smile from Jaden as he continued to drink his water. Gartrell’s smile broadened.

“A little smile like that is all the hello I need,” he said.

Jolie nodded without smiling herself and turned toward the coffee table. A small DVD player sat there, and Gartrell watched as she opened it and turned it on. Its screen came to life, and he felt a twinge of unease run through him.

“Hey, if that thing makes any sound—”

“I’ll keep the volume low,” Jolie said, her tone harsh. “I have to keep him occupied. If he’s unoccupied, he’ll start doing things that will cause more noise than a damned DVD, all right?” Jaden made a small noise in his throat when he heard his mother’s tone of voice, and Jolie turned back to him, all smiles. She touched his cheek and then tweaked his nose. “We’re going to watch some
Blue’s Clues
, okay buddy?”

Jaden pulled the straw from his mouth and said, “Boos!” His voice was small but as lovely as he was. Gartrell thought it was a 100% match, and then wondered what it would sound like when the boy broke down and starting wailing. The DVD player’s screen came to life with an animated menu, and Jolie selected the ‘Play All’ icon. The DVD began playing softly, and Jaden giggled a bit as he sat down before it. He stared at the screen with rapt attention, his Sippy cup hanging from his mouth by its straw. Jolie kissed the top of his head again, then picked up a soiled diaper lying on the floor next to her. She rose to her feet and carried the diaper into the kitchen. Gartrell followed, and watched as she put the diaper in a plastic shopping bag, tied it up, and dropped it into the almost-full trash can.

“Jaden’s not potty trained yet,” she told him. “So we go through quite a few diapers during the day, and a few more overnight. I’m sorry about the smell, but I’ve been afraid to go out and dump the bag down the garbage chute. I don’t know what might hear the noise.”

Gartrell nodded. “I get that. You’re thinking, and that’s good. If the smell gets too bad, we can always pitch the bag into another apartment.”

“Who were you talking to before?”

“I made radio contact with the Army unit that’s to our north. It’s an entire division, maybe ten thousand guys. They’re trying to move into the city, but it’s not going too well.”

“Will they come and get us?”

“As soon as they can. They’re a little short on helicopters right now, but they know we’re here. By the way, I’ll need your address—I can give them GPS information, but an actual address would help.”

“Fifteen-forty Second Avenue, apartment four B. When do you think they’ll come?”