Omega Days (An Omega Days Novel) (10 page)

“Brave new world,” whispered Carney.

TC grinned and waved at the dead cop, then lit two cigarettes from a pack he had found in a locker, passing one to his friend. “Where we going, brother?”

Carney put the Bearcat in gear and started pushing one of the patrol cars out of the way. “Mexico.”

San Francisco—The Tenderloin

Father Xavier and his group learned fast. Single file and quick was best, moving between cover and keeping out of sight, Dumpster to doorway and down alleys. They slipped into unlocked buildings when they could, standing still and holding their breath until the dead passed. Silence was their ally. By the time night settled over the city, they had traveled a total of six blocks. They had seen no indication of an organized evacuation, no military or police activity, and only heard the occasional helicopter without actually seeing one. A jaded voice within the priest suggested that any evacuation would take place in the upscale neighborhoods, and the dregs of the Tenderloin, as usual, would have to fend for themselves.

As they went, they watched and learned about the dead, an easy task because they were everywhere. Xavier paid close attention. Generally, they were slow and seemed to have a short attention span, frequently wandering with no apparent sense of purpose. At times they were motionless, standing still, maybe swaying a little, sitting on bus benches or propped against walls, staring at nothing.

The priest knew now what the absence of a soul looked like. Though he understood they were dangerous killing machines, his heart ached for them, and for the lives they had lost and would never regain. He couldn’t think of them as evil.

Their balance was poor, and they were prone to trip over curbs or obstacles in the street, falling and slowly getting back up. There didn’t seem to be any communication among them. When prey was around, however, their lethargy vanished, and Xavier’s group had witnessed up close the horror that followed, powerless to do anything to stop it. A young woman in a miniskirt and bare feet, her legs badly bitten from her ankles to her thighs, stumbled out of a doorway and into the street, dazed. She stood in the open, crying, hands pressed to her ears and eyes squeezed shut.

It attracted attention.

Corpses fifty feet away did not immediately react to her presence, which told the priest their range of vision was probably short. Her crying, however, caused creatures up to a block away to immediately turn toward the sound and start moving. Their clumsy gait seemed to improve, and they moved faster, a few even breaking into a sliding gallop.
Hearing more acute than vision. Speed and coordination improves when pursuing prey.
The girl didn’t even put up a fight.

Other events drew them: fire, gunshots, loud noises, car engines. Xavier suspected that whatever passed for instinct in them interpreted these stimuli as belonging to live humans and, thus, food. As for their feeding, he couldn’t begin to understand what benefit eating had for a dead, and likely decomposing, body.

They could climb a little—over low obstacles like abandoned cars—and could manage stairs, though not swiftly. Xavier had seen one struggle up a lowered fire escape stairway, then stop and lose focus, bumping its hips against the railing until it tumbled back down. The resulting fractured leg didn’t prevent it from walking, just exaggerated its limp. He had seen others use doorknobs but had not seen any other tool use, and for that he was grateful. They were weapons all by themselves.

The most fascinating thing they learned, and perhaps the most helpful, was that the dead both were relentless and did not react to injury or pain. No matter how badly maimed their bodies were, they kept on coming, and there were plenty of limbless corpses moving through the streets to validate this. In one case, a dead woman made her way down the sidewalk, arms extended and probing ahead of her, while her head was twisted
backward
from some hideous accident. She made frustrated grunting noises.

They had seen this relentlessness in action from concealment at the mouth of an alley, looking out at an intersection where a city bus had slammed into the side of an orange municipal dump truck. A handful of passengers were trapped on board, their screaming muffled behind glass as the dead encircled them, hammering at the sides and making the bus shake. It started slowly, with one or two detecting movement or noise from within, and in a short while handfuls were gathering. When the people inside started screaming, the dead appeared in droves, and soon there were more than a hundred pressing in on all sides. Someone on board had a pistol and slid open a window to fire into the swarm. Six shots went off at point-blank range, and only one of the dead went down. Xavier strained to see what had been different about that one, but at this distance he couldn’t tell.

Someone on board couldn’t take it any longer and opened the door in an ill-conceived escape attempt. The dead poured in, and it ended quickly.

Now, as an evening chill came on with a light fog, Xavier and the others stood in the darkness of a mom-and-pop dollar store that had been trashed by looters, a fact that made a couple of them shake their heads at the irony. The street outside was filled with wrecks, broken glass, and moving figures. They were little more than silhouettes in the fog, drifting silently among the cars. At the end of the block a lone streetlight was on, but no others. There were no lights in any of the block’s ground-floor shops or apartment windows above.

Pulaski stood beside the priest, holding a tire iron. “We’ve wasted all our daylight. You better be right.”

Xavier hoped he was. Directly opposite them was a four-story brick building with graffiti-covered walls. The ground floor, once a store of some kind, was boarded over with weathered plywood and covered in spray-painted tags, the most prominent of them a big, black
690K
. To the left, the street-level doorway that would lead to the apartments above stood open like the black mouth of a crypt.

“You’ve been here before?” Alden whispered, joining them.

“Never inside,” said Xavier, “only out front.”

Pulaski looked at him. “Then you don’t really know.”

Xavier shrugged. “This is one of their places, so it’s likely. I told you earlier I wasn’t making any promises.”

“Yeah,” the pipe fitter continued, “but you sounded pretty damned confident. Enough to take us six blocks in the other direction from where we wanted to go. Enough to keep us from checking out that police car we saw up on the curb.”

The priest looked at him. “That was a death trap. You would have drawn them the moment you stepped into the street, and then what would have happened if you’d reached the car and found nothing?”

“Someone probably already took the shotgun,” Alden added. “You would have gotten killed for nothing.”

Pulaski snorted. “So I got to spend more hours creeping like a rat to get killed here instead.”

“It’s still our best bet,” said Alden, patting the priest’s shoulder. He hadn’t said a word about detouring for his medication. They’d seen only one pharmacy, and it had been on fire.

“How will we even know where to start looking?” said Pulaski.

Xavier gave him a sideways glance. “You’re assuming we live long enough to get into the building.” He saw the man swallow hard and tried not to take pleasure from it. “We’ll probably have to go door to door. First we need to get there.”

Alden nodded and moved away, returning a moment later with three plastic water bottles three-quarters filled with gasoline, a rag stuffed into each. The skateboard kid, whose name turned out to be Ricky Hammond, though he insisted on being called Snake, had siphoned the gas from an abandoned car with a length of garden hose.

“I’m less worried about them,” Xavier said, indicating the dead.

“Why?” Pulaski asked.

“Because 690K doesn’t play around, and they’ll blow you away without even thinking about it.” He pointed to the building across the street. “What worries me is that some of them might still be alive and holed up in there. If they are, your tire iron isn’t going to do much good. They pack serious heat.”

Pulaski scowled. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” The bluster was gone from his voice.

“We don’t have a choice, do we?” said Alden.

“Of course we do. We can pull out of here and follow our original plan, try to get to the marina.”

“We’re lucky we made it this far,” said Pulaski. “No way we cross half the city and live if we’re unarmed.”

“We could still go check that police station,” Xavier offered, “avoid this place entirely.”

“Except anyone who’s still alive and trying to get out will go there,” said Alden. “We’d find it empty, or get ourselves shot by other survivors. Not many people know about this place, do they?”

Xavier shook his head. “No one stupid enough to risk going up against these guys.”

“Stupid like us,” Pulaski muttered.

“You don’t have to go.”

“I’m going.”

“Then like we discussed,” Xavier said. “Ricky . . . sorry, Snake. You throw two of the bottles as hard as you can toward the streetlight. It should draw them off, and we wait until that happens. The rest of you stay here and out of sight while Pulaski and I go in.”

They all nodded.

The priest looked at the twelve-year-old again. “You watch that doorway. When you see us in it again, if they’ve moved back into the street, you throw the last bottle in the other direction to draw them that way. We’ll cross when it’s safe.”

Snake smiled and shook the bottles.

Xavier gripped Alden’s shoulder. “Give us thirty minutes. If we’re not back, get them out of here and head for the marina.”

The schoolteacher’s eyes announced the doubts he had about being up to that task. “Make sure you come back.”

A minute later, Pulaski lit the bottles with his Zippo, and Snake crept onto the sidewalk. Two balls of fire arced through the night. The kid had an arm, because both hit the pavement almost directly beneath the lone streetlight, pools of fire erupting and throwing the shadows of cars and moving figures on nearby walls. The dead moaned and moved toward the small blaze, and two shapes slipped out the storefront and scooted across the street, shadows in the fog.

Xavier and Pulaski moved fast, sprinting behind the backs of the shuffling ghouls and reaching the doorway. Silence and darkness awaited them, and they plunged inside, the thin light from outside lost in seconds. They climbed a stairway, Pulaski going first with the sharp end of his tire iron. A landing gave a choice of more stairs going up, or a hallway. At the end facing the street, pale light from outside came through a dirty window and created a bluish glow, not enough to see by. Pulaski lit the Zippo.

In their small circle of light they could see that the hall was littered with trash and empty beer bottles. Every door, every inch of wall, and even the ceiling was covered in graffiti. The pipe fitter looked at the priest and raised an eyebrow. Xavier looked at the doors, then pointed a finger at the ceiling. They climbed to the next floor.

The thumping came as soon as they reached the next landing, where there were no more stairs, only another hallway like the one below, complete with trash and more graffiti. They froze. It came again, something heavy,
bump, bump
. It was coming from the right, so they moved left, toward the back of the building.

As he had told the others, Father Xavier had been here once before, nearly two years ago, although he hadn’t shared the details. The building was one of the places where gang members crashed, and he had come for a meeting on behalf of a young man named Manny Lovato. 690K was drawing the boy in, seducing him with the promise of easy money, sex, drugs, and little responsibility. Manny was the son of a woman in his parish, a bright boy who got decent grades and had a chance at a higher education, an opportunity to escape the dead-end life of the Tenderloin. Father Xavier had come to meet with the leader of 690K, at the time a twenty-five-year-old thug named Smiles. He had come to plead for them to leave the boy alone. They met on the sidewalk out front.

“He’s mine,” Smiles had said, shrugging. “His life, his ass. They’re mine. You’re too late, Father. I already claimed his soul.” The words were spoken without malice or anger, just matter-of-fact. The gang leader smiled and nodded politely at everything the priest had to say, hearing him out. And then another shrug. “He’s mine.” Xavier had gone away defeated and frustrated. Three weeks later Manny Lovato was killed by police after a high-speed chase, following a drive-by shooting. He was sixteen.

That was the moment Xavier realized how naïve he was and began to see the futility of his efforts to turn people away from the lure of sin. It was the start of his slide into doubt and bitterness. And now he was back at the scene of his failure.

They began searching rooms, tensing every time they opened a door. Pulaski’s lighter revealed squalid crash pads containing filthy mattresses, piles of dirty clothes, overflowing ashtrays, discarded liquor bottles, and used condoms. The reek of stale marijuana clung to everything, and obscenities in Spanish were spray-painted on the walls. They investigated room after room and found neither the walking dead or live gangbangers. They also didn’t find the object of their search.

Their watches showed the minutes draining away.

In the hallway once more, they looked at the only door on the floor they hadn’t searched, the one from behind which came the thumping. They both knew what that sound meant but didn’t know how many the sound represented. On the door, someone with some artistic talent had painted a winking, yellow smiley face wearing a jeweled crown, with
690K
beneath it in script. Xavier tried the knob and found it locked. He pushed on the door, and it rattled just a bit, cheap pine.

“Ready?” Xavier whispered.

Pulaski shook his head, scowling. “We know what’s in there.” He raised his tire iron. “You said it, this won’t be enough.”

“This room is the best bet. Get ready.” Without waiting for agreement, Xavier threw his broad shoulder hard against the door. It didn’t pop open; it exploded with a sharp crack of wood and came off its hinges. They charged in.

The curtains were pulled back from the room’s single window, letting in enough light from the street so they could see. Even without the image on the door, it was immediately apparent that this was the gang leader’s crib. Leather couches faced an enormous flat-screen TV, and a big bed covered in satin leopard-print sheets stood in a corner. On the walls hung framed posters of Pacino in his
Scarface
role. A granite-topped coffee table sat between the couches and the TV, covered with DVD cases, cigarette packs, and empty champagne bottles.