Rise of the Dead (13 page)
"Why were they bombing us?" I ask him.
"They weren't trying to bomb us. They were sealing off the points of entry to keep more corpses from getting in."
As I watch the soldiers start coming out, burdened with boxes of food, Quentin tells us the rest of the details he's heard from the military.
"They are taking us back to Great Lakes Naval Station. It's safe there. They are fighting back. They’re going to take back the city block by block. They had people just start showing up yesterday, so the whole place turned into a refugee camp. It's fortified for five blocks all the way to lake shore. Hospital and everything. They got power and running water, too."
It sounds too good to be true. After the last 36 hours, I have a hard time believing that any place is safe anymore. I think of all those people around us at the racetrack when this whole thing started, how many didn't make it. The naval station can't be any worse than what we've already been through.
We lift off and I watch the building recede below us. Once we are in the air, I can see the massive amount of undead surrounding the building now, drawn to all the activity. I notice the Mercedes is gone from the back of the building. I guess Dom made it out of there after all. In some ways, I don’t blame her for looking out for herself. But she better hope she never sees my face again.
The sun sets at our backs as we fly low and fast to the darkening east. I started off just trying to get home, to find my family. Instead, I find myself steadily being pulled farther away from everything that matters. My old life is just a memory, turning to ashes as quickly as the burning city I watch below. Entire neighborhoods are still blazing. Cinders coil into the sky from a building across the expressway, and then it collapses before my eyes. There are so many signs on the rooftops of houses. Most just say HELP or ALIVE. Some of these buildings are on fire as well, and clearly, whoever was alive to make those signs isn't alive anymore.
The Chicago skyline comes into view, just a silhouette of a city against the cooling sky. Looking at it gives me a chill. Instead of the usual electric glow of the city, there are only the fires. One building, maybe the television network, is like a giant torch in the sky. Near the airport, a jetliner that crash-landed on the highway left a smoldering trail of carnage.
The Blackhawk banks and my stomach turns. I start to feel sick. I lean over and throw up on the floor. Everyone looks at me but says nothing. It might be that I have never flown in a helicopter before, but I think something else is what is really making me sick. The scent of things that should never burn fills my nostrils. It's the smell of chemicals, rubber, plastic, and flesh roasting together in an acrid symphony. It's even worse up here in the air.
Finally, the lakeshore spreads before me. The dark surface of the water is massive. The lake extends to the horizon and suddenly vanishes into the night sky. It’s like I am looking at the edge of the earth. I know that science would say this is not possible, but neither is dead people that get up and walk around.
We touch down in the middle of an oval track. No one is jogging around it anymore. It has become a small airfield for any aircraft that can manage a landing. Aside from the helicopters, there is a handful of recreational aircraft, a small commuter plane, and a couple of fighter jets.
We step onto the ground amidst a flurry of activity. A refrigerated truck rolls up behind the last helicopter and the soldiers hustle to load up the food. An officer in a pressed white uniform and white hat pulls up in a golf cart and immediately approaches Quentin and leans close to his ear to say something over the noise of the vehicles. The officer waves us over indicating we should get in the golf cart. He stops Chet and points him to an ambulance up near the other end of the track.
Quentin slides in the front seat with the officer, while Danielle and I face the opposite way in the back. We exit the track to a parking lot overloaded with cars, tents, and exhausted looking people. They mill around and choke on the smoky air.
I turn and ask the officer where we are going.
"Captain Black's office is just up ahead," he says, pointing out a long, white four-story building to the left. I remember seeing it as we approached through the air. Snipers perch along the rooftop at intervals, and spotlights sweep across a marble courtyard surrounded by manicured trees and shrubs. From the Blackhawk, I'd seen the giant red and gold star emblazoned into the center of the grounds, lit up like a beacon by the spotlights as though it signified something important. Maybe it just made the place easier for the pilots to find.
I want to ask who Captain Black is, but Quentin looks back and tells me.
"My father." He smiles, an expression I haven't seen on anyone recently. "He's alive."
We follow the officer through the clean lobby, up two flights of stairs and down a long, bright hallway. He taps a couple of times on the window before leading us in. Captain Black, a taller, older version of his son rises behind his desk. He has dark circles around his eyes. An ashtray full of cigarettes sits next to an empty mug with half a dozen brown rings staining the interior. Quentin steps around the desk, and his father stands up and holds out his hand for Quentin to shake. Quentin looks down at the hand before him as though it held a losing wager slip. Then he grips the hand and returns his father's gaze.
"I knew you would be okay," says Captain Black. "I never doubted my boys would round you up eventually, and here you are." His tone is almost condescending, as though he alone was responsible for his son being alive. To think of what he had gone through to get here, to the only person he had left in the world, and greeted with a handshake. It made me dislike the man immediately.
"Good to see you too, sir," says Quentin.
Sir? The sudden change in Quentin is striking. He stands more rigid and upright as though at constant attention. I try to catch his eyes but notice they only glaze over everything, as if he is subconsciously trying to avoid seeing everything around him. My hands clench as I watch. We could all be dead tomorrow. This old man has the chance to reunite with his child against all odds, and yet, he seems indifferent.
"Have a seat, please," he says to me and Danielle and gestures to a few chairs across the desk. "I suppose I owe you two my gratitude as well for helping my son along the way."
"Not at all," I say. "If anything, Quentin saved our asses more than a few times."
"Very good," he grumbles. "My boy always means well." He sits back and retrieves a box of cigarettes from the desk. He puts one between his teeth and brings a flame to it as he takes a long draw. He continues to talk to Danielle and me directly, acting as though his son were but another piece of furniture in the office.
"Welcome to Great Lakes. I am sure you both must have a lot of questions, most of which I can't answer, so I will just brief you on our status." He paused to take another long drag from the cigarette.
"This installation represents the only territory under government control in the state. We have running water, and power to four of our primary buildings. We have fortified the area from Nimitz hospital to the lakeshore, approximately fifteen square miles. However, we have suffered heavy casualties in the process. About four thousand of our active duty personnel are still ready for action. Though that same number are injured, and nearly twice that many killed in action or missing and presumed dead."
"We have a civilian population close to ten thousand. If they can make it here, we let them in. However, we do not have the assets needed for any search and rescue operations. All our operational resources are deployed for perimeter security or procurement of provisions. To be blunt, we have more mouths than we are equipped to feed."
He pauses to suck on the cigarette again.
"Our next initiative is to reorient our civilian population to combat support roles. This is the only way to maintain the troop levels needed for security. Everyone here must learn to fight, every man, woman, and child. That being said, I am glad to have you all on board here."
He tapped out the cigarette in the ashtray and rose to indicate the completion of his briefing.
"Does anyone have any idea what's causing this?" asks Danielle.
"That's not something I can answer. I am just a soldier, Miss..."
"Danielle," she says.
"Danielle. All we know for sure is that it isn't some infection. The initial fears of a spreading pandemic only exacerbated the situation. It is, as of now, still an unexplained occurrence.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she insists.
“I told you everything I know,” he sighs.
"How can we find out if someone is here?" I ask him.
"We have yet to establish a protocol to document incoming personnel. Frankly, it's low on the list of priorities. It's not such a big place. If you ask around you will find them. Assuming they are here, of course." He tries on a smile, but it doesn't fit well. Instead, he just tugs at his tie like the collar of his shirt is too tight. He shuffles a stack of reports into a folder with a classified stamp across the front of it to politely indicate our time is up, but I have more questions.
"Do you have contact with other outposts? What about Washington?" I ask. "Is it this bad everywhere?"
The last question seems to make him wince. He places the folder down on the desk and stares down at it a moment before he composes his response.
"This is as good as it gets right now. I lost a lot of good men just holding this place together. A lot of good men. Those bureaucrats, trapped in their bunkers under Washington, they can't save anyone now. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work here. Lt. Commander Reynolds will show you to your quarters so you can get cleaned up and rested, and he will be available tomorrow to help you get situated."
We rose from our chairs and started towards the hall. Quentin stopped to give the Captain a salute before closing the door, which his father acknowledged with a slight nod and a sigh.
"Your dad is kind of an asshole," whispers Danielle.
"No shit," says Quentin. "I been saying that to him for years."
I can't help feeling like this place will never become a refuge or stronghold. Maybe just the future site of humanity's last stand. I don't want to acknowledge it, but I am clinging to the hope that I might actually find my wife or daughter here. I know the odds are pretty slim of that happening, but even if it's unlikely, it's not impossible. I have to look. I am exhausted, but I know I won't be able to sleep until I have looked everywhere for them.
Lieutenant Commander Reynolds brings the golf cart to a stop at a building around the corner. It looks to be a large barracks. Several soldiers sit on the front steps and eye us as we follow the sergeant through the glass doors to the lobby. He presses a button to call the elevator.
"This building is the only housing with power, air conditioning, and hot water," he tells us. "It only houses the soldiers, but with all the casualties it is essentially half empty."
"I don't understand why all those people are stuck outside if there is space here," I say.
Reynolds pushes a pair of round glasses up the bridge of his nose. "The captain thought it would be best to reserve these facilities for those civilians that volunteer for service. Sort of an extra incentive. For now, you can all enjoy your own rooms for the night. Tomorrow Captain Black is looking to begin recruiting from the civilians."
The doors slide open, and we ride up to the third floor. We emerge in the middle of a long, narrow hallway with white utilitarian walls and identical pine doors every ten feet. The rooms are differentiated by the simple black numbers above the peepholes. The sergeant leads us down to room 362 and opens the door with a plastic key card.
"This will be you, sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"It's Blake."
"Blake. You can just call me James.” He hands me the plastic key card. “Showers are down at the end of the hall. If you need anything, I am down in room 101, right next to the lobby. Your friends will be next door in 364 and 366." He points to Quentin and Danielle in sequence to the room numbers. "The other fellow in your group will be at the hospital this evening."
I walk inside and eye the simple desk and chair in front of the window, flanked on both sides by a twin bed. A locker at the foot of each bed, with a sticky residue still on the empty nameplate.
I turn to see Reynolds retreating to the hall, pulling closed the door behind him. I walk over to one of the beds and sit down. The look at the indented pillow. It reminds me I am using a dead man's bed and I forget my urge to sleep. I get back up and lean over the desk, turning the blinds to see out the window. The view is a side view of the marble courtyard with the star and the headquarters is off to the left. I glimpse my faint reflection in the window pane, covered in dust and grime from the explosions earlier. I stare at my hands, noticing the sooty gray layer over my skin. I go to the bathroom and flinch at the reflection in the mirror. I look like a corpse. Dried blood has crusted around a few minor scrapes on my forehead and neck. My hair is greasy and powdered with filth. I run the sink and wash my hands, splash water on my face. Black fluid is what goes back down the drain.
I unbutton my shirt and fill the sink again with fresh water and some hand soap from a plastic container next to the faucet. I have a white undershirt on, and I peel this off and rinse it out in the sink, too. Then I hang both shirts up to dry in the locker. I find a gray t-shirt with U.S. NAVY in blue letters across the chest. I debate putting it on, but instead, I lay it on the back of the chair by the desk and sit on the bed. I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and look at the shattered screen. I set it down on the desk. Then I pick it back up and toss it in the wastebasket on the floor. In the quiet room, I stare at the round white face of an old alarm clock on the desk and only hear the sounds of sporadic machine gun fire from the distant front lines. It's almost ten at night now. About 40 hours from when this all started. Just 40 hours. It had seemed like an eternity.
A knock on my door startles me. I get up from the bed and open it and find Danielle in the hallway.
"I'm sorry," she says. I catch her glancing at my chest, and then she blushes and looks down. She is wearing an identical shirt to the one I found in the locker in my room. Her hair is still dripping wet, and I can see a puffy bruise at the top of her forehead. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"It's okay. I wasn't asleep," I tell her. I move aside to let her in the room. "Is everything okay?"
"Oh, yeah," she says. "I just don't know if I can be alone right now."
"I know what you mean." I should be tired, but my thoughts keep my mind moving. I retrieve the shirt from the chair back and pull it on.
"I want to stop thinking about everything that is happening, but I can't. It's all I can do when I am alone." She punctuates her last thought with a sigh.
"I was about to go out and have another look around. I'd appreciate some company if you're up for it."
I can tell she knows the reason I want to look around. She looks at me a moment, and I suppose she is deciding if I actually want company, or if I feel obligated to let her stay with me.
"I know they probably aren't out there, but I have to look for them anyway."
"Of course," she says. "I'm glad to help you look."
We go down the elevator to the first floor and head for the door to the front steps. There are still several soldiers hanging around the outside of the entrance, smoking and drinking beers. They don't seem as bothered as the civilians we encountered. I overhear a soldier wearing a cowboy hat telling a story about the time someone named Jervis accidentally shot a camel.
"All that shit we were in, and the only thing that ever got to the bastard was shooting that fucking camel," he finishes to a chorus of suppressed laughter from the other four soldiers. They stop when we move down the steps, trying not to look directly at us.
At the street, I look in each direction trying to decide which way to go. Other than the people we saw in the parking lot between the landing field and the headquarters, I don't have an idea where we should start looking.
"You two lost?" The voice of the soldier calls to us. He flicks his cigarette away and walks down the steps toward us. He wears a tan cowboy hat and camo fatigues with FLETCHER stitched on the left breast of his shirt.
"Would you know how we get to the hospital?" I ask him.
"Sure," he says. "You don't want to go there, though."
"Our friend is there," I say.
The soldier seems to consider this a moment then he points out another building to the Southwest that has all the windows illuminated.
"That's it," he says. "But you don't want to go there. Take my word for it. You have to get clearance anyway unless you're in for treatment."
The other soldiers stare down at us with accusing expressions that make me a little uncomfortable.
"Don't mind the grunts up there," Fletcher whispers. "It's just kind of strange for them, seeing you move in here. And, wearing the clothes from some of our guys that just died this morning."
I definitely feel awkward now, but I don't say anything.
"They'll have to get over it, though," Fletcher goes on. "Lot more of that will be going on soon enough. Anyway, best place to be on the base is right here. Take my word for it. Stay away from the fences." He points and makes an arc from the south to the west and up to the north. "Nothing to see but corpses out there."
"Well, we appreciate your advice," says Danielle. "We are trying to locate someone, though.”
"Suit yourselves." He turns to climb the steps, and then he pauses and eyes Danielle. "If you need anything just come find good ole Chuck in room 304. That's me."
He gives her his most charming cowboy smile and goes back up to join the other soldiers.
We head across the lighted courtyard toward the parking lot that we saw when we arrived. I glance up at the buildings. Snipers track our movements from the rooftops. We cross the service road that passes in front of the headquarters and into the gloom of the parking lot on the south side of the building.
There are people piled in truck beds, on the roofs of RV's, and even just laying out on thin blankets in the grass. Most of them are just as filthy as we were when we arrived, and they clearly don't have access to the kind of facilities we were given. Some of them eye us curiously in our military shirts. A delirious woman runs over and clamps a hand around my arm. She clutches a photo of a child in a hockey uniform.
"Please, help him," she cries. "Someone needs to get him from school."
"I'm sorry," I stammer.
"He's alone out there," she points to the city. "Please go help him."
A man I presume to be her husband comes and retrieves her, apologizing. He leads her back to the trunk of the minivan they are living out of now.
Here and there amongst the refugees, I spot a child. There aren't many, and the sight of each one troubles me. They all seem to have the same tired, traumatized stare.
We get to the end of the row of cars, and I realize then the lot curves around and spans the entire rear side of the building. People don't just fill the parking lot either; the refugee camp extends down a grade and across a wide road and into the golf course beyond. All the way to the lake, it looks like a massive junkyard with thousands of people living amongst the battered vehicles. The camp is lit up at night by makeshift guard towers, snipers with spotlights perched atop the raised booms of utility trucks and fire engines. Military and police vehicles weave through the rows of cars, soldiers with machine guns ready for anything.
We walk from row to row looking into every unfamiliar face. Half a dozen bikers in leather jackets sit drinking hard liquor from bottles. An old man pushes a cart around, picking through empty cans of food that seem to be lying everywhere on the ground. Another man stares at me while he urinates in the space between two parked cars. The whole place is already starting to smell of rotting food and human excrement.
The more we see of the place, the more I am hoping I don't find my family here. I realize there will be no fight to take back the city. The military can't handle the people that are alive inside the base, let alone the millions of undead that are wandering the streets. I wonder if the captain has any idea how desperate the situation is outside.
A brunette woman without pants stumbles between the rows of cars, clutching a bloody wound in her abdomen. Blood soaks her ripped shirt and trickles down her thighs. She collapses on the ground a few feet in front of us, her face smacking the hard surface of the road. She lies motionless. Her wavy hair masks her face. Danielle moves to help her, but I pull her back a few feet. Several other people get out of their cars and look on as a spotlight locates the woman's body. No one moves as a squad car comes around a corner and approaches the scene.
A petite cop gets out of her car, removes the pistol from her holster and moves cautiously toward the body on the pavement. She crouches down beside the woman, then pins the body to the ground by planting her knee on the woman's back as she checks for a pulse. She stands back up and then fires a round in the back of the woman's skull. Without looking back, the cop turns and goes back to the squad car and ties the body to the bumper of the car and reverses down the aisle. No questioning the witnesses or pursuing suspects. Nothing. Case closed.
“What is going on here?” Danielle whispers.
“I don’t know,” I sigh.
“I can’t believe no one is doing anything about it,” Danielle says. She looks at the people nearby as they turn their backs away.
“I guess they all have bigger problems to deal with,” I say.
"I never imagined there'd be a place as horrible as this," Danielle whispers. I look over and can see she is crying, her lips quivering. I put a hand on her shoulder, but she turns and sobs into my chest.
"I've seen enough," I tell her. "We should go back now."
"No." She lifts her head, wiping at her eyes with her fingers. "We've come this far. Let's finish looking."
As we move through the cars, the hours pass, and people begin to settle into their shelters for the night. The sounds of constant gunfire from the barricades rattles in the distance.
A dog appears suddenly alongside us, a big, scruffy terrier, wagging its tail, panting, oblivious. It stops to sniff some empty tin cans and selects one to piss on. It runs back to catch up with us, and Danielle bends down and scratches the top of its head between the ears. It rolls onto its back, and Danielle rubs it on the belly. The dog gets up and runs off ahead, stopping here and there to beg for food until the people chase it away.
In between the unfamiliar hopeless faces, my eyes keep going back to the dog. I cling to the sight of its constantly wagging tail amidst all this despair. The dog doesn't remember the horrible things it witnessed yesterday and doesn't fear what might become of it tomorrow. The dog lives only in the moment. I envy the stupid animal because it is a stupid animal.
At the back of the golf course, in the last line of the vehicles, I spot a long, yellow school bus. I try not to get my hopes up, but as we approach it to my amazement, the lettering on the side of the bus reads, LYONS ELEMENTARY.
"That's Abby's school," I tell Danielle. We hurry to the door of the bus, but I can't see anything inside the interior. I bang my fist on the door and call her name. The door swings open, and a frightened woman stares down at me.
"I'm looking for my daughter," I stumble over the words. "Abby Wakefield."
The woman holds a finger in front of her lips and exits out of the bus. "Please, they're sleeping inside. Your daughter goes to Lyons?" she asks.
"Yes."
"What grade?"
