This Plague of Days, Season Two (The Zombie Apocalypse Serial) (18 page)

From the safety of a military bunker in Montana, Lieutenant Carron had read the reports, watched America’s fall, and passed the incoming intelligence to his superiors until his superiors fell sick, too. Some lived through Sutr’s fevers. Most died. Lieutenant Francis Carron didn’t so much as catch a cold.

Carron was about to turn to leave when he heard a footstep to his left. A young man in bloody camouflage appeared from behind a wrecked white pickup. He aimed a Bushmaster at Carron’s chest. “Stop! Move and I’ll kill you. Put your weapon on the deck or you’re a meat sack, read me?”

Carron couldn’t see the soldier’s eyes. He wore shooting glasses. He complied. “Easy, son. We’re on the same team.”

The soldier relaxed as soon as the Parabellum was on the macadam, but he was still guarded. “Anybody can put on a uniform.”
 

The lieutenant relaxed, as well. Despite the weapon, the private looked like a kid playing soldier. A young man’s impulsiveness and testosterone could be dangerous, but this one looked too exhausted and underfed.

Carron had always wanted shooting glasses like that — Crossbow Suppressors — but he would have felt foolish wearing them to work just to man a desk instead of a post. The men who guarded the bunker would have mocked him for wearing an accessory meant for “real” soldiers. Of course, all those guards were dead now. It was time to reinvent himself again.

“Identify yourself, Private.”

“Who’s asking…sir?” He aimed at Carron’s head.

“Lieutenant Frank Carron,” — he’d always hated Francis — “from Fort William Henry Harrison, Lewis and Clark County, Montana.”

“Then what’s with the police car, sir?”

“Commandeered.”

“What’s in the trailer, sir?”

“Not much. I like to stretch out. It’s easier to sleep in the trailer than set up a tent each night or sleep in the car.”

The soldier stepped closer but Carron still couldn’t see his eyes. “I answered your questions. Time you answered mine. Where’s the officer in charge?”

“No officers.”

“The virus get them all?”

“No, sir. We weren’t doing too badly, but militia came through. Ran the roadblock. We got into a firefight. We had the choke point and the road locked down, but more poured out of the woods behind us. Anybody who didn’t run got shot.”

“You didn’t run. How come you’re not dead, Private?”

“Pulled my superior officer over top of me. He bled all over. First time he was useful, sir.”

“I see that. Serves him right for getting outflanked so easily.”

“I’m going to want to see in the back of that trailer, sir. The militia were locusts. Took everything we’d gathered.”

“You eaten lately?”
 

“Only water from a creek in the woods for two days. The militia left nothing. I’ve been going farther into the traffic jam each day, searching. Lots of rotting bodies and spoiled food.”

The lieutenant smiled. “I guess this makes me the cavalry, boy! I got food!”

The soldier relaxed further and let his rifle’s muzzle point at the ground.

“Come on back and we’ll break bread together. Not actual bread, of course. That’s all hard as rock and mouldy.”

“Cut the mould away and soak old bread in water and it softens up again, sir. It’s more filling that way, actually.”

“I haven’t tried that. Say, you been listening to the radio?”

“Yeah. Something happened in Indianapolis. Lots of screaming and casualties. Doesn’t make sense. I shut it off. It was weirding me out.”

“I passed by that way. I was going to check the refugee camp there but it sounds like it got overrun.”

“Overrun? By what?”

“Zombies. I heard about it over a ham radio back in Kansas City. London’s gone. Paris is dead. Madrid’s under attack. Sounded like Italy was next. Crazy days.”

The soldier paused and shouldered his weapon. He went white.

“Zombies? What kind of bullshit is that, sir?”

“I know, but that’s what they’re calling them. Lots of warnings. And somebody from the CDC says they need an escaped prisoner. They’re looking for a family van. The last name’s Spencer. You see them? They have a teenage boy with them who’s autistic. Big ears.”

The soldier shrugged. “That’s weird. I’ve seen lots of family vans, sir. They’re back there in the fields with their occupants. You can pick through the graveyard, if you want.”

“That’s okay. The boy is still alive. I’m sure of it.”

“Didj’hear anything from Eugene, Oregon, sir? My folks are there.”

“Sorry, son, but no, I didn’t. All I know is what’s left of the army is running west from Indianapolis.”

“To where, sir?”

Carron clapped him on the shoulder. “If your folks are lucky, maybe they’ll end up in Eugene! Command doesn’t seem to have much of a plan at the moment. They’re running west to regroup.”

“Why west, sir?”

“Because whatever they let loose from that camp is headed east.”

“They’re coming this way then,” the soldier said. “This is the only open route. It’s all north from here.”

“I know.” Carron smiled and waved the soldier to follow him, walking so fast that the hungry man almost stumbled trying to catch up. Carron popped the latch on the trailer and pulled the door wide.

“How do you know the escaped prisoner is still alive, sir?” The soldier stepped forward to peer hopefully into the trailer’s dark interior. He wrinkled his nose. “And what is that smell?”

“Death.” Carron slipped the serrated combat knife from its hiding place at the small of his back and plunged it into the base of the soldier’s skull. He twisted it viciously as he pulled it back, the blade’s teeth cutting and ripping on the way in and out. The lieutenant took the Bushmaster from the young man’s hand before it hit the ground. The private’s body slammed against the roadway, loose-limbed and beyond care.

“Sorry, son. Gotta make the food last.” He bent to wipe the blade on the private’s camouflage. “But to answer your question, I know the boy’s alive because sometimes he visits me in my dreams. Strange days, worse nights…Usually, he just looks at me like a sad little puppy. Sometimes he warns me to stop following him. He doesn’t know, telling me to stay away is a red flag to a bull. He’ll get the horns.”

As he pulled away from the traffic blockade, Carron turned north wearing his new shooting glasses and a smile.

W
E
ARE
ALL
BOUND
FOR
THE
GHOST
PARADE

T
he two-lane road — which was now one lane, one-way north — was so straight and slow, Jaimie thought of parades he’d seen on television. Instead of floats, marching bands and flowers, twisted metal stretched into the ditches. Tanks or bulldozers had cleared the narrow way. Threading the needle, the refugees drove so slowly that they had too much time to inspect each shattered vehicle.

“We’re driving like we’re in the mall parking lot at Christmas,” Jack said. “This trip is going to take forever.”

Anna reclined her seat as far as it would go. Her head was almost in Mrs. Bendham’s lap but the old woman didn’t complain. Instead, she shifted around as best she could so she could sleep, as well.
 

Though they had locked the doors, Jack double checked every few miles. Despite the heat, she brought the windows up, ever wary for threats. The humidity was punishing, but at this speed, she felt vulnerable to attack. If carjackers tried to take the van, she would simply run them over. After running over two men already, maybe it would get easier.
 

I will feel nothing
, Jack decided,
but that’s the sort of promise I’ll only figure out I can keep after the deed is done.

She wondered if anyone but a crazy person could actually dismiss such things successfully. However, if they were going to make it to the farm, she would have to cross out all that she had been: the watcher, the thinker and God-fearing suburban mother. To protect her family, maybe even the fear of God was a luxury she could no longer afford. People who turned the other cheek would have a hard time surviving the road.

Jack adjusted her rearview mirror to survey the cabin. Everyone in back was finally asleep. She glanced sideways at Jaimie. He was wide awake and looking out the window attentively. His lips were together, concealing his slight overbite. He looked quite normal, almost handsome and, for once, his head wasn’t in a dictionary.
 

Getting shot at might have brought out the best in her son. She would have laughed and danced at his apparent normalcy a few weeks ago. How long had it been since the plague had made them prisoners in their home? She wasn’t sure of the date or the day. Jack cleared her throat, swallowing a lump. It hadn’t been that long since the Sutr plague struck, but she wasn’t sure. Was this Tuesday or Friday? Did it matter anymore?

The cars and trucks were scattered like a huge child’s forgotten toys. They were often spray painted. The refugees passed several large trucks with their trailer doors sprung open. The word
Food
was spray painted on them. This had later been crossed out and, beside that, written in a cheery purple was the word
Empty
.
 

Another read:
Contaminated
.
 

The ubiquitous bright orange X was spray painted across many cars.
 

The silver BMW still forged ahead of them, traveling slowly, apparently conserving gas as Jack was trying to do. They glided through a tiny village called Darbyville where a huge canvas sign draped across the pumps read:
You got it all, you bastards!
 

Jack glanced at her gas tank reading. Despite her efforts to conserve fuel, they had taken so many turns around wreckage that she was running out of gas.
 

By the time they had passed a marker for the 30
th
sideroad, an orange square appeared in her dash display. They were dangerously low on fuel. She cursed Douglas Oliver again.
 

Before they left Kansas City, Jack had gone back alone to walk the ruins of her house. The day after the explosion, the ashes were still smoking. There wasn’t much left, but she found the big cookie tin she had used for Theo’s love letters. She’d figured out where Oliver had stored all his damned gas cans. She wished she had them now. The orange square was another reminder of her losses.

Jack ignored the fuel warning light and kept the pressure on the accelerator. She gripped the wheel harder as they went uphill. Downhill, she slipped the van into neutral and coasted to conserve fuel.
 

They were surrounded by cars that no doubt still had plenty of gas, but Jack was afraid to stop and get out. What if someone came up on them from behind fast? What if carjackers emerged from behind the wrecks? The BMW ahead made the road less lonely. Once she was out of gas, they’d be alone on the road.

No one had followed the Spencers from the shootout at the barricade yet. Jack pictured the short soldier going down as the van hit. His body had twisted as he fell. She had expected him to scream, braced for it. The pain must have been too much, even for screaming. Maybe now the soldiers would simply fire on anyone who approached their roadblock. Her family’s salvation might be the death of any refugees fleeing after them.

The two little old ladies had seemed almost nonchalant about sneaking past the soldiers at night. Would the gunner have night-vision goggles? After all the death he’d already dealt, would he hesitate to mow anyone down?
 

Don’t think. Do.

She glanced back at Mrs. Bendham. In the end, maybe they’d find out if old ladies tasted like chicken. If their way east was blocked, their old neighbor was too old to walk to Maine. They still had a long way to travel. The best they could do was head northeast instead of a straight shot to the hope of her father-in-law’s haven. Jack wanted to talk to Theo about all her worries, but she couldn’t do that in front of the children.

Someone — apparently the same person with the purple paint — had tagged an eighteen-wheeler with the word:
Empty.
Another scavenger had crossed out the purple and replaced it with a bright, red frustrated:
Useless!

Two blue family vans, each like their own, lay abandoned in the ditch. One read
No room, no riders
on the hood and down one side it read
Don’t even ask!
 

The other van lay on its side. Jack could see the remains of a similar message on the rolled vehicle. The word
ask
was printed very neatly, like someone had copied the font from the alphabet on a child’s set of blocks. She hoped the occupants of those vans had scavenged a larger vehicle and travelled on from their accident scene.

Jack glanced at the gas gauge. “We’re running on fumes. We’ll have to stop and siphon gas. Both gas cans are empty.”

Jaimie leaned over, glared at the gas gauge, and reached out to press the horn in three short, sharp blasts. Jack was so surprised she yelled her son’s name as she brought the van to a sudden halt. Mrs. Bendham snorted awake.
 

Anna awoke and sat up, annoyed. “Are we there yet?”

Ahead of them, the BMW’s brake lights lit.
 

“He’ll help,” Theo said, confidently.

A short, bald man with a potbelly stepped out of the BMW. His pants were pressed denim and the silver buckle at his waist was as big as a pie plate. His shirt was sky blue and he wore tall cowboy boots with pointed toes. The color of the boots matched the shirt. He smiled and waved as he walked toward them.

Jack grabbed for her big flashlight. “Damn it, Jaimie!”

Jaimie pointed to the van in the ditch they had just passed, the one with the neat painted message that read: ask.
 

“Dead again,” Anna said, sounding resigned.

Mrs. Bendham scrunched down, apparently trying to make herself invisible.
 

“Easy,” Theo said. “Our new friend is wearing cowboy boots. I have a feeling this will be alright. Cowboys are supposed to be good guys, unless they wear black hats.”