Night Zero- Second Day

by Rob Horner

  For now, it was just them, the darkness, and the locked glass doors of the Goodwill store.

  A chunk of rock from the parking lot shattered the glass easily.

  In a place such as this, where a crime spree meant a neighborhood dog ran loose in the mornings and tore up newspapers, there was no alarm. No one came to arrest them as they wandered the dark aisles. Within five minutes of entering they were back on 82, once again heading east.

  Though separated by hundreds of miles, Bitsy felt her father. His presence was like the magnetic pole drawing the needle of a compass, pulling her east. He was sick, but was somehow resisting the virus, his consciousness flickering in and out of her awareness, there and gone.

  It was only a matter of time.

  He would become.

  Part 1

  Day One

  Chapter 1

  The run out of Will Rogers World Airport was much less harried than his last takeoff. When he’d left the airport in Greenwood, Mississippi, with a strange girl in tow and a horde of crazy people busting out onto the field after him, Jesse barely knew what to do. He’d fumbled the keys to his Cessna and barely managed to get the doors locked before the—whatever was wrong with them—people reached the plane.

  The landing a few hours later was even scarier, if that was possible, but for very different reasons.

  The girl, Ragan, attacked him in the air, chewing a nasty hole in a couple of his fingers. She’d have done worse, too, if he hadn’t managed to snag his skull-cracker flashlight and whack her over the head.

  Thankfully, no one doubted his concocted story at the small hospital outside of Oklahoma City. They checked her in as Ragan Franks, his daughter, and never thought twice that he had no proof of identification for her, no insurance card with her name on it. They said they’d bill him, which he had no doubt they would.

  Well, maybe he had some doubts now.

  Ragan went as batshit crazy in the hospital as she had on the plane, attacking everyone who tried to help. She looked no different in her actions than the people back at the Greenwood airport had.

  Maybe it was contagious.

  Jesse Franks served in the Gulf War and had heard all kinds of horror stories about supposed chemical attacks by Saddam Hussein. But those were mostly fabrications, as far as he knew. A lot of guys caught a bad case of the PTSD, and maybe he had a touch of it, too, but nothing to explain what he’d seen in the past few hours. And none of it was ever contagious, not from one guy to another.

  But still.

  Now he was running from one mess and probably right into another. Him, his Cessna, and a CD with the images of Ragan’s brain burned into it. And a hand bandaged to the hilt with fingers throbbing like a sore tooth. Don’t forget about that.

  “Get it to the CDC,” the CT technician told him while handing over the CD. “They need to see this.”

  Who knew if any of the people in the hospital were even still alive? Maybe they’d all gone crazy if the crazy was catching. Could it be like a super-fast rabies virus? Hadn’t they made a movie about that?

  Jesse looked down at his right hand, resting on the airplane’s controls. The wounds were clean, according to the PA who’d tended to him. There wasn’t any bone damage, which was a surprise. The way Ragan’s teeth ground on his fingers like a puppy chewing a bit of rawhide, the way his bones grated under the assault—it didn’t seem possible there wouldn’t be a break somewhere. They couldn’t close it completely owing to the risk of infection. It had come from a human mouth, after all, and the only thing more likely to infect than a human bite was a cat bite. But they give him one of those peanut butter shots in the ass and a prescription for some pills, which he’d tucked away in his wallet.

  After seeing the puffy black veins standing up on the back of Ragan’s hand and running up her arm, Jesse couldn’t resist looking for the same thing on himself. But every time he mustered the courage to peek under his bandage, he saw nothing.

  Was he just lucky? Was she not contagious in her initial crazed outburst?

  Or did something make him immune?

  And if he was immune, was he the only one?

  Now airborne, with OK City a distant haze of lights behind him and the rising sun at his two o’clock, Jesse tried to determine what to do next.

  He’d already decided not to approach the CDC in Atlanta. It was where the plane came from. The one carrying all those people, Ragan included, who went all 28 Days Later on each other. That’s what the movie was called, the one with the weird rabies virus turning people into zombies.

  No, if the plane came from Atlanta, there was every reason to think the CDC was already involved.

  What if they were the cause?

  That didn’t bear thinking about. It was enough to assume the place as a hot zone, maybe even a ground zero, and steer clear.

  Get this to the CDC.

  Google proudly provided him with numerous business and entities with CDC either in their title, or followed by other qualifiers: CDCG, or CDC, Inc. All were within the range of his Cessna, but none were what he needed. The nearest place which seemed like a proper Centers for Disease Control facility was in North Carolina. But that would require a stop somewhere to refuel, and if he was heading to North Carolina, he might as well skip the franchise locations and go for the organizational headquarters in DC. The straight-line distance between Oklahoma City and DC was eleven hundred fifty miles. His Cessna only had an operational range of seven hundred thirty miles.

  He’d need to stop to refuel at least once.

  Thankfully, he could take the time now to plot something better than just pointing his plane northeast and riding the currents.

  Jesse checked his heading, then unfolded a large map and placed it on the copilot seat.

  With frequent interruptions to check heading, speed, and altitude, Jesse plotted a course that would see him in DC in just over seven hours, not counting time to stop and refuel. The Skyhawk’s cruising speed was a hundred forty knots, which translated to a hundred sixty miles per hour. Laying a protractor over the map, it appeared as though Nashville, Tennessee would make an excellent refueling area, allowing him a hundred miles of flight leeway if he had to detour somewhere else.

  Of course, given all the new FAA regulations following 9-11, he couldn’t just demand the right to land at one of the nation’s busiest international airports. Just like in Oklahoma City, he’d be diverted to another airfield regardless of his flight credentials. Unlike in Oklahoma, this time he wouldn’t have the argument of deviating from a set flight plan due to a medical emergency. He hadn’t filed a flight plan at all when leaving Will Rogers; he’d been more interested in getting wheels off the ground before any of the crazy bastards in the hospital took it in mind to rampage his direction.

  Taking a few more measurements, Jesse adjusted his heading more to the north, angling for the Nashville area. Then he reached for the little notebook living in his Oh Shit bag next to the noggin knocker flashlight. Over the years, he’d created a list of small, private airfields which made it a point to take care of private pilots. Many he’d visited personally, while others were added to the list based on the recommendations of people he trusted, fellow pilots who took pride in finding and promoting such places. His list wasn’t all inclusive by any means. He’d been all over the country but that didn’t mean he’d landed in every state. Most of his jaunts were east of the Mississippi, so his list to the west was short.

  Nashville was one of the places he loved to visit for a weekend, especially after losing Kimmy to cancer. There were some who said it was silly to listen to music that evoked feelings of someone lost, but that’s just what he did. It wasn’t that Kimmy liked country music. At least, she didn’t put it above any other style. It was the message of the music, an understanding of the human condition, sometimes expressed comically, like with Billy’s Got His Beer Goggles On, and at other times poignant, as when the same artist sung about adopting a young girl named Jessie.

 
; Kimmy’d always wanted a daughter.

  It was strange, now that he thought about it, that several years would pass before he actively began thinking about finding a new woman to share his life with, and the first one he took a shine to would also be named Kim.

  Jesse shook his head, chasing the thoughts away. The last he’d seen of Kim had been when the first ambulance load left Community Airport. She’d been hurt badly by a bucket to the face swung by a crazed woman with bleeding eyes. Two tours in Afghanistan, and he’d never seen anything like the mass hysteria and insanity that fell over the small terminal.

  Forcing himself to focus on the task at hand, he flipped through the notebook until he found Tennessee written in bold strokes with a thick underline. Beside Nashville International Airport, he’d scribbled the name of a small place about ten miles northwest. The John C. Tune Airport catered to private fliers like him, and if he came in fast and running on fumes, they’d at least let him land to refuel.

  Making a few minor adjustments, Jesse settled back for the three-hour flight. His right hand throbbed in time to the beat of his heart, but it was bearable. It would be close to seven when he arrived. Maybe he should waste a few hours until a pharmacy opened, get that prescription for antibiotics filled.

  The CD sat beneath the map spread out on the copilot’s seat. Even though it was covered, he knew it was there. He didn’t have to be able to see it to sense its presence.

  Fuck it, he decided. I’m no good to anyone if my hand turns septic.

  As best he could, Jesse put the CD out of mind. He’d deal with that after refueling, and after finding a pharmacy.

  * * * * *

  As night gave up its hold and daylight resumed, Bitsy and her mother found themselves still walking along the shoulder of Highway 82, heading east for the Interstate. The Interstate would lead them back to Atlanta, then beyond, if they still needed to travel. Bitsy didn’t know how long her father could hold out against the changes, only that he would become as she had, free to determine his own fate but undoubtedly pulled to colonize. Would he resist that call as well? Would he travel west for her?

  To the south of the highway was the small airport where the plane landed after declaring a medical emergency. From airport to hospital by ambulance, and now all the way back on foot—there was a sense of circular destiny she couldn’t ignore. The become were more numerous around here. She could sense them. And even if that weren’t the case, she could hear them. Ragged breaths and slapping feet sounded from everywhere. Glass broke from somewhere a street away and behind a curtain of houses; alarm systems activated, their piercing wails calling out for help; screams of outrage and terror usually followed, and there were no shortage of gunshots as homeowners in this part of the country exercised their rights and tried to defend themselves.

  If they didn’t shoot for the head, it wouldn’t matter.

  What must that feel like? Bitsy wondered.

  Like a television screen washed out by the bright glare of sunlight through an open window, she could see some of what the lesser become saw.

  A white door with frilly curtains covering small glass rectangles burst open. The doorknob struck the wall behind the door so hard that the little lock twister dug into the plaster. An alarm began to bray, a high pitched whoo whoo whoo which brought the man of the house, three hundred pounds wrapped in a wife-beater T-shirt and gap-fronted boxer shorts, rushing out of a back bedroom. He held a shotgun down at his side, business end leading the way through a nicely decorated hall, complete with a knickknack-covered sideboard against one wall and a tasteful mirror hanging above it. She charged, spittle flying, single-minded drive to create more become overriding any sense of self-preservation. There was a massive explosion as the shotgun discharged. From somewhere deeper in the house came a scream of surprise. The blast staggered her back a step, but no more. Then she was coming forward again and the man just stood there, shock and fear and disbelief rooting him in place. He didn’t have time to eject the spent shells and reload. He might not even have thought to bring more; after all, who expects a burglar to take a double load of buckshot and keep coming? She reached out, grabbing the man’s hairy shoulders. Then came the taste of sweat and fear and coppery blood as her mouth closed on his throat. He screamed, louder and more immediate than the unseen woman.

  Bitsy withdrew.

  All around, wherever the become could reach, there would be similar attacks. The noise of weapons discharging wouldn’t bring the police—they were probably all tied up with the chaos at the hospital—but it would alert neighbors to trouble.

  Some…thing, some instinct, pushed Bitsy to grab her mother’s hand and begin steering her off the highway. She didn’t want to lose any time on her journey to find Austin, but it might be best if they didn’t travel during the day, at least not until there were more become to draw attention away from them.

  Several short streets opened off the left side of the road, single-land dead-enders with one or two houses controlling large-acre plots. It was close to the airport, maybe even too close, but Bitsy didn’t think they had time to get to the next residential area. The sun was above the horizon, shining into their eyes, and it wouldn’t be long until the road filled up with the blissfully unaware racing off to their jobs, or the collective acronym agencies maybe rushing in to Greenwood to investigate the strange goings-on at the airport and the hospital. They weren’t going to like what they found. By the time the workaday people drove back, Greenwood would belong to the become, and it would be safe for her and Carolyn to be out walking.

  Her mind made up, Bitsy led her mother down the second of the three side streets. Tree-lined and quiet, even the sun retreated a little as they left the main road. There was one house on each side of the small street, with a third set up at the dead end. A dog barked as they passed the first house on the left, but no answering sounds came from either of the others.

  Using the memories of the other become as a guide, Bitsy avoided the homes entirely, pushing through the bushes and into the trees between lots. Each of the homes had acreage cleared behind them but maintained wide swaths of close-set trees between.

  Find a quiet place and rest, she told herself.

  * * * * *

  Kimberly Duchess woke with a pounding headache and a burning pain racing up her left arm.

  That’s funny, she thought. I don’t remember hurting my arm.

  Truth was, she didn’t remember much of anything, and the pain in her head made it hard to concentrate.

  Groaning, she tried to rise, but the effort sent fresh waves of agony caroming back and forth across the inside of her skull like a steel bearing in a pinball machine. A sudden flash of nausea roiled her guts, and she groaned again, tightening every muscle in her body, hoping it would pass.

  “Be still, sweetie,” a man said.

  “We got you, miss. Don’t worry,” a second male voice added.

  With her eyes closed, Kim had no way of knowing where she was or what was going on.

  She was on her back on something soft, like a mattress. There was a sensation of gentle motion, almost like sleeping on a waterbed. Except water beds lapped back and forth instead of moving steadily in one direction. The nausea ebbed. Though the pain in her head throbbed with every beat of her heart, there were other sounds tickling her mind.

  The clatter of wheels rolling across a floor.

  Distant beeps.

  A hiss like Darth Vader breathing through his mask.

  Voices too far away to understand but unmistakable in their variety, women and men, chattering.

  Somewhere a television news program discussing a wave of violent abdominal complaints in and around Atlanta, Georgia.

  “Wha—?” she started to say before the pain in her head ramped back up and the nausea threatened to make a comeback. Apparently speaking was no more permissible than sitting up.

  “You were hurt pretty badly, miss,” the second voice said. “But I think you’re going to be okay.”

>   “Dude, you gotta give her more than that,” the first voice responded.

  Kim tried to open her eyes, but light like a burning dagger thrust into her brain, earning another groan.

  The first voice continued, “You were hit in the head, ma’am. The doctors in Greenwood think the injury might be putting pressure on your brain, so they flew you to Jackson. That’s where you are now.”

  “I’m Jake,” the second man said. He sounded younger than the first. “Me and Greg are part of the helicopter flight crew what brought you. You’re in the best hospital in Mississippi now, and you’re going to be just fine.”

  The first man whispered something to the second. The fierce back and forth lasted half a minute, and Kim tried again to remember…anything.

  “We’re wondering what happened to your arm,” the deeper voice of Greg said. “Our report was head injury, but it looks like you’ve got some kind of nasty infection.”

  Kim tried to raise her arm. If she couldn’t sit up to look at it then maybe she could bring it to her face. But a strap or a belt of some kind held her arm in place. The pain didn’t change. It was just there, a line of bright burning which started about the level of her wrist and ran all the way up her shoulder.

  “If you don’t remember, it’s okay,” Jake said. “We’re just worried about you, you know? It looks like it’s spread a little just in the few minutes we’ve been wheeling you through the hospital.

  Another clatter of wheels arose from beneath her as the stretcher thumped over a narrow metal runner.

  The noise reminded her of something…

  The utility cart Mr. Jones pushed around the small airport needed one of its wheels tightened. Every time it went over one of the little separations between floor tiles it issued a little click or clack. Mr. Jones would probably take care of it. He was always doing little repairs like that. Sometimes he’d get so caught up in a small fix-it job that he’d forget what he’d been called in to clean. Still, the airport wouldn’t be the same without him.