Night Zero- Second Day

by Rob Horner

  A single bullet could end her, if it found her brain.

  Idly she examined the bowl-shaped helmets worn by some of the soldiers. She wondered if they could stop a bullet.

  An interesting thought. Perhaps after you change someone in charge, we could make use of them for our own protectors.

  Kim smiled again. The sensation of praise coming along the thought line made her feel…good.

  A loud noise began somewhere behind her tent. She couldn’t see the source, but Kim recognized the sound. A helicopter was powering up.

  Now men came for her, strong men with firm grips.

  They held her against the chair as another unlocked the cuffs, preventing her from attempting to escape as her bonds were released.

  They needn’t have worried. She had orders. She wasn’t going to fight.

  “Come along now, Miss. We’re taking you to Atlanta.”

  * * * * *

  The traffic began picking up as they made their way through Charlotte but, still well before daylight, it wasn’t bad. It would be much worse later in the day, as people decided the city wasn’t a safe place to be. By the following afternoon, the highways in North Carolina, and in most cities in the country, would be virtual parking lots, but of course no one in the van knew that.

  True to Jessica’s prediction, the “Gas Low” light came on once the group had traveled about forty minutes past the city, still within a reasonable commute range. Worried and anxious, Jessica pulled off the highway and into a Speedway gas station. William climbed out when she did, ostensibly to stand near her, hoping to provide a modicum of security by virtue of his size. If that failed, Tina’s 9mm sat within easy reach on the driver’s seat. The bright lights of the service station provided another excuse for him to climb out of the vehicle. Under the glowing fluorescents, Tina pronounced him safe from any growing or spreading infection—no red, blue, or black lines—which she’d had ample opportunity to observe in action over the past twelve hours.

  “But keep an eye on it,” she cautioned.

  Every flash of headlight or tinkle of a bell from the door to the convenience store sent a fresh wave of adrenaline through Jessica’s veins while simultaneously causing her ass cheeks to squeeze tighter than a nun’s in an all-male prison.

  If we can’t get somewhere I can relax, I’m never going to be able to shit again!

  A visual popped into her head…distended belly, hips jutting out to either side, and skin slowly turning the muddy brown shade of a fresh dog turd. A giggle escaped her lips as she replaced the gasoline pump on its rack.

  And that helped.

  “What’s so funny,” Tina asked, taking her place in the co-pilot’s seat.

  That turned the giggle into a full laugh, which caused a squeak of gas to vibrate her cheeks against the leather seat. She tried to mutter, “Excuse me,” but the words wouldn’t come.

  The laughter didn’t last, not when thoughts of Johnny crept in. God, but he could be the nastiest man, dramatically lifting his leg like a dog on a fire hydrant and forcing out a fart with enough power and volume to blow a hole in his undershorts.

  The laughter turned to tears, and before she knew it Jessica found herself wrapped in Tina’s arms, the older woman trying to offer comfort though her body also shook with barely suppressed sobs.

  * * * * *

  Traffic picked up as they passed through Greensboro, though it was minimal, then again in Durham, which they cruised through at eight in the morning. Jessica kept her eyes glued to the road while Tina scoured the radio.

  The news featured little snippets about a startling new stomach flu, reminding people that the best prevention was good hand hygiene techniques, but nothing about the insanity they’d seen in the hospital and at their homes.

  Bill said it seemed like a concerted effort to prevent the worst from becoming public knowledge, and Tina found herself believing him more and more.

  Then they were in the mountains and cruising toward La Crosse, Virginia, traffic nothing more than the usual press of long-haul truckers stuck out on the road.

  They found the small airport off Highway 58 in Virginia without any difficulty. A wiry man, gray haired and short but with well-muscled arms beneath a perpetual tan, opened the gate.

  “Been expecting you,” he said. Beneath a Washington Redskins ballcap, his face was wrinkled from the sun, but clear blue eyes glinted from beneath the brim. “Drive on up to the office. The others are there.”

  He waved them through.

  Tina watched him trundle the gate closed behind them.

  The office was a single-story building of brick and glass, modern for the rural area, but nothing like what she expected from an airport terminal. A single service counter containing a CRT monitor and ancient computer tower sat on the right as they entered. An old fashion bellhop bell, a clipboard loaded with wrinkled papers, and a three-line office phone comprised the rest of the service counter’s accessories. The computer was off and, aside from their friends, no one else occupied the space.

  The rest of the small building was given over to a combination lounge area slash coffee break room. Along the left wall was a Formica counter dominated by two stainless steel drums with plastic spigots—one black and one orange—and laden with Styrofoam cups and small Tupperware containers full of MooMoos Half ‘N’ Half, Domino’s sugar packets, and pink pouches containing an off-brand of Sweet ‘N’ Low. Amusingly, a crude sign made of notebook paper and scotch-taped to the coffee drums read, “Never mind the color, both are leaded.”

  Between the coffee counter on the left and the service counter on the right were three rough fiber couches and two chairs, none of which matched the other.

  As Tina, her sons, and Jessica—followed by Jima—entered the office, Buck, Caitlin, and a young black boy who could only be Buck’s son, rose from one of the couches. The young boy’s face widened in a smile at the sight of the pretty kuvasz, but when Caitlin started forward and a warning growl rose from the large dog, he froze in place.

  “It’s all right, Jima. They’re friends,” Tina said, laying a reassuring hand on the dog’s head. “Just come forward slowly the first time,” she added.

  Caitlin came first, making Tina smile. The boy wouldn’t know it, but Jima was an old hand with kids. She was also more tolerant of strange women than men; the growl had probably been meant for Buck.

  But she held still during the introductions, and even tolerated the tall black man petting her on the head.

  “She might still growl if you surprise her,” Tina said, “but she won’t bark or bite now that you’ve been introduced.”

  The door opened behind them as the old man wandered in.

  For some reason, Jima didn’t make a sound. Tina had never figured out what it was about some people the dog liked, but there were a few whom she trusted instantly, like her doggy radar knew, with certainty, that this was a good person. She didn’t understand it, but she’d never had reason to question the dog’s instincts.

  The old guy was George Sigmon, a private pilot, all around maintenance man, and understated owner of the airfield.

  “Don’t worry about anyone coming in. I put out the word on the Facebook that we’re closed due to illness.”

  The entire property was fenced, he said, to prevent random wildlife from trekking across the airstrip while a pilot was in takeoff or landing.

  “Not much fazes one of those big boys, but even a fox can bump a Cessna’s tires hard enough to make for a very short trip.”

  He kept a stock of Little Debbie snack cakes to go with his canteen coffee and figured they’d do well enough hiding out in the office until the next morning.

  “Of course, you gotta take me with you,” he stated.

  “It’s fine,” Caitlin said when Tina looked a question at her. “I’ve already checked with my dad and he says the transport can seat twelve comfortably.”

  William and Bradley settled in with Jacob, all three lavishing attention on Jima as a way of d
ealing with the loss of a parent.

  Tina fought back tears at the sight of them, knowing full well the benefit of a good dog for emotional therapy and wishing she could collapse beside them and give in to her grief. The brief moment with Jessica back at the gas station had helped, but it only took the edge off. There remained a river of tears threatening to flood over its banks, and she needed to find a way to stay afloat rather than drowning.

  Her boys depended on her.

  * * * * *

  While the National Guard was mobilized in several states by proactive governors looking to get ahead of a bad situation, no such response came in South Carolina. The initial explosion deposited heavy particle of bacteria in the immediate area, while most of the cloud rose high into the sky, riding air currents and eddies as far east as Jacksonville, Florida or northeast into North Carolina, West Virginia, and Virginia. South Carolina was largely spared from this brown dusting, heavy enough in the immediate fallout area for people to see, like a streamer of sunlight coming through a window into a dusty room.

  This gap in coverage meant that, while the South Carolina emergency responders were aware of the growing crisis in neighboring states, they weren’t focused within their own borders. National Guardsmen were stationed along Interstate 85 near the Georgia border, with small contingents manning the lesser routes across the state lines.

  So, when Austin Wallace led his become onto the Interstate, he found a smattering of early morning traffic, half asleep commuters and travelers who stared incredulously at the shambling parade along the berm, then quickly shifted their eyes back to the road. Perhaps some switched their radios from a music station to one more devoted to the news, wondering if there was a story to be heard, while others—in violation of state law—grabbed their phones and checked Facebook or Twitter, perhaps thinking some activist was staging a flash mob event. But by and large, as long as his people stayed to the side of the road, they occasioned much comment, a minor slowdown in travel speed, but proved no real trouble.

  Austin thought this was a fine way for things to be.

  Gaffney was in shambles behind him, not yet a raging bonfire, but certainly a pile of dead wood with a smoldering branch beneath, small tongues of flame already licking around the perimeter. As the city fell, so would his become spread. His sense of hunter had changed, somehow, though it still followed the prey from the hospital. Racing north, it rode the leading edge of a monstrous wave.

  At some point during the day, both Danny and Kenja peeled away. They made for a place of significance, the tourist trap cum shopping mecca where Austin had wound up after making his way north. Something was different about them; he couldn’t compel either of them as he could others. He didn’t know what that signified, but he trusted in them to work for the good of the growing ranks of become.

  Austin’s need to create such a colony was great, but greater still was the desire to find his child, a holdover emotion from his life before becoming but one he couldn’t shake. Having the ability to think and plan was both blessing and curse. He was aware of the incongruous nature of the desire to find Bitsy, and how it conflicted with the instinctual drive to settle and convert. The awareness bred discomfort, a brooding sense of disappointment in himself, that he couldn’t devote himself wholly to his new cause.

  He thought he’d found a middle ground, a plan which allowed him to work toward both goals.

  So, he led his become along the straightest, fastest route south, following the Interstate. As daylight blossomed in the sky behind him and road traffic increased, he urged them to stick to the side, do not impede travel, do not draw any more attention to themselves than a group of haggard people walking in an area where pedestrians were not permitted already did.

  Thankfully, the emergency responders in The Upstate had much bigger things to worry about than a ragtag group of men and women hoofing it alongside a busy road like a busload of church goers or itinerant workers whose ride broke down and who didn’t have a Triple-A card among them.

  By noon, having covered almost thirty miles, Austin led his people off the highway and into the city of Spartanburg.

  By the end of the second day, the governor would regret thinking the greatest danger to his state would come from outside its borders.

  * * * * *

  Danny and Kenja were made differently by the method of their exposure. They weren’t turned in the traditional sense, certainly not in the way of most zombies in a horror movie. Neither received a bite or a scratch. For Danny, the method consisted of a needle stick, a common accident when attempting to start an IV on a man while riding in the back of an ambulance. Kenja received a face full of blood when Randy Sprugg shot an infected nurse named Lisa.

  This purer method of inoculation led to a different sort of metamorphosis, rather like the metaphorical transfusion that occurs when a vampire first drains its victim, then returns a portion of its own blood to bring the victim to a state of conscious undeath.

  Bloated by the mounting pressure of billions of copies of Avaxx, these two waited only for the right time to explode, as a seed pod does when a perceived predator alights upon its surface. There were numerous accidental sticks during the chaos of Night Zero, with hundreds of other incidental exposures over the next twenty-four hours.

  These carriers didn’t know what made them different, only that they needed to break away from the horde, find a place where the become weren’t yet prevalent, and spread the disease.

  Some viruses mutate for the purpose of defeating a host’s defenses, while others do it simply because they can.

  This wasn’t a mutation, just one more facet of a poorly understood hybrid, still discovering its own capabilities.

  Like undiscovered mines left over after a great conflict, these Bloaters dotted the streets and buildings of the southeastern United States, with one arriving through an unmarked delivery bay at the CDC in Atlanta just hours before another person with a different mutation would be delivered by helicopter like an unexpected Christmas present being dropped off by FedEx the day before the holiday.

  Walking together, Danny and Kenja flowed along with Austin’s pack as it wound its way along the Interstate, until signs for the Gaffney Outlet Mall caught their attention. There was no magical moment when their heads turned and their eyes met, the light of the same brilliant idea shining in their eyes. There was no mutual understanding of symmetry, of things coming around, coming back to where they started, as the two broke away from the growing group and followed the exit ramp.

  There were only the two of them, one in nursing scrubs and the other in a paramedic’s uniform, both stained by dark red and black liquids. Danny’s top sported a single hole in the back, proof of the bullet that found him several hours before as he struggled to open a set of hospital doors and allow more become into the Med-Surg unit.

  Otherwise the two couldn’t be more different. Both were tall, though Kenja topped Danny by half a head, while he had fifty pounds of muscle on her. Kenja had skin the color of rich caramel, unmarred except for the tiny veins of black pulsing around her eyes, while Danny was used to being called Casper by his friends, with skin so pale the thought of sunlight might make him burn.

  The sun climbed the sky to the east, not yet near its zenith as they turned left onto the unnamed state route S-11-440, which ran past the Strawberry Hill Gaffney Market and the El Michoacán Mexican Restaurant before opening into a series of large parking areas on the left. The first was for the outlet mall, the same place where Danny and his trainer, Buck, picked up Austin the day before, found down and unresponsive amid a flood of shoppers. Kenja broke away from Danny here, walking straight-backed through the empty lots and into the open-air space between two of the large legs of the mall. With the mall still closed, she settled onto a bench with the Loft Outlet behind her and the Polo Ralph Lauren Factory Store in front of her.

  Danny continued along the state route until the last of the outlet shops were on his left before angling into the lots. His g
oal was not the mall itself, but a large entertainment complex just past it. Called “The Big E” by the locals, it featured a full eighteen holes of miniature golf, an indoor arcade, a set of movie theaters, and a laser tag maze and was one of the largest draws boasted by the growing city. With the doors locked, he scaled the wrought iron fencing around the golf course and found a bench of his own, there to await the arrival of the paying customers.

  Both were driven by a similar need, and it wasn’t to congregate.

  They were there to propagate.

  When the stores opened and the gates came unbarred, when shoppers streamed and screaming children grabbed crooked sticks and colorful balls, they erupted.

  It wasn’t a violent burst or some other kind of outward aggression.

  Instead, the two waited until there were enough people around them. They didn’t know what constituted enough, just that at some point the mounting pressure inside demanded release.

  They stood.

  Their mouths opened.

  And they…deflated.

  Like a pricked balloon, all the air rushed out of them, carrying a hundred million copies of the viral agent which made them become.

  As though the only thing giving any substance to their forms was the virus, their bodies collapsed back to the concrete.

  People screamed at the impossible sight, as bags of skin and clothing folded to the ground. Men and women rushed forward, some thinking to help while others stared in amazement at what appeared to be a midday magic trick. They were blind to the threat hovering in the air, spreading on the slight breeze.

  The cloud of fragile viral particles sought refuge wherever they could—in the hair of a child, the eyes of a mother, the sniffling nose of a man with a sinus infection.

  The invisible cloud found its way into the open doors of a half-dozen shops, whirling and dancing in the downward draft of air conditioning vents, infecting everyone who passed through.