Fall of Night

by Jonathan Maberry

  “It’s just allergies,” she said. “Or whatever. I bet if we get a good run now it’ll just go away. It’s so nice and dry here.” To prove her point she took a deep breath and let it out. “See? No cough.”

  He shrugged and they set off.

  They each wore headphones. Mary had her iPod set to one of her playlists. Albert could never imagine jogging to classical music. It seemed so counterintuitive to cardio. He usually listened to classic rock or, as with today’s run, the BBC news station. Better and less biased coverage than any of the domestic stations.

  But before they’d gone half a mile he began frowning, and soon his run slowed to a walk and then he stopped, touching an earbud to make sure he could hear everything. Mary ran on for half a block before she realized she was alone, then she circled back.

  “What is it?”

  He pulled one earbud and gave it to her. They listened together as the BBC reporter talked about an outbreak of a disease that was so dangerous that the military was using force to stop those infected from leaving the quarantine zone. Albert saw Mary mouth the word “military.”

  The reporter said that the quarantine zone included large parts of Pennsylvania, Maryland, West Virginia, and Ohio.

  They stared at each other, stunned by this. Not believing it. Unable to not believe it.

  They looked around them. The California sun was still shining. Birds coasted on the thermals high above them. Children played in front yards.

  The reporter said that the estimated death toll might reach half a million.

  Mary said, “What?”

  All Albert could do was shake his head.

  This happened while they slept in an airport hotel. While they were in the air. But it must have started while they were still in Pittsburgh. It had to have been mere miles from them.

  How did they not know about it?

  How could something this big have spread so fast?

  Mary coughed again and wiped at her mouth.

  Albert didn’t much notice it this time. His mind was reeling.

  Then Mary coughed again. Much harder. Much louder. It doubled her over, and Albert lunged to catch her.

  “Jesus Christ,” he cried as she sagged against him. “Are you all right?”

  She wiped her mouth with the back of one trembling hand.

  And the moment froze for both of them as they stared with abject horror at the wetness smeared across her hand.

  It was not the colorless wetness of spit.

  Nor was it blood.

  It was black.

  And in the black wetness, small white shapes wriggled.

  Mary screamed.

  Albert screamed, too.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FIVE

  SAPPHIRE FOODS

  ROUTE 40

  FAYETTE COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA

  They hurried outside and stood on the dock, watching with sagging hearts and growing horror at the roads beyond the fence. Dez felt like she was caught in an endless loop. This was the schoolyard all over again except there was a forty-foot-wide gap in the fence.

  Sam turned to his team. “We need to secure that fence right now.”

  Charlie stared at the approaching wall of the dead. “Hope you don’t expect me to—”

  “No,” said Sam tightly, “you can go back inside and help Dez find what she needs. Do it fast and do it now.”

  Charlie cut a look at Dez and straightened as if realizing how bad his remark sounded. “Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’d hold the line but I don’t got a gun.”

  Sam’s eyes were cold. “You won’t need one to carry boxes. We’ll hold the line.”

  With that he turned away and began running toward the open gate with Boxer and Gypsy at his heels. Dez lingered for a moment, then spun and raced for the building, shouting for all the adults to gather on the dock.

  Charlie’s pale face had turned beet red. He caught Trout smiling.

  “The fuck you grinning at?”

  “Nothing at all,” said Trout. He began limping toward the loading bay, determined to be of some use, however small.

  Charlie shoved him roughly aside and jogged heavily after Dez.

  He didn’t see Trout shoot him the finger.

  Trout just reached the loading bay when the gunfire began. He looked back and saw that the road was crowded with the dead.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SIX

  MARIPOSA COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

  The cadets came in from a long run, all of them panting and sweating, some of them laughing, a few too exhausted for trash talk and chatter. One young man trailed the group, walking slowly while stretching his arms. He had been among the first group to complete the ten-kilometer run through the hills, but he’d stopped for a long yoga cooldown. The other cadets nodded to him as they passed. Although he was a quiet and introspective man, he was well-liked and respected.

  The day was beautiful and even when the last stragglers had gone inside, he lingered to consider the fleet of white clouds sailing high above the mountains toward the eastern horizon. The birds of autumn sang in the trees and the gentle breeze carried the scent of dogwood and California lilies.

  The young man smiled at the day. As he mounted the steps to the front door he thought of his little brother, who was a year and a half old. Maybe he’d take him for a bike ride to a hummingbird garden. The kid would like that.

  His fingers were inches from the door when it suddenly swung outward so fast it nearly smashed his hand. The young cadet jerked his hand back as his friend Jerry Buckley came bursting out of the building. The men collided, but the young cadet was always fast on his feet and he grabbed his friend and spun him, keeping them both from falling.

  “Damn, Jer!” he barked. “What the hell—?”

  Jerry grabbed the front of his sweatshirt with both hands. “Christ, Tom, I got to get home. It’s all going to shit.”

  “What is?”

  “That thing back east. That plague. Holy shit, man, they’re saying that they lost control of it. It’s showing up everywhere.”

  Jerry tried to pull away, but the young cadet, Tom, held him, kept him right there. “Who said this? The news?”

  “No,” said Jerry, “they made an announcement as soon as we got in from the run. Everyone’s getting changed and getting their shit. They’re sending us all home. You should get your gear and get to your folks’ place, man. This is all falling apart.”

  “Slow down, Jer,” said the young cadet, “that’s the other side of the country.”

  But Jerry was already shaking his head. “No, aren’t you hearing me? It’s everywhere.”

  “I don’t—”

  “It’s in L.A.!” yelled Jerry, pulling away. “At the airport. Jesus, Tom, it’s already here.”

  As if to punctuate his words, the air above them was torn by the grinding of helicopter rotors and they looked up to see a wave of Apaches heading south. Four big Chinooks followed behind them. Higher still, the contrails of jet fighters gouged white scars in the beautiful morning.

  Tom stared at them and inside his chest, in the core of his heart, ice began to form.

  “God almighty…” he breathed.

  Jerry began backing away. “This shit is really going south, man,” he said. “Get to your folks’ place. They live in that gated place a couple hours from here, right?”

  Tom nodded. “Sunset Hollow, up north…”

  “Well, tell everyone there to close the damn gates,” said Jerry. He took an abrupt step forward and took Tom’s hand. “Listen, brother, you take care of yourself, you hear? From what they’re saying this is going to get really bad. You do what you have to do to keep your family safe. You hear me? You do what you have to do.”

  Then Jerry pulled Tom into a fierce, brief hug. He pushed him back, spun, and ran for his parked car. Soon other cadets were pushing their way out of the building, running, running.

  Then Tom was running, too. Into the building, down to his locker where his clothes and weapons and ke
ys were. Then back out of the building, catching only seconds of the TV broadcast in the muster room.

  “… I can see the city. Oh my God … Pittsburgh is burning…”

  He had no memory of reaching his car, of starting it or driving it. But the radio … that he remembered.

  “… LAX is under siege. SWAT and TSA agents have been overrun…”

  Every account was hysterical.

  Every account was worse.

  Another wave of helicopters thundered overhead.

  As he drove, Tom tried to call his parents.

  No one answered the phone.

  Not the house phone, not their cells.

  “Please,” he begged as he slammed the pedal all the way down, pounding the horn, tearing along the shoulder of the road, running red lights, spinning the wheel to avoid collisions with a handbreadth to spare, forcing other drivers to careen into each other to avoid him.

  “Please.”

  Tom was not a deeply religious man.

  Not until then.

  All the way from the police academy to the gates of Sunset Hollow he prayed with his whole heart and every shred of need, begging whatever powers there were to take this back, to make it not real.

  Los Angeles was three hundred miles away from where his parents lived in their quiet home behind high walls in Mariposa County.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SEVEN

  SAPPHIRE FOODS

  ROUTE 40

  FAYETTE COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA

  They worked in frenzied silence.

  The bodies of the infected Charlie had killed had been dragged into a corner and covered with a tarp. Big rolls of plastic had been spread over the bloodstains so that nobody tracked black blood onto the buses.

  Charlie went up and down the aisles with Dez, with Trout limping along behind. It irritated him that Charlie was suddenly so helpful and conciliatory. Trout knew that the big man was trying to make up for his moment of weakness outside, and maybe for being crazed out of his mind when they arrived. Trout could easily forgive Charlie for that part of it—under the circumstances anyone who had the good sense to go completely mad was doing themselves a favor. What Trout didn’t like was Charlie being Mr. Friendly.

  He knew about the man, and about the whole Matthias family. Some folks liked them because they were funny and, in their own strange way, charismatic. A lot of people feared the Matthias clan because they were every bit as dangerous and unpredictable as they appeared. Trout detested them and always had. He’d done too many news stories in which one or another of that family were suspected of a crime, and those crimes ranged from domestic violence to grand larceny to murder. Lots of arrests but never a single conviction.

  And yet Dez not only liked Charlie, she used to date him—if one can actually date a simian subhuman. Other, less polite, words occurred to Trout than “date.”

  Even with that, Trout had to admit—however grudgingly—that Charlie was a big help. His knowledge of the warehouse and its contents shortened the process tremendously.

  Then Jenny DeGroot came running to find them.

  “Dez!” she cried as she tore along one of the rows.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Dez, hurrying to meet her.

  “That soldier, Captain Imura … he’s in trouble. You’d better come quick.”

  Dez blew past Trout and raced for the door. Charlie was right with her.

  By the time Trout managed to hobble to the loading bay the sun was above the horizon and the long night was over.

  But the nightmare was not.

  The dead were inside the parking lot.

  And there were so many of them.

  Far too many.

  Boxer, Shortstop, Gypsy, and Sam were walking backward, firing as they retreated. They killed a lot of the dead, but it wasn’t even making a dent in the seething mass of infected.

  “Oh my God,” whispered Jenny, her hand covering her mouth, “where are they all coming from?”

  Trout shook his head.

  Jenny asked another, even more destructive question. “How bad is this?”

  Trout whirled. “Jenny, get everyone on the bus. Tell them to drop whatever they’re carrying and get on the damn buses. We need to get out of here right now.”

  Then he was yelling and grabbing teachers and parents who were standing and watching with slack jaws and horror in their eyes. He shoved them toward the buses.

  “Get the engines started,” he bellowed. “Pull out of the bays and get into a line. Check all the windows. Come on—move!”

  The gunfire was louder but more sparse, and when he turned he saw that the soldiers were no longer backing away. They were running. It was a full rout. Sections of the fence were bowing inward, but that mattered less than the steady stream of zombies who crowded in through the big open gateway. Trout’s orderly mind kept wanting to quantify them, to put a number to the horde.

  A thousand?

  No, that was too small a number.

  Two or three thousand at the very least.

  Coming from where?

  He tried to remember how many towns were nearby. There were a number of them, but not enough to account for these numbers.

  Then Trout remembered the highway. All those cars, all those travelers.

  Had something happened to block the highway?

  And had the lines of stopped cars become a feeding frenzy?

  He didn’t know and probably never would, but it was the only thing that could account for there being so many people here. So many dead people.

  Not all of them were slow. Some of them ran like sprinters, cutting ahead of the slower zombies, racing to try and tackle the soldiers. They ran so fast that it sometimes took two or three shots to bring them down. That gave the slower ones more time to stagger forward, and it wasted bullets.

  We’re all going to die, thought Billy Trout.

  The last of the adults were piling onto the buses.

  “Dez!” screamed Trout. “Come on!”

  Dez Fox stood halfway between the loading docks and the front rank of the living dead, firing her Glock, dropping empty magazines, swapping in new ones, firing, reloading, firing. All the time she did this she screamed. Rage and terror.

  Charlie Matthias had a length of black pipe in his hands. Eight feet long and bent in two places. He’d run up to a gap between Sam Imura and Gypsy and swing the pipe with incredible power and ferocity. Infected were hurled aside like broken dolls. He hit and hit and hit, the massive muscles flexing under his milky skin.

  He, too, screamed.

  The bus engines roared to life and the first of the convoy pulled out of the bay. The others woke up with terrible slowness and crept into line. All too slow, thought Trout. Too slow.

  He thought, in all the confusion, that he heard another engine roar over to his right. A different engine, but it vanished again. A hallucination, thought Trout, and he wasn’t surprised that his mind was fracturing.

  He hobbled forward to where Dez was reloading.

  “Get into the bus,” he shouted.

  She ignored him and slapped the new magazine into place, raised her weapon, but didn’t pull the trigger. Instead her eyes went as wide as saucers and she said, “What the fuck…?”

  Trout heard that strange engine roar again and as he turned he saw something moving beyond the throng of dead at the gate. It was big and yellow and for a moment he thought it was another bus. Had they lost one on the way here? Had someone else come up with the same plan?

  But then the front of the vehicle seemed to lift.

  No, it did lift.

  With a sharp whine of hydraulics it raised up as the machine smashed into the packed dead. The impact sent bodies flying, but some seemed to hang in the air. Then Trout realized they weren’t hanging, they were clinging to something. To the part of the machine that had raised up. His mind fought to make sense of it.

  Then the machine turned and he understood.

  It was a massive piece of construction equip
ment. Bright yellow, washed clean by the rains, and wearing a writhing coat of moaning infected, it was a front-end loader.

  Monstrous and bulky, improbably heavy, riding on eight huge wheels, the machine crashed into the dead, rolled over them, ground them into bloody paste. The bucket rose and Trout could see that it was completely filled with struggling dead. The driver tilted the bucket to let them fall then brought the steel bucket down on top of them.

  The dead in the parking lot seemed to be caught in a moment of indecision. Fresh meat was in front of them, but their instinct to pursue noise and movement compelled them to react to the machine. Some of them left the chase and began shuffling toward the loader; the rest turned stiffly back and continued to chase Sam and his team.

  In that instant of indecision, though, Sam turned and ran, yelling to the others to move, to abandon the fight. Some of the faster zombies tore through the crowds in close pursuit. Dez moved up to offer covering fire, and Charlie Matthias shifted into the path of two running infected. He swung his pipe at the knees of the first one, sending it crashing to the ground. The second tripped over it and fell, and before it could climb back to its feet Charlie smashed its skull.

  Then five more of the fast ones broke from the pack and ran straight at Charlie. They were between Dez and him; he was in her direct line of fire.