Plague Nation

by Dana Fredsti

  The best G had been able to do was to offer Becky shelter in his home when he’d heard her pounding frantically on his neighbor’s door, begging for refuge as madness exploded in the neighborhood. He knew the Haywards were on vacation, and he’d seen what happened to people caught outside in the last couple of hours.

  So he’d opened his door and let her in.

  She’d sat on one end of his custom black leather couch, clutching a fleece throw he’d given her to stop her shivering, and downing a Sierra Nevada pale ale like it was water. He’d pursed his lips when she put the empty bottle directly on the wooden coffee table, instead of one of the handy coasters, but he didn’t want to be an ungracious host. So he’d quietly taken it to the recycle bin in the kitchen, surreptitiously wiping up the ring of moisture with his other hand.

  She hadn’t noticed.

  He’d turned on the television, a truly monster-sized flat-screen mounted on the living room wall. He’d been flipping through the channels in search of news when the power went out. Becky had given a sharp gasp, pulling the fleece throw up to her face.

  “Maybe it’s just a brownout,” G had said uneasily.

  A sudden thumping noise out on the patio had brought them both to their feet. The sound of footsteps had been enough to prompt G to grab Becky’s hand, pull her upstairs, and duck into the bedroom closet.

  Where they now sat huddled close together behind a row of costumes, listening to the sound of footsteps coming up the hardwood stairs.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  * * *

  Walking into the townhouse was a bit like walking into a comic book store, the kind that catered to pop culture junkies like, well, like Tony and Kai. Tony must have rushed right through without checking it out, ’cause if he’d taken a good look, I doubt we would have seen him for hours.

  The first thing I saw was an expensively framed The Dark Knight Rises poster, displayed prominently on the entryway wall opposite the front door, the cowled character brooding dramatically in front of a city on fire.

  A quick glance to the right revealed the living room, and a truly frightening sofa—black leather with the bat logo emblazoned in yellow across the back. A life-sized replica of the blue Police Box thingee from Doctor Who occupied one corner, and there were swords mounted on the walls next to yet more framed movie posters and one-sheets. I spotted Scott Pilgrim Versus the World, The Avengers, Doctor Who, more Batman posters spanning the years... and yes, there was the one with Val Kilmer and Chris “Nipples” O’Donnell.

  It was enough to make me long for a Thomas Kinkade print. Now that really disturbed me.

  I made my way cautiously upstairs, my feet creaking on the hardwood despite my best efforts at stealth. If there was anyone or anything up there, I could forget about the element of surprise.

  At the top of the stairs there was a carpeted hallway with three doors leading off it. The first door was open, revealing three walls filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, all loaded to capacity. Every book was perfectly positioned. The owner had to be a serious neat freak.

  Action figures from comic books, movies, and television shows took up shelves on the fourth wall, all still sealed in their original packaging. The doors of the closet had been removed, and shelves had been installed inside to house yet more action figures.

  The next room was part office—with a sleek computer setup courtesy of Apple—and part storage space, with at least three dozen long, thin, cardboard boxes stacked in neatly labeled rows. They were comic books, all alphabetized, stacked against the walls and in another modified closet.

  Above the computer was a bulletin board covered with San Diego Comic-Con and Wonder Con name badges, dated from 1998 to present, all bearing the name “G. Funk.”

  The third room was at the end of the hallway, and the door was closed. I pressed one ear against the thin wood and listened closely. Was that the shuffle of feet I heard? Muffled voices? Or just sounds penetrating the walls from the outside?

  Turning the knob, I stepped to the side and cautiously pushed the door inward with the tip of my katana. The cause of Kai’s death was fresh in my memory.

  “Hello?” I offered.

  No answer of any kind.

  I entered what was the master bedroom.

  Holy Batcrap!

  Think bachelor boudoir meets Batcave. The walls were painted and textured to look like cement, and the king-size bed was backed by an oval headboard decorated with a black Batman emblem set against padded gold fabric. The sheets and comforter were also black and gold to match the emblem, but thankfully free of cartoons or logos. I peeked underneath the bed, and didn’t even find a dust bunny.

  A large mahogany dresser dominated the far wall, a trilby hat resting jauntily on a ceramic Batman bust. On closer inspection, I also found a Bat-satchel, a mobile Batphone, and a Bat-wallet, all lined up neatly on the dresser’s surface.

  “One bat, two bats, three bats, mwah, hah, hah.”

  Okay, maybe not appropriate, but I’d take my jollies where I could get ’em.

  An open door to the left led to a bathroom, and two closed sliding doors on my right hid what I assumed was the closet. I slide a door open, fully expecting to find a Batpole inside. Instead, an almost disappointingly normal walk-in closet greeted me, with rows of clothing hung on both sides and a sectional shoe rack directly in front of me. A dozen pair of Doc Martens lined up like footwear soldiers.

  The row on the left held jeans and T-shirts. Each pair of jeans had its own hanger, something unheard of in my closet. Hanging jeans and T-shirts was an alien concept all by itself. There were at least thirty T-shirts hung on thin velveteen hangers. I’d wager my first-born child that they all bore pop cultural characters or quotes, and were arranged by the relevant show or movie.

  The right side held a more eclectic wardrobe selection, pretty much what I’d expect to see from someone who’d attended Comic-Con on a yearly basis.

  The faint sound of rustling fabric caught my attention, and I tensed. Turning slowly, I peered at the back of the closet where a dark cape and familiar cowled hood were hanging... with two figures huddled on the floor behind it.

  “Um, I’m human,” I said, realizing they couldn’t see me in the dark.

  “Really?” A deep, husky male voice with a thick, indefinable accent rose from behind the cape.

  “Yup. And if I wasn’t,” I added, “I’d be trying to eat you, instead of striking up a conversation.”

  “Ah, good point.” At least that’s what I think he said. The accent made it tough to decipher.

  The cape was pushed the rest of the way aside, fully revealing the speaker—a man in his early thirties with slicked-back dark hair, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. I wasn’t in the least bit shocked to see that he wore jeans and a Doctor Who T-shirt.

  Behind him huddled a petite blonde somewhere in her twenties, wearing yoga pants and a long sleeved pink thermal top.

  The man got to his feet, unfolding lanky limbs until he towered above me, at least six and a half feet tall. The woman stood up, as well, staring at me with wide, frightened eyes.

  “We thought you were one of those things,” she said, voice shaky with remembered fear.

  “Sorry to scare you,” I said in a gentle voice, the kind my dad used on skittish horses. “But we had to get inside quickly.”

  The man raised an eyebrow high enough that it popped up above the frames of his sunglasses.

  “There are more of you?” Except it sounded like “Theah ah morr o’ya?”

  “Yes, there’s a group. We’re... we’re, uh, with the military.”

  “What branch?” he asked.

  Crap.

  “I’m sorry, I couldn’t understand you.” I smiled at him, not quite—but almost—batting my lashes before remembering that he couldn’t see me. “I can’t quite place your accent.”

  “Born in Ireland, raised in Australia from age ten, moved here when I was thirty.”

  Thirty sounded l
ike “tirty.” The rest of it vacillated between Down Under and Ye Olde Sod, all uttered in a husky voice that had to have been influenced by the Dark Knight himself.

  “And what branch was that you said?” he persisted. I should have known anyone who’d alphabetize his comic books and hang up T-shirts wouldn’t be so easily thrown off course.

  “Ash, what’s the status up there?” Nathan’s voice floated up the stairs.

  “Someone else can fill you in,” I said quickly.

  Buck officially passed.

  “Everything’s fine,” I replied, just loudly enough for Nathan’s wild card hearing to pick up on it. “Two civvies, no zoms.”

  “They okay?”

  I turned to my rescues.

  “Have either of you been bitten, or had a flu shot recently?”

  There went that eyebrow again. He could have given Simone a run for her Vulcan ancestry.

  “No to both,” he said. “Becky?”

  The blonde shook her head.

  “I feel fine,” she insisted.

  Suddenly the lights flickered, and came on. Some ambient light shone in from the bedroom window, and a small bedside lamp flared back to life. The sound of a television drifted up the stairs, cutting off after a few seconds. This brought a frown to the man’s face.

  “Who did that?”

  “Probably Nathan,” I said. “We don’t want to attract those things with any extra noise.” I held out my hand. “I’m Ashley Parker, by the way. We’re here to help.”

  He looked at my hand for a few seconds as if debating whether it was clean enough to touch. Considering the fact that I looked like I’d been dipped in gore, I couldn’t blame him. He finally gave me a brief finger shake, surreptitiously wiping his hand on his jeans.

  “G. Funk,” he said. “I suppose I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Becky Stiller.” The blonde stepped forward and clasped my hand in both of hers. “I’m so happy you’re here.” She sounded like she meant it, too. “You say you’re with the army?”

  “Yes.” I said, and left it at that. I turned back to Mr. Funk. “We need a place to rest up briefly. May we stay here?”

  He gave it some thought before replying.

  “Seeing as you’re polite enough to ask, when I probably don’t have a choice, then yes.” At least that’s what I think he said.

  Some people should come with subtitles.

  We went downstairs to find the others arriving, spreading out through the living room, depositing duffle bags and knapsacks on the hardwood floors, muddy boots leaving footprints on a formerly pristine cream carpet. G flinched when he saw just how many filthy people had invaded his home. His expression grew downright alarmed when Red and Carl came through the front door, Hicks sagging between them. Dr. Albert bustled right behind them.

  “He needs to lie down somewhere,” the doctor said. “Is there a bed we can use?”

  G stepped forward hastily.

  “The sofa hawpens int’a beeyad. Heeyah.” Which I mentally translated into “the sofa opens into a bed. Here.” Sure enough, with a few quick moves, he turned the couch into a convertible bed, which had more than enough space for both Hicks and Mack, who’d limped in with Lil.

  “We won’t break anything,” I said reassuringly. G didn’t look convinced.

  “I need to wash my hands,” he muttered. He vanished into the kitchen, and the sound of running water lasted for a good sixty seconds.

  I stepped up next to Becky, who stood shyly behind me, taking in all the people in dark camo and Kevlar, weapons practically dripping off all of us.

  “Is G going to be okay?” I asked her. She looked particularly interested in Gabriel, who had just come in through the front door and was closing it behind him.

  He glanced around, saw me, and gave the smallest of smiles. It was enough.

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice suddenly all breathy. “I just met him tonight. I got stuck in traffic up on Parnassus, and saw people attacking each other.” She winced at the memory. “I have friends here, next door, but they weren’t home. G heard me knocking and let me in.”

  Her gaze continued to linger on Gabriel as he did a quick recon through the house, checking out doors and windows, pulling shades and curtains, and turning off all but the bare minimum of light needed to see. I couldn’t blame her, even though it irritated me. No one pulled off the “I’m too sexy for my gore” look like Gabriel. He made it seem like a fashion choice.

  G emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishcloth emblazoned with the Batman emblem. About that time Tony joined us, a look of awe on his face.

  “Coolest. Home. Ever,” he said. “Dude, is this your place?”

  G nodded, torn between gratification and near panic as Tony walked up to the Police Box and touched it reverently.

  “A Tardis,” he said. “Kai would’ve loved this...”

  I had other priorities in mind. So I sidled up next to our host.

  “Say, G, does your hot water work?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  * * *

  I lay on one of the futons, wrapped in a blue down comforter, a throw pillow under my head, willing my brain to shut down and let me get some sleep before we had to hit the road again.

  Despite the role of host being thrust upon him, G had risen to the occasion, offering us food and drink—handed out with coasters, no less. He had even pulled out an assortment of pillows and bedding, including two thick futons and several yoga mats, before vanishing upstairs to his bedroom, muttering something about coffee in the morning and looking as if he’d been hit by an emotional tornado.

  The chaos in his perfectly arranged abode was too much for him, poor guy.

  The rest of us made do wherever we found a place to throw down a pillow and a blanket. I’d decided to crash upstairs in Action Figure Central, hoping for some much needed privacy. Since this whole zombie madness had started, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had more than a few minutes by myself—and those were usually in a bathroom, like the five-minute shower I’d taken before retiring.

  The shower had felt great, although having to put my filthy clothes back on was a bummer. I compromised by wearing the pants, boots, and T-shirt, and saving for later the worst of the gore-encrusted Kevlar and longsleeved overshirt.

  Shutting my eyes for the umpteenth time, I tossed and turned under the comforter. Problem was, my body was willing, but my brain would not cooperate. It was operating on full monkey mode, trying to figure out why the universe had given me time to try and rescue BirkenBeamer, who hadn’t wanted my help, yet I’d had to watch those little kids ripped to pieces right in front of me.

  When someone knocked softly on the door, it was almost a relief.

  I jumped to my feet, padded across the room and opened the door a few inches, fully expecting to see Lil. Instead Gabriel stood there, hair damp. Like me, he’d stripped to pants, T-shirt, and boots, a bundle of Kevlar, weapons, and bedding clutched in his arms. We stared at each other for a beat.

  “Can I come in?” He spoke in an undertone. I stepped back so he could enter, then closed the door behind him.

  “Not that I’m not happy to see you,” I said, keeping my voice equally low, “but did you want something?”

  He shook his head.

  “I just wanted to check on you, make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m fine.” I sat down on the futon, knees folded to my chest with the comforter pulled up to my shoulders, as he stashed his gear against one wall.

  “Good,” he said. “That’s good.” He paused, then held up a pillow and blanket. “Is it okay if I—”

  “Help yourself.”

  He tossed both pillow and blanket on the floor a few feet away from me and stretched out on his back, hands clasped behind his head.

  The silence was palpable, stretching out like taffy between us.

  I cleared my throat and looked at him expectantly. He continued to stare at the ceiling.

 
Okay, fine. Exasperated, I wrapped the comforter around me like a puffy cape and scooted over next to him.

  “Well?”

  He looked at me and gave a sudden laugh.

  “With that blanket, you look like the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland. The cartoon, that is. All you need is a hookah.”

  “Just what every woman dreams of hearing,” I snorted. “‘Honey, you look like an insect.’ Although I wouldn’t say no to a hookah about now. It might help me shut my brain down.”

  He rolled over on his side, head propped up on one hand.

  “Trouble sleeping?”

  “Total monkey brain,” I confessed. “I know we have to focus on the mission. We don’t have time to save everyone, we have to look at the big picture, blah blahblah. But—”

  “But you’re not a big picture type of person,” Gabriel finished for me. “Is that it?”

  “I’ve always been more of a ‘little things matter’ person. Sometimes more than the big ones. Like the whole butterfly effect where something as small as a butterfly flapping its wings can cause a hurricane at the opposite side of the earth.”

  I took a deep breath, and continued.

  “I saw two little kids die not twenty feet away from me, and I couldn’t do anything. Maybe that little girl was destined to cure cancer—”

  “Ash...”

  I held up a hand so I could finish.

  “—or maybe she was going to be another Snookie. I know, I know. Either way, she and her brother didn’t deserve to die that way. And either way—” I looked at him, my eyes prickling with tears I didn’t want to shed “—I couldn’t save them.”

  Gabriel reached up, slipping his hands under the comforter to pull me down next him, where his arms wrapped around me. He moved one hand up to my hair, still damp from the shower, fingers gently caressing my scalp.

  I gave a shuddering sigh and relaxed against him, my head resting in the crook of his shoulder, one hand resting on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart underneath. It didn’t matter that the clothes we wore stank of death. Not when I could feel the warmth of his body against mine. The warmth meant the antiserum was doing its job, that he was still human, and could still be cured.