The Plan

by Shawn Chesser

  Recalling the black helicopter that had pursued them from that roadblock to a nearby cornfield, Riker said, “Tangling with more Johnnys is the absolute last thing we need. I want to get us as far as possible from here. Because we all know that … that zombie attack back there won’t be reported as such.” He shook his head. “It’ll be spun in a way so that we become the bad guys.”

  The thunk-thunk of the Shelby’s off-road tires rolling over strategically placed speedbumps sounded inside the cab.

  Riker went on. “I can see the headlines now: Armed Desperados On The Run. We’ll be branded as the squatters who robbed Villa Jasmine and murdered the next-door neighbors.”

  “Don’t forget sinking the big speedboat,” interjected Steve-O. “That baby probably cost a fortune.”

  Riker said nothing. And he didn’t let up on the gas after the Ford cleared the gate. It was times like these when skills honed in the United States Army came in handy. That three-day driving course in the desert had been a high point of his deployment.

  And he got to put those skills to use almost daily, driving high-level military brass and foreign dignitaries to and from the Green Zone in Baghdad, Iraq. He threw many an up-armored luxury SUV into turns usually unrecoverable in a stock vehicle being driven under similar circumstances.

  The course instructors over there taught him how to recognize bad guys looking to pin in his vehicle. He also learned how to blow a hastily set roadblock while keeping alive the principal on board. And it was over there that he perfected his favorite, the bootlegger’s reverse—or moonshiner’s turn—a maneuver used to escape a lethal situation by reversing quickly and then whipping the vehicle around in a controlled high-speed one-eighty.

  And it just so happened that Riker’s highly modified Shelby Baja pickup, though not armored, was closer in pedigree to those up-armored Land Cruisers and Range Rovers he used to drive than the civilian F-150 it was based on. This rig was full of power and much more nimble than its outward appearance and ride height would suggest.

  Riker kept on the pedal, powering through the shallow right turn onto the 29th Street bridge. He reeled the rear end in by counter-steering against the slide.

  The bridge across the channel was a narrow two-lane affair. It didn’t lend to high speed travel by a vehicle with as wide a stance as the Shelby. So Riker let off the pedal and employed the brakes. He did so just in time, because as soon as the speedometer needle dropped down to the speed limit, three emergency vehicles, their red and blue lights ablaze, careened around the far corner at a high rate of speed.

  Riker kept a death grip on the wheel as the pair of Miami-Dade PD Tahoes and the armored SWAT vehicle trailing them whizzed by in the opposing lane with just inches to spare.

  Exhaling, Riker said, “Almost lost my mirror there.” He flicked his eyes to the rearview. Saw first the very top of Steve-O’s Stetson. The man had slouched down in his seat and gone quiet. Beyond the crease in the hat, he saw the retreating vehicles, still moving fast, and, thankfully, the sight of the Shelby leaving the scene didn’t have their brake lights flaring red.

  Tara said, “Looks like lightning-fast response times are part of the package if you live on good ol’ Sunset Island.”

  “I don’t think they came with enough resources to make a difference. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if the security guards had taken some licks before retreating.”

  The blue-green waters of the bay inlet flashing below the Shelby gave way to land dotted with palm trees and green lawns fronting homes much smaller than the ones on the island.

  Relaxing a bit, Riker slowed and stopped for a red at Alton Road, where traffic was much heavier than when he’d returned from the electronics store.

  Across the four-lane, beyond a copse of trees, a trio of golfers stood in a knot on a massive green.

  Riker went left when the light changed.

  Tara said, “The navigation unit has us going right.”

  “Change of plans,” said Riker as he nosed the Shelby into the lane feeding onto I-195 West.

  By the time they started moving again, Steve-O was back at his perch between the seats. Hat brim cutting the air, he looked to Tara first, then fixed Riker with an inquisitive gaze. “So we’re going to Plan C now?”

  “Not exactly,” Riker said. “While you two were shopping”—he had wanted to do air quotes as Steve-O had earlier, but couldn’t on account he was driving—“I was doing the same … and a bit more. Buckle up, Steve-O. You’ll both see soon enough.”

  Tara made no reply. She was turned in her seat, face nearly touching the window, jaw hinged open.

  “What is it?” Riker asked, keeping his eyes on merging traffic.

  “The hospital,” she replied. “It’s a full-on shit show.”

  Riding the momentum of the turn, Steve-O slid to the passenger side, belted in, and turned his attention to the cluster of buildings that made up Mount Sinai Medical Center’s sprawling campus. “Lots of pretty lights,” he noted.

  Tara said, “Those pretty lights are ambulances and police cars. Dozens of them.”

  Slipping to the right lane, Riker stole a glance past Tara and could hardly believe what he was seeing.

  Chapter 8

  Riker wanted nothing more than to crane to see with his own eyes the embattled Mount Sinai Medical Center and all that was happening there. Instead, keeping his eyes on his lane, he asked Tara to explain what she was seeing and take a video with her phone if possible.

  “Already one step ahead of you, Bro. I’m waaay zoomed in, so it’s bound to be grainy.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Monsters,” Steve-O interjected. “I saw mostly slow ones.”

  Twisted around in her seat with one arm entangled in her shoulder belt and the iPhone aimed at the passing hospital, Tara said, “I’m afraid he’s right. Dozens of them.”

  Focused solely on the gathering traffic, Riker asked, “Inside? Outside? What are they doing?”

  Tara drew in a deep breath and exhaled. Voice wavering, she said, “There are lots of them. They’re mostly clustered around a bunch of ambulances queued up on the side street. A smaller group is congregated in front of what looks to be the main entry.”

  Riker slipped over into the far-right lane as the interstate began a gradual dip prior to the long level stretch that shot off straight across the bay. “Where are the patrol cars in relation to the zombies?” he asked.

  “They’re set up near Alton Road. A long line of them. But they’re out of sight now.” She paused and turned to face front. Fiddling with her iPhone, she went on, “Let me get the video going. I can zoom in on that specific area of the footage and get a better read for you.”

  Riker glanced at the display in the center of the dash. The navigation program was already pulled up. On the right, in a separate pane, was a list of the upcoming exits. After saying the names of the next three softly under his breath, he sped up and checked his mirrors.

  “I saw the Law,” Steve-O said. “They were drawing down on the monsters with shotguns and pistols. Saw it all clear as day from back here.”

  Riker asked, “Were they shooting? Did you see flame coming from their muzzles?

  “No, sir,” Steve-O said. “But it was coming. I’m sure of it. Looked like Custer’s Last Stand.”

  Tara said, “The zombies are the natives, I’m guessing.”

  Riker said, “And the police would be the 7th Cavalry. We all know how that ended.”

  “Not good for the soldiers,” Steve-O said. “Not good at all.”

  Crossing over Biscayne Bay, the four-and-a-half-mile stretch of I-195 called The Julia Tuttle Causeway consisted of six lanes, three eastbound to Miami Beach, and three heading west to midtown Miami. At about the middle of its run, the causeway bisected a small island bristling with towering palms.

  Nearing the island, at a point in the span where the roadway bumped up to allow passage for boats traversing Biscayne Bay’s sparkling waters, Tara caused Ri
ker and Steve-O to jump by blurting, “Holy hell!”

  Pushing his glasses back on his nose, Steve-O said, “What do you see, Pretty Lady?”

  “The EMTs are still bringing infected people to the hospital. If they haven’t yet, I think they’re real close to losing the whole place to the dead.”

  “Hippocratic oath,” muttered Riker as the Shelby geared down to compensate for the beginning of a gradual incline that seemed to go on forever.

  “Hungry Hungry Hippos,” said Steve-O. “I loved that game.”

  “It’s the sacred oath all doctors take after completing medical school. It says they are bound to help anyone in need of medical attention. No… matter… what,” explained Riker. “And it looks like their adhering to it is the root of all that madness down there.”

  “Here you go,” Tara said, tilting the iPhone screen toward Riker. “I only captured twenty seconds of footage, but in there I found a few frames where you can see those same black body bags like we saw at the high school.”

  He glanced sidelong at the device. “Anything moving in them?”

  Tara shook her head. “They’re all lying flat and staying that way. Looks like someone is learning from past mistakes.”

  As Riker mulled over this troubling new development, the dull throb behind his eyes returned. Taking the Biscayne Boulevard exit off the 195, they found traffic beginning to back up. The speedometer needle dipping below twenty was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. The usual slow creep of tension up his back and neck muscles didn’t happen. Instead, all of the stress accumulated during the day’s events was back at once. It manifested in the form of a tsunami of pain that surged from the base of his spine to the nerves behind his eyes.

  Traffic was backed up due to an F-DOT work crew running a pair of jackhammers at a section of Biscayne Boulevard. Both lanes had come to a full stop at the red light, with cars in the left lane beginning to edge over. Good thing, because Riker was nearly incapacitated. Tracers danced before his eyes and the dull throb had become a full-on migraine. It was as if the pair of guys in orange vests had fitted their jackhammers with needles and turned them on the inside of his skull.

  As Riker bowed his head and rubbed his temples, waiting for the light to change, a hand gripped his shoulder.

  “CTE back?” Tara asked, concern evident in her tone.

  Riker nodded, the simple act amplifying the pain.

  “Want me to drive?”

  “No,” he answered, “it’s ebbing.”

  A lie.

  In fact, the pain was spiking and his tinnitus was jangling away at rock-band volume as he continued to pray for a few more seconds of red from the traffic control light over Biscayne.

  “Let me know when you do.” She went quiet as the light cycled to green and the half-dozen cars in the lane ahead slow-rolled forward.

  When the Shelby slipped through the light and they all had a clear view down Biscayne, Tara broke her silence.

  “Crap,” she said, pointing to the red and yellow sign rising over a Shell gas station a block distant. “That’s not cool.”

  Though Riker’s vision was a bit fuzzy around the edges, he could still read the large illuminated digital numbers dominating the Shell sign.

  “Seven ninety-nine a gallon? For regular!? Hell,” he noted, “it was hovering somewhere south of four dollars a gallon yesterday.”

  “Bend me the eff over,” said Tara, incredulous. “It doubled in price overnight. Means the populace is beginning to see through the government’s bullcrap.”

  From somewhere out of sight came Steve-O’s voice. “That’s not lady talk, Tara.”

  She turned and said, “Remember, dude … you’re a grown ass man. So why don’t you build a bridge and get over it.”

  Steve-O made a sound like a balloon deflating.

  “That was harsh,” scolded Riker.

  “Tough love,” she said.

  Accelerating and jumping over to the right lane afforded a better view of the station coming up on their left. Though the prices were exorbitant, there was no shortage of customers willing to pay it.

  The pumps were all in use. A double line of vehicles waiting their turn to drink from the well snaked out onto Biscayne and continued on around the block to the east. Some drivers were out and leaning against their static vehicles. Others remained at the wheel, engines stilled and windows cracked.

  One particular compact bearing Tennessee plates had drawn a small crowd of gawkers. They stood on the street in a rough semi-circle a few feet from the driver’s side door. One man was tapping on the windshield. Another was waving a finger near the open driver’s side window.

  Face a mask of animalistic rage, jaw pistoning nonstop up and down, the female driver lunged at her antagonists.

  As the Shelby came even with the scene, it was clear to Riker that the driver was infected. And with the zombie straining against the taut shoulder belt keeping it from worming through the window, the circle of onlookers tightened, some with phones in hand and getting near to the snapping teeth just to get a selfie with the thing.

  It was natural to be curious. Riker got it. He had seen it before. Years ago while visiting Yellowstone with a friend, he had watched a grown woman get too close to a bison. It didn’t end well for her. She messed with the bull and got the horns.

  He had a feeling the encounter he had just witnessed in the fuel line was going to end badly for one or more of the idiots.

  Steve-O said, “Kids used to do that to me at school. Once I got older, it stopped.”

  Tara turned to face him. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. Kids can be such assholes.”

  Steve-O looked overtop his glasses.

  “I know, language. I’m sorry, Steve-O.”

  Riker felt for the man. He’d been there. Except his experience was a little different. Kind of inverse. Kids had been assholes to him at first. But once he fought back, it all stopped. Until he became an adult, that is. Then his size made him the target of every wanna-be tough guy with a chip on his shoulder or one too many drinks in his system. And he had the scars on his knuckles as proof.

  Glancing at Tara, he said, “If this sickness continues to spread, prices are going nowhere but up. That is if the gas even makes it from refinery to station. Not only do the truckers have to make random stops at weigh stations and keep their eyes peeled for state troopers, now they have to skirt National Guard roadblocks. No getting around it, Sis. Things are going to keep getting worse until this all gets sorted out.”

  “If it gets sorted out.” She flipped the passing Shell station the bird as Riker hung a right turn. “Fuck if I’m ever going to pay eight bucks for a gallon of gas.”

  Again Riker shot her a sidelong glance. “Bet you wished you still had that SMART car of yours.”

  “Thumbelina,” she said, one brow arched. “It’s not the money, Lee. I’ve got plenty of that.”

  “What’s the problem then?”

  Voice full of conviction, she said, “It’s the principle, man. Eff the opportunists.”

  “OK, then,” challenged Riker, “go ahead and see how many miles per gallon that righteous indignation is gonna get you,”

  “It just pisses me off. That’s all.” Tara looked out her window as Riker slowed, moved to the middle turn lane, and signaled a left turn. Through gritted teeth, she went on, “There’s gotta be a law on the books against that kind of price gouging, right?”

  Riker said nothing. He figured there was a whole slew of laws against the practice—especially in Hurricane Country—but didn’t know enough about the subject to add his two cents.

  Chapter 9

  Miami, Florida

  Jonny’s Shooter’s Supply, a four-thousand-square-foot, one-level structure encompassing the majority of a city block, was mostly windowless and constructed from cement block painted battleship-gray. To say the place resembled a bunker would be a vast understatement. The only landscaping to speak of were four palms standing se
ntinel on each corner of the parking lot. Mostly empty, the lot fronted a single set of double doors mirrored against the sun and protected by a pair of waist-high cement posts painted safety orange.

  If not for the red awning displaying the store’s name in white lettering, the business could easily be mistaken for an automotive parts warehouse or maybe an import/export concern.

  Riker steered the Shelby onto the lot and reversed into a corner spot in the shadow of one of the towering palms. He left the engine idle and kicked up the air a notch. Rolling the transmission into Park, he said, “We’re here. Your question is answered, Sis.”

  “A gun store?” Tara said. “That’s where you’ve been during your frequent shore excursions? I figured something was up seeing as how you only have this old-man shirt of yours”—she flicked the sleeve—“Tommy Obama … or whatever it’s called, to show for all the shopping you said you were doing.”

  Recalling the ire directed his way by Tara after he disassembled and discarded the Beretta he’d taken from the soldier at the high school in Middletown, he nodded and said, “I confess. Just in case my background check didn’t pan out, I kept this place to myself.” Hands up in mock surrender, he went on, “I did make a few purchases here. I think you’ll forgive me when you see what I picked up for us.” He unbuckled and shifted in his seat. “Florida has a three-day waiting period on handgun purchases. That’s why I kept coming home empty-handed.”

  Clicking out of her belt, she asked, “What were you doing with the rest of your time?”

  Following the others’ lead, Steve-O clicked out of his seatbelt. Filling up the space between the front seat headrests and wearing a wide smile, he said, “Lee’s been a busy little beaver.”

  Riker nodded at Steve-O. Responding to Tara’s question, he said, “I ran a few hundred rounds through the same type of firearms I ordered from Jonny. I also learned how to break them all down and give them a thorough cleaning. The people who work here are real helpful.”