Wanderers

by Chuck Wendig

  fam check out this video my GF took holy SHIT does that dude fucking explode?!

  @steviemifflin

  147 replies 1298 RTs 3788 likes

  JUNE 3

  Minersville, Pennsylvania

  IT WAS COMING UP ON midnight, and their old pickup sat parked on a bridge crossing the West Branch of the Schuylkill River. Her father walked toward it, head held low, chin to his chest. Shana trailed behind, moving slow—slower than him, so that even at his easy walk he was outpacing her. The river murmured and gushed, and a few crickets sang along the banks in the moonless black of the night. The sound of her father’s boots echoed on the bridge.

  They were going the opposite direction of the sleepwalkers.

  She felt it keenly—it was like a magnetic force trying to drag her back toward her sister and the others. The others. Jesus. It wasn’t just Shana and the other woman, a woman they now knew was named Rosie. Though Blamire was gone (and Shana purposefully did not let her mind wander to how he died), the sleepwalkers didn’t stop there. Their numbers had grown—four more had joined. Two men, two women. Shana didn’t know much about them because the cops wouldn’t let them get close—but at least one of the four looked younger, a boy her age, maybe older. Two came out of their houses. One out of a restaurant. The last crossed a meadow. All merged with the herd in lockstep.

  The herd. That’s how they seemed. Dull-witted as livestock, but led by no shepherd.

  “Dad,” Shana yelled out. “Stop.”

  Her father stopped and turned. “Come on, Shana. Time to go home.”

  She ratcheted up as much courage as she could muster.

  “I’m not coming.”

  He stood, silent for a span of seconds. “Don’t mess around.”

  “I’m not messing around.”

  Her father stormed toward her. “Shana, this isn’t the time.”

  “It’s exactly the damn time.”

  “Your sister’s in good hands. We have a farm to run. The dairy doesn’t operate itself. I was able to wrangle Will and Essie from across the street to make sure the cows were fed today, but they won’t come every day, and I can’t afford to pay them much. We need to go home.” He hesitated. “Nessie will be okay. They have the cops there, they’ve called doctors—”

  “I’m going to stay with her.”

  “Shana, please, it’s too late for this horseshit.”

  “I’m staying.”

  He reached out, caught her wrist, but she twisted out of his grip.

  “Someone needs to protect her,” Shana spat. Implicit in that comment: It won’t be you, it’ll be me.

  “Like I said, Shana, they have cops there—we can trust the police.”

  The laugh that came out of her was a bitter recrimination. “You’re fucking kidding me with this, right? Mister Blamire is dead because of that cop. That poor man, he just—” And here she fought to blink away tears and bite back a gasping, gaping sob. “He, he, he fucking burst from the inside like an over-full stomach—like something out of a horror movie. What if they did that to Nessie, huh? What if today, that dumb redneck gym-rat cop decided to grab her instead of my math teacher? If he did that—”

  “Shana, don’t—”

  “If he did that, she’d be the one in the back of that car, all that blood and all that bone.” One part of that horror revisited her every time she closed her eyes—when it happened, a little splinter of red bone had popped through the back window of the cop’s cruiser. And it just stuck there. Dripping red. It belonged to Blamire. When he…erupted.

  “It wasn’t Nessie, though.”

  The next words came out of her through gritted teeth. They were angry, drenched in venom reserved for her father—the rage she felt toward him suddenly was probably wrong, surely misplaced, and she knew that in the back of her mind somewhere, but it didn’t matter. It was there, and she let it all out.

  “You always want to work, work, work. Since Mom left you’ve been head down in the job, and it’s like you don’t even see us there. You just think we should get up and work same as you—God, maybe that’s why Mom left you. You ever think of that? Maybe she didn’t want some future with a…a fucking cheesemaker and his hick daughters!” By now, she was yelling: She had to yell because it helped her not to cry. “And you don’t need me because you love me, you need me because…I keep things running when you can’t. Just like I pack Nessie’s lunch, just like I make sure she takes her dumb allergy medications, just like…”

  But her words shriveled up.

  Her father grew quiet, then. Even in the dark she could see his eyes were wide as he stared not at her, but off the bridge, at an unfixed point.

  “You’re being this way because you’re trying to push me away,” he said. “I get that. You want me hurt or pissed off so I just leave.”

  “I…I don’t know, Dad.”

  “Thing is, maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s why your mother left, I don’t know. It’s not like she ever told me. She seemed a little strange in the weeks leading up, but…she never said anything. I figured it was just a mood, she’d grow out of it, life would move on.” He brought both hands to his face and wearily dragged the palms across the expanse of his cheeks. “It killed me when she left. Killed the both of you, too. And now…Nessie’s walking away. Not like she means to, but…”

  “Dad, she’s not Mom—”

  “But I can’t have you leave, too. Don’t leave me, Shana. Please.”

  “It’s Nessie I can’t leave, Dad. She’s alone.”

  He sighed. “I know.”

  “And you can’t go because you have a farm to run…”

  “Shana—”

  “But I can. I can go with her.” Wherever it is she’s going.

  “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “I can be there when she comes out of this. I can stop them from…from trying to throw her in the back of a cop car. Who’s going to be there for her? We don’t even know what’s happening.”

  Just then, headlights. Two cop cars—one cruiser, one SUV—went past. No sirens or strobing lights, and they didn’t seem in a rush. Just the same, it made Shana’s guts tighten. I’m wasting time. What if something new has gone wrong? What if it’s Nessie?

  “Dad, Nessie is special.”

  “You’re both special.”

  Another harsh, humorless laugh. “Don’t.”

  “Honey,” he said, reaching for her arm. “I mean it.”

  “I’m special to you because I’m your daughter, but…most kids at my school are going to college next year. I’m not.”

  “I know and—”

  “You remember what you said when I told you?”

  “I said okay, I said I respect your choices and—”

  “Exactly. You said okay. Like, oh well, sure. You didn’t fight me on it, not one bit. You didn’t fight me like you’re fighting me now.”

  “Shana…”

  “And what if Nessie told you the same thing? What if she told you she wasn’t going to college? Huh?” Her father didn’t answer. He just stood there silent and guilty because they both knew the answer. “You’d be livid. You’d probably write the damn application for her because one day she’s going to be whatever she wants to be and that means shipping her off to college. Me, though, I don’t have anything. No plans, no…real skills.”

  “Your photography is beautiful.”

  “Like I said, no real skills. You figured me for working the dairy. Helping you out. For the rest of my life or until you marry me off.”

  “Shana, it’s not like that. You can be whatever you want to be, but I know that college isn’t for everybody—hell, I didn’t do what anyone would consider proper college, I just did two years of ag school. That doesn’t mean you’re not special. It doesn’t mean you can’t do what you want.”
>
  “I’m eighteen in a month. And what I want is to go with her. You can’t really stop me. I’d rather you help me.”

  It was like watching something high up on a shelf that you knew was going to fall but you were powerless to stop it—it was gonna tumble and it was probably gonna shatter. Her father fell to his knees. His hands went out and clasped hers. Dad wept. He wept like something broke inside him and spilled out.

  He cried like Nessie cried that day in the Granger bus stop.

  Shana had never seen him cry, not like this. When one of their animals died—one of the cows or the goats or those kittens he found in the barn—his eyes glazed over with the threat of tears, but not once did she see them spill over. He didn’t cry when their mother left. But this was him wracked with hitching, shuddering sobs.

  It made her feel like an asshole, because she stood there, and him crying so bad only made her tears dry up. She felt bad for him. And bad in a pity way, bad in a judgy way. Like part of her didn’t want to see her father like this. She just wanted him to be strong and stoic.

  That made her the worse person, not him. She knew that.

  “Dad, I should get going.”

  “You can’t walk with them forever.”

  “Maybe. I dunno. We’ll see. I…need some things if you’d be willing to get them for me.”

  He stood up, nodding. Wiping his cheeks with the backs of his hands. “Tell me what you need and I’ll bring it.”

  She told him. He left. Shana walked through the dark toward the walkers, listening to the crickets and the wind. A helicopter roared overhead, the rotors chopping the air.

  Eventually, headlights bathed her anew. It was her father in his pickup as he caught back up with her, bringing the things she’d asked for: her iPhone, some food, some money, a few bottles of water, a couple changes of clothes. All in her old ratty-ass blue school backpack, which attached neatly to the roll-up sleeping bag he also brought. She asked him for one last thing:

  A ride to get her closer to Nessie.

  He obliged.

  That’s some al-Qaeda ISIS shit right there

  We are straight-up under attack

  @freedomfries11 replying to @steviemifflin

  JUNE 3

  The CDC, Atlanta, Georgia

  THEY SAT IN SADIE’S OFFICE and rewatched the video.

  Then, forwarding through it, Benji paused it as the cop was just starting to drag the man toward the car—the camera found and focused on a storefront sign:

  MAKER’S BELL ANTIQUES EMPORIUM.

  “Whatever this is,” Benji said, “it’s already happening.”

  “Black Swan knew.”

  “It knew something. But what this is…” The words turned to ash in his mouth. He struggled to make sense of it. “I have no idea.”

  “You want some tea?”

  “I want something much harder than tea.”

  “Ah.” Sadie hopped up and went around to her side of the desk. She slid open a drawer and returned with two little mini bottles of blanco tequila. Don Julio. “I don’t have limes or salt or any of that, I’m afraid.”

  “Little bottles of tequila? You have a whole mini bar over there?”

  She nodded “I do. Want something different? Whenever I’m on a company-funded trip, I tend to pluck them from the hotel room like a thief stealing apples from the king’s orchard. I’ve got gin, vodka, brandy—no whiskey, though.” She lowered her voice as if someone might be listening: “I drank all of that already.”

  “You have stressful days, too, eh?”

  “Of course. This is the CDC.”

  “We have to tell Loretta.”

  “Now?”

  “She’ll still be here. She rarely goes home early.” Loretta Shustack dug herself in like a fox in a hole when there was work to be done—and here, there was always work to be done. “She won’t want to see me. But this…I have no way to explain this. She needs to know.”

  “Then we are off to see the wizard, aren’t we?”

  * * *

  —

  THE WOMAN WAS small, but as stoic and stalwart as any: The Immovable Object earned her nickname with both her stubborn, unyielding ethics and the fact that she was a red belt in judo. Shustack came out of EIS, same as Benji did, then did time with the Emerging Infections Program, with a strong concentration in helping prevent and cure newborn infections. As deputy director, she was far more hands-on than the current director, Sarah Monroe.

  He and Sadie entered her office. Deputy Director Shustack was in the midst of stapling forms to other forms—and when she saw him step in through her door, her hand curled tighter around the office implement.

  “Deputy Director,” he said. “Loretta. Hello.”

  “Doctor Ray.” Her eyes met his and did not swerve. Nor did she let go of the stapler. Her knuckles grew bloodless. “This is a surprise.”

  The thought crossed his mind: She’s going to kill me with that stapler.

  “I imagine it must be. Do you know—”

  “Sadie Emeka,” Loretta said. “Of course.”

  Benji stammered: “You must be wondering—”

  “Is this about Maker’s Bell?” Loretta asked.

  Sadie and Benji shared a look.

  “It…is.”

  “We are aware of the situation, and an investigation is in process.”

  In her voice, a message clear as the tolling of a church bell: Thank you, it’s under control, you may go.

  Benji gave a short nod, then turned to leave—

  But then, he spun back around. “I’d like to go. To be a part of the investigation.” Whatever was going on there was maybe nothing, maybe it wasn’t a disease at all—God, he hoped it wasn’t—but whatever it was chewed at him, like an itch he couldn’t reach to scratch.. “I can be a valuable asset to EIS—”

  “Sadie,” Loretta said, her voice as firm as her grip on that stapler. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  On the way out, she gave Benji the smallest touch—a gentle brush of a hand against his shoulder. It afforded him sudden and surprising comfort.

  With Sadie gone, Loretta let loose.

  “You’re not EIS anymore. You’re not CDC. You were let go for reasons of which I assume you remain wholly aware.” Loretta leaned forward, softening her voice. She eased the stapler down on a stack of papers and made a visible effort to compose herself. “Benji, I understand your interest here. I do. I admire your curiosity and your tenacity, and whatever it is that brought you to my office today, I appreciate it. But I want you to understand that after Longacre, you would compromise the integrity of any investigation. After the lawsuits, the media, the endless accountability meetings…I can’t do it. I like you. You were one of our best and I have little doubt you’d give this case the best of your mind. But I don’t trust you.”

  He felt gutted. A doll slashed with scissors, its stuffing pulled inside out. The loss of trust from someone so trustworthy…

  But he understood, too. So he forced a stiff smile and said, “Of course, Loretta. Do you mind if I ask who you have there?”

  “We have Robbie Taylor there with ORT, and Martin is heading up the EIS investigation.”

  He nodded. ORT and EIS worked best when they were hand in hand. ORT was Outbreak Response Team. That meant Robbie and his team went onsite. Their mission was to control, contain, and ideally eliminate the disease. Benji, though, had been EIS: Epidemic Intelligence Service. He led a team—once upon a time, at least—of so-called disease detectives who looked not just for diseases before they ran through the population like wildfire, but also for new disease vectors: zoonotic jumps, undiscovered fungal activity, new bacteria, new viruses, prion diseases, and so forth.

  Martin Vargas was a protégé of his, and Robbie
was an old friend.

  They were good people. Benji took it as a sign that things were well and truly in hand. They did not need him.

  That gutted him most of all.

  He thanked Loretta for her time. Apologized for interrupting. And with that, Benji left her office.

  * * *

  —

  OUTSIDE, EVENING HAD crept in. The air was finally cooling down as a breeze blew in from the north. The city lights were coming on as the blue-black bruise-dark sky settled in.

  Sadie stood next to him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You know. For dragging you into all this. Into all of that.” She gesticulated toward the CDC building and made a sour face.

  “Yeah. Yes. Same.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Thank you. I just have to let it go. This isn’t my job here anymore. Whatever’s happening in Maker’s Bell is…not my responsibility.”

  “And yet you want to know.”

  He laughed, though it was a bitter sound. “Of course I do! It’s maddening. I don’t know if it’s that I feel I could really make a difference or…just that I blew the chance to.” Benji made a guttural, frustrated sound: the bleat of a weary beast. “God, I’m tired.”

  “Do you have any luck sleeping on planes?”

  “Sadly, not so much—”

  He looked down, saw that she was waggling something in front of him. Two pieces of paper. Airline tickets.

  ATL to ABE.

  Atlanta to Allentown-Bethlehem airport.

  “Sadie, what have you done?”

  “I hereby christen you an employee of Benex-Voyager. Let’s make up a job title here, mmm, let’s see—machine intelligence and neural network beta-tester, mmm, level three. No! Level four, sounds better, but not as egotistical as level five. Good thing your bags weren’t unpacked, because our flight is in…” She reeled the tickets back and gave them a look. “Three hours. Better get a move on, then.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “When did you buy these? And print these?”

  “Oh, I didn’t. Black Swan did. An hour before I came to your house.”

  “And Black Swan knew I’d come along?”