Dixon shook his head. “Good thing he’s sleeping, isn’t it?”
It was Blake’s turn to shake his head. Thompson agreed.
“I’ll meet you at Camp Vix and give you my answer there,” said Thompson. He and Blake shook hands before he left.
When he had gone, Blake decided to try one last time. Dixon was a decent man. The times had changed us all, but he would be reasonable and see the folly in what they were doing. “Dix—”
The man held up his hand to stop him. He moved within Blake’s personal space to make his point clear. “I’m staying. This is survival, man. Give up those ridiculous notions and stay. This is not you, this is Croft. He is the only man who could spin a lie well enough for you to swallow. Stay Blake, stay and live!”
Blake turned trembling lips to his friend. A tear filled his eye. Whether for him or his friend, he didn’t know. One of them would be dead, somehow, someway, he knew it. “Lance,” he pleaded.
It was too late. Both had made up their minds and neither would change. All that remained was for them to hug and start the journey. He had packed his meager belongings earlier and had them at the door. Doctor Dixon walked him to the outer door of the hospital. Blake picked up his bag and slung it across his shoulder. He embraced again and together, they walked out.
Across the hospital stood more buildings. They walked down the road two blocks to their destination. After a block, Blake looked up and saw the tall wall. At its top were patrolling guards with M16 weapons. At eye level he saw armed guards on both sides of the road leading to a massive entrance gate. As he approached, all guards stood rigid, saluting. It warmed his heart and brought ambivalence about leaving.
Glancing at the wall, Blake’s thoughts went to prison, so many of his people inhabiting such walls. Did any of them make it out alive? He wondered. He scratched his bald head then moved forward.
Ahead, a man shouted from inside a small guard shack at the wall’s base. Heavy doors creaked open to the outside world. Though they breathed the same air, as the doors widened to the outside, Blake inhaled the air with revulsion. The stench that rode upon it made him gag to near vomit. How could he voluntarily go into it? He hesitated a moment, then moved forward. He gave a small nod in reverence to each side as he passed through their line. When he neared the guard shack, he stopped.
Doors to an armored truck flew open and he saw the soldiers within. Blake gave a slight bow after they filed-out in formation. They saluted the good doctor, he returned their high praise. These were all handpicked men who swore allegiance to Blake, Croft, and the children.
“We are honored, sir.” Their leader motioned for him to take a seat within.
Blake turned to his wayward friend. “Dix, come with me. You will lose your soul if you stay.”
Dixon shook his head, not wanting to meet his friend’s eyes. “I’ve already lost my soul, old friend. I don’t believe your plan will work the way they intend.” He held up his hands to ease Blake’s fears. “I won’t say anything. You have your chance and I hope it works. I just don’t believe that it will. Good luck, old friend.” They embraced and then Doctor Dixon turned and began his walk back to the hospital.
Blake stood and watched him for a moment then turned. Instead of getting in the truck with the soldiers, he motioned to the bus and walked to the side of the truck and went aboard the bus. His heart soared. On board were children of various ages, backgrounds, and sizes. The plan will work, he thought, it will.
“Good morning, children.”
“Good morning, Doctor Blake.”
Bright smiles can warm a damned soul. Blake hoped his will stay warm until the day he died.
“Give me a minute and then I have something for you.”
The caravan took off and as he sat and watched, he saw the large doors swing shut with their eerie sound. He had done it. He had left the safety of the Wyoming Free Zone on a journey that would take him into the heart of America. There would be few people along the route, but flesh-eating monsters who would love to devour the helpless children, they will be plentiful. He sat back to think. First they would go to the edge of the state and no man’s land, then they would need every soldier in the armored truck at their best. All had sworn to protect the precious cargo on board and soon they would be put to the test.
Blake pulled a book from his backpack. The journey would be long, a little reading could occupy a great deal of time. “Gather around children, I have a story you are going to love.” After they sat and eagerly waited, he swore to himself he would give his life ten times over for their safety. He began reading.
* * *
Blake had one of the few satellite phones in operation. Its soft vibration woke him. He looked at the sleeping children before answering. Softly he spoke into the receiver. “Yes?”
“John Henry?”
“Cora?”
“John, I wish you were here.”
“Me, too, love.”
“Something is going on up front.”
He sat straighter, the hairs at the back of his neck tingled. His wife was prone to exaggeration. This time, there was urgency in her tone. “What is happening?” Whimpering came from the phone. Was she crying? From the pit of his stomach came an unbearable pain. “Cora? Love? Talk to me. Talk to me!”
He listened on the verge of hysteria. The children were there and he couldn’t get louder. They needed their rest. If only he could be alone for a few minutes. He listened intently, his leg shaking.
“Something is wrong up front,” she whispered.
“The pilot?” his mind raced. Sweat flowed down his face. He gripped his leg to stop the tapping.
“This is the Captain speaking,” said a voice that came over the phone. It must be the intercom. They should be on the plane somewhere over the center of the country. “Please stay in your seats and follow the directions of your flight attendants.”
“Oh god!” they were in the air and something was wrong. Blake heard the shaking in the man’s voice.
“Remain in your seats until further notice, Captain out.”
“Cora?” his voice rose above a whisper. “Cora!”
“There’s a man a few seats in front of us,” Cora said. “I think he is turning.”
“What?”
“Men are holding him down. I think he is turning. What can I do?”
“Oh god, no. Please god, no! Not my family, please. Not my family.”
Blake held the phone so close to his ear that with a shove, it could go through to the other side. He heard strange noises. Could they be zombie howls? He thought of all the people he witnessed going through the change and he compared the god-awful sounds they made to these. Could it be true? My god! It might be true.
“Help!”
“Cora Mae!” he jumped to his feet, not caring how loud he was. “Cora!” he listened.
Dozens of screams came through the phone. The sounds chilled him to the bone. He had his proof. His family was on board an airplane, trapped thousands of feet off the ground with a zombie. Not just any zombie, a new strong zombie.
Blake felt helpless. He wanted to scream from the top of his lungs. He frantically looked about. He saw two guards at the front of the bus and dozens of sleeping children between them. A guard looked at him. The guards hand instinctively lowered to his side arm. Blake held up his hand, then sat, trying to remain calm. His family was in mortal danger and if he displayed odd behavior, he would be as well. He kept the phone pressed to his ear listening.
“Lord God, please help them.”
Blake waited.
New sounds emerged. Sounds twice as gruesome as before. Were there more zombies now? Panic seized him as he heard his wife’s scream. Seconds later, he heard the distinctive screams of his three daughters. Last, he heard the scream of his only son, John Henry. Blake shook. He broke out in a cold sweat and began licking his lips, waiting for more sounds to complete the picture. If only he had not gone to Wyoming so early, he would be with them now. He was
a father and husband, a protector. All he could do was hang his head in shame and helplessly listened to the sounds that inflamed his ears. He listened more closely, unable to put the phone down. He didn’t want to hear their screams, but couldn’t turn away. His breathing grew shallow, intently listening. He gasped, reminding his body to breathe.
Scream after scream came through to him. He heard his wife screaming for them to stay back. He knew in his heart she was somewhere in a corner, clutching her four children to her breast, defending them with her last breath. He closed his eyes to keep back the tears. “God, please, please!” he softly moaned.
“We’re going down!” said a voice from the intercom. Blake sat straighter, listening, eyes wide.
“We’re going down! Brace yourselves! Brace yourselves!”
Blake kept listening, unable to distinguish human screams from zombie screams. It seems every soul living and dead was screaming as one collective voice. The screams grew louder and louder. Then, he heard a loud bang, then silence. Blake hung his head, clutching the phone to his chest. In the back of the bus, with no one able to see, he curled into a ball.
“They won’t become zombies. They won’t become zombies.”
Blake repeated the phrase, trying to give himself peace. Silently, he remained in fetal position, mourning the loss of his family.
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Rebirth
Fierce fighting broke out on the eighteenth floor of a Los Angeles high-rise complex. A tall black man rushed down the hall with machete in hand. A mixture of red and green blood flowed across his white long-sleeve shirt and blue jean pants.
Ahead, three zombies were banging at the door to apartment 1805. Frantic screams from the other side of the door were hard to separate from the zombie howls. Only the man could distinguish the two. His wife, daughter, and sons were on the other side. They were screaming.
Propelled by fear, he gave a yell and slashed into the back of the first zombie. It fell. He gave a second slash to take off its head before the others could react. He managed to slice the others and watch them fall at his feet. He knew he should stop and see about his family, but in frenzy, he continued slashing at the bodies at his feet. They had come after his family and no one comes after his family and lives.
It took time to gain control and restrain himself. He constantly heard the cries for help on the other side of the door. When he finally managed to stop his vicious hacking, he was out of breath and bent to breathe easier. He then knocked on the door. “Mirinda? Miri? It’s me, open up.”
“Franklin?” the voice held a note of worry and confusion.
“It’s me, baby, everything is all right. Open up and let me in.”
“No, no, no!” a young voice from the other side exclaimed.
Franklin assumed his wife went to open the door but was met with resistance. He was happy, that was the voice of his wise daughter, Hanya. She and her older brother, Jamar, were the stars of their small family. The brightest and most inquisitive.
“Hanya, baby. Can you hear me?”
“I hear you, Daddy.”
“Baby, I’m going to slide my machete through the mail slot in the door. After you have it, hold it to the door, and then let me in. If I appear infected, you know what to do.”
“No, Franklin!” Mirinda chastised.
Franklin ignored her and slid the heavy blade through. He listened for it hitting the floor. No sound came. Hanya must have grabbed it. He stood in front of the door, staring at the apartment numbers. When ready, he moved his hand to knock, then stopped. His eyes wandered down to his feet and the chopped up zombie bits. Kicking them to each side, away from the door opening, he was satisfied enough to tap on the door in their unique rhythmic fashion.
Two small clicks were heard. After a third, the door opened a fraction. A brown eye stared at him. He held up his hands to prove he held no weapon. He smiled, reassuringly. The door closed before opening wider to give him entrance.
“I’m okay, baby.” Franklin held his hands high. His eldest son held a revolver, while his daughter held the steel blade high, a look of determination on both teenage faces.
“Put those down,” said Mirinda to her children. “Frankie!”
Mirinda rushed past her skeptical daughter into the arms of her husband. She sobbed as she kissed him. The filthiness he and the others saw was lost on his dear wife. He looked a mess and he knew it. His wild bashing of the zombies wasn’t necessary. It made him look like a zombie. The others stayed clear of him. Franklin broke his wife’s embrace. He caressed her face and gave her a loving kiss. Then he turned to his children.
“I’m okay,” he repeated to them. The older son, Jamar, fifteen, didn’t move. The young son, Yileen, was eight. Yileen’s eyes took in the full view of his father. After some apprehensive gestures, he moved with caution. His mother rubbed her hand across his head. Tears began streaming down his indecisive face. With her touch as encouragement, he leaped into his father’s arms. The youngest boy would abandon all doubt, but the others would not. Jamar maintained his aim and Hanya held her blade high with tension. Franklin smiled at each, then turned to his wife while hugging his crying son. “Bring me a wet towel, please.”
She instantly left to carry out the task. Freeing himself of his son, Franklin stood before his skeptical children. Smiles will not deter them, he had to show them he was fine.
They were a decent family, people who took in strangers without question. One incident, a month back had changed their policy. A loving couple with their newborn spent the night with them. The couple had crashed their car and was on the run from zombies. They managed to flee the horde after the brave father killed two with a baseball bat. He and his family showed up with blood covering their clothes and a new Louisville slugger. They told their story and seemed normal. By morning, chaos spread through the small apartment. The woman had eaten her child in the night and chased her husband into young Hanya’s room, waking the teen. Her father came to the rescue and killed the woman, but the man had been bitten in the process and had to be put down as well. Since then, they never take in strangers and are weary of anyone with green blood on their clothes.
Franklin unbuttoned his shirt. He couldn’t believe how it stuck to his skin as he removed it and let it drop to the floor. Though he wasn’t afraid, he never broke eye contact with his daughter who remained as rigid as ever. Jamar had relented and come in closer, wanting his father to be okay, needing his father to be okay.
Mirinda returned with towels. The first was wet; she gave it to her husband and watched as he washed his chest. She then took a dry towel and cleaned him as best she could, while Jamar continued the wiping on his father’s back with the first towel.
The man turned from side to side when they had finished.
“See, Han, Daddy is okay,” said young Yileen.
Hanya lowered her blade. She walked into his outstretched arms and they shared a group hug.
“Is everyone packed?” asked Franklin.
“Yes,” they said.
“We have to leave now. The caravan will pull out shortly and zombies are blocking our path. Get your packs and weapons. We have no choice but to go.”
“We’re not supposed to leave until nightfall,” said Mirinda, looking uneasy over the change in plans.
Franklin fixed his gaze on her. His look was stern. Only she would understand his next words. “We lost the elevator, Miri.”
The words knocked the wind out of her. “H-H-How is that possible?”
She sat to keep from falling. He found the words stinging himself and sat. They had chosen a high floor for safety. Zombies swept through the area days after their arrival, turning them into live-in hostages. With great coordination and effort, the tenants banded together to vacate lower floors and disable five of the six elevators. The single elevator was used by an armed team that kept the higher floors secure.
Riding with armed guards provided peace of mind. A grocery store across the street provided plenty of food.
With a timed run from building to building, the tenants flourished in their captivity. Now, a caravan was being assembled to take survivors to Camp Vix, a military haven. All abled body men were given weapons and would provide cover to see the caravan off. Franklin had secured passage for his family and needed to get there by a certain time or they would be left among the marauding flesh-eaters.
The way would be difficult without the elevator.
“That’s where I came from. Jamie and Stan, Paul and John, Felicia and Connie, all are dead.”
“Amaroo?” she asked.
There was a tremble to her bottom lip. Amaroo was their fifth-floor comrade who traveled with them from Canada. Franklin knew she would find the news hard to accept. She would hold out hope until the end. He would be patient. “Dead.”
“Grey Wolf?”
“Dead.”
He knew she was searching her memory for those on their floor, surely some of them would have survived. “Balun,” she said at near whisper level.
“Dead, all dead.”
“Even, Babber?”
Franklin swallowed the hard lump at his throat. Hanya brought him a new shirt. “Thank you, baby.” He turned back to his wife. “Babber was pulled from the elevator by so many zombies, I couldn’t count them all. I came up the stairs from the tenth floor. Zombies have the elevator and are getting off at different floors. It is only by chance more of them haven’t arrived.” Perhaps the extra information would drive the point home. He had hesitated because of the children, but time was short.
The children stood by the door wearing backpacks and holding small handguns their father had given them. His wife was lost, reeling from the new information. “We have to go, Miri. Now!”
He gently coaxed her to her feet. Retrieving his machete, he took a deep breath, preparing to open the door. “Oh god! Wait!” fear enveloped him.
“What?” asked his wife.
“My papers, where are they?” he frantically looked around. Then, his wife handed him some papers she had in her pocket. “Thanks, baby. I can’t lose these.”
“I know,” she said.
Zombie Invasion Page 23
