This Plague of Days, Season Two (The Zombie Apocalypse Serial)

by Robert Chazz Chute

  Jaimie did not understand what his father meant by poetic justice. The closest he could come was an obsession with symmetry. Perhaps he’d have to read more poetry before he could understand.

  In the symphony of anger, hunger and anguish rising behind him in a tower of pain, Jaimie heard it: Vox populi vox Dei. The voice of the people is the voice of God. The Latin expression was a simple political sentiment, but Jaimie had a new interpretation now. Amid merciless screams, God is Rage.

  Jaimie ran to the van and lay in his seat with his head in his father’s lap. The boy pressed his palms against his ears hard. The pressure caused pain, but he needed silence before he could find solace. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for fear and exhaustion to blur into sleep. The lieutenant from Kansas City was chasing them and now Wiggins and his starving army would chase them, too.

  Starving for protein, Anna had said. His family was made of protein.

  If the screams were the voice of God, then the infected were His instruments, a host of angels. People misunderstood or had forgotten what angels were for. Host meant army. People spoke of kind and generous guardian angels, but tonight, white-eyed warriors born in blood emerged into a new world of pain. These angels came to conquer.

  Mrs. Bendham sat in the back of the van, screaming questions but the Spencers ignored her.

  Jaimie wanted to tell his mother to push the accelerator harder, but she was doing the best she could, weaving her way among abandoned cars.

  Sleep was where the boy had to retreat, but even sleep wasn’t the escape it had once been. Jaimie saw things in dreams he could not look away from.

  In the Bible, his mother had taught him that Cain was exiled to the Land of Nod after slaying his brother Abel. Just as they had forgotten the nature of angels, people equated the Land of Nod with sleep.

  Since the fall of mankind, Jaimie could feel new forces rising, even in his deepest sleep. The old meanings of host and angel and Nod were making their way back into this new world. An ancient magic, rumoured only in legends and campfire stories, was seeping back, returning and growing stronger with each blood sacrifice.

  The boy had not dreamed before the plague, but now, sometimes, he glimpsed people on a journey to meet him: A man in a white shirt; a man in a dark uniform; a black woman; and a thin, brown man. The two little girls with them brought Hope and Long Life.

  He worried about the children. Monsters chased them, too.

  TODAY’S SOLUTIONS ARE TOMORROW’S TANGLES

  Cold wind pushed and pulled Lijon as she limped to the rail. She searched the gray skies over Reykjavik harbor. Lijon startled when Shiva, wrapped in a heavy coat, appeared at her elbow.

  Shiva gave her subordinate a broad, ruby-lipped smile. “Is the pain bad today?”

  Lijon pulled her long hair back from her face, smiled coyly and shook her head. “I try to walk normally so no one sees — ”

  “But you thought you were alone. You thought there was no one to see.”

  Lijon took a moment to answer. “If I don’t try to walk normally, it hurts my leg. If I walk with a limp too long, the pain moves up my back.”

  “And the tyrosine kinase inhibitor you take? You have a good supply stockpiled?”

  “When those medications are gone, I’ll switch to painkillers.”

  “Desmoid tumors are so rare. I’m sorry we can’t guarantee a steady supply of the best drugs for your condition.”

  “I’m only one person, Dear Sister. I’m sure among the survivors there are many diabetics passing away because of degraded insulin.” The sun broke through the cloud cover briefly and Lijon looked up, her fingers drumming the rail.

  “An admirable attitude. But, I wonder…you say you are willing to sacrifice, but still you search the sky. Modern missiles make no sound before they strike. A missile with active radar and internal guidance systems sniffs out its target by a combination of calculating heading and the size and shape of the ship. It doesn’t matter how the ship is painted.”

  “I know, but I wonder if we’d given Captain Price an alternative route — ”

  “If the ship travels outside standard shipping lanes trying to hide, it would only be easier to detect.”

  “Surely — ”

  “Sister, we’ve considered all the options. That’s another reason we’ll win. Our enemies can only react in the moment. We act from years of planning.”

  “Of course,” Lijon said. Still, she clung to the rail and watched sheets of altocumulus clouds shift to dim the sun again.

  “Internal guidance does not rely on external information so their missiles are immune to jamming and deception. The enemy programs the missile’s computer based on the ship’s course and speed before launch. Its onboard instruments can approximate the ships predicted location with accelerometers and gyros. There was no other way.”

  “I know you’re right, Dear Sister. After years of telling our families we were going to the movies, going on dates, at school…living double lives…” Lijon shrugged helplessly.

  Shiva put an arm around her and squeezed. “I know. It’s hard to believe the revolution is finally here. Tell me, Lijon. What will you miss?”

  Lijon looked away, unsure if this was a test, a trap or an honest question. She answered honestly, “Vanilla bean lattes. Awfully bourgeois and shallow of me, isn’t it? My coffee wasn’t always fair trade, but to fit in and keep my cover — ”

  Shiva let go of Lijon and rolled her eyes. “You are not going to tell me that drinking vanilla bean lattes was part of your cover. You aren’t seriously telling me that!”

  “No, Dear Sister. It was more…like a last chance treat before going on a diet that will never end.”

  “Focus on the future, Sister. Remember why?”

  “Because we’re building it.”

  “And making history.”

  “And making history.”

  From the rail of the Mars, the luxury cruise ship, Lijon and Shiva had an excellent view of the Gaian Commander as it pulled away from Reykjavik harbor at full speed.

  Flash.

  The missile hit the Gaian Commander at the water line amidships. The container ship was far enough offshore that there was a brief pause as the sound of the explosion raced to catch up with the white light.

  Icelanders ran to the shore, pointing and shouting. Some leaped into small fishing boats to motor out to the wreck, but her back was broken and the destruction throughout the hull was so complete, the ocean swallowed the container ship before any survivors among the skeleton crew could man the lifeboats.

  “Exocet, do you think?” Shiva mused.

  “I don’t know much about missiles,” Lijon said, her eyes fixed on the sea. “I’m merely your deck officer, Dear Sister. Shipping and unshipping. Dunnage and stowage.”

  “You know you’re more than that. Did you experience any difficulties moving our guests from the Gaian Commander to the Mars?”

  It was Stanhope who gave the guards the most trouble. When they unlocked the cabin door, the former oil exec was picking at the meat between the toes of a foot still wrapped in the knit of a blood-drenched baby booty. He was feverish and dangerous — especially to anyone not inoculated against the virus he carried — but his athleticism was still that of an over-privileged middle-aged man who sat behind a desk most of the time.

  Lijon had supervised his capture personally. It was she who thought to use loops on the ends of poles to slip around the necks of the infected.

  “Simple animal control,” Lijon said. She reported to Shiva only what her leader wanted to hear. “We got the piggy aboard the Mars, secure and out of sight before we moved the rest. Once we use the zombie to infect the others, a few poles, leather straps and ball gags won’t be sufficient.”

  “When they are infected, they won’t be our problem anymore. They’re our solution. As soon as we get to New York, find me another boat for you, me and the remaining crew.”

  Lijon frowned as the froth and bubbles stopped. The Atlantic
’s waves erased almost all trace of the Gaian Commander. Some floating debris and an oil slick remained, but that was all. “I hope Captain Price and his crew did not suffer.”

  “I will be sure to record their sacrifice for the cause.”

  “I don’t think they did it for the cause, Dear Sister.”

  Shiva turned to Lijon and studied her face as the last of the smoke from the explosion rose to mix with clouds. “Tell me what you mean.”

  “Captain Price knew he would never see the future we will build. When this is done, his role will be a footnote in history known only to a few. I think he was very brave and pure. He sacrificed himself, his ship and crew for Mother Earth.”

  “And so far you have sacrificed vanilla bean lattes. How does that make you feel, Lijon?”

  “I will sacrifice more.”

  “For Mother Earth?”

  “For you, Dear Sister.”

  Shiva smiled. “Lijon, when we’re a day from New York, put the piggy together with the rest of the herd. When we arrive, I want the army famished. Have you chosen a vessel for the surprise package for our pursuers?”

  Lijon nodded solemnly. “Yes, Dear Sister. This one was a banker. We made her stick her bare hand in Stanhope’s cage. No matter how much he feeds, he still lunged at the chance.” Lijon checked the timer on her iPhone. “He bit her about an hour ago.”

  “Piggies will be piggies. They just can’t stop eating!” Shiva patted Lijon’s arm, her hand hot on goose-bumped skin. “Excellent work, Sister! This is going to be delicious.”

  Shiva’s smile curdled. She put a hand to her temple and her chin dropped to her chest as she clung to the rail to keep from collapsing to the deck.

  Lijon rushed forward and seized Shiva under the armpits. “Is it the baby?”

  “She’s kicking but…” The woman in red shook her head. “Lijon, carry out the attack on New York if I cannot.”

  “But what’s wrong?”

  “Something…I don’t know. I can’t believe it. This shouldn’t be happening. I have a fever.”

  THE WEBS WE WEAVE ARE DECEITS WE CAN’T HANDLE

  As the Spencers drove into daylight, more people appeared on both sides of the highway. They walked slowly, heads down. The refugees hiked single file. Jaimie slumped in his seat beside his father. Watching the hikers, the boy thought of baby ducks. However, the line was so long, he couldn’t pick out one leader. Nowhere did the refugees draw together, as if they knew the safe minimum distance to avoid contagion.

  Anna called to a few through a thinly cracked window. No one knew about the attack at the Speedway. “They turned us away from there yesterday,” an old black woman called back. “Said they were full up. Told us to keep moving.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Keep moving.”

  More worrying, some people faced them, travelling west, not east.

  “Don’t go toward Indianapolis!” Anna warned. The refugees waved her off or cursed her, even when she said danger waited there.

  “Give it up,” Mrs. Bendham said. “I waited so long for you people my butt got sore and my back hurts. Then you show up in the middle of the night screaming bloody murder.”

  “We could tell them about the man,” Anna said.

  Jack gripped the wheel hard. “That was no man. I don’t know what that was.”

  A vice tightened around Jaimie’s forehead. He surrendered to his headache and lay with his head in his father’s lap again, eyes closed. Theo performed a bedtime ritual that had always calmed Jaimie. With a touch as light as could be, Theo placed the tip of one index finger above the bridge of Jaimie’s nose, between his eyes. In the slightest of motions, Theo moved in a tight circle, counterclockwise.

  When Jaimie was agitated from a day of overstimulation (and especially when he was a young child, Jaimie was always overstimulated), he asked for this treatment with the whispered word “glabella.”

  Theo had forgotten how he’d discovered this technique settled his son. He didn’t realize Jaimie wanted him to repeat it until he looked up the word.

  “The name for the space between the eyes is the glabella!” Theo told Jack one night, triumphant but guilty he hadn’t understood sooner. “He’s been asking me to do that thing with his forehead so he can sleep!”

  Theo had happened upon the entry in Jaimie’s own dictionary. Glabella was surrounded with a perfect circle in purple crayon. Jaimie was four.

  Behind the glabella is the pineal gland, Jaimie thought. The energy there is the third eye. When that energy is balanced, its color is violaceous. He’d tried to tell his father what he needed. The crayon box didn’t have violaceous, so he’d had to make do with a simple purple. Still, his parents had not understood what he needed for twenty-three days.

  With the glabella trick, Jaimie could feel calm. He needed that. However, his sister and Mrs. Bendham would not shut up.

  “I heard the screams,” Mrs. Bendham said. “I believe you about the man, but these people won’t.”

  Anna turned in her seat to look at the old woman. “What do you suggest we do?”

  “Hit the gas. Whatever happened at the Speedway, I want miles between us and it.”

  Two old, frizzy–haired women, each wearing a bright orange backpack, claimed the pavement by the shoulder heading west. Jack had to slow to a crawl to avoid hitting them. They walked as if concentrating on each step. Clearly exhausted, the women walked on the road rather than challenge the soft, rain-soaked field beyond the ditch.

  “Shall I try again, Mom?”

  “Just roll your window down a bit, Anna.”

  Jack stopped and Anna waved to the women while she held a mask to her face with one hand. “Hello! What’s going on up ahead, ladies?”

  Only one of the women looked up, her face a deeply-lined topography. “Detour for cars,” she croaked. “They’re telling people to turn back.”

  “Who’s they?” Jack called.

  “Who do you think? The military. You’d think they’d have something better to do.”

  “We’re headed east,” Anna said.

  “Not in your vehicle you’re not,” the other woman spoke, still not looking up, her words slurred and garbled.

  “People who’re walking are turning back for a bit, but the block is only across the road. We’re going to pick out a nice spot to rest, maybe have a nap in the back seat of an abandoned car if there’s no corpse already in there.”The old woman gestured to the double line of cars that stretched out before them. Both women tittered. Their climbing trills made them sound a little crazy and, despite their age, perhaps dangerous.

  Jack made a split-second decision. “We’re headed east. I think we’ll get through the checkpoint. Those guys must not know what’s behind us. No one should be heading toward Indianapolis. There was a riot there last night. You ladies want a ride?”

  Mrs. Bendham cursed quietly from the back of the van.

  The old women looked at each other, their hats touching as they quickly debated. The one who had been staring at the ground pushed her hat back and gave Jack a gummy smile through the windshield.

  “No, thanks!” she said cheerfully.

  “We’re headed to Milton, to the south beyond the barricade” the first woman said. “That’s where my son lives. We’ve been walking the last few days. We’ve had a few rides here and there from nice folks like you, but if you’re headed east, you’ll have to get out and start walking once you get up here a piece. It’s either that or double back.”

  “We’ve heard things. These barricades started out as checkpoints and detours,” the other woman said. “Now they’re excuses to take your stuff. ‘Supply tax,’ they call it. You can avoid the barricades if you take small, secondary roads, I think, but you’ll keep getting pushed north. East is a problem, at least in a vehicle.”

  “We’re going to wait for dark and then make our way across,” the toothless woman said. “I think we’ll end up walking cross country
and get off the roads entirely, if we can face the fields and woods.”

  The other woman gave her a shut-up nudge but the toothless woman shrugged, smiled wider and looked to Anna. “Those young men — I won’t call them soldiers — they look awfully serious and surly.”

  “Impressed with themselves!” the other one said.

  “They’re all about their guns!” the second said, spitting thickly on the last s. The women tittered again and their heads drew together as if to share the strength of their laughter.

  They waved and chorused “Good luck!” as they continued down the road along the edge of the wet, black macadam.

  “What were you thinking?” Mrs. Bendham said. “I know you want to add to the tribe, Jacqueline, but for God’s sake, how are a couple old ladies going to help us?”

  Jack glanced back at Mrs. Bendham in her rear-view mirror, looking at the old woman for the first time since they’d pulled on the highway. Jack told herself she didn’t want to see if anything was gaining on them. She’d fought that fear all night. The despair was bad in Brandy’s house. The fear was worse since Jaimie let that thing loose. It had been all she could do not to floor the accelerator pedal and keep it there.

  “I mean, really, what were you thinking?” Mrs. Bendham said again.

  Jack’s jaws clenched.

  Before she could answer, her daughter spoke for her, “It’s about numbers and trying to do the right thing, Mrs. Bendham. We took you in, didn’t we? How much more is that going to cost us, I wonder?”

  The way soon became narrow again as they entered another gauntlet of cars. Brake lights shone ahead of them. A white SUV pulled up tight behind them, blocking Jack from reversing her course. “I thought the barricade was farther up!”

  “Those two old women were walking, Jacqueline!” Mrs. Bendham said. “The line up to the barricade must have built up.”

  Theo continued making tiny, light circles on Jaimie’s forehead. “Millions dead and we still have traffic jams.”

  Anna leaned close to her mother’s ear and whispered, “Mrs. Bendham has one good point, Mom. Stop trying to save everyone and start thinking about people who can haul a heavy pack and shoot a gun. We don’t need to save another little old lady. We’d be better off finding able-bodied mechanics and carpenters, doctors and soldiers. Form a caravan. If we gathered people along the way, we’d have safety in numbers. Maybe by the time we get to Papa’s farm, we’ll have the basics for a real life.”