by Jeff Olah
Closing the gap with Griffin at his side, Ethan again shouted, “STOP RIGHT THERE! DON’T MAKE ME SHOOT YOU IN THE BACK!”
The man slowed to a stop, but didn’t turn. He stood at the center of the street, now closer to the SUV than to Ethan or Griffin. He stared off in another direction, more toward the gated community Ethan had exited only minutes before.
The man could easily cover the distance and empty his weapon into the SUV before either one of his pursuers could do anything to stop him. But did the man know Frank was sitting on the opposite side of the vehicle, hands wrapped tight around the rifle, or was he simply choosing to live?
Dropping back to the passenger door, Frank slowly tilted his head and looked inside. Good, they’d all slid down in their seats and Carly still appeared to be tending to Ben’s right arm. In the front seat, Cora turned to him and smiled. She stayed below the dash and moved over the center console and into the driver’s seat.
What was she doing? This thing was nearly over and by all accounts every last member of their small group would live to see another sunrise. He needed her to stay put, to not react to the events taking place out in the street. To slide down onto the floorboard and just hide. At least until this last situation was brought to a close.
Just another sixty seconds.
Frank gently rapped on the passenger window with his knuckle and waited for Cora to notice. As she situated herself on the opposite side of the cab, still low in the driver’s seat, she finally turned to him. As she did, Frank quickly shook his head and pointed out into the street, hoping she’d see through the frosted windshield the man standing less than thirty yards away… but she didn’t.
Beginning to stand, Frank watched as Cora readied her pistol and reached for the door handle. What the hell was she doing? Had she mistaken his signal for something altogether different? Or was she simply under the impression that the standoff had concluded?
As Cora opened the driver’s door and stepped out, Frank turned and headed in the opposite direction. Moving faster than he thought possible, he rounded the front of the SUV and positioned himself between her and the man in the street.
Cora’s eyes widened, and a look of confusion washed over her face as Frank ran toward her. He opened his mouth to shout, only to have his words frozen before they crested his lips. His mouth still moved, but in slow motion, as if he were a humanoid whose program had been corrupted.
As Frank reached the driver’s side, his stride began to break down. He blinked slowly as his eyes drifted from Cora’s face, over her shoulder, and swept across the street leading to the gated community. He knew why the man had stopped in the middle of the street, and why he hadn’t come racing toward the SUV.
Back to Cora, a tear formed at the corner of his eye. There was nothing he could do; they were here. The horde from inside the gated community had had found their way out, and he was five seconds too late.
As she was grabbed from behind by the first Feeder, Frank mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
13
California Coastline - Day Seven…
The building was quiet. The only sounds came from the light tapping of rain on the outside of the massive window she sat behind. Staring out into the darkened world, Emma had a hard time imagining exactly how she’d gotten here and just how lucky she and the other four people currently residing in this building really were.
Just ball parking by what she’d encountered over the last several days, Emma estimated that seventy to ninety percent of the area, if not the entire country, were either dead or infected. She’d come across fewer survivors with each passing day, and although her perception was limited to the city below, she imagined the possibility that they were all alone. It was a bleak view of the future and one that, because her family was a thousand miles away, she was unwilling to accept.
Sliding her phone to the middle of the table, Emma gazed at the blacked out screen. She begged for it to come to life, for the ping of an incoming message, for a sign that her family was okay, for a hint of something other than what she’d dreamt about for the last several days, for anything at all. But mostly just for some hope.
Pulling it back, she powered on her phone, stared at the icon, and then moved to the messaging app. Nothing. No new messages, no indication that her mother, father, or brother had made it out of Colorado. She didn’t have much to hold on to, but just the possibility that she may one day see them again would assure that she continued fighting.
Closing the messaging app and moving her eyes to the upper right corner of the screen, Emma let out a slow breath and waited for the screen to go dark.
“Thirty-three percent.” Even though she was alone in the spacious third-floor lobby, she spoke quietly, attempting to calculate what that meant. How many times could she climb to the sixteenth floor and send another message before the nearby cell tower finally gave up? How long would she have the ability to charge her phone before that was no longer an option? She knew that one day soon her luck would run dry… she only prayed that she’d hear something from her family before that day arrived.
Holding her thumb down on the power button, she waited for her phone to shut down, before again laying it on the table. Sliding down into the leather-backed office chair, Emma placed her sock covered feet atop an oddly shaped end table and turned back to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the northern side of the city.
Her eyes traced the rooftops from one end of the ravaged city to the other. She quietly counted the random areas of illumination as she crisscrossed the bleak landscape from top to bottom and back again. Twenty-three. Nearly two dozen opportunities. Two dozen chances that there were others out there. That others were surviving. That somehow there was still hope for this world.
Closing her eyes and leaning her head back, Emma again pictured the forgotten city. This time, she imagined it as it had been two weeks ago. Midday, the sun sitting at its highest point in the sky, cascading down through the sparse cloud cover, and warming those who had no idea of what was coming.
She watched through her mind’s eye as men in three-piece suits, left the comfort of their air-conditioned offices, and marched to whatever emergency came next on their overcrowded schedules. The looks on their faces as they stared incessantly into their phones, checked their watches, and shook their heads. Mothers who pushed their children in brightly colored strollers on their way to a lazy afternoon at the beach. Young couples holding hands as they looked into each other’s eyes. Emma knew that these things, these simple everyday occurrences, were now gone forever, along with most everyone she’d ever met. Everyone she’d ever cared about and most likely… everyone she’d ever loved.
“Marcus Goodwin, what did we do?”
“What?”
Emma sat up straight and quickly opened her eyes. She smiled at his reflection, not quite sure how long he’d actually been there, listening.
“Not nice to sneak up on people, especially now.”
Tom rubbed his eyes, walked slowly in bare feet to the opposite side of the table, and sat down. He yawned, scratched his head, and smiled.
“Who’s Marcus Goodman?”
Emma turned to him and smiled. She paused a moment, attempting to determine exactly how much information she wanted to give a man she’d known less than twenty-four hours.
“Goodwin, his name is Marcus Goodwin.”
“And who’s Marcus Goodwin?”
Again she hesitated, this time maybe a bit too long. “He’s my—”
“I’m sorry,” Tom said interrupting. “I didn’t mean to pry. I mean if he was someone special, I’m sure it must be hard for you.”
Her smile grew and she nearly snorted as she began to quietly laugh. But since Tom had started down this road, she guessed that he hadn’t heard her entire statement.
“No, nothing like that.” Continuing to hold a wide grin, she continued, “Just some guy I used to work with.”
Matching her smile, Tom blinked twice and turned to look ou
t into the night. He was curious, but didn’t want to press. He liked her and although he figured she was mildly aware, he didn’t want to assume that they were on the same page.
“So, you make it a habit of just closing your eyes and voicing random co-workers’ names to pass the time? Is this some new kind of stress reliever I wasn’t aware of? Maybe I’ll give it a try.”
Emma also turned toward the city, although she let her eyes drift across the rain speckled window to his reflection. Beginning to speak, she held her tongue. She wanted to tell him, and there really wasn’t a good reason not to, but something inside told her that it wasn’t the right time. That she’d get back to it. That one day soon she’d reveal who she was. Who she really was.
“No, I guess I’m just tired.”
Even as the words were leaving her mouth, Emma knew it was a cop-out. That her answer was almost as bad as telling him the truth. She hated to lie, but she was more afraid of the truth. She quickly dropped her head to her chest and waited.
Instead of responding to her last statement, Tom pointed out through the rain. “So… I have a question for you and I’m pretty sure I already know the answer, but I figured I’d ask anyway. And truth be told, it’s why I came out here to talk to you.”
Emma sat forward. “Okay?”
“How long do you plan on staying here? I mean, I realize you’ve sent a message to your brother and if he makes it here this is where he’ll come, but you do realize the odds of that happening are pretty low?”
Breathing out slowly, Emma tucked her feet beneath her and smiled softly. “I’d like to stay, but I also realize that you have another group you need to get back to. I’m sure they’re probably worried sick about you, so—”
Holding his hand up Tom nodded. “Emma, I’m not going to beat around the bush. I think the time for that ended last week, along with everything else. I like you… a lot. I know you want to stay and I can’t fault you for that. This place is secure, there is plenty of food, we have power for the time being.”
“And,” Emma said.
“And nothing. I say for now we get a good night’s sleep, wake up tomorrow feeling safe for once, and then just take this thing one day at a time. No pressure.”
Emma stood, walked to the other side of the table, and kissed Tom on the top of his head.
“I think I might just like you too.”
14
Dalton’s right shoe was pulled off near the second step, and the left was dangerously close to making the same leap as he was dragged into the G280. Marcus Goodwin now stepped backward into the jet and gave a final tug on the smaller man’s shirt, ripping the fabric from his hands as both men toppled to the floor.
Four quick cracks came from the stairs a fraction of a second before Walter Osborne closed the door and turned toward the cockpit. He was breathing hard, covered in blood and cursed as he dropped the AR-15 on the floor beside the two fallen men.
Pulling himself to stand, Goodwin reached out for the older man as he disappeared into the cockpit. Obviously angered, he quickly turned back to Dalton, who still lay on the floor, and rested his hands on his hips.
“Get up,” Goodwin said, shaking his head.
Dalton was confused. His eyes unable to focus on anything for longer than a few seconds at a time, the younger man coughed twice and rolled onto his side. He spit a mouthful of bile out onto the tan carpet and began to shake as a wave of nausea filled his stomach.
“I SAID GET UP!”
Goodwin moved around to the backside of Dalton and kicked him in the legs. He looked back at the cockpit, dropped his shotgun into the seat to his right, and wiped his face with both hands.
To no one in particular, he said, “We’re going back out there.”
Rushed voices could be overheard from the cockpit as Dalton rolled off the floor and into a sitting position. He pulled up his right pant leg, pulled down his sock and blew out a sigh of relief. He looked up at Goodwin, the nausea in his belly now replaced with anger.
“There are too many of them. This was a bad idea. We need to find another—”
Turning his attention away from the front of the jet, his eyes now wide with anger, Goodwin spat as he spoke. “No there aren’t too many of them. You’re just too scared to do the one thing that you absolutely have to do… save your own life. If we hadn’t turned back for you, you’d be out there on the tarmac in pieces. Food for the monsters that you can’t find the strength to destroy.”
Dalton raised his chin, pushed himself up, and slowly slid into the leather chair at his back. He knew anything he said at this point would just force Goodwin completely over the edge. The man who was responsible for this mess had just referred to his own creation as a monster. Dalton had yet to hear him speak of those infected as anything other than human. It was as if he had a soft spot in his otherwise empty heart for the individuals whose sole focus was feeding on what was left of humanity.
Goodwin’s drastic change in demeanor surprised Dalton. Why was he now so consumed with the destruction of those he initially seemed to have an affinity for? Since the first day of the outbreak, he’d all but called them his children. He looked proud, full of his own bravado. Dalton had expected him to struggle with the act of putting them down, however after the last several minutes out on the airfield, something had evidently changed.
As Walter and Nicholas moved out into the rear cabin, continuing their conversation, Goodwin stepped between the two pilots, held up his hand, and pointed out the window. He moved his eyes from the AR-15 to Walter, and then nodded toward the window.
Taking in a deep breath, Goodwin paused a moment before grabbing the older man’s arm and pulling him toward the exit. “Open the door; you and I are going back out there. We’ll do it ourselves.”
Walter yanked his arm back. A look of disgust spread across his face as he stood up tall and turned away from Goodwin. Motioning to his fellow pilot and nodding toward the exterior, he said. “Nicholas, I was right. He has no idea, I bet neither of them do.”
To the dismay of an obviously confused Marcus Goodwin, Nicholas began to grin as he shook his head. He pointed into the cockpit before starting to move away. “I’ll get us prepped. We’re going to need to get back in the air before those things tear this plane apart.”
Still positioned between the two pilots, Goodwin laid one hand on each of their shoulders. Clamping down, he lowered his voice to just above a whisper and spoke slowly. He emphasized each word as if they were the most important that he’d ever spoken.
“Why the hell is this door not open?”
Quickly making eye contact with Nicholas and then turning to Walter and raising a brow, Goodwin said, “I think you know that I don’t need the both of you to fly this thing. Either open the door and get out there, or I’ll open it myself and throw you out.”
Letting his eyes drift away, Walter took a step back. As Goodwin released his grip, the older man motioned toward the cockpit and asked that Goodwin follow. The four men moved quickly through the well-lit interior and stopped at the cockpit door.
Walter stepped aside and allowed Goodwin to enter first. Nicholas fell in behind, and Dalton stood at the back of the pack, attempting to see past the other three men. As Goodwin stepped to the left, he turned to Walter, held out his hand, and narrowed his eyes.
“This had better be good; we don’t have time for this sh—”
Walter leaned in near the co-pilots chair and pointed out through the cockpit windows to the fueling truck beyond. Through the falling snow, the rear of the massive vehicle sat under the light of moon.
“That is our problem,” Walter said.
Following the co-pilot’s line of sight, Goodwin’s nostrils flared as he read the single word spray painted along the side of the fuel tank. He slowly placed his hands together, brought them to his lips, and leaned back against the pilot’s chair.
“Empty?” he said looking at Walter. “Is that for real?”
“Yes, I was trying to get
your attention out there. That thing is bone dry.”
“We have any other options? Another fuel truck… maybe another plane?”
Walter shook his head. “This place is a graveyard. We were out of options before we landed here.”
Peering back through the window, Goodwin appeared to be considering their situation. “Who else had access to that truck? I thought—”
“Mr. Goodwin, we don’t have time. At this point, it doesn’t really matter who used that truck. It’s of no use to us anymore, and we’ve now got a much bigger issue.”
“I’m listening.” And he was. Goodwin moved aside and allowed the pilots access to their seats. He was never this accommodating. This agreeable. Maybe he’d finally realized this was one situation he couldn’t control.
“We have to leave right now. Those things have completely overtaken runway number two and there’s just no way to maneuver around them.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“We have one shot at this, but our window is closing pretty rapidly. You and Mr. Dalton will need to get back to your seats and buckle in. We’ll try runway number one and hope for the best. It isn’t nearly as crowded, but there are still a handful that we’ll have to deal with.”
The angered look from minutes before reappeared across Goodwin’s face. He gripped the back of the pilot’s chair, leaned in, and spoke quietly.
“We’re going to Vegas.”
Nicholas began guiding the G280 away from the growing horde and without looking back said, “Is that a question?”
“More of a directive; you work for me.”
“Sir, we may not have enough fuel to make Vegas. How about we try Salt Lake City or Provo. I can almost guarantee we make either of those two spots without any trouble.”
Goodwin straightened. But before turning and moving to his seat he said, “The other jet, the one that will take us back home, is waiting in Vegas. Nothing in Utah will do us a damn bit of good. So, do whatever it is that you need to do, but I expect that the next time the two of us speak will be when we touch down in Sin City.”
