Colder than Hell

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Matt came over and sat beside George, who was flat on his back with his arm over his eyes, letting the snow cover him. Every breath sounded painful. But considering what he’d looked like just a few minutes before, this George was a remarkable improvement. All human, so it seemed, his new skin not the waxy, steaming stuff of the virus zombies. Even the wound on his neck was healing up.

  This George was shocked, frail, unable to accept what he’d done. He kept telling Matt how sorry he was, how he had no idea what he was doing, how it had been nearly a year of being trapped inside his own mind, watching whatever was in control of it make horrible decisions and do repulsive things.

  Matt said to him, “I know, believe me. I understand.”

  But he didn’t tell George that in order for the Dark touch to really take hold, there had to be some sort of inherent “big bad” there to cling to and cultivate, like a tumor.

  He didn’t care so much about that. Matt was more concerned with how an ice-cold bath seemingly washed all the evil off this guy, healed that massive wound in his neck. He had seen others before who could hide the rot, mask themselves somehow, but this wasn’t the same thing. Seeing George like this—it was like a religious conversion.

  A rebirth.

  No, a resurrection.

  That was something Matt was more than a little familiar with…

  “I didn’t really have a reason to suspect my wife, honestly, I didn’t. I see that now,” George was babbling, on and on. “But back then, it was…it was a lack of confidence or something. Jealousy, maybe. Yes, I was a lawyer, but not a trial lawyer like her. I was the guy who sat next to the trial lawyer, making sure his papers were arranged. I was the guy who wrote briefs until all hours of the night. Somehow I just got it in my head that she was banging another lawyer at the office. I set them up, bought hidden cameras and everything. Ask me why I bought a chainsaw, I…I…poof. It’s gone. I can’t tell you.”

  There had to be a reason for Mr. Dark’s interest in poor George beyond a double murder. Mr. Dark usually liked mayhem on a much larger scale.

  “What was your wife working on when this happened?” Matt asked.

  “Early stages of a possible class action lawsuit, something about a tainted baby formula that might’ve given tens of thousands of kids brain damage,” George said. “She was real gung ho about it, even after the whistle-blower that brought the case to her blasted his head off with a shotgun.”

  Bingo.

  “What happened to the case after you killed your wife?”

  “The law firm dropped it,” George said.

  Notch up a win for Mr. Dark. He wanted to keep anybody from stopping the tainted baby formula from messing up more kids.

  He’d probably been protecting Big Tobacco for decades.

  It was another peek into how Mr. Dark worked. But there was nothing Matt could do about the baby formula case, and he couldn’t undo what George had done.

  He had more pressing matters to deal with.

  “Listen, I need to know what happened earlier today. You fought it off. That virus or whatever it is helped you, but it made everyone else crazy. What the hell is going on?”

  “You mean, you don’t know about the guy at the rest area?”

  Shit. So…Matt had just sent a whole group of survivors right into ground zero. “What guy? Tell me. I need to know.”

  “That’s when it all began to change.” George took off his glasses, one lens shattered and the wire frame badly misshapen. “I had to pee. I mean, I was looking for a way to kill the guards, obviously, but I really had to pee.”

  And so it went on from there…

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Because even these guards knew better. Letting a man find a proper place to pee, even if that was just out a car door or on a tire or a tree, was a basic human right, even for cold-blooded sickos like George.

  The guards tried their best to get around the concrete barriers next to the highway, but the snow made it difficult to tell how steep the ditch beside it was. The last thing they needed was to tip over in a blizzard. Like the driver had said, “We’re not up for going Tommy Lee Jones on your ass.”

  The weirdness began right then and there. Why did they have to stop at a rest area? Fear of onlookers, so they said. But wouldn’t those same onlookers see that the guards were escorting the prisoner to a supposedly boarded-up building? Guess that’s what you get with government employees—they don’t tend to think that far ahead.

  So they unchained George from the floor of the van, pulled him out, and tried to walk through the shitty ice and snow and wind as fast was the manacles would allow.

  George made sure to look for every advantage he could.

  A rock? A sharp stick? Maybe a really well-packed snowball?

  But they were moving fast and it was very fucking cold and George wasn’t lying when he had told them he really, really, really had to pee.

  As they rounded the corner of the building, it all went to hell.

  A trail of blood led across the parking lot and into the windbreak of trees behind the rest area.

  At the door of the rest area, boarded and padlocked, was a man who looked like you would expect a truck driver to look—jeans, trucker cap, bit of a paunch. He wore a flannel shirt, no coat, like he hadn’t expected to be out in the cold. His face was scraped up terribly, and there were gashes all over his arms, some pellets and shards of glass glittering against the blood. They would have thought he was dead except for the dopey laugh, barely above a sigh.

  Arnie rushed to the man’s side, leaving George alone with McMurray. A small chance, but still a chance. George wondered if he could get the guard close enough, take him out before Arnie could turn and get a bead on him.

  “He’s still alive! We need an ambulance!”

  George said, “Well, call one, and let me pee while we’re waiting!”

  McMurray grabbed George by his collar. “Keep your mouth shut.”

  The evil in George made a move before the real George locked inside could stop it. He wrenched his neck and bit McMurray’s hand and, while the big guard was howling, rammed into him headfirst, sent him down onto the concrete.

  It took Arnie a long moment to notice, since he had knelt beside the injured man and was testing him for a pulse, lifting his eyelids, trying to see if he could respond. But he turned in time to get out his Taser and latch a couple of electric teeth into the monster rushing at him now. The current lit George up, rigid, and he fell on top of the trucker just as Arnie dodged out of the way.

  Holy shit, that hurt bad.

  It felt like the electricity went on forever, but it finally ebbed, and George rolled off the trucker, covered in the man’s blood. And goddamned if it wasn’t the funniest thing that had ever happened. George was laughing, Arnie was laughing, and even McMurray, bleeding from his scalp as he rose from the pavement, was laughing so hard he cried.

  “And then they unchained me, and we went back to the van. It’s all kind of cloudy. It was like…you know Gollum? Lord of the Rings?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Like that. Two separate minds shouting at each other in my head.” George hugged himself, rocked back and forth. “They’re gone now. I’m the only voice up there, and I don’t know what to say.”

  “When you were infected, what was it like? What did it want?”

  George shrugged. “It wasn’t too complicated. It wanted…people. More people. It wanted to spread. And it wanted to be hot. It hated the cold. All it wanted was to be around more people and to be hot.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Maybe. No, wait, I think, right near the end, it wanted…chaos. It wanted us to go crazy, smash things, set fires, crash cars. There was no reason to it. It just wanted it.”

  “Kind of wish you were still in the mood to start a fire right about now.”

  They were both in danger of hypothermia, George more than Matt because of the “already dead” and all, but it sure as hell wasn’t comfortable. M
att hoped maybe they could make it back to Otto’s truck, if it hadn’t been overtaken by the zombies. Take a few moments to thaw out before heading back to the rest area, because otherwise, he would be useless in a fight, if that was what this was heading toward. But didn’t it always?

  He let out a sigh and a stream of vapor. “Let’s get moving.”

  Matt helped George to his feet, and they both climbed through the growing snowbank to the interstate again. They weren’t prepared for it. A massive surge of the infected, together among all the cars, walking in the same direction. But not back toward the fresh meat on the tail end of the traffic jam. They had all turned around and were going north again. Back toward the rest area.

  Matt said, “That’s not good.”

  “Why not?”

  “You tell me. When you were infected, what would have caused you to turn back?”

  George squinched his eyebrows, grimaced, and then said, “I think it mutates the farther out it spreads. It gets weaker. The body learns to defend against it. So the only thing that would send it back…maybe a stronger dose?”

  Matt felt a chill beyond what the weather was doing to him. Not only had he sent those survivors to ground zero, but now they had a zombie horde to deal with.

  “Come on, George. A little jog might warm us up.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The closer they came to the rest area, the thicker the horde got. Lots of the infected were streaming out of their crammed, saunalike vehicles and joining the pack, all of them single-mindedly headed around the building. They’d been sucked clean of any personality. That mopey laugh was everywhere, as unnerving as Mr. Dark’s cackle but in a much more depressing way.

  “Rhonda! Jimmy!” Matt pushed his way through the crowd, George right behind him. None of these people bothered him, too focused on their journey. It led into the windbreak, apparently following the blood trail left behind by the trucker. Matt was getting his first glimpse. Poor guy propped against the doors—he never had a chance.

  “Rhonda! Anyone? Is anyone here?”

  The closest vehicle was the abandoned police transport van, and it was packed solid. Of course they didn’t need to follow the crowd. They had a plenty strong enough dose right here. Matt told George to keep back, then ran over to the van. He couldn’t see inside. The windows were completely fogged over. After one full circle around the van, he opened the side door.

  Like a packed subway car, no breathing room. A blast of pungent body odor. Enough sweat dripping off the people that it ran out the open door into a puddle, instantly freezing as it hit the snow. Steam poured out, and Matt got a glimpse of Rhonda and Jimmy huddled together on the back bench, staring vacantly. He reached through a tangle of limbs and shook Rhonda on the shoulder. She turned her face, but there was no recognition. No response. Just a mumbled “Need you, need you, need you…”

  A harder shake. “Hey! Wake up, snap out of it!”

  Nothing. The chanting and laughing in the van grew louder. Matt looked around, saw Jimmy’s bass guitar on the ground, half covered in snow.

  Snow. Cold. Like the pond. It couldn’t be that easy.

  Matt knelt and gathered as much snow into his arms as he could. It was fluffy, scattering as he tried to lift it, but he still had enough to sling into the van, all over the second row of seats. It melted on contact.

  But it seemed to get their attention. Everyone on that row blinked a few times and stopped mumbling. That was something, right? Matt pulled together another couple of handfuls, this time squeezing the snow into one solid wet lump. It was only as big as a Ping-Pong ball, so he kept scooping, adding layer after layer until it was at least the size of a cantaloupe.

  He turned back toward the van. Now the old guy, Hank, was looking at him. Blank. But…maybe there was some thought behind it. Maybe. It didn’t matter.

  “Sorry, guy.”

  Matt hurled the melon of snow like a fastball right into Hank’s face. The outer layers exploded and covered his eyes, ears, nose, mouth. The old man cried out. He clawed at his face the way George had clawed at his own scalp just a little while earlier.

  Even weirder, everyone in the van turned evil eyes toward Matt and let out a low howl. Two others beside and behind Hank leaned out, grabbed the open door, and slammed it shut. A different woman helped Hank clear the snow and ice from his face.

  That got it mad, sure enough. Damn thing wasn’t built for the cold.

  He scooped up another snowball and aimed toward one of the people trailing past him into the trees. Tall guy, leather jacket. Yeah, why not? Matt reared back and nailed him on the side of his head.

  This one fell to his knees, same reaction as George and Hank with the clawing. That snow burned, man. Those in the immediate vicinity zeroed in on the assailant, but once again they placed the priority on their injured fellow zombie, guarding him from another attack while helping clear the cold wetness from his face. From the middle of the clump, he heard the guy in the jacket say, “What’s going on? Get off me! Jesus, what’s…help! Goddamn it, help me!”

  But as soon as it clicked Matt into action, the voice quieted, and before long the others helped the man up, all of them with that goofy laugh going, and carried on. It would take a hell of a lot more snowballs to get the job done, and plenty more people flinging them. But it was a start.

  He found George hovering over the trucker, a wallet in his hand. “His name was Luke. He was fifty-one years old.” He said it through chattering teeth with short breaths. The man was growing as pale as the dead trucker at his feet.

  Matt knew neither of them could make it much longer, so he axed off the chain looped through the handles to the doors of the building, and then went to work on the plywood nailed across the top. He was still weak from the cold, every strike sending chills down his arms.

  The zombies kept ignoring him, more and more of them clambering into the woods. But he finally broke through, yanked open one of the doors, and pushed George inside.

  The lobby was very still. Very little light seeped in around the edges of the boards over the other windows. Matt tried a light switch. Nothing. So he led George to one of the darkened vending machines and eased him to the ground.

  “I’m going to look for, uh, like, a blanket or jacket or something. Don’t move.”

  One door was marked OFFICE, so Matt axed through the handle and lock. Kicked it open.

  There was a phone on the desk, which was covered in dust and brochures—“Explore North Dakota!” Sure, sounds like fun.

  He lifted the handset to his ear. Nothing. It made the air inside feel colder than it already was. So he hung up and dug around in the desk drawers until he found a miniature flashlight.

  He tried it. Still worked. And pretty powerful, too. It was enough to get them through if night fell. But no jackets, no blankets.

  Back to the lobby, this time to the other locked door, across the way. Another thwack, another kick, and he was inside the maintenance room.

  This time he was lucky. He found a cardboard box marked LOST & FOUND with some single mittens, a wool cap, bright yellow with stains on it, and a cheap Windbreaker with fleece lining. Sure, it was torn in several places, but it would be enough to keep George from freezing to death. He picked it up, then looked around with the flashlight, wondering if there might be a switch for the power. He found a fuse box on the wall, flipped a few switches, but still got nothing. Shit. They must have cut the power from the outside. Before heading out, he grabbed a pair of mismatched mittens for himself and another for George.

  A gust of wind grabbed the outside door and swung it wide, slammed it, then swung it again. Matt flinched, then walked back to the lobby, where George was trying to collect some cards and receipts he’d taken from the truck driver’s wallet that had flown all over.

  “Really, man? Do you really have to do that?” Matt handed over the jacket.

  “B-b-but wait. I found something. Th-th-this.” He held up an employee ID card for Luke Haskins, driver f
or Pavlov & Kirk Systems out of Minneapolis.

  “Yeah?”

  George handed him a business card, this one from a “Kyle Icarus.” Weird name. Flying too close to the sun, wax wings, falling, all that. The line under the Pavlov & Kirk banner said “Medical Technology Systems.” Mr. Icarus was a senior biochemical analyst, according to the card. He’d apparently scribbled a number on back along with a note: “In case anything goes wrong, call immediately.”

  Puzzle pieces, all falling into place. It explained a lot—a virus that could render an entire population immobilized without actually killing them. Could be it was still in the testing phase, thus all that about the chaos and destruction. But whatever it was, Matt had already seen one unexpected side effect: It stopped Mr. Dark dead in his tracks. He was able to double down on George, recorrupt him somehow, but it didn’t last. This thing was powerful.

  Where had the trucker come from? Where were the zombies heading? Same place?

  The door slammed wide open again and again, banging so hard it felt as if the glass would break. Matt looked up, saw the horde streaming into the trees. The next logical step. Up over his shoulder went the ax. “Stay here. I’ll be back soon. If you want, there’s the office.”

  “No, wait.” George pushed himself off the ground and pushed his arms into the sleeves of the Windbreaker. “I’ve got to see this through. However I can help, it’s got to be worth something. Even if I still end up in prison, it’s the least I can do.”

  No sense fighting it. Maybe Matt was a little worried that the evil would “thaw out” and spread across George again, but, you know, that was life. At least that was Matt’s life.

  He nodded. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  They had to push through a thick mass of infected people and shin-deep snow, but they finally found the end of the rainbow. A small transport truck, about the size of a U-Haul. Painted beige with a band of red, blue, and green stripes down the middle, leading to a seventies-style P&K, TWIN CITIES, MN logo. But the only way Matt knew that was by climbing on top. Whatever had happened, the truck had toppled over on its side. And even from the top of the truck, Matt couldn’t see the trail that led to this empty field in the middle of nowhere, about a mile past the windbreak by the rest area.