Plagued: The Midamerica Zombie Half-Breed Experiment (Plagued States of America)

by Better Hero Army

  Tom took a deep, settling breath and gingerly held the rolled up photo with two fingers into the cage. Her reaction yesterday made his heart race in anticipation. He wanted to keep his fingers. He imagined her chewing off the end of his thumb, swearing at him, spitting his own blood in his face. She snatched the photo in the blink of an eye, never looking his way once. Tom straightened and froze, amazed and frightened even more. He watched her clutch the photo in her hand, stuffing it into her balled up fist with her thumb, holding it against her chest.

  “Shit,” he gasped. He took a deep breath. “Don’t lose it again,” he told her with as much strength and courage in his voice as he could muster. Her eyes flicked toward him, then away. So much for thanks, he thought.

  “Hey, what are you doing here again?” the old slaver called. “Leave her be!”

  “Don’t worry,” Tom told the old slaver as he backed out from between the pens. “This is the last you’ll see of me for a long time.” The old slaver was grousing about getting too close, telling other customers to stand further back. Tom stopped just past the onlookers and looked back to see her eyes watching him. She didn’t turn away this time, and for a moment Tom thought he saw a soft, imploring gaze penetrate her otherwise sullen glare. He mouthed “I’m sorry” to her and walked away. What the hell could he do for her anyway?

  His stupor-induced thoughts from morning returned and his idea grew broader and seemingly more conclusive. It made sense to him, but he probably would be the only one to see it that way.

  The large registrar lifted himself from his chair, pulling keys from his pocket as Tom approached.

  “Do you know that half-breed in the pen by the corral?” Tom asked the registrar as they walked toward the door to the records room.

  “Aye,” the sullen registrar replied.

  “Is she in the records?”

  “Probably,” he said. “Every zombie that comes into Biter’s Hill has to be photographed, tagged, and background checked. We keep a special book on bite survivors. She’d be in that one.” He opened the door for Tom and pointed to the shelf. “It’ll be in there,” he said sourly.

  “Thanks,” Tom replied as the registrar shambled back to his desk.

  Gary looked up but otherwise kept flipping page after page in one of the books in front of him. He had a stack of five others next to him. Tom found the small book labelled “Survivors” and started thumbing through it at the shelf. He worked from the back, thinking there wouldn’t be too many entries. He was right. The ten pages he worked through had an assortment of faces with several photos of their progression toward zombiehood and their months-long treatment and recovery. Most every victim had an enormous “remanded to the state” stamp across the page.

  Then he found hers. Just one page. No progressions. A photo of what she looked like the first time she came to Biter’s Hill and a photo of who she had been. Alongside each were several demographic entries about her; where and when she was born, her profession, and who registered her. The old slaver’s name was John Adams Peske. Tom struggled with an old copy machine before putting the book back on the shelf. He slid the folded up copy of her page into his pocket while sitting down in front of a stack of books he had to look through for Larissa.

  “What was that all about?” Gary asked. “One of your friends related to a biter?”

  “Something like that,” Tom shrugged. Just a little ammunition for the next time I have to come to the hill, Tom thought.

  Eight

  After finishing every registration without any sign of their sister, they drove the Jeep into the waiting line for the ferry. Gary went to get lunch, leaving Tom in the Jeep for what felt like hours. There were already five vehicles in front of them and the ferry wasn’t due for a half hour. Tom opened the copied records on the half-breed and sighed. He wasn’t sure why he’d taken it. It seemed like a good idea at the time. At least he knew who she was. He knew he would never be able to help his own sister, but seeing all those faces in the registrar’s office just made him wish he could help someone. He folded the paper again and opened his knapsack. Inside there were several tools needed if he was caught alone out there on the other side of the wall. There were several dry-seal pockets on the inside to keep papers from getting wet. Seeing as how they were about to go out on the channel, and with the rains being so frequent lately, he decided for the next two weeks it would be best if he left the papers someplace they would stay dry. He couldn’t do much for the half-breed until he made it home anyway. He shoved the knapsack between his feet and closed his eyes. Two more stops on this horrible journey. Just two more stops and the responsibility would be his, alone, for the rest of his life.

  “I got hotdogs,” Gary said while dropping a bag of food in Tom’s lap, startling him from his hopeless quest for sleep. Even after finishing the hotdogs it looked like a long wait for the ferry. “Hey, why don’t you go get a souvenir for yourself,” Gary suggested. Tom glared at him. “Oh, come on. It’s going to be at least fifteen minutes before the ship lands, and ten minutes disembarking. Go on.”

  “I don’t want anything,” Tom replied.

  “Go on,” Gary said. “You don’t even know what they sell. Go take a look. Get something for your friends so you can say you’ve been here.”

  “I don’t want to say I’ve been here,” Tom groused, but climbed out of the Jeep. He grabbed his survival pack and slung it over his shoulder. “I may as well look the part of a tourist,” Tom added emphatically. The sarcasm deflected off his older brother’s hard shell. He’d be the same soon, Tom realized.

  The shop was near the prison and butted against the hotel casino. Like their bed and breakfast the night before, its outer wall was a sheer drop into the channel, built right up to the edge of the wharf. Through the back windows Tom kept an eye on the ferry as he perused the morbid selection of fang tooth necklaces – a holdover from the early days when people thought their teeth were the point of infection – picture book memorabilia, shot glasses, digital recordings of genuine moaning, zombie recipe books, and t-shirts with stupid sayings like “Biter’s Hill – Get a Life!”

  Nothing in the store interested him, but sitting in the Jeep with Gary these past few days reminded him how little he liked his older brother. Although Gary never outright blamed Tom – they’d had battles over that plenty of times in the past – a chasm of sibling rivalry still existed.

  Tom looked out the back window. The ferry churned up foam as it slowed to its moors. Time to leave this hell hole.

  Tom only made it half way through the store before he froze in his tracks, overcome with fear. The world around him shrank, his vision narrowing to take in only the sight of the open door to the prison outside and a line of zombies spilling out. Had no one seen it? Was this some kind of dream or effect of the shop’s glass to scare the patrons inside? He looked to the shopkeeper who was casually ringing up a man’s purchases. Tom couldn’t think for words. He cried out loudly and pointed, staring dumbly. The shopkeeper’s alarm solidified Tom’s fear, rooting his feet in place.

  The scene outside was grim. Already a column of zombies were pressed upon by soldiers and hunters alike. Long poles with rope nooses were used to subdue several of the beasts, but the horde had numeric superiority and began pressing through the defensive line. The front glass of the store shattered. Tom lunged for the ground. Other patrons rushed for cover. The shopkeeper ducked behind the counter. A repeating whit-dit-dit-dit-dit of an automatic weapon echoed from somewhere outside and more of the front glass shattered and fell.

  A woman in the store was screaming, her shriek piercing like the bleating alarm now wailing in the distance. Tom listened as the customers in the store called out in distress. “What’s happening?” someone shouted. “Shut her up,” another raged. Tom began to crawl ahead. He wanted to escape. Then a much deeper sounding gun went off – thump, thump, thump, thump, thump! More glass shattered. Bullets ripped through the store, knocking shelves and display cases near the window com
pletely over, splinters of wood and glass spraying into the air.

  “Stay down,” the shopkeeper yelled, standing up to take a long pole off the wall behind the counter. It was a zombie noose, just like the ones being used outside. Zombies were marching alongside the front windows to the shop, pushing back a soldier who had managed to noose three of the beasts. Several other zombies were pressing through, and as the shopkeeper moved forward to help out, the soldier was knocked over into the store through the broken windows. The storekeeper caught one of the other zombies, but three more toppled into the shop. They all moaned hauntingly. The soldier fought his way to his feet and tried kicking back the three crawling zombies. When that failed he drew a pistol from his hip and fired it repeatedly. Blam, blam, blam! Tom wanted a pistol of his own. Gary said he wouldn’t need one. What a fucking lie. Blam, blam, blam, the pistol cracked, knocking another zombie to the ground. Two shots to the legs, one to the head.

  Tom was horrorstruck. More zombies began to topple into the store and the soldier backed away. The thump, thump, thump of the machine gun started up again, tearing through the line of zombies at the front of the store. The shopkeeper was thrown to the ground with the line of zombies in front of him. The soldier reeled backwards, hit by one of the bullets. Zombies fell to the ground too, but in a moment several got back up. The soldier didn’t move even as a pack of the beasts fell upon him to feed.

  Tom ran toward the back of the store. The woman was still screaming. Through the back window Tom could see the ferry engines churning, trying to push away as men leapt from the wharf onto its deck. He saw Gary leap across, landing awkwardly on the ferry, falling to his shoulder.

  “Gary!” Tom yelled, but it was futile. The glass was between them.

  Tom watched Gary drag himself to a railing where he scanned the wharf. Even from this distance Tom could see Gary’s worried expression. The same worry Tom felt in his gut.

  “Gary!” Tom shouted again, banging on the glass. The ferry was pulling away!

  Tom grabbed several snow globes from a shelf and started hurling them at the back window. The first two bounced off. The next bashed a small hole through it. Tom upended a metal rack holding key chains and bashed the rack into the window, knocking out a huge plank.

  “Gary!” he screamed again, but it was no use. The wail of the alarm, the roar of the great diesel engines of the ferry, and the din of the cries all across Biter’s Hill drowned him out. Tom assailed the window once more, knocking as much glass away as he could. He looked back into the store, thinking he should help someone else. The storekeeper’s body wore a mound of zombies. Another man was being gnawed upon at the front window, dragged by the zombies like dogs fighting over a carcass. The woman was still screaming. Why wouldn’t she shut up?! The woman! He saw her by the dressing rooms, hands over her ears, her head down, screaming and shuddering.

  She was alone. Just like Larissa!

  For years he had fought to suppress the memory of it. The horde had split them up. Father and mother climbed to the roof with most everyone in the apartment complex, but Tom and Larissa had been stuck in the elevator between floors. Only Gary knew where they were, and he hadn’t found their father yet to tell him. So when the horde came, Tom, a boy of twelve, could think of only one way to escape. When the horde climbed up the stairs past them, they would go down beneath them. He forced open the door and climbed out above to watch the stairs, but he had left Larissa alone. A girl of eight. A frightened little girl. Her screaming never left him.

  Tom rushed forward. The zombies were shuffling toward the woman even as Tom reached down and grabbed her by her waist. She shook frantically but he lifted her and spun her about, her legs kicking fiercely. He ran to the back of the shop and to the broken window. The hole wasn’t large enough for them both.

  “You have to jump,” he yelled in her ear. She shook her head and struggled to free herself of his grip, somehow managing to kick him in the groin from all her thrashing. He dropped her as he fell to his knees, a debilitating pain seizing his muscles. She scrambled away from him, kicking furiously behind her. “Stop!” he shouted at her, but she wouldn’t listen. “Stop!” He fought off the pain and the lump in his gut and stood up, intent on chasing after her again, but as he did a zombie appeared in the aisle above her. Tom watched with bitter resentment over having eyes, the same hatred of owning a memory as he had when Larissa had been bitten. The zombies couldn’t reach Larissa from below more than to grab her and pull her to them, enough to bite her before she fought free. Tom remembered jumping into the elevator and picking her up, then running for the stairs. He remembered rushing down the stairs to street level, all the while Larissa sobbing on his shoulder, crying, begging him not to tell mother or father that they bit her.

  Two more zombies toppled over the woman. Tom turned away from the brutal savagery. He jumped out the broken window and felt weightless a moment before plunging into the icy water of the channel. He wasn’t the only one swimming for it. There were several others trying to reach the ferry, but it was moving too quickly now.

  “Gary!” Tom managed to shout once, waving an arm frantically. But he couldn’t see Gary anymore. He wasn’t along the railing as he had been. Gary couldn’t see him. “Gary!” he shouted desperately.

  The water was like ice. Tom began to swim with the current instead of giving into his fierce desire to swim at the ferry like so many others were trying. The ferry’s engines were creating a furious tide that pushed those behind it back under the pier. The water streamed around, washing back out toward the channel. The bleating of the alarm rained down over him, gaining volume over the gurgling groaning of the ferry engines growing softer as it easily out-distanced him. He was thirty or forty feet away from the pier posts when he finally gave up. The ferry had moved out into the choppy waters and was racing at full speed to the other side. The men and women behind him were clinging to the algae covered posts holding up the pier, trying the climb out of the icy chill. Tom knew he would die if he stayed in the water. He’d die on Biter’s Hill too, but at least on the hill he had a chance to run.

  He swam for the boat launch ramp on the other side of the wharf. From his vantage point it looked like he was the only one to think of it. He wanted to shout to the others in the water to follow him, but the cold had constricted his lungs so much he could hardly breathe over his shivering. But he swam. He fought the rigidity taking hold at his knees and ankles and elbows, and swam. Just get to shore, he told himself. Maybe they’ll get things under control. Maybe the ferry will come back. He’ll laugh about this someday. Just get to shore.

  The old slaver’s truck – the man named Peske – drove into the waterline quickly. The deck of his boat-like vehicle had several men on it, each with poles pushing away a wall of shambling zombies ambling down the ramp with them. Tom stopped swimming. He couldn’t go to land. He would freeze here, and that truck was going to sink, Tom was certain of it. But the truck stayed afloat and its engine whined and it began to pull away from shore, leaving the zombies to stand at the water’s edge. Tom swam toward the truck, waving madly and shouting even though he could barely breathe. His last effort at life.

  The water came up over his head once and shook him furiously. It wasn’t so much that these were choppy seas. He was beginning to die, to drift under. A rope landed alongside him like an angler’s line and even though he was disoriented, Tom managed to grab it, to hold it with every last ounce of strength he had. He could feel the water rushing by, the jerking of the rope as it was hauled in, his body surfing limply over the calm icy waters. A rope ladder was dangled out over the edge.

  “Put a leg and arm through!” yelled a man and Tom managed to get both arms through and an ankle. He felt the substantial weight of his body again as they lifted him clear of the water. The cold drained away, but he was numb head to toe.

  “Get a blanket on him,” someone shouted. “Put him there,” another said and Tom felt a warmth radiating from underneath him. He felt the solid
ity of ground again. A blanket covered him quickly to trap the warmth, and he shivered in a ball for who knows how long.

  Peske’s duck-mobile held that position long enough for Tom to come to his senses. The engine was idling beneath him, its heat rising to the deck where they had laid him down. He sat up and found himself looking into the cage of the half-breed. She wasn’t staring absently into the sky as usual. She had a worried expression of horror and fear as she looked open-mouthed out the side of the ship toward Biter’s Hill. Seeing Tom stir she shifted her gaze his way and he could see the shock in her eyes. They stared at one another a moment, and Tom probably would have stared at her eternally if there hadn’t been a sudden explosion on the hill.

  Tom turned to see a fireball erupting near the casino. It was followed by another, then another.

  “They’re blowing the defensive ring!” Peske bewailed. He actually lamented the idea.

  As much as Tom was glad they were leveling the place, he could only watch, amazed by the horrific scene. The destruction was beautiful, captivating, and numbing. He couldn’t fathom celebrating at a time like this, nor ever. Another fireball rose and the thunder of it echoed out into the channel.

  “There’s another,” one of the men standing at the rail said, pointing toward the water.

  “Throw out the boat,” Peske ordered. “We can’t take anymore,” he said as way of explanation when the man turned toward him with a shocked expression. Tom crawled to the rail and looked out. There was a man swimming toward them, begging for rescue. He would surely die in the icy water, and Biter’s Hill was no refuge for anyone. “We can’t keep taking them on. Main float’s broken. We’re already sinking,” Peske said with a defeated ire.

  He was right. The water lapped up to the deck easily now. Six more people were laying in blanketed heaps, shivering all along the deck. Peske returned to the controls and the engine rumbled a little louder as the boat began a slow turn.