by Spell, David
“Sorry, Chuck,” she said. "We need your guns and stuff. Nobody needs to get hurt. Just drop your pistol belt and you can leave.”
“You’re just going to take my equipment and kick me out? That’s it?"
“That’s it. I’ve got to take care of my baby and we need better weapons."
Climbing to his feet, drawing a small pistol, Greg said, "Thanks for helping us out tonight. It’s nice to know that there are still good people like you in the world."
“No problem,” McCain said, letting a tremor of fear sound in his voice. “I don’t want any trouble."
A look of relief crossed Tonya's face. McCain suddenly underhanded the empty bottle at her and stepped to his right, firing a back-fist into Greg’s face. The whiskey bottle hit Tonya in the chest and she jerked the trigger of revolver, firing a shot that struck the floor where Chuck had been standing. From a distance of ten feet, McCain raised the Glock, firing two quick shots into her chest and then a third that struck her in the forehead. Blood erupted from that wound and she collapsed to the floor.
The strike to Greg’s face snapped his head back and knocked him five feet across the room and into the wall. He crumpled to the floor, stunned, but somehow still holding onto the pistol. Chuck swung around and sighted in on the pock-marked face.
“Don’t do it,” he said.
Greg's face registered shock, blood dripping out of his damaged nose. The gunshots had awakened the baby, who began to scream. Greg stared at McCain, realizing that the big man was about to shoot him in the head, and let go of his gun, raising his hands over his head. The gun clattered to the floor beside him.
“Face down on the floor, hands behind your back,” Chuck ordered.
He continued to cover Greg with his Glock but the priority now was to quiet the baby. The shots and the screaming would attract any Zs in the area. He saw a pacifier laying in the child carrier next to him. Chuck grabbed it with his right hand and slipped it into the crying infant’s mouth. He finally calmed down as Chuck rocked the carrier for a couple of minutes.
McCain stepped over to Greg and said, “Don’t move. I’m going to handcuff you and search you."
The stunned man was breathing hard, his face hurt, but he still hadn’t said a word after watching Tonya get gunned down. He finally found his voice. “You just...you just killed her. You murdered her,” he managed to say.
“The problem with pulling a gun on somebody is that sometimes they pull one, too,” said Chuck. “And the problem with shooting at someone is that sometimes they shoot back."
He slipped metal handcuffs on Greg’s wrists and searched him for additional weapons. He had a folding knife in his right front pocket and an extra magazine of .380 ammo for the Bersa pistol he had dropped.
“What are you going to do with us?"
McCain ignored him and went over to Tonya and knelt beside her bleeding corpse, her lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling, the bullet hole in her face still dribbling blood. “Why would you do that?” he asked her. “I tried to help you and you turned on me.”
He shook his head and searched her, finding nothing of use. Her revolver was a Smith & Wesson Air Weight in .38 Special and Chuck put both of the guns, the knife, and ammo in his backpack and then searched Greg’s duffel bag and the diaper bag.
Thankfully, the baby had gone back to sleep. He was so little, maybe a year old, McCain guessed. What was his life expectancy?
Greg’s duffel bag contained the drugs. Two ziplock baggies of meth with two balls in each. The four ‘eight balls’ together were about fourteen grams of methamphetamine. That was a lot of dope for one guy to be carrying around. The street value was around a thousand dollars before everything had fallen apart.
More digging uncovered two more plastic bags, each containing an ounce of marijuana. The value on that had been around six hundred dollars before the zombies showed up. McCain found fifteen extra rounds for Tonya’s revolver, which he kept. The duffel bag also contained their meager food supplies, a few packets of trail mix, some beef jerky, and a can of peanuts. The trail mix packs and the beef jerky hadn’t been opened so McCain threw those into his backpack.
“Where were you taking the drugs?” he asked Greg.
“Man, the world is ending and you’re asking me about some dope? You don't know what you're dealing with here. The guy those drugs belong to is going to be really pissed. And Tonya worked for him and you just gunned her down. He’s going to come after you and cut you up into little pieces. Or maybe the people we were supposed to be delivering to will come after you. Either way, you’re a dead man.”
“We’re all dead men, Greg. Some just sooner than others.”
Chuck shook his head and changed the subject. “What’s your baby’s name?"
“It’s not my baby, but his name’s Jeremy. Tonya never told me who the dad was. If I had to guess, the baby’s daddy is the same man who owns those drugs. And you murdered her. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, man, when he catches you.”
“Well, Jeremy is your son now or you can take him to his dad.” said McCain.
South of Commerce, Northeast of Atlanta, Tuesday, 0630 hours
Chucked dozed fitfully with his pistol at his side. He left Greg handcuffed, even when he said he needed to use the restroom. Eventually, he peed on himself during the night. Jeremy slept until 0500hrs. McCain woke up before he started crying too loudly. There was a good supply of baby food and formula mix in the diaper bag. Thankfully, there was a bottle of milk in the bag and Jeremy sucked on it gratefully.
As he checked his equipment, reloaded all his magazines, and prepared to continue his journey, he couldn’t help but stare at Tonya’s body. With her dead, now he was worried about what would happen to Jeremy. Meth-head Greg didn’t strike him as Dad of the Year material. Chuck ate his own breakfast, a cold Meal Ready to Eat pouch of hash brown potatoes with bacon. He washed it down with some water, saving the coffee packet for later in the morning when he took a break from walking.
When he was ready to leave, McCain crouched next to Greg. He made a point of holding the Glock next to his head as he unscrewed the suppressor and secured it on his belt. Greg stared fearfully at the gun, not knowing if the man holding it was going to execute him now or not. Eventually, Chuck slipped the pistol into its holster.
“Greg, I’m going to take the handcuffs off and then I’m leaving. You had better take care of that baby or I’ll track you down and kill you. Really, you just better hope you never see me again." McCain stared into the other man’s hollow eyes. Greg couldn’t hold his stare, looking away.
“I will, I’ll take care of him, I promise. Are you going to leave me a gun?"
“No, I’m not leaving you a gun. You tried to rob me, remember?”
“But, those things are out there. It’s dangerous not to have a gun."
“You didn’t seem to have a problem with trying to take mine from me and throwing me outside in the middle of the night. Just remember these wise words, ‘You reap what you sow.’ And, here are some more wise words. Don’t try and follow me."
When the cuffs were off, Greg rubbed the circulation back into his wrists. Jeremy had finished his bottle and was ready for something else to eat. Chuck backed away from him, shouldered his pack and slung the M4 across his chest. He pulled the sofa back far enough so that he could slip out the front door.
As he started walking north in first light of dawn, Chuck saw a light coating of snow from the previous night’s storm. The sky was still overcast and the temperature felt well below freezing. Hopefully, the storm will hold off until I make some progress today, he thought.
The events of the previous night played through Chuck’s mind. The police officer shook his head in disgust. He had tried to help those people. In reality, with those Zs so close behind them, he had probably saved their lives, yet they had still tried to rob him. You’ve got to mind your own business, McCain, he told himself. You can’t save the world and you need to find Melanie.
He continued moving north on the deserted, two-lane road until it curved sharply to the right, and began taking him to the east, away from where he wanted to go. Chuck left the blacktop and cut through the woods for almost a quarter mile until he was again staring at the never-ending, empty interstate. He set his mind to walking so he could get to his daughter as soon as possible.
North of Commerce, Northeast of Atlanta, Tuesday, 1630 hours
McCain hadn’t been able to move as quickly as he had hoped. He figured that he’d only covered around fifteen miles walking north on I-85. Groups of infected had forced him to take wide detours through the woods to get around them. His goal on this trip was to always avoid contact, even if it slowed his pace down.
The Commerce exit had been more exciting than he had planned for. It was a large interchange with outlet malls, a large truck stop, restaurants, and gas stations, all close to the interstate. There had been no wooded areas to duck into and he simply had to keep moving north, shooting at least twenty Zs scattered along the road.
There were abandoned vehicles parked on the shoulder and even left in the middle of the interstate, both north and south of the bridge. McCain knew that once he got past this exit, he would have the safety of the woods again if he needed them. Fortunately, most of the lingering zombies in this area were seeking victims around the business district of the small town of Commerce.
As he walked, Chuck had a lot of time to think about the events of the past three months. America, and specifically the east coast, had never really recovered from the last attacks. The three simultaneous car bomb detonations combined with the three suicide bombers in Atlanta, Washington, D.C., and New York City had been devastating for those key cities and beyond.
The explosives that had been packed into the three vehicles and into the three suicide vests contained a deadly mixture of the zombie virus and radioactive waste. These dirty bombs killed and infected thousands in the three metropolitan areas. The packs of infected had immediately begun to move deeper into their respective cities and then, using the interstate system, had marched out into the suburbs to find living food.
The radioactive materials combined with the zombie virus that Iranian operatives had brought into America had created some zombies with superhuman strength. At this point, however, with the governmental breakdown, there were few resources being used to study the phenomenon. Like it really mattered, Chuck thought. The zombie virus was the most deadly bio-terror weapon ever invented.
After the CIA discovered that Iran had been responsible for releasing the weaponized virus throughout the United States over six months earlier, the President had declared war, unleashing the full military might of America on that rogue nation. Within just a few weeks, Iran was a smoldering pile of ruins.
Iranian operatives, however, had already infiltrated the United States through Mexico and had continued to launch multiple attacks at civilian targets. Many of these strikes had involved spreading the zombie virus, while others had been more conventional terror attacks. All were deadly.
Chuck McCain and the officers of the Centers for Disease Control Enforcement Unit had been some of the first to encounter people infected with the bio-terror weapon. CDC teams throughout the US had been the tip of the spear in the fight against the zombie hordes. McCain’s teams had also taken out several of the key terrorists behind the attacks.
The CDC Enforcement Unit had been created by a Presidential Executive Order that allowed the CIA to keep their hand in the war on terror. The Central Intelligence Agency is forbidden by law from working or conducting operations on American soil. The executive order, however, allowed the CIA to stay on the forefront of the fight by covertly funding and supporting these new federal police officers. CDC Officers operated in every city in the US where the Centers for Disease Control had an office and they had jurisdiction throughout America.
McCain and his men had battled both foreign-and-domestic-born Islamic terrorists and had done their part to eliminate thousands of people infected by the incurable zombie virus. Three months ago, however, everything had started to come unraveled. Chuck’s two teams, along with a handful of local police and a few FBI agents, faced off against a surging mass of thousands of zombies after the simultaneous car and suicide bomber attacks in downtown Atlanta.
The American President, flush from his military victory over Iran, had accepted a bad policy suggestion from his advisors. The President listened to an idea that originated from an undercover Iranian operative who had managed to infiltrate the FBI and connect himself with the Deputy Director of the Mass Weapons Directorate.
The policy idea presented to the President was that the United States, after thoroughly defeating Iran, did not need to use its military forces to combat those whom had been infected and turned into zombies in America. Federal and local police would be able to handle the thousands of new zombies without any outside help. It would be an international public relations victory for the United States to defeat the Zs without having to unleash the American military on American soil.
This turned out to be a devastating mistake that allowed multiple thousands of zombies to steamroll over police roadblocks and barricades and continue to march in search of other victims. There just weren’t enough police officers to stop the thousands of Zs who had been infected. By the time the President rescinded his order and released National Guard units, it was too late. The entire east coast was now considered a danger zone.
The roadblock that McCain and his men had manned, just north of Atlanta was a perfect example. They had fewer than a hundred law enforcement officers trying to stop thousands of zombies. Three Islamic terrorists had also managed to attack the police from behind while they were fighting the Zs, only intensifying the devastation. One of Chuck’s men and many of the police officers were killed. McCain and several of his other agents were wounded, barely escaping with their lives.
After the subsequent failure of the power grid, people had begun to flee to “safer” states. The problem was that every state in the union had been impacted, to some degree, by the virus. The CDC teams had continued working for the next two months, conducting rescue missions inside zombie-occupied regions around the Metro-Atlanta area.
With the government being run from underground bunkers, law and order had eroded to the point of anarchy. With the collapse of the power grid, communications had soon followed suit. It was presumed that these breakdowns were the results of additional terrorists’ plots, either cyber-attacks or through the bombing of key targets. Without the internet or ability to watch the news, however, no one knew for certain.
Chuck attempted for over a week to contact the Assistant Director of Operations for the CIA, Admiral Jonathan Williams, without any success. McCain had some big decisions to make and he needed the input of his boss. With their support system no longer in place and with no way to communicate with Washington, Chuck had made the difficult decision to send his agents home to look after their own families.
The CDC was still functioning as best they could in a rural fifty acre facility east of Atlanta. Some of their best researchers were committed to trying to find a vaccine that would work against the zombie virus. As long as they had fuel for their large generators, the site had electricity, and the epidemiologists could work.
This location was well away from the path of the zombies, hidden from view by a fence and the dense forest that surrounded the facility. Four of McCain’s officers and two civilian security guards had chosen to stay behind to guard the facility and the scientists. All of his other men had packed their vehicles and moved their loved ones to safer locations or were undertaking similar journeys to his own, trying to locate family members.
&nbs
p; The temperature was dropping again and Chuck had been watching the clouds getting darker and heavier. It felt like more snow was coming, letting the police officer know that it was time to look for a place to camp out for the night. Hopefully, tonight he wouldn’t have to deal with another Greg and Tonya. This particular stretch of I-85 was barren, but McCain could see an overpass in the distance. Maybe there would be some place that he could get in out of the cold.
He increased his pace as the wind picked up, cutting through his clothes. The pain in his right hamstring was a dull throbbing. He had popped some Tylenol earlier and kept walking. When the snow finally started to fall, Chuck was still a half mile from the bridge. At least I don’t see anyone who wants to eat me, he thought. This snow was mixed with freezing rain, a Georgia specialty, McCain noted.
As the big man made his way up the exit ramp to Old Federal Road, he was conscious of how exposed he was, being out in the open. He eased to his right into the small copse of pine trees that paralleled the ramp. He scanned the area on the west side of the interstate with his binoculars. A large truck stop on the left side of the street and a smaller one on the right. Several tractor trailers were parked or abandoned at both businesses. He didn’t see any people, living or dead, which was good news. Those stores would be worth investigating another time, he thought. The vehicles in the parking lots, however, might mean Zs inside. He’d try to find a house to use for the night.
Chuck turned east onto Old Federal Road and stayed on the shoulder, close to the trees running along the roadway. A convenience store was just ahead of him, siting on the right side of the street. A few cars were scattered around the parking lot here, too. The snow and sleet continued to come down, the snowflakes increasing in size by the minute.
