I thought about spending the night behind the cash register and waiting for them to leave. But what if they lingered around for several days? There was no way to tell how long they might hang around and I hadn't packed any food. The sink in the bathroom would have running water, but the water would be contaminated. And I doubted there was any food around. Then there was the back door. If one of them wandered around back and started pushing against the door till it opened, I'd be trapped. But as much as I hated the idea of moving an inch from the safety of my position, I didn't see cowering behind the counter as much of an option.
I could hear them clearly now; their urgent, strident moans drowning out the sound of the rain. I stood up behind the counter and waited for them. I didn't have long to wait. A half-dozen shuffled into view, their focus directed down the street, mesmerized by the insistent blaring of the alarm. While I couldn't see clearly, one of the infected clearly stood out from the others. He was at the front of the group and he was quite tall. But what was striking about him was the way he walked. He walked with a normal stride as if he weren't infected at all. For a moment, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me.
Soon after, a large group followed, at least twenty of them. And they kept coming. I set the bat down on top of the counter and strode quickly to the front of the shop. Then I began banging my fists as hard as I could on the huge wall of glass to the left of the front door.
An infected woman stopped and slowly inclined her head in my direction. I banged on the glass a few more times and she tottered drunkenly toward the shop. When she was within ten feet, she must have sensed my presence because she suddenly moved with a crazed desperation toward the window. Her gray face was deeply furrowed, shriveled like a plum, and her dark eyes had virtually disappeared into their concave sockets. When she arrived at the front of the shop, she threw herself into the window with fanatic abandonment. I took a step back. Several other infected broke ranks.
I tried to be patient, but my chest and stomach were freezing up. I reminded myself to breathe as they closed in on the front of the store. It was important for them to be focused on the front when the time came for me to break the glass case. I was afraid if I'd simply broken the case and tried to run, some of them might have gone down the side driveway to the back lot. But if they saw me in the front of the shop, that's where their attention would be focused, and all the others would follow suit. And that's what was happening. They were converging on the shop now, pounding frantically on the window and pressing against each other, desperate to get to me. Their moans were clamorous, like an asylum of madmen without tongues. There had to be at least twenty-five of them and countless others were flocking to the store.
I ran to the counter and grabbed the bat and in one motion raised it up and brought it down on the glass case with an overwrought intensity. The glass exploded and I felt a searing pain rip across my left cheek. I ignored it and grabbed a tri-fold lock pick set and shoved it in the front pocket of my shorts. I ran around the counter and through the back hallway to the back door. The moans spiraled in intensity after I disappeared from their view. Working quickly, I replaced the bat in the backpack making sure it was snug but still easy enough to remove, then I slipped into the backpack and buckled it. I drew the gun from my waistline and chambered a round. I eased the trigger safety lock till it was flush with the trigger, ready to fire. I peered out the window and didn't see any infected. I opened the door and glanced toward the side driveway. I didn't see a thing. Then I ran like hell.
The chain link fence wasn't very high and I tossed the gun over and climbed the fence. I dried the Glock off as best I could and put the gun back in the backpack.
The sudden sound of shattering glass prompted me to move and I raced toward the gate. They were in the locksmith shop now and it wouldn't take long for them to get to the back door. I opened the gate and slipped into the shadows of some shrubbery next to the house.
After a few moments, I heard them bust through the back door of the shop and spill into the back lot. I edged slowly along the side of the house and moved toward the front yard, keeping to the shadows. The tenor of their moans remained constant and I grew confident they hadn't seen me. Their moans would have spiked if they'd caught a glimpse of me. When I arrived at the front edge of the house, 10th East appeared to be clear. And for once, I didn't hesitate. I sped across the street and made my way into the nearest backyard.
I kept going till I'd crossed 11th East. I didn't have any problems with the infected, and I assumed it was because of the shrill, insistent alarm still blaring away down on 9th East. The infected were drawn to the annoying sound as if it were the pied piper of Hamelin.
I found the home I was looking for. Lights were on in the front living room and the picture window curtains were open. It was a brick, ranch style home with a basement. I checked out the windows in the back of the house but couldn't see much. A thread of light found its way into the kitchen, but that was it. The rain had dissipated into a light drizzle as I stood by the back door soaking wet and hesitant. I reasoned if anyone were still in the house, the lights in the living room wouldn't be on and the home would've been shuttered up, but even my sound rationale couldn't get me to move because the thought of breaking into someone's home, even if they'd left town or had been infected, chafed against my moral core.
The back door had a knob lock but no dead bolt and for that I was thankful. I tried the door one time to see if it was locked and it was. I rubbed my bruised knuckles as I stood there feeling jittery. The thought crossed my mind to knock softly on the door to see if anyone was home. But it wasn't a serious thought. I was just stalling. A stinging pain pulsed near the surface of my left cheek and I gingerly brushed the wound with the back of my hand. It hurt like hell and part of me couldn't help but wonder what my face looked like. I was shaken and a bit of a mess, but at least I was still alive.
I knelt down by the back door and took the backpack off and removed the bat and set it next to me. I fished the lock pick set from my pocket and opened the tri-fold and grabbed a tension wrench and the rake pick. The articles I'd read suggested the rake pick would be the easiest pick for amateurs to use. And I'd probably watched the how-to-pick-a-lock videos fifty times. It was dark and I suddenly wished I'd thought about packing a penlight. But it worked out. I managed to fit the tension wrench in the bottom of the keyhole and remembered to maintain a slight amount of tension on the wrench. The wrench would turn and open the lock once the pins were all pushed up. I inserted the rake pick in above the tension wrench and felt for the pins. I jiggled the rake pick upward again and again. Quite suddenly the alarm stopped and there was just the sound of the rain and the moans. The tension wrench moved slightly and I kept moving it clockwise as if I were turning a key to open the door. And then I turned the knob and I was in.
Chapter 5
Gabriel and Lucifer
A fragile and disquieting stillness hovered over the valley. For once I didn't hear the ubiquitous moans drifting through the air, and their absence made for a remarkably quiet morning. I couldn't remember it being this quiet since the crisis began and I didn't trust it. It was an anomaly, a counterfeit calm, like dwelling in the eye of a hurricane. The eerie silence was a temporary reprieve, nothing more, and I found the silence more foreboding than calming.
I sat on a cement back porch underneath a roof-extended awning. A little over a week had passed since I'd first broken into someone's home, and I'd become quite proficient at it. I'd laid the gun next to the back door and had taken my backpack off. I'd set the tension wrench and rake pick in the keyhole. I was waiting for the air conditioning to come on.
The shade on the porch was a welcome relief from the late morning sun. And while it wasn't eleven o'clock yet, the temperature was rising quickly. Quite a change from yesterday's dry wind storm. It had been a bizarre, threatening sort of day. Plenty of roiling clouds along with random thunder and lightning, lots of wind, but not a drop of rain. Today was utterly silent. I
was a surprised the air conditioning hadn't switched on yet, and I wondered if it was even working. But I realized none of the other air conditioning units in the neighborhood had switched on either. I was being impatient. The hum of air conditioners masked the tinkering sounds I made when I picked a lock. And though I was fairly certain there weren't any infected in the vicinity, I wasn't about to take any chances.
The winds from yesterday's storm had cleared out the hazy valley air and had left today's sky an incredibly pristine blue. It was the kind of beautiful day that would prompt college students to play hooky and drive up one of the canyons with a six pack or take a ride to Park City. That was before the virus had turned the world topsy-turvy. Alex and I had occasionally played hooky on days like this when we were in college, usually opting for Park City and a few cold Buds in one of the bars on Main Street. The cooler mountain air was always a nice respite from a hot summer day in the valley.
From the backyard porch, I had a great view of Mount Olympus, the highest peak in the Salt Lake Valley. Its upper third was beautifully stubbled with Ponderosa Pine and Douglas-Fir. The mountains were a verdant green this summer thanks to a generous snowfall from the winter. And even in a deteriorating, apocalyptic world, the mountains were still breathtakingly beautiful. I'd always thought the valley was as Edenlike as any place on earth. The mountains had always been the thing I loved most about living in the Salt Lake Valley. No matter where you were in the valley, you had a view of the mountains, the Oquirrh Mountains to the West and the Wasatch Mountains to the east. The valley was cradled by the mountains in a way that had always felt comforting to me. And, while they were still beautiful, the mountains had become like silent sentinels, keeping everyone trapped in the valley.
*****
The house was perfect. No one was living here. All the curtains and shades were open as if nothing had ever happened, as if everything were still normal. The house had a single lock which would make breaking into the house a piece of cake. I made it a practice to avoid homes with dead bolts or a back door with two locks. As I traveled through the valley, I was shocked at how many homes there were to choose from. It was easy to find homes with a single lock. I also avoided screen doors. Screen doors were too squeaky.
My preference included basements and upstairs. While it was a pain to scout out three floors, basements and upstairs held great advantages. The basement was the safest area as long as it had windows to the backyard that were easy to exit from if the need arose. I found it easy to relax in basements. I could walk around without having to worry about being seen by the infected. As long as I kept the door to the basement closed and locked, basements made for perfectly safe havens. If any infected broke into the home, I could always make a hasty retreat out a back window.
Having an upstairs was important as a lookout in the mornings because I could see further down the street from an upstairs window than I could from a living room picture window. Upstairs windows offered a better angle and a more comprehensive view.
I was drifting in and out of a daydream when the air conditioner switched on. I moved to the back door, making sure the gun was within reach. After my first night out, I'd decided the Glock was the best option in the tight confines of a home. Though a gunshot would draw the infected, I could always escape out the back door and find another home.
I scratched my fingernails against the door panel and waited. If there were infected inside, they'd hear the scratching and be drawn to the source of the noise. After twenty seconds, I scratched the door a second time. Thirty seconds later, I still hadn't heard a thing. Then I worked my magic with the tension wrench and the rake pick. As soon as the tension wrench began to inch upwards, I turned it all the way and unlocked the door. I picked up the Glock, turned the knob, and pushed the door open, letting the door swing open as far as it would go without hitting anything.
The kitchen was empty and I didn't hear any noises outside the persistent hum of the air conditioning. I left the back door partially open in case I needed to leave in a hurry. The kitchen was empty and I moved through it into a hallway junction. The living room was straight ahead, the hallway to the right. I turned right, my gun in a firing-ready position, round in the chamber. These days I kept a round chambered at all times. The hallway was clear. There were two doors to the right. The first door was open and I kept the Glock pointed in its direction. There was a thermostat on the wall and I lowered the setting to sixty degrees to keep the air conditioning going to mask any sounds I might make.
I kept my back pressed against the opposite wall and moved down the hallway. The first door was a bathroom. I stepped closer to get a better view, but there was nothing to see. I guessed the second door to be a bedroom, and I followed the same procedure as I did with the back door. I scratched the door panel and waited. There was only silence. I opened the door and made sure the room was clear. It was a bedroom turned into an office. I went to the computer desk and opened the two drawers and looked to see if there might be anything useful in them.
The first night out, I became a scavenger. I needed bandages for the cut on my face and found them in a medicine cabinet in a dimly lit bathroom on the main floor. The cut was deeper than I'd anticipated. An inch-and-a-half diagonal cut and the skin was separated wider than I liked. After applying Neosporin, I cut the adhesive ends of several band-aids off and used them to help hold the skin of my cheek together. After that, I stuffed the Neosporin and the pack of band-aids in my backpack. That's what got me started. I'd only taken a few things since, an Arizona Diamonds baseball cap to shade my face from the sun, some nose clips for the occasional awful smell, and an extra fully-loaded magazine for the Glock. That was the real prize.
I followed my usual routine and scouted out all three floors. As had always been the case, the house was empty. The fridge had bottled water and plenty of food and the pantry was well stocked. There was a half-empty bottle of Absolut Vodka in the freezer. The couch downstairs was comfy and I found two exit windows in the basement. The house had everything I needed. There was a Camry in the garage and I found the keys in a drawer in the master bedroom. I set the keys on top of the car in case of emergency, though I doubted I'd ever need to use a car. For me, backyards were safer than driving a car. Car sounds would be like a magnet drawing packs of infected to you.
One thing I'd learned in the past week is that every home tells a story. When you scout out homes thoroughly, you learn things about the family that lived there. This house was no different. A middle-class couple, the Petersons, lived here with their daughter, Audrey. The parents looked to be thirtyish, a few years older than me, and they doted on their daughter. She looked to be around six years old.
From the pictures on the mantle, it was easy to tell that this was a happy family. In one picture, Audrey smiled brightly and held up a new Bratz doll for the camera. She had that nurtured sheen that comes from being loved and well-tended. Her bedroom was stocked with dolls and toys and children's books. She had a vanity with jewelry trees sitting atop it along with a closet filled with colorful dresses.
A few small details told me what had happened. The most telling was Audrey's unmade bed and the three items laid out on the nightstand next to her bed. This was a well-kept household. It wasn't the kind of home where beds went unmade. The little girl's unmade bed was strikingly out of place. And then there were the three items on the nightstand. A wash cloth folded into what had likely been a cold compress for Audrey's fever along with a bottle of Children's Tylenol and a glass of water. At first, they likely thought their daughter had simply caught a cold. But once the fever and headaches started, they would have been worried. And by the time her face had thinned and turned gray, they would have been frantic. They probably took her to the nearest hospital or instant care facility. And without them being aware of it, she'd probably infected them too. Maybe from something as simple as a sneeze or maybe from one of them giving her a gentle kiss on her feverish forehead.
I retrieved my backpack from
the back porch and closed and locked the back door. There was multigrain bread in the fridge that was still good, so I fixed myself a sandwich. Black Forest ham with a slice of cheddar cheese and mayo. I had to cut off a moldy corner of the cheese, but the sandwich hit the spot.
After I finished the sandwich, I took my toiletries and set them up in the main floor bathroom. I examined the cut on my cheek in the mirror and was thrilled with how well it had healed. The adhesive strips had done a nice job of keeping the skin together while it was healing. I'd changed the adhesive strips three times a day and had continued to use the Neosporin. The skin was knitting back together nicely and I didn't believe there'd be much of a scar. And then it struck me how ludicrous it was to be concerned about a scar in the midst of the world falling apart. I laughed silently at my misplaced vanity.
After I shaved and washed up, I settled in downstairs. I'd grabbed a dining room table chair and placed it underneath the primary exit window. I made sure the window was unlocked and left the chair underneath it. If I had to, I could get out of the basement in a few seconds. After closing the basement door, I camped out on a buttery-soft leather couch in the family room. I grabbed my iPad and went to Google Maps and planned my itinerary for the following day. I'd decided to stretch my four blocks a day to six. I was more anxious than ever to get out of the valley, and I'd developed an expertise at moving quickly and quietly through the neighborhood backyards. I'd even developed hardened calluses on the palms of my hands from the fence climbing.
Once I'd planned my itinerary, I browsed the internet for the latest info on the infected. Strange how the world can be falling apart, yet the internet buzzes right along. Because FEMA had an emergency plan to keep the electrical grid up and running—put in place because of several devastating hurricanes—about a third of the country still had electricity. As many as a quarter of the websites on the internet were still up and running. And my 4G wireless still worked perfectly. I was scanning the comments section on the news page at Julia Courtney's blog. Before the virus turned the world upside down, Julia ran a popular self-help blog on do-it-yourself alternative healing techniques—self-hypnosis, meditation, Reiki, and EFT (Emotional Freedom Technique). I had originally gone to Julia's blog to learn about meditation. And while I never quite developed a meditative practice, I learned a lot about the importance and effectiveness of breathing deeply.
Apocalypse Journeys (Book 1): Jacob's Odyssey Page 5
