Nadia nodded with pride. Flying scoundrels across war zones, she had learned to keep an ace or two up her sleeve.
“We need to go to Spring Valley, just past Westlands. Not far, but far enough to run into trouble, if you know what I mean. And we need to be quick. I will show you the way.“ Tom got back to business.
"Things are not the way they used to be, Sir. Some roads we can go, others we can’t. You will see.” Nero glanced back at him with a look of pity. “I know you want to see your family. And with God’s assistance, we will make it so.”
Tom hadn’t realized how obvious his plight had become but admired Nero for picking up the vibe of urgency. The kind that only came with family emergencies. He turned the dented vehicle around, its wheels wobbling and fan belt screeching as it gained speed.
“If we stick to the side streets, we should be Ok,” Nero yelled over the engine noise. “The army took over as soon as the government realized it would not win this fight. Most people were evacuated, but you know security forces…and the police. They just wanted everyone’s things, so they did nothing to help. People went down Mombasa road. There was a rumour that a safe zone would be established in the Machakos, but most did not even make it out of the city.”
“Why is that?” Papillon shouted, trying to forget about the pain that shot through his back and knees with every pothole.
“You know Nairobi?” Nero laughed. He turned around, taking his eyes off the road, and Tom quickly reached for the wheel.
“Traffic is bad every day. Very, very bad. But when there is an emergency? Forget about moving even an inch.” Nero grinned.
“So everyone is heading out of town. Towards the ‘safe zone’ as they had announced. Only now they find themselves on Mombasa road, looking at each other in the longest traffic jam in Nairobi history. Some are already sick. Now Mombasa Road is one big graveyard. For cars and for people. Well, for those that didn’t come back, anyway.”
“What did the army do?” Tom frowned, at the same time, relieved that Nero was back focusing on the road ahead.
The minibus was now traveling at a snail’s pace. 'Better that,' he figured, than disappearing in one of the enormous potholes along the pockmarked roads.
“The army? They did what they always do. They stood by and waited. I mean, how can you kill something that is already dead? Facebook went crazy with all kinds of stories about how you could catch the disease. Rumours of witchcraft went round. People were scared. Nobody wanted to go near the problem.”
“And what about the UN, other agencies…the Americans, the Brits?”
It had been a while since he had had an update of any kind, and the questions in Tom’s head certainly outweighed the answers. Nero took a left turn, then another sharp right, narrowly avoiding a broken-down truck. They were now skirting Kibera to the left. Rows of shipping containers had been dropped along the road, effectively blocking every entrance into and egress out of the slums. The road ahead, as it were, was surprisingly clear, devoid of cars, people, the dead, and even debris. Nero noticed the puzzled look on his passengers’ faces.
“We are on Mbagathi Way. The disease moved quickly through Kibera and other slums. The government was helpless, so they decided to do this.”
Pointing at the shipping containers, he shook his head in disgust.
“With the bypass leading straight through Kibera, the rich and powerful quickly found out that they were stuck over there in Karen. The government cleared the roads so that the rich had emergency access to the airport. That was until Mombasa Rd became a junkyard.”
It made sense, Tom thought, watching the endless rows of containers move past in slow motion as the minibus struggled uphill.
Most of the high-level politicians lived in the greenery of Karen, away from the pollution of the inner city. There, old colonial houses with meticulously manicured gardens mingled with newly constructed palaces of the Kenyan elite. The MO of the rich and influential never changed. Sitting at the center of otherwise heavily controlled information networks, these people would have seen the virus coming a mile away and made it a priority to ensure their safe exit.
The last census had put Kibera slum’s population at roughly 750,000 people. Low-income earners, the homeless, and the hopeless, all herded into two square miles of sodden, hilly terrain, the ramshackle huts packed together so tightly that they virtually formed one giant rusty rooftop. It was one of the most crowded places on the planet, and now likely one of the biggest graveyards, or was that walking graveyards? If misery had to be given any other name, it would have been Kibera. There were, of course, other slums dotted about Nairobi. In fact, the 2.5 Million dwellers in places like Mathare, Kayole, Dandora, Kawangware and any other of the 13 or so formally tagged ‘slums,’ living next door to their comparatively affluent co-citizens with their malls, shopping arcades and luxury condos, made up 60% of Nairobi’s total population.
Tom couldn’t help but wonder what happened to these other areas, which, by virtue of location, would have had far less of a priority status.
“As for the UN and the Americans, one left, and the other never came.” Nero laughed out loud, his aviator sunglasses dancing on his nose to the rhythmic chuckle.
As they reached the top of the hill, he slowed the van down even further. Eventually stopping near a small strip mall, he turned and addressed the group.
“This is the end of the protected corridor they established. From here, things might look a bit different, so keep your eyes open. I am saying ‘might look different’ because from what I have seen, no two days are ever the same. The sick people, they are not fast, but they do move around a bit. So one day a road is clear and the next you better not go there. So, which way are we going now, Sir?”
He turned to Tom, who was trying to jog his memory as best as he could, given the little time he had spent in Nairobi before heading out. From their present vantage point, they could see all the way from the high rises of the city center over to Westlands with its shopping centers and high-end restaurants.
“Westlands,” Tom pointed to the east, “And then onto Spring Valley.”
“That is going to cost you. It might not be far, but at the same time, it is like saying you want to go to the moon.” Nero whistled through gritted teeth.
“Well, will you do it? Take us, I mean.”
Tom wasn’t worried about cash. If that was what Nero was after, he knew there was enough in the safe at home. But looking over the terrain and hearing Nero’s words, he was certain that continuing on foot was simply not an option. Given their previous pace, it would take them days, if not weeks, not to mention finding safe spots and moving from shelter to shelter along the way.
“You can name your price now or later, it doesn’t matter to me.”
Able to demand whatever he wanted, Tom knew Nero held the bigger leverage. But the hustler in the Nairobian would not deny the opportunity to raise the price at a later stage. Especially not if things turned out to be as difficult as Nero had just stated.
“We can talk about it later. I can see you are good for it.” Nero winked.
Tom smirked. ‘Never bullshit a bullshitter.’
“For now, we will hang around here for a while.”
Nero swung the minibus around and turned into the parking lot of a small assembly of shops right where the shipping containers ended. Tom was confused.
“What do you mean, ‘we hang around for a while’? We have to get to where we are going and get there fast!”
Nero, having found a spot facing the road in the shade of a large billboard, pulled the handbrake and shut off the engine. His expression had turned dark.
“I know you do. And believe me, I will do everything to get you there. But right now, it is not the safest time of day to travel, which is why I was in South C in the first place. Because it’s deserted, quiet.”
He turned, facing the group, only to find five faces eagerly waiting for his explanation, looking back at him.
“I don’t think I am giving you breaking news when I say that Nairobi has a lot of crime.” Nero began, for the first time lifting his sunglasses, revealing a scar.
A cut had slashed from his eyebrow downward, blinding his left eye and terminating just above his cheekbone, giving him a menacing appearance. A frightened David hid his face in Gautier’s chest, who reassuringly put his arm around the boy.
“Crime which is organized by gangs. Gangs that used to control certain neighbourhoods, but which now roam the entire city. They scavenge during the day, and they party at night in their reinforced compounds. I have seen them. I have been there. They shoot anything that moves, whether you are one of these sick people or not.”
He put his sunglasses back on and pointed towards the city.
“You see the tall building down there, the one that looks a bit like it should be in New York? It’s UAP Tower, one of their observation posts. From there, they can just about see anything in any direction and coordinate their units.”
Tom squinted, trying to focus on the building’s façade.
“What about the walking corpses? Seems to me we should be worried about those. After all, there are more of them.” Papillon grunted from the rear, wedged in between the seat and the footwell and increasingly uncomfortable. Nero slowed his speech as if he were talking to a child.
“Yes, there are. But they don’t shoot at you from 300 meters, don’t know how to use an RPG and certainly don’t drive around in technicals with very big guns. We can drive around the dead, but we cannot outdrive a bullet.
“Ok, OK,” Tom interjected, seeing rage rise within the giant behind him.
The last thing they needed was Papillon wringing the neck of the only person that knew this place like the back of their hand.
“I hear you, and we will follow your lead. You clearly have more local knowledge, and we are grateful for it. But regarding the dead and RPGs”, and at that, he winked at Papillon, “let’s just say we will park that one for another occasion. It’s a long story.”
It was almost midday and temperatures soared. The atmosphere inside the old van, its interior including the seats bearing the wear, tear and stains from years of urban commutes, was rapidly becoming unbearable.
“I have to get out of here.” Papillon huffed, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “It stinks!”
He pulled back the sliding door, and a hot breeze rushed through the van, bringing but the briefest reprieve. Meanwhile, Nero had his feet up on the dashboard and a baseball cap drawn into his face.
“You can go have a look around. It should be Ok if you don’t wander off too far. I have been here several times now and never seen one of the sick people.”
“Stop calling them sick people!” An annoyed Nadia rebuked, her uniform sweat-soaked and her wet hair clinging to her head. “They are not sick, they are bloody dead. D.E.A.D. No doctor will ever bring them back.”
And with that, she joined Papillon, who had wasted no time getting out of the van.
“I know,” Nero shrugged, resolutely pulling his cap deep into his face. “But I am an optimist.”
They spent the next few hours rifling through the handful of stores and local fast food outlets. They had all been looted, but here and there still offered a find. After all, there was nothing to do but pass the time until the sun was low enough, and daylight had sufficiently faded for them to move.
Amadou, their self-appointed look-out, sat at one of the restaurant tables outside, cradling his AK and enjoying the shade of a large umbrella. As long as they weren't running around outside too much, there would be little chance of discovery. After a while, even Nero joined them and likewise foraged for anything eatable or usable. Tom found a delivery map behind the counter of ‘Pizza Pizza’ and began studying the tattered paper as best as he could.
They only had another six or so miles to go. In many ways, this was nothing compared to the distance they had already covered. Yet, under the circumstances, distance hardly mattered. At least not as a measure of risk. If they chose the right route though - and this would much depend on Nero’s input - Tom figured they could get there mostly traversing less populated areas. Areas with commercial and government buildings were likely to have shut down early in the piece and less likely to feature large groups of corpses. They would still need to cross Waiyaki Way. A direct extension of Mombasa Rd and practically the only arterial route through Westlands, it would be just as congested. Tom shuddered. For now, they would cross, or burn, that bridge when they got there. In any case, straight through, it was the only direction if he wanted to see Julie and Anna anytime soon.
“No preservatives, mon cul!” Papillon emerged from the storeroom, using his index finger to scoop out remnants of tomato sauce from a large jar.
“This stuff has every chemical in the book in it. But it does taste quite delicious. Try?”
He held over the jar while licking his finger. Tom politely declined.
“I am glad you found some sustenance, big guy. You crack on. I’ll take my chances at the next stop.”
A few minutes later, Nadia walked through the door, and for a moment, they barely recognized her. Wearing a long black wig and a colourful African-pattern top, she almost looked like she belonged.
“Hey, beautiful,” Papillon joked, licking out the rim of the sauce jar. “The ’70s called: they want their clothes back!”
“I see our big baby has found its din-dins. Enjoy!” Nadia just flicked back her long hair, turned on her heel, and cat-walked out of the shop.
“Your charm is just irresistible!” Tom laughed at the Frenchman.
“Don’t worry, I know she likes me.”
Papillon tossed the empty jar and went back to the storeroom to get another.
CHAPTER 4
By now, it was close to 5 pm, and Tom was getting antsy. He was just about to knock on the Matatu’s door when Nero popped up from below the driver's window.
“Yep, time to go. The sun will be in our backs, so it will be hard for them to spot us, even if they try.”
Tom started to appreciate the young Kenyan’s street smarts, a skill set that he appeared to have refined since the chaos began. It didn’t take long to assemble the group. Fashion sense had hardly mattered, and a change of clothes had been welcomed by all, with the exception of Papillon, whose quadruple XL size meant he had to leave empty-handed. Wearing some of the clothes had remained on the shelves of the upper story boutiques, with even the looters shying away from the mishmash of colour and outlandish styles, they now looked decidedly different.
Sitting in Nero’s minivan covered in graffiti from Manchester United and the Playboy bunny to a distorted depiction of Jesus, they now looked more like a troupe of entertainers on the way to a gig. It took a moment for the giggles to subside as they looked each other up and down, joking about their new appearances. It was when Nero started the engine that they fell silent. Once again, they would face the unknown and the uncertainty that came with a city that was crawling with the shambling creatures each one of them by now had learned to both fear and loathe.
“At least there is no way I could mistake you guys for one of those things now.” Papillon quipped and chambered his M4.
He flicked the safety, aimed it out one of the small sliding windows and peered through its laser sight. The others followed suit, each readying their weapons and themselves for what encounters lay ahead.
Nero pulled the van back onto the road. Maintaining a slow but deliberate speed, he started driving north. Again mirroring the main thoroughfares via side streets, he navigated with an uncanny knowledge of shortcuts at times as astounding as normally illegal. Within a couple minutes’ drive, they came upon the first small cluster of staggering dead.
Gathered around the front entrance of a pharmacy, bloodied hands pounded against security-grilled windows. Their insatiable desire for a taste of flesh was as palpable as the teeming rage with which they pursued it. Someone or something was still inside. The first heads
already turned as the van approached. Nero remained steadfast, keeping the vehicle straight and increasing speed just enough not to get stalled among them.
A woman in her 30s extended an arm full of bite marks. Scalp peeled back, revealing nothing but rotten skin, her fatal encounter had left her with deep gashes down the face and neck. She let out an angry screech as the vehicle passed, and her prey sped away. Tom looked into the review mirror and frowned. The other creatures had turned around as well. Momentarily forgetting about their immediate objective, some were changing course altogether and now pursued the minibus with unsteady gait.
“We’re a driving corpse-magnet.” Tom cursed.
He gritted his teeth. Their present mode of transport had brought with it a whole new set of risks. Risks they had never had to worry about in the armoured personnel carrier. Now, sitting in what was little more than a moving fishbowl, even smaller groups of walking corpses would become a serious threat. Nero slammed his foot on the breaks, derailing Tom’s train of thought.
They had rounded a corner, taking yet another dubious shortcut through the backlot of a medical center. Now they found themselves staring into at least several dozen dead eyes less than 30 meters ahead. For a moment, the corpses stood with their mouths agape, as surprised as the passengers inside Nero’s van. Then rotten teeth began to chomp, and outstretched arms reached for the box of human goodies. Tom tensed, pushing himself back into the seat. Nero frantically stomped around the footwell, trying to engage the clutch, while trying to pull the gearstick into reverse.
“Now’s good…” Tom hissed, retrieving his Glock.
The creatures began their advance. Slow and uncoordinated at first, their stagger increased with every second their target remained static. Nero swiped away his sunglasses and yanked at the gear lever, but to no avail. The transmission screamed. Everyone winced. Then metal ground on metal.
“NOW IS GOOD!” Tom shouted as the first of the shamblers arrived.
The Virophage Chronicles (Book 2): Dead Hemisphere [Keres Rising] Page 5
