The Wilsons' Saga (Book 1): The Journey Home

by Gibb, Lew

  Rachel’s phone chimed its startup tone. She’d forgotten all about it. The amount of time it had taken to boot up worried her. “Dammit.” No bars. She decided to try calling Jerry anyway. “Maybe it’s just the bad reception here by the mountains.”

  “Or the zombies have taken over the cell towers.” Lisa was backing through the swinging door. “You figure out what you want to say while I’m at the hospital. I’ll be back in a little while.” The door swung closed behind her, and Rachel heard her muffled voice ask Phyllis if she was ready.

  The call wasn’t going through. Rachel pressed end and tried sending a text to Jerry while following Lisa into the main room. “Lisa. It’s not safe out there.”

  Phyllis stood by the front door holding her injured hand against her chest. A large purse dangled from her good arm. “Why not?”

  “Rachel thinks Harold is a zombie.” Lisa opened the front door. “She wants us to barricade the place and hide out.”

  Phyllis stared at Rachel. “A zombie? That’s ridiculous. I agree there’s something wrong with Harold. Maybe the alcohol had an interaction with one of his medications, god knows he takes enough of them, but there’s no such thing as zombies.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her,” Lisa said, guiding Phyllis out the door. “Once I get you taken care of, I’ll come back and try to talk some sense into her.”

  The door slammed behind the them, and Rachel stood alone in the entry hall listening to their heels clatter across the porch and down the stairs. Another siren screeched close by, and she thought there might have been a couple more gunshots, but they were distant and not repeated. She went to the door and locked it, biting her lip as she watched them moving across the lawn toward Lisa’s car.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mike’s screams tore at Jerry’s ears for longer than he thought possible. The sound of his friend dying coupled with the thought of zombies gnawing on his friend’s body had him leaning over the mop sink and emptying his stomach contents into it. After having hurled what seemed like every possible morsel of food and stomach acid into the sink, his saliva glands continued working overtime while his gut clenched and his eyes watered.

  Mike’s last words echoed through his mind as Jerry thought about what he could have done differently. Nothing realistic came to mind that didn’t end in his own death in addition to Mike’s. Even so, he couldn’t stop finding ways to blame himself—for not trying harder to get Mike to wear his jacket; for not acting quicker when the zombies appeared; for not sacrificing himself so his friend might live. Scenes in which Mike survived and the two of them braced the door together and talked about what to do next ran through Jerry’s head on an endless loop while he stared at the congealing puddle of Mike’s blood beside the door. His clothes and hands were covered with Mike’s blood, and the thought that he might already be infected occurred to him, but it wasn’t enough to overcome his depression at the loss of his best friend. He and Mike were two very different people with different backgrounds, but the things they had seen and done together, the people they had saved, and the ones they’d failed to save had brought them together and made them almost like brothers. In some ways they were closer than brothers. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d told Rachel he would take a bullet for the guy. Now he would never have the chance.

  After a long time, he realized every one of the scenarios he could think up in which he saved Mike’s life required Mike to be someone else, someone who was less strong willed, someone Jerry have could convinced to do something Mike had made his mind up not to do. Or someone who believed zombies could actually exist.

  Jerry couldn’t have forced Mike to believe, especially since he hadn’t been a hundred percent sure about the zombies himself until he’d seen his friend being attacked. Still, the guilt and sadness at losing his friend gnawed at him. He couldn’t get over the fact that Mike had sacrificed himself. Jerry didn’t know if he could’ve done what he had to if Mike had turned while they were still in the closet. He silently thanked his friend for saving him from that awful task and resolved that if he survived, he would seek out someone who could designate Mike as a saint.

  Throughout everything, Bob and the company dispatcher continued calling Jerry and Mike’s names over the radio. At least Bob, and hopefully Alicia, had made it. It had actually been her idea to start wearing protective clothing. Jerry had given up trying to answer when his own frantic transmissions—both via his own channel and those used by other agencies—had gone unheard. The hospital walls were most likely preventing him from reaching the outside world. Or maybe smashing the radio against the zombies’ heads had damaged it in some way.

  The company handset radios didn’t work well over long distances under ideal circumstances, and they almost never transmitted successfully from inside hospitals. Interference from the massive amount of wiring within the walls was probably the reason. The phone was no better. He had tried texting and calling every few minutes but never made a connection. Not even a ring tone. The screen just read Connecting with the little timer circle spinning endlessly below.

  About four hours after Mike’s death, Jerry listened in horror to an exponential increase in radio traffic as his company’s resources were overwhelmed by 911 calls. Jerry listened helplessly as his coworkers were dispatched to what sounded like normal calls and then made frantic pleas for help when they were attacked by their patients or others at the scene.

  When he and Bob had talked about how things would go, it always seemed like they would see one or two people shambling down the street and they would then know to avoid them and get to safety. They never envisioned anything like what was actually happening. Walking into a hospital floor full of zombies wasn’t something that had ever occurred to them. No wonder no one else had a clue. Now all he could do was sit in a closet and listen to second-hand sounds of the world dying.

  The chaos continued for several hours, but the amount of radio traffic on his company’s channel decreased as crews either stopped responding from scenes or arrived at area hospitals and were never heard from again. The last voice he heard was the dispatcher’s desperate roll-call of on-duty crews. Jerry hoped they were somewhere safe like he was and the walls just wouldn’t allow their radio traffic to escape.

  Then around seven or eight, radio traffic became nearly nonexistent.

  But then—“Jerry?” Bob’s voice came through loud and clear. “Jerry? If you’re still alive—” His voice caught, and he paused for several seconds. Long enough for Jerry to check his radio to make sure it was still on. HIs friend’s voice was softer when he spoke again. “If you and Mike are still alive, come to the station. Alicia’s here, and a few other people.” Bob sighed into the radio and paused once more. “This thing kind of caught us all by surprise. It happened so fast. Way faster than we thought. We barely made it back here ourselves. Anyway, we’re here, waiting for you.” Jerry thought Bob had finished and was about to turn the radio off to save the battery when Bob’s voice, sounding more emotional than Jerry had ever heard it, came through one more time. “I believe in you guys. If anyone can make it back up here, I know It’ll be you guys. Just don’t give up, all right? You get yourselves up here, and we’ll see you real soon. Okay?”

  Jerry turned the unit off after that. Without the static-laced voices of people Jerry probably wouldn’t ever see again to keep them motivated, the zombies seemed to lose interest in pounding on the door to his sanctuary. The silence was actually a relief. He kept trying to contact Rachel, but the only response to his texts and call attempts was the endless spinning circle.

  The message from Bob brought Jerry back to reality. The world he had known was dying, and he felt a real physical sense of free fall. The very bedrock of their world, electricity, would soon be gone without people to feed coal into the boilers. And then everything, like the cellular network—and the radios that used the same cellular network, he now realized—electric light, refrigeration, even gas pumps, would be gone in a
matter of hours. And then the apocalypse would get even worse for the people who were left.

  Jerry’s eyes felt like dry and scratchy, like someone had thrown a handful of sawdust in them. The adrenaline his body had been dumping into his system over the past hours was wearing off, and his body cried out for sleep. He had to make a conscious effort to move his arms and legs. Bottles of cleaning fluid were scattered among the boxes of latex gloves and bandaging supplies he had swept off the shelf that was now keeping the zombies out. The towels he had used to soak up Mike’s blood were piled in the corner. He realized he should check himself for bites. In the chaos of the zombie attack he couldn’t remember being bitten, but he’d seen too many accident victims who hadn’t realized they’d had major injuries to trust his own memory.

  He removed his jacket and examined his hands and arms before lifting his pant legs. He checked his jacket for holes and felt around the places he couldn’t see for wounds. He wondered what difference it made at this point. His friend was gone, and he was miles away from home with no idea where his wife was or even if she was still a human being.

  Jerry grabbed a few more cleaning towels and made a pillow. He curled up under the mop sink, as far away from the door as he could get. Thoughts of Rachel and the dogs started to circulate through his head.

  Chapter Twenty

  Rachel had watched through the window beside the mansion’s front door as Lisa backed Phyllis’s car out of its spot by the front stairs. Light from the crescent moon filtered through the poplars lining the property’s southern border, and the shadows produced a series of dark fingers that reached across the gravel driveway toward Lisa’s car.

  “I wish she would have listened,” Rachel whispered.

  As the car came to a stop right in front of the stairs, Phyllis and Lisa were visible through the car’s window, their mouths shaping words Rachel couldn’t hear.

  “Don’t stop,” Rachel said. “What are you waiting for?” Her eyes darted around the yard.

  A figure appeared from the poplars at the property’s edge and moved, unnoticed by the two women, toward the car. Rachel’s mouth dried out, and she bit her top lip. The figure materialized into a large man in shorts and a dark hoodie running with straight legs and arms flailing at his sides like a toddler just learning to run.

  The big zombie hit the car without slowing down, and Rachel heard the thud through the mansion’s oak door. Both women jumped in their seats and stared wide-eyed at their attacker. Lisa’s fingers seemed frozen around the wheel while the man hammered the passenger window with both fists. Phyllis recoiled with her hands raised, palms out, like she was trying to prevent the window from shattering by sheer force of will. Her mouth was open wide in a scream that Rachel couldn’t hear.

  “Come on. Come on.” Rachel snapped the deadbolt open and gripped the doorknob. When the car didn’t move, she twisted the knob and pulled the door partway open. If the man managed to break the window, no way was she letting him get Phyllis and Lisa while she stood by and watched. She scanned the porch and surrounding lawn for a weapon. Nothing inside. She thought about running to the kitchen for a knife. Or her pistol. There wouldn’t be time. The coat rack was still on the ground next to Harold’s body. It would have to do.

  Lisa’s head snapped from their attacker to the driveway and back, her eyes wide with fear. Finally, she released her grip on the wheel and grabbed the stick shift. The grinding transmission sounded like a blender full of rocks. The car lurched forward several feet and stopped dead. The zombie sidestepped with the car, still hammering the window with both fists. The engine’s whine pierced Rachel’s ears, and the car lurched forward again, spraying rocks and building speed.

  Rachel closed the door and released her hold on the handle. Her forehead thumped against the window. The Mercedes sped down the driveway with the original man and three neighbor zombies who had appeared through the foliage along the edge of the property in hot pursuit. They all ran the same way—at a fast, uncoordinated jog, like marathon runners who hit the wall hard but were still trying to finish the race, faster than any shambling movie zombie. The two men had bodies like well-conditioned runners accentuated by their typical Boulder attire—cargo shorts and long-sleeved t-shirts with Teva sandals. Both appeared uninjured. A beautiful, blonde-haired woman in a purple-and-red sundress brought up the rear. Somehow, her beauty made her staggering gait and the large bleeding wound on her shoulder more disturbing. The gang had followed Lisa’s car around the corner and disappeared into the night.

  Rachel pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed Jerry’s number. He hadn’t answered any of her earlier calls, but she had thought he was just too busy. Now, she hoped it wasn’t because he couldn’t answer. She couldn’t believe only a couple of hours ago everything had seemed normal and she and Lisa had been getting ready to serve dinner.

  It took a long time before the ring tone finally sounded, scratchy and distorted, ringing and ringing but never going to voice mail.

  Rachel finally gave up and tried sending a text. The little clock icon remained center-screen and spun for what seemed like minutes, mocking her misplaced faith in fragile technology until she gave up and returned the phone to her pocket. The thought of Jerry trapped in some massive zombie traffic jam like the one she and Lisa had watched earlier or in a hospital full of zombies brought a groan of despair to her lips, and her eyes welled with tears. She moved into the dining room and gazed out the large window occupying most of the mansion’s front wall.

  The porch light threw deep shadows, obscuring the area beyond the massive juniper bushes surrounding the mansion. More than once, she flinched as she mistook swaying poplar trees lining the property for zombies coming to attack the house. Twice, hyperactive reflexes had her two steps into the interior of the house before her mind translated what she was actually seeing. She had to remind herself to breathe and take a moment to let her heart stop pounding before she could edge her way up to the window again.

  Rachel pressed a hand against the glass, watching the shadows for approaching zombies and listening to the sporadic gunfire and sirens until the reflection of her tear-streaked face in the glass made her realize she was making a target of herself for any passing zombie. Rachel wiped the tears with the tail of her shirt and shook her head before she grabbed the curtains and drew them closed. Her body went cold when she realized there were windows and doors that were still unlocked.

  Rachel hustled through the ground floor, turning off lights and securing windows and doors as she went, remembering that locks were for honest people. If a zombie or a marauder—she didn’t think the term was so funny now—wanted in, a flimsy little lock wouldn’t stop them. The big old house that had felt so warm and comforting in the past seemed dangerous now and held far too many hiding places. At least the locked doors and windows would force whoever wanted in to make a little noise. Unless they’re already inside. The thought made her hug herself and shiver. She imagined zombies crouching behind the large, overstuffed couches of the grand salon or lying in wait behind doors or in the closets. The slightest creak made her stop and listen for the sound of breaking glass or footsteps on the porch. Before leaving a room, Rachel checked behind every door and piece of furniture. She even looked behind the curtains, as if a zombie would be smart enough to conceal itself until the right moment. Actually, she didn’t know what they could do. Until she knew more, better safe than sorry seemed to be the way to go.

  When the house was as secure as she could make it, she returned to the kitchen and pushed through the swinging door. The flickering TV in the corner showed only static. The remote was still on the prep table where Lisa had left it. Rachel checked her phone again and grabbed the remote. It was after ten, and there was still no message from Jerry. Lisa and Phyllis had already been gone almost an hour when Rachel pointed the remote at the TV and started flipping through channels. Two local stations showed empty news studios, their pristine stages completely devoid of life, while the others transmit
ted only static. Rachel shivered as she read the banner scrolling beneath the picture of one empty studio:

  MASS HYSTERIA GRIPS GLOBE

  Followed by:

  Cannibalism!

  The words ran across the screen, one after the other, chasing themselves in an endless loop. Rachel shivered, and the hair on her arms stood on end. Somehow the words brought the situation into focus for her.

  “It’s all happening,” She whispered. “Just like Jerry said.” Too bad she had made him sell the generator after the anticipated power failures from the change of the millennium failed to materialize. It would happen now the way Jerry said it would then. The only difference would be the reason. When people stopped feeding coal into the boilers, either because they were zombies or had decided to run like the people at the party, the electricity would be gone in a matter of a few hours. If the static from the news stations or tonight’s dinner were any indication of what was going on in the rest of the world, it wouldn’t take long.

  Many of the cable channels seemed to be operating as if nothing unusual was happening, capitalism running on autopilot. TV personalities screamed about the benefits of oxygenated detergents and hawked magical towels for drying cars between Full House reruns and History Channel shows about the Second World War. Their automated programming would continue selling, even when no one could buy their products. When she’d surfed back around to the station with the headline about cannibalism, Rachel stared at what she now knew was last news broadcast and the last TV of any kind she would ever see.