by Jeremy Dyson
I spot Chet and Quentin in one of the helicopters on the building, and we hurry over. One of the soldiers is leaning into Quentin's ear and telling him something that makes him smile. Chet sits in the chopper while a medic bandages the bite wound on his arm.
"What's going on?" I ask Quentin.
"We got lucky," he says. "They didn't even know we were here. Just stopped because of all the food in this place.”
That explains what they are still doing inside. We get into the helicopter and Quentin tells me it was some kind of stealth Blackhawk, which is why we didn't notice until they were on top of us.
"Why were they bombing us?" I ask him.
"They weren't trying to bomb us. They were sealing off the points of entry to keep more corpses from getting in."
As I watch the soldiers start coming out, burdened with boxes of food, Quentin tells us the rest of the details he's heard from the military.
"They are taking us back to Great Lakes Naval Station. It's safe there. They are fighting back. They’re going to take back the city block by block. They had people just start showing up yesterday, so the whole place turned into a refugee camp. It's fortified for five blocks all the way to lake shore. Hospital and everything. They got power and running water, too."
It sounds too good to be true. After the last 36 hours, I have a hard time believing that any place is safe anymore. I think of all those people around us at the racetrack when this whole thing started, how many didn't make it. The naval station can't be any worse than what we've already been through.
We lift off and I watch the building recede below us. Once we are in the air, I can see the massive amount of undead surrounding the building now, drawn to all the activity. I notice the Mercedes is gone from the back of the building. I guess Dom made it out of there after all. In some ways, I don’t blame her for looking out for herself. But she better hope she never sees my face again.
Nine
The sun sets at our backs as we fly low and fast to the darkening east. I started off just trying to get home, to find my family. Instead, I find myself steadily being pulled farther away from everything that matters. My old life is just a memory, turning to ashes as quickly as the burning city I watch below. Entire neighborhoods are still blazing. Cinders coil into the sky from a building across the expressway, and then it collapses before my eyes. There are so many signs on the rooftops of houses. Most just say HELP or ALIVE. Some of these buildings are on fire as well, and clearly, whoever was alive to make those signs isn't alive anymore.
The Chicago skyline comes into view, just a silhouette of a city against the cooling sky. Looking at it gives me a chill. Instead of the usual electric glow of the city, there are only the fires. One building, maybe the television network, is like a giant torch in the sky. Near the airport, a jetliner that crash-landed on the highway left a smoldering trail of carnage.
The Blackhawk banks and my stomach turns. I start to feel sick. I lean over and throw up on the floor. Everyone looks at me but says nothing. It might be that I have never flown in a helicopter before, but I think something else is what is really making me sick. The scent of things that should never burn fills my nostrils. It's the smell of chemicals, rubber, plastic, and flesh roasting together in an acrid symphony. It's even worse up here in the air.
Finally, the lakeshore spreads before me. The dark surface of the water is massive. The lake extends to the horizon and suddenly vanishes into the night sky. It’s like I am looking at the edge of the earth. I know that science would say this is not possible, but neither is dead people that get up and walk around.
We touch down in the middle of an oval track. No one is jogging around it anymore. It has become a small airfield for any aircraft that can manage a landing. Aside from the helicopters, there is a handful of recreational aircraft, a small commuter plane, and a couple of fighter jets.
We step onto the ground amidst a flurry of activity. A refrigerated truck rolls up behind the last helicopter and the soldiers hustle to load up the food. An officer in a pressed white uniform and white hat pulls up in a golf cart and immediately approaches Quentin and leans close to his ear to say something over the noise of the vehicles. The officer waves us over indicating we should get in the golf cart. He stops Chet and points him to an ambulance up near the other end of the track.
Quentin slides in the front seat with the officer, while Danielle and I face the opposite way in the back. We exit the track to a parking lot overloaded with cars, tents, and exhausted looking people. They mill around and choke on the smoky air.
I turn and ask the officer where we are going.
"Captain Black's office is just up ahead," he says, pointing out a long, white four-story building to the left. I remember seeing it as we approached through the air. Snipers perch along the rooftop at intervals, and spotlights sweep across a marble courtyard surrounded by manicured trees and shrubs. From the Blackhawk, I'd seen the giant red and gold star emblazoned into the center of the grounds, lit up like a beacon by the spotlights as though it signified something important. Maybe it just made the place easier for the pilots to find.
I want to ask who Captain Black is, but Quentin looks back and tells me.
"My father." He smiles, an expression I haven't seen on anyone recently. "He's alive."
We follow the officer through the clean lobby, up two flights of stairs and down a long, bright hallway. He taps a couple of times on the window before leading us in. Captain Black, a taller, older version of his son rises behind his desk. He has dark circles around his eyes. An ashtray full of cigarettes sits next to an empty mug with half a dozen brown rings staining the interior. Quentin steps around the desk, and his father stands up and holds out his hand for Quentin to shake. Quentin looks down at the hand before him as though it held a losing wager slip. Then he grips the hand and returns his father's gaze.
"I knew you would be okay," says Captain Black. "I never doubted my boys would round you up eventually, and here you are." His tone is almost condescending, as though he alone was responsible for his son being alive. To think of what he had gone through to get here, to the only person he had left in the world, and greeted with a handshake. It made me dislike the man immediately.
"Good to see you too, sir," says Quentin.
Sir? The sudden change in Quentin is striking. He stands more rigid and upright as though at constant attention. I try to catch his eyes but notice they only glaze over everything, as if he is subconsciously trying to avoid seeing everything around him. My hands clench as I watch. We could all be dead tomorrow. This old man has the chance to reunite with his child against all odds, and yet, he seems indifferent.
"Have a seat, please," he says to me and Danielle and gestures to a few chairs across the desk. "I suppose I owe you two my gratitude as well for helping my son along the way."
"Not at all," I say. "If anything, Quentin saved our asses more than a few times."
"Very good," he grumbles. "My boy always means well." He sits back and retrieves a box of cigarettes from the desk. He puts one between his teeth and brings a flame to it as he takes a long draw. He continues to talk to Danielle and me directly, acting as though his son were but another piece of furniture in the office.
"Welcome to Great Lakes. I am sure you both must have a lot of questions, most of which I can't answer, so I will just brief you on our status." He paused to take another long drag from the cigarette.
"This installation represents the only territory under government control in the state. We have running water, and power to four of our primary buildings. We have fortified the area from Nimitz hospital to the lakeshore, approximately fifteen square miles. However, we have suffered heavy casualties in the process. About four thousand of our active duty personnel are still ready for action. Though that same number are injured, and nearly twice that many killed in action or missing and presumed dead."
"We have a civilian population close to ten thousand. If they can make it here, we let them in. Howe
ver, we do not have the assets needed for any search and rescue operations. All our operational resources are deployed for perimeter security or procurement of provisions. To be blunt, we have more mouths than we are equipped to feed."
He pauses to suck on the cigarette again.
"Our next initiative is to reorient our civilian population to combat support roles. This is the only way to maintain the troop levels needed for security. Everyone here must learn to fight, every man, woman, and child. That being said, I am glad to have you all on board here."
He tapped out the cigarette in the ashtray and rose to indicate the completion of his briefing.
"Does anyone have any idea what's causing this?" asks Danielle.
"That's not something I can answer. I am just a soldier, Miss..."
"Danielle," she says.
"Danielle. All we know for sure is that it isn't some infection. The initial fears of a spreading pandemic only exacerbated the situation. It is, as of now, still an unexplained occurrence.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she insists.
“I told you everything I know,” he sighs.
"How can we find out if someone is here?" I ask him.
"We have yet to establish a protocol to document incoming personnel. Frankly, it's low on the list of priorities. It's not such a big place. If you ask around you will find them. Assuming they are here, of course." He tries on a smile, but it doesn't fit well. Instead, he just tugs at his tie like the collar of his shirt is too tight. He shuffles a stack of reports into a folder with a classified stamp across the front of it to politely indicate our time is up, but I have more questions.
"Do you have contact with other outposts? What about Washington?" I ask. "Is it this bad everywhere?"
The last question seems to make him wince. He places the folder down on the desk and stares down at it a moment before he composes his response.
"This is as good as it gets right now. I lost a lot of good men just holding this place together. A lot of good men. Those bureaucrats, trapped in their bunkers under Washington, they can't save anyone now. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work here. Lt. Commander Reynolds will show you to your quarters so you can get cleaned up and rested, and he will be available tomorrow to help you get situated."
We rose from our chairs and started towards the hall. Quentin stopped to give the Captain a salute before closing the door, which his father acknowledged with a slight nod and a sigh.
"Your dad is kind of an asshole," whispers Danielle.
"No shit," says Quentin. "I been saying that to him for years."
I can't help feeling like this place will never become a refuge or stronghold. Maybe just the future site of humanity's last stand. I don't want to acknowledge it, but I am clinging to the hope that I might actually find my wife or daughter here. I know the odds are pretty slim of that happening, but even if it's unlikely, it's not impossible. I have to look. I am exhausted, but I know I won't be able to sleep until I have looked everywhere for them.
Ten
Lieutenant Commander Reynolds brings the golf cart to a stop at a building around the corner. It looks to be a large barracks. Several soldiers sit on the front steps and eye us as we follow the sergeant through the glass doors to the lobby. He presses a button to call the elevator.
"This building is the only housing with power, air conditioning, and hot water," he tells us. "It only houses the soldiers, but with all the casualties it is essentially half empty."
"I don't understand why all those people are stuck outside if there is space here," I say.
Reynolds pushes a pair of round glasses up the bridge of his nose. "The captain thought it would be best to reserve these facilities for those civilians that volunteer for service. Sort of an extra incentive. For now, you can all enjoy your own rooms for the night. Tomorrow Captain Black is looking to begin recruiting from the civilians."
The doors slide open, and we ride up to the third floor. We emerge in the middle of a long, narrow hallway with white utilitarian walls and identical pine doors every ten feet. The rooms are differentiated by the simple black numbers above the peepholes. The sergeant leads us down to room 362 and opens the door with a plastic key card.
"This will be you, sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"It's Blake."
"Blake. You can just call me James.” He hands me the plastic key card. “Showers are down at the end of the hall. If you need anything, I am down in room 101, right next to the lobby. Your friends will be next door in 364 and 366." He points to Quentin and Danielle in sequence to the room numbers. "The other fellow in your group will be at the hospital this evening."
I walk inside and eye the simple desk and chair in front of the window, flanked on both sides by a twin bed. A locker at the foot of each bed, with a sticky residue still on the empty nameplate.
I turn to see Reynolds retreating to the hall, pulling closed the door behind him. I walk over to one of the beds and sit down. The look at the indented pillow. It reminds me I am using a dead man's bed and I forget my urge to sleep. I get back up and lean over the desk, turning the blinds to see out the window. The view is a side view of the marble courtyard with the star and the headquarters is off to the left. I glimpse my faint reflection in the window pane, covered in dust and grime from the explosions earlier. I stare at my hands, noticing the sooty gray layer over my skin. I go to the bathroom and flinch at the reflection in the mirror. I look like a corpse. Dried blood has crusted around a few minor scrapes on my forehead and neck. My hair is greasy and powdered with filth. I run the sink and wash my hands, splash water on my face. Black fluid is what goes back down the drain.
I unbutton my shirt and fill the sink again with fresh water and some hand soap from a plastic container next to the faucet. I have a white undershirt on, and I peel this off and rinse it out in the sink, too. Then I hang both shirts up to dry in the locker. I find a gray t-shirt with U.S. NAVY in blue letters across the chest. I debate putting it on, but instead, I lay it on the back of the chair by the desk and sit on the bed. I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and look at the shattered screen. I set it down on the desk. Then I pick it back up and toss it in the wastebasket on the floor. In the quiet room, I stare at the round white face of an old alarm clock on the desk and only hear the sounds of sporadic machine gun fire from the distant front lines. It's almost ten at night now. About 40 hours from when this all started. Just 40 hours. It had seemed like an eternity.
A knock on my door startles me. I get up from the bed and open it and find Danielle in the hallway.
"I'm sorry," she says. I catch her glancing at my chest, and then she blushes and looks down. She is wearing an identical shirt to the one I found in the locker in my room. Her hair is still dripping wet, and I can see a puffy bruise at the top of her forehead. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"It's okay. I wasn't asleep," I tell her. I move aside to let her in the room. "Is everything okay?"
"Oh, yeah," she says. "I just don't know if I can be alone right now."
"I know what you mean." I should be tired, but my thoughts keep my mind moving. I retrieve the shirt from the chair back and pull it on.
"I want to stop thinking about everything that is happening, but I can't. It's all I can do when I am alone." She punctuates her last thought with a sigh.
"I was about to go out and have another look around. I'd appreciate some company if you're up for it."
I can tell she knows the reason I want to look around. She looks at me a moment, and I suppose she is deciding if I actually want company, or if I feel obligated to let her stay with me.
"I know they probably aren't out there, but I have to look for them anyway."
"Of course," she says. "I'm glad to help you look."
We go down the elevator to the first floor and head for the door to the front steps. There are still several soldiers hanging around the outside of the entrance, smoking and drinking beers. They don't seem as bothered as th
e civilians we encountered. I overhear a soldier wearing a cowboy hat telling a story about the time someone named Jervis accidentally shot a camel.
"All that shit we were in, and the only thing that ever got to the bastard was shooting that fucking camel," he finishes to a chorus of suppressed laughter from the other four soldiers. They stop when we move down the steps, trying not to look directly at us.
At the street, I look in each direction trying to decide which way to go. Other than the people we saw in the parking lot between the landing field and the headquarters, I don't have an idea where we should start looking.
"You two lost?" The voice of the soldier calls to us. He flicks his cigarette away and walks down the steps toward us. He wears a tan cowboy hat and camo fatigues with FLETCHER stitched on the left breast of his shirt.
"Would you know how we get to the hospital?" I ask him.
"Sure," he says. "You don't want to go there, though."
"Our friend is there," I say.
The soldier seems to consider this a moment then he points out another building to the Southwest that has all the windows illuminated.
"That's it," he says. "But you don't want to go there. Take my word for it. You have to get clearance anyway unless you're in for treatment."
The other soldiers stare down at us with accusing expressions that make me a little uncomfortable.
"Don't mind the grunts up there," Fletcher whispers. "It's just kind of strange for them, seeing you move in here. And, wearing the clothes from some of our guys that just died this morning."
I definitely feel awkward now, but I don't say anything.
"They'll have to get over it, though," Fletcher goes on. "Lot more of that will be going on soon enough. Anyway, best place to be on the base is right here. Take my word for it. Stay away from the fences." He points and makes an arc from the south to the west and up to the north. "Nothing to see but corpses out there."
