Evan smoked and watched the little girl. She swayed gently from side to side, and seemed to be looking at him. He knew she couldn’t possibly see him at this distance, not through the glare on the window, but he still didn’t like it.
I don’t like a dead girl looking at me, he thought. Imagine that.
The madness of it all didn’t paralyze Evan Tucker the way it would many people that August morning. He was bright, and blessed with a vivid imagination. Combined with an adventurous personality, he had always been able to quickly adapt to new situations. This, however, was something of a stretch. To himself, he admitted that it might take some time to accept that the dead were walking and feeding on the living. But he knew he couldn’t take too long to wrap his head around it, not if he wanted to survive.
What did he know? He couldn’t stay here, that was easy. Half a can of Pringles and a bottle of Diet Coke wouldn’t last long. He’d need to find food and water. He’d need to get on the move. If this was widespread – and he had the feeling it was, although he couldn’t say why – then the authorities would try to put together crisis centers, like Red Cross shelters. He’d try to find something like that. He had a big folding knife, but that wouldn’t do. He’d need something more effective, because he would need to protect himself.
Evan Tucker had only been in a few fights in his life, most of them in school, and only one as an adult, where he and his opponent had been outside an Ocean City Maryland bar and both of them so drunk their wild swings had failed to connect ninety-percent of the time. This would be different, and he wondered if he could do it, wondered if he could hurt, or kill, one of them.
Them. What were they? People? They looked that way, certainly had been, but they had changed. They killed without hesitation, and those they killed soon rose to join their ranks. The mathematics of that quickly processed, and the word legions popped into his head. They could be put down, however, as the cop had demonstrated. They looked slow, which meant they could be outrun or evaded. Were they all slow? He wondered if they could think, perform simple tasks or use tools and weapons. Could they run, climb, problem-solve? How strong were they? What else could kill them? How did they pass along the infection, if that’s what it was?
Many more questions than answers. He had no doubt he would learn what he didn’t know, and at least he had a start. Across America in those first days of the apocalypse, few people would ever get the chance to discover what Evan did in that half hour. Most would not survive first contact, and would only swell the numbers of the dead, just as he envisioned.
There were a few things Evan was going to need.
He shoved his few belongings in his Army backpack, making sure his notebook was nestled in the bottom. Relevant or not, it was four years of work and he wasn’t about to leave it behind. Although the weather was too warm, he pulled on a denim jacket and shrugged into his pack. The Harley had a three-quarter tank, and he made sure the keys were secure in the left front pocket of his Levis. He checked the window once more before stepping onto the porch, and was glad he did.
Mr. Adelman was walking past the cabin, on his way to the road, wearing a bathrobe and boxer shorts. Evan had met the man a few days ago, a middle-aged, paunchy restaurant manager recently thrown out of his house by his wife, holing up in this place until he could settle into something better. Adelman was short and balding, a nice enough guy who showed interest in Evan’s writing, assuring him he would buy a copy when the book was published. He was also dead. His right leg had been gnawed down to the bone, and he dragged it behind him through the dirt as he shuffled past. Evan felt bad for him as he watched the middle-aged corpse wander by, but he stayed inside until the man was out of sight, and only then went onto the porch.
The bloody little girl in the jumper started towards him at once.
Evan jogged towards her and the intersection, gauging her speed and movement, giving her a wide berth as he passed. Mr. Adelman had his back turned and was heading for the bread truck. Evan picked up speed, running past the two smashed up vehicles and swinging wide around the reaching arms of the fat woman in the car window.
The cop and ambulance attendants shifted towards the sounds of his boots and moaned. Two of the ghouls near the accident reached for him across the hood of the Taurus, and Adelman turned. Evan kept moving. He reached the police car and yanked open the passenger door, kneeling on the seat and looking inside. Nothing. He dashed around to the driver’s door and reached in for the trunk release. It popped, and he looked up to see the cop and medics heading towards him. Two of the bread truck feeders and Mr. Adelman appeared around the back of the truck.
Evan found what he was looking for in the trunk, a pump shotgun with a dozen red shells pushed through nylon hoops along its sling, the weapon cradled in a metal floor rack. A rack with a keyhole. A locked rack.
“Shit.” The dead were closer, feet sliding over the asphalt, their moans rising and falling. He eyed the cop’s belt, expecting to see keys dangling there. They weren’t. Had they fallen off when he was attacked? Then the smell of exhaust, the sound of the idling motor made him curse again, and he went back to pull the keys from the ignition, just as the first of the dead men bumped into the police car’s hood.
In seconds he was back at the trunk, flipping through keys, looking for one that might fit. Scraping feet along the side of the car. His fingers jammed a small silver key into the bracket, turning, feeling resistance, and then it moved. The shotgun came free, and years of duck hunting with his father were put to good use as he quickly checked to see if it was loaded, saw that it was, and racked a round.
One of the medics let out a wailing sound as it rounded the corner of the car, reaching for him. Evan leaped back as it grabbed and snapped at him. He trotted backwards down the road, getting some distance, putting the stock to his shoulder and sighting on the medic’s slack face. He saw a wedding ring on one of those grasping hands, and though his finger tensed, he didn’t squeeze.
The thing which had once been a man lurched towards him, gaining ground, a gurgling coming from its torn throat. It moved its tongue as if to speak, but Evan thought it might just be reflexive, hungry jaws working and pulling back lips. He took more steps back as it came on. Did it have a worried family waiting somewhere? Its gurgle turned to a frustrated snarl.
The medic’s partner, the cop and the others were moving steadily, all passing the sheriff’s car now. Focused on Evan as he continued backing up, weapon still raised. They gasped and made mewling sounds, like hungry children or animals. A distant moan came from the right, and Evan glanced over to see three more stalking towards him across a field.
He sighted on the medic again, but still couldn’t pull the trigger. It had seemed so simple before; assess the situation, come up with a course of action, exploit opportunities and eliminate any opposition. Sure, if he’d been some guy in an action movie this would have been no problem. The action hero probably could have gotten himself laid in the process. But Evan wasn’t that guy. These were people, and he couldn’t kill people, could he?
The dead didn’t stop, kept coming on and backing him up, and the figures in the field were getting closer. He decided there would be a better time and place to assess his sudden attack of morality, when he could berate himself for being stupid. He had to stay alive to get to that point, though.
Evan started moving right, towards the field and the edge of the road, and was pleased to see his stalkers angle in his direction. Once they had moved sufficiently to one side, Evan bolted left, swinging wide around them and running back towards the intersection. Arms reached and angry moans came from behind him as he sprinted back to the open trunk of the deputy’s car. He had seen a small first aid kit and a long black flashlight held to the deck by Velcro straps, and he slung the shotgun across his chest as he grabbed both.
Then he was running again, back to where the fat woman was still wedged in her car window, croaking and gnashing her teeth at him. Evan stopped again where the deputy had
dropped his automatic when he’d been attacked, and he shoved the handgun into a jacket pocket before racing back towards his cabin.
The Harley was waiting, sitting there with the mid-morning sun gleaming off its chrome. He was almost to it when the little girl in the pink jumped lunged out from the narrow, weed-choked space between the cabins. She made a high-pitched growl as she caught hold of his left leg and went in fast with her teeth.
Evan screamed and twisted, bringing the flashlight crashing down on her head, trying to pull away. She hung on and bit hard, but her teeth only sank into the seam of his Levis. Evan swung again at the top of her head, dragging her little shape with him as he tried to escape, hitting again and again and again.
Her hands loosened and she sagged away, eyes rolling up, mouth open. Evan smashed her with it again, and the lens and bulb shattered as her head caved in. She slipped face-down into the dirt, and Evan realized the shrieking he was hearing was his own as he used his boot to stomp the head flat.
He dropped the flashlight, stumbled a few steps away and threw up.
Breathing hard, bent over with his hands on his knees, he stared at the red gore covering his boot, and a fresh surge of vomit came up. He coughed and wiped the sleeve of his jacket across his mouth, looking behind him with watery eyes.
They were coming.
He shoved the first aid kit and the cop’s 9mm in the saddlebags, then used bungee cords to secure his backpack to the tail. The powerful engine came to life, and he was moving. He leaned forward and throttled past the knot of corpses at the end of the dirt road, gunning it through the intersection. There were more now, coming across the fields. Evan Tucker left them behind as he accelerated south, putting Napa behind him.
SEVEN
Berkeley
Skye screamed and tensed for the bullet as the soldier fired. Something thudded to the ground behind her, and she looked down to see a hand inches from her foot.
“C’mon!” the soldier yelled, waving her over.
She just stared at him.
“Move your ass!”
She did, closing the distance with the soldier and the other men in camouflage as they piled into the Humvee. A couple were firing their rifles in different directions, the sharp pops startling this close up. The young soldier yanked open a back door of the vehicle and shoved her in. Two other kids about her age were already inside, a boy in an Affliction T-shirt and a girl in shorts and a pink blouse, tucked into tight balls in a space in the very back, hugging their knees. They stared at her with fearful eyes and said nothing.
A moment later the soldiers were in as well, squeezing her between them as they stuck their rifles out open windows and the vehicle leaped forward. One soldier stood in the middle, sticking his body out through a circular hole in the roof, where the machinegun was.
“Hold this,” he shouted to Skye, handing his rifle down to her.
Skye stared at the thing. Of course she had seen them on TV and in video games, but she had never actually held a real gun in her life. She didn’t touch it.
“C’mon, honey, take it!”
“Do it.” The soldier who had saved her, crammed in on her right, spoke softly. He stood the weapon on its stock and guided her hand to the barrel. “Just hold it like that, between your knees. Jay needs to work the sixty.”
Skye didn’t know what a sixty was, but learned a moment later when Jay Hayman, standing in the circular hole, opened up with the M-60 machinegun mounted to the turret. He fired the thirty caliber weapon in short, choppy bursts, and Skye cried out first from the noise of it, then from the rain of hot, empty shell casings bouncing down into the Humvee. All the other soldiers, with the exception of the driver, were firing out their windows as well.
The driver was moving fast, the heavy vehicle swaying as he dodged stopped cars and staggering figures. From the middle of the rear seat, Skye would have had a good view out the windshield were it not for the machine-gunner standing in front of her. Something thumped against the front of the Humvee.
“Try not to hit them,” said the soldier in the front passenger seat.
“Why not? It saves us rounds.”
“Cause if they go under and jam up the axle it’s gonna fuck up my truck, Corporal, that’s why not.”
“Copy that, Sergeant,” said the driver.
Out the right window Skye saw trees and campus buildings passing, the road lined with cars. Beyond them, people were moving stiffly across lawns, wandering in all directions. Every one she saw wore torn and bloody clothing. And then she saw one moving much faster than the others, a young man with dreadlocks flying as he sprinted and weaved among the dead, waving his arms at the Humvee.
“Live one on the right,” Skye’s soldier called out. She had to think of him that way, he had gotten her out of there, and she didn’t know his name.
“Got him,” said the sergeant, and the vehicle slowed. Skye saw the machine-gunner shuffle left, and then his weapon started barking again. Brass rattled on the metal decking around her feet.
Skye saw the slow-moving people taking hits, bullets smashing into them. Some were knocked down, others spun in different directions, and one collapsed onto the grass when his legs disintegrated beneath him. Most kept moving, and the one without legs just crawled after the running man, pulling itself along by its hands, just as the corpse had when it fell out the window and landed in front of her and Crystal. Just as she noticed all this, the gunner shouted down from the turret.
“They’re not going down, Sergeant!”
“I can see that! Keep up your fire!”
The man with the dreadlocks reached the Humvee, and Skye’s soldier – as he turned she saw the name Taylor on a patch over a chest pocket – climbed out and told the man to get in. Dreadlocks scrambled inside, wedging up tight against Skye with a muttered, “S’cuse me.”
Taylor had his rifle to his shoulder and did a half circle sweep of the area. There were lots of people moving slowly towards them, but no more runners. “That’s it,” he yelled, climbing in. The Hummer started moving before he closed the door.
Skye heard the sergeant speaking into a handset, a mix of common language flavored with the kind of numeric, military lingo she’d heard in movies. The radio answered back in the same language. She heard words like Sweep, Tangos and Sector, and none of it made much sense, but she clearly heard him say, “Four civvies on board.” That had to be her, the kids in the back and dreadlock man.
They left the campus behind and were quickly in the surrounding community, the vehicle turning and the corporal steering around objects in the road as he had been instructed by his sergeant. He banged on the horn and swore repeatedly, and sometimes there would be a crunching noise against the grill. Each time that happened, the corporal grunted, “Fuckers.”
In the back, the girl started crying and the boy held her. The soldiers fired sporadically, and every once in a while the machinegun made a harsh ripping noise. The vehicle kept moving, accelerating, slowing, then accelerating again.
“Ain’t this some pretty shit?” Dreadlock asked of no one in particular. He shook his head and looked at the floor. “Ain’t this some shit?”
Skye suddenly remembered Crystal’s cloudy eyes as her sister snapped at her, and she forced the thought away. She made herself focus instead on the weapon she held upright before her. The barrel was smooth and cool against her palm, and she ran her eyes down its length. Games, movies and television had given her more of an education in the structure of an assault rifle than she realized, for she understood a lot of what she was looking at, even if she didn’t know what it was called. The barrel and the muzzle were easy enough, and the opening at the end was smaller than she would have expected. A rubberized grip under the barrel was there to steady it, and this was a scope on top, with a red lens. Did that mean you could see in the dark with it? She didn’t know. There was where the clip went in, and behind it was the trigger and the pistol grip. She hefted it, surprised that it didn’t weigh more.
“Six-point-three-six pounds,” said Taylor.
Skye glanced at him. She hadn’t realized he was watching her. “It’s light.”
“Not so light when you have to grip it by the barrel and hold it extended at arm’s length. Then it gets heavy awful fast.”
“Why would you have to do that?”
Taylor shrugged. “Mostly in basic, as punishment for being a screw-up.”
The sergeant turned in his seat, and Skye saw that his name patch said Postman. “On the topic of screw-ups, keep your eyes on your sector, Taylor.” The young soldier grinned at Skye and went back to watching out his window.
Skye looked at Taylor. He was handsome, not Abercrombie model handsome, but with a rugged appeal. She decided he was maybe twenty. Then she went back to looking at the rifle, no longer afraid of it and curious. There were a couple of small levers near the clip – the magazine, she corrected herself – which would probably be a safety, and a way to take out an empty magazine. The whole rifle had a smooth, solid feel to it, despite being made mostly of plastic. Could she handle it if she had to? She decided she could, if she had someone to teach her. She glanced at Taylor’s profile, and then the image of her dad being pulled down hit her hard. Guilty tears burned in her eyes, and she committed to herself that she would learn how to use it, so she could kill them. Kill them all.
The radio spoke, and Sgt. Postman responded. He told the driver to turn left ahead, checked a plastic-coated map he was holding on one knee, ordered a right and then another left. He pointed. “Right there. Right in the intersection.”
Omega Days Page 5
