Omega Days

by John L. Campbell

  Hands shaking and heart pounding, Evan ejected the spent casing and fed two more shells into the weapon, pumping the slide so that it was ready to go. He tracked the barrel around the dim interior of the store, trying to control his breathing, trying to listen. There were no more sounds, no more movement. He looked at the corpse at his feet. Stupid. Mistakes like that would get him killed.

  Give yourself a break, he countered. This was your first.

  No, that wasn’t right. The little girl back at the cabin, she had been his first. This was the first he had killed with the shotgun, and he had almost botched it. Smart and careful, those would be his rules. Otherwise he would end up like the thing on the floor.

  Zombie. The word was just too Hollywood. He’d have to come up with up something better. He was a writer, after all. Words flipped through his mind as he searched the tackle shop.

  Creeps?

  Ghouls?

  Shades? They were certainly shadows of their former selves, but the word sounded insubstantial, and they were real enough.

  Trolls?

  Cadavers? No, too many syllables. Look out, it’s a Cadaver! Too formal.

  Stinkies? Too cutsie, might as well call them Smurfs.

  Moldies? Again too cute, but in a few weeks it would certainly be applicable.

  Drifters? That one had potential. He had seen the way they wandered without any apparent purpose. Drifters was a contender.

  Evan had no interest in fishing rods, reels or lures, didn’t care about nets and tackle boxes. And he’d be damned if he’d get caught wearing one of those On Golden Pond hats. Near the back of the shop, however, he found a section dedicated to camping, and although it had been rummaged through and picked over – someone else had the same idea, he guessed – careful looking uncovered a few treasures. A large, good quality backpack would strap nicely to the Harley’s handlebars (though he’d hang onto his old army pack. They had seen a lot of miles together.) He picked out a rain poncho. A new, all weather sleeping bag would replace the ratty and no longer waterproof roll he had used for years. No sentimental value in that thing, and it smelled vaguely funky.

  Slugs?

  Skunks?

  Flesh Monkeys? That was just stupid, but it made him laugh. And there was no doubt a garage band out there somewhere was already using that name. Or at least they had been. He found waterproof matches and some cans of Sterno, a bigger and better flashlight than his pilfered, plastic version, three packages of batteries and a big canteen with a shoulder strap. It all went into the backpack. Under a pile of boxes containing air mattresses he discovered a sturdy yellow folding shovel, but cast it aside. Too bulky.

  Rotters?

  Biters? He liked that one almost as much as drifters.

  In a small stockroom – he let the muzzle of the twelve gauge go in first – he found a hatchet with a leather cover snapped over its head. He liked the weight, and saw that the cover was designed to slide onto a belt. He put it on immediately and promised himself to practice with it. It was definitely an up close weapon, a whole lot closer than he ever wanted to get to them, but it would do well in an emergency and it would save bullets.

  Thugs?

  Moaners?

  The Damned? Perhaps they were, but it only worked as a plural.

  On a low shelf was an assortment of the dehydrated food packets backpackers used, self-contained meals which only required water, and were both light and compact. He suspected they tasted like shit, but if food grew scarce they would be gourmet cuisine. He took enough to fill half the pack, and then added a charcoal-colored fleece and a heavy green sweater. It wouldn’t be summer forever.

  Wogs?

  Trogs?

  Jabberwocks?

  There were no firearms. There had been, an empty rifle rack behind the cash register was evidence of that, as well as a couple of bare shelves under it which had no doubt held ammunition. It was too much to ask for, he supposed. He couldn’t complain, the shop was a real score.

  Drifters. The word came back to him, so he decided that was the one. He headed back out to the Harley and found one angling towards him across the street. It was an old lady in a nightgown, one chewed breast exposed and big bites taken out of her batwing arms. She groaned and quickened her pace.

  Evan thought about the new hatchet. It would be quiet, wouldn’t attract more like this one, and he needed to practice. She was an old lady, right? He caught himself. She had been an old lady, and that didn’t mean this creature coming towards him retained even a shred of her former physicality. Now she was a predator, and might she not be just as strong as the others.

  Be careful, be smart.

  “Fuck it,” he said, and blew her head off with the twelve gauge. He motored out of town without waiting to see what else the shot had summoned.

  Evan took another full day heading slowly east on American Canyon Road, weaving around wrecked or abandoned vehicles, speeding past slow-moving drifters and genuinely enjoying the solitude of traveling alone through beautiful country. For him it was the best aspect of riding, and for a little while it was just the road, the hum of the engine, and the pines and hills sliding by. He lost himself in it.

  He spent the night in a log home constructed and furnished like a hunting lodge, building a fire in the big stone hearth and cooking up a pot of stew. Warm beer from the kitchen pantry washed it down, and he stayed up late wrapped in an Indian blanket staring into the fire and thinking about a dead world. It was being reborn, he knew, but as what was something yet to be understood. He questioned his direction of travel. It was taking him to areas which had formerly been packed with people, something he knew he should avoid. North would have been better, less population, and he could scrounge on the move. So why head into a nightmare?

  Because he had to see it, he admitted at last. He had to bear witness to what had become of this crowded, high-speed world where man had been so arrogant as to call himself the dominant species. It wasn’t smart, he knew, but he also knew that if he didn’t see it, he would be haunted by unanswered questions. And there was always the chance that some sort of organization remained. He thought it unlikely, but part of him, despite his choice for a solitary life on the road, longed for the company of others.

  He would still be careful. Just have a look, and if it was the wasteland he suspected, he could always fade back into the sticks, his curiosity satisfied. Evan slept in a king sized bed upstairs, buried in pillows. As he faded off, he wondered if it might be the last night he ever enjoyed such comforts.

  They were camped in the southbound lanes of I-80, right at the top of the on-ramp, a cluster of pickups with campers, minivans and an honest-to-God VW bus with a peace symbol painted on its face between the headlights. Evan was on top of them before he realized it. A bearded man in denim and a woven, hooded pullover stepped out from behind a panel van and pointed a lever-action Winchester at him. He almost put the bike down, braking hard and sliding, the rear tire threatening to slip out from underneath him, but he managed to stop without crashing. A woman with a headband and a long braid appeared pointing a double barrel shotgun. His own was slung on his back, and he knew he’d be dead before he got his hands on it.

  “You be cool, we’ll be cool,” called a man’s voice. Evan looked up to see a guy in his fifties standing on top of the VW bus, wearing camouflage shorts and hiking boots, a denim vest over a bare chest, and an Australian outback hat with a feather in it. A black assault rifle hung around his neck on a sling, and his hands were draped over it. A pistol and a big knife were belted at his waist, and a grenade hung from a thong around his neck.

  Evan raised his hands slowly. “I’m cool.”

  The man on the bus had a scruffy beard and wore round sunglasses. “If you don’t bring aggression, you won’t find any here. What’s your name?”

  “Evan Tucker.”

  “Are you scouting for a bigger group?”

  He shook his head. “I’m on my own.”

  The guy with the hooded
pullover approached and looked him over closely. “I don’t see a radio.”

  The leader slid off the bus and approached. The other two didn’t lower their weapons, and Evan saw more people peering at him from around the ends of vehicles, men and women, kids too. It seemed everyone over the age of ten was armed.

  “So, Evan Tucker.” The leader stopped in front of the Harley. “Who were you before nature decided to take it all back?”

  He shrugged. “Just traveling. I’m writing a book. I was.”

  “Tourist guide? Self-help?” He raised an eyebrow. “Cook book?”

  Evan grinned and blushed. “Road stories, my thoughts and philosophies. Like Kerouac, I guess.”

  The man’s face split with a smile. “The rogue of the road!” He extended a hand and Evan shook it. “Welcome,” he said. “Poets are most welcome. I’m Calvin. This,” he swept an arm, “is the Family.” When Evan’s face betrayed a sudden worry, Calvin laughed and leaned in. “Not cult-family or any Manson nonsense, dude. Good family. And lots of us actually are related.”

  With their leader accepting of the newcomer, the people who had been hiding and watching came out to greet him, and Evan was more than a little surprised at their warmth. After introductions were made (he knew he’d never remember all their names, although he had heard an “America,” a “Sunshine” and a “Little Bear,”) about a quarter of the adults went back to stand watch at positions set up in a ring around the little camp. Evan was reminded of settlers in the Old West circling the wagons.

  He had an opportunity to wash up, fill his canteen, was given something to eat – beans and canned tuna – and guided to an empty lawn chair where a circle of seats had been set up around a small stack of wood. Calvin pulled a camp stool up next to him and offered a small ceramic pipe shaped like a skull. Evan accepted, enjoying the smooth draw of high grade smoke.

  “I made that,” Calvin said, taking the pipe when Evan passed it back and firing his own hit. “I’m a potter. I used to follow the Dead… can you choke down that irony, man? I sold these out of my van in the parking lots during the concerts. When Garcia passed I followed Phish for a while, but it wasn’t the same.”

  “It’s nice,” Evan said, admiring the simple design. Blue eyes bulged from the little skull’s socket.

  Calvin handed it back. “It’s yours. I’ve got boxes of them.”

  As the afternoon drew on, the wood at the center of the ring was lit, and the evening meal prepared in Dutch ovens, a ham and potato dish. Evan’s mouth watered. Sentries were changed and everyone had a chance to sit and eat. More names were given. “River” and “Mercury,” “Sympathy and Starlight.” Calvin explained that he and the Family had been something of a traveling commune, gypsies crisscrossing Northern California, renting farms for periods of time, staying with friends who had land, even squatting in state forests. Everyone who could work did odd jobs to keep the group going, and for years they had lived their lives relatively free of the restrictions and conformist demands of mainstream society. They gave their children fanciful names and smoked their reefer and dreamed of a better world. Evan felt like he had discovered a lost tribe long believed extinct. Although probably less so in California, he granted.

  Calvin was a self-proclaimed “Combat Hippie,” as strong a believer in the Second Amendment as he was in all other personal freedoms. “Better living through chemistry,” he said, “but peace through superior firepower.” Everyone in the Family knew their way around firearms, and the caravan picked up and tucked away whatever it found, including some military hardware scavenged from overrun military units.

  Evan was introduced to Calvin’s brother Dane, a slender, blond man three years younger with a master’s degree in botany. He was the Family’s resident expert on all things herbal, both medicinal and recreational. Faith, Calvin’s wife, was thin and tattooed, weathered from the sun, her hard appearance offset by lovely blue eyes and a warm smile, one of those rare women who made you feel instantly welcome. She and Calvin had five children, ages ten to nineteen.

  “And they’re all alive and with us,” Faith said. It was clearly a source of parental pride for her, and, Evan realized, no small feat considering what was happening in the world.

  They asked him how he had come to be here, where he had been when it all fell apart. Evan told them about his cross country travels, about his writing, and what he had seen in Napa. He even spoke a little about his reasons for coming down out of the hills.

  Calvin gave him a gentle smile. “Being on your own has advantages. You can move faster, you only have to worry about yourself, and there’s no arguing with the simple joy of solitude. It gets lonely though, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to.” He squeezed his wife’s hand. Evan couldn’t disagree.

  Calvin spun the wheel on a silver Zippo depicting the Aztec calendar, lighting another bowl as the sky passed through the darker shades of blue and plum, and embers from the fire danced up and away. “We were in a campground in Rockland Hills, just north of here. We didn’t want to leave, not with what we were hearing on the radio, but the food ran out and we had some medical concerns.” He snapped the lighter shut. “We figured to head east, hook up with I-5 and head north to Oregon. Fairfield was burning, and I mean the whole city… It was like looking through a window into hell.” He held out the pipe. “We moved through as fast as we could.”

  Faith took it from him and reloaded. “Not fast enough.”

  Calvin nodded, staring into the fire. “We lost folks. Lee and Ukiah, one of their kids.”

  “Drifters? The dead, I mean.”

  The aging hippie nodded again. “We’ve been calling them ‘The Lost.’ A little flowery, I know. I like drifters better. Certainly more appropriate.”

  Several people around the fire bobbed their heads in agreement. Evan noticed that they all watched Calvin closely, and didn’t speak when he was talking, only listened.

  “We got as far as Vacaville before we had to turn back. Couldn’t get the vehicles through the traffic jams, and there were too many damned drifters. A hundred thousand at least, moving like a river down the highway, headed west.”

  Faces around the fire turned inwards as people relived it, and a few looked over their shoulders, out at the darkness.

  “We headed for Travis, the Air Force base.”

  “Against my principles and judgment,” Dane added.

  Calvin smiled. “Dane ran for mayor of a small town once and lost. Ever since then he’s had a hard-on for anything having to do with the Establishment.” Calvin made quotations signs in the air with his fingers.

  “I almost won.”

  Calvin choked. “It was a blowout, man!”

  “They voted for a fascist because they’re sheep.”

  Calvin laughed. “They voted for him because he was a Republican, and you’re an angry, dope smoking anarchist.” He slapped his brother’s leg as Faith handed over the pipe. Dane took it, grinning.

  There were some chuckles around the fire, and then silence. Calvin was looking into the fire again. “I was hoping we’d find shelter there. You’d expect that from a military base, right? I wasn’t crazy about it either, I knew they’d want our guns, but it’s spooky out here. Dangerous. We’ve got kids with us, you know?”

  Evan nodded. Some of them were right here, sitting on the pavement and leaning against the legs of their parents.

  “It didn’t matter. The base was crawling with drifters, and the jet fuel tanks were burning merry hell. We had to turn back again.” His voice became a whisper. “We lost three more friends to that little side trip.”

  Evan saw that Calvin carried that responsibility like a weight, and wished he had words for the man. Instead he asked, “Why are you out in the open like this? Why not head back into the countryside, there’s fewer of them. You could stay on back roads.”

  “We’re heading south,” Faith said, “to a ship.”

  “That’s right,” said Dane. “We’re going to sail off into the sunse
t.”

  Evan looked at each of them. “What ship?”

  Faith leaned forward in her chair. “We took a CB from a tractor trailer. There was nothing but static for a couple of days, but then we connected with a guy who said there was a big medical ship at the docks in Oakland, guarded by the army. They’re taking on refugees, and then they’re sailing for Alaska.”

  Heads nodded around the fire.

  “It’s only going to be there for a little longer,” she said, “so we have to keep moving if we’re going to catch it before it leaves.”

  Calvin smiled at his wife, but Evan didn’t see the same look of hope there as he did on Faith’s face. It sounded sketchy to him as well, but he wasn’t about to argue with her. And who was he to say? He’d been isolated, and there might well be a ship. But Oakland? Evan had a vision of urban canyons, of tight, impassable streets and armies of the hungry dead.

  “The cold is gonna suck,” said Dane, “but at least there won’t be as many drifters to deal with.”

  Calvin looked at Evan. “I’d prefer to stay in rural country myself, for the reasons you gave. But if it is a medical ship… Some of the Family have special needs; high blood pressure, trouble with a thyroid. My two youngest kids are diabetic and take insulin. We have a cooler in the bus that runs off the battery so it doesn’t go bad, but our supplies are running low, and if we run out of fuel the cooler will go too.” He smiled and almost made it. “We have to try.”

  Evan smiled back at his host.

  Calvin sighed and seemed to shake it off, leaning over and giving Evan’s knee a friendly squeeze. “You really are welcome here. Stay as long as you like, travel with us, split in the morning, whatever suits you. We don’t judge.”

  “Thank you. I probably will head back to the hills. I just think…”

  “No worries, man. But if you decide to hang out for a day or too, I’d be honored if you’d let me read what you’ve written so far. I know writers get touchy about their rough stuff, but I may never meet another poet.”