This Dark Earth

by John Hornor Jacobs

  The SUV’s engine sputtered again, tossing Lucy forward, and then caught once more, accelerating. The interstate was close now.

  Gunfire exploded in front of the car and Lucy wrenched the wheel to the right, nearly bouncing them off the road.

  The Suburban heeled the curb and then dashed into shadow underneath the overpass. They jumped the curb and bounced up the concrete slope where the interstate met its supporting struts. Lucy mashed the brakes, and the SUV slewed to a stop—but not before the roof hit an I-beam strut high up the slope, just beneath where cars passed overhead.

  The roof crumpled.

  Martha screamed.

  Lucy had seen television shows in which people took refuge from tornadoes in this same space. It had to be better than open road against an armed warship.

  “What the—” Robbins spluttered. “What the fuck is happening? It’s just . . . it’s absurd.” He fumbled at his waist and withdrew a phone. He flipped it open and peered into its face.

  Lucy reached between the seats and grabbed her purse. She turned to Martha.

  “Get out! We’ve got to get out of the car! If they can, they’ll blast this thing into vapor.” She pointed to the other side of the overpass’s belly, the shadowy area where the bridge began. There were spaces between the I-beams where they could hide and it was doubtful that even the helicopter fire could penetrate the three-inch steel of the struts supporting the overpass. “There. Go there!”

  Martha sat still. Little tremors passed through her body and she looked at Lucy with wide, frightened eyes.

  “Go now! We don’t know how much time we have!”

  Lucy jumped out of the Suburban and wrenched open the back door. Martha spilled out, nearly dropping the bundle at her chest. Lucy peered into the car. Robbins blinked owlishly with a dazed look, muttering to himself, trying to make a call.

  “No signal. How can there not be a signal? This plan is nationwide—”

  “Robbins! Forget the fucking advertisement! We’ve got to go!”

  He looked around, eyes fastening on Lucy. He slumped, almost imperceptibly, as if having his own private apocalypse. Painfully working his ass out of the SUV, he flopped forward, and Lucy caught him as he fell from the vehicle.

  Martha had already made it halfway to the other side. Lucy grabbed Robbins’s hand and pulled him down the slope.

  Unbearably loud now, the helicopters rumbled past, blowing hard gusts of wind under the bridge. Deafened by the helicopter, Lucy couldn’t hear any more cars or semis buzzing above them on the interstate. The sound became an absolutely monstrous sheet over her. It was hard for Lucy to even form a thought under its onslaught.

  Lucy grabbed Martha’s arm to help her across the highway. She could feel the woman’s muscles twitch and spasm under her grip. The swaddled blanket shifted in Martha’s arms.

  She glanced back and saw Robby slowly making his way down. Lucy released Martha and turned to help him but before she could move, an enormous wind hit her with the force of a hurricane, knocking her down and wreathing her in a deafening blankness. Within the din, she perceived another bbrrrrppp and the Suburban turned itself inside out, the twisting and screaming of metal piercing the thick, thunderous air. Robbins jittered and disappeared into a red mist that hung, particulate and thick, in the air.

  Grabbing Martha’s hand, Lucy turned and sprinted across the remaining highway and up the opposing slope, dragging the woman behind her, toward the shelter near the top. She heard another bbrrrrpppp and sensed the bullets howling through the air, but all she felt was a stinging sensation on the backs of her legs. Powdered concrete blew past her. She crouched in the dark recess of the overpass, where slope met supports.

  “We’ll be safe here,” she said, almost to herself, as the machines’ noise diminished gradually.

  Martha grunted. Lucy turned to look at the woman.

  Her face was pale, and her cheek, just below the eye, twitched. Her arms spasmed slightly. Lucy reached over to touch Martha’s face, to test for fever, but the wild-eyed look the other woman gave her made Lucy pause and withdraw her hand.

  Suddenly, the sound of the helicopter returned, overwhelming and vast. A hot wind blew through the space below I-40 and Lucy worried that the warship was now disgorging soldiers to root them out of their hiding spot. She peeked around the girder.

  Hanging in air, fifteen or twenty feet above the ground, was the chopper. The black gunmetal of its carapace glinted evilly in the sunlight beyond the shelter of the overpass. The pilot, visible even through the tint and glare of the helicopter windshield, looked vaguely insectile in mirrored goggles, green helmet, and sound-suppressing headphones as he surveyed the space underneath the bridge. As the chopper rotated, presenting its side, the gun swept into view.

  The pilot put a hand up to his ear, listening to something, and nodded. Suddenly the helicopter rose and the deafening roar of the rotors died away to a buzz and then faded completely.

  “Holy shit,” breathed Lucy. She sank back against the concrete slope and for long moments just let her heart hammer away at her chest.

  A thought struck her and she sat upright.

  “Why did they leave?” She turned to Martha. “Why would they leave us here? They had us trapped. I’ve got . . . oh no. Robby.”

  Pushing herself to her feet, she dusted off her hands and walked swiftly down the slope toward the road, where the remains of the Suburban had blown.

  Martha screamed.

  The sound held no words, only garbled phrases. Martha flipped backward, tendons standing out on her neck, and her head hit the ground with a meaty thunk. She arched her back, balling her fists on her thighs. She continued to bend, and cracks sounded from her spine.

  Opisthotonus.

  Martha had it, whatever it was. Whatever turned the clinic into a slaughterhouse. Whatever brought the dead back from the grave.

  The infant spilled to the ground and rolled down the slope, unwrapping. It stopped at Lucy’s feet.

  Lucy looked down. The baby’s hue wasn’t too different from the concrete’s. With small, chubby hands, it pulled itself toward Lucy, looking at her with those same milky eyes. It emitted a sound a crushed kitten might make, mewling.

  The sirens began screaming once she reached the blacktop of the interstate. The road had become as dead as the clinic, almost. It was long minutes before any vehicle appeared. She could see a rising forest of smoke plumes coming from the south where she knew there to be a small residential area.

  The trucker who picked her up was a brawny, thick man, bristly and unkempt. The cab smelled of cigarettes, energy drink, and corn chips. But the fecund normalcy of the man almost made Lucy want to cry.

  “Shit, you’re bleeding.” He nodded at her head.

  She touched the wound with delicate fingers. It didn’t hurt too much.

  “There’s a first-aid kit in there.” He pointed at the cab’s oversize glove box. She popped the clasp and withdrew a white and blue box with a red cross stenciled on the top. Opening the box, she took some gauze, twisted the top off the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, doused the soft white material, and wiped the side of her head. It streaked with brown.

  “What’s going on? There was a pileup back there, a couple of miles back. People stumbling around all bloody. After I passed through, looked like the cops were barricading the interstate.” He shrugged and added, “CB and radio’s out too.”

  She pointed to the roof.

  “Hear that?”

  He looked at her, puzzled. Then his eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Sirens.”

  “Something has happened.”

  “What?”

  “An outbreak. A virus. It does strange stuff. It—” She shook her head. “How fast can this thing go? We’ve got to get out of the area.”

  “I guess I can get her up around ninety, maybe. Hundred going downhill. But she eats up too much gas that way.”

  “If you don’t step on it, gas will be the last of our worries.”

&nbs
p; “Hold on, ma’am. I can’t just start speeding ’cause you say so. I own this truck. She’s all I got. Pay for the gas too. And filling her up is expensive.”

  He shook a cigarette out of a pack and lit it with a steel Zippo with a skull and crossbones raised on the side.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Alabama.”

  “You ever heard of CSEPP?”

  “Uh, I think so. I’ve seen stuff on TV.”

  “It stands for Chemical Stockpile Evacuation Preparedness Program.”

  “Hold on. Hold on.” He rubbed his nose with the hand holding the cigarette. For a second, Lucy thought he might catch his eyebrows on fire. “You telling me there’s been a chemical spill?”

  Lucy shook her head. She felt the ever-present pressure to take charge and answer his question, even though she didn’t have an answer. It was part and parcel of being a doctor—you’re trained, conditioned to answer questions in med school, specific, detailed questions. In every stage, questions: pre-med, med school, internist, resident, fellowship, and then to practicing physician and beyond up the great chain of medical being. Indeed, medicine was a codified way to answer questions. It was a landscape of queries and unknowns. And sometimes one of the innumerable small questions with their small answers led to bigger and bigger questions that became harder to answer. Questions that began with why instead of how and what and then the minutiae of medicine unraveled, unspooled, and you’re left with concepts and hard realities better suited to a priest or philosopher than a physician. Don’t ask me why we get sick. Don’t ask me why we have to die or why there is cancer. There is and we do. I focus on the HOW.

  But all she said was, “Maybe. I don’t know, really. It could be some sort of chemical but looks more like a viral outbreak. And that means there’s no telling its origin. It could be from . . .”

  “Anywhere?”

  She remained silent for a moment, thinking, rubbing her bottom lip and doing her best not to dash down her personal mental rabbit hole.

  “Like the flu or something?”

  At that Lucy laughed, and even she could hear how it sounded as though she were unraveling, coming unglued. The questions will keep getting bigger.

  “Or something. But about two million times worse.”

  “And this thing got loose.”

  She passed her hand over her eyes, suddenly weary.

  “Can I have one of those?” she said, nodding at his smoke. He handed her the pack and lighter.

  She took a breath. “Look. I’m gonna be totally honest. You’re gonna think I’m . . . Whatever got loose, it makes you go crazy first. Causes all sorts of . . . fucked-up neurological stuff. Like eating parts of yourself, seizures, spasms. Tourette’s.”

  “Tourette’s? Like yelling out fuck in a theater?”

  She nodded. “But worse. Much worse. Did you hear what I said about eating yourself?”

  He glanced at her, then looked back at the road.

  “Then your heart races, tachycardia, until it can’t take any more and practically explodes.” She lit a cigarette, drew in the smoke, and exhaled.

  “Then,” she said, slowly, watching the man, “once you’re dead, your body revivifies. It gets back up. Attacks whoever is nearest. Eats them. I witnessed it myself. It’s as if all the weird neurological stuff is boiled down to its essence. Violence and consumption. But the body is dead. Or seemingly dead . . . I never had a chance to test at the cellular level.”

  The man’s eyes went wide. “You got it?” He started to slow the truck. “Get out.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Get out. I got a daughter.”

  “No. I don’t have it. And I have a family too.”

  “How the fuck do you know? Huh? You’re getting out right here.”

  “I know because I’m a doctor. All of the original patients lived in White Hall. It must’ve gotten into the water or something in the environment and then infected them. Once infected, it travels through bodily fluids. Bites.” She didn’t add, I hope, because if it’s airborne . . . say good-bye to the human race.

  She held out her arms. “I haven’t been bitten.”

  He leaned back in his seat.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. As I can be.” She laughed. “You’re having a hard time believing I’m not going to go mad and revivify. But you believe it can happen. That’s kind of fucking amazing.”

  His blunt face went through a series of expressions—outrage, anger, puzzlement, and then, surprisingly, amusement. He gave a pained smile. “Zombies.”

  “What?”

  “You’re talking zombies. The government do this?”

  She stayed silent for a while, realizing the absurdity of what he’d just said. Zombies. The strangeness of the situation pressed in on her, and she shut her eyes tight to blot out all sensation and live, for the moment, in the weightless existence of pure thought. But she couldn’t seem to regain the calmness needed for problem solving.

  She laughed. He was correct. Zombies they were.

  “I think so. I’m guessing it’s a biological weapon they developed, realized it was too nasty for the world, and then tried to hide it away. Destroy it, maybe. Could’ve been stored at the stockpile here. Or somewhere else. There’s just no telling without an investigation.” The words were bitter to her. She should be in on that. She should be the one to pursue this rabbit all the way into its hole and beyond, if needed. If I’m right, no one will ever investigate this mystery, God help us. Not this one or any other. Ever.

  He whistled and then leaned forward.

  Lucy went on. “We’ve got to get out of here. Fast. I have a suspicion—”

  “What?” He looked scared again.

  “Okay. I’m just guessing. There was a leak at the stockpile or somewhere else. The virus got loose and affected people in the vicinity. But not farther out. A range, you know. Maybe it could only live for a little bit in the water. Or in the air, though I doubt it’s airborne, because if it was, I would have it.” She peered out the window, brow furrowing. “It’s extremely virulent because human agents actively spread the disease through attack, through bites.”

  “Yeah. Zombies.”

  “If it came from here, we have no idea how far it’s spread already. How many were infected and drove to Baptist Hospital in Little Rock? How many stayed in their homes? It could have made it to Memphis by now. Monroe. Shreveport.”

  “I hear you. But what are you saying?”

  “They chased us with a gunship. Big helicopter with a machine gun. They killed . . . they shot my friend. A doctor.” She couldn’t believe it, but she was crying. Tears came from the corners of her eyes and a hot, uncontrollable sob burst from her chest.

  “They had us trapped under the overpass. Then they just left. Took off, like they needed to get out of the area. I think they realized its potential but misjudged its virulence.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “When you get a wound, you sterilize it. You . . .” She thought about her words, very carefully. “You cauterize it, maybe.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She was quiet for a long while, smoking her cigarette. She looked at the man, then crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray.

  “Just drive as fast as you can. We have to put as much space between us and White Hall as possible. We might only have a few minutes.”

  Understanding crossed his face, and he put the semi into a lower gear and hit the accelerator. Soon the truck shuddered with speed.

  They passed a pileup in the left lane. Mangled cars. People on the ground, some bleeding. Some contorting. Some spasming. Some were already upright. Revivified and shambling. Zombies.

  “Holy fuck,” he said. “Oh my sweet Jesus.”

  One of the zombies, missing an arm and part of his rib cage, stepped too close to the semi as they passed. They heard a thump.

  The trucker dug under his seat and pulled out a revolver. He tucked it into his be
lt.

  “This is a goddamned nightmare. My girlfriend’s back in Alabama.”

  “You tried to call her? Check your phone.”

  He dug it out of his pocket and flipped it open and dialed.

  After a moment, he said, “‘Network busy. Try back later.’”

  “I don’t think that’s an accident. Things could be happening everywhere. People are . . .”

  “Desperate. What could be happening . . .?”

  “Other than zombies and gunships shooting civilians? No clue, but . . . believe it. Drive.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to harsh on me. I picked you up, remember?”

  Abrasive, they called her at Baptist Hospital when they let her go. Arrogant and possessed of an intolerance unbecoming to a physician. That one smarted some. Why the hell did it take zombies to get her to pull her head out of her ass long enough to try to get along with others?

  Because social niceties are a survival mechanism, that’s why.

  She nodded. “I’m . . .” She hesitated. “I’m sorry. For everything.” Lucy put her hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for saving me. My name is Lucy Ingersol.”

  He grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re just a little intense.” He patted her knee. Normally she would have had something harsher to say about such familiarity, but she knew it was meant in good spirit.

  “They call me Knock-Out. Jim Nickerson. But Knock-Out’s what all my friends call me.”

  The semi jerked and the lights on the dashboard went dark. The tape deck went out. The truck slowed dramatically, as if the engine had completely malfunctioned.

  “Oh no.”

  “What do you mean, ‘oh no’?”

  “Stop the truck!”

  He jammed his foot on the brakes and the semi jumped and rattled. It rolled to rest on the shoulder.

  “EMP!” Her voice sounded shrill. “Electromagnetic pulse! Knocks out all electronics. We’ve got to find cover!”

  “What? I can’t—”