Inception_The Bern Project

by M James Conway

  “Me? Uh, Fred. Fred Lobann. My wife’s name is Louise. Uh, can you go check? I really have to get back.”

  “Sure. In a minute. Who else is with you?”

  “Who else? It’s just me. I-I came here by myself. My car is outside.”

  “So, Fred.” John faced him and continued, “You are so concerned about your wife’s insulin that you took the time to knock everything off the shelves on your way back here? Either you’re full of shit and you don’t need insulin, or you’re full of shit and not here by yourself. So, which is it?”

  Fred put his hands up. “Look, I told you, I’m here by myself. Go check if you have to, but I have to get back!”

  “Morgan, keep the gun on him, but watch it.” To Fred, John said, “I’m going to go get that insulin, and if nothing happens, you can have it. If anything happens to Morgan here, well, I’m going to kill you. You understand?”

  Fred nodded, keeping his hands up. “Sure. Fine. Please, go check.”

  John looked at Morgan and got a simple nod. Morgan would be fine. He jumped over the counter and planted his feet. He expected to land on the hard floor, but instead landed on a squishy, uneven surface and lost his footing. He went to stand up and heard a loud grunt and a scuffle coming from his right toward the counter.

  A shot rang out, followed by another grunt, and Fred and Morgan went stumbling toward the front of the store.

  As John tried to get his footing, he realized his shoes weren’t gripping the ground. “Morgan!” John looked around, found a counter and used it to pull himself up. He looked down and saw the floor was covered in a dark liquid, spread all over the floor from the pharmacy entrance to behind the counter to where John was standing. “Morgan, you all right?” Fighting was heard and John could tell that Morgan was pounding away on Fred. He looked down and saw the source of the blood.

  A woman lay on her side, ankles tied, and both hands were bound behind her back. She had a bandana shoved into her mouth and a dark semi-circle covered her throat from ear-to-ear. Someone had slit it.

  She was a white woman in her late thirties and had brown hair in a ponytail, large breasts, and was on the heavy side. Her eyes were cast half-open, lifeless. The white nametag on her red work vest told John that her name was Linda. Her white blouse had been ripped vertically in several areas. Straight tears with minimal fraying told John it had been ripped with a knife.

  “Morgan, watch for a knife. I’m coming!”

  John got up and held onto the counter while he scooted and slid his way across the blood. He reached the pharmacy entrance. Just as he stepped across, he saw two shadows coming from his right. As he turned to look, he was tackled by a man the same height as himself, but much skinnier. The man wrapped his arms around John’s waist and drove into him, causing him to lose his footing, with the blood-soaked soles not helping. John went with the momentum and loosened his body, letting the guy carry him back and away from the third man. He turned and saw the wall coming up and tried to time it right. He wanted to wrap his own arms around the guy’s waist, plant his feet, and use the man’s momentum to throw him over his shoulder and into the wall.

  The wall was about ten feet away.

  John bent over, wrapped his arms around the guy’s small waist, and interlocked his hands in a grappling hold. He dropped his legs and arched his back, using the man’s momentum to carry him over John’s shoulder. At the apex, he let go of his hands and pushed the man into the wall.

  There was a loud crack as the man landed on the hard floor head first, resting at an odd angle, unconscious.

  John turned back and saw Morgan and Fred’s legs from the waist down. One of them was lying on top of the other, halfway down the aisle. They kept turning each other over. Fred was putting up a fight.

  John ran toward them as the third man stepped out from the nearest aisle and swung a baseball bat at him. John had just enough time to register what was happening and instinctively ducked, the bat flying over his head with a whoosh. He knew that the man was still going through the swing and used that to his advantage.

  He pivoted with his right foot, and, while crouched, swung his hips to the left and threw a right hook to the man’s kidney. The man yelled in pain, telling John that he’d made contact. The man dropped the bat and brought his right arm down in a hammer strike. John raised both arms up in an X-pattern, catching the man’s swing between his forearms. He pulled the man down toward the ground and brought his knee up to meet the guy’s face.

  A wet crunch told John the man’s nose was shattered. He fell to the floor on his back. John jumped on top of the guy, straddled him, and brought alternating elbows crashing down onto the man’s face. One after the other, the blows landed, crushing bone and cutting skin. After about ten elbows, John let up, and looked down at the man. His face was a bloody mess. The man started convulsing, his breathing making a sucking sound. John ignored him.

  He got up and ran to the next aisle where Morgan and Fred had been fighting. He turned the corner and saw Morgan sitting down with his back to the aisle, smoking a joint.

  “Christ, dude. You okay?” John said, out of breath.

  Morgan looked up at John. He had a few cuts, but otherwise looked fine. The AR-15 was resting next to him. John saw Fred lying dead on his back. His face had been bashed in by the butt of the gun.

  “You didn’t break my AR-15, did you? That’s my favorite one,” John said.

  “I can see why. It’s very sturdy.” Morgan got up. “Trust me, I tried.”

  They walked to the counter and looked around.

  “You were right. Insulin, my ass. Those three were here together,” John said.

  “I told you so. But whatever. What did you find back there? And why the fuck did you fall down?”

  “The answer to both your questions is a dead woman. These guys cut her throat. I think they raped her too. She was bound and gagged and her blouse was ripped. Some minor bruising and cuts on her face.”

  Morgan shook his head and looked down at the three men. The one convulsing had stopped. “We should check their pockets, see if they have anything of use.”

  Morgan checked the fat man and the dead man next to him while John searched the tall skinny man.

  “Find anything?” John was done searching his pockets.

  “No. Well, some lint, nicotine gum, and a paper clip, of all things. But no ID, cash, wallet or keys. Nothing beneficial.”

  John jumped back over the counter of the pharmacy, careful this time not to land on the dead woman. He grabbed a bag and went through the shelves. He took some antibiotics and found a key hanging on the wall next to a glass case. Inside he could see various narcotic pain medications and benzodiazepines. He used the key to unlock the case. He shoveled all the bottles into the bag.

  “Morgan?”

  “Over here.”

  John found Morgan a few aisles over, shoveling canned food into a backpack with the tag still hanging off it.

  “Good idea. Meet me out front.” John walked through the store and checked the aisles, found where Morgan had got the backpack, grabbed a few, and started rummaging around the aisles. He took some bandages, band aids, Betadine, and pretty much every other over-the-counter drug he could find.

  He walked out front and saw Morgan standing outside, staring toward the road. There were about thirty people walking south toward the Outlet Mall. None of them looked over their way and were instead staring straight ahead, with thousand-yard stares.

  “Not zombies,” John said.

  “Not zombies yet,” Morgan replied. “Moving way too slow to be. I wonder where those poor bastards are going?”

  “Outlet Mall. Or the freeway to head east.”

  “Speaking of freeway, we should head there and get some gas. We can relive our youth and siphon some gas from abandoned vehicles. Might be our best bet.”

  “Might be people on the freeway,” John said.

  “Eh, people don’t concern me,” Morgan said, and walked to the Scout.


  John threw the bags in the back and drove the Scout back to the road. “I want to hit the other onramp further west. I doubt anyone is down that way. Might be more quiet.”

  Morgan nodded. “Roger that.”

  * * *

  They drove the three miles at a low speed so the engine noise wouldn’t draw attention. Morgan stood up in the front seat and scanned both sides of the freeway, using the scope as his eyes. John checked his rearview mirror and saw several people passing on the street toward the mall as he continued to drive west and away from them.

  At the onramp to the westbound side, John pulled the Scout up just past the entrance, then threw it into reverse and reversed up the ramp. “I want an easy escape if needed.”

  Morgan grunted. Halfway up the ramp, he said, “Hold up. Let me check it out.” John did, and Morgan jumped out and walked up the ramp in a crouch, leading with his rifle.

  Morgan did a full turn, keeping the gun up the whole time, and then signaled for John to continue up.

  At the top of the ramp, John killed the engine and climbed out, slinging his AR-15 across his torso. He grabbed two five-gallon cans. “Grab the other two, Morg.” He turned around and faced east. “I figure we work our way west this time and grab the cars that are here. It looks like the further east you go, the more cars there are.”

  “Yeah, and they look closer together.” Morgan picked up the other two cans. “Gas or diesel?”

  “Either one. Both are needed. Just don’t mix it.”

  “Gee, no shit? I wouldn’t have thought of that.” Morgan smiled at John and headed to the median.

  John started walking, trying to figure out which car to go after first. The Puget Sound region was a bastion for green energy and the first three cars he came across were either hybrids or fully electric.

  He continued on and saw a Kenworth semi truck parked at an odd angle against the shoulder. He climbed over the barrier wall and worked his way toward the side with the gas tank. He undid the cap and took a quick whiff.

  Diesel for sure.

  He placed the small plastic hose into the opening and the other end into his mouth. He started sucking until he got a mouthful of diesel, then spat it out, putting the end of the hose into the gas can. The fuel poured out in a small yet steady stream. He figured he had about five to ten minutes until it was full.

  He walked toward the end of the trailer and saw Morgan by a Volvo station wagon in the slow lane with his hands over his eyes looking west. “What do you have?” Morgan didn’t respond.

  John looked west, didn’t see anything. He glanced at Morgan again and saw that he was now standing on top of a beige Chevy Tahoe parked behind the Volvo.

  “John! Over here!” Morgan kept one hand over his eyes and signaled John with the other.

  He walked over to Morgan, keeping his eyes west bound, but didn’t see anything. “What do you have?” He climbed up on the truck, careful with his footing, and joined Morgan up on the roof.

  “There.” Morgan pointed to the west. “Just over that tree line as the freeway curves to the right.”

  John looked and didn’t see anything. “I don’t see anything.”

  “There’s a small haze. Like kicked-up dirt. If you focus on that big tree in the middle, you can see the haze moving our way in your peripheral. It’s slight, but it’s there.”

  John looked and focused on the tree. He saw what Morgan was talking about.

  It looked like what you would expect to see if a truck had bad exhaust, but from a distance of about a mile away. “I see it. What’s the big deal?”

  “Can you not hear that?”

  John closed his eyes to listen. He heard what sounded like fans cheering at a rock concert from a distance. The lack of road noise from the dead freeway allowed them to hear better than they normally would. The trees lining the freeway provided a tunnel for the sound to move as an echo as it bounced off the evergreens.

  He opened his eyes and saw the small dust cloud still moving their way.

  “That’s too slow-moving to be from a vehicle,” Morgan said.

  “Plus, cars don’t sound like people yelling.” John looked at Morgan and got a smile in return.

  Both men knew what was coming.

  “You get any gas?” John was making casual conversation with Morgan, waiting to see what came around that corner, but both knew it was hell coming their way.

  “Yep. Diesel in one. Unleaded in the other. I left the gas caps off the cars I got them from so we’ll know which ones to not hit next time. And there will be a next time.”

  John didn’t say anything. He brought his AR-15 up so he could use the scope.

  The dust cloud was crystal clear in his scope, the amber tint of the lens shielding the sun.

  The cloud was about five yards from the freeway when twenty people broke through the tree line at a sprint, a mixture of men and women of various ages and ethnicities, all running as fast as their untrained legs could carry them. It was an odd mix, those in front more athletic, while those at the back looked like they hadn’t run in years, if ever.

  John kept a running timer in his head, trying to gauge how far and fast they were running.

  Ten seconds had passed since that group broke the tree line.

  “They’ve been running for a while. They look tired as hell.”

  Morgan was right. The group started separating, with those in front keeping up the pace, while those at the back did the best they could. There was still no sign of what they were running from.

  Twenty seconds had passed.

  And then they showed themselves.

  Like a swarm, hundreds of zombies came running around the same corner, bringing death with them. Arms flailing and legs pumping, John could see the gnarled, pink and red-stained teeth and could hear the low buzzing sound of the footfalls echoing among the tree line, working their way toward them. With twenty-five seconds separating the two groups, it was just a matter of time before the horde fell upon the people running in front of them.

  John had no idea how long they’d been running, but he figured it’d been a long time, considering the lazy way they were moving. Running on fear and adrenaline, they were going to keep up the pace for as long as they could.

  “Christ, there’s hundreds of them. They’re even coming out of the tree line and onto the freeway,” Morgan said. “They’re all about five minutes away.”

  John kept watching. Most of the zombies were taking the shortest path possible. There was no cutting corners like the survivors were doing. The zombies were running over cars and some threw themselves headfirst into windows, their bodies folding into the vehicle then thrashing around inside, trying to get out.

  The people were zigzagging in between vehicles. A few ran off the freeway into the tree line and were pursued by a handful of the infected. With hundreds of cars parked on the freeway, a few still had occupants, who, seeing the carnage coming their way, fled their vehicles and took off running. Some joined the group and others took off into the trees.

  They were more in focus now, the whites of their eyes unmistakable. John had seen that look before, most recently, in Ali’s eyes: the specter of death like a mask across their face, knowing the end was coming.

  One male that was running looked very familiar to John. He was wearing a baseball cap and clothing that looked a little too small for him. His T-shirt looked like something you’d find at a store in the mall that catered to teenagers and had that low-quality, high-priced look.

  He recognized the angular jaw-line, deep-set brown eyes, and hooked nose. Mostly, he recognized the tongue moving back and forth across the lips of his mouth, deep in concentration.

  No sooner had John decided what needed to happen, when Morgan saw what John was seeing. He went to put his hand on Morgan’s shoulder to hold him back, but Morgan was too quick.

  “Steve!” Morgan took off quicker than John had ever seen him move. He jumped, one leg onto the hood of the Tahoe, the other pointing st
raight out, then planting on the freeway. He sprinted, the AR-15 cradled in his arms, as his body pumped his shoulders back and forth.

  “Morgan, hold up!” Morgan kept running, ignoring John. “Morgan!”

  John took off after him into the fire, knowing damn well that they were running to certain death.

  Chapter 25

  John had the AR-15 resting across his arms at chest level as he pumped his arms, sprinting as hard as he could. Morgan had taken the grassy median, so John took the shoulder. This would allow both of them to attack from each side and funnel the survivors between them.

  John saw several vehicles where they could take up position. Most cars were parked at angles in a failed attempt to change lanes. A few people that had fled their cars were running past him, screaming.

  “Morgan, leapfrog!” John yelled, but if Morgan heard him, he didn’t acknowledge.

  John had to assume Morgan did, and if he didn’t, he’d figure it out.

  He ran to a tan Volvo station wagon, its front facing the freeway at an angle, and took up position behind the engine block. He leaned across the hood, resting his right elbow on it and pressing the butt of the gun against his shoulder.

  Inhale, exhale.

  Calm.

  The survivors were about three hundred yards away and running in all different directions but most were still navigating the sea of vehicles. Still too far to take a shot and not hit one of them.

  John kept the gun at rest, lifted his head, and saw Morgan about fifty yards ahead of him. He kept his sights on Morgan and saw him bring the AR-15 up. The group running saw him and navigated the metallic maze more toward the center and the right, zigzagging in between cars, some jumping over them, some falling and getting back up. Several were getting their clothing caught on the cars, which swung them around and slowed their momentum.

  An Asian guy with a pink shirt and black slacks stumbled and fell in between two SUVs. A white guy in his forties turned to go help him up but a large black man grabbed him and threw him onward trying to keep up the momentum.