The Living Dead Series (Book 2): World Without End

by L. I. Albemont

  Today, thought Bea, I finally meet the neighbors. Brian said he saw the driver return yesterday afternoon with a few bags of groceries but hadn’t seen him since.

  “Do you want to come with me?” Bea asked while pulling on her oldest, most comfortable hiking boots. “I shouldn’t be gone that long and they might not even let me in.”

  “No, I’ll stay here. You should take one of the revolvers though.”

  She opened her mouth to say that was ridiculous then stopped. He was right.

  “Good idea. Lock up behind me and if I don’t come back, though I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t, call Evan. Promise?” She reluctantly put a revolver in her pocket.

  The air outside smelled like smoke and she saw what looked like gray feathers on the snow. She knew parts of the city were on fire but hadn’t expected smoke and ash to drift this far. The wind still blew and clouds, heavy with snow, were beginning to bank in the western sky. She crunched across the yard and went around the side of the house to the front door and rang the doorbell.

  No one answered. She looked through the window but only saw a staircase and part of a wool rug on a polished wooden floor. An umbrella stand had been overturned and umbrellas and canes lay scattered. Maybe everyone was in the back. She rang again and heard the sound echo inside.

  The setting sun pierced through the gathering clouds and briefly illuminated the windows along the west side of the house. The gutters back here were sagging and probably full of ice. The lovely, old, Greek-key frieze had cracked and pulled away from the house and the paint on the eaves was peeling. A glass-paned door to the back porch was ajar but no one was in the room. She called out hesitantly.

  “Hello? Is anyone here?” She stepped inside and felt immediately warmer just getting out of the wind. No one answered her call. She walked through a pair of French doors and into what must be a family room. The rugs and curtains in here were moth-eaten and the room smelled faintly of mold but it was uncluttered and welcoming with wood laid for a fire in the small fireplace.

  Next came a kitchen that looked like nothing in it had been changed since the nineteen-fifties. The cupboards were metal as were the countertops, the sink white porcelain. Again everything was clean but behind the glass cleaner she smelled something else and heard a whirring, bumping sound, as if something mechanical were winding up and then stopping, over and over again. Cautiously she inched toward the sound and walked through partially closed double doors into what looked like the dining room.

  An empty motorized wheelchair bumped and reversed repeatedly against a polished mahogany table that held a place setting for one. Red sauce covered the plate and had spilled onto the table. Bea looked down.

  The driver and nurse knelt on the rug, holding chunks of meat and entrails in their hands as they chewed hungrily. That wasn’t red sauce on the table after all. Their employer, what was left of her (Bea spotted an ivory leather shoe lying next to the curtain) was scattered across the table, wheelchair and floor. A rib cage and spinal column, mostly stripped of flesh, were pushed against the wall.

  Shocked and unable to take in what she was seeing she must have made some sort of sound because they both looked up. Their chewing slowed and they dropped the bloody lumps they held and got to their feet. Bea backed toward the doorway.

  They followed. The driver hissed as he limped toward her, making uncoordinated grabbing motions with both arms. The nurse, her throat torn out and one arm hanging by mere shreds of flesh was slower but just as eager. Bea did what every stupid co-ed in horror movies did. Unable to take her eyes off her pursuers, she stumbled and fell.

  Turning around she scrambled to her feet but the driver grasped her ankle and pulled her back down. His grip was vise-like and she couldn’t kick him off of her. The nurse, a look of desperate hunger on her blood-smeared face, lunged at her but fell on the driver, breaking his grip and giving Bea just enough time to crawl away and slam the heavy paneled doors, trapping both of them in the dining room. She found a thin dishtowel and wrapped then knotted it around the two small doorknobs. They began to pound on the doors immediately. The doors shook but held.

  She fled into the study and out the back door and was halfway across the yard when she remembered her reason for going to the house in the first place. Reluctantly she turned back.

  An arched doorway led from the study to the foyer stairs. The pounding from the dining room was a steady drumbeat throughout the house. Upstairs off a wide landing several closed doors beckoned and she chose one at random.

  The room was empty. Dust balls scattered across the worn, oak floorboards when she opened the door. A wide-paned window with a built-in window seat looked out over the front of the house. She pushed the filmy curtains aside. Two houses down a family were outside in their driveway, loading boxes and bags into a Range Rover. Slow-moving figures approached and she heard gunshots. One of the figures went down but got back up again. Someone shouted and a woman holding a baby in her arms ran outside and climbed into the Rover. The vehicle pulled out, slid briefly on the ice then drove on and out of sight. Dark figures still dotted the street, shuffling about, barely disturbing the soft blanket of snow. There were a few cars, some parked, others abandoned in the middle of the street.

  The green Mercedes. The keys had to be somewhere in the house. A search of all the rooms up here yielded nothing. They must be downstairs. She was halfway down the stairs when the hammering from the dining room stopped.

  Chapter Four

  The sudden silence was unnerving. She stopped and listened but the sound didn’t start back up again. Tip-toeing carefully down the steps she looked around the corner into the kitchen. The dining room doors were still closed but she noticed a key rack next to the fridge. A board creaked underfoot and the trapped servants began slamming into the doors again. Snatching all the keys she went outside to the detached garage and tried without success to open the bay door.

  The snow was coming down again, hard little pellets that stung her face and bounced off the roofs. She groaned in frustration and threw the keys down. The people in the street heard her and gibbered, pressing closely against the gates. She had their full attention now. She retrieved the keys, walked back to the pool house and knocked on the kitchen door. Brian let her in.

  “What’s it like? What did you see?” he asked.

  She couldn’t tell him about the scene in the dining room. “It’s not bad. A few people are out there but the streets are pretty clear. I tried to find the keys to that Mercedes but I couldn’t.”

  “I don’t think we can leave anyway, Bea. Deshawn’s dad said I-495 is a giant parking lot. If there’s no school tomorrow can Deshawn come over?”

  “Brian, it’s not safe to travel anywhere right now. The people in the house are- not safe. They have the virus. If you see them come out of the house, don’t go near them and come tell me.”

  A pulsing roar sounded in the distance, growing in volume until it was overhead. They walked out and saw a covey of helicopters heading west. The sounds soon faded and the evening quiet returned but was accented by the moans and gibbers coming from the street. Bea and Brian watched the infected move en masse, now following the helicopters. Sounds, any sounds seemed to excite them.

  “Helicopters or planes are probably the only way to get out of the city now,” Brian remarked.

  Bea agreed but didn’t want to say so. The political and wealthy elite were abandoning the city, leaving the rest of them to survive or not. They really didn’t care.

  “We’ll see, Brian. I think we’ll make it.” She smiled and tried not to think about the danger still present in the main house. The estate walls surrounding them were not impenetrable but she had taken comfort from the additional protection. Now the virus was inside with them, less than a hundred yards away. She hung her coat up, belatedly remembered the gun in her pocket, took it out and put it away. A part of her knew she should have shot the nurse and driver but she didn’t know if she could have and they needed to conserve
bullets anyway.

  Dark came early, enclosing the little house like a shroud. They made soup and sat down to watch what news was still being broadcast, which wasn’t much. The local NBC affiliate showed footage from FEMA advising people to stock up on extra water and canned goods. It was a little late for that.

  More helpfully they showed the interstates and adjoining thoroughfares that were completely blocked with traffic. Moving around amongst the vehicles were tiny figures, stranded far from home or any other protection against the cold night and whatever lurked in it. If Bea had been able to get to the Mercedes from next door, she and Brian would have been out there too. All of the D.C. area was under quarantine and declared off limits. They really are abandoning us, she thought; they think we’re as good as dead.

  They inventoried their food and ammunition again. They had a lot of canned food but it would be too heavy to carry much of it. Bea took all the meat out of the freezer, cooked it, then sealed it in plastic and put it in the fridge. Brian cleaned the bathtub and then ran it full of water. They both prepared backpacks with a couple of water bottles, toothbrushes, and some food stuffs just in case they had to leave in a hurry. Bea placed one of the revolvers in her backpack and left the other one out on the kitchen counter, making sure Brian knew it was there and was loaded. She also packed the Glock in case they found ammo for it somewhere along the way.

  As they were doing this, Brian regaled her with information gleaned from the internet. She listened absentmindedly, still trying to think of somewhere to go if they had to leave the city. Everyone she knew lived downtown or in the teeming, nearby suburbs of Virginia and Maryland. Evan’s parents lived in Pennsylvania but she had never met them and wouldn’t like to impose on them even if she could get there. She tuned back in to Brian.

  “…destroy the brains and then they’ll stop.”

  “Do they feel anything?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, maybe. No one really knows.”

  Brian stopped talking and looked out the window, hearing the gates rattle occasionally but unable to see anything other than shadowy, stumbling figures. Twice vehicles roared by, their engines muffled by the continual wind. A dog barked somewhere. They heard that eager moaning the dead make and saw them shuffle off, possibly excited by the prospect of fresh meat. Only one of them stayed behind. It frightened Bea, thinking maybe this one knew more meat was inside the gates. Did they think or have memories?

  Her phone buzzed with a text from Evan saying he had gotten out of the Spotted Owl but was still in Dupont Circle. The streets there were completely impassible and full of the sick. She texted him back that she was fine and to be careful. She wondered if she would ever see him again then gave herself a mental shaking. Of course she would see him again. This would be over soon and things would get back to normal. Okay, maybe not normal but something approaching that.

  She heard the kitchen door open, ran back there and saw Brian outside. He had a handful of dog biscuits and was scattering them on the snow. She relaxed. Last night the little spaniel had shown up looking in longingly through the kitchen door before running away. He must have had bad experiences with humans because he was a cautious little guy.

  Again, they watched TV until late but learned very little new information. The virus was now in Europe and still spreading because of the earthquake victims from Haiti who were flown around the world for medical care. A group of young black men outside of a hospital in London were targeted by a sniper who assumed they were Haitians. A protest group was savaged by a crowd of people, some of them children, wearing hospital gowns. Everyone was afraid and no one knew what to do.

  Closer to home the interstates were choked with millions of people fleeing the East Coast for the supposedly safer heartlands. Towns in the Midwest posted signs at off ramps warning drivers not to exit or stop at risk of being shot. Stores, especially food stores were heavily looted.

  Florida, Alabama, Georgia, and Mississippi were in complete news blackout with National Guard barricades set up on all major roadways leading out of the states. Anyone approaching a barrier from the south was shot on sight.

  Brian fell asleep and she stayed beside him, keeping watch. In sleep he looked so little and she was afraid, really afraid that she might not be able to protect him in the days ahead. Getting up she retrieved the revolver from the counter and put it on the end table, reassured by the feel of the cold steel in her hand. She fell asleep sitting up in the chair.

  ~

  Her phone woke her, buzzing and vibrating until it fell off the table. She snatched it up and said, “Hello?”

  “Bea? It’s Sylvie. Are you at work?”

  “What? No, I’m at home. Are you telling me the Gallery is open?” She wondered if she had hallucinated the past two days.

  “No, no, I was just checking. There are some documents there that I really need. I’m heading that way and wanted to see if anyone might be there to let me in. Julian told me he couldn’t remember seeing you leave and I thought you might have been stuck there. I got in a scuffle on my way home the other day and lost my keys and scan pass. Although I think they wanted a piece of me more than my purse. And I do mean that literally.”

  “Sylvie, are you insane? They’re eating people in the streets, the Metro is full of infected, you can’t just-”

  “Bea, I have to get back there. Believe it or not, there is something there that may help us combat this plague. I can’t really explain it over the phone. I’ve already done some things the Brits would not be happy about. If I have a job to go back to, they’ll probably never work with me or the Gallery again. I’m not sure that any of that will matter now though.”

  Brian woke up and stumbled back to his bedroom. The microwave clock showed seven-thirty a.m. but the sky was still dark and looking out Bea saw why. It had snowed heavily last night and snow was still falling, fat, wet flakes piling up on the tree branches, grounds and streets.

  “When I left, the glass doors on the piazza were already shot out. You should be able to get into the building but the whole area was full of infected. You can’t go, especially by yourself.” Bea got the milk from the refrigerator and poured a bowl of cereal.

  “Mac was supposed to meet me and we were going together but he isn’t answering his phone. I’m afraid something happened to him. He was going to be my armed wingman, so to speak.”

  Todd McKlasky, a.k.a. Mac, was the Smithsonian’s foremost expert on American Primitive art and had created various exhibitions in D.C. as well as Colonial Williamsburg. He was also a self-professed gun enthusiast and NRA member. He was the only person Bea knew who had gone to the trouble and expense of obtaining his license to carry permit.

  “I don’t think my chances of getting there without a weapon are very good but I’m going to try it if I have to. You wouldn’t happen to have a weapon would you?” Sylvie laughed when she said it and didn’t seem to expect a response.

  Reluctantly Bea answered her, “I do.”

  There was a brief silence then Sylvie said, “Would you come with me?”

  “Sylvie, I’m here with Brian. It’s just the two of us.”

  “I understand. What’s your personal email address? I’m going to send you some documents the Brits accidentally sent with the Egyptian collection. They were never meant to be part of the collection at all but they may be relevant to this flu and I want you to keep them, print them if you can. There are more of them still at the Gallery. They could be really important.”

  “Ok.”

  “I’m leaving the originals that I do have here in my apartment near Dupont Circle. I live just off of Massachusetts, so if this ever ends would you be sure the originals are returned to the Gallery? I’m pretty sure the Brits will hunt me down in the afterlife if they don’t get them back.”

  “I don’t understand.” Bea was at a loss as to why this was so important.

  “That’s okay. I’m sending the email now. All the best to you and Brian. God bless.”

 
She rang off. Bea ate her cereal then turned her laptop on, waiting for it to boot up. Outside the snow continued to fall and she didn’t see anyone near the gates. The main house, picturesque in its wintry blanket, could have been on the front of a Christmas card. She thought about what lurked inside and shivered.

  Logging on to her account, she scrolled to Sylvie’s email and clicked it. It had a large attachment and took a while to open. The first report she read was marked “Classified file” and looked like it had originally been created on a typewriter.

  The following is a letter written circa 127 BC from Titus Darius Longinus, a soldier of the Roman forces stationed at the site of what is now known as Hadrian’s Wall in Scotland. This treasure trove of letters found at Vindolanda yields fascinating details of events and life at what would have been an isolated outpost of Roman civilization. The letters were written on thin, postcard-sized tablets made of local alder and birch wood, preserved only because the local soil was heavy clay.

  Whilst there are other walls built by the Romans as defensive outposts and for border definition, Hadrian’s Wall is the most heavily fortified known and based on this one can argue the Romans considered the northern tribes the most dangerous. The events described below give us an insight into why.

  “I wish you to know, my dear Father, that I arrived three days ago and have only now stolen a moment to sit upon the ramparts and tell you of my situation and this province. It is a land both green and cold. We reside in some safety behind the wall begun several years ago and its length grows daily through our efforts.

  Before all else know that I pray daily for your health and for my mother, for Serenilla and her little daughter.

  Upon arrival on shore, I gave thanks to the gods for my safe passage. I was immediately given four gold coins for my travel and, with my two fellow soldiers and some other travelers set my face north for there is my post. We made good time as the roads here, the few there are, are new and in good repair. I observed some of the native peoples captured as slaves. They are blue-eyed and tall with fair skin they like to dye blue and are known to us as Picti as they are painted. I know not what name they have for themselves.