by L. T. Ryan
She turned to her right and came face to face with a man in a uniform. He looked to be in his early sixties, still in pretty decent shape. Probably working as a cop out in the sticks to support his pension from a gig he’d had earlier in life.
“What do you think you’re doing, miss?” he asked.
“I ran out of gas,” she said. “I’m just trying to get home.”
He looked at the bike and then back at her. “That’s yours?”
She nodded, fearing that he’d run the VIN and the motorcycle would come back stolen.
“Don’t move,” he said, turning in the direction of the bike. He walked over to it, circled it once, then reversed and circled back. “Guess that’s the right bike for a girl. How long have you had it?”
She didn’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved. She’d handled more powerful machines than that one. “A few months now. Got it for myself as a birthday gift. My husband hates it. He always says I’ll end up losing a leg.”
He smiled and nodded. “I’m sure I’d say the same thing to my wife. Anyway, I got some gas in the trunk. Should be enough to get you a hundred miles. What do you get, about sixty miles to the gallon on that thing?”
“Something like that.” She smiled and dropped her head to the side.
He returned to his squad car, opened the trunk, and pulled out a red gas can. Two minutes later, he’d drained it dry. “Be careful out there, Miss.”
She smiled as she whipped her leg over and settled onto the seat. The cop took a step back and started coughing. His lungs sounded thick with mucus. He turned and covered his face with his hands. After the coughing subsided, he spat on the ground. Whatever came up was coated in blood. He turned back toward her.
Kathy cringed at the sight of blood smeared around his lips and on his chin. She forced a smile anyway, nodded and looked away.
She started the motorcycle and took off, merging onto I-64 for a few short miles before beginning the final leg of her journey home.
Twelve
The first night in the bunker had not been without its trials. Sean woke up every hour with a nagging feeling that something was wrong. He’d roll off the couch and shuffle to the computer only to find that all systems were working properly. The security cameras, which had infrared capabilities, showed a still, hazy-green scene surrounding his house and above the bunker. He didn’t suspect there would be much threat of looters in the area. However, if someone did stumble upon his home, he wanted to be aware.
There had been an issue with the ventilation system, but an adjustment to the fan speed corrected that.
Though sleep had been fleeting, Sean felt alert at six a.m. He fixed a single cup of coffee and scrambled two eggs. They had enough fresh food to last three days. After that, they’d have to resort to the MREs he’d stockpiled over the last several years. There were enough of those to support them for over a year if necessary. He didn’t expect that to be the case. They would also come in handy when it came time to leave the bunker. He could load enough to last a few months in the back of his pick-up truck, along with a month’s supply of water. Not that it would take that long to get to Charleston, South Carolina. His mind had been working on plans to leave since he’d sealed the bunker door.
Sean cycled through the screens on his phone while eating breakfast. He had a full-strength signal thanks to the antenna range extender. It didn’t matter though. Service was gone. Either heavy usage had crippled the cell networks, or the carriers had given up and shut down.
He gripped the phone tightly in his hand. All he wanted was confirmation that Kathy had arrived in Charleston safely. If she was there and at the airport, Turk could get her to his compound. Not could, he would get her there.
He picked up his plate and moved to the computer. A tap on the mouse resurrected the machine. He restored the SSH terminal window and typed, “Turk, you there?”
There was no immediate response.
Sean took a bite of eggs, then set the plate down off to the left. He opened up a new tab on his browser and typed in the web address for a news site. The page looked the same as it had four hours ago when he last checked. He leaned forward and, narrowing his eyes, looked at the light gray text that time stamped the articles. They were all from two a.m. or earlier. Nothing had been updated since.
“This isn’t good,” he muttered while opening another tab and typing in the address for another news site. The results were the same. Worse, in fact. The last update on that site had been at eleven p.m. the night before. The reports had been increasingly distressing throughout the evening, but he didn’t expect that the major news outlets would have abandoned their posts so soon.
He continued through every major U.S. news agency. The results were the same. Even the AP’s site had ceased to update. There was a banner at the top that said, “Hope is lost.”
Sean turned his attention across the Atlantic, finding updates through the BBC’s website. The disturbing nature of what he read had him wishing that their site had been abandoned, too.
In Rome, hospitals were turning people away. Pictures showed people lying on the sidewalk in front of the emergency room, and cars parked on the street surrounding the hospital. There were already ten thousand deaths reported. Roving bands of the afflicted had been spotted in several sections of the city. There was a video clip of a group of seven afflicted attacking an elderly woman who tripped and fell while trying to escape. Sean couldn’t watch the entire thing.
To the north, Florence, Genoa and Milan fared no better.
A supposed media blackout in Spain left Sean with little information about the state of affairs inside the country. No place was safe, though. That was apparent when he read the reports of what was occurring in Paris, France. The Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, and Notre Dame had all been overrun by afflicted. Maybe they were vacationers who were sick and stuck in the City of Lights who wanted a few more minutes with their favorite attractions.
Apparently, groups of people had taken refuge in the cathedral. Whether a few sick people had made their way inside and spread the virus, or if wandering afflicted found their way to Notre Dame, was not clear. Either way, the results had been catastrophic.
The rest of Europe had suffered a similar fate.
Things in London appeared tame compared to the rest. For how long, though? After all, there was no escaping what was coming. Maybe a city or a country could last a little longer than the others, but so long as they were connected with the rest of the world, they were screwed.
That left Sean to think about societies that weren’t regularly in touch with the rest of society. What would happen to them? Would they ever find out? Perhaps they’d continue on as though nothing had taken place.
If only he could do the same.
He began to consider staying inside the bunker as long as possible. Why leave after a few weeks when they could conceivably survive for a year, or longer, inside the structure? He knew their chances of survival would be greater the longer they remained underground.
A two-toned beep alerted him that someone had responded to his message on the SSH server. He minimized his browser and restored the terminal window.
“I’m here,” Turk had typed.
Sean’s heart rate increased and he had trouble breathing. “Have you been back to the airport yet?” He hit enter and waited.
“Yeah…”
“And?” A door opened behind him. He ignored it.
“I collected four out of five of my people.”
Sean’s fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment. The next question could change his life, his world. Not just his, but Emma’s, too. Slowly, he spelled out his wife’s name. “Kathy?”
There was a delay in responding. Too long of one, Sean thought. How long did it take to type “yes” or “no?” He reached out for his keyboard to ask again, when Turk responded.
“She wasn’t there. No flight came in from Cincinnati.”
Sean felt lightheaded. All at once, his
world began to crash around him. The only reason he made it through eight years of torment was because he had Kathy by his side. But now? How would he do this alone?
“I’m sorry,” Turk continued. “I’ll go back again tonight. After that, we have to go underground for good. I can’t keep taking these chances.”
Sean shook his head and cleared his thoughts. “Okay. I understand. Keep me posted.”
He pushed back in his chair and brought his hands to his face. Unable to hold it in, he sobbed into his palms. He felt a hand on his shoulder and abruptly stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Barbara asked.
He rose, turned, and pulled her into an embrace. “We’re never gonna see her again.”
“Who? What?”
“Kathy.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t make it to Charleston. I’ve got no idea where she is. Last message I got from her said that she got a flight there, but she didn’t show up. The plane never showed up. It could have crashed, or gone somewhere else. With the way it is out there, she’ll never make it. Or if she does, it will be with another group. Technology is dying and almost all forms of communication will be gone in three days, if not already.”
The news appeared to rock Barbara. The woman left Sean and stumbled toward the couch. She sat down, despondent, tears streaming down her face.
That was the difference between Sean and most people. He’d already recovered from the initial shock. His mind went into recovery mode, refusing to be shutdown in the face of apparent tragedy.
“Barbara,” he said.
The woman did not respond.
“Listen to me, Barbara,” he said. “Crying is not going to get her back. What I need you to do is take these headphones and put them on. If you hear anything, and I mean anything at all, you let me know. Okay?”
She looked in his direction with unfocused eyes.
He carried the headphones over to her along with a portable transponder. He and Kathy had never developed a plan for what to do in the event they were separated. She thought he was crazy to invest three hundred thousand dollars in building the bunker, and he didn’t necessarily disagree with her. Trying to organize anything beyond that was a losing battle with the woman.
He’d taught her Morse code, though, and had her memorize a specific radio frequency that they could communicate on.
“Just put these on and listen. Got it?” He handed the device and headphones to Barbara.
She nodded, taking the items from him.
“Beeps, clicks, pops,” Sean said. “Anything like that, you tell me.”
The door to Emma’s room opened and the girl stepped through the opening. She glanced at Barbara sitting on the couch with headphones on. Emma’s expression changed. She looked at Sean, confused. He gestured for her to join him by the computer.
“What’s she doing?” Emma asked.
“I’ve got her busy listening on a frequency. There are…people who have access to that channel, and if they reach out to me, I want to know.”
Emma appeared to buy into his explanation. She glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the computer monitor. Sean felt ice travel up and down his back. Had he left the SSH terminal window up where Emma could see his conversation with Turk?
“Did you sleep well?”
She nodded, keeping her gaze fixed on the monitor. Sean turned to see the disturbing images on the screen. He had minimized his conversation with Turk. In doing so, he’d left the BBC news site on display. A picture that showed several hundred afflicted beings staggering through a city street in Rome took up half of the screen.
“Can I have a gun?” Emma asked.
He turned toward her. She remained fixated on the image on the screen. He thought about hiding it from her, but knew that would accomplish nothing.
“Dad?” she said. “Can I?”
He paused while thinking over the question. She’d been around firearms most of her life, and had fired several. But there was something about his daughter walking around the bunker with a loaded weapon that left him uneasy. What if news was delivered that upset her? How would she react? Would she turn the gun on him, or Barbara, or worse, on herself?
“Do you feel like you need one?”
She nodded, her stare flicking from the screen to him. She looked older at that moment, more like her mother. “If those things get down here, I want to be able to defend myself.”
“They can’t get down here, Em. You’re safe here.”
“I’d feel a lot safer with a pistol.”
Sean took a deep breath and walked over to the gun cabinet. He inserted his key and unlocked it, then opened it. “Come over here.” She walked over and stopped next to him. He proceeded to point out each weapon, its benefits and situational use if there was one. He showed her the Walther P22 .22LR pistol, indicating he’d placed the handgun in there for her. Then he inserted his key into a lock in the upper corner of the cabinet. Opening a small door, he said, “I’m not going to let you walk around the place with a loaded weapon.” He reached inside the compartment and retrieved a key identical to his. He grabbed her hand and placed the key into her palm. “But you take this. You thread a piece of string through it and you wear it around your neck. If something happens to me, you get a gun. If it looks like we are going to be attacked, you use that key and open this up. Grab that Walther, an M9, hell, even that M40 there if you think you can handle it.”
She tucked the key into her pocket, nodded and then went to her room. A few minutes later, she returned with the key strung around her neck. She smiled tersely as she passed him on her way to the kitchen area.
A barely audible beep sounded from the computer. Sean walked over and sat down. He took a moment to ensure his daughter and Barbara were not too close as he restored the SSH terminal window. A message had been sent by Tim Lindley, Turk’s friend in the Bahamas.
“President Bryant’s family has succumbed. Although no information has been provided about the status of the President, Vice President Harkness has assumed the duties as president of the United States.”
Sean stared at the words on the screen, letting it sink in. Nobody was above falling prey to the virus.
Tim continued, “That’s the word from the BBC, at least.”
Sean opened his browser and verified. In the background, he noticed a disturbance in one of the small windows displaying a camera feed. He clicked on the window and maximized it. Whatever it was had disappeared. Restoring the window, he checked each feed in turn, looking for the source of the disturbance.
“You okay, Dad?”
He nodded. “Keep your hand on that key, kiddo.”
Thirteen
Addison slept with the messenger bag clenched in her left hand, a knife on her nightstand, and one of the pistols under her pillow. The other remained inside the bag. In less than twelve hours, things had deteriorated to the point that she doubted she’d survive the week.
Carla coughed non-stop, and at one point had stumbled down the hall and knocked on Addison’s door. Addison had not replied to her roommate’s desperate cries for help.
She lay in bed, waiting for the symptoms to overtake her.
When would they come? What would it feel like?
The virus was an obvious death sentence. She figured once she could confirm she had contracted it, she’d turn one of the pistols on herself and end her life with a little dignity.
More coughing coming through the thin walls led to her thinking that she should end Carla’s life with some dignity, too. She couldn’t, though. That would be murder. She couldn’t bring herself to commit the act.
Addison got out of bed, double-checked the lock on the door and then went into the bathroom. She brushed her teeth while waiting for the shower to heat up. There were some things she was not yet willing to sacrifice. Cleanliness was one of them. As long as they had hot water, she’d shower. Frankly, as long as they had running water, she would. Steam fogged up the mirror and filled the bathr
oom. She slipped out of her robe, letting it fall into a pile on the floor, and moved past the shower curtain. Hot water pelted her body.
If only it could wash away the events of the past twenty-four hours.
Slowly, the steam in the air built a cocoon around her. Anything could happen at that moment, and Addison would remain blissfully unaware.
She couldn’t ignore the banging on the wall, though. Jolted from her meditative state, she inched toward the shower curtain. She’d set the messenger bag on top of the toilet next to the shower. The banging persisted. Addison placed her hands on the wall, one in front and the other behind her. She felt vibrations through the palm of her right hand. The noise came from Carla’s room. She must have heard the water running and grown angry. A jaunt down the hall would have resulted in her roommate fighting with Addison’s locked door. The woman probably then returned to her room and began striking the wall with either her fist or an object.
Scenes of carnage played out in Addison’s mind. She had been unable to forget the image of those people as they descended upon helpless others and proceeded to tear them limb from limb. Carla, for all her problems, had never been a particularly violent person, outside of her affinity for certain video games. But now, she exhibited signs of rage, and the anger seemed directed toward Addison.
She pulled the shower curtain back and reached for a towel. Then she stepped onto the tile floor, leaving the water running. Anything to keep Carla occupied for a few more minutes. Addison dried off, then wrapped the towel around her body. She reached for the bag and pulled out one of the pistols. It felt slick and heavy in her hand. Cold air rushed into the bathroom as she cracked open the door. The flesh on her arms, legs and neck pricked. She stuck the barrel of the gun through the crack. Easing the door open, she scanned the room and found it empty.
She opened her closet and pulled out a pair of jeans and a dark, plain t-shirt. She also grabbed a pair of hiking boots that her father had sent to her after he found out she attended college in a mountainous region. She’d been there for a year-and-a-half already by that point. Her mother swore she didn’t let him know. If not her, then who? She had continued to blame her mother, resulting in a falling out between the two of them. They hadn’t spoken in six months, and now Addison was scared she’d never hear her voice again.
