The Way of Things would not be placated. “Consider the man who shot the woman with one leg. He did an evil thing and stood before an armed crowd. Not one of them raised a hand to stop him.”
“They were afraid.”
“You are all afraid. Even the worst of you is afraid of something, but now the man in Wilmington isn’t afraid that anyone will stop him. For this stream of time to flow in the direction you want, to get the outcome you hope for, the Army of Light must be fed. That man must be eaten for the evil he does.”
“But the others —”
“You know the story of Sodom.”
“But you’re feeding them children, too! It’s a whole town!” Jaimie said. “They didn’t choose badly. Their parents chose for them.”
“Gomorrah was bigger than Wilmington, Vermont.”
The boy wept.
“This is the way it has always been,” The Way of Things answered. “The righteous will survive and the rest will be cleansed of the Earth. Eventually.”
Beneath those words, Jaimie heard another echo of Shiva’s plans for the world: To build a new future and a better world!
“Why do these people have to be cleansed from the Earth?” Jaimie asked.
“To make the Earth worthy of the reward that is reserved for the survivors of the war…if there are any.”
“What do you mean, ‘if there are any’?”
“Refuse us this sacrifice and the warlord lives. If the evil remain in the equation, the ratio of good to bad doesn’t change.”
“The Way of Things…” Jaimie said. “We are more than fodder for cold calculations.”
“That’s why you’re the hero of this story, not Shiva. We set the conditions for victory and defeat, Jaimie. The rest is up to you. You’re an excellent champion for the human side of the equation.”
“I’ve been an alien among them all my life.”
“Even better.”
Jaimie wished it was Lieutenant Francis Carron in Wilmington. Had it been Carron, the choice would be easier. Perhaps that was why these choices were so easy for The Way of Things. It saw beyond the visible and into the heart of the future.
So many men had died in the plague, but not Francis Carron. Sadly, Jaimie thought, there were still such men. It’s my job to turn such men into mindless, ravenous killers because, as bad as these people are, I let Adam Wiggins loose on the world. For humans to live, the Alphas have to die. Maybe I should die with them.
“Am I really still one of the good guys?” Jaimie asked The Way of Things. “After all this?”
“That’s a child’s idea,” The Way of Things answered. The disembodied voices haunted the boy. “You can’t strive to be good. You can only strive to be better. Good versus Evil is a children’s story. But Bad versus Evil? We’re very interested in how that war will end.”
“Shiva was right about you. You don’t care who wins.”
“You care. That’s enough. You want a bright future for your family. The future is a house made of bones. We give you the tools. Build that house.”
“Shiva thinks she’s doing the right thing, too.”
“That’s why this is interesting. Otherwise, we’d be watching nebulae formations.”
Jaimie wiped the tears from his cheeks. “What are you?”
“You won’t understand.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“The Way of Things is what moves the universe.”
“And?”
“You won’t understand.”
“Tell me more. I need to know I’m doing the right thing.”
“We are twenty-four percent of the universe, what humans call Dark Matter. What looks like emptiness between stars and people and meanings? That’s The Way of Things.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Told you.”
“So…”
“So you’re doing the right thing because you’re fighting for your family and for the human family. Shiva’s alternative is slavery, death, destruction —”
“Okay, fine. I get it.”
“Well, then,” The Way of Things said in its strange male and female duet. “Stick to the bargain you made.”
Jaimie nodded. Quid pro quo.
You believed the Spencers' plight
Anna crashed through the brush and ran toward the firelight. In her panic, she yelled, “Daddy!” She fell into the pool of light by the campfire. She stood quickly, flushed with embarrassment as she brushed herself off. “Uh…Mom!”
Jaimie’s eyes snapped open. “Uh-oh.” He knew who was in the woods.
They all stood looking into the darkness. “It’s okay,” Theo said. “I’m right here. Jaimie, pull your hood up and your energy back.”
As if she’d heard Theo Spencer, a young woman’s voice echoed, “It’s okay!”
“Is it?” Jack called back. She grabbed a stick next to the campfire and stirred it brighter to throw more light. She held on to the stick, ready to start swinging with the smoking end if need be.
“We’re coming out. We don’t have any weapons!”
“Great. ‘We come in peace,’” Anna said. “Aren’t the next lines, ‘Take me to your leader’, and ‘What kind of wine goes with human spleen stew?’” Anna was still breathing hard as two thin silhouettes appeared to detach from a thick tree.
With light, the silhouettes transformed. The shadows became two girls.
Jaimie distinctly heard Anna’s voice in his head shriek, Witches! The boy almost laughed aloud.
The older girl looked close to Anna’s age. The skinny girl with her, perhaps fifteen, was so similar, they had to be sisters. They both had long hair, made bright red in the firelight.
Coquelicot, Jaimie thought. That color is coquelicot.
“I’m Genevieve Courrant,” the older girl said. “This is Fern, my little sister. Together, we’re Gen-Fer. Jennifer, if you like.” Her French accent was thick. She spoke English carefully, as if tip-toeing through a minefield.
“What were you doing sneaking up behind me?” Anna asked. Her cheeks were as red as the girls’ hair.
“C’est dommage,” the girl said. “We were camped in the woods. Fern didn’t want to, but I wanted to get a closer look. Someone camps here almost every night. It’s probably not a good idea to camp in a busy clearing this close to the road. We sleep where the trees stand close. There’s less wind and a bed of moss is better sleeping.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Anna said.
“We are sorry to scare you. There are some bad people. There are farmhouses along the way, but they can be even more dangerous than the road. Everyone who is left wants the farms. They fight for the farms.”
Genevieve met their eyes and smiled convincingly. However, the younger girl had less guile. Fern’s eyes were hungry. She stared at the inventory of cans on the ground next to the fire. Jack had arranged them for sorting and counting but had been too tired to repack the supplies.
Theo whispered in Jack’s ear and she nodded. “We’ve got a little too much to carry here. Why don’t you have a can of stew? Spicy ginger chicken soup okay?”
It was. The girls ate silently and ravenously, never looking up until they had eaten all of it.
No eye contact, Jack thought. Maybe that’s the answer all this time. Maybe Jaimie’s not autistic. Maybe he’s just really hungry. She wanted to tell Theo but held her tongue in front of strangers. Her husband would have laughed.
The girls rushed through their small meal. Jack paused only a moment and then opened another can. The girls looked so pitiable that she couldn’t stop herself from feeding them. They did not wait until the soup was heated over the fire, but each took a careful spoonful at a time, taking turns so one got no more than the other. Still, the pair looked disappointed when their spoons scraped the bottom of the tin.
“Merci,” Genevieve said. “You people seem nice.”
“Where you from?” Jack asked.
“Gatineau.” Only Genevieve
seemed to be able to talk. Fern only stared at the flames.
“Is it bad there?” Anna asked.
“Same as everywhere.”
Jack let that idea settle as she stirred the coals for heat. “How long have you been out here alone?”
“It’s hard to say,” Genevieve said. “Days are like trees. One looks like most others. We lost track.” After a moment’s silence she added. “We aren’t out here alone, you know. A lot of people — like you — are going back and forth.”
“Mostly East or mostly West?” Anna asked.
“Back and forth, back and forth. Many people with children head North, cross-country.”
“Through the woods? How do they think they can do that?”
Genevieve shrugged. “They don't have a plan. They're running away, trying to get away. There’s a new city to the East, too. It was Montreal, but people say it’s different now.”
“How is it different?”
Genevieve shrugged. “People say.”
“What people?”
“Travelers. Some people who aren't in families with little kids will go very far East. The city that was Montreal? It's…what’s the expression?” Genevieve spoke to her sister in French. Though Fern did not answer, Genevieve blurted the answer she was looking for in English. “New Montreal is ‘the last stop’ for the kids.”
The Spencers shifted uneasily, all thinking of The Brickyard. The soldiers were either all dead or fleeing or had become monsters. They had called the refugee camp at the Indianapolis Speedway, The Last Stand.
“Have you had trouble with people out here?” Anna asked.
The girl shrugged. “The bad ones have the look. Mean. If they’re dumb and mean, they may as well be wearing a sign that tells you so. Easy to avoid. The worst ones, we learned, seem nice at first, until night comes.”
Genevieve looked into the fire. “There are many who aren’t bad, I suppose. They’re just angry and tired. No one out here wants to be here. Surviving means we must die to the life we had. We do what we must. We did what we were told.”
Jack frowned. “Told? Told by whom?”
Genevieve fidgeted. “Some bad people and…you know…we stayed where we were, like the radio said to do. We stayed until everyone else died and we had to leave to find food.”
Jack eyed the girls’ ragged clothes. They’d seen too much. Her conscience stirred. “Genevieve, how about you and your sister come with us in the morning?”
The girl shifted on her haunches uneasily. “Where?”
“We’re headed east…and we seem nice because we are. We’re headed to Maine. We have family there. There’s a farm and food.”
“There’s food here,” the girl said. “In the cars. You have to look a long time, but there’s still some food.”
“You’ve got to get off this road, honey.”
Genevieve said nothing but put a protective arm around Fern’s shoulder. “Some men asked us to come with them, too, but they wanted things for their help. They went on without us after two days. Since then, Fern hasn’t spoken.”
“We aren’t going to hurt you,” Jack said. “And there’s safety in numbers.”
“We have not found safety in numbers,” Genevieve replied. “I know you aren’t bad, but some bad people are headed in the same direction you are.”
“Then they need us to balance things out,” Anna said.
Genevieve allowed a slight smile. “I’ll speak with Fern. We will decide in the morning.”
The group spoke little as the rest of the firelight drained away. No one seemed to have the strength to talk. Genevieve and Fern disappeared for a few minutes and reappeared carrying sleeping bags. They had cached backpacks nearby.
Genevieve, her long, tangled hair hanging in her face, unfurled both sleeping bags while Fern stood back, hugging herself and staring at Jaimie.
“Genevieve and Fern will join us or they won’t,” Theo whispered in his wife’s ear. “Seems Genevieve’s the brains of the pair and Fern mainly takes care of being horribly traumatized and blinking far less than seems necessary.”
Jack waved the thought away. “Theo…” she whispered, “your sense of humor is…consistent.”
There were too many of them to huddle close to the embers. Anna suggested they pile more deadfall on to make a bigger fire but Genevieve objected. “Fires keep away animals, but build them too big and it brings animals on two legs. She looked up at the stars. No bad people tonight, though. It’s late enough, no one will come unless they spot our fire from their camp. No one travels at night except the dead.”
Before she could stop herself, Anna blurted a laugh. “The dead?”
“Of course. They don’t stop walking. Many drop and stay dead along the way, but the rest keep walking.”
“What are you talking about?”
Genevieve frowned. “You haven’t seen them? You haven’t had the dreams?”
“Bad dreams are just dreams,” Anna said, but her tone lacked conviction.
“My sister and I have the same dreams.”
Fern hugged herself tighter. The girl quivered, like a deer ready to run.
“Not everyone is out to hurt you,” Jack said in a low, soothing voice.
“I don’t know everyone,” Genevieve said. “I just know who I know.”
Fern became more agitated. Teeth gritted, she clawed at her own forearm, drawing welts. The girl dug in with long, dirty nails. Genevieve tried to stop her sister but Fern just pushed her hands away and dug even more furiously, as if she was trying to reach in and pull out the bones.
“Radius and ulna!” Jaimie said, oddly cheery and elated as he pulled back his hoodie.
Startled, both girls froze and looked up at the boy as if they had not noticed him until now. “He is…” Genevieve said.
“Ici!” Fern whispered.
Genevieve patted her sister’s hand. “Oui. He’s here. He’s here. C’est vrai. Sh!”
“They’re terrified,” Theo told Jack. “Don’t push them.”
“Let’s get some more wood for the fire so we won’t be stumbling around in the dark later,” Jack said. “We’ll get some sleep and everything will look better in daylight.”
Theo didn’t tell his wife that the girls were a little afraid of Jaimie, but Jack suspected that was so. Through the years, Jack had seen that same look in strangers’ eyes as they recognized Jaimie was different.
Autism was misunderstood and people who didn’t know better pathologized everything about people who saw the world differently. People heard the words autism and Aspergers and made all kinds of stupid assumptions.
However, tonight, as Jack watched firelight and shadows play across Jaimie’s face, she felt doubt. For the first time, she wondered if, perhaps, strangers had reason to be afraid of her son.
Around the eyes, Jaimie looked older in a way she could not identify.
But this is no dream or fancy's flight
Just East of Woodford State Park, Vermont, the Molly Stark Trail becomes Route 9. A short drive farther East, the 9 became Main Street and the way into the town of Wilmington. Two broad shouldered young men, Don Tate Jr. and Ed Bruce, guarded the way, alert for intruders. The pair watched, excited, as the army of the infected emerged from Woodford State Park.
Junior, sitting atop his shiny, new pickup, spotted the leader of the first wave of invaders. “What…am I seeing?”
Junior passed his binoculars to his best friend. As soon as Ed focused the device, he chuckled. The first zombie was an older woman. It appeared she wore a torn, black dress, that showed jiggling cellulite on thick, white thighs.
“Whoo!” Ed said. “Junior, you got a hot date tonight!”
“Don’t be a wart, Ed. Look at what’s she’s wearing.”
“Yeah!”
“On her head.”
“Oh.”
Ed looked through the binoculars again but went quiet when he discovered he didn’t ha
ve the words for what he witnessed.
Junior snatched the binoculars from him and looked again. “That,” he said, “is one tall nun. She’s still got that thing on her head.”
“A habit?”
“That’s the dress part, I think. I dunno, I’m not Catholic. Like Dad says, our family’s Presbyterrible. Who cares? Look behind her!” Junior handed the binoculars back and Ed glassed the road.
“There’s something very wrong with those people. They aren’t bandits. They aren’t carrying anything. I don’t see one gun.”
“Heh. Right you are, Ed. No guns. Can you believe it?”
Watching the slowly advancing horde, Junior’s free hand reflexively went to the pistol strapped across his chest. The feel of the stainless steel finish on the heavy Super Redhawk Alaskan made him smile.
“They’re covered in blood, man!” Ed put down the binoculars and his palms went to his temples. His voice shook as he watched the line behind the nun become a column. “Th-they…they aren’t…couldn’t be…”
“Yes, Ed, they could be and, guess what? They are.”
They’d heard about zombies from Phillip Bruce, Ed’s dad. He owned a ham radio. Everyone in Wilmington had first assumed the zombie talk was a harmless rumor begun by heartless hoaxers. When the zombie talk persisted, everyone thought it was propaganda from terrorists, trying to start a panic.
“I’ve never seen its like. I sure never thought we’d see those things show up here. The worst we’ve seen is a few groups of bandits and some petty thieves. This,” Junior Tate told his friend, “is awesome!”
As the Sutr-X crisis had deepened in the United States, more broadcasts about the Sutr-Z infection in Europe were repeated, and from credible sources. In the last month or so, there had even been scattered reports and military chatter about people becoming vampires, too.
When Mayor Tate got the news, he laughed but didn’t seem very surprised. Like many of the worst sociopaths, Don Tate didn’t look surprised at much of anything. Instead, he shrugged. “In a world where there are rabid cannibals, vampires out for blood isn’t such a leap. Not so different from the old meth problem in Florida, in fact.”
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