Dead World (Book 1): Dead Come Home

by Nathan Brown

  Oh well, I guess it’s like Ma always says. Ain’t no use cryin’ over spilled milk, he thought. After all, it wasn’t nothin’ some antibiotics and a few rough nights couldn’t cure. Lucky for me, she didn’t give me nothin’ I couldn’t get gone.

  * * *

  As the baggage claim’s conveyor belt whirred to life, Mike took slight notice of how large groups of people were huddling around most of the TV sets that hung from ceiling mounts beside nearly every set of automatic doors. He was too far away to see or hear what all the fuss was about. Who knew? And even more, who really cared? Certainly not Mike. As far as he was concerned, he’d done his time “in the shit.” His days of violence, of caring about war and death and going crazy trying to fix things in a broken world, were over for good. And good riddance. In fact, he truly did not care if he ever held a rifle (or any other weapon, for that matter) in his hands ever again.

  Not my fight … not my problem … not anymore.

  Mike smiled at this thought. He saw his large, olive drab sea-bag slide down onto the conveyor. Basking in a brief moment of laziness, he let the bag come slowly to him. He lugged the canvas duffel, stuffed like an odd sausage with all that he owned in the world, over his shoulder. He then headed for the exit, scanning about for a familiar face.

  Ma said she’d be here. Where is she?

  One hour and a few cigarettes later, Mike began to wonder. He wasn’t quite concerned at this point. Any number of things could have delayed her. Ma had never been good with city driving. Maybe she had gotten stuck in traffic.

  Suddenly, Mike remembered all those people with their eyes glued to the TVs. He went back inside to the baggage claim area and shouldered his way through the crowd, trying to get a closer look at what had everyone’s attention.

  * * *

  Joseph found it hard to concentrate, knowing Ryan had been sent home early because he had gotten too sick to work. That just wasn’t possible. Ryan Sheller lived to work; he put in overtime hours Joseph didn’t even consider trying to match. He wasn’t truly convinced Ryan didn’t go home and just work even more after all the other interns finally gave in and went to the bar to unwind … all but Joseph, of course.

  Joseph decided he would stop by Ryan’s place when he finished work for the evening. Any other time and he probably wouldn’t have thought about checking on Ryan. He had found that Ryan was the kind of guy who preferred solitude.

  Joseph wouldn’t exactly call Ryan his friend, but as pale as Ryan had looked when he’d dragged himself out of the office, somebody needed to check on him. Since no one else in the office was even considering calling Ryan, it fell to Joseph, with his unbending sense of empathy to do it. He knew that if he did not do it … no one else would.

  Joseph spent the next three hours thinking of possible explanations for Ryan’s sudden sickness. Nothing he had ever heard of would make a person look that bad that fast. He almost hadn’t noticed when the office lights had dimmed to half for the night. He looked at what he had typed over the last three hours and realized it all amounted to trash.

  “Screw it,” he said and shut off his computer, killing the changes. He shoved his research and working materials in his well-worn satchel, flipped the lid shut, and walked out of the office.

  His ‘91 Honda CRX was one of ten cars that sat silently in the parking lot. Joseph pulled out his keys, ignoring the wail of police and ambulance sirens. It wasn’t a conscious decision to ignore the sirens, but as often as he heard them, they barely registered, not unlike the chirping of birds in a park.

  He opened the door, tossed his satchel into the passenger side, and slid into a plush bucket seat. The car may not have looked it on the outside, with minor dents dings and faded paint, but the interior was clean and comfortable. And more importantly, it was still “all good under the hood.”

  The engine purred to life at the turn of the key. The stereo popped on, and the volume automatically rolled up to where he had set it. Joseph immediately punched the power key. He was in no mood to listen to the same newscast about riots five times in the next ten minutes, like the ones they’d been broadcasting all day.

  He drove the twelve blocks to Ryan’s apartment in relative silence.

  Ryan lived on the second floor of the Brookridge apartments. They weren’t the slums, but they weren’t the Ritz either.

  Ryan answered the door in a sweat soaked T-shirt and shorts, looking vampire pale and using the doorframe for support.

  “Shit man, you look like hell,” Joseph said.

  “Damn. So I must look like I feel,” Ryan answered.

  Joseph noticed the blood soaked gauze on Ryan’s left wrist. “What happened there?” he asked, nodding at the bandage.

  “Some homeless fucker bit me on my way into work this morning,” Ryan said, letting his arm drop limply to his side.

  “Looks like it’s still bleeding. You should probably go see a doc, man. Who knows what kind of nasty infection that guy was carrying?”

  “I’m thinking about it. Right now, though, I just want to lay the fuck down,” Ryan said, pulling on the door as if to hold himself upright. “I’d invite you in and all, but I think I’m coming down with something, and it might be contagious.”

  “That’s alright,” Joseph said politely. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’ll give you a ride to work in the morning if you’re up to going in.”

  “Thanks man,” Ryan said, smiling a little. “I may take you up on that.”

  Joseph realized that Ryan wasn’t really any of the things people thought. Ryan just never had anybody show true concern, so he threw himself into his work; not that it helped his social life any. When he was working, he was on track and nothing short of a nuclear war could sidetrack him. People misinterpreted his brusqueness at work as some sort of asshole, predator aloofness.

  “Rest up. Tomorrow is gonna be hell,” Joseph said, stepping away from the door. “I’ll be here about nine.”

  * * *

  It felt as though Mike’s heart was forcibly shoving its way up into his throat. The images being flashed across the TV screen were terrifyingly horrific, and he could barely hear the anchorman’s words over all the background noise of the bustling airport. Whatever was happening, it was happening right here in Dallas, according to the ticker at the bottom of the screen.

  DFW Metroplex area in a state of emergency.

  That little nugget of info didn’t tell Mike much. He still couldn’t hear a damn thing over the racket.

  “What’s going on?” he asked out loud, to no one in particular.

  “Some kind of riot,” answered a middle-aged fellow, decked out in what Mike could easily tell was a custom-tailored designer suit. “Cops are saying most of this is going on in the downtown area. According to them, it started in Deep Ellum early this morning when a bunch of homeless guys decided to gang up on a meter cop. News is saying people should stay off the streets.”

  “Stay off the streets?”

  “Yeah, there have been a lot of accidents, and they showed some poor young girl that got pulled out of her own car a little while ago. Riot cops managed to pull her to safety in the nick of time. One of the bastards that grabbed her even bit off a piece of her ear. Fuckin’ savages, I swear. I’m glad I’m just here on a layover. The sooner I’m out of this goddamn city, the better. Even in New York, we don’t stand for this kind of utter nonsense. We’d have already—.”

  Before the gentleman had even finished his last sentence, Mike had already broken into a dead sprint, making a beeline for the row of payphones he’d seen when he was outside. Luckily, there was one phone still open. He dropped his heavy bag, picked up the phone, and dialed “0” for the operator, planning to dial home collect. All he got was a busy signal. He fumbled for his wallet and yanked out a phone card he’d bought a few weeks ago. For the most part, he’d already used the most of the minutes on it. Now it was his only chance of getting in contact with someone back home.

  Should be at least
a few minutes left on this thing. Goddammit! I should’ve listened to Bennett when he told me I needed to get a cell phone!

  He dialed the ridiculously long series of numbers on the worn plastic card before finally being prompted to enter the number he wished to call. After what seemed like an excruciating length of time, the phone began to ring. Two rings later, and someone picked up.

  “Hello?” It was Ma. Mike breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Ma? It’s Mike. I’m down here in Dallas at the airport. Is everything okay?”

  “Oh, Mikey, thank goodness you’re all right. I saw the news,” Ma’s tone sounded uncharacteristically nervous.

  “Ma? Why are you still at home? Are you okay?”

  “Oh, yes sweetheart, I’m fine,” she replied with that tone she always used when she didn’t want him to worry about something. “We’re having a little excitement of our own out here.”

  “What is it? What’s going on?”

  “Well, apparently there was some kind of a breakout at the state hospital just around the way,” she told him. “Tom came by a little bit before dawn. He almost gave me a heart attack, banging on my door like that. He told me to lock the house up and stay here until he came back. I told him ‘bout needin’ to pick you up, but he was very insistent. I’ve been waitin’ like he told me ever since … but he hasn’t come back yet.”

  Tom was the local sheriff in Lakeside City, Texas, where there was only one sheriff and one deputy. If Tom was out of bed, it meant something was wrong in the somewhat rural area in North Texas just outside of Wichita Falls, where Mike’s mother had moved after his father had passed a few years ago.

  “That’s okay, Ma. You did good to listen to him,” Mike reassured her. “Did you do what he told you? Is the house all bolted down?”

  “Oh, yes dear. But these two odd fellows showed up out back a couple of hours ago. I’ve been wonderin’ if they’re from the hospital because the two of ‘ems just been standin’ out there like a couple half-wits for quite a while now. I called Tom to tell him about it, but no one’s answerin’ over there, not even Cathy.” As his mother spoke, Mike’s heart climbed further into his throat.

  “Ma, I want you to listen to me,” Mike said, using the tone he used when he needed her to listen to him. “How far out are they?”

  “Pretty far. They’re on the outer edge of the half-acre just outside the yard. The both of ‘ems been leanin’ on that back fence like they needed it to stand. Probably drugged up or somethin’ would be my guess.”

  “Have they seen you?”

  “Well, if they have, they sure ain’t actin’ like it.”

  “Okay,” Mike said, doing his best not to sound concerned as he spoke. “Ma, I want you to go get Dad’s gun out from the back closet. I want you to load it, grab a box of rounds, the weather radio, a little bit of food if you need it, and the phone, and go lock yourself in the middle bedroom. You might wanna put somethin’ up against the door, Ma; you know how iffy that lock is. But don’t you open that door or the house up for anyone until I get there. You hear me?”

  “Well, what if it’s Tom?”

  “If it is Tom, he’ll call you on the house phone to let you know the coast is clear if he finds the door locked. Then you can answer the phone and know if it’s safe to open the door. Something’s gone sour right now, Ma. I don’t know if what’s happenin’ here is the same as what’s happenin’ there. I just need you to get somewhere safe until I can get to you. Can you do that for me?”

  YOUR CALL TIME WILL EXPIRE IN … 60 SECONDS, chimed in the automated operator voice.

  “Ma, I’m about outta minutes here. I’m on my way to you, okay? Just do what I told you. Don’t you try to come here. Promise me.”

  “Minutes? Dear, I …”

  “Ma, NOT NOW! Just promise me you’ll do what I said.”

  “Well, all right, I promise. I don’t know what all the …”

  CLICK. YOUR CALL TIME HAS EXPIRED. THANK YOU … GOODBYE.

  Mike bowed his head and sighed as he returned the phone to the hook. He had no idea what was going on. Not here and not at home. But something in the pit of his stomach, a sickening knot of worry, told him that all was not right with the world. Right now, however, Mike had only one goal—to get home to Ma as fast as he could. He was all she had left in the world, and it was his responsibility to protect her. He’d made a promise to do so long ago at the grave of his dead brother, Houston. And everybody knows that you don’t break promises to the dead.

  He dug around for change before pulling a business card from his pocket. There was only one person he could think of to turn to for help, which meant that he was going to have to call in a favor from an old friend. He deposited the coins and dialed the number on the card. The phone began to ring.

  “Moto-man Transport,” a familiar voice answered. “You tell us where to take it. Just don’t tell us what it is.”

  “Hanse … it’s Mike. I’ve got a problem.”

  “Hell, buddy. You and everybody else, it seems like. If you’re lookin’ for a job, this ain’t exactly a good time to set up an interview. You got no idea what things are like in Dallas today.”

  “Wanna bet? I’m stuck at DFW and I think Ma’s in trouble. I need to call in that favor.”

  “Goddammit, you would be there,” Hanse sighed. “You better feel damn lucky that you’re you. Tell me what terminal and gate you’re at and I’ll send one of my boys to come pick you up.”

  “It’s terminal 4, Gate D. I’m standing at the row of payphones right out front.”

  “Don’t you got a cell phone?”

  “No.”

  “I told you that you shoulda listened to Bennett, dumbass … but you didn’t, as usual. Just hang tight and I’ll have you outta that madhouse in a jiffy. How can my driver recognize you?”

  “I’m the only idiot out here carrying a sea-bag.”

  “Right … okay, listen up Hotshot. You’ve called in a favor on what just might be the shittiest day I’ve ever had without getting shot at. I’ve only got one guy near enough to get to you. But I gotta warn you, Mikey, the guy’s about as crazy as a loon on crack. His name is Or Ze’ev and he’s usually my go-to guy for more ‘shit-hitting-the-fan’ situations, if you know what I mean … so be warned. He drives like he’s got a death wish, but don’t let that worry you too much because I swear on my family jewels that the guy’s never even had so much as a fender bender. So don’t let his Evel Knievel driving freak you out.”

  “Got it,” Mike replied. “I once fast roped out the back of a C130, asshole. I’m one of only ten people to ever do that and survive. I think I can handle a crazy driver.”

  “You never get tired of tellin’ that fuckin’ story, do ya? Oh, yeah, one last thing—not that it’s a big deal or anything, but Or’s an Israeli.”

  “Yeah, I kind of figured that one out as soon as you told me his name, you jackass.”

  “Just shut up and listen to me, would ya? My man Or used to be a special driver for one of Sharon’s top people out near the Gaza, which, as you well know, means that he’s more than earned the title of ‘badass.’ He doesn’t speak much English, so begging him to slow down or screaming for him to let you out ain’t gonna do you a whole helluva lotta good. Just strap yourself in, hang on, and try to keep your stomach contents where they are … I don’t wanna have my guys cleaning what’s left of your breakfast off the floorboards, got it? Also, he’s got a few anger management issues so try not to piss him off. Hang on a sec, man, I got your driver on the horn right now.”

  Mike could hear a radio or intercom squawking in the background. He thought he heard screams or the sound of screeching tires … or was it both? Then he realized that the sounds coming through the phone were also coming from just around the curve of the terminal pickup onramp. He heard Hanse utter a few quick phrases in Yiddish. Hanse was like a walking English-to-Any-Other-Language Dictionary, and he’d picked up a working knowledge of the language in just about every country
he’d ever been stationed.

  “He should be there any second,” Hanse said. Mike saw a black van come tearing around the bend, fishtailing slightly before the driver corrected and came barreling down the drive. Mike snatched up his sea-bag.

  “Yeah, if he’s the only maniac driving a black van, then I think he’s here.”

  “Great,” Hanse said. “See you in a few. Hold your hand up high so he can see you. But whatever you do, I wouldn’t suggest stepping in front of him. His depth perception has been just a bit off ever since he lost that eye.”

  “Ever since what?”

  Click.

  Mike put the phone back on the hook and held out his hand, but took his old Marine Corps buddy’s advice and stayed well on the sidewalk. The black van skidded to a halt directly in front of him. The passenger door flew open the instant the vehicle stopped.

  “Come,” the driver told him with a heavy Israeli accent, waving for him to get in. “Come, friend, come. We must hurry.”

  Mike stepped up, threw his sea-bag over the passenger seat into the back, and got in. Or, the Israeli spook-turned-private-courier, hit the accelerator as if it had just violated his mother. The sudden force was enough to slam shut the passenger door just as Mike was reaching out to close it, nearly taking off his arm.

  Mike wasted no time getting his seatbelt on.

  Or Ze’ev was not a big man, but he definitely had the look of a guy who’d eaten more than his fair share of shit sandwiches in his lifetime. He had a prominent and somewhat crooked nose that looked like it had been broken more than a couple of times, and his left eye was concealed behind a large black velvet eye patch with what appeared to be a diamond stud in the center. The jagged ends of a diagonal scar peaked out from opposing edges. He wore black BDU trousers, secured tightly into a pair of highly shined jungle boots. For a top, he wore a khaki blouse with an almost ridiculous number of cargo pockets.