by J. B. Beatty
“That… makes… a certain… sense,” stammers Justin.
“Well, wait, why wouldn’t you get it then? You’re perfectly healthy,” Carrie says to me.
“Because maybe I developed an immunity in my near-death moment?”
“Those girls were exposed to the virus in the fall before they reached the target age. Wouldn’t they have developed an immunity?”
“The most likely answer,” says Justin, “is obviously no. They’re dead, so they didn’t develop any immunity. But it was inside them, the virus, it was just hanging out inside them like a time bomb. And as soon as something tipped in their mix of hormones, it exploded. And killed them.”
“And a few of their friends.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Which explains why Artemis wants to get out. Every one of her friends older than her is going to go zombie at some unpredictable future moment in time. It would be pretty hard to go to sleep at night in a room full of little girls if you’re worried that one of them is going to turn into a raging killer before the sun rises.”
Carrie puts her face in her hands. “Oh, that poor girl.”
“They’re all poor girls,” says Justin. “And poor boys.”
“What can we do?” I ask.
We all look at each other. Justin makes like he’s going to say something, sticking his neck up, then he reconsiders and folds it back.
Carrie says, “Umm” but then that thought dies as well. I look at my beer, take a big drink of it, then look at it some more.
“We could…” starts Justin. I look at him and he just shakes his head.
“Let’s use the white board for brainstorming.” Carrie leaps up. She loves the whiteboard. With a wet rag, she erases the flowers she had drawn on it. Then in black marker, she draws a stick figure person. And then she draws three stick figures next to it that are much larger. The first one must be a stick figure child.
“If we take in Artemis,” she explains, “we protect her from the perverts as well as the time bomb children.”
“Until she develops flu symptoms,” says Justin.
“Becomes a zombie,” I clarify.
Carrie X’s out stick child’s eyes.
“You might have to X out some of the big people’s eyes, because if she’s down here in the bunker with us, she might kill one or two of you,” I say.
“Not you?”
“No. I’ll be locking my door at night. And the bottom line is that anyone who is around children, especially as they reach that magic age of whatever, is at risk. Oh my god,” I realize, “all those old people we delivered little kids to. What is the magic age, anyway? When is puberty?”
Justin and Carrie speak at the same time, hurrying to talk over each other because I said such a stupid thing that I need to be corrected in urgent stereo. What I get from their word shower—power washing—is that puberty varies wildly, and there is a trend that girls have been maturing earlier and earlier in recent years. TV. Bovine hormone milk. Sexualization of female teen images. And so on.
“Nine?” I ask in wonder.
“Could be 9. Could be 14. A couple years later in boys,” Justin explains.
“How old is Artemis?”
“Ten, I think,” says Carrie. “We could keep a close eye on her…”
“Yeah,” says Justin. “But what about all the others? We can’t save them all. And if we spend too much time saving any of them, we won’t be able to do what we need to do. And before you say it, she can’t come along. She’s a child. We do dangerous things. We can’t expose her to that.”
“Her life is dangerous things,” retorts Carrie. “She says she’s killed some zombies.”
“Doesn’t matter. We would have to leave her in the bunker alone. That’s not a healthy environment for a child.”
Carrie gets steamed with Justin. “Okay, Mr. Expert. Please explain to me what a safe environment for a child is these days. Name one, and I will walk through fire to get that child to it. Name one.”
He’s got nothing.
“We can take her in,” I say. “That’s my vote. But she stays home when we’re on missions. We still have Netflix for now.”
“I’m good with that,” Carrie says hesitantly. She looks at Justin. “Well?”
“If we survive this next mission, yeah, fine. But let’s do this first. Then sure, if you want to get her, you can. But if she ends up killing you in the night, it’s all on you. Don’t come running to me.”
Carrie stands. “I promise you, Justin, if I get killed, I won’t come running to you. Goodnight.”
35→A BODY COULDN’T SLEEP, IT WAS SO LIVELY
Rolling endlessly through the night on a bike that I don’t have to pedal almost makes the Apocalypse worth it. The breeze is cool—almost too cold—but after living like mole people underground for months, the feeling of freedom is overwhelming. We turn off the power and coast the downhills. We also take the most direct route for now, using paved highways and even the freeway for a while. Some places we have to go slowly because of debris in the road. Once I pull out my pistol when I see a zombie running toward us but he loses interest before he gets close enough for me to shoot.
By utilizing our back-up batteries, we are able to make it a full 63 miles before we find ourselves all pedaling. Justin ran out of juice first, Carrie last. It has a lot to do with how much weight the engine is moving.
That puts us in a state forest near Fife Lake, more than halfway to our first goal, which will be the vicinity of the airport in Traverse City. The goal is to watch and learn, and not take any action unless we are presented with a true opportunity.
That night we camp near a small, deserted campground. We set up our tents under trees perhaps a hundred yards away. However, I creep in to plug in the battery charger to a live outlet I find at the campground. I put branches over the batteries so they can’t be easily found if anybody comes by during the day.
Sleeping under the stars! What a beguiling beautiful way to spend the rest of the night. Yet, that doesn’t happen. It’s too cold. We each have our own mini-tent. All the fresh air from the bike ride helps me to fall asleep quickly. I don’t know if it’s five minutes later or an hour, but Carrie wakes me. Her tent is literally right next to mine. She insisted it might be warmer that way.
I feel a touch. Probably a kick, but I can’t tell. She whispers, “Bears.”
“Huh?”
“Bears!”
“Are you sure?”
“No, I don’t know. I heard something.”
I listen to the night for a while. Then, I say, “I don’t really hear anything but the wind in the trees.”
“Well, I heard something. I don’t know what it was.”
“It probably wasn’t a bear. There are raccoons, possums, all kind of things that might be creeping around in the night. Even zombies.”
I probably shouldn’t have mentioned the zombies, but often I’m not smart that way. “Lack of emotional intelligence,” my sister called it.
“What should I do?”
I sigh. This is going to be an impossible night, I figure.
“Well,” I say.
“Arvy, I am really, really afraid of bears. You should know that.”
“What about zombies?”
“I have a gun for them.”
“Okay, that’s the disconnect here. Let’s focus on that for a moment. Zombies kill a lot more people than bears. You’ve got to know that statistically, bears kill hardly anyone in a typical year in North America. And this isn’t a typical year. There’s been an apocalypse. There’s hardly anyone left in North America. So, whatever the death total is from bears, it’s sure to go down this year because of the reduced human population. Fewer humans means fewer man-bear encounters in the habitats where they live.”
“But we’re in that habitat right now!”
“Yeah, but you acknowledge that zombies are more dangerous, right?”
“Perhaps…”
“And you’re not afraid of them becau
se you have a gun.”
“And they’re not very smart.”
“Okay, let’s work with that. Do you think bears are smarter?”
“I don’t think we have enough data to make that determination.”
“Well, alrighty then… but you have a gun. Couldn’t you use it on a bear just as easily as on a zombie?”
“I don’t like your tone. You’re starting to sound paternalistic and demeaning.”
God. “I can’t sound paternalistic. We had sex. That would be creepy.”
“You’ll never have sex again unless you can acknowledge my fears as legitimate. A fear is a fear. It doesn’t have to make sense to work. Acknowledge that or I’ll slice your thingie off.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. I really am. What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say something so I don’t worry so much and so I can go to sleep.”
“I’d love to sleep too, Carrie. How about this: if anything attacks you or your tent tonight, shoot it. But please ask it to identify itself first. Because if I get up in the night to take a wiz and I trip over your tent on the way back, I don’t want to die. Can you do that? Will that work? Just put your pistol next to your sleeping bag with the safety on.”
“Already there, but I have the safety off.”
“I’m sleeping two feet from you. Please put the safety on.”
“Fine.”
“Are you okay now? Can you sleep?”
“We can quit talking now. I don’t know if I can sleep. But I’ve given up on you as a source of comfort,” she says.
“I’ll be right here. If you hear anything tonight—anything actual—just wake me up.”
“My gun will wake you up.”
I roll over. The night, it’s dark and full of terrors.
36→A GRAND ADVENTURE, AND MYSTERIOUS
The next night, batteries charged, we ride toward the target area. We are still nearly a mile away from the airport when we see lights in the distance. Plenty of electricity here.
We stow the bikes in a copse of trees, and move as carefully as we can to the source of the lights. Thick forest is plentiful southeast of the airport, and we finally reach a point where we can see the corner of the fence. It is part of a security perimeter that is much more substantial than what must have originally been around the airport.
A guard tower looms over a fence that runs along the edge of a road. Concrete barricades are first. Behind them is a wall of metal panels perhaps 10 feet tall. Above that another 5-6 feet of chain link fencing, topped by a garnish of razor wire. The road part of the operation is behind the fence. We hear a vehicle pass by. Figuring it might be a regular patrol, we check the time and wait. A half hour later, it (or another) passes by again.
As for the guard tower itself, we see no sign of life. Eventually we see a flicker. “Cigarette,” whispers Justin.
And that’s all that happens. This kind of surveillance is very scary, because if anyone spots us, we’re dead. But it’s not actually very interesting beyond that. Every half hour, we hear a vehicle drive by.
Justin signals us to move. We need to find deeper cover before it is light, and ideally also find something to watch that can offer more possibilities. We follow the line of the fence, staying well within the trees. West. We squeeze between a neighborhood and the fence, along a narrow, forested strip. It’s a little tight for comfort but we detect no activity in the area. We cross the road—that’s the scariest part. It puts us in full view of the guard tower for a few seconds.
The night is dark. “Just go fast,” Justin advises. “If he sees anything, he’ll probably assume it’s flu victims.”
Eventually we see a gate in the fence that lines up with Townline Road. We cross that road too, settling deep into the woods on the west side, using cut branches to conceal our position.
At 6am, a new guy climbs up the tower next to the gate and the other one climbs down. We snack a few bites and then we settle down for another long wait.
It’s nearly forever before the gate finally opens. I had fallen asleep. An elbow from Justin gets me up. Two men in black open the gates—nothing mechanized here—and a delivery truck rolls out. No Humvee escort. The gates shut. The truck turns almost immediately, driving west along the bit of road shoulder that was not used for the wall.
“The hell?” whispers Justin. We are able to watch the truck until it takes a left into an industrial park that is across the road—and outside the wall—from the airport.
“Let’s go,” says Justin. “Just weapons. Leave your packs. Move quick and stay low.”
We follow without thinking. The trees fully conceal us from the guard tower. We leap fences behind houses and a gun shop before we come up on the industrial park and its fence. As fences go, this is no match for the wall. Six feet. No barbed wire. Just there as a legal “no trespassing” statement so the owners can’t be sued if any kids hurt themselves playing on the loading docks. Attractive nuisances; I know all about them.
We work our way around the industrial park until we see the truck backed up to a loading dock.
“Okay, here’s what I’m thinking,” says Justin. “I think we should go over and get them. Kill one of the guys—quietly—and get information out of the other.”
“This is just supposed to be a reconnaissance mission,” Carrie objects.
“I know, but this is also an amazing opportunity. One driver, one guard. No machine guns…”
“But we’re only 200 yards away from that guard tower. If a shot is fired, we’re all dead.”
“No guns, then, unless they shoot first.”
I don’t feel so good about this. “These guys are just doing a quick shopping errand. If they don’t come back promptly, they will be missed!”
“One good reason,” says Carrie, arms crossed. “One good reason it has to be this moment, where we expose ourselves to this much trouble. Give me one good reason.”
“The guard,” Justin says. “The one riding shotgun.”
“What about him?”
“This is going to sound bad and awful.”
“Surprise me.”
“It’s a woman.”
“Yeah?...”
“I’m not saying she will be an easier target because she’s a woman. I’m not sexist.”
“Go on, because I’m not buying it.”
“I’m thinking like how I think they might. I think that these are the kind of people who live and die on a diet of brute force. I’m thinking that they wouldn’t give a task like that to a female soldier unless they felt very confidently that it was minimal- to zero-risk.”
He continues, “They don’t see anything coming and if these guys are late getting back, I don’t think it will set off alarm bells.”
“And what if they never come back?”
“Oh yeah, there’s going to be a shitload of alarm bells. But I think we have a good chunk of time before they start ringing. Listen. We need to know what’s going on with GAC. We don’t even know who we’re fighting, or who they’re fighting for. When are we going to get a chance to grab one? Should we just wait outside our bunker and wait a million years for one to come strolling past birdwatching? This is time sensitive, people. We don’t even know what’s going on with the virus, and lots of little people like Artemis are in line to be getting it soon.”
Justin is often the last person to opt for violence, but he stares at us now with his eyes all energized and caffeinated. He looks at Carrie, then me, then back to her.
“Okay,” she says, “I’m in.”
“I’m not,” I sigh in defeat. “But I can accept that I’m outvoted. What do you want us to do?”
He nods as he accepts this and refocuses. “We move fast. Over the fence. Into that building. No shooting unless they shoot first. Have your knives ready.”
“Do you want us to kill the guard?”
“Hopefully not, but it all depends on where they are and what their response is. There’s a lot of playing this by ear, pe
ople.”
“Okay. Just say when.”
“When.” Justin starts climbing the fence. Carrie follows, and I cover them until she’s over, then I climb. I hate climbing fences, because I am not adept with that kind of body English—one dicey move at the top could neuter me.
We jog past the first two buildings, sticking closely to them. From 30 yards away, we get a clear view of the loading dock and the open garage door. “On 3,” says Justin.
Just then the man comes out carrying a box which he puts in the back of the truck. A few seconds later he emerges from the truck and walks back into the warehouse.
“Now!” says Justin. He sprints toward the building. Carrie follows. I say—mostly to myself—“What happened to 3?” I run after them.
Justin positions himself to the right of the opened garage door. Carrie follows him. I run around the front of the truck and up the steps past that garage door, praying nobody sees me. I position myself on the left side of the door. Justin is watching me. He gestures to his ear. I tune in; I can hear a voice in the distance. Justin uses a slow wave of his hand to indicate that it’s time, but we need to be slow and careful.
When he nods, we both turn the corner into the warehouse. We don’t see our targets immediately. They are farther down one of the aisles. We move up to the ends of the shelves and take cover. Justin whispers to Carrie. Then he directs me to go down the aisle to my left. He will go down the aisle on the far right. Carrie, apparently, will cover the end of the aisle the GAC soldiers are in while we flank them.
As I walk as quietly as possible, I can hear their voices grow louder.
“… low-hanging fruit. Makes sense to grab it all now.”
“It’s not going anywhere,” the female says. “They only wanted a few boxes. And it’s olive oil. It’s not going to go bad.”
“They’re going to send us out for it eventually. We might as well get it and save a trip…”
I can’t see Justin or gauge his progress. It occurs to me that when the big move comes, we will not be coordinated at all. I try to walk faster, rolling heel-to-toe to keep my steps from making any noise.
