Generation Z (Book 1): Generation Z

by Peter Meredith

  A young Islander named Gretchen bore the unfortunate nickname of Mush-mouth because she’d been wearing the same braces for the last twelve years. No one knew how to remove them and gradually they had warped her teeth.

  “Can we not talk about this, please?” Mike begged.

  “Sure, just as long as you look me right in the eye and tell me you’ll pop the question when we get back. You know what happens if you don’t.”

  Mike knew. Like everything else since the beginning of the apocalypse, the concept of marriage had gone through an upheaval. Early strife within the group had centered on a few things: work, theft, and sex. Lazy people were belittled harshly, thieves were driven from the island and people who had sex together were instantly considered married.

  There had been too many fights, too many splits and divisions. At one point, thirteen people had simply left the island because John liked Suzy and she liked Brad but he liked…

  Now there was no messing around. It was cut and dried—sex equaled marriage. This led to a predictable shift in attitude in which young men and women kept to themselves. With humanity on the brink, in some ways this was a worse situation than before and thus, arranged marriages came about.

  It was true that Mike or Jenn could refuse the marriage, but there would be repercussions to that. Essentially, they would be blackballed from the entire process and placed in the back of the line, so to speak. If Mike refused, he could very well end up with Mush-Mouth. This sort of thing had happened before and no one wanted to be one of the sad stories used to scare the younger generation.

  “I’ll talk to her but can we just deal with this for now?” There really wasn’t anything to deal with yet. It was eight miles to the marina just south of the Oakland airport and from there it was another mile and a half to Interstate 880 where they traditionally met the traders coming up out of the Santas on their way to Sacramento.

  The wind had picked up, and with Gerry’s and Mike’s skill, it was a forty-five minute trip. Somewhere along the way the firing had ceased altogether and none of them thought this was a good thing.

  Slowly the opposite shore drew close. Stu and One Shot sat up and checked their M4s. They watched the docks, squinting through the snow but not seeing anything. At a hundred yards, Mike dropped the staysail and tied it off as Gerry turned up against the wind, checking their speed. When he turned again, the Calypso drifted right to the dock as if he were parking a Cadillac.

  Mike was the first off the boat leaping up with cat-like dexterity. He tied off the boat as Stu and One Shot came off. Last was Gerry, moving reluctantly as always when he had to leave the Calypso unguarded.

  Although Gerry was a leader of the Island people and One Shot was oldest, now that they were on land, Stu took command. He pointed Mike to his left, One Shot to his right and Gerry to the rear. They went up a street that looked as though it had been nuked. All the buildings on the left side of the street had collapsed during the great quake, while most of the buildings on the right leaned in toward the street, looking as though they could topple at any time.

  The street itself looked as if it had been turned inside out. A forest of jagged and rusted rebar pointed upward. The four slipped between the rebar, and after seeing Jeff’s infected scrapes, Mike took extra care. Infections had gradually been getting worse and worse over the past few years. It was blamed on “stronger” germs, though no one knew for certain.

  Three blocks up they came to an industrial area where warehouses and small production facilities once vied for space. Now it was just a debris field of overturned trucks, their underbellies rusted through, pieces of shattered furniture from a Sears Outlet store, shards of glass everywhere except where pools of mud sat waiting to freeze.

  Stu led them into this maze, pausing in the middle when a troop of zombies moaned and gimped their way into view. The four slunk down, hiding next to a dumpster that had once been used to recycle cardboard. There was about a foot of soggy brown mulch at the bottom.

  “I don’t recognize them,” Stu said, indicating the zombies with his chin. “Do you guys?”

  So often the dead all looked alike to Mike: giant, naked grey humanoids, their flesh running with sores, their arms and legs missing great hunks of flesh. When they had hair it grew in patches, long and greasy. Their faces were almost always mutilated in some way and it was rare to find one with both eyes, ears and lips.

  Sometimes one would stand out in some way. Mike remembered seeing one that had survived a fire. It was black as a demon with red fissures running through it. Save for dark wet holes in its head where its eyes, nose and mouth had been it had no features at all. Another was missing the top of its head. From the eyebrows on up, everything was just gone. How it was still alive, no one knew.

  There was nothing familiar about the ones forty yards away. Two eight-foot tall males and four females all nearly seven-feet in height. One of the females was missing both arms. It breasts were as flat and long as tube socks and when it stooped to chew the tip off a stunted pine, they hung down to the ground.

  “I never seen them before. I would have recognized that female. You don’t often see…” One of the males had turned abruptly and was now stomping towards them. Mike slipped back behind the dumpster. “It’s coming,” he hissed.

  They were four armed men and yet they crawled like mice through a break in the wall of a building with One Shot frantically pushing the others out of the way to get in first. It had once been a machine shop, now it was a death maze filled with razor sharp metal, falling bricks and gaping holes in the floor.

  Mike slipped in last just as the zombie came around the dumpster. It saw his feet and reached in after him. “Holy jeeze!” Mike hissed, pulling in his feet and scooting back into a table saw that had toppled over. Stu reached down and picked him up. They both stared down at the huge hand with its scrambling claws. One broke off as they watched. Mike made a face and Stu laughed in the quiet way of the Hill People.

  That giant hand then gripped the edge of the hole and began tearing at it, making the hole larger. That killed Stu’s laughter. He turned from the hole and gazed around at the gloom where the machines sat like hunched monsters, squatting in the dark. “Let’s go.”

  With his M4 at his shoulder, Stu led the way through the building, stepping over fallen beams and around gaping holes. He paused every minute to listen for the groans and rumbling of zombies. “Do you hear that?” he asked Mike. The four cocked their heads and Mike did hear an odd noise that was hard to describe other than to say there was a thrumming sound filling the air.

  “What is it?” Gerry asked.

  One Shot brushed his long dark hair back from his right ear. “That’s so weird. It reminds me of when I was a kid and my dad took me to see the Raiders play the Bears. We were late and the game had already started, and as we were walking up there was this huge sound coming from the stadium. It had an electric quality to it. Kinda like this.”

  “But what could be making it?” Gerry asked.

  “Only one way to find out,” Stu said and started on again. A side door led to a wide hall that was so dark they could only see a few feet ahead of them. Gerry lit a candle and handed it to Stu, who raised it up. The candle gave off a feeble glow and in its dim light they could see paper and trash lining the hall, while from the ceiling hung wires and broken light fixtures.

  They passed doors on their left and right, each opening into dark rooms. Stu kept going until he came to what had once been a glass door. The shattered glass on the floor in front of it sparkled like ice. Beyond it was a warehouse where the industrial shelving had toppled like dominoes and leaned one against the other.

  A murky light filtered over the mess. Stu blew out the candle and slipped under the lower part of the door, his crossbow getting hung up momentarily on a metal slat that divided the door in half.

  The others followed him in, crunching glass under foot. The thrumming sound was louder and they proceeded slower than ever, being extra careful to l
ook where they stepped. The light came from the very far end of the warehouse at the loading dock where a rolling door was bent in half and hanging by a chain.

  Mike stole to the edge of the door and looked out to where there should have been only a wide expanse of broken cement littered by leaves and trash and the burned-out hulk of an old eighteen-wheeler. He had been through this particular industrial park a number of times.

  Now, the scene was different. The burned-out truck was a little island in what looked like a sea of zombies. There had to be thousands of them, their moans thrumming the air in a chorus of white noise. “Stu,” he whispered and jerked a thumb toward the door. Stu took one look and backed away from the door, hurrying back the way they had come.

  Mike thought they were leaving, but Stu found a stairwell with roof access and hurried up, once more using the candle to light the way. When they came out onto the roof, the sound of the zombies was amplified. One Shot who was visibly shaking whispered, “My God, how many of them are there?”

  The four crawled to the edge of the roof and lay flat in stunned silence. The sea of zombies seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see.

  Chapter 11

  Jenn Lockhart

  The docks at Pelican Harbor were wide open, without any natural cover; not a safe place for the Islanders to await the return of the Calypso. The boats were made fast by their crews, who then hid in a seafood restaurant across the street. Jenn trudged back up the hill with only Jeff following her. At the complex they were greeted by the anxious Hill People who all babbled the same questions: Was that gunfire? Who’s shooting? Is it raiders?

  “Hold on now, hold on,” Jenn repeated as she pushed through the crowd, wanting to get to safety before answering. “Let us through.”

  At the back of the crowd, bundled against the cold and the falling snow was the Coven. Jenn addressed them, “There was gunfire coming from where we usually meet the traders. Stu took Mike, Gerry and One Shot across the bay to find out what’s going on. Since it’ll be a few hours before they return, I offered for the Islanders to stay with us but they refused. They’re down by the docks.”

  Miss Shay, wearing her usual pinched expression said, “That was neighborly of you and yet only one takes you up on your generous offer?” She sniffed at Jeff and if anything her expression grew even more sour. “I would have thought that…what? What’s with the look, Jenn?”

  Jenn touched her face, not realizing she was wearing any look in particular. “It’s, um, Jeff. He wanted me to look at an injury. I’m pretty sure it’s infected.”

  Donna’s sharp eyes went from Jeff, who stood to the side with his head down, and focused on Jenn. “And he came to you? And you looked at the wound? That doesn’t make much sense, no not at all.” Her steely gaze pinned Jenn in place as guilt bubbled up inside of her.

  “S-something else happened out by the docks,” she said, her voice breaking. Everyone had crowded in close. Taking a deep breath, Jenn told the Coven about the signs she’d been seeing and about the odd timing of her statement. She didn’t know how the Coven was going to react, but their looks of suspicion were what she had expected.

  “I’ve been saying this for a year now,” Miss Shay snapped. “She’s got a black aura. We should have nipped this in the bud.”

  Lois Blanchard tutted Miss Shay, saying, “There’s a time and a place and this isn’t it. Now, Jenn, I want you to take this injured man to the clubhouse, but before you do, make sure he has a bite to eat. Just a nibble is all that’s needed.”

  The Coven left, whispering among themselves. Jenn sighed, fearing she had said something wrong. The sigh stuck in her throat when she turned back to the others and found them all staring at her, some in disbelief and some in awe.

  “Jeff?” she said in a wavering voice. “If you’ll come with me, please.” Without waiting for him, she headed for her apartment as behind her the crowd of people began whispering. When Jenn got to her place she went to the blackout curtains in her living room and pulled them back, flooding the room with light and giving her a view of the crowd. They were still milling around talking and she knew that if it wasn’t for the cold, they’d be at it for hours.

  Jeff stood in her doorway, his big brown puppy dog eyes looking uneasy. “Come in, Jeff,” she said, heading to her pantry for a plate of salted salmon. She brought it to the table and was shocked to see that Jeff wasn’t alone; Aaron Altman stood behind him, looking scared and pale. He was sick. “You too? Is it your scratches from the car?”

  He nodded and started to take off his coat. She stopped him. “No, not in the doorway that’s bad luck. Come sit down.” The two went to the table while she hurried for a second plate of fish. She set it in front of Aaron and at first he turned up his nose at it. “Eat it,” she commanded, thinking that if they wanted Jeff to eat before treating him, it would be the same for Aaron.

  Reluctantly, Aaron ate the fish. As he ate, he glanced repeatedly at Jeff before asking, “Is it true that the zombies came from hell and that anyone scratched or bitted by them will go to hell, too?”

  She had heard easily a hundred theories about where the zombies had come from and how they had been made. While a few people thought they had come from outer space, or were the result of black magic, or were hell spawn, unleashed by the devil to punish the world, most people blamed scientists.

  “No one knows where they came from,” Jenn answered. “But it isn’t smart to dwell on the negative before seeing the Coven. Now eat your food.” When he was finished, he nervously lifted his sleeve to show a scrape on his forearm that was an angry red color. Across the top of it was a yellow crust.

  Jenn nodded, saying, “Yeah, it’s infected. Why didn’t you tell your mom? Miss Shay would have known what to do.”

  He shrugged, glanced at Jeff and admitted sheepishly, “She’ll ask about evil spirits. She’ll ask…she’ll ask about everything.”

  The Coven reckoned things simply: good came from good and evil came from evil. They would immediately assume that Jeff and Aaron had done something to warrant their infections. They would be cured but they would also have to confess and pay reparations, usually in the form of labor or fines.

  “Have you done anything wrong?” Jenn asked. The boy dropped his head, refusing to look at her. It was answer enough. “Okay, Aaron. I don’t know if it’s my place to judge. If I were you, I would tell your mother and…”

  “No! She won’t understand. You have to help me. You have the gift, too. It’s even better than my mom’s, I know it.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.” The Coven’s abilities were shrouded in mystery and Jenn didn’t think that Aaron had any knowledge of what his mother could or could not do. On the other hand she knew precisely what she could do for him: very little. There were pills to fight infections, but in the wrong hands they could make the situation worse.

  “I read a few signs,” Jenn told him. “That’s all. Anyone could have done it. I can’t heal anyone.” Aaron moaned and covered his face with both hands. She put an arm around him. “It’s not going to be so bad, you’ll see. Now put on a brave face and let’s go see your mother.”

  To keep Aaron from becoming the focal point of the latest gossip, Jenn went around the back, taking the long way around the buildings. At the clubhouse doors she knocked and then stepped back, thinking that she wouldn’t be invited inside.

  When Miss Shay answered the door, she sucked in her breath in surprise at seeing her son standing there next to Jeff. “No! You too? What evil was awakened on that trip?”

  It was a second before Jenn realized that the woman was speaking to her. Miss Shay’s eyes were furious little slits that made Jenn blanche. “I-I don’t know but bad signs abounded everywhere. Even before we made it to the island.”

  “Signs? Since when does a child know anything about signs? Come inside. You have a great deal of explaining to do.” Again, she was speaking to Jenn.

  Miss Shay directed the three of them to a room that was empty save for
a long table and seven chairs. The Coven sat behind the table. They grew grim at the sight of Aaron, with Lois Blanchard sighing and saying, “Who will be the third?”

  She was referring to the rule of three—evil always came in threes.

  Donna shook her head. “Let’s see what we’re up against. Aaron, dear, show us what’s wrong.”

  Aaron, shaking badly, lifted his sleeve. They quizzed him on how it had happened and after he explained how he had gotten scratched trying to rescue Jenn, his mother glared at her.

  Jenn didn’t believe she had done anything wrong and she glared right back. “This isn’t my fault. He saved me, but I saved him earlier. Also, I tried to warn Stu. I told him about the signs but he wouldn’t listen. Also, Aaron and Jeff have only normal infections. You still have the yellow pills, right?” Everyone knew the Coven had a store of big yellow pills that fought infections.

  At the question, the Coven grew still except to shift their eyes towards Donna who smiled unconvincingly at Jenn. It was another one of those lying smiles that she was becoming all too accustomed to. “Of course we do,” the oldest member of the Coven said. “Now let us take care of this. You go home and make a big dinner. Enough for two.”

  Right away she pictured Mike sitting down to dinner with her, but that wasn’t going to happen. He was supposed to leave with the others after dealing with the traders…if they were going to deal with them at all. “Two? Do you actually think we’ll be bunking up with the Islanders because Gerry…”

  “Just do as you’re told!” Miss Shay snapped.

  Fuming, Jenn left and stomped straight back to her apartment, slamming the door behind her. She walked once around her little suite of rooms, peeking out of every window and not quite knowing what she was looking for. At the end of her circuit she found herself by the front door where she had set down the M4, her pack and her crossbow. “Make dinner, my butt,” she snapped, grabbing her weapons and slipping outside.