by Joe McKinney
“You need me?”
“You’re the strongest man here, Billy. I need some help.”
“Strongest man here,” Billy said, and laughed. He moved his jaw with obvious pain. “I think you knocked out one of my teeth.”
Ed reached down and scooped up his hat. He dusted it off, then seated it back on his head.
“There ain’t no shame in where you’re at right now, son. Old age and guile is gonna triumph over youth and raw ability every time. The guile I can teach you, but the old age you’re gonna have to get on your own.”
Ed held out his hand.
“Now get on your feet, son. I need you.”
Billy looked at Ed’s hand, then at Ed.
“You’re gonna teach me how to fight like that, right?”
“Someday soon,” Ed said.
After dark that night, Ed was sitting with Margaret O’Brien and her two grandkids, watching a newscast out of Albany, Georgia, on a portable TV set. He was eating a granola bar. On TV, a young woman in a black pantsuit stood in front of a burning apartment building in western Albany. Riots, she said, were breaking out all over the city. There were fires raging to which the fire department couldn’t respond. The infected were everywhere. The streets were littered with bodies, and authorities were ordering evacuations, though no safe areas were suggested.
Ed watched the woman and thought of all those idiot reporters he had seen over the years standing in their rain slickers, desperately trying to stay on their feet as the hurricane rolled ashore, and he wondered how long it would take a band of the infected to come in from off camera and sweep her away.
“Ed?” Margaret said.
Ed turned and looked at her. She wore a light-brown Windbreaker over a white blouse and brown slacks, and she had her arms around her grandkids, Randy and Britney.
Margaret had really blossomed since all this started, dedicating herself entirely to those kids. Ed could see the life coming back into her, the sense of purpose, and in a way, he envied her for that.
She said, “Ed, is this really…all over the world?”
He knew what she meant. All day long, the cable news shows had been running images from the Middle East, from China, from Mexico and Europe and Africa and South America. He sighed heavily. “I’m afraid so.”
“Can it really be as bad as all that? I just can’t believe that everything can fall apart so fast. It’s been less than two weeks.”
“It’s hard to believe,” he agreed.
She wrapped her arms more tightly around the kids and squeezed them close. Randy whimpered softly, and she shushed him.
“What will we do, Ed?” she said. “We can’t stay here. You know that, right? This place. It’s bad.”
He put his granola bar down. Maybe it was the lingering depression he felt from watching the news, or maybe it was his own tired body, but the granola bar had lost its flavor, and he had no stomach for it. He rose to his feet and leaned against the edge of the tent. His back and his buttocks hurt from sitting.
“There’s been talk around here,” he said. “I’ve heard people speaking about this guy out of Jackson, Mississippi, named Jasper Sewell. Supposedly, he led over a thousand people out of Jackson without anybody getting a scratch on them. He’s supposed to be setting up some kind of community in the Cedar River National Grasslands of North Dakota.”
“A community?” Margaret looked doubtful. “What does that mean?”
“It’s just talk I’ve heard,” Ed said.
He’d heard stories about Jasper around camp. He was supposed to be some kind of preacher, and that had put Ed off.
Though he’d spent nearly his entire life in the South, he’d never felt comfortable with the Southern evangelical spirit. There’d always seemed something desperate, even primitive, about it, and the last thing he wanted to do was throw himself and the people he’d promised to protect into that kind of madness.
But that was where the uncertainty came in. For all the religious fervor that seemed to surround Jasper Sewell and his exploits, the one thing that all the stories agreed on was that the man was saving lives. He had, it seemed, actually led a huge number of people to safety and was gathering more survivors together every day. Compared to the military’s failure to provide for them, his community in the Grasslands seemed to offer at least a ray of hope.
He said, “I’m not sure if it’s everything people are saying. You know? I mean, it probably isn’t.”
“But you’ve already made up your mind, Ed. That’s what it sounds like, anyway.”
“No,” he said. “Well, maybe. Jesus, I don’t know.” He took his hat off and fingered the bill where a thread was coming loose. “Look, Margaret,” he said. “There’s a lot going on here, but I think this could be a good thing for us. North Dakota is isolated. There aren’t many people up there, and that means fewer infected. Plus, it gets cold there in the winter. We’ll be dealing with that soon, the colder weather. If we’re somewhere farther north—maybe not North Dakota, but somewhere farther north—we’ll have the weather on our side, too. The infected won’t be able to deal with that kind of exposure.”
“That’s true,” Margaret said, and nodded. “Yeah, Ed, that makes perfect sense.”
“Well,” he said, and shrugged good-naturedly. He smoothed his white hair down with his hand and slipped his hat back onto his head. Then he smiled at her. “We’ll see,” he said.
“Ed?”
He turned, still smiling, and saw Julie Carnes standing in the lane between the tents. Her gray hair was down around her shoulders, coming loose from her ponytail. Her face had an odd, strained quality, and she was trembling.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
Margaret rose to her feet, but didn’t let go of the kids.
“Ed, I need you to come quick. Please.”
“What is it?”
“It’s Art,” she said. “Ed, he’s…he died a few minutes ago.”
Art Waller’s body lay on a cot along the back wall. The others stood a respectful distance off. They were all trying very hard not to look at the body.
Nobody spoke.
Ed stared down at Art. His body looked so frail, so hollow, like spun glass. Ed let out a breath and closed his eyes. Leading these people, surviving, was so much harder than he thought it’d be.
That day they were rescued from the attic, when that army major told him he was back on the clock, it was like his prayers had been answered. Getting reactivated sent a thrill through him. It made him feel like he was getting some long-lost piece of his dignity back. He’d thought it’d be that easy, too. A simple matter of putting his badge back on. God, he’d been such a fool. His shame at his own gullibility actually made him shiver.
When he opened his eyes, Julie Carnes was standing next to him.
Ed took a deep breath, then another. He said, “Did anybody tell the medic station?”
“Yeah, we told them,” Billy said.
“Did they send somebody over?”
“They said if he’s dead there’s nothing for them to do.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah. Just like that.”
Ed snarled to himself. “Damn this place,” he said. And damn me, too, for my vanity.
“Okay,” he said. He reached down and pulled the top of a yellowed cotton sheet over Art’s face. “Okay. I assume they’re not gonna help us bury him, either.”
Billy shook his head.
“Okay. We’ll do it ourselves. Billy, I’m gonna need your help again. Can you find us some shovels?”
Billy nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I can do that.”
While Billy went out into the camp to find some shovels, Ed and Julie Carnes and Margaret O’Brien wrapped Art’s body in a sheet and tied it off along the seam. Flies had already started to gather and were buzzing around Art’s mouth and eyes. Ed waved them away while they tied off the sheet.
When Billy returned, he offered to carry the body, but Ed refused with a sh
ake of his head. “I’ll do it,” he said, and picked up the body. Art was light, maybe a hundred and twenty pounds, but it was still more than Ed was ready for. He didn’t put the body down, though. He needed to do this, as much for himself as for Art. It wasn’t quite a penance, but at least it gave him some way to confront his grief and his anger at himself for his foolishness and his vanity.
“You got it?” Billy said.
Ed nodded.
They chose a spot on the far side of the main road west of the camp. It was a narrow lane of grass at the edge of the pinewoods. Ed and Billy dug in silence for the better part of an hour. Margaret’s grandkids, Randy and Britney, slept in the grass a short distance away. Margaret sat near them, stroking Randy’s hair while he slept. Julie had her arm around Barbie Denkins. Barbie had gone strangely silent since their arrival in the camp, and Ed wondered how aware she was of what was going on. Despite the fog of Alzheimer’s, he figured she was probably aware of more than he gave her credit for.
When it was done, the adults gathered around the grave mound and stood in silence. Ed had a dull headache behind his eyes from the heat and the exertion and the frustration caused by too many days in this place. His gaze wandered from the grave to the camp. Darkness had settled over the land, but there were fires burning in fifty-five-gallon drums all around the camp, and to his blurred vision the orange glow of the fires looked like molten rivers of light snaking through the tents.
“Please be at peace, Art,” Julie said. “Please.”
The others muttered a quiet amen, then fell silent once more.
Ed felt uneasy. He had, in the back of his mind, assumed they would spend another day or two at least here; but now, looking down at the grave and around the small circle of faces, he felt a renewed sense that they had to leave right away. This was no place for them.
Margaret caught Ed’s eye and said, “Will you tell us what you want to do?”
Julie still had her arm around Barbie Denkins. Barbie looked tired and distant, like she was somewhere else.
Julie said, “What are you taking about?”
Billy looked from Julie to Ed. He said, “You want to leave here, don’t you?”
Ed nodded. He looked toward the camp and shook his head. “That place is no good. I think we need to go someplace else.”
“But where?” Julie said. She sounded suddenly frightened.
“Tell them what you told me, Ed,” Margaret said. “About the Grasslands.”
“The Grasslands?” Billy said. “I’ve heard about that. You’re talking about that preacher from Mississippi, aren’t you? You want to go there?”
Ed nodded.
“What is this place?” Julie asked. “What are you people talking about?”
Ed told her what he had heard of Jasper Sewell.
She listened to it all, and when he was done, she said, “You want us to pick up and travel all the way across the country to follow up on a rumor? Is that really what you’re asking us to do, Ed? What about transportation? Did you think about that? We don’t have a vehicle. We don’t have a way to get one. And what about Barbie, Ed? Did you think about her? How is she going to make the trip?”
Barbie looked up and muttered something Ed couldn’t hear.
Julie squeezed her close.
“Well?” she said.
He didn’t have an answer for her, only his conviction that this place was a death trap.
“If we stay here, we’re going to die,” he said.
“You don’t know that. There are soldiers here. They can protect us, feed us.”
“They couldn’t do anything for Art,” he said, and he was suddenly angry. His voice rose and he couldn’t make himself bring it back down. “Do you think they’ll be able to do anything for Barbie? Or for any of us? What happens in the next few weeks, Julie? What happens when the rest of us need help? Huh? What happens?”
Julie looked away from him.
“Please don’t yell at her, Ed,” Margaret said.
They were silent for a long moment, none of them looking at each other.
Finally, Billy said, “Should we…I don’t know…take a vote?”
Ed sighed. He looked at Margaret, who nodded, and then at Julie. She said nothing. Only frowned and looked away.
“Okay, then,” Ed said. “All those who want to leave here…”
Slowly, Margaret and Billy raised their hands. Ed raised his.
“I’m sorry, Julie,” Margaret said. “I have to think of my grandkids. This is no place for them. It’s not safe here.”
Julie just shook her head. “Come on, Barbie,” she said, and led the older woman away, back toward the camp.
CHAPTER 26
Nate woke with rain in his face. It came out of a starless night sky, cold and steady. He blinked, disoriented, unable to remember where he was or what had happened to him. Then, all at once, it came back to him—Jessica Metcalfe, the men in the white suits, the van ride. His nose and lips felt tender and swollen, and he could taste fresh blood in his mouth. He was missing a tooth. His tongue kept coming back to the gap it had left behind.
He rolled over onto his hands and knees and spit out a wad of blood and phlegm, then looked around, desperate for something familiar to anchor his mind to his present circumstances. What he saw was a large fenced-in field of trampled grass and mud puddles. It looked a little larger than a football field, though it was difficult to tell for certain because it was dark and the only light came from floodlights pointed down into the enclosure from atop the fences. There were people all around him. Most of the ones he could see were seated, their heads down between their knees, oblivious to the rain pelting the backs of their necks. But quite a few were walking around. They were changing. Some, he could see now, already had.
An older woman, about sixty, was on her back a few feet away. She was looking right at him, her eyes so bloodshot they frightened him. She was mumbling something. Nate tried to look away, but out of the corner of his eye he saw her holding up a mangled, trembling hand. She was trying to say something.
“What do you want?” he said.
Her voice was weak, hoarse. It sounded like she was saying “Please,” over and over again.
“Please what?” he asked.
“Please,” she said again. “Paul, please.”
“Paul? Lady, you’re hallucinating.”
Nate turned away and tried to block out the sounds of her pleading. Here and there throughout the enclosure, people were rising to their feet and shambling off into the darkness. There were a lot more of them on their feet now.
From behind him, Nate heard the old woman’s pleading change to a gurgling, rattling sound.
He looked at her and was shocked that he could actually see her changing. Nate couldn’t believe that it could happen so quickly. Her eyes were wide open and unblinking. And they weren’t as bloodshot as they had been a few moments before. Now there was a pinkish, milky haze seeping through them. Her body had stopped shaking.
She rolled over awkwardly and at last managed to rise to her feet.
“Oh, fuck,” he said.
He looked around the enclosure, and for the first time realized that there wasn’t anyplace to hide. Just a muddy field full of zombies and people who were only seconds away from becoming zombies.
There was no way out.
More and more of the zombies were coming toward him, attracted by the old woman’s moaning. Nate panicked. He turned and stepped into the arms of a girl of about fifteen whose head was bent to one side, almost all the way to her shoulder. Her teeth were blood soaked.
Nate hit her in the chest and knocked her backward.
A gap opened in the knot of zombies around him. He could see the perimeter fence and the soldiers milling around outside it. He sprinted toward them, and this time, the demon that plagued his knee was no match for the fear in his gut.
He reached the fence and threw himself onto it.
“Get me out of here,” he screamed at the so
ldiers. “Please. Jesus, don’t leave me in here.”
He took the fence in both hands and shook it.
“Let me out of here.”
A few soldiers turned their gas-masked faces toward him, but none made any move to help.
“Please,” he shouted. “Please.”
Behind him, the moans were growing louder. He turned around and saw a blur of faces closing in on him.
He grabbed the fence again and screamed at the soldiers. “For God’s sake, you fucking bastards, get me out of here. Get me out of here.”
Someone put a hand on his shoulder and he screamed. He threw an elbow at the man behind him and felt it connect with the man’s ribs. The man fell backward, but didn’t make a sound.
“Shit oh shit oh shit,” Nate said as he started to scramble up the fence. He hadn’t climbed a chain-link fence since he was a kid, and he was surprised at how hard it was to pull up his own weight.
But he pulled himself upward. He could feel hands grasping at his feet, tugging at the hems of his jeans, and his fear pushed him higher.
He made it as far as the top of the fence before he touched razor wire.
“Please, help me,” he pleaded.
None of the soldiers moved.
Below him, the zombies moaned and shook the fence. The combined volume of so many voices made him tremble. He put his face against the fence and let the rain run into his eyes without blinking it away.
“Please, help me.”
Major Mark Kellogg sat in the backseat of a Humvee, watching the figure clinging to the fence. The floodlights were designed to cast light into the enclosure, and so the figure up on the fence was visible only as a silhouette. Below the figure, the infected were clamoring to get at him. He could hear their moaning over the rain pounding on the roof of the vehicle.
He looked over at Colonel Jim Budlong. “All the others have changed,” he said. “This is the last one.”
Budlong nodded. They had discussed this at length, the time it took a normal person to go from initial infection to full depersonalization. The longest either of them had heard of was a twenty-four-year-old Delta Force operative who had received a fingernail scratch on his calf during a clean-and-sweep operation in Atlanta. The man was in superior physical condition, and he’d been kept nearly motionless from the moment of infection, but had made it only sixteen hours before he changed. And that was the record. Average time to depersonalization was much shorter—anywhere from five minutes to four hours.
