The footage switched to slightly shaky images that looked like they had been filmed on a cell phone. They depicted large groups of people walking along a gravel stretch of road past ramshackle houses. Some of the marchers carried foam bedding on their backs. Others were loaded down with plastic bags of possessions. The reporter in Mexico went on describing the scene, his voice wavering like he was talking as he walked. “Thousands of children. Thousands of toddlers too young to walk that are being carried in their mothers’ arms. Men and women of every age – Terry, you can almost smell the people’s fear and desperation.”
In the background – as if on cue – the caravan of people broke once more into their chant.
“We demand to be vaccinated! Don’t leave us to die! We demand you share your plague antidote!”
“Have you spoken to organizers of the caravan, Will?”
“Yes, Terry, I have. One man brazenly told me that the people marching were determined to reach the border, and once they reach the wall the US Army is currently building they will demand that President Austin release his stockpiles of the Plague vaccine. The man threatened that these people would stop at nothing for the antidote.”
The scene cut back to the studio. The anchor at her desk looked sternly into the camera.
“In response to these developments,” the anchorwoman began, “White House Press Secretary, Rita May, reiterated the government’s position on the issue stating emphatically that the US was not in possession of any antidote to the NK Plague. Ms. May went on to clarify President Austin’s reported comments he made during a recent television interview, explaining that the government’s raid of the chemical plant in North Korea where the plague is thought to have originated was just the first step in a lengthy and complicated research project. Ms. May urged the caravan organizers to disband, claiming any vaccination or antidote to the NK Plague might still be several years away from being available.”
Chapter 21:
US 90.
TEN MILES WEST OF COMSTOCK
TEXAS
The diner sat by the side of the road, built on a patch of sun-baked dirt that was the parking lot. Out front was a paint-flaked sign on a post pointing the way to Comstock and another sign inviting travelers to ‘dine and rest a while in air-conditioned comfort’. There were two pick-up trucks parked in the dirt and half-a-dozen weary cars on saggy, tired suspensions.
The man slowed his SUV and veered off the road into the gravel. Dust billowed into the shimmering hot afternoon sky. He cut the engine and stared across the space at the diner’s front door, listening while the air conditioning gurgled its last gasping breath. He checked his reflection in the mirror and then stepped out of the vehicle. The heat of the day hit him like a blow-torch.
He walked quickly to the entrance taking measured military-like strides, his back straight, his chin lifted. Inside the door was a small foyer area with a cigarette machine and a bulletin board littered with handwritten flyers about horses and guns for sale. The man kicked the dust off his boots and pushed open the interior door. A blast of refrigerated air hit him. He stood for a moment, enjoying the chilled relief.
There was a cash register by the door and a long serving counter against the far wall. Through an open hatch he could see a couple of red-faced kitchen staff, sweltering over fryers. The walls to his left and right were lined with booths, half of them occupied with people eating and drinking coffee. Mounted high overhead in one corner was a large flat-screen television, switched to the local channel. A pretty waitress wearing a tight-fitting brown uniform and a friendly Texas smile on her face came from behind the counter.
“Howdy. Sit anywhere you like, honey. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
The man chose a booth within earshot of the television, sitting with his back to the wall so he could see the faces of the people around him. The seat was sticky vinyl. There was a menu standing wedged between plastic salt and pepper shakers on the table. He snatched the menu up and gave it his attention while his ears tuned into the voices of the other patrons.
The television news anchors were throwing to a taped report of the crisis along the southern border.
“As the Federal Government mobilizes thousands of troops to build an emergency barrier along the US-Mexico border, fears are growing tonight that immigrants will begin to flood north, desperate for one last chance to cross illegally into the United States before the wall can be completed. Garry Jenkins begins our comprehensive report…”
“Fuckin’ beaners!” a voice from the booth right in front of the man declared with loud contempt. “They’re all fuckin drug addicts and murderers, right Stack?”
“Ain’t that the truth,” the second occupant of the booth agreed.
The man lowered the menu a little and focused his attention.
They were two big-old boys wearing grubby t-shirts that were sweat-stained under the armpits. The guy in the corner had buzz-cut blonde hair and a broad unremarkable face. The man he had called ‘Stack’ sitting beside him was the size and shape of a grizzly bear; a three hundred pound man-mountain with dark greasy curls and an unruly beard. He stuffed his face with a mouthful of hamburger and spoke around it so a trail of crumbs and sauce dribbled into his beard.
“It’s about fuckin’ time, Billy-boy,” Stack gestured up at the television screen. He had big beefy arms and wrecking balls for hands. “Shoulda built the fuckin’ wall years ago. ‘Merica!”
“Shit yeah,” Billy agreed. He was talking loudly – so loudly that heads began to turn. A young couple seated nearby exchanged anxious glances and got up from their seats to leave. The two men seemed not to notice, or care. They kept their eyes glued to the television.
“Fuckin’ years, Stack. That’s how long this shit has been goin’ on, and the crime and the drugs and the rapin’ gets worse and worse,” Billy’s face darkened with simmering resentment. “Now we’ve got this plague. That’s what these Mexican fuckin’ beaners are gonna do. They’re gonna bring the plague across the border with them if we don’t keep ’em out.”
The waitress brought a pitcher of ice water to the man’s table with a tall frosted glass. She fished a notepad out of her pocket and gave the man the exact same smile she had used to greet him.
“Whatcha havin’ today, hun?”
“A burger, please. And a coffee. Black.”
“What kind of burger would you like?”
The man shrugged. “You choose for me.”
The waitress looked momentarily surprised, but not enough to care. She spun on her heel and disappeared behind the counter. She leaned through the kitchen arch and spoke to one of the cooks.
The man filled his glass with iced water and sipped, suddenly absorbed with the desolate wind-swept scene through the diner’s windows while the two men in the booth next to him continued discussing the news coverage. The one who had been called Stack burped loudly then ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, the taste of his meal still on his breath. He burped a second time, then sighed.
On television the voice of the reporter droned on, quoting facts and figures about the wall’s construction, and then repeating some well-known background to the issue of border protection.
Domestically, illegal immigration along America’s southern border had been a matter of seething contention for several years. From both sides of the political spectrum, spokespeople made claims and accusations. It was an issue that had bitterly divided the nation. Now, suddenly and dramatically, the wall was being built with bi-partisan support because it was no longer a question of politics. It was an urgent matter of survival.
“I heard the President is sending fifty thousand soldiers to defend the wall,” the man named Billy said.
“I heard it was seventy thousand,” Stack countered. “Army and Marines, with Air Force fighters flying overhead.”
“Ain’t gonna be enough,” Billy said dolefully, then stuffed a handful of fries into his mouth.
The guy named Stack sighed and sl
id himself out of the booth with a weary heave. He stood there for a moment, hitching up his pants, and then wandered towards the far side of the diner.
The man waved his hand to catch the waitress’ eye.
“What would you like?” the waitress leaned over the table and pressed her face close. The zip of her uniform was undone just enough to encourage generous tips from lonely men.
“Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”
“Sure.” She only had one smile. She used it again. “Just follow Haystack – the big guy. He’s heading in that direction. You’ll see the sign on the door.”
The man smiled his thanks. He counted slowly to ten, then walked casually towards the corner of the diner.
The men’s room was a fair-sized space with a stainless steel urinal trough along one wall and a toilet stall on the other, set beside a chipped basin with a cold-water faucet. The floor was covered in orange tiles, stamped with dusty boot prints. The door of the stall was painted green, covered in graffiti.
The man stepped inside and leaned his back against the door.
Haystack stood facing the stainless steel trough. He had his jeans unzipped. He caught the man’s shadow out of the corner of his eye and turned, frowning.
“You got a problem, boy?” he snarled.
The man shook his head. Haystack finished urinating and zipped up his pants. His face turned dark with a scowl of agitation. “Are you some kind of faggot? Cause if you are, I’m tellin’ you now, you’ve come to the right place to get an ass-whoopin’.”
“No,” the man said calmly. “I’m not a faggot. Relax. I’ve come to make you an offer.”
Haystack sized up the stranger. He was tall – over six feet, with broad shoulders and a lean physique. The shirt he wore clung to his chest tight as a second skin. The man had a serious, determined face, close-cropped black hair and a scar on his right cheek.
“What kind of offer?”
“The chance to be a patriot,” the man said. “The chance to do more than talk about border protection. The chance to defend America from invasion by Mexicans and Latinos.”
“I’m listening,” Haystack’s face went through expressions of suspicion and arrogant challenge before settling into a look of curiosity.
The man reached into his back pocket and produced a printed calling card. “My name is Karl King. My men call me ‘the Major’. I’m ex-Army and I’m putting together a team of vigilantes. We’re driving west to the San Ysidro Port of Entry to fight alongside the military that are defending our border against illegal immigrants. I’m looking for more recruits who know how to shoot, and who love America. I thought you and your friend at the booth might be interested.”
FOLKESTONE BEACH
ENGLAND
“Twinkles! Twinkles, you yappy little bitch. Where the bloody-hell are you?” Ciara Forsyth grumbled. She drew her coat tight around herself and went stomping along the sand dunes, her lips pressed together in bitter irritation, her hair getting damp in the soft drizzle of the morning.
Somewhere in the distance she heard her mother-in-law’s dog bark. Ciara made a face of irritation.
The ratty little dog was the least of her worries. Ciara was miserable; trapped in a sad loveless marriage and missing her home in Ireland.
That she had traded the tranquility and beauty of her homeland was depressing. That she had married an Englishman who loved football more than her caused despair. But that she had to live with her mother-in-law in a cramped flat on the Kent coast had plunged her deep into a fit of bitter depression.
Ciara hated her new life. She longed to be back in Dún Laoghaire; the small town on the outskirts of Dublin where she had been raised. She missed strolling along the East Pier, and she missed the fish and chips. She had traded it all for a dingy flat on the south coast of England where the air was different and the close-knit community treated her like a leper.
The crushing misery of her predicament started her crying again – not a loud wailing of grief, but a self-pitying sob. She reached the top of the dune and turned in a slow circle, cuffing tears from her cheeks. Behind her lay the sleepy coastal port of Folkestone, and before her stretched the grey forbidding expanse of the English Channel. The sea was dark as slate, the sky swollen with looming storm clouds. A cold wind across the exposed beach cut like a knife.
“Twinkles!”
The little dog was down at the water’s edge, fifty yards from where she stood. It dashed about in the white foaming surf, barking insanely. Ciara frowned. She could see something dark in the water; a log or a piece of driftwood.
She went scrambling down the dune. The beach was flat, washed clean by the morning’s high tide. The little spaniel saw her approaching and dashed madly back into the hissing surf.
Ciara approached the water’s edge suspiciously until she saw, with hot shock, a floating body.
“Jaysus!” she gasped.
It was an adult corpse, floating face down, its arms thrown wide, the body weighted by layers of sodden clothing. Ciara dashed into the ankle-deep water and dragged the figure up above the tide line. The body was a heavy dead weight. Ciara’s breath sawed in her throat from the strain. She felt herself trembling. She turned to look for help but the entire beach seemed deserted. She rolled the corpse onto its back and gasped again in horror.
It was a middle-aged woman, draped in jewelry. Around her wrists were expensive bracelets and around her neck hung two necklaces. The body had been covered in bites; pale livid wounds and ragged slivers of flesh washed clean of blood. The woman’s skin looked white as marble.
Ciara dropped to her knees, overcome by a wave of nausea. The dead woman had been gruesomely savaged. Hot scalding vomit burned the back of Ciara’s throat. Twinkles sniffed the corpse cautiously and then latched its teeth into one of the dead woman’s legs, worrying the bloodless flesh and growling.
“Fuck off!” Ciara leaned forward and lashed out violently at the dog. Twinkles jinked away on the soft sand, chastened, and barked its defiance.
The surf came hissing up the beach. It lapped around the dead body’s feet. Ciara reached into her coat pocket for her cell phone then stopped suddenly, frowning. She could have sworn the dead woman moved…
Her breath jammed in her throat. Guiltily she felt the body’s wrist for a pulse.
The ghoul’s eyes flashed open. It snarled. Ciara reeled away, screaming in wide-eyed shock. The zombie lashed out a hand and caught the girl by the ankle. Ciara screamed again in fear and terror.
The ghoul rolled onto its side and bit Ciara on the ankle, sinking its teeth deep into tender flesh.
The infection of Britain had begun.
BLACK SITE ECHO-59
GUAM
Black and White stood shoulder-to-shoulder and relieved themselves over the coffin-like box while Angie waited in the corner laughing delightedly. The box had been made of timber planks. Urine dripped and seeped through the gaps.
“Enjoying your shower, Ju?” Angie taunted the North Korean prisoner in a cruel, mocking voice. “We figured you needed cleaning up.”
When the men had finished, they buttoned their flies and unfastened the lock on the lid. Ju Young-sik was so cramped he had to be dragged out of the box. The two men left him lying in a puddle. Angie sauntered closer until the prisoner’s face was at her feet.
“Kiss my boot,” she said. Her eyes narrowed and her tone became callous. She propped her hands on her hips and stared down at the figure on the ground with disgust. The prisoner was curled up in the fetal position, shivering. He was smeared with dried blood that had seeped through the bandages around his butchered hand. “Kiss my boot, Ju, or I’ll get the fucking knives again and finish what I started yesterday.”
The North Korean was a sobbing, broken ruin. He mumbled to himself – something incoherent, and then wriggled himself like a worm until his lips were pressed against Angie’s boot.
“Good boy,” Angie said. “Now you can have a drink.”
White
brought a plastic bottle of water and handed it to Angie. She squatted down on her haunches, unscrewed the cap and set the bottle down beside the North Korean. “Enjoy.”
She watched him with the dispassionate manner of a scientist studying a laboratory specimen, noting his shivering spasms, the dilation of his eyes, the slack purpling lips and the greyness of his skin. She felt nothing emotionally.
Slowly, Ju Young-sik began to move, first stretching his legs and then his back and arms. He groaned pathetically as blood began to circulate through seized, stiffened muscles. Even breathing deeply caused him pain.
Angie waited. It was critical that the subject be alert and aware of his surroundings before she performed the next piece of theatre.
When Ju was kneeling on the ground, she decided she could begin.
She glared down at him like he was a disobedient dog.
“Bahk is flying out to America in one hour, Ju. He’s on his way to meetings in Washington with our government officials. Unfortunately, there’s only one seat on the plane for a hero who saves the world. That means you are no longer of any importance…” she let the words trail off but the implication was not missed by Ju Young-sik.
Without another word, Angie bent and began to unfasten her boots. Ju frowned, confused. Then Angie began unbuttoning her blouse. Ju saw the golden brown flesh of her breasts and suddenly realized what she was doing.
A wild frenzy of sobbing wailing fear seized him.
“No!” he wailed. “No!”
“Yes!” Angie snarled. Her lips peeled back and she bared her teeth. “I told you why I get undressed. It’s because I don’t want your fucking blood on my clothes. And today is butchering day.”
“No! No!” Ju rasped. His throat was raw and swollen. The plea was like a last gasp of wheezing air.
Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse Page 66
