Jane laughed. “Be sure to tell her that. She’ll swoon.” Jane looked across the booth to Paul and Karen. Paul smirked at his beer glass, while Karen studied a damp cocktail napkin, picking at it. “Can I get you two another round?”
Karen looked up. “No, I think we’re going to call it a night. This has been fun.”
“Glad you enjoyed yourself.”
“Thanks for the invite, Karen,” Thomas said, raising his glass. “This is a good way to kick off Containment Day festivities.”
“You’re welcome, and bring Maria around more. I want to hear about her jewelry she’s designing,” Karen said. “Or bring some sample pieces into work. The non-emergency crew could use something sparkly to brighten their day.”
Thomas laughed and kissed Maria on the cheek, and tapped her earrings. “So true.”
“Paul,” Jane called out. “I’m sorry there’s no dartboard for you to throw things at.”
“It’s all right. Darts and birds don’t seem to go together,” Paul said. His father had taught him to play variations of the game. He enjoyed the spirit of blocking out everything else, sending the small singular dart toward its purpose.
“Paul,” Thomas said. “That was awesome of you to have Karen bring in the dartboard for the office. Total stress reliever for everyone. Sometimes we put zombies on it, other times we put Alan’s picture on it.”
“Hey now,” Paul said in a hushed voice. “He might hear that and send you to the Mill.”
“Is he really a jerk?” Maria asked.
“He can be very particular about things,” Karen said. “Like how reports are, how detailed reports are, how we respond to calls and direct crews throughout the city. If he feels we’re not reading the city’s dashboard of bar graphs and pie charts and spark lines and percentages...oh, he’ll let us know.”
Maria leaned in. “Thomas was telling me how he came down to the Call Center—”
“From on high,” Thomas said.
“And he yelled about which ZMT crews responded to calls in Foxer. Something about Nasher.”
“Alan believes some ZMTs are on Nasher’s payroll,” Thomas said, picking at the mint leaves from his mojito.
Jane slammed her glass on the table. “Bullshit. Why would a ZMT work for that guy?”
Paul downed the rest of his beer and set it down. “Extra cash, mostly. We can move freely about the city and quickly.”
“Karen, did you tell Paul about this?” Jane asked.
“Yes. I thought it was paranoia, seeing things in his numbers that really weren’t there. When I told Paul about it, and we talked about it, it didn’t seem farfetched.”
Paul matched her concerned tone. “Few people in Greenport have a car due to the road use tax, and most use the bus. You can’t carry a lot of illegal goods without drawing attention to yourself, and all delivery trucks are tracked, regardless if they’re delivering apples for a bodega or medical-grade narcotics for a hospital. Our rigs can carry a lot of crap out of view of Alan’s system of cameras.”
Jane leaned back in her chair. “That explains the rumblings of putting cameras inside our rigs. As if our job wasn’t stressful enough. The threat of the undead and the creepy ever-watching eye of Alan.”
“Is it true?” Maria leaned in. “That he’s sleeping with a fifteen-year-old?”
Karen frowned and raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, I’m sorry that sounded bad, but Thomas tells me all these rumors.“
“She’s in her early twenties, if you’re talking about the girl I’m thinking of,” Karen said. “I’ve only seen her a few times, and Thomas happened to be at my desk once. She came in to the Call Center, like a ghost, just appearing there. This pale, red-haired girl with a white streak of hair, stands to the side of my desk. Doesn’t say a word. She’s definitely older than fifteen.”
“It was eerie,” Thomas said.
Jane had twisted in her seat to listen to Deanna’s last song.
“Thomas and I stop talking, and we both turn to her and she hands me a thick envelope of badges to hand out to the new dispatchers.”
Paul turned to Karen. “Wait, lightning-haired girl is real?”
“Lightning-haired girl?” Karen asked.
“The third shift ZMTs say that a girl with a white streak appears in the ambulance bay from time to time,” Jane said, returning her attention to the table. “Usually, the bay is empty of crews out on calls, and one will get back a little earlier than expected. And they say they see a girl, a teenager, or twenty-something-year-old, run out the back door. Red hair with white lightning. Some call her Casperette.”
Maria giggled, “Like a girl Casper. Someone likes their vintage cartoons.”
The group laughed.
“Jane and I thought it was a story to yank our chains,” Paul said. “When did this happen?”
“Not too long before I met you and not too long after I started working in the dispatch. I guess it seemed like a trivial detail,” Karen said. “It’s only happened two, three times.”
“Creepy,” Jane said.
“What’s creepin’ my girl out?”
Jane jumped up and wrapped her arms around Deanna’s waist. “Hey you!” She kissed her cheek and swayed back and forth. “Great set tonight, as always.”
“Aww, thank you,” Deanna said, her voice warm and confident.
Jane introduced those at the table, and everyone nodded or waved. Deanna said. “How are you all? I hope you enjoyed the show tonight.”
“I know I did. This is Thomas’ and mine’s third time here,” Maria said.
“Delightful. You picked a good night to stop by.”
“Deanna, Maria designs jewelry,” Jane said, holding Deanna’s matching tattooed hand.
“Even more delightful. I could use another pair of earrings.”
“I’m still putting together my first designs,” Maria said, with a demur smile. “But I’d be willing to show them to you.”
“Let’s work that out. I’d love to see what you’re working on.”
Paul and Karen stood up and put on their coats. “Deanna, thank you for reserving us a booth for the evening,” Karen said, hugging Deanna. “And you do look stunning in that dress.”
“Thank you for coming out, and a lady has to do a woman like Ella right, looking good on stage, scattin’ through the numbers.”
“Deanna,” said Paul, hugging her from the side. “Marvelous as always. Sorry we’re cutting out on you, but today was a long shift.”
“Oh, nothing bad happened, I hope,” Deanna said.
“A close call. Jane can tell you about it. In fact, I’m sure she will as soon as I leave.”
“She does like to tell me about her boys, you and Bobby.” She looked around the booth and the bar to her left. “Where is Bobby?”
“He said he picked up an odd job running errands for a guy in Creedy. That’s all I know.” Paul shrugged.
She hummed three notes. “Well, you two have a good night,” Deanna said.
Jane glared at Paul, unseen by Karen, and mouthed, “Tell her,” as Thomas and Maria waved and said goodbye in unison. Karen and Paul exited the heated club and stepped outside into the brisk wind of the street. Strands of people walked along the sidewalk, reveling in Containment Day celebrations. In the distance, pops of contraband fireworks burst into the night.
Paul wrapped his arm around Karen’s waist at the small of her back and pulled her hip next to his, continuing down the sidewalk back to their apartment. “That was nice of you to invite Thomas out with us tonight. Maria seems to put him at ease.”
“Yes, she does,” Karen said, staring straight ahead.
“Did you set them up?”
“Kind of.”
“How so?”
“I invited him to an artist’s fair, and she happened to be there.”
Paul laughed low. “Sounds like a familiar set up.” No response. He exhaled. “Karen, are you okay? You’ve been distant all night.”
; “I’m fine.”
“Karen. Please.”
She stopped walking, and Paul lurched forward. “I saw part of your last call today.”
Paul took her arm and pulled her to the edge of the sidewalk next to the stucco covered restaurant wall. “I figured you had.”
“Were you going to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, tell me.” She stood stiff, eyes on Paul, her arms at her sides and her hands balled into fists. The cold turned her cheeks a fiery red.
Paul searched for the words, the direct ones, the simple ones, the right ones to assure Karen he would be okay, despite the feverish swell across his temples and chest. She deserved his honesty after two years, even she knew his job included the perils of daily zombie interactions. He opened his mouth to tell her he would be okay. That he loved her, and—
Over Karen’s shoulders, the front end of an eighteen wheeler veered, cutting across an intersection, collided into a steel lamp post and sped directly for them.
Chapter 8
“Julian? Julian, can you turn the heat down?” Miles asked. He leaned back and rolled his head over to rest on his shoulder harness.
Julian drove the truck through the outer edges of Belleville; the street lamps illuminated Miles’ pale skin and sweating brow. Miles held his eyes closed and tugged on the top of his jumpsuit to catch the frigid night air streaming into the cab from the already rolled down window. Julian flexed his hands and pulled his arms close to his body.
“The heat’s not on Miles, and you’ve had the window down for nearly twenty minutes. I’m freezing.”
He groaned. “I’m burning up. Feels like my insides are stabbing themselves. How much further?”
A red dot blinked along a red line on the dashboard LCD screen. “Not even half way. We’re going through Belleville now.”
“Oh God, it’ll be forever ’til we get to our drop point,” Miles said, rubbing his forehead. “First day out, and I get sick. I can’t even enjoy the view of district.”
The Belleville arts district drew the city’s creative class to its dwellings. For an entire block down one street, a kaleidoscopic mural of a forest blended with the warm hues of a sunrise, fading into an expansive galaxy of stars. Stained glass windows and sculptures adorned yards and roofs. “Yarn bombing” was the district’s annual fall community event, during the first day of fall. Every street lamp they passed was bundled up in coats of yarn.
Julian was surprised that twee and kitsch survived the Plague. He imagined packs of men in skinny jeans, untamed beards and black rimmed glasses fending off the undead with broken record player arms. Pre-Plague, they would come into his copy shop with hand-made flyers illustrated in vintage type with a felt marker. For twenty to thirty minutes they would photocopy the flyer, cut it up and photocopy it again. Julian onced asked a customer with gauged earrings if he’d like to use the computer to create the same fuzzy and stressed effect. The young man had politely declined, stating he was seeking an authenticity of a scene from the past.
Based on his past recollections of watching the recently infected die and turn, Miles’ pale and distressed face worried Julian. The pattern would be the same. A zombie would grab and bite someone on the leg in an overgrown field or another would sink its teeth into an arm. Then, the person would either hide the bite or a loved one would defend the recently infected, protecting them with tears and cries and denial. The infected would grow pale, sweat profusely and the whites of their eyes would turn to a mixture of black and blood red. A grand mal seizure would convulse through their body, an occurrence religious individuals called the rapture of the spirit. The soul fled the world to heaven, they said, and left their body here to drive us to turn from sin. Julian believed it was the virus finally overwhelming internal organs in a violent siege and giving no quarter.
“Miles, answer me truthfully, Julian said, glancing at Miles now leaning out the window. “Have you been bitten?”
Miles leaned back in. “You’ve been with me the whole time. When would that have happened? Why would you think that?”
“You’re pale. You’re sweating, and it’s making me very concerned. Let me see your eyes.”
“Julian, it hurts enough to move, and when I open my eyes, the light makes it worse. I’m just going to keep them closed until we get to Foxer.”
Julian exhaled, bit his lip and turned on the light inside the cab. “Open your eyes, Miles.”
Miles squeezed his eyes tighter and flinched away from the dome light. “Or what? Or what? You’ll brain me? There’s nothing in the cab to stab me with. Just let me be until we get there.”
“And if you turn inside the cab while I’m driving?” Julian said, raising his voice. “What then?”
“I don’t know. Push me out and run me over? I probably just ate too much or it’s food poisoning. Stop freaking out. Can you turn the light off, now?”
Miles resumed hanging out the window. He eyed the seatbelt crossing Miles’ chest to the buckle by his hip. He glanced to the door handle and guessed if he could reach the buckle and the handle and shove Miles out if he needed to. Judging by the width of the cab, he’d have to unbuckle himself with the truck stopped.
He turned off the dome light and shifted in his seat, unsettled as he turned a corner as instructed by the GPS screen.
“Thanks,” Miles said, returning to a leaned back position in his seat, his chest heaving in and out.
“I’ll speed it up a little bit to try to get there sooner.”
“Okay, great.” Miles said with a weak croak.
Denial killed. In the early days of the Plague, family members treated their soon-to-be-undead like those with the flu: Administer cold cloths on foreheads, force feed tea or water into their mouths. Attempt to restrain the flailing body during the seizure. Yelling for their deceased to wake up once the convulsions stopped. Ragged screams as their loved one grabbed their shoulders and pulled them toward their mouth and tore at their neck. Eventually, the pattern changed to where the loved one or member of a group would be put on watch and either a bullet or a blunt object would swiftly be administered once the body stopped shaking. Occasionally, people wished to be spared the agony of turning and be killed at a moment of their own choosing or by their own hand.
Miles groaned and placed his hands on the bottom frame of the window. He stuck his head farther out and gagged.
“Miles? What’s happening?” Julian slowed the truck down and pulled over.
“I’m—” An involuntary retch interrupted Miles. He coughed and another spasm shuddered through his stomach.
Julian heard the splattering of fluid hitting the ground. Each time Miles groaned another wave of bile erupted. Miles’ fingers gripped the door frame as his shoulders and neck heaved. Julian unlatched Miles’ seat buckle as the last wave of vomit hit the pavement. Miles relaxed his grip on the door, rested his left elbow on the window and hung his head outside the cab.
“Oh, God, this sucks,” Miles said. His breathing became louder and deeper. He pushed himself back into the seat and wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve. “Thanks. For. Stopping.”
Julian now wondered if any other drivers became sick during their journey to their respective drop points in Foxer. Did the drivers pull over and retch out the door? Did they do the same for their passengers who suddenly became ill? Julian scanned his memory of the day’s events, attempting to detect any events that he and Miles experienced differently. Miles was right. They spent the entire day together from the holding cell within the Mill, to the drive to the Greenport Annex, to eating in the warehouse, to now, sitting on the side of the road underneath a streetlamp wrapped in yarn. Miles ate the stroganoff. Julian did not due to his lactose intolerant digestive track. Julian smoked. Miles did not. Julian began to suspect Miles’ food poisoning theory to be not far off.
Julian turned the dome light back on. Miles didn’t flinch as the light reflected a sheen of sweat from his forehead to his mouth, now hanging open. His he
avy and deep breathing slowed as the shoulder strap still wrapped around his right arm with his hands in his lap.
Julian reached over to touch Miles’ forehead with the back of his hand. It burned. He moved his fingers to open Miles’ left eye.
“Driver.” The radio cracked with the feminine robotic voice from the warehouse. Julian jumped and twisted at the call. “Driver, proceed to your designated location.”
***
Alan watched six blue dots move across the enlarged map on the wall. Each dot represented a truck traveling to point along Foxer’s perimeter; three now sat idle at their final destinations. One blinked a half mile from the southern point, a second traversed across the northern Greenport bridge to secure the northern point, and the last truck made its way through Mignon.
He focused his attention on the last dot and stroked the side of his face. The truck, by his calculations, moved along behind schedule. It departed the annex when told, but appeared to be driving slower than Alan estimated a first-time driver would go. His research—mining through years of trucking and driving records and correlating against traffic and routes through the city—gleaned that it would take approximately forty-five minutes to go from the annex to the northwest corner of Foxer. At the truck’s current pace, it would arrive sixty-seven minutes after departing, putting his plan to flush Clyde Nasher out of his hole in jeopardy. All the trucks needed to be in place once the poison he placed in the stroganoff began to take effect.
The poison was more of an engineered catalyst, based on body weight, to trigger the Plague virus still stored in the body to activate and kill its host. Across Greenport, by late evening the roads would be empty of normal congestion, even with residents celebrating Containment Day; most stayed near their home districts and traveled by foot. By midnight Foxer would be quiet, and by the time the last truck arrived at its location, the poison would take effect, killing each crew member.
But one.
“Sophie, pull up cameras of the last truck. It’s running behind,” Alan called out.
Survivor Response Page 7
