After Sophie had finished pleasuring him as he watched Jonathan and his two test subjects, he had instructed her to commandeer the city’s traffic system to ensure uninhibited movement of the trucks throughout the city. She now flipped between six different routes, rotating their video feeds through an array of monitors at her desk in the command center. When a truck approached an intersection with a red light, it flashed to her main monitor. With the clicking of her keyboard and touch pad, she conducted an orchestra of traffic signals to move in concert.
Alan loved to watch her work. Her eyes focused at the information needing her immediate attention while her eyebrows moved depending on what she read. If something wasn’t clear, she lowered them. At surprises both would rise and when events transpired as if she expected them to, her left eyebrow would lift as if ticking an imaginary box. Her lips swished and puckered while her hands floated between her keyboard and touch pad. Alan loved her lips and hands.
“Have you had any traffic problems with the last truck?” Alan said, resting his hands on her shoulders.
“No. It’s just moving slow,” she said. Her responses always sounded perfunctory to Alan. “He’s barely going the speed limit.”
Alan wished that the autonomous vehicle technology had survived the Plague. Prior to the modern world’s collapse, the military and several companies were developing the means for driverless vehicles. Cars and small transport vehicles had driven tens of thousands of hours without any crashes. His contacts outside Greenport had yet to discover the software during their industrial espionage jobs Alan hired them to complete. For now, Alan settled on petty criminals to drive through his city.
But this last driver Alan knew as more than a petty criminal. Julian Washington counterfeited money. Lots of it. Millions, by Alan’s estimates, and had paid for Nasher’s illicit goods to arrive into the port. The counterfeit bills would be distributed and detected as fraudulent until it was too late to trace back to Nasher. For now, Nasher’s scheme worked, but Alan believed it put Greenport at risk. An outside contact followed one of Nasher’s suppliers. The supplier received a payment of a bullet to the head after the supplier attempted to buy Nasher’s next delivery of meth. It would be a matter of time before visitors more nimble than the undead visited Greenport’s walls. Nasher needed Julian, and Julian would lead Alan to Nasher.
The blue dot for Julian’s truck stopped on the map. Alan glanced to the monitors streaming video of the truck, now stopped on the side of the road. Two figures moved inside the cab. The driver leaned toward his passenger, who hung his head outside the window.
“They need to move. Sophie, send them a message through the CB radio.”
Sophie selected the truck on the screen and issued a command. The driver turned suddenly toward the dash, and it appeared the passenger now sat completely inside the cab.
The speakers in the command center clicked and crackled. “Hello? Hello? Over?” Alan could see Julian’s face. The mercury vapor light cast a dirty orange glow across the windshield and into the truck, and Julian’s eyes were wide. Julian looked over his shoulder.
“Should I respond?” Sophie asked.
“Repeat the previous instruction.”
The room’s speakers crackled. “Hello? Listen. My passenger has just gotten sick. I’m stopping for a few minutes to check on him while he—catches his breath.”
Adrenaline shot through Alan’s gut and his temples throbbed as he stepped backwards. “That’s a mistake.” The words escaped his mouth in a whisper.
Sophie turned and looked up. “What’s a mistake?”
Alan thought a moment, then looked to the video on the monitor. “Instruct them to get to their drop point in Foxer immediately. The passenger will receive medical attention there. Give the truck top priority through all districts. Then, pull me the video of the two men while they were at their truck in the warehouse.”
Windows on the computer monitors faded in and out while Sophie acted upon Alan’s commands. Her subservience calmed him. He stroked the back of her neck and his temples stopped throbbing. Exerting control over her soothed his nerves more than her mouth and tongue on his skin ever would.
“Done. Here’s the video from the warehouse.”
He kissed the streak of white hair in the back of her head. “Great. Let’s see them.”
In the video, Julian rested against the door of the driver’s side and his partner sat cross-legged on the floor. They both looked up, and the partner rose and brushed the back of his jumpsuit.
“Stop the video.” Alan moved closer to the monitor, past Sophie. The male figure in the video looked short. “Profile him against the database.”
Sophie processed a snapshot of his face against the facial recognition algorithms. On a separate monitor a white screen appeared, listing Miles LePage and his Greenport citizenship records. Booked for a minor drug charge, he had served two years in The Mill. Alan scanned the dossier. Miles was five-foot-five and weighed one-fifty. Physical attributes under the criteria he specified for his drivers. Alan controlled the poison for all the drivers to be male, four to seven inches taller, and up to fifty pounds heavier. Someone fucked up by releasing Miles. Someone disobeyed his instructions.
“Sophie, put a call into the police chief. I want to talk to him in person. Immediately.”
She started to dial when the speakers broke with Julian’s strained voice. “Look—Miles—He’s not well. Something’s not right with him. I’m going to leave him here and continue on.”
Miles could not be found wandering Belleville. Even if he dispatched a ZMT squad immediately, Belleville provided ample nooks and crannies in which to become lost and attack unsuspecting residents. Alan grabbed the keyboard. “Negative. Please transport Miles with you to Foxer. He’ll be taken care of there.”
What Alan didn’t say: If they made it.
***
Julian held the CB microphone in his hand, attempted to will his way to the other end of the line to punch the asshole on the other end. He threw the mic across the cab, sending it crashing on the dash in front of Miles.
Miles’ breathing came in short breaths, fighting harder against something beyond food poisoning. His eyes still hadn’t opened, nor had Julian tried to ply them open. Miles sat still except for a subtle moving of air in and out of his nostrils.
“Miles, don’t die,” Julian said, putting the truck back into drive.
During the Plague, Julian traveled alone in his little red SUV. He met others who kept pets. Dogs make great companions one man told him, as his shaggy haired golden retriever panted by his side. Cats were preferable, a woman attempted to convince him, on their merits of low maintenance. Stories spread that people raided zoos for lions or tigers or monkeys. Some for pets. Some for food. Julian regarded companionship during those days as a burden, even the comfort of the four legged variety. He’d have to carry extra water and food, and go find extra water and food, and could he trust a canine companion to keep quiet? A nervous bark would attract any nearby undead. Keeping his needs at a minimum prevented him from meeting any unnecessary zombies or those still alive but with less than honest intentions.
His intentions were of survival. Get through to see the end of the Plague. At night, while he lay in the bed of the truck, he could hear the voice of his ex-wife play through his mind, of their last conversation before they separated.
“Julian, I still love you. I do. But I need someone with me, to be my companion, not for that person to be a companion to their own work.”
It was true. He dedicated hours at his copy shop perfecting his craft of counterfeiting U.S. currency. She never knew that, but she never questioned what he did. He always told her running a business took long hours, and his goal was to set up a chain. A store in multiple cities across the country would allow him to print money wherever he needed it. The paperless revolution and consolidation of print shop services into multinational air freight companies kept his empire to a fiefdom of three stores in small to
wns.
And now a half dead travel companion sat eighteen inches to his right, wearing on his mind that at any moment—.
A groan uttered from Miles’ throat. His head violently shook.
The truck lurched forward. Julian pushed down on the gas pedal a little more. “Miles? Are you—feeling better?”
Miles’ hands shook and his arms rose, stiff and halting manner. The groan turned to a series of grunts, matching the movement of his arms.
Julian again surveyed the distance across the cab to the door handle on the other side. Too far. He realized he missed his moment while Miles had sat unconscious in his seat. Julian gripped the steering wheel with his left hand and loosened his right. The houses blurred into smaller buildings. Small groups of people passed, ghostly figures on the sidewalks dressed in winter coats. The screen on the dash blipped, marking his truck almost to its halfway point.
“Why am I driving through where people live?” Julian said. “This makes no sense.” He tapped the screen with his right hand to prompt a menu to appear. The screen remained locked in its map view tracing his route. He tapped, gestured, slid his hand across it to activate it to do anything but display the map. All of Julian’s time in Greenport was spent across the river in Foxer or the Mill. He never traveled across the bridge to the west side, and now drove like a lost tourist through his own city, following a computer blindly into narrower streets.
“Damn it.”
He slowed and rounded the truck to the right, cutting the corner and blowing out the back tires. In the side mirror, reflections of someone with their arms raised waved . The cab rattled and jostled and the tires landed back on the pavement. Miles bounced against his seat and the side of the cab, grunting louder. Underneath the dome light, the sheen of sweat evaporated and his skin faded to a mix of copper and grey. His head rolled to Julian and opened his eyes.
Julian met Miles’ gaze—blue irises floating atop black crimson eyes.
“Shit.”
Miles lunged for Julian’s shoulder; his right arm followed but snapped him back against the shoulder harness. Julian leaned away, against his door, took his foot off the accelerator and reached out to deflect Miles’ outstretched arm. Miles screamed; the sound reverberated inside the the cab, and Julian flinched as his ear drums popped. Julian tapped his foot to find the pedal holding the truck steady with his left hand and forcing Miles back with his right. The truck veered across the center line and back to its lane, scraping a line of cars parked along the side of the road. He pulled to the left and the trailer clipped the cars, screeching metal behind him. Miles fell back to the window letting go of Julian’s arm.
Julian aimed his foot for the brake to throw Miles forward toward the dash. Miles pulled himself from the window and sprang, hands clamping down on Julian’s forearm and pulled. Julian’s weight shifted to the right and his leg followed. He stomped his foot down, landing on the gas pedal instead.
The engine roared and both passengers crashed back against the seat. The truck barreled toward another line of cars and a sidewalk covered with pedestrians. Miles’ right arm swung around and landed atop his left. He lowered his face, his teeth now bared, his tongue reaching for Julian’s wrist. Julian yanked his body away, straining against Miles. Julian’s grip lessened on the wheel and both feet pushed against the floor. He looked forward to the front of the truck.
Beyond the line of cars, there, standing before a stucco wall, a man lifted a blonde-haired figure by the waist and ran toward the truck.
Chapter 9
Karen yelped as Paul bear-hugged her, lifting her off her feet. She strained for air, struggled to reorient herself in the folds of her jacket with each step of the sprint. Crunching metal and shouting sounded in the distance.
Paul spun into a doorway and flung the door open. His foot caught an area rug in the foyer, and he tripped, twisting his body as he fell, pulling Karen down onto him, landing on his back.
Vehicles catapulted toward the building, smashing into the brick. The semi bounced to the left off the cars, its tires screeching and its trailer skidding against the line of parked cars as sparks burst. Crowds rushed inside buildings and huddled against the walls as the semi passed and veered to the other side of the street. The semi slammed into the back of a small, brown pick-up and jumped up into the bed. Glass shattered, and the cab plowed forward into a scramble people on the sidewalk. With a creak, the trailer tilted to the right and rolled on its side, smacking the pavement, popping the back cargo doors open. The cab stopped, wedged on top of the pick-up and a black station wagon while the trailer sprawled across the street.
Paul released Karen, and she rolled off to his side. His shoulder blades burned from the tumble, and the back of his head pounded. Customers inside the tea shop gathered above them. A woman with black hair and pale skin bent over and reached out to Karen.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Karen pushed up off the floor to sit up. “I think so.” She rubbed her back where Paul’s hands had dug in. “What happened?”
The black-haired woman offered her hand to pull Karen up. “A semi rammed the cars on the street and flipped, jack-knifed right in the middle.”
“Paul. Paul?” Karen said looking down.
Paul opened his eyes and blinked several times. He groaned and pushed himself up, and flexed his shoulders to sooth the ache. “I’m fine. I’ll be sore tomorrow.” He turned to Karen and the woman and began to ask about the semi, but stopped, seeing the long metal box of the trailer. He walked to the door, stepping over the floor mat.
Cars rested on the curb, their windshields fractured with lighting-shaped cracks. Glass littered the ground from driver’s side doors; cars had collapsed into themselves from where the truck collided. Paul jogged along several cars, peered in to see if anyone lay crouching in a back seat.
Crowds reappeared on both sides of the streets. Small masses huddled and leaned against the walls and the blank faces and wide eyes of some indicated the onset of shock. They hugged or shook each other, others yelled. Several stood with a cell phone to their ear, surveying the wreckage and looking for a street sign for the cross streets. A woman in a brown leather coat dragged a body to the curb.
Shards of metal spiked from the gashes along the metal trailer. What had been the top of the right door to the trailer bay now lay unhinged on the pavement. Paul thought he saw a pair of legs and a hand in the shadows laying face down inside.
The woman who was dragging the body wailed, shaking its arms.
Paul ran to her side and placed his left hand on her shoulder. She continued to wail.
“No, please no.” She gripped Damon’s arm and rubbed his forehead. “Damon, wake up.”
The woman moved her hand away, revealing Damon’s cracked left eye socket and half his face shredded to the bone. Paul placed his hands on Damon’s neck.
“Who are you?” the woman said, pushing Paul back.
“I’m a ZMT.”
“No! You are not killing him. He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He’s. Not. Dead.”
“I can help him, so he lives. Let me help him.”
“Stay away!”
The massive frontal skull fracture and shallow breathing indicated that Damon would turn soon if an ambulance didn’t arrive. He stepped back as the woman glared. “Okay,” he said. “But look, he’ll turn within minutes if I don’t do anything.”
Her lips curled. “You will do nothing to him.”
A bystander held her back. “Cynthia, please.”
In the middle of the trashed street, a man in a solid blue jumpsuit with white stripes crawled forward. Bone shot through its right forearm as its legs pumped and scraped its boots along the pavement. Its left hand slipped, and its head cracked when it fell forward.
Two men approached the man from Paul’s side of the street. Either they were drunk or had forgotten the world they lived, Paul shook his head. The shorter and stockier of the two leaned down and touched its shoulder. “Hey man—”<
br />
Its head snapped and lunged with its jaws open and clamped into the stocky guy’s neck. Strips of flesh came loose and blood sprayed through the air and cut off the man’s screams. The zombie pulled him to the ground, pinning him with its broken forearm and devoured the man’s neck.
His friend yelled “Fuck,” and delivered a kick to the head. The zombie in the jumpsuit knocked back and sprang, catching the man in the knee.
Paul left Cynthia in her contempt, uneasy that she still hovered over Damon, and dashed to the two men in the street. He gripped the second man’s arms, and pulled him away. The zombie’s hand slid down, squeezing the man’s ankle. He kicked and twisted, and Paul struggled to move closer and reach under his shoulders.
“Fuck!” he screamed into Paul’s face. “It bit me!”
Down the man’s leg, splotches of deep red covered the right side of the zombie’s face, gnawing into his calf, and blood seeped through the man’s jeans. Its broken forearm still pinned down the stocky man, who now stopped moving. Paul lowered the man to the ground and kicked the zombie with the heel of his shoe. It raised its head, turned and screamed at Paul, distracted enough that the man pulled free and stood to run, but hobbled to the sidewalk.
The zombie launched at Paul, teeth bared and face smeared with blood. Paul dodged the full impact, but it caught his hip with its left arm, and both fell to the ground. He ignored the flaring pain in his shoulder, scrambled backwards and kicked the zombie in the chest. A curdled scream erupted as it rolled, stopping on its back, far enough away of Paul to jump to his feet.
Sirens wailed in the distance, cut by a shriek from the sidewalk. Damon, no longer Damon, mounted the woman in the brown jacket, pinning her arms to the ground and lowered his face to hers.
“Help! No!”
Zombie Damon pushed a hand to her face and twisted her jaw against the concrete. Her screaming ceased and her body went slack, and Paul could only guess her neck snapped. Once she turned, the broken neck wouldn’t matter. Even paraplegics became fully able-bodied as undead. In minutes, she would be healed. And deadly.
Survivor Response Page 8
