“Dad?” Tommy whispered.
Mark whipped his head around and he locked eyes with his son.
“Run, Tommy. Run, now,” he hissed.
Tommy shook his head, not wanting to leave his father. Movement caught his attention and he looked passed his father to the small horde beyond. Mark saw Tommy’s eyes and he turned to look at the horde. They bumped and shuffled against each other, piled up against the far wall. Some of those in the back stuck their noses in the air and began to sniff, then slowly they turned. As they did, the others also caught the scent and the huddled group began to break apart. Those who had been in the back of the group were now in the front and they caught sight of Mark. Mark saw it and knew. He turned his head and glared at Tommy.
“Run, now goddammit!” he snarled.
Tommy jumped at his Dad’s outburst and he turned and ran, even as the Dead did the same.
Outside, Beverly screwed the gas cap back on the tank and came around the front of the truck, heading for the station. She slowed her pace as her nose sniffed the air.
A change.
She looked in horror at the building, then broke into a run.
Beverly charged inside and looked around. Her head snapped to the right as she heard Tommy scream, and then gunshots. She broke into a sprint.
As she ran towards the slushy machine, she almost collided with Tommy. He stood there, tears streaming down his face.
“Mark!” she screamed.
Mark appeared at the far end of the small hallway. He risked a sidelong glance and saw his wife and child.
“Get him the fuck out of here!” he screamed.
When Beverly took a step forward rather than grabbing Tommy, Mark bellowed.
“Go!”
He fired three times. Beverly worked her mouth, but no words came out. She could feel her chest tighten as she scanned the scene before her. She looked at her hands. She had left her crowbar in the truck. She started to look around the store for some weapon, her mind racing but finding nothing. Mark saw that she and Tommy had not left and he called to her.
“Please, Bev! Take Tommy away! Save our son!”
Beverly looked at her husband and cried even as she nodded. She was about to call to him, when he turned and ran. Chasing him were a pack of runners. Tommy saw what was happening and immediately started to protest.
“No! No! No! We have to help Dad!”
Beverly’s heart felt like it was ripped from her chest, as through a haze of burning tears she grabbed Tommy up and ran towards the front of the station. Behind her, she heard Mark’s 9mm fire to empty, but she did not look back.
She burst through the doors and ran to the truck. On the driver’s side, she tore open the door and threw an hysterical Tommy inside, then jumped in herself. As she reached down and started the truck, Tommy opened his door and tried to jump out. In a panic, Beverly reached over and slammed the door shut, then grabbed tight onto Tommy’s belt loop, staying him with her right hand, even as she dropped the truck into ‘drive’ with her left. The big engine roared to life but did nothing to drown out the anguished cries of Tommy. He pawed at the side window and pulled against Beverly’s restraint as she mashed the gas and guided the truck back onto the highway.
Three
The horde was turning South and that meant there would not be another vantage point within his lethal range for awhile, not until they circled back and started heading northeast again. He hated the delay, but it gave him time to forage, to gather the things he needed, something he didn’t have time to do when the horde was within his sights. As an astronomer might chart the elliptical path of a comet, Jacob knew the meandering circuitous path of the horde and knew they would be coming back to him.
Jonathan Mann had received his liberation that morning. Jacob knew Mann to be a hard worker who loved his family. As a lawman, Jacob always looked for something to remember people by, both the good and the bad. A cop never knew when some bit of memory or information about a person might come in handy. Mann rode a Harley. His appearance could convey that he was a biker of the redneck variety and maybe someone you would step around, but that would be wrong. Jacob remembered Mann as a person who was quick with a joke, with a big heart. He had a great relationship with his sister, which is what impressed Jacob. It was like they were friends, brother and sister, but friends. Jacob had a smallish family, so the whole idea of a tightly knit clan was alien to him. Jonathan Mann was part of a big clan, a tight family, a good family.
The notion of rioting and looting during a national catastrophe was not a universal one. Consequently, when Jacob foraged, it was not unheard of to find stores with good quantities of stock still on their shelves. The contagion wasn’t like your hurricane or earthquake. Those catastrophes tended to draw people out in their aftermath, which usually involved a lack of law and order. The contagion kept people in. Nobody was risking infection. The fact that it was never reported that the contagion was airborne didn’t matter. People were scared. When people did come out, it was to run for their lives from those already infected, like they did in countless cities across the country, like they did in Hendricksville. People running don’t have time to loot. Still, sometimes you could find stuff in homes that you couldn’t find in stores.
Jacob stared out his windshield into the cul-de-sac. It was a wealthy neighborhood, with big houses. The cul-de-sac had only three, with the biggest house sitting on a rise in the middle, slighter higher than the ones on either side. Jacob eased the Jeep into the cul-de-sac and drove around, pointing it nose out. Before exiting, he scanned the way he had come. Nothing moved. Satisfied, he got out. He left the keys in the ignition and the door opened. He wanted easy access, just in case. Early on, when he thought that he wasn’t the only one left in the world and it wasn’t just him and the horde, he was concerned that someone might try to steal his vehicle. He had planned for such an eventuality by installing a remote kill switch in the engine. He kept the trigger in his pocket. But there was nobody else. There was only him and the horde that took his town, took everything that mattered. While he still carried the remote trigger, the theft of his vehicle was no longer a concern.
He pulled down the tailgate and grabbed his most trusted gun, his favorite gun. It was a Ruger Mark I. Every time he went to it, his thoughts turned to his best friend, Wallace Thompson. Wally. The gun had belonged to his dad. Martin Thompson worked in pest control and one of the trade secrets of his vocation was the Ruger Mark I with a suppressor. Martin used subsonic rounds. A homeowner could be standing right behind Martin when he fired it and the only thing they would hear was the metal sound of the slide moving backwards and forwards on the butter smooth action and the spent brass bouncing off the floor a second later. When the world slipped over the edge, Jacob had gone to see Wally, to check on him. When he reached his house it was too late. Wally and Jordan, his wife, lay dead in their yard. Each had visible bite wounds on their bodies and a .22 long rifle hole in their heads. Eight of the Undead lay scattered about the home, inside and outside, all bearing similar wounds. There were four inside but Jacob took care care of them. He had picked up the Mark I from the ground near Wally. Jacob traded a promise for the gun. He promised he would never forget.
Jacob carried the pistol in his right hand. With his left, he grabbed a crowbar then went to the house. This he carried with him up to the house.
At the door, Jacob set the crowbar down and tried the handle. He always tried the handle first.
Locked.
To the left and right of the door were glass panels. Taking the crowbar, he smashed the glass to the left of the handle, then reached in and worked the deadbolt. He put the crowbar down, then opened the door and assumed a two-handed firing stance. He looked at the watch on his left hand, worn on the inside of his wrist, just below the thumb so he could see it, and waited.
Thirty seconds…
Forty seconds…
Fifty seconds…
A minute.
Nothing.
/> He went in. There were no lights on, but that did not surprise him. With nobody to change the bulbs, they would all have burned out long ago. What did still surprise him to this day was the power hadn’t gone out yet. As he entered the house, a wide hall led back to a kitchen area. To the right of the hall was a stairway leading up to the second floor. He stood in the foyer and looked left and right. On either side were large rooms. The room on the left was a formal dining room. Nothing in there but fine china and silver. Jacob had no use for either, so he went right.
A step down led him into a den. Overstuffed leather recliners and a couch were all oriented around a huge eighty inch flat-screen mounted on the wall. The screen-saver was on and a family portrait bobbed around the black screen. Jacob approached and stared at the family in the photo, his eyes following its meandering path. The woman was beautiful, but not trophy. Three teenagers, two boys and a girl, stood in back of their parents, smiling like they meant it, not like they were put up to it. Jacob became transfixed by the wandering image, of family, of home…
His eyes caught movement behind him reflected in the screen, but it was too late.
The runner came at him fast. It slammed into him, the momentum knocking him to the ground. His pistol was jarred from his hand and skidded across the floor. It was everything he could do to get his hands up and around the thing’s neck. Jacob stared up into its ruined face, could feel the decayed mass pressing him to the floor. The smell, which from a distance he had gotten used to, threatened to overpower him at such close quarters. He could feel his stomach roll and felt like he was going to be sick. Jacob strained to keep its biting mouth at bay. He knew he did not have much time, his strength would begin to fail, but the Undead’s wouldn’t. Inch by precious inch the foul thing would close the gap until it bit him. A line through his own name, then.
Let it…
The words flashed in Jacob Miller’s mind. At first his subconscious railed at the idea, his will to live rejecting it altogether. He stared into the Thing’s milky eyes and recognized the man in the screen-saver photo. Jacob turned his head and looked to the screen, but the family was gone. The vibrations of the attack had awakened the television, only color bars glared back at him. The colors merged and swam in his vision as tears for all that was lost welled in his eyes. His will to live began to weaken. The resolve to let the inevitable take its course strengthened. His arms bent ever so slightly and the chomping mouth got that much closer. The seconds passed and Jacob closed his eyes and began to relax his arms. Sensing that it would soon feast, the Runner gnashed at the air in a frenzy. Somewhere in the back of the house, a cuckoo clock sounded the noon hour. It was then that the television spoke to Jacob Miller.
“This is Nicole Bennett. We are survivors. To anybody that can hear us, and can get here, we offer you refuge…”
Jacob blinked at the sound and he craned his head around to look at the screen. Shock wracked his system at what he saw. A woman’s face, framed with auburn hair filled the screen. Her green eyes stared back at him. Her mouth moved, but he could not make out the words through the hissing and gasping of the Thing on top of him. He began to hyperventilate, but curiosity renewed his strength. With the biter a mere inch from his face, Jacob squeezed with his left hand. He worked his right hand up to the side of the Thing’s head and pushed. Seconds passed as the two were joined in mortal combat. There was a crack and the Runner’s head lolled to the side, its spinal column severed. It went limp and Jacob pushed it off of him. He jumped up and ran to the television. He slowed his breathing and the disorientation passed. Words began to reach his ears.
“…we’re West of Denver, in the Rocky Mountains. Hit the I-70 and look for the signs. As we get more people to join us, we try to clear the roads as best as we can, but we are asking, if you are able, do what you can to clear a little as you go. It will make the trip for those after you a bit easier…”
Jacob smiled as elation filled him. A light, long dimmed, rose up in his eyes and lingered. He listened as the woman spoke of supplies they had, of things they still might need, but mostly he listened to her talk of other people and surviving. It felt like a dream in which he didn’t know he was asleep, where love could be found, or rediscovered. In this dream, it was safe and warm.
Jacob blinked, his smile faded.
Waking from this dream was a violation, the present reality, an assault. He felt the dream’s deception split the fissure in his soul a little wider.
“Not real…” he said
Jacob backed away from the flat-screen and turned. Retrieving his pistol from the floor, he left the way he came in.
In the den, Nicole Bennett finished her broadcast.
“…this is not a loop. We are real. We broadcast updates on all channels, everyday at noon and midnight, Mountain time. Stay tuned and get to us if you can. This is Nicole Bennett, signing off.”
Four
Beverly crept along the I-70. The big truck meandered through and around the mechanical remains of a lost world. She fought sleep and needed to stop, but stopping meant not driving, meant time to think. She cut a glance over at Tommy. He sat catatonic in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead.
They came upon a luxury bus sitting at a shallow angle across the West bound lanes, facing East. On its side were emblazoned the words “The Swinging Dicks - Texas Swing Meets Punk!” Four names were painted under four grinning hayseed looking figures, all wearing big ten gallon cowboy hats: “Max Dick”, “Chuck Dick”, “Hank Dick”, and “Lenny Dick.”
The four smiling faces only mocked Beverly’s pain. She hit the gas and moved around the bus. Ahead of her, the road opened up. Fatigue pulled at her and her head bobbed as she drove. The truck drifted, coming dangerously close to rolling down the embankment. She jerked awake and brought the truck to a skidding stop in the safety lane. Beverly was so tired it hurt. She reached down and shut off the engine. The seconds ticked by and she sat motionless, mirroring her son’s thousand mile stare.
“We’re gonna stop for the night, Tommy, Okay? Mommy needs to sleep a bit…” she said, her voice flat and monotone.
Feeling herself begin to slip away, some part of her tried to hold on. Beverly looked down at the radio and turned it on. A low hiss of static was all that sounded. She checked her watch and saw that it was only nine-thirty. The next broadcast was at midnight and she wanted desperately to be awake for it. The twice daily messages were a ritual that she needed more now than ever, to tell herself that she had not been left alone with her child, in a dead world. She settled down in her seat and gently pulled Tommy to her, for his comfort and hers. Tommy’s body was rigid as she held him. He did not try to sleep, but only stared out the windshield with unblinking eyes. Beverly closed her eyes and almost prayed she would not dream of Mark. It would just make waking up that much more painful.
Beverly had been asleep for two hours and fifteen minutes when something moved on the road in front of the truck. Tommy blinked and watched the figure stumble forward in a loping gait towards them. He pulled away from his mother. Her arm flopped from his shoulder and hung loosely at her side. His movement was not enough to wake her, tired as she was. Tommy put his hands on the dashboard and eased himself closer to the windshield, almost pressing his nose to the glass. Moving to the passenger door, he eased it open and climbed out.
Beverly jumped at the sound of the passenger door slamming closed. She sat up. Disoriented, she rubbed her eyes. It was seconds before she realized where she was, and where Tommy wasn’t. She looked out the passenger side window, then her head darted to the front as she caught movement. Under the moon’s pale light, she saw Tommy run down the safety lane towards a shambling figure.
“Tommy!” she screamed.
Turning, her hands fumbled for the door handle. She flung it open and was almost out, before she remembered to grab the crow bar tucked behind her seat. Her breath came in gasps as she flung herself from the truck and bolted into a run behind Tommy.
“Tommy,
Stop!” she screamed as she chased after him.
Her breath caught in her throat as to her horror, she saw the Walker reach out and grab Tommy in a bear hug embrace. It buried its face in Tommy’s neck.
“Noooooo!” Beverly cried in a blood curdling wale as she ran up on the two. She raised her crowbar high and was about to bring it crashing down on the Thing’s head, when a voice cut through her terror.
“Bev, stop!” Mark cried, holding his right hand in a defensive gesture high in the air and clinging to Tommy with his left.
Beverly froze, the crowbar poised above her head. She stared with open mouth and wide eyes into the shadowed face of her husband. His clothes were ripped and torn and he was covered in gore.
“I’m alright! It’s okay!” he called.
Beverly blinked as the slow realization washed over her. She dropped the crow bar and ran crying into Mark’s embrace.
* * * * *
Jacob made his way back through the woods to his vehicle. He had known where the horde was going to be. What he didn’t like was that to rendezvous with the horde, he had to walk.
The hike had been an arduous one, taking him across land and through woods. The vantage point was somewhere his vehicle could not travel, which meant he had to lug his gear and his rifle with him. The horde would eventually come out again to more accessible vantage points, but Jacob could not wait for that, would not allow himself to miss an opportunity to do what he must. Only this time had been like so many other times, no shot, no line through a name, no aid and service rendered. He was moving through the trees back towards the I-70 and his truck when he heard the sound. The sound to him was a second chance. He guessed it was a Walker, but not more than one. Jacob debated investigating, as doing so would take him off his path. It was not so much the fact of leaving one of those things on his back trail that concerned him. The nagging notion that maybe, just maybe he would recognize it compelled him, that in failing to investigate he would fail to cross a name from his ledger, fail to make the most of his second chance.
Human Extinction Level Loss (Book 3): Liberation Page 2
