Apocalypse of the Dead - 02

by Joe McKinney

  “Mister, this whole area’s under martial law. If you’re told to put your wrinkled old butt on a bus, then that’s what you’re going to do. You can have an opinion about it if you want to, but nobody around here gives a shit what that opinion is.”

  “You don’t need to cuss at me like that,” Ed said.

  “Mister,” he said, “I don’t give a shit what you think one way or the other. I’ve just spent the last thirty-six hours fighting zombies and rescuing crusty old motherfuckers like you, and I ain’t even had so much as five minutes to myself to call, my wife and find out how she’s doing with my three kids. So if you think I give a shit about you or what you think, you can go—”

  “Stanislaw!”

  The soldier stopped talking. He stood there for a second, breathing heavily, his lips squeezed together in a look of barely controlled fury.

  Behind him, a man with a major’s insignia on his chest stood with his hands on his hips. He was tall, lean, his neck corded with veins. His hair was a deep, unnatural-looking black. It looked like he dyed it.

  “Stan,” the major said. “Go get Weber. The two of you stand down for a thirty-minute break.”

  “Yes, sir,” the soldier said.

  He was gone a moment later.

  The major watched him go, then turned to Ed. “My men have been fighting for almost two days straight now. Tempers are strained.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Are you folks okay?”

  Ed looked over his shoulder. Art Waller was standing on his own, but Julie was right next to him, looking like she expected him to fall over at any second.

  He said, “We could use some water and some food.” He gestured at Art. “And my friend isn’t doing so well. He has a heart condition.”

  The major nodded. “Food and water is on the way. Once we get you guys settled on the bus, I’ll have a doctor come by. We’ve got a field pharmacy, too. I imagine you folks probably had to leave your medications behind.”

  “That’s right.”

  The major nodded. “We may not have everything you need, but they should have pharmacy facilities where we’re going. In the meantime, if you’ll write out your cottage numbers and the names of your medications, I’ll have my people go by your rooms and round up what you need.”

  “Thank you,” Ed said. He looked across the courtyard at all the dead bodies in the grass, the blood on the walls and the sidewalks, and the bullet holes everywhere. He said, “That soldier said we were going to Georgia.”

  “That’s right. Albany, Georgia. It’s one of six camps that have been set up to help with the evacuation.”

  “Are things really that bad?”

  “Worse than you can imagine,” the major said.

  The major looked over at the rest of the group and saw Margaret and her two kids. To the boy, he said, “Where’d you get that badge? That looks like a real U.S. Marshals’ badge.”

  “It is,” the boy said. He looked at Ed.

  “I gave it to him,” Ed said. “U.S. Deputy Marshal Ed Moore, retired.”

  The major nodded. “Outstanding,” he said. “We’re under martial law right now. You knew that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we need help. Are you fit enough to return to duty?”

  “Fit enough?” The question seemed ridiculous. “I don’t know, Major. Honestly, I feel like every bone in my body aches right about now, and all I was doing was sitting down.”

  The major shrugged. “That sounds good enough. You think you can take charge of these people? See them all the way to Albany?”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Not a bit. They’ll need a leader. Can you do it?”

  Ed hesitated. There was a streak of vanity in him that ran fairly deep, and that part of him was stirring. He felt an excitement in his gut, like butterflies.

  “How many…survivors did your men find?” Ed asked.

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Twenty-two,” Ed said. He sighed. “There were more than two hundred people living here.”

  “I’m sorry,” the major said. He put a hand on Ed’s shoulder and said, “Why don’t you get your people ready to move out? Somebody will come by with food and water once you guys are loaded up on the bus.”

  Ed nodded, and the major turned to leave.

  Billy Kline called after him. “Hey,” he said. “Hold up.”

  The major stopped and looked at Billy. He took in Billy’s prison scrubs and his bearing stiffened.

  Billy said, “You guys are running things now?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, look. I was part of a work detail from the Sarasota County Jail. I got four months left on my sentence and I don’t want to get in any trouble for skipping out. If you’re in charge, I’m turning myself over to you. I don’t want any trouble.”

  The major stared at him for a long moment. Then he smiled. “Deputy Moore?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Deputy, it looks like you got yourself a prisoner as well.”

  “No fucking way,” Billy said.

  The major walked off.

  “I don’t want to go with this geezer,” Billy called after him. “Hey. You gotta take me someplace else.”

  The major made no answer.

  “Hey,” Billy said. “Hey!”

  Billy turned to Ed and said, “No fucking way, man. It’s not gonna happen.”

  But Ed Moore went right on smiling.

  CHAPTER 16

  From the helicopter, Major Mark Kellogg looked down on what was undoubtedly the most tragically stupid scene he’d ever witnessed.

  And he’d been in San Antonio during the first days of the original outbreak eighteen months ago.

  He’d seen stupid.

  It was a bleak, gray, drizzly day, and the sky looked like an endless sheet of cooled lead. Below him was a line of vehicles that stretched off into the distance as far as he could see. There were a lot of cars that had broken down and were now abandoned. Most had been pushed off to the side of the road, into the grassy ditch to the right of the roadway. Silvered pools of water gathered in the runoff ditches. It was a three-lane highway, every inch of it covered by cars and trucks and anything else that would move. From a distance of three hundred feet, the vehicles all looked the same color. They all looked the same.

  People were riding on the roofs of the cars and in the beds of trucks, but none of them seemed to speak or point or show any kind of emotion at all. The helicopter raced over their heads and only a few of them made any effort to look up. They seemed morose, waylaid by some awful sense of ennui, like a drenched marching band walking off the parade route.

  Every few minutes, they flew over some activity, a fight or group of the infected attacking those stuck in their cars in the frozen stream of traffic.

  What seemed so tragically stupid to Mark Kellogg was the herd mentality he saw in the refugees. He’d witnessed scenes just like it in San Antonio, when everyone there was trying their damnedest to get out of town ahead of the riots and the spreading infection. Below him, the freeway ran north-south. There were three northbound lanes and three southbound lanes, divided by a wide grassy median. All that traffic was in the northbound lanes. The southbound lanes were completely empty. All those people had to do was cross over and go the wrong way up the freeway, and they could cover the next thirty miles in a matter of minutes.

  But not one of them was doing that.

  What’s wrong with them, he thought. Why don’t they see what’s right in front of their faces?

  We’re nothing but lemmings, he thought.

  “What highway is this?” he said, calling forward to the pilot.

  “This is Eighty-five, sir,” answered the pilot. “You look up ahead there, those skyscrapers in the distance, that’s Atlanta.”

  Almost there, Kellogg thought. Stop off at the CDC, pick up the last member of the team, some civilian doctor with the CDC, then head up to Pennsylvania.

  “Wh
at’s bugging you, Mark?”

  Kellogg looked at the man on the jumpseat across from him, Colonel Jim Budlong, their team leader. He was a lean, fit-looking man in his early fifties, a career military doctor. His cheeks were deeply lined, and when he smiled, as he was doing now, the lines formed wide parentheses around his mouth. His blue eyes were thin slits beneath small blond eyebrows and a high, smooth, intelligent-looking forehead.

  Kellogg managed a wan smile in return.

  He said, “I was thinking about getting out of San Antonio.”

  Budlong nodded.

  “I remember when I finally got off base,” Kellogg said. He started to go on, but found he couldn’t. The words caught in his throat.

  He’d been trapped inside the hospital at Ft. Sam Houston’s Brooke Army Medical Center for nearly fifty hours, the infected everywhere, the hallways covered in blood, dead bodies and those that only looked dead piled knee deep no matter where you turned. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could still hear the screams echoing through the halls.

  He let his head fall back against the headrest, then slowly turned to the open side door and looked down.

  “Survivor’s guilt,” Budlong said. “Your job was to save lives, but hundreds of thousands died and you lived. It’s natural to feel the way you’re feeling now. I’d be worried about you if you didn’t feel this way.”

  “It’s not survivor’s guilt,” Kellogg said.

  Budlong waited. The helicopter blades thropped loudly against the air.

  Kellogg just shook his head.

  “Tell me,” Budlong said.

  Kellogg took a deep breath. Let it out again. He said, “The image that’s burned into my mind is what I saw when I finally made it off base. You know the exit there at George Beach Avenue, over by the helipad?”

  “Sure.”

  “I came out there. I was in this car I’d found running in the parking lot, blood smeared all over the hood. I don’t know whose it was. When I finally got through the gate, I was right there at I-35, looking down at the traffic. Jim, there were cars everywhere. Every single one of them was jammed up in the outgoing lanes, nobody moving. Those people, they were being pulled out of their cars by the zombies coming out of the shopping centers along the freeway.”

  He broke off there, his chin sagging to his chest.

  “Mark, I was there when they stabilized the quarantine line. I know you had it bad.”

  Kellogg shook his head.

  “That’s not it, Jim. It wasn’t the…the people dying so much as why they died. That’s what got to me. You should have seen them. Everybody just lined up and took it. You know? They stood in line and waited for death to come to them.”

  He was faltering again, struggling for the words.

  “It’s the same thing down there. Look at them. They’re all packed in there in the northbound lanes. Not one of them has thought to cross over, go up the wrong way.”

  They were old friends, he and Budlong. They went back to Kellogg’s first days at Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, almost seven years ago. Budlong had just made full bird. He’d impressed Kellogg as a conscientious, careful officer, the kind who thrives in the military, and that impression hadn’t changed after all the years they’d known each other.

  “I’m counting on that to help us,” Budlong said.

  Kellogg looked at him, confused. “Counting on what?”

  “Get yourself back on the clock, Mark.” The genial smile had left Budlong’s face. He was all military now.

  Kellogg nodded. He straightened his spine against the back of the seat.

  Budlong said, “I’m counting on your ability to think outside of the box to help us on this. You can see how bad it is down there. My orders are to find a way to stop this. I’m counting on you to help me with that. I need that unconventional thinking you’re so famous for to make something good happen.”

  “Jim, I…”

  He trailed off. Kellogg had been working on exactly that problem ever since the initial outbreak; how to stop the necrosis filovirus. He had the feeling he was standing at the foot of a cliff, looking up at a smooth stone wall that stretched to the sky and that he was expected to climb. The problem was that huge.

  “The medical solution is—”

  “The medical solution,” Budlong said, “may not be the only solution.”

  That stopped Kellogg cold. What did that mean?

  “You know what it means,” Budlong said. “My orders are to stop this plague any way we can. Maybe that doesn’t mean finding a cure.” He paused there, just for a moment. Then he said, “Think about it.”

  Kellogg did, and at first the implications made him want to vomit. And then, something happened. The nausea brought on by his offended moral sensibilities dimmed.

  Then flickered out, like a guttering candle flame.

  The feeling was surprisingly liberating.

  For the first time in months his brain felt alive with new ideas.

  All options were on the table. A clean slate.

  Neither man spoke. Kellogg looked away, out the open door. Off in the distance, the Atlanta skyline loomed.

  CHAPTER 17

  From the notebooks of Ben Richardson

  Conroe, Texas: July 9th, 11:15 P.M.

  There was some bad fighting today.

  We stayed on that bus all night, not moving, just waiting, trapped on Jackrabbit Road right outside of Bammel, Texas, which up until a few days ago was a tiny little town of about 2,000 people just north of Houston.

  When dawn broke, we off-loaded the bus and decided to start walking toward I-45. We hadn’t made it very far before Jerald Stevens, the young man who continues to raid my pack for candy bars even though I’ve told him I don’t have any more, stepped into the vegetation growing by the side of the road and shouted out that he had found blackberries. “They’re all over the place,” he said, and the delight on his face was enough to make anyone smile.

  I watched him eat them straight off the vine, making his way down the ditch that paralleled Jackrabbit Road until he was a good hundred feet or so ahead of us. He was facing us, his chin and his cheeks black with pulp and juice, but he heard something and turned around, his back to us.

  I heard him shout, “Hey, stop that. Leave her alone.”

  A second later, there was a shot, and Jerald ducked his head and ran full speed back in our direction, his hands thrown over his head like he actually had a chance of stopping a bullet with them.

  “Holy shit,” he yelled. “Officer Barnes!”

  The street behind him met a smaller side street at a four-way intersection. We could see a gas station over the shrubs to our right. It was from that gas station that our trouble came, for just as Jerald got to where the rest of us stood, three armed men with black bandanas over their faces stepped around the corner and into the street.

  Everybody hit the ground, diving for cover.

  I heard gunfire, but my mind refused to recognize what was going on. For a crazy second, it seemed like the air had filled with bees around my head. Little white clouds of powdered concrete appeared all around me, and several times, I felt the sharp sting of bits of rock as they flew up from the roadway and peppered my cheeks and my arms.

  I thought I’d been stung.

  It was only after Barnes yelled at me to, “Get down, you idiot!” that I realized the bees were bullets.

  They were shooting at us.

  At me.

  We all ran for the cover of the ditch at the side of the road, except for Barnes. He ran forward in a crouch, AR-15 up in a shooter’s stance. He returned fire, quickly but deliberately, and continued to advance until he was behind the trunk of an abandoned car.

  From there, he continued to fire. As I watched, the three men who had rounded the corner with their bandanas and their guns went down. One of them, the last to fall, had gone down to one knee to fire. Barnes shot him with a quick three-round burst and knocked him backward onto his butt. The man sat ther
e, weapon on the ground beside him, his shoulders slumped forward like a marionette with its strings cut, for a long moment. Then Barnes fired at him again, and the man fell onto his back and was still.

  Barnes got up and ran for the gas station. I ran after him.

  Before I even got to the intersection, I heard lots of shooting. When I rounded the corner, I saw the young man Barnes had saved with his sniper’s shot back at the breach in Houston. Behind him were the young women for whom he had created a diversion. All of them were huddled together in the gas station parking lot. Surrounding them on every side were the bodies of more men with bandanas over their faces.

  I heard yelling, looked up, and saw Barnes chasing one of the men around the back of the gas station.

  I took off after them.

  I rounded the corner and saw Barnes had caught his man. The two of them were squared off against each other in the grass next to the men’s room door.

  Both had knives.

  The man lunged at Barnes. Barnes stepped gracefully to one side, and it was obvious from that first moment how the fight was going to end. The other man was clumsy. But Barnes with a knife was like Picasso with a paintbrush. He grabbed the man by his wrist and with his right hand ran the blade all the way up the man’s arm. He looked like he was buttering toast. He was that fast, that smooth. Everywhere he went, he cut. The blade licked deep gashes into the exposed skin of the man’s arm and sliced his shirt open down the back of his shoulder blade. Barnes came up behind him then and sliced the man across the line of his jaw. The man opened his mouth to scream, but the sound was cut off at the throat. Barnes grabbed him under the chin, forced it up, and before I could even process what he was doing, Barnes had jammed the blade so far into the other man’s throat that he nearly decapitated him in one slice.

  I stood there, stricken, as Barnes continued to cut. He cut until the man’s head snapped back and the torso sank shoulder first into the grass.

  A moment later, Barnes was holding the man’s head in his hand, grasping it by the hair like some perverse rendering of Perseus with the gorgon’s head.