Liz stares Craig in the eye. A blood vessel has ruptured in her left eye giving it an eerie red hue. Craig continues looking her over, knowing it’s useless to try and move her. He can see her right leg is misshapen and her foot is pointed awkwardly towards the floor. “Shit, Liz. I’m sorry. I can’t move you by myself,” Craig explains. He watches her eyes filling with tears, then she points to the top of the stairs.
“You need to go,” Liz whispers.
Giant’s impressive bulk and stature stand at the top of the stairs. Blood streams down his face and drips from his fingertips. His uniform is soaked and shredded in places. His grey foggy eyes fail to blink.
“Oh, fuck!” Craig raises his 9mm and fires rapidly. His shots find flesh, but fail to find Giant’s head. Just before Craig turns to run, he looks at Liz mouthing, I’m sorry. He aims the weapon directly at her head and pulls the trigger, then flees. The west doors are only 40’ from him and he can see signs of daylight streaming in as the night fades. One of the doors is closing slowly. He knows he has to make it through the door and close it as fast as possible to keep from becoming another victim of Giant’s rampage. He is sprinting, feeling like Carl Lewis, when a slow moving male zombie appears from the opposite hallway, looking towards the closing door. Craig slams directly into the back of the zombie, driving it and him through the door. The senior citizen, turned zombie, crumples to the ground, having both legs broken by the blow. He squirms on the ground attempting to regain his feet but his legs will not cooperate. He begins pulling himself along the cold ground.
Craig slid outside the door, not unlike a baseball player sliding into home, quickly regaining his feet. His momentum carries him much further than he anticipates, taking him too far from the door. He can hear the heavy steps of Giant approaching. He turns, seeing Papi waving for him to get into the black Chevy crew cab. The passenger side rear door is sitting ajar. Yonkey and Roger stand in the back of the truck. Craig starts for the truck then hesitates, seeing Yonkey and Roger aiming their weapons at something in the bed of the truck. What now? Craig turns his attention back to the doors as they burst open. Fuck!
The booming sound of Papi’s shotgun rings out. The buckshot spreads out, catching most of Giant’s upper chest. His left eye pops as a pellet buries itself in his eye socket. Flesh is torn from his left shoulder and lower face, but Giant doesn’t fall, he steps forward, bringing his own version of Hell with him.
CHAPTER 37.
The box
Jack sits on the floor of the closet, clutching the small Hot Wheel hard enough to leave an impression on his palm. He opens his hand, watching the little red car fall to the carpeted floor. It lands with its little wheels sticking up in the air. Jack can make out the small fading initials, RE, written on bottom. His chest hurts and he feels his breath slipping away. The closet is closing in. He can hear his own heart pounding, feeling as though it will explode from his chest. Blood begins seeping from his wounded hand and forearm. “I can’t…do…this anymore.” Jack doubles over in pain. He dry heaves for a few seconds, then all at once the contents of his stomach empty. A mixture of bile, stale Cheerios, grape juice, along with three cups of coffee and a half bottle of water, spew. He vomits for what seems an eternity, reminding him every muscle in his body aches. He eventually slumps against a set of low shelves in the closet, feeling his heartbeat and breathing slow.
Jack looks back to the little car, thinking only of Ronan. “Where are you, Ro?” The question falls on his ears only. Using the shelves for leverage, he stands, viewing the mess on the floor. He can’t help but feel bad, but is pleased he didn’t vomit all over his backpack. He stands for some time staring at the shelves in the closet, not focusing on anything in particular. His thoughts clear and he realizes he doesn’t have enough light to see properly. Again, by instinct he reaches over, flicking the light switch. The overhead light nearly blinds him. “Fuck!”
Jack is still unnerved by the fact there is electricity in the house. He has a pretty good idea why there’s power but he has yet to test his hypothesis, though it’s fast moving up his To Do List, surpassing even suicide. But first he needs clothes. His eyes adjust to the light, allowing him to see what the closet houses. Shelves stacked with neatly folded white t-shirts, boxers, and socks, along with dress shirts and slacks hanging neatly. Jack disregards the dress clothes as he walked to the back of the closet. Sitting atop a large dresser is his jeans, underwear, socks and his spare sweatshirt, all folded neatly. Just as he reaches for the underwear there is a knock at the front door.
Jack quickly dons his clothes. His shirt and pants are permanently blood-stained but he doesn’t care. The clothes feel clean and easy to manage. He slips out of the closet, grabbing the little car, shoving it into his right front pocket. He finds his boots and belt, and begins looking over the stash of weapons again. The machine guns don’t interest him. Jerome’s Big Fucking Gun does, as well as his two .357’s. He sits at the edge of the bed lacing his boots. Blood drips from his left hand, adding to the difficulty of the job. He has slipped into complete survival mode again, with thoughts of escaping the house forming in his head. He moves quickly into the bathroom, pulling open the medicine chest, finding a box of gauze, medical tape and rubbing alcohol. He picks up the bottle, staring at it closely. Fuck it, here we go again!
Jack bites down hard on a clean washcloth, holds his arm over the sink, and pours the alcohol. “Mutha fucka.” He spits out the cloth, leaning heavy against the counter. He fights to catch his breath as he tears open several gauze packs with his teeth, gently placing the pads on his wounds. He completes the best field dressing he can, while the banging downstairs continues. Jack makes his way to a window, peering into the front yard. The number of zombies has grown significantly. He walks back to the control center. “Shit.” All the monitors are off. He looks the monitors over, soon finding the power switch on the first set. The monitor clicks and comes to life. Soon, a four-split screen camera feed appears. Cam 1, or camera 1, is the view he needs. The camera is fixed just outside the front door, positioned in an upper corner under the eave. It displays nearly twenty zombies near the front door. Two zombies are beating on the door. How are they not getting through that door? Jack turns on the remaining monitors. After a few seconds the screens come to life. Monitor 2 provides two views of the backyard, one side of the house, and something he had suspected. Cam 8 is stationed inside the far corner of the garage, broadcasting in low light levels, allowing Jack to clearly see rows of batteries. Hmm.
The third monitor blinks to life. It appears Cam 9 is mounted somewhere outside the house’s property line, showing a long double set of solar panels facing south. Cam 10 is positioned on a neighboring house showing a roof covered in solar panels. Cam 11 is yet another set of solar panels, god knows where. Jack has no working knowledge of the neighborhood. Cam 12 is positioned on the large 4x4 truck next door, this Jack recognizes. A few zombies roam by the truck paying it no attention. Why the truck? Is that your escape vehicle?
Pacing, Jack tries to ignore the zombies beating on the front door, choosing instead to think of another escape plan. Bam bam bam—the sound washes the escape plan from his mind. How the fuck are they not in yet? Just as Jack’s about to charge downstairs, his eye catches an oddly constructed wooden box with black and red audio speaker connections sitting on a shelf. “What the fuck is that?” Jack asks walking over to the box. He counts twelve connections, then finds a large 12-volt battery sitting next to the box. Leading away from, but not attached to the connections, are several sets of wires. Jack studies the box for a moment then peers around the room. Everything in the room is orderly, new, and high tech. This box looks to be a kids project from grade school. He can remember using the same style speaker connections in an old truck he drove in high school. He notices the wires are labeled 1-12 and picks up set 1-6, tracing the bundle to an open outlet in the wall. The second set, 7-12, spans the opposite wall, exiting the room through a separate outlet. Jack finds a small bl
ue spiral notebook sitting on the same shelf. Inside is a crudely drawn schematic of the neighborhood. Twelve locations are numbered, all well away from the house. Jack can tell this, because one house has the words “You R Here” printed over it with a depiction of the large 4x4 next door, in the driveway.
A house, if depicted correctly on the map, with the number 4 next to it, is one block over, five houses down. Jack finds the number 4 wires, studying them closely. One has a black line on it, while the other is clear. He slips the black lined wire in the number 4 connector, screwing the pin down. Next he slips the clear wire in the red connector. In the distance he can hear a siren; no, it’s a car alarm. Jack looks to the monitors, noticing the banging at the front door has stopped. Cam 1 shows zombies moving away from the house. Jack smiles, walking out of the control center, making his way down the stairs, careful not to make a sound.
The bottom level of the house is dark. Jack remains on the bottom step listening, while his eyes adjust to the dark. After a moment he approaches the dark front door. Once there, he feels around for the peephole realizing it’s not located in the usual place, but rather closer to the side, next to a deadbolt lock. There is a small metal flap over the hole blocking outgoing light. Jack turns, peering into the dark corridor. Satisfied he wouldn’t be letting any light escape, he moves the cover to the side and peeks out into the dead world. The damn hole is covered, Jack guessing it to be rotting flesh left behind by the bangers.
Thinking, Jack leans against the door, finding an odd horizontal edge protruding from the center of the door. He glides his hand over the ledge, and then steps back, focusing on the object. He can make out a large beam spanning the door, extending beyond the doorjambs. The beam is held in place by massive steel holders attached to the door and the walls on either side. This guy thought of everything. Jack turns from the door, looking back and forth between the corridor and the hallway leading to the formal sitting room. He remembers the medical bag and the possible antibiotics. He walks to the sitting room, not bumping into any wind chimes, and spots the outline of the medical bag.
As Jack picks up the bag he thinks, getting a bit familiar with this place. He waits briefly for Julia, but she doesn’t appear. “Hmm, usually when I start to get comfortable you show up. Julia…you there?” Nothing. Jack starts back to the stairs, knowing he has canned chili and fresh coffee waiting, a gourmet meal by today’s standards. Climbing the stairs a thought crosses his mind; he is living two separate lives in this place. First he was a prisoner, and now he is king of this unknown castle. Can I keep the monsters out until the end? A faint feeling washes over Jack. He can’t slow his mind, he can’t slow his pounding heart yet again. He looks up the stairs, seeing faint light coming from the control center. Knowing he has to find the drugs or whatever will help his wounds heal, he grasps the handrail to pull himself up the first few steps, finding his pace. He is halfway to the top when there is a large explosion.
CHAPTER 38.
Worm
THIS IS A TEST OF THE EMERGENCY BROADCAST SYSTEM. IF THIS HAD BEEN AN ACTUAL EMERGENCY YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN INSTRUCTED TO TUNE TO ONE OF THE BROADCASTING STATIONS IN YOUR AREA. AGAIN, THIS IS ONLY A TEST. Buzz, buzz…
“Run the test twice an hour for the next three days. Ping it and see if we get any hits,” a distinguished balding gentleman says from the back of a darkened room, wearing an impeccably pressed expensive suit, and shined shoes. He appears well rested, well groomed, and not a bit fazed by world events throughout the past weeks.
“Will do,” replies a young man in his late twenties, wearing blue jeans, a Boston Red Sox t-shirt and well used flip-flops. He carries a clipboard and has a large headset that is tethered to a console twenty feet from him. Before him stands a large contoured monitor spanning the entire wall, showing real-time traffic camera feeds from some of the nation’s busiest hubs. One side of the giant monitor displays a map of the United States and Southern Canada, along with a chart reminiscent of the NYSE ticker, crawling across the bottom of the screen. Phillip Lodge paces back and forth, observing, switching feeds and watching not only for survivors, but also for hordes of the undead. He communicates every hour with four different satellite providers holed up in different parts of the country, and at one time had the rare privilege of speaking directly to the President of the United States. The President died three days after the conversation.
Phillip looks over to his partner in crime, and best friend from college, Jason Dix. Dix, as he liked to be called, is a former all American archer for UCSD, not a sport one would expect an African American to excel in, but nonetheless, he has been an archer throughout most of his youth, and it allowed him to gain a scholarship to UCSD, where he met Phillip. They bonded over video games, comics, chasing tail, and their collective talents in writing hunt and search programs, allowing the user to hunt down hackers instead of vice versa. Their accomplishments, once memorialized in a tech savvy magazine article, “The top 40 under 40 Programmers”, are now on loan to the Department of Homeland Security. They are working from an undisclosed location, even to them. Their job: use whatever means they have at their disposal, to track down live computer terminals, information terminals, live traffic cameras and any other surveillance equipment still on the grid. They also scrub chatter, though there isn’t much lately. Power grids throughout North America are failing on a daily basis. Some failed just days after the event began, while others have lasted. Now the failure rate is increasing, driving down electronic chatter.
Both Phillip and Dix are aware they have lost most, if not all, of their friends, loved ones, and acquaintances. They are saddled with the knowledge the United States has suffered nearly an 80% mortality rate due to the event, and of the 80% that have fallen, a large percentage has risen to hunt and kill the remaining living. The world over has seen similar numbers, though the counts are not verifiable in many third world countries. There is no cure, no God willing to save them all, no miracle drug and no clear solution on how to contain and fight the infections. There is only time and knowledge gained from studying the zombies. Within the same facility, a team of researchers, doctors and scholars, work around the clock on theories, strategies and answers. There are plenty of arguments, some fisticuffs and tremendously bruised egos. Phillip and Dix watched a few of the sessions from the back of the room, knowing the men and women they were watching are some of the greatest minds left in the living world.
Dix sits at a computer console, reading over activity logs. In the bottom right corner of the screen he can still see one of the many icons he’s developed, telling him his message has been delivered. It’s been several days since the message was sent and he can’t understand why the recipient has yet to respond. He is tempted to open the string again but thinks better of it. He has plenty to do with the remaining west coast checks. Phillip, pacing back and forth, hears the door at the back of the room close. He turns to see if the man really left. To this day he doesn’t know the man’s name or what department he works for. What he does know is the man is in complete charge of the facility and he isn’t to be messed with. Two people went missing from the team shortly after sharp disagreements with the man’s tactics.
“Spook’s gone. Has your man answered yet?” Phillip asks without looking over to Dix.
“Nope. It’s strange. This cat was set for WWIII. His place is a fortress. I can’t see how he would have been killed unless he was sick or someone in his family was sick. All it takes is one. I got the impression his family was all alive and safe when we communicated. He was just waiting for help to arrive or a cure.”
“Well the DOD fucked that all up with their Renaissance idea. They did way more harm than good. Hell we lost nearly half our military personnel including the local yahoos in the Guard.” Phillip’s pace increases, as he grows more agitated. “I’m losing one to two feeds an hour. That means power is failing. It’s not getting any better out there.”
“I hear you. All we can do now is keep the worm going. Maybe we’l
l find some more pockets of survivors. Maybe we can get some good news for once.” Dix stands, walking over to Phillip. “We’ll get out of this somehow. Hell, we graduated college and you even learned how to surf.”
“Listen, Dix. You’ve heard the brains in the other room. The world is fucked. I appreciate your optimism but seriously, we’re fucked. The human race is going to be extinct any time now, and we’re here to witness it. We can keep the worm going forever if we want. Or as long as there is a stream of residual electricity somewhere. But who’s going to be here to answer back? It’s not going to be us.” Phillip walks away from his friend, choosing instead to stare at a traffic feed from I-15 near the entrance to Las Vegas. “Now that’s where we should be right now, you, me and a city full of dead sinners. That would be one hell of a party before we go out.”
“Do you think we can still catch Celine before we go?”
“Sure. Her audience is typically brain dead. Why would this be any different?”
Both men return to the task at hand. Dix sits at his console, while Phillip steps back, gaining a full view of the monitors.
“Initiate West Coast,” Phillip says, raising his right hand then dropping it, signaling the start.
Dix taps the enter button. “The worm is away.”
CHAPTER 39.
Sly vs. Giant
The forklift speeds in reverse, it’s engine revving as high as it can. The machine protests, but performs. Sly sits turned halfway in the seat, with her foot firmly planted on the accelerator. The forklift strikes Giant from the side, crushing his head and upper body. Sly slams on the brakes but the forklift’s momentum carries them both into the side of the building. Sly is propelled against the rear cage of the operator compartment. She bounces violently from the seat, falling to the ground.
Dust of the Devil's Land Page 15
