by Jay Brenham
“I guess that makes sense,” she said slowly. “I know you were in the Navy. Does that mean you have experience driving a boat?”
“In the Navy? No experience. But I’ve driven a boat before and it’s not difficult, especially smaller boats. But that’s the thing. We don’t need a yacht to make it across the river. All we need is a canoe or kayak. Hell even a little dinghy would work fine.”
“You’re right.” She nodded. “That makes sense. Just because Norfolk and Virginia Beach are having this infection doesn’t mean every city is.” She settled back against the wall, looking almost happy. “We might have a chance.”
#
It was dusk. Sweat dripped down the side of Sam’s face as he crouched in the shadow beside his house. The sun had started to sink over the horizon but the air was still heavy and wet with heat. He hadn’t realized how much he depended on air conditioning for everyday comfort.
He’d changed his mind about getting the gun. He’d need more than a crowbar and a sledgehammer to get out of Norfolk. Getting the gun was the first step to finding his family.
Despite the heat he was wearing a pair of canvas work pants, a long sleeved shirt, and a pair of running shoes. The clothing was dark enough to help him blend in with his surroundings and he hoped it would provide some protection if he was attacked. Sam had the radio strapped to his side but it wasn’t turned on. The radio would only be used if he had to escape, that way he could remain in contact with Jack. He’d left the sledgehammer behind in favor of the lighter crowbar. The infected ran fast and he wouldn’t survive an encounter with more than one of them if he was dragging a sledgehammer around.
Sam squeezed between the space where his fence and his neighbor’s fence met, staying in the shadow it cast as he moved towards the street. The place where the sports car had crashed was a little over a block away. He reached the edge of the fence and looked both ways, checking for infected. Seeing none, he darted across the road and through the landscaped front yard of another neighbor’s house.
He squatted in the relative safety of a small patch of woods and surveyed the last stretch of ground he’d have to cross. There was no cover. He could see the gun, its blocky shape dark in the road: a promise of security, a chance of safety. There were wrecked cars and what looked like bodies at both ends of the street. None of the infected though.
He popped to his feet, sprinting toward the car. Barely breaking his stride, he picked up the gun and slid to the ground next to the overturned sports car. The pistol was light in his hand and warm to the touch from sitting on the pavement all day. Glancing down, he saw that the pistol was solid black with “Glock 17” imprinted on the side. Remembering the small amount of weapons training he had in the Navy, Sam pulled the slide back on the pistol just enough to see the brass: a round was still chambered. He released the slide and pressed down on the magazine release to eject the magazine: two more rounds there. One round in the chamber and two in the magazine. He’d hoped to find more than three bullets but he supposed it was better than nothing. At least now he had the option of ending his life before he was ripped apart, limb by limb.
Tucking the gun into his back pocket, Sam poked his head around the side of the car. The coast was still clear; there was time to look inside the car. Maybe he’d get lucky and find more bullets. He grasped the undercarriage of the car and pulled himself up, dropping neatly into the passenger window the driver had used to exit the vehicle.
Sam balanced in the flipped car, one foot on the column of the steering wheel, one foot on the side of the black leather seats. There were some bottles of water, which he tucked into the duffel bag he was carrying, along with a coil of nylon rope that had fallen against the driver’s side window when the car flipped. Sam reached down and tried to pop the trunk but he didn’t hear the trunk release. The way the car had tipped must have jammed the trunk closed and he didn’t want to risk the noise that prying it open would make. After a quick glance to make sure no infected were coming, Sam pulled himself out of the overturned car.
He landed softly in a crouch. There were still no infected in sight. He paused, torn between wanting to get home as quickly as possible and the idea that he should do some recon on the road conditions. If the roads were too hazardous, he might need to come up with another plan.
Sam hugged the tree line next to the golf course as he walked down Terminal Boulevard. Sweat, a product of both the heat and his nerves, slid down his back, making the long-sleeved shirt cling to his skin. He kept low as he walked toward the overpass, moving swiftly but being careful not to reveal himself.
From the overpass, he could look in both directions down the highway, as well as survey some of the smaller, feeder roads. Wrecked cars and bodies littered the highway but, with some maneuvering, it should still be passable. The local streets looked more congested. Each intersection he could see was gridlocked with tangles of metal and flesh.
Reconnaissance complete, Sam turned back in the direction of his house, pausing only to look at the house that had been attacked just after he rescued Gloria. The windows were shattered and the front door had been forced open. A pair of motionless feet extended from the doorway, but that wasn’t what drew Sam’s attention. An older Toyota Tacoma pickup was parked in the driveway. Sam drove a 1997 Honda Civic and Gloria had a busted up Dodge minivan from a time when fake wood paneling was all the rage. Neither were good choices if they needed to drive over a curb or median during their escape.
He felt guilty even considering taking the truck, given the role he and Gloria had played in attracting the infected to their street. But whoever was inside the house was already dead and it didn’t matter how they’d ended up that way. All that mattered was that they no longer needed the truck and he did.
Sam left with a final, reluctant glance at the neighbor’s house. The keys had to be somewhere inside. His decision was made: he’d come back, but only after more planning.
He approached his own house carefully, looking over his shoulder to ensure he didn’t have any infected trailing him. The back door swung open as he approached and Gloria stood in the doorway, holding the sledgehammer. Could she even swing the thing hard enough to take down an infected?
Over the last few days they had fallen into an easy routine together and Sam was glad to have her in the house. Of course, he’d also noticed how attractive she was, but that wasn’t why he was glad to have her around. After all, he had a wife and child who were likely alive and trying to survive.
No, Sam liked having her in the house because she increased his chances for survival. They took turns watching the street and they bounced ideas off of one another. It was easier to be part of a team than to be alone.
She locked the door behind him and headed upstairs through the barricaded stairway.
“How’d it go?” she asked over her shoulder as she handed him some water.
“Alright. I got the pistol but it only has three rounds.”
“Better than we had before.”
“I was thinking,” he said, setting the nylon rope he’d found next to his sleeping bag in the empty upstairs room. “Our cars don’t have much clearance and we don’t know what it’ll be like out there. There’s a good chance we’ll have to drive over a curb or other debris and my Civic just isn’t made for that.”
“What are you thinking? Go on foot?” Her voice was skeptical.
“The Peterson’s have a pick-up parked in their driveway. It’s not huge, just an old extended cab, but it’s better than either of our vehicles. If we had extra clearance and the ability to leave the main road to get around wrecks, I think we’d increase our chances of surviving.” He ran a hand through his short hair. “I just need to get the keys…”
“I’ve been inside their house plenty of times,” Gloria said. “They were friends of my mother’s. They hang their keys on a hook next to the back door. The layout of the house is pretty much the same as yours. But—” She paused, a line appearing in the middle of her forehead.
“What?”
“Is it worth risking our lives? What if there are still infected inside?”
“There could be,” Sam said. “But I’ve been watching the infected. They seem to roam, always looking for the next person to attack. I have the gun if I run into any trouble.”
“What do you mean if you run into any trouble? You went to get the gun today. If we do this, I should be the one to get the car keys tomorrow.”
“I knew you were gonna say that.” He shook his head. “I’m stronger than you and I can handle myself better if I run into one of the infected. If you stay back, you can have the supplies ready to throw in the truck.” He raised his hand to forestall her protest. “I’m not trying to be misogynistic or anything, but if we’re going to survive this, we need to play to each other’s strengths. This isn’t about what’s fair. Fair is what happens in an office. Right now, fair will get us killed.”
“Do you know how to shoot?” she asked, then shook her head suddenly. “Sorry, I forgot you were in the military.”
Sam shrugged. “In the Navy we qualified on the handgun and M16 once a year and I’ve shot a shotgun a few times. I’m not the best shot in the world but it’s not like I have to shoot them in the head.” He stood up. “I’m going to see if I can reach Jack on the radio.”
#
The heat refused to slacken, forcing Gloria and Sam to move to the first floor during the day. Sam wouldn’t risk sleeping downstairs, no matter how hot it was. Even upstairs, he didn’t feel safe. He made sure they took turns keeping watch.
They raided the refrigerator that morning, before the temperature inside warmed too much. He enjoyed cold milk and half frozen fruit from the freezer. Gloria had cranberry juice with ice. Sam pulled a bottle of rum from the back of the freezer. There was still a chill on the bottle.
He rummaged in the fridge until he found what he was looking for: a lime and a bottle of tonic. He’d once helped a family friend sail his boat from the Chesapeake Bay to New York City. They’d had a rum and tonic every night. It was a good drink for a hot day. A good drink for a journey and, if all went well, he and Gloria would soon be starting one.
Sam handed Gloria a partially filled glass, already perspiring in the hot kitchen. “Sorry, I guess I should’ve asked if you drink before I made you one.”
She smiled slightly. “I do.”
“Good.” He sat down on the cool tile floor and raised his glass. “I thought we should make a toast.”
Gloria smiled again, wider this time. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
“First of all, I want to say that I am thankful for this wonderful feast we are having.”
Gloria laughed. “I thought you were saying a toast, not grace.”
“Okay, okay, fine. A toast then, to staying safe in times of trouble. May we see the shining smiles of our children soon.”
Gloria’s smile fell away, leaving a face that was serious, determined, and more than a little sad. She clinked her glass solemnly against his. “Cheers.”
Sam finished his drink and left the glass on the floor. There wouldn’t be any more drinking tonight. This wasn’t a time for celebrating; it was a time for preparing, and he couldn’t afford to cloud his mind.
#
Daylight brought the smell of smoke, sharp and acrid and hinting at untold disaster. For the second day in a row, Sam squatted next to his house, hidden by the dim light of early morning. A small pile of equipment lay next to him, organized into bags and ready to throw in the back of the truck bed should Sam be able to locate the keys. The windows of Jack’s house were dark and there was nothing to indicate anyone was inside, but Sam knew he was being watched.
The conversation with Jack had been a hard one. Initially, Jack had protested, saying he wouldn’t leave out of principle. He’d lived in that house for six decades and “weathered everything from Nixon to Hurricane Hazel, goddamnit” and he wasn’t leaving now. Sam had smelled a rat. He’d pushed Jack for another ten minutes, until finally Jack admitted that he didn’t think Theresa would be able to make it. Their best chance at survival, Jack said, was staying put until things blew over or someone came to rescue them.
It had taken Sam a few moments to speak. What was he supposed to do? He’d seen how fast and violent the infected were. Jack was scrappy and he was armed, but he was still 80 years old. Moving fast wasn’t an option for him and was even less of an option for Theresa.
“I’m sorry, Jack, but I can’t stay,” Sam had finally said. “I have to find Jill and Grant.”
“I didn’t expect you to stay. I’d leave too if I was fifty years younger and in your shoes. Family comes first, Sam. Don’t apologize for that.”
Sam could hear the sadness in Jack’s voice. He forced his own voice to stay upbeat. “Good luck, Jack. I’ll see you when this is all over.” That night, against Jack’s protests, Sam had brought them his extra food and water. Jack had argued, saying it was dumb to go outside, but Sam didn’t care. He couldn’t leave Jack high and dry when there were supplies in his house about to be left behind.
Now that morning was here, it was time to act on their plan. The last infected they’d seen was a short middle-aged bald man, but he’d disappeared over an hour ago. Now seemed as good a time as any to make a move.
Sam rapped lightly on the window to let Gloria know he was moving towards the Peterson’s house. She would be ready with the bags when he pulled up. There would be no waiting once Sam started the truck. The sound would attract all kinds of unwanted attention.
The weight of the sledgehammer in his hands was comforting as Sam moved toward the Peterson’s house. He assumed the back door would still be locked, so he headed to the front of the house where the door had been broken down. He took cover behind a small bush beside the Peterson’s porch steps. From his low vantage point, the house didn’t look like it was inhabited by anyone, infected or otherwise. The body he’d seen the day before still lay just inside the doorway, unmoving.
Decision time. Turn back, or get the truck.
Sam walked up the steps and into the house.
Every house in the neighborhood was laid out in the same way—they’d all been built as part of a post-WWII development. Sam instinctively went toward the rear, to the kitchen.
Everything was covered in blood. The upholstery was stained red with it. It was tracked on the carpet, coagulating on the linoleum. The air was thick and metallic with its odor. What looked like intestines were strewn across the floor, mixed with splintered wood and broken glass. Holes were punched through the sheetrock and red hand prints covered the wall.
Although the handgun sat in Sam’s back pocket he was hesitant to pull it out and use it unless absolutely necessary. For one thing, he only had three rounds. Secondly, if the gun went off before he could get the keys, infected would come streaming toward the house. He didn’t know how accurately the infected would be able to pinpoint his location, but he was unwilling to test them.
Walking slowly, holding the sledgehammer against his shoulder, Sam continued down the narrow hallway that led to the kitchen and the back door. The odor of dead bodies and fecal matter hit him like a wall, filling his nostrils and making him gag. Clumps of long black hair matted with blood were strewn throughout the kitchen. Mrs. Peterson’s lifeless body was crumpled in a corner. She was beaten so badly that Sam wouldn’t have recognized her except for the bright red tennis shoes still on her feet. He’d seen her wear those every time she walked the dog.
He forced himself to take slow, even breaths, inhaling through his mouth to avoid the smell of death. Above Mrs. Peterson’s head was the key rack, right where Gloria had said it would be.
It was empty.
Sam’s shoulders sagged. All this for nothing. He glanced at Mrs. Peterson’s shoes one more time—he didn’t want to look at what was left of her face.
He was turning to go when a flash of silver caught his eye. The back door had a deadbolt, the kind with a key hole on both the inside and outsi
de of the door. A ring of keys hung from the door, half in the lock, as if they’d been stuck there in a hurry. One of the keys had a Toyota symbol on it.
He reached across Mrs. Peterson’s body. The jingle of the keys sounded like thunder but Sam tried to reassure himself that the sound of the keys was only loud because everything around him was so quiet. Then he heard the sound of footsteps from upstairs. If he exited by the front door, it would take him right by the staircase and potentially in sight of whoever was upstairs.
Briefly he wondered if it was Mr. Peterson or one of the Peterson’s children. Maybe he should stay and check. Maybe he shouldn’t steal their truck. But those were passing thoughts, thoughts that didn’t belong in his mind if he was going to see his family again. He had the keys and that was all that mattered. There was no one left in this house, not after the swarm of infected had descended like locusts. Whoever was upstairs was infected too.
With that thought, he took the key and plunged it back into the lock. It was an old lock and it stuck as he tried to turn the key. He turned the key one way and then the other, jiggling until he felt the deadbolt come free, just as the footsteps hit the bottom of the stairs.
The door opened toward him. He pushed the back screen door open, pulling the keys out of the lock as he went. He slammed the door and vaulted over the porch steps.
There was a thud as the infected man rammed the door behind him. The man was in his mid-thirties. Blood was smeared across his torn t-shirt and his face. Whether the blood was Mrs. Peterson’s or not, Sam did not know. What he did know was that he couldn’t allow this infected to continue living. Not because he cared if this man was a killer, but because if the truck didn’t start on his first attempt he would be trapped. He would be dead. Even if it did start, he’d lead the infected man right back to his house.
