Omega Days (Book 3): Drifters

by John L. Campbell

  • • •

  Along the length of Mulberry Street in Chico, drifters wandered with arms dangling at their sides, shuffling through blown trash and dropped luggage and abandoned cars. They moved beneath darkened traffic signals and past houses and businesses with broken windows and kicked-in doors. Spray-painted signs, messages to family members about whether someone was alive and where they had gone, marred walls and pavement. A drifter locked in the backseat of a patrol car pressed its rotting face against the glass and pounded a fist with a steady rhythm. Black, crispy shapes moved through the skeletal remains of a burned movie theater, and things dressed in the baggy clothes and knit caps of hipsters walked stiffly along the paths of Chico State University.

  Coyotes loped through the quiet streets. Sometimes they fed, sometimes they were fed upon.

  A single rifle shot echoed through the bare limbs of winter trees, and a V of honking Canada geese passed high overhead. The wind blew newspapers and foam cups down boulevards of stopped vehicles, and whistled through the space left between a pair of municipal trucks parked nose to nose in an attempt to block a street. Drifters wearing summer clothes shuffled around the ends of the trucks and kept going with no particular destination in mind.

  Along Vallombrosa Avenue, where it ran alongside Bidwell Park, crows perched on the wooden crosspieces of the tall, heavy crucifixes planted there, picking at the flesh of still-moving corpses lashed and nailed to the wood in a line that stretched for three blocks. Occasionally a crow would get careless and a head would snap over, teeth crunching down on bone and feathers. For the most part, the birds were clever enough to stay clear of the bite.

  The wind ruffled the clothing and hair of the crucified, carrying their moans away.

  TWO

  August—Sacramento

  It was two minutes past six when Dean West let himself into Premier Arms, deactivating the alarm and locking the doors behind him, switching on a few lights. Opening wasn’t until nine, and Tony and Juan wouldn’t be in until eight. The daycare offered early drop-off hours, which worked well as Leah was an early riser, and so Dean looked forward to a couple hours of solitude before the actual workday began. He was restoring an M-1 Garand, the standard-issue rifle of World War II GIs, and the quiet would allow him to give the old weapon the attention it deserved.

  Dean was thirty-three and fit, hardened by his former military service, and maintained by five days a week at the gym, plus racquetball. He had to stay in shape to keep up with his wife, a fitness junkie. Not that he minded her dedication. Angie West was a MILF if ever there was one, though he caught a hard slap on the behind when he used the term. Just shy of six feet, handsome by any standards, Dean had tousled brown hair, dark eyes, and a scruff of whiskers on his angled face that Angie said made him look rugged and sexy. He suggested the sexy came from his biceps and washboard abs. She didn’t disagree.

  According to their every-other-day rotation, it was his wife’s turn for drop-off at the daycare, but Angie was in Alameda today filming a segment with her uncle, Bud Franks. They were showing off the fifty-caliber Barrett. Flexibility, Angie and Dean agreed, was one of the keys to a successful marriage, and since she was traveling, he took up the slack. It would balance out later when it was his turn to be out of town, and he didn’t mind, anyway. He was crazy about their two-year-old daughter, and even at her tender age, she knew she had her daddy completely wrapped around a tiny finger.

  Thinking of being out of town, Dean reminded himself to check his calendar. He was pretty sure the producers of Angie’s Armory were planning a shoot for next week involving a “Life at Home” segment, featuring scenes showing Dean and Angie around the house, having dinner, and playing with Leah. He’d have to get a haircut. They also wanted him to do a shirtless bit, but he hadn’t yet decided if he would. Actually, Angie hadn’t decided.

  Premier Arms was a Franks family enterprise, but Dean and Angie ran it. Her dad was semiretired and contented himself with occasional shifts at the smaller shop he had up in Chico, only showing up here in Sacramento for an occasional business meeting or when filming required his attendance. Premier Arms was the “big” shop comprising converted warehouses nestled between Sacramento’s industrial and commercial areas. It boasted a large store that served as the showroom; a public firing range; the machine shop where they fabricated, serviced, and restored weapons; some small offices; a receiving bay; and a pair of classrooms for gun safety courses. There were over forty full- and part-time employees, and they needed six or seven more now that the show had taken off, driving traffic and sales.

  Dean walked through the silent showroom and into the back, setting down his coffee and switching on the shop’s lights. At his regular worktable, the metalwork of the Garand rested in a pair of clamps. He turned on the iPod nearby, set it to a nineties playlist, and within minutes was lost in the detail work of professional gunsmithing.

  “Dean!”

  The yell made him jump, and Dean spun to see Juan Vega, one of his senior guys, standing at the end of the worktable. The digital clock on the shop wall read 7:01. He hadn’t even noticed the hour go by. He switched off the iPod.

  “I been calling you,” said Juan, “and yelled at you three times.”

  Dean shrugged. “The music’s on. What are you so worked up about?” He had meant it to be casual until he noticed that Juan was worked up. He looked pale and was sweating, and his eyes darted around too much and too fast. Then Dean noticed that Juan was wearing a big-frame automatic in a belt holster. “You okay, man?”

  “Where you been?” Juan demanded, his voice higher than normal. “What are you doing here?”

  Dean frowned. “What does it look like? Is Tony with you?”

  Juan shook his head angrily and waved a hand. “No, why are you here?”

  Now Dean got angry. “Because it’s my place. You’re not making sense. And why are you strapped?” He pointed to the pistol on Juan’s hip.

  The other man seemed not to hear him. “I tried calling. I didn’t think anyone would be here, but I drove down just to check. I saw your truck outside. Tony isn’t answering either. I’m going to pick up Marta and the kids.” It all came out in a rush, and Juan was leaning a palm against the worktable as if he might fall down. Dean held up his hands.

  “Slow down, buddy. Breathe or you’re going to pass out.”

  Juan looked at him as if Dean were speaking another language. “You haven’t heard the radio?”

  Dean shook his head and pointed to the iPod.

  “You don’t know shit, do you?”

  Dean shook his head again.

  “It’s fucking crazy out there,” Juan said. “There’s rioting, bodies in the streets, fires. . . . People are attacking each other, killing each other with their bare hands. I saw a police car on fire.” Juan grabbed his friend’s arm and gave him a shake. “Are you listening? I saw a helicopter fly over, and the guy in the door was firing his machine gun down into the street, looked like at a crowd of people.” He wiped a shaking hand across his face.

  Dean tilted his head. “Don’t fuck with me, Juan. This better not be some gag you and the crew worked up, some punking bullshit.”

  The look on the other man’s face told Dean it wasn’t. Juan wasn’t that good an actor.

  “Tony doesn’t answer his phone,” Juan said again. “I’m going to get Marta at her office, and then we’ll get the kids from her mother’s. Where’s Angie?”

  “Oakland. She’s with Bud and the film crew.”

  “You gotta get Leah, man,” Juan urged, tugging on his friend and leading him out into the showroom. “You gotta get the fuck out of Dodge. People are gonna come here.” He gestured at the locked cases of rifles and pistols. “They’re gonna take all this. You can’t be here when they do.”

  Before Dean could reply, Juan went around one of the counters and used his keys to unlock a rifle case and the cabinet beneath it, pulling down a pair of black clip-fed Mossberg twelve-gauges and stacking several
boxes of shells on the glass. Dean said nothing, only pulled out his cell phone and dialed the daycare but only got the busy signal. He dialed Angie and it went straight to message. He texted her, R U OK?

  Juan quickly loaded both shotguns and came from behind the counter, handing one to his boss along with two boxes of ammunition. “The radio was talking about a virus,” he said, “probably terrorism, some kind of biological attack. Another station said zombies—fucking zombies, man. I saw some shit in the street on the way over. . . .” He trailed off, looking at the door.

  Dean snorted. “Zombies? Brother, if this is some kind of punk, you are so fired.”

  Juan just nodded slowly, his eyes on the door. Then from outside came a pair of pistol shots, close together, and both men jumped. A third shot rang out.

  “Does that sound like a punk?” Juan asked.

  “Watch the door,” said Dean, going behind the counter and unlocking another cabinet, pulling out a Glock forty-caliber in a paddle holster and clipping it to his belt. “Go get Marta. Call me when you can.”

  Juan looked sharply at his friend. “You’re not gonna try to stay here, right?”

  “Hell no, that’s what insurance is for. It covers civil disorder, but I don’t know about zombies.” Dean had said it to make his friend smile, but it didn’t work, and that scared him. “Let’s go out together.”

  The two men moved to the front door and peeked outside. In the lot was Juan’s white Jeep parked next to Dean’s black Suburban. Out on the road that ran past Premier Arms, a tractor-trailer was stopped in the far lane, the driver’s door open, no sign of the trucker.

  “When I was coming over here,” Juan whispered, “I saw—” He hissed and pointed. “There! What the fuck is that?”

  A woman in a yellow tank top was walking past the Suburban, her shirt covered in fresh blood, most of her face missing, head tilted at an odd angle. She suddenly increased her pace, breaking into a grotesque gallop as she moved to the left and out of sight. A moment later there was another pistol shot, followed by a man’s scream.

  Juan crossed himself and muttered something Dean couldn’t hear.

  “Let’s go,” said Dean, racking his shotgun and pushing through the door. Once outside, Dean took the time to lower and lock the security gate—no sense making it easy for the bastards—before turning toward the parking lot. Juan was a few feet away, staring at a point just past the tractor-trailer. The woman in the tank top was on all fours in the road, kneeling next to a man in gray coveralls. They were ripping at the body of a man in a flannel shirt and work boots, still gripping a pistol. They were . . . eating him.

  “Go,” Dean said, pushing his friend. “Go get Marta.”

  Juan nodded and walked to his Jeep, moving like a sleepwalker, unable to take his eyes off the grisly scene. Dean jogged to the Suburban and fired it up but didn’t pull out until Juan’s Jeep finally started moving. In his rearview he could see the two figures devouring the third, and he didn’t miss the fact that the sounds of the starting engines made them both look up. Moments later Juan was on the road, and Dean pulled out, heading in the opposite direction.

  Sunrise Daycare was five miles away, almost an equal distance between Premier Arms and his and Angie’s house. It was a good place, a safe place where the teachers and kids regularly drilled on crisis procedures. Leah would be okay.

  The busy signal that greeted him every time he called seemed to argue the point.

  She would be okay, he insisted. But it didn’t prevent him from stomping the accelerator and rocketing into the commercial district.

  • • •

  Juan had been right. It was coming apart.

  The black smoke of structure fires climbed over the roofs of buildings, and the air was full of sirens. There was traffic, even at this early hour, and it was moving fast, people blowing lights and cutting through corner gas stations, swerving around vehicles stopped in the street. An olive-drab helicopter swooped low over a strip mall, followed a moment later by a second and a third.

  Dean watched the choppers pass from right to left and gripped the steering wheel tightly to keep his hands from trembling. He tried to control his breathing as he switched on the radio, punching in a local news channel.

  “. . . biological hazard, said Major Phillip Jeffries, U.S. Army physician and part of the Army’s program on chemical and biological warfare. Dr. Jeffries stated that he was in regular contact with the governor’s office, and that every effort was being made to coordinate military activity with civilian authorities.

  “Repeating the most recent release of information from the California Department of Public Safety, ‘The infection appears to be highly contagious, and contact with the infected is to be avoided. Those exposed to the virus may experience periods of rage and violence, and if avoidance is not possible, they are to be isolated and contained. Citizens are advised to remain in their homes and keep roadways clear for emergency vehicles.’

  “From the State House, the governor has declared a state of emergency for all California counties and has activated National Guard units to maintain order. In a statement an hour ago, Governor Young said that all incidents of violence and looting will be dealt with swiftly and harshly.

  “In Washington, the president . . .”

  Dean slammed on the brakes and cranked the wheel, putting the Suburban into a sideways slide as he raced toward an intersection where several cars and a postal truck had tangled. The tires stuttered and then stopped, and Dean let his breath out in a great whoosh.

  A Sacramento motorcycle cop was walking around the wreckage, shooting people still trapped inside. A man with his face covered in blood. A little girl reaching out through a window.

  “No!” Dean screamed as the cop’s pistol went off, and he reached for the door handle and the pistol on his belt simultaneously. Before he could get out, however, another hand shot out from the wreckage and caught the motorcycle cop’s ankle, jerking him off his feet. More hands gripped the man’s legs and together dragged him screaming into the shadowy tangle of bent steel and broken glass.

  Dean didn’t wait to see more. He gunned the Suburban around the traffic accident and accelerated, knocking over the cop’s motorcycle, a moment later flashing by a wailing ambulance headed in the other direction. A burning Applebee’s went by on the right, with no fire trucks in sight. People ran out the front of a liquor store carrying cardboard boxes, chased by a man with a green apron and a baseball bat. The Suburban went faster, Dean trying to keep an eye on the road as he tried his cell phone again. Now there was simply a No Service message.

  As he approached the turn for Leah’s daycare, a minivan swerved at him and blared its horn, scraping down the Suburban’s left side before rocking back into its lane and disappearing behind him. His brain had a second to recognize the driver as one of the regular drop-off moms from the daycare, though he couldn’t remember her name. She had a daughter with a lot of freckles. In that instant, he saw blood on her face, and she was screaming.

  Dean’s heart was pounding now as he made the turn and headed down the long, curving drive to Sunrise Daycare. At the far end of the road was a low, stucco-sided building with finger-paint masterpieces taped to the windows and a fenced playground off to one side. The parking lot and driveway were packed with vehicles, many stopped at odd angles, many more with their doors standing open, completely blocking the path.

  Dean wheeled up over the curb and tore across the lawn. They could bill him for the landscaping.

  He stopped thirty feet from the entrance, the big SUV’s nose buried in a long hedge, and jumped out expecting to see mommies and daddies streaming out through the front doors, their little ones in their arms.

  But there was no one.

  Dean left the shotgun in the car and pulled his shirt down over the pistol as he moved across the lawn. A handgun at a daycare, no matter who you were or what was going on, would result in an immediate call to the police. After what he had seen at the intersection, he
had no wish to encounter Sacramento’s finest.

  Then he saw why the lot was empty. The glass front doors to Sunrise Daycare were closed, and packed with adults on the other side, staring wide-eyed at the sidewalk beyond, some covering their mouths. The cement walk just in front of the doors was splashed with blood, the body of a woman in a charcoal business suit lying facedown to one side, unmoving. Closer to the doors, another woman was crouched on all fours, just like the one he had seen earlier, biting and ripping at something small, something with a pink top and matching pink sneakers. . . .

  “Oh, God,” Dean gasped, stopping.

  The woman lifted her head, eyes glassy, face a red smear, and she snarled. He recognized her, Miss Daniels, one of the preschool teachers. The woman snapped her teeth several times and went back at the little body.

  Dean’s Glock .40 cleared leather as he stepped to her and pulled the trigger. A sharp crack, red and gray exploding out the other side of her head, the tinkle of a brass shell hitting the sidewalk.

  There was rapid pounding at the glass doors and Dean looked up to see the cluster of parents frantically pointing behind him. He turned to see the woman in the business suit, Veronica something, mother to the little one in pink, standing and lurching unsteadily toward him. Her throat was a torn, red void, and her eyes had that same glassy quality.

  “Veronica . . .” Dean started, but the woman made a sound that was half growl, half gurgle, and lunged.

  Dean shot her in the chest. She stumbled and kept coming.

  He raised his Glock ten inches and fired a round, stopping her.

  It was like opening the flood valves of a dam. The front doors burst open and parents flowed out carrying crying children. They moved past Dean and ran into the parking lot.

  “Watch out for that one,” one mother said as she passed, pointing at the little girl in pink. Then she was gone, the lot quickly turning into a mass of gunned engines and horns. Dean looked past the hopelessly blocked lot and saw half a dozen people stumbling in from the street, probably parents who had seen that they couldn’t get their cars in. They moved like people who had just been through a prolonged artillery barrage.