The Berne Apocalypse (Book 1): Jacob's Odyssey

by Russ Melrose

  Chapter 3 – The Robbery

  It was a perfect day for it, and the storm was just beginning in earnest. The wind had been blowing all afternoon—wild, chaotic gusts that whipped the slender birch trees in every which direction. The silver birch trees grew out of the banks of the Cottonwood Creek that separated the condos, and the close-knit density of their leaves obscured the view of the buildings across the creek. I was watching the storm through the angled slats of the wooden blinds in my darkened living room. The rain had just begun to fall, heavy drops that fell at odd angles, blown wildly by the wind that blew in erratic gusts out of the south. Several drops had already slapped against the window pane, and as I watched the blustery rain, I couldn't help but wonder if the storm frightened them. I was hoping it did. I would need every advantage I could get.

  Every now and then a flash of sheet lightning would light up the sky, and I knew it wouldn't be long before the driving rain started. The storm hadn't actually been a part of my plan. Call it what you will—luck, providence, serendipity, a good break. But the storm was giving me the impetus I needed to get my rear end out the door. I knew the chaos and noise from the storm would give me some cover, and I knew there would be no better time than now to get out of the apartment. I just needed to get myself to move. And then I told myself that as soon as the rain began in earnest, I'd leave. I was just waiting for the right moment.

  Even though it was just mid-evening, it was already getting dark outside from the gathering storm clouds. Thick roiling clouds rolled across the sky. They grew darker as the minutes passed, ranging from dark pewter to gunmetal black. I knew I'd have to leave any minute. Over the past several days, I'd been torn over the prospect of leaving the safety of my condo apartment. I'd felt relatively safe ever since the evening I barricaded my door. But my kitchen cupboards and the refrigerator were all but empty.

  Before it went off the air, the last local television station still broadcasting had encouraged people to shutter up their homes so the infected couldn't see them or be aware that anyone might be home. I followed their advice and kept the lights turned off, and I draped blankets over the windows in the living room and the sliding glass door to the balcony, creating a blackout effect. The infected would do anything to get into the homes of people who still had a pulse. If they caught a glimpse of anyone or heard any kind of non-ambient sound, they'd frantically start headbutting windows and occasionally ramming themselves into doors. Once they knew you were there, it was only a matter of time before they would get inside. So people shuttered up their homes, closing all their windows, shutters, drapes, curtains, and shades. If a home was shuttered up, you knew someone was almost certainly there. And it was that little tidbit of logic that served as an inspiration for my plan, because the opposite also had to be true. If a home had lights on or the curtains or drapes or shades weren't closed, that meant it was unlikely anyone was still there. And I could see a few examples across the creek. Even though I couldn't clearly see the apartments themselves, when it got dark, I could make out a faint amber glow filtering through the trees. I counted six apartments with lights. Lights that never went out.

  Those that had been infected in the first few days had likely gone to the hospitals for help and they wouldn't have known to shutter up their homes. The recommendation for shuttering up people's homes didn't come until about the sixth or seventh day. I knew there had to be several uninhabited homes on virtually every block in the valley, identifiable by open curtains, drapes, shutters, and shades. Some of those homes would have lights on too. And they'd likely have food, something I was currently running short of in my apartment.

  I already knew from experience that I could travel through fenced backyards relatively safely. And I no longer had to worry about dogs as a possible backyard hindrance. Most dog owners had either let their dogs loose to fend for themselves or had found a way to put them down. A barking dog made you and your family vulnerable. When it came to making my way across the valley, the only real danger would come from having to cross streets. But I knew if I was careful, I'd be okay. The more I thought about the plan, the more confident I became that I could pull it off. And besides, I didn't have any other options. My food supply was nearly gone.

  The gist of my plan was to cross the Salt Lake Valley to the base of the Wasatch Mountains and travel through the mountains to the cabin. I doubted there would be any infected hanging out in the mountains since their food supply was concentrated in the valley. And there would be a plentiful supply of food for me at the cabin. Alex and I had always kept a good supply of canned goods in our underground storage bunker near the cabin. A nearby stream was amply stocked with trout and provided an endless supply of clean drinking water. The cabin would make for a perfect sanctuary from the infected. And then there was always the possibility that the infected would die off.

  Twelve days had passed since the virus struck, and according to internet reports, the first generation of infected were slowing down. They no longer moved as fast as when they'd first turned, and they could no longer run. These days only the recently infected could run; they'd run in a spasmodic gait as if their muscles were palsied. But there were relatively few of them around. Most people who were attacked these days were eaten, few escaped.

  The first generation of infected were withering away. Their skin, especially their faces, had begun to dry up and harden and had turned a dull shade of moldy gray, obscuring the veins and arteries that had been so prominent when they first turned. Their gums were receding, exposing the roots of their teeth, and their eyes had shrunk deep into their sockets. They looked like ghouls from an Edvard Munch painting. But despite their lumbering movements and desiccated bodies, they were still dangerous. They seemed to hold an incredible reserve of energy for whenever a possible meal would show up. They would suddenly move with a quickness and tenacity that belied their corpselike appearance. And these days they almost always hunted in large groups, overwhelming any possible resistance.

  I still thought of them as the infected, but other names were becoming more prominent. Because of their skin color, most referred to them as grays. A few even called them zombies or zeds. The newly infected were called runners.

  Once the moniker grays was firmly established on internet blogs, some of which were still thriving, the name grays became more or less official, though to me, naming them grays dehumanized them. I'm sure my reluctance had to do with Alex, but I wasn't ready to dehumanize them or at least the memory of them.

  Whether the infected would eventually die off or not, I still had to get out of the condo. But my plan wasn't without a few possible hitches. There would be a few occasions where I would be out in the open and vulnerable to attack. When I left my condo apartment, there would be no fence to provide me cover, and I'd have to make my way around the building to cross the bridge that spanned the creek. Then I'd have to cross the parking lot in front of the streetside condos along with the adjacent street before I could get to the relative safety of a fenced backyard. I'd likely be out in the open for a couple minutes, maybe longer. But if I could make it across the street and over the fence, I'd be on my way.

  Once I made it across the valley, I'd have to cross the I-215 freeway that bordered the Wasatch Mountains to the east. There was no way I could cross the freeway with their ten-foot high walls on the west side of the interstate, but I could make it through an underpass. And I'd already determined the 39th South underpass to be the best option. The underpass was less than two blocks from Millcreek Canyon Road which lead right into Millcreek Canyon. The only drawback was that I'd be without any cover whatsoever for three or four blocks.

  My biggest problem though had to do with gaining entry to the homes where I'd spend my nights. Breaking a window or forcing a back door open would make too much noise, and the last thing I wanted to do was attract the attention of the infected. I thought about searching for hidden keys that would provide me access to back doors, but how would I know if a key to a back door even exist
ed. Thinking about the possibility of a hidden key gave me the idea I needed. You didn't need a key if you knew how to pick a lock. Burglars did it all the time. I googled "how to pick a lock to a back door" and came up with over six million results. And there were plenty of articles and video tutorials on how to pick locks. There were two back door types of locks that were most prevalent: a push button or turn-style knob lock which would be fairly easy to open and a master lock with a deadbolt which would be a little tougher. Some back doors would have both. Having watched the video tutorials, it didn't look too complicated. All I needed were the right tools. There were ways to make homemade picks and tension wrenches, but I've never exactly been the handyman type. What I really needed was a lock pick set.

  Besides the scarcity of food in my cupboards and fridge, drinking water had become contaminated after the first weekend. I boiled as much tap water as I could and put the purified water in every container I could find. I didn't have to worry about the tap water running out because the tap water in the Salt Lake Valley came from a gravitational water system where water flowed down from the mountains. But if the electricity went out, there would be no way to boil the water unless I wanted to start a fire in my apartment.

  And that's what I was really concerned about—the possibility of the electricity shutting down. After the outbreak, FEMA activated its emergency teams to help keep the energy grid up and running. They cobbled together energy experts who hadn't been infected along with military reservists who would help supply the needed manpower to keep things running. The emergency energy program was in place because of the devastating hurricanes over the years that had left millions without electricity. And while they were well prepared, the program was only a partial success. Large parts of the Midwest were without energy along with some of the Dust Bowl states and scattered areas in the South. The West seemed to be doing fairly well. The main problem had to do with the interconnected nature of the energy grids. When power plants in one area went down, it created an overload that could shut down the whole grid in that region—a kind of chain reaction blackout.

  My concerns centered around the coal-fired plants that served as the source of energy for the Salt Lake Valley. I read up on them on the internet. The plants required manpower to operate. The coal had to be transferred via truck or conveyor to energy conversion factories which were located in rural areas. Governor Richardson had acted quickly and sent what was left of the Utah National Guard to the rural areas to protect the plants and conversion factories and make sure the workers had all the supplies they needed. Since the plants and factories were located in rural areas, it wasn't likely there'd be many infected in those areas. It all sounded good, but I was still leery. What if the guardsmen decided to go home to find their loved ones? And if just one or two of the guardsmen were infected, it could spread like wildfire. And what would happen if they started to run out of food? Where would they get food from? Too many things could go wrong. If just one of the plants stopped operating, there could be an overload and the entire grid for the valley could shut down.

  Once the electricity was gone, there would be no air conditioning with two of the hottest months of the summer still left. And then there would be the silence. Without the hum of the air conditioning to mask sounds you might normally make, the infected would almost certainly hear you. And if they heard you, they'd come after you, and they wouldn't stop. I became obsessive about the possibilities of the plants shutting down. In my mind it was only a matter of time before electrical service in the valley would be gone.

  According to estimates, two-thirds of the people in the Salt Lake Valley were infected. And there were similar estimates all around the world in urban areas. But how could they really know? And who was doing the estimating? Everything was in a state of chaos. The only government agency with any kind of presence seemed to be Homeland Security, but they were nothing more than a government mouthpiece now. And what was left of the various police departments in the valley had effectively been shut down after Black Saturday. The military had been as hard hit as anyone with so many servicemen gone on leave during the holiday. And since the Fourth had fallen on a Tuesday, a lot of servicemen had taken Monday off for a four-day weekend. And when they returned, they brought the virus back with them to their bases, spreading the infection throughout every branch of the military and debilitating any possible assistance from the armed services. The virus was virtually everywhere. It had spread across the world like a suffocating vine, its tendrils taking root in every country. And with no organized local or federal force left to fight the infected, at this point, everyone was on their own.

  The rain was coming down hard now, rifling through the trees, and I realized I needed to waterproof the contents of my backpack. I had plenty of gallon-sized freezer bags which would keep my electronics and the rest of my stuff dry. I had thought long and hard about the essentials I would need for my cross-valley trek and had come up with what I felt was a good list. I packed some basic toiletries and a half roll of toilet paper for any emergencies. I included some utilitarian items, my Swiss Army Knife, matches, a can opener, and two small screw drivers. I packed my iPad, my iPod, earbuds, and my iPhone along with their respective chargers. I added my GPS Navigator which would be critical once I got to the mountains. I also included the small binoculars I used to use to watch my brother's football games with up at the U.

  And there were other basic items: a water bottle, sunglasses with chums, and one minimal change of clothes which included a pair of shorts, a t-shirt, a pair of boxers, and one change of socks. I included the surgical masks I had taken from Alex's house along with some household cleaning gloves—in case I ever had to touch one of them again. And I included the 27-inch little league baseball bat Alex had given me as a gag gift for my birthday a few years back. Alex jokingly referred to the bat as my home security safety blanket. And then I packed the Glock 17. I positioned Alex's baseball bat to stick out of the backpack for quick removal in case I needed it. I had decided it would be better to use the bat than the Glock because of the noise factor. I realized the noise from the gunshots at Alex's house had been what attracted the infected group to the house. The last item I packed was the most important of all, at least for tonight—my battery-operated travel alarm clock.

  Once I had everything repacked, I set my backpack by the door. But I wasn't quite ready to leave yet. Even though the rain was coming down hard and there would be no better time to leave than now, I was hesitant. Doubts began to worm their way into my mind. What if I couldn't open the back doors to homes? What then? And if I were able to pick the locks, what would I do if there were infected inside, trapped in their homes by their limited motor skills and their functional ineptness? If they were unable to break their way out through one of the windows in their homes, they'd still be there. And how many other things could go wrong. The risks were enormous. I knew I was being paranoid, but I also knew I could be turned if I made even the slightest mistake.

  A powerful rumble of thunder shook the condo and I knew I needed to get going. Physically, I felt pretty good. I rubbed my injured shin and noted how much better it felt. There was still a slight tenderness, but my leg felt sturdy. The welt had become a hard, small knot, and the surrounding bruise had faded and turned a pale yellow. The aching in my arms and shoulders had subsided, and I'd even been doing pushups three or four times a day to strengthen them for my trip across the valley. I'd already decided I would only travel three to four blocks a day. It would be safer if I took my time and made sure I didn't make any mistakes. And I didn't want to tire myself out too much. I needed to stay fresh in case of emergency.

  I was as ready as I'd ever be. I picked up the backpack and slid my arms through the straps and snapped the front buckle closed. It was a snug fit. Then I spent a few minutes practicing drawing the bat from my backpack to get a good feel for it. And as I drew the bat out from the backpack for what must have been the twentieth time, I couldn't help but feel ridiculous. I was as far
from being an action hero as one could get. But I figured as long as I didn't panic or fall apart when difficult situations arose, I'd be fine. I just needed to be careful.

  All I had to do now was push the chest of drawers away from the front door and I'd be on my way. I had placed four moving sliders underneath the legs to minimize the sound. First, I had to maneuver the couch a little to give me just enough room to push the chest away from the door. The chest moved easily and fairly quietly. Then I opened the door, and though it made little sense, locked it before I left.

  Downstairs, I opened the front door slowly before peering out into the gray rain. There was no lock to the door and since the door itself swung outward, it was virtually impossible to actually barricade the door from the inside. But it hadn't really been a problem since the infected rarely attempted to break down doors. They only tried to get through doors if they saw someone going through a doorway or saw a door ajar. Where an open door was concerned, they were like curious animals. I thoroughly scanned the courtyard but didn't see any infected in the area. I stepped out and looked around, keeping one hand on the door just in case.

  If there were any kind of problem, I could always run back to the apartment. I figured that would be an option right up until the time I crossed the street. Once I crossed the street, there'd be no going back. The heavy rain pelted my head and my crew cut was already sopping wet. I let go of the door and ran crouched down toward the edge of the building. The sky grumbled loudly as I took a breath and peeked around the edge of the building. The road that led across the bridge was empty. And for just a moment, the world seemed to be a deserted desolate place, devoid of life, and strangely enough, the thought of that provided me with me some comfort.