A Place Called Hope (Z-Day Book 2)

by Daniel Humphreys

  She’d always been so reserved with her emotions—cool, collected, almost regal. Yes, of course you adore me. Revel in my beauty. Until he’d learned to read her, he’d often wondered if she was bored with him, but it wasn’t that. She, was, perhaps, the most taciturn person he’d ever met. That day, though, her eyes had been alight with a fervor that he’d never seen, and a broad smile slashed through the cold porcelain of her features. “She was over the moon, I guess you’d say. ‘We did it, Sandy,’ she told me. ‘It worked!’ What worked, I asked. For a moment I wondered if she was on something, because she was acting so strangely. ‘Look outside,’ she said.”

  He remembered the annoyed grunt he’d made as he slid out of his chair and stepped over to the window. His workspace was high enough from street level to give him a good, long view of the dawning chaos outside. Traffic had come to a complete standstill, vehicles wrecked or simply stopped in the middle of the road, and while the glass was too thick for him to hear the screams of the dying, he saw the blood and the terror just fine.

  When Melanie had been a junior, she and several others in her circle of friends had latched onto overpopulation as their next cause du jour. He’d realized, after that horrible October day, that all of it had most likely been spawned by Professor Dickinson, the same adviser who’d guided her to GenPharm. Wheels within wheels, turning and turning. Secrets on top of secrets, with the truth hidden from all but those who believed with heart and soul. Something about Sandy had made Melanie refrain from giving him the full details of their project, though he knew not what it was. Had it been his offhand, sarcastic remark regarding Malthus’ failure to anticipate industrial farming methods? Or his overall lack of interest in the subject? Either way, he truly had not known what he’d been participating in until that fateful day, because he had failed to pass whatever test would grant him their admission in the conspiracy.

  That didn’t wash the blood from his hands. But it gave him some slim hope to cling to, a life raft for a drowning man. “When I looked, I knew it in my gut. I knew what we’d done. I could have asked her a million questions, but when I turned back to look at her, all I could muster was, ‘Why?’”

  It hadn’t been the question itself, he supposed, but rather the way he’d said it. The expression of horror that he must have worn. The light in her eyes had died in that moment, and she’d said, “You wouldn’t understand. Goodbye, Sandy.”

  “She left. She didn’t think I’d listen, I guess. And I was in such a state of shock that I just stood there and watched her go. Maybe I could have done something, I don’t know. But I just stood and watched her walk out of my life.”

  Kendra’s nostrils flared, and she adjusted her grip on the pistol. “What about Richard, Sandy? You say you have some cure, but you didn’t think to try and save him? Why should I believe anything you tell me when you just let him die like that?”

  He sighed. “I forgot them. When Richard went down, I reached for one, but it wasn’t there. They were in my damn backpack. I—those injectors, I usually keep them wrapped up so they don’t get damaged.” He held back tears, his voice thick. “I had three, at first. I got bit my second day outside of the lab. We used the things on the stupid monkeys, to shut down the nanites. I used to think that we were having a lot of weird side effects, in our testing phase. But that’s what they were going for in the end, huh? Side effects.” He slumped his shoulders. “I thought I was working on the cure for, hell, everything, and I killed the world.”

  Kendra pulled the pistol back and laid it on the passenger seat. She kept her eyes on him the entire time, as though trying to assess how he’d react. Was that it, then? Did she see him as no better than a man like Lee, who’d wait until her guard was down to make her move?

  “I’ll get out,” he whispered. “You go. Jason and I hauled the pontoon boat down to the river before I came for you. He and the others have all of the supplies. They’re waiting for a radio signal on channel eleven. Let him know you’re coming and you all can leave, stay, whatever you want. I won’t bother you anymore.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Before Carver threw me over the car, I was ready to die. I figure I’ll go back and do just that.”

  Her mouth worked. “No,” she said finally. “You feel responsible? You need to make up for what you did. Dying, that’s the easy way out. You want to atone? It’s time to keep fighting past your fear. Be a hero to the ones who are still alive. The dead aren’t here to apologize to. Well. They’re still here, but I don’t think they’re listening, are they?”

  “No,” he managed.

  “We’re going to start right now.” Kendra faced front and threw the Humvee into reverse. “Give me one of your injectors. We’re going back to the house.”

  Sandy sat up, pushing past the renewed swell of agony in his head. “What? What are you talking about.”

  “I told you, Sandy. Not everyone there was a raider. Maybe the ones in the yard didn’t get a chance to make it out, but there were plenty of people in the house. Women. Kids.”

  He pressed the balls of his hands into his eye sockets. “My God, what have I done?”

  “They were upstairs. From the way the blast looked, I’d say they’re probably fine—so long as the infected in the yard, and any attracted to the explosion don’t tear the house down around them.” Her voice grew sharp. “I need you to focus, Sandy. Injector.”

  He fumbled in the cargo pocket of his pants and pulled one of them out. It looked, if nothing else, like a plain-colored atropine injector for allergic reactions. He supposed that design had been intentional. “If you get bit, you’ve got sixty seconds or so. Pop the lid off and slam it into your thigh.”

  “Through my clothes?”

  “The needle is gas-propelled and plenty long.”

  “Why not inject it now?”

  Sandy winced. “I don’t know if it would work or not. I’ve never tried it. Bad time to start experimenting. I know it works after the fact.”

  “Okay. What if I get bit again? How long does the effect last?”

  “Couple of hours, at least. Anytime we neutralized the test subjects we didn’t use them for a day or so. That’s in a monkey, so figure greater mass for us. Couple of hours to call it safe. If they gnaw on you that long, you’ll probably bleed to death, anyway.”

  “Cheery thought.” She grimaced in the rear-view mirror. “You sure you’re ready for this? Calm down. You’re going pale.”

  “Okay. Okay.” He took a deep breath to settle his nerves. “We’re going to need weapons, too, though. And ammo. Should we call Jason?” He rubbed his ankle. “Maybe a brace or an Ace bandage for my leg, too.”

  She grinned into the rear-view mirror. “Look behind you, Sandy. There’s a whole pile of stuff back there.”

  April 3, 2026

  Aboard the USS Jack Lucas

  Z-Day + 3,089

  Much to his surprise, Charlie slept well. He woke a few minutes before the alarm he’d set. Not quite ready to move, he settled for staring at the bottom of the upper bunk while he gathered his thoughts. He didn’t have any real frame of reference for an airborne assault, so he told himself that it was just another salvage run. The only real difference was the means of transportation. All the other rules stayed the same—stay quiet, take it slow, and watch your back.

  Right at 0500, there was a delicate rap on the door to his compartment. Unlike the Georgia, the Lucas had plenty of space, and he’d merited a room of his own in officer country. It was about the size of a broom closet, but he didn’t have to worry about his infrequent nightmares disturbing his bunkmates. The funny part, of course, was the fact that he’d become so accustomed to lying down in a state of sheer exhaustion that he barely dreamed. If anything, that had made the trip worth it despite the early annoyances.

  He pulled the hatch open and Chief Foraker grinned at him through the graying forest of his beard. “You geared up?”

  “Two minutes,” Charlie said. He’d gotten plenty of
practice over the years with getting dressed quickly. Today, he was making only one change to his typical salvage wardrobe. Del Arroz and the rest of his fire team had set him up with a load-bearing vest. It fit awkwardly under his heavy jacket, so he left the coat hanging on the hook in the cabin. The various pouches and compartments the Marines had rigged to it let him carry spare rounds for his Marlin as well as the extra magazines and silencer for his pistol. Once he had his gear on, he ensured he’d closed and buckled everything, slung his Marlin over one shoulder. Finally, he grabbed the second thing the Marines set aside for him—a small pack in the same camouflage pattern as the vest. The pack held MREs, water, and a water purification kit. Charlie had cocked an eyebrow at Del Arroz, and the other man shrugged.

  “Mission is only supposed to be a few hours, but you never know when things will fall apart and you’ll need to make a run for it. No time to scavenge for food and water when you’re running from zulu.”

  Charlie stepped into the passageway and gave the SEAL a nod.

  “Follow me,” Foraker said. He bore similar equipment to Charlie, though the rifle looked so high-tech as to make his lever-action even more of an antique. He’d been offered his choice of weapons from the ship’s armory as well as the cargo they’d brought from Camp Perry, but Charlie much preferred having something familiar in his hands when it came to a fight. The Marlin was steel and wood, and in a pinch, he knew it was more than capable of caving in a skull used as a club. He couldn’t bring himself to trust the polymer and composite wonder the chief carried.

  They emerged onto the aft deck. The sun hadn’t crested over the mountains and the sky was black, heavy with clouds. The only illumination came from work lights mounted on the rear of the ship. Foraker surged ahead toward the helicopter at the center of the deck, but Charlie stopped dead in his tracks. He’d seen the bigger ones in the hangar in passing, but he’d never figured that the ride he’d be hitching would be half of a helicopter.

  Not only was it significantly smaller than the other choppers on the ship, it didn’t even have doors—after the glass bubble of the forward windscreen, the sides of the chopper were open to the air. Two seats faced outward behind the pilot’s seat, and Charlie realized with a sinking feeling that he was about to go flying with nothing but a safety harness to keep him from going skydiving.

  Foraker turned back and noticed Charlie’s hesitation. “You all right?”

  Charlie looked at the big SEAL and tried to think of the best way to put it. “I don’t even like motorcycles.”

  The chief moved closer and whacked Charlie on the shoulder in what he assumed was a “suck it up” manner. “AH-6 Little Bird. You’ll love it, it’s a freaking rush. Hundred and seventy-five miles per hour, brother. Treetops skimming your boots.” He guided Charlie over to the helicopter. The pilots had just finished walking around the helicopter, and they climbed inside as Charlie and the SEAL came closer. There was another bench on the opposite side. Lieutenant Ross and Agent Guglik had already strapped themselves in.

  “Everything all right?” Ross shouted as the engine fired up. Foraker gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Had to stop and take a leak, Mikey. We’re locked and loaded.”

  The officer nodded and turned back. Charlie couldn’t decide whether to be embarrassed or grateful that the SEAL had covered for him. The chief winked at him as he guided him to the seat closest to the pilot.

  “These are good straps, don’t worry. We check them after every flight. Any problems, they get replaced, all right?” The rotors overhead blurred into motion, and the rush of wind and engine noise forced him to lean into Charlie’s side and practically scream every word. “Put these on!” He pulled a pair of goggles with an elastic strap out of a pouch on his harness. When Charlie had them arranged to his satisfaction, the big man slapped him on the shoulder. “Keep your head and arms down when we land. Move away low and quick, got it?” Foraker hesitated, then added, “Sit back and relax, we’ll be there in half an hour or so.”

  He bit back a retort. The increasing pitch of the engine would have drowned out anything but a scream. The helicopter lifted into the air with surprising gentleness. The illuminated square of the aft deck grew smaller and smaller, and the chopper nosed over and jerked Charlie to one side. The sense of motion was unreal, and he remembered Miles remarking at how strange and thrilling it had felt to travel so fast after so many years of methodical movement.

  For Charlie, it was neither strange nor thrilling—it was terrifying. Everything around him was pitch black, and the only way he could tell they were even upright was a vague sense of gravity and the glow of the ocean below. A few nights ago, the gravid moon had lit up the sky, but a sheet of low-hanging clouds blocked it now. Great to keep anyone on the ground from spotting them, he supposed, but nerve-racking for anyone flying through it.

  The ocean faded away under his feet as they crossed the beach. Vague shadows blurred past, and as he watched he thought that he could make out buildings and roads. If any zulus wandered the streets below, he was unable to see them.

  He closed his eyes, but that was a mistake. Vaguely being able to see his surroundings was bad enough. The rush of motion with no visual reference made his stomach roil. Charlie settled for staring at his knees. If there was one thing he’d had plenty of practice at over the past few years, it was waiting. He’d be able to see soon enough.

  After some unknowable span of time, the shadow cloaking the land withdrew a bit. He still couldn’t see the sun, but Charlie knew they were on the cusp of dawn—he could see more details of the ground. They’d passed out of the city. Trees carpeted the mountainous area below.

  It was hard to tell in the predawn twilight, but the forest below his feet seemed brown, dried-out. The periodic burn scars of lightning strikes were more easily discerned in the darkness, and each time they passed over a stretch of burnt and blackened forest, he marveled at their dimensions. Without mankind around it seemed as though wildfires had become endemic and gargantuan.

  Score one for the Midwest. He’d thought the coast looked bad when he’d studied it from the deck of the Lucas, but this was orders of magnitude worse. To add insult to the injuries, more often than not, he caught tell-tale signs of movement in the burned-out clearings. The enemy was below, and they were reacting to the burst of sound above them.

  What drew them here? If anything, a forest should have been quieter than the city, so there should have been little attraction for them. Had survivors fled in this direction, seeking refuge in the national park? It should have been a place of refuge, given the troubles that most zulus had with negotiating changes in elevation.

  Then again, given how damn many people had lived near the coast before the end, a mountainous refuge might very well have turned into an island, surrounded by a sea of the hungry dead. What a gut punch something like that would have been—surviving, being secure, but also being unable to salvage or leave for supplies.

  He’d heard that dying of thirst or starvation was a bad way to go. But that possible fate was what all the other survivors faced in a world without airlift. He hadn’t thought about the mission itself much during the passage, but the high desert brought it into crystal clarity. Mankind could survive on the sea, for a time, but they needed the land. Hope had been lucky, blessed by geography and isolation. Those circumstances might have repeated themselves in other places, but anything more would require the fighting force of the military survivors.

  For his hypothetical mountaintop survivors, a helicopter would have been a miracle of salvation. Or even a dirigible.

  The sun peeked over the horizon to his right, illuminating the swelling suburbs as the helicopter left the area of the national forest. The streets were, much to his surprise, mainly empty. A few crippled zulus reached for the helicopter as it passed overhead from where they lay, but he saw no sign of any others.

  A chill went through him as he remembered the housing edition where he’d first seen evidence of stage two of the i
nfection. The zulus left behind had been pathetic examples, withered down to nothing, while the stage twos had burst through windows and doors. He hadn’t known at the time but they’d gathered in the woods to the south of Hope, and when the opportunity arose, they attacked en masse.

  His stomach lurched a bit, and he realized that the helicopter was beginning to descend. Get your game face on.

  Tall chain-link fences surrounded the buildings below. He turned his head to look forward, glad now for the goggles. The building they approached looked like nothing more than a massive warehouse. It was itself surrounded by another fence. What looked like a small office building lay on one end, and a cluster of cars sat nearby in the long-abandoned parking lot. For whatever reason, there were no buildings immediately around the warehouse, leaving it isolated. There was a long stretch of pavement to the north, and he recalled that was a runway. They passed over a cluster of office buildings and warehouses, then the open space, and touched down on top of the target warehouse.

  Foraker reached over and hit the release on Charlie’s harness, then reached behind his own seat and pulled a bulging duffel bag out of the space between the benches. He released himself then hopped off. Charlie didn’t need any further persuading. He stepped onto the roof with uneasy legs.

  As soon as Guglik and Ross were clear on the other side, the engine pitched higher again. The Little Bird buzzed away, taking an outward loop back in the general direction of the ship. In theory, the brief pause as it dropped them off wouldn’t break off any attention from the ground. Until the rest of the mission force arrived, it was down to the four of them and the weapons they carried. Not quite the recipe for a stand-up fight.

  Charlie put his hands on his knees and resisted the urge to kiss the roof. The flight had been bad enough, but the abrupt transition from speed to stillness left him queasy.

  The chopper faded into the distance, and all grew still and silent. Except—“Does anyone else hear that?”