by Frank Tayell
“And then there’s this road we’re on,” he said. “People will get around the interstate. All they’ve done is moved the troops from their bases in towns that they could otherwise have protected. Moving them back to somewhere they can do some good will take time. Too much time. The infection will spread. This wasn’t the plan.”
“There can’t have been a plan for this,” she said.
“Ironically, there was. Well, not exactly this. There were plans for pandemics, and for outbreaks that began in Manhattan. The military was meant to support the civil power on a local basis. Command was meant to be decentralized to secure towns, cities, and… hell.” He walked back to the truck.
“I don’t suppose we could beg some gas from the military?” she asked. By way of reply, he started the engine. “No,” she said. “I suppose not. Maybe we’ll find more zombies in crashed cars.” She gave a short, brittle laugh. “No, this is not how my life was meant to be.”
There were no more crashed cars. Twice, they pulled over next to vehicles abandoned by the side of the road. On both occasions the tanks were dry. Once they saw a zombie drifting down the road. Tom sped up, swerving around the creature.
“If those cars were abandoned,” Helena said, turning in her seat to watch the zombie disappear, “then we should have seen the passengers, right? Hitching along the road.”
“And if we see them, we’ll stop,” Tom said. “For all the good we can offer.”
“I meant that… I mean, someone might have stopped, right? Picked them up? But if they didn’t… I mean, where did that zombie come from.”
He knew what she was saying. “Try not to think about it,” he said.
Chapter 12 - Gas
Pennsylvania
They were running on fumes when they saw the sign for a gas station. The relief of seeing it was open was tempered by the presence of the police. The filling station was at a T-junction. A police cruiser was parked across the left-hand lane, effectively blocking it from traffic. Two other police cars were parked on the edge of the lot, facing in opposite directions. He couldn’t tell if those vehicles had police officers inside, but he counted six in the gas station with another ten civilians carrying long guns and wearing high-viz vests. Tom had given little thought to Powell since they’d left the apartment behind, but he was now all too consciously aware they were driving a stolen vehicle. They had no choice; they had to stop.
“If they ask, say the truck was abandoned on an empty street,” Tom said. “There was no sign of the driver. No one answered the doors in the nearby houses. We knocked. We shouted. There were people there, but no one wanted to help.”
“You mean we shouldn’t tell the cops that we stole the truck at gunpoint?” In a less sarcastic tone, she added, “They look like they’re expecting trouble.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
Ahead, a hybrid they’d been tailing for the last four miles turned into the gas station. The driver was waved down by one of the civilians and directed to a pump. Tom slowed and came to a stop next to a pump. He wound down the window as a cop approached.
“We just need some gas,” Tom said, pre-empting the officer’s first question.
“Where are you from?” the cop replied.
“Fort Lee,” Tom said.
The officer gave a thoughtful nod. “And where are you heading?”
“To my mother’s,” Helena said. “In Erie, near the lake.”
The cop gave another nod. “Just the two of you?”
“That’s right,” Tom said.
The cop clicked his teeth and looked at the car ahead. The driver had opened the door and stepped out. She was arguing in hushed tones with the civilian who was taking a step back with each vigorous gesticulation of the woman’s arms. The cop reached a decision.
“Four gallons,” he said. “That’s all you get. You pay cash. I need to see it now.”
“How much is it?” Tom asked.
The cop gestured to the sign by the road. It displayed prices that hadn’t changed from the week before.
“You’re not charging more?” Tom said.
“Nope. You get the fuel, you keep going.”
Tom understood. “We need more than four gallons to make it to Erie.”
“Maybe so, but you’ll have to find the rest elsewhere. Four gallons is all you’ll get. Can you pay?”
Tom pulled out the stack of bills from his pocket. The cop’s eyes widened at the sight of them.
“My life savings,” Tom said.
“And not worth a fraction of what it was yesterday,” the cop said. From his tone, he wasn’t talking about the money.
“Jack?” the cop called to one of the civilians, before heading toward the arguing woman.
“I’ll fill her up,” Jack said. “You pay inside.”
“Can we get food and water?” Tom asked.
“The diner’s closed. There might be some supplies left. But when the tank’s full, you’ve got to leave.”
Tom took that as his prompt and got out. Helena followed him into the store. If the digital bleep of the opening door was a reminder of normality, the rows of empty shelves were an indication of how much had changed.
“Do you have a restroom?” Helena asked the couple behind the counter.
“Through the back, hon,” the woman said.
“Anything for sale?” Tom asked, as Helena made her way to the back of the store.
“In the cabinet,” the man said. His voice was as cold as his eyes. His hands were hidden behind the high counter.
“Thanks.”
The cabinet contained a motley assortment of wilting pre-packaged sandwiches, stale doughnuts, and milk.
“One doughnut, one sandwich, one quart of milk each,” the man called.
“No fruit?” Tom asked.
“Nope,” the man said.
“You started rationing?” Tom asked, picking through the meager selection.
“Nope.”
“We’ve got to share it out equally,” the woman said. “As to their needs, and as to our ability. It’s little enough, but it’s what we can spare.”
“Fair enough.” Tom carried the food over to the counter. “You had many people coming through here?” he asked.
“Enough,” the man said.
“You’re the ninety-third this morning,” the woman said, she held up her hand. In it was a click-button counter.
“Is that a lot?”
“Nope,” the man said.
“There’ve been no truckers,” the woman said. “Not today.”
There was something off-putting about the woman’s civility. The man’s near-mute suspicion was closer to a normal reaction, as much as anything could be called normal.
“How much do I owe you?” Tom asked.
“There’s the gas, and let’s see,” the woman said. She ran a finger down a long list before methodically ringing up each item on the register.
“That’s all?” Tom asked, looking at the total.
“You can pay more if you want,” the man said.
“It’ll go off if we don’t sell it,” the woman said.
“Fair enough,” Tom replied, wanting the encounter to be over so he could get back in the truck. “Do you have any maps?”
“Local?” the man asked.
“No. We’re heading west.”
“Here.” The man finally detached a hand from whatever firearm he was holding, grabbed a pair of maps from somewhere below the register, and dropped them on the counter. “No charge.”
“Thanks,” Tom said. Before he had to come up with any more small talk, Helena returned.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Your truck’s waiting,” the man said. “It’s time to leave.”
Helena raised an eyebrow. Tom said nothing as they went back outside. The woman who’d arrived before them was still arguing with the police officer.
“You need to leave,” the attendant, Jack, prompted. Tom didn’t need the encouragement.
“Strange place,” Tom said, as they drove away. “Like civility is barely holding on at the surface.”
Helena picked at a doughnut before placing it back in the bag uneaten. She reached for one of the packs of cookies. “Did he give us four gallons of gas?”
“Almost exactly.”
“And how far do we need to go?”
“About a hundred and forty miles.”
“Hm. Then we’ll be on foot for the last eighty of them. That’s a week of walking.”
“Probably. I doubt we’ll find anywhere selling more gas. Nor do I think that place will be selling it for much longer. There was something… weird about it. Did you sense that?”
“Who cares? We’re not going back.”
Silence settled for a mile, at least within the truck. Outside, an increasingly regular stream of traffic overtook them.
“Where are they going?” Helena muttered. She turned the radio back on.
“That’s confirmed.” It was the same woman they’d been listening to before. “There are widespread outbreaks throughout Chicago and New Orleans. The details are different, but the stories are the same. The roads out of the cities are flooded with people. Help can’t get in, and stranded motorists can’t get to safety. People… okay, this isn’t confirmed, but I’ve got six different video clips that show the same thing. People are putting their infected loved ones into anything with four wheels and are trying to take them somewhere. I don’t know where. Hospital? Who knows? The internet’s creaking under the strain, but I’ve seen rumors flying around that there are safe places out there. I don’t know how they start, but there aren’t! Think about it, people. Why would Salem be safer than San Francisco? As for Greenland, how would you get there? You can’t drive!” She took a very loud breath. “So… yeah, I have to give you the official message. Stay at home. Don’t go looking for your loved ones. The interstates are now closed. The military, at least the ones who came here yesterday, they said that they’re going to close the local roads soon. They didn’t say when, but seriously, wherever you are, you’re safer there than trapped on some highway. If you haven’t got any supplies, ask your neighbors for help. We’ve got to work together. These days, a good fence is only going to help if your neighbor is behind it with you. What? Oh. Yeah. Brad’s saying I need to tell you about the CDC guidelines. I don’t know why, I mean, you could work these out for yourself. Don’t get bitten. If you are, isolate yourself. The virus is transmitted through blood and saliva. If you get it on your skin, wash it off with bleach or other high-strength detergent. Destroy— What? We are? Okay, we’re back online, and we’ve got some information coming in. I’ll put some music on while we sort through it.”
A song came on, one of those upbeat, instantly forgettable tunes. Helena tapped her fingers on the window in time with the beat. Tom watched the road, viewing each passing car with a new, deep suspicion.
Chapter 13 - Locked Up, Locked Down
Carthage, Pennsylvania
They crossed I-81, twenty miles from Scranton. Below them, two military convoys trundled along the interstate, one heading north, the other south.
“It makes no sense,” Helena muttered. “If one lot is going north, the other south, why didn’t they both stay where they were? It’s like they’re being moved for the sake of it.”
The signal for the radio station came and went. A quick flick of the dial had found other stations, clearly broadcasting, but they were filled with religious gloom and political recriminations. After a minute of nothing but static, they turned the radio off.
Traffic was overtaking them at a rate of one vehicle a minute, with about the same in the eastbound lane. Increasingly, the backs, and often the roofs, were laden with belongings.
“It’s hopeful terror,” Helena said.
“What?”
“Or terrified hope. The expressions on the people in those cars. They all look the same. It’s as if they can’t believe what they’ve seen and hope that where they’re going will be different. Hope’s dangerous.”
“It is?”
“It’s like a wish or a prayer. It doesn’t change your circumstances. Only you can do that, and sometimes you have to accept that things won’t change.”
He glanced over at her. Her tone had that familiar edge to it, suggesting that she was on the verge of some confession. He didn’t prompt her.
“Gas station ahead,” he said instead.
“Something’s wrong. Do you see that car?”
The grey sedan in front of them had slowed as it neared the filling station, then accelerated away. There were two possible explanations, and the worst of the two was confirmed when they drew nearer. A figure staggered out onto the road. He or she wore a red quilted jacket and an almost matching hat so bulky it was impossible to tell whether this was a man or a woman. Except it was neither. The zombie raised its arms, clawing at the closing space between it and the truck. Tom turned the wheel, pulling into the other lane. The zombie staggered across the asphalt. Thirty yards. Twenty. It was heading straight for them.
“You’re going to hit it!” Helena yelled.
Tom swerved again. The zombie lurched toward the truck, not quite diving, not quite falling. It hit the ground, and there was no time to steer around it. There was a wet, sodden thump as the truck drove over it. When he forced himself to look in the rear-view mirror, the zombie’s arm was still twitching.
It was almost a relief when they saw the police car ahead. Next to it were three police motorbikes and a large collection of civilian vehicles, parked end to end, neatly sealing all but one lane of the road.
“Looks like a checkpoint,” Helena said.
“It’s a detour, I think,” Tom said. “They’re trying to keep people away from somewhere.”
Though the RV ahead of them slowed as it reached the checkpoint, it didn’t stop. When they came level with the lead police vehicle, Tom did.
“You can’t stop here,” the cop said.
“We need some gas or we’ll be on foot,” Tom said.
The cop leaned in and looked at the fuel gauge. “Where’re you headed?”
“Lake Erie,” Tom said.
The cop gave a thoughtful nod, took a step back, and gave the truck an equally thoughtful inspection. “There’s a filling station a quarter-mile down the road,” he said, gesturing toward a side road. “Pull in there.”
“Thank you,” Tom said, uncertain he meant it. He took the turning. Behind them, the cop got into the police cruiser and followed.
“I don’t like this,” Helena whispered.
Neither did Tom. It might mean nothing, of course, but paranoia had reared its head once more. He ran through their options and found there weren’t any. If he tried driving away, they would run out of gas before the pursuit got anywhere near a high speed. That did little to quell his desire to stamp on the gas pedal.
There was a filling station, just where the cop had said it would be. On the far side of the pumps were two minivans, an SUV with blacked-out windows, and a silver pickup so new it still had the dealership shine. However, the only people were a pair of sentries on the gas station’s flat roof. Both wore hunting gear and carried rifles, and were watching their approach.
Tom pulled in, next to a pump.
“I guess it’s self-service,” Helena said, with a nervous laugh. They got out. Tom tried the pump. It didn’t work. The police cruiser pulled in behind them. The cop got out. A civilian climbed out of the passenger side. The officer had a hand on his holster. The civilian grabbed a shotgun from the rack behind seats. No, it hadn’t been paranoia.
“The pump doesn’t work,” Tom said.
The cop shrugged. “Which one of you is Mr Wu?” he asked.
Tom frowned, momentarily confused. He followed the line of the officer’s gaze to the sign painted on the side of the truck. The officer would have seen the New Jersey plates, and the exposed wires under the dash. The question, then, was why had they been stopped? Was it because they
came from the east, or for grand theft auto? Before he could formulate a calculated lie, Helena spoke up.
“We were in New York,” she said. “We got out before they destroyed the George Washington Bridge. The car was like this, abandoned outside a house. We knocked… I mean, there were zombies around. People, infected, you know? We knocked on the door, and… they wouldn’t let us in. We took the car. It was that or die. My mother has a place on Lake Erie. We’re just trying to get there.”
“They said they had New York quarantined,” the cop said.
“No,” Tom said. “They destroyed the bridges, but it was already too late. I don’t know about you, but the first footage of the outbreak I saw was of a mall in upstate New York.”
“That’s as may be,” the civilian said, “but we have a quarantine here. Anyone who might have been exposed has to be quarantined for twenty-four hours.”
“We left the city over thirty-six hours ago,” Tom said.
“And we’ve only got your word for it,” the cop said. “The rules are the rules. Twenty-four hours, then you’ll be allowed to go on your way.” His hand curled around the butt of his holstered sidearm. Tom didn’t need to look up to know the two sentries on the roof were aiming weapons right at them. There was no point arguing.
“I don’t suppose this quarantine would involve a hot shower?” he asked.
The town was called Carthage, but they weren’t taken there, nor to a police station, but to a warehouse to the south. On the other side of the road, a small mall was dwarfed by the large grocery store next to it. From the activity, the whole town had come together to strip the stores bare.
They were hustled out of the back of the cop car and into the warehouse. They weren’t quite under arrest, the cop even opened the door for them, but there was no opportunity to run. Inside the warehouse, behind a folding table, sat a grey-haired older woman. Ruining the material of an absurdly smart suit was an FBI badge. Behind her were four men and two women, none older than twenty. All carried matching, holstered sidearms.
