Here We Stand (Book 1): Infected (Surviving The Evacuation)

by Frank Tayell

  “They’re good?”

  “No. Terrible. No spice. No sugar. No flavor whatsoever. That’s impressive.”

  A cool breeze whipped across his exposed ankles. The slacks were four inches too short. He tucked the ends into the socks. “Another new fashion statement.”

  “There have been worse,” Helena said. They started walking.

  “I suppose they were a church group,” he said.

  “Nope. Well, yes. Kind of. I think they were a cult.”

  “A cult? Bland food isn’t enough to assume that.”

  “Here.” She pulled a folded piece of paper out of the bag she’d taken from the bus.

  “The thirteen steps to a happy marriage,” he read. “So they were on a couples’ retreat.”

  “In matching clothes? Look at the back. That upside-down pyramid.”

  He did, but there didn’t seem anything untoward in the contents. “No address,” he said. “Pity. They had to be heading somewhere.”

  “Wherever it is, you wouldn’t want to go there, even now.”

  There was something in her tone. “You know them?” he asked.

  “Not personally. I know their type.”

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “There are some things you don’t share.”

  “Sure. But this is bothering you, and right now that might get us both killed. Besides, I’ve told you my secrets.”

  “Not all of them,” she said. “Not even close, I bet.”

  “I could tell you why Farley wanted Senator Clancy Sterling to be his opponent in the general election,” Tom said.

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “There was an email,” Tom said. “Max didn’t use it. That’s how honest he was. I said I got some information from an anonymous source. He wouldn’t touch it.”

  “Stop,” she said, her actions matching her words as she turned around to face him. Her face was flushed, and not just from exertion, terror, and cold.

  He smiled. “Come on, you can’t tell me you’re not even a little curious.” His smile grew wider. “You hear that? Birdsong.” He glanced at the tops of the trees in the hope of catching sight of the animal. He couldn’t. “Didn’t hear any of those at that house.” He started walking, setting a slower pace than she had. “I can tell you want to know, and I want to know about this cult. But if you don’t want to tell me, don’t.”

  He decided to take the birds as a good sign. There was no logic to that, except that there had been so many portentous ones he thought it was time his luck changed.

  “It’s my sister,” Helena said.

  “The one in Canada?”

  “Probably in Canada. At least, she was there last time I found her.”

  “She joined a cult?” he asked.

  “Yeah. It’s a long story. The really, really short version: she escaped. I spend all my money trying to find her. Well, no, I spent all my money to find out she was in Toronto. When I got there, she saw me and ran. Literally ran. Didn’t even go back to her apartment. I waited outside for the rest of the weekend, but she didn’t come back before I had to return to work. I went back the following Friday, but she’d moved out, and left no forwarding address. I couldn’t afford to hire another detective.”

  He looked down at his clothes. “And this cult, did they wear maroon blazers?”

  “No. And, okay, fine, maybe those people were just on some prayer retreat or something. It’s just… My mother died while Jessica was… away. Cancer. It was hard. Before she died, she… Religion was important to her, but after Jessica… left, she found no comfort in prayer. All she’d say, and the last thing she said to me, was that we could only hope that Jessica would come home.”

  “Ah.”

  “I mean, yeah, I get that—” She stopped. “Do you hear that? It’s an engine, isn’t it?”

  “More than one.” He turned around, trying to place the direction, as the reverberating murmur bounced off the trees. The low rumble grew louder. “It’s coming from ahead.” And it was clearly heading their way. The sound resolved into the growl of dozens of engines just before the column came into view ahead of them. One, then two, then four, and then dozens of motorbikes.

  “Harleys, I think,” Tom said. “But not all of them. There’s a racing bike or two, I think. A gang, maybe?” There was something regimented about their leather and denim.

  “Doesn’t matter. They’re people,” Helena said.

  As he hurried over to the verge and debated whether to hide in the trees, she stepped into the middle of the road, waving her arms above her head.

  “Hello!” she yelled, even though there was no way the bikers would be able to hear her over the roar of their engines. “Hello!”

  The bikes got closer, closer, and then close enough that he could see the stocks of weapons slung across backs and jutting out of panniers. Closer, and he realized they weren’t going to slow down. He ran forward, grabbed Helena’s arm, and dragged her out of the way as the first of the bikes sped past.

  “Wait! Stop!” she yelled. The bikers didn’t, and as soon as they’d appeared, they were gone, leaving nothing but a trail of dust in their wake.

  “Stupid!” Helena said, grabbing her bag. She stomped along the road, stamping her frustration out on the asphalt.

  Tom waited until they were through the settling cloud of dust, and the sound of the engines had disappeared behind them. “Not that stupid,” he said. “Most of them were already carrying a passenger. Maybe they figured they didn’t have room for anyone else.”

  “Most of them,” Helena said. “Not all of them. And yeah, sure, you can find a way to excuse any behavior, but that doesn’t make what they did any less idiotically suicidal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you get it? They’re riding straight toward the zombies from that bus. If they’d stopped we would have warned them, but no. They decided they couldn’t stop to help someone, so they’ve ridden off toward their deaths.” She kicked at the road. “Stupid. That’s how civilization dies. The selfish stupidity of the individual.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Is that it? You don’t have anything else to say? No smart retort?” she asked.

  “What’s the point? You’re probably right. They could have stopped. Now, chances are some of them are dead. Or maybe they’ll see the zombies and kill them. Who knows, and I don’t care.” A bird flew above the road, coming to settle on a branch nearby. He didn’t care about that, either. What little comfort he’d gained from the creatures was gone.

  He saw another bird, and another. “Crows?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  There were a lot of birds. They weren’t quite circling the road, but flying above it, occasionally settling in the trees, and more often flying away. The road dipped, rose, and they saw why.

  It was impossible to tell what had caused the car and three motorbikes to crash. Metal, plastic, and glass were strewn across the road, along with bodies.

  “They’re all dead,” Helena said.

  Technically, that was true. There were eight bodies, but he could see a leather-clad arm rising up from the ground. He unslung the shotgun. As they walked nearer to the crash site, what had taken place became clear. There were three bikes, two on the road, and one underneath the buckled wheels of a blue minivan. On the ground were seven dead people. Two wore military uniforms. Five of the others, he guessed, had been civilians. The other two bodies were bikers. One had been shot in the head. The other had not. Its legs were missing below the knees. Slowly it crawled along the asphalt toward them.

  “They were a gang, going by the rocker on the jacket,” Tom said, watching the creature raise its right arm. It came down on asphalt. The fingers curled, dragging along the stone, leaving a trail of brown viscous fluid behind. Its other arm was broken. As it came out, the jagged stump of bone caught the ground. As it shifted its weight, dragging itself forward an inch, there was a tearing sound. He couldn’t tell wheth
er that was muscle or cloth. Its arm came forward. It moved another inch.

  “You going to shoot it?” Helena asked.

  “His friends didn’t,” Tom said, but that was no excuse not to do what had to be done. He wasn’t going to waste a bullet, however. He looked around the wreckage for something heavy, and picked up a twisted section of handlebar. He walked over to the zombie. The zombie’s arm swept around, the stubby fingers brushed against his boots. He stabbed down, twisting the metal through bone and brain.

  “They must have stopped here, got infected. The rest of the bikers stopped. Killed the others, but not this guy. Maybe they liked him too much.”

  “Or disliked him,” Helena said. “To leave him like that, I mean. There’s a couple of bags in here, but they must have taken everything with them. The people, too.”

  “Any food?” he asked.

  She flashed him a recriminating look that was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. She opened a bag. “Some jerky, if you fancy risking it. And a canteen.” She took a sniff. “Iced tea, I think.” She took a sip. “Seriously hard,” she said, spitting it out.

  “No water?”

  “No.”

  Two dead bikers, but three bikes, all of which would require a week of repairs before they could be ridden again. A hundred yards beyond the wreckage was a steeper road, leading up into the hills.

  “Uphill?” Helena asked. “Maybe zombies are like people, they’ll chose the path of least resistance, and won’t follow us.”

  “Maybe.” He doubted it.

  Chapter 22 - A Proper Bed

  Clearfield County, Pennsylvania

  The motel was a welcome sight. Designed in a ‘U’ shape around a parking lot, it was decorated in bright red and yellow, with sharp lines and steep curves emulating an idealized vision of the 1950s. Next to it was a separate building Tom guessed was a restaurant. Beyond that was an access road that disappeared into the woods. On the far side of the motel was a gas station. It looked deserted.

  “That curtain moved,” Helena said.

  “Where?”

  “Ground floor, near the end.”

  No one came out, or even opened the door. Unsurprising, he supposed. Their clothing was stained, and they were armed.

  “Try the reception?” he suggested.

  The sign might have read welcome, but there was no one to greet them. The walls were covered in black and white photographs showing smiling couples and grimacing children dressed in period costume, and always in front of cars that he’d only seen in a museum. And that, he guessed was where the pictures had been taken. There was something indefinably anachronistic about the photographs. The teeth? The skin? Maybe it was how the people stood near the cars, without actually touching them. The romanticism extended to the long counter with its visitor’s book and little brass bell. He ran a finger along the top.

  “A week’s worth of dust,” he said.

  “What? You’d expect them to clean the place after the news of New York?”

  The faux old-world charm stopped at the door behind the counter. The manager’s office was furnished in flat-pack steel and wood. A computer sat on the desk. A flat-screen TV was affixed to the wall.

  “Is there power?” Tom turned on the television. There was.

  Tanks rolled across the screen. He unmuted it.

  “This will provide security for the Californian agricultural belt,” a reporter said, “ensuring that the nation has enough to eat until the crisis is past.”

  Something about what the reporter was saying didn’t match the image on the screen. He saw what.

  “You see at the side of the road, the sign?” he asked.

  “Shh!”

  The sign was for I-82, and that was in Oregon, not California. The image changed to an aircraft carrier at the center of a massive fleet.

  “Overseas evacuation of military assets is nearing completion,” the reporter continued. “The Third Fleet is nearing the West Coast, ready to lend support to the relief effort.”

  The ships were replaced with a squadron of fighter planes in mid-air. A trio of missiles launched from the lead plane. More followed from the others. The image changed again, this time showing an explosion.

  “There’s no way that was caused by those missiles,” Tom said.

  “Military operations are underway,” the reporter continued. “Civilians are asked to remain indoors so as to not interfere with the relief effort. Any military personnel on leave are to disregard all previous orders and report to the nearest civil authority…”

  “It’s propaganda,” Helena said. “That’s all.”

  “True.” He pressed mute. “But someone took the time to edit all of that together. There’s a plan. Someone is coordinating it. The question is, who.” He picked up the telephone. “It’s been disconnected.”

  “What about the sat-phone?”

  “Got to wait for it to charge,” he said. He glanced at the progress bar. “A couple more minutes.”

  “Right. Right.”

  “It’s strange to be waiting,” he began. “It’s like—” He stopped. “Do you hear that?”

  A knocking sound came from somewhere nearby. Tap-tap, tap. Their eyes turned to the two doors leading from the office.

  Tom grabbed the shotgun, aiming at the nearest closed door.

  “Open it,” he whispered.

  Helena took a tentative step forward, grabbed the door, wrenched it open, and took a sudden leap back. It was a storeroom, filled with cleaning materials and nothing else.

  “Other door,” Tom whispered, but Helena was already there. She leaned her ear against the wood, listening. She shook her head, and opened the door. It led into the living room of an apartment.

  “Hello?” he called. There was no reply. He stepped through the doorway, tracking the shotgun left and right. The room was a mess. Empty bottles, dirty dishes, and a pile of mildewed clothes told of someone who’d been living like it was the end of the world long before February 20th.

  “You hear that?” Helena whispered. He had. Tap. Tap-tap. Then silence. Tap, tap, tap-tap. Silence. It came again.

  Four doors led from the room. The sound could be coming from behind any of them. He pointed at one, then the next, and gave a shrug. Helena replied with the same. He raised the shotgun, pointed at her, and then at the nearest door. She raised the gun, lowered it, checked the safety was off, raised it again, breathed out, and nodded. He took a step forward. She crossed to the door. The tapping came again.

  “Ready?” she mouthed.

  He nodded. She threw the door open. It was a bedroom. It was empty, and looked less lived-in than the living room. He gestured to the next door. She opened it. Another bedroom, with a bed with a mattress still covered in plastic. The next door led to a small kitchen. He aimed the shotgun at the final door.

  “One,” Helena mouthed. “Two.” She threw the door open and jumped back. Tom stepped forward, jabbing the barrel into every empty corner of a small bathroom. The tapping came again. He lowered the shotgun.

  “It’s the cord from the blind,” he said. The window had been left open, allowing the chill breeze to knock it this way and that.

  “There’s a photograph,” Helena said, picking it up from the table by the couch. “Folded in half so only a man and a boy are visible. His son, I suppose. Maybe that empty bedroom was meant to be for his kid. Do you think he got the job managing the motel, thinking it would save the marriage, but in the end, he came here alone? That would explain the smell of despair about this place. But maybe, when the outbreak began, he went looking for his son.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” He went back to the office. The phone had enough charge for a call. Moving back to the doorway so he could find a signal, he dialed Nate’s number. It connected.

  “Nate, it’s—”

  “You’re alive! I knew you would be. What happened? No, wait, can you call back in an hour?”

  “Nate, I—”

  “I can’t talk. Not right now.
Are you safe?”

  “Safe? I guess so,” Tom said.

  “Great, can you call back in an hour?”

  “One hour? I guess, but—”

  Nate hung up.

  Tom frowned. “You heard that?” he asked.

  “He sounded happy,” Helena said.

  “So I guess we assume everything’s okay.”

  “What is it they say about assumptions?” Helena asked. “But if we’ve got to wait, then I’m having a shower. Maybe something to eat.” She walked back into the apartment. “Except there’s nothing here except cereal.” There was the sound of the fridge opening. “Milk’s very off. Ah, well. Shower first, but not in there. Who knows what I might catch.”

  She came back out to the office, opened the door to the storeroom, and grabbed a box of paper towels and a transparent bottle filled with a hideous pink liquid. The label said it was soap. Tom wasn’t sure he believed it. She walked over to the old-fashioned rack by the counter and took down a key. “I’ll be in room… wait, no, don’t want to tempt fate.” She put it back and took another. “Room one-oh-two. What about you?”

  “I’ll see what those other buildings are. Maybe one of them’s a diner. I’ll call Nate, and come and find you after.”

  “Okay. Good. One hour? That’ll give me time to wash and have a quiet scream. I think I need that.”

  “Sure,” Tom said, and forced a smile. She left, and he collapsed into the chair. She was acting like they’d achieved something, as if getting to the motel was a victory. Maybe she needed to think that, but all they’d done was find somewhere with power and, hopefully, running water. It was a temporary refuge. Good for a few hours that they could probably stretch to a night, but not much longer. If he could speak to Nate, and if the kid let him say more than a few words, perhaps he could talk to Max. Perhaps an extraction team would be sent, and he’d spend the night on a bunk in a military complex, or even back at the White House. What was more likely was that resources were stretched so thin no one would be sent. He would pass on his warning, and then, once more, be on foot. What then? Where, then, would they go?