Etna Station

by Mark Tufo

  “What? Why?” I was now looking around. There were ten cars visible. Seven of them had movement inside; safe to say it wasn’t of the human variety. I turned the car off and got out; the percentages stayed fairly consistent as I checked more and more. “How can this be?” I asked anyone willing to venture an answer.

  “I believe Portland was one of the first places on the West Coast to receive flu shots,” Deneaux said. “When it hit, perhaps they were evacuating.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked her.

  Like I said, Deneaux is as smooth as butter when it comes to concealing the truth, so I don’t know if I absolutely believed her, but she gave a valid response.

  “There was an article in the Denver Post in regards to it. I was very upset that Denver had not received theirs yet,” she replied.

  “Here, though? Why would they evacuate Oregon by one-o-one? No one uses coastal roads if they’re trying to get anywhere fast,” BT said.

  “I don’t know. None of this makes sense. We’ve talked about this before; none of us got a warning about the zombies. One second, I’m taking a shower during a typical work night and the next there’s zombies. What did these people know?”

  “Uncle,” Meredith said, “most of these cars have blue stickers on the front windshield.” She was looking around but careful not to move quickly or get too close. The zombies would be thrown into a fever pitch if any of us did. They would slap their hands and heads against the windows in desperate bids to get to us; once you’ve seen it you don’t need a replay.

  “Military identification. They’re coming from a base somewhere.” I found a car with a small kid zombie; I didn’t feel like he’d be able to bust through the safety glass. “Coast Guard,” I said once I was able to read the print on the sticker. Another read “National Guard.” Made sense. From what we knew, the military had been the first to get the tainted shots. Also made sense they’d be the first trying to protect their families and get away from the spread of the infection.

  “Stay the course?” BT asked.

  We weren’t committed, not yet, but Payne was out there and it would be foolish to believe she wasn’t planning on striking soon. That she had let down her guard enough that we could “see” her made that painfully obvious; I wondered if she’d known about this hundred-mile pile-up.

  “I don’t see any reason not to.” I said the words, but in my heart, I wondered if perhaps we were heading into Payne’s trap and not the other way around. I’ll always wonder if I should have spoken up, should have said something. Would they have listened? Or would I have been vetoed? We were tired of running and Payne needed to be dealt with. This was our chance to be rid of her, to finally put the worst of this damned war behind us. Even I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that would be the ultimate outcome, but hope has a way of spreading its flowery tendrils over the nastiest of situations, even if it is mostly for ornamentation.

  We were five miles from the Arch Cape tunnel, according to the signs. I wasn’t thrilled that most of these were riddled with bullet holes. I don’t really have a problem with a street sign being shot, it happens. Idiots, for some reason, get a kick out of it. Not my particular flavor of Kool-Aid, but whatever. Just that with zombies everywhere, why would you unnecessarily do anything to attract them? By now, we were traveling at a blistering twenty miles per hour, picking our way through the thickening traffic. Even the breakdown lanes were becoming more congested as those that had fled had desperately driven the shoulders and even farther off the road where possible.

  Have you ever found yourself on a juice diet sometime in your life, for whatever reason? Maybe shed a few pounds before a big day, or just trying to eat a little more healthy? A nice raspberry smoothie in place of an oh-so-delicious quarter pounder with cheese and an extra large fry? So, you grab the blender that hasn’t been used for anything but Margaritas since you got it, (no matter what you told yourself the reasons for buying it were.) Now, finally, it will serve that purpose. So, you cut up some bananas, toss in a basket of fresh strawberries and raspberries along with a helping of milk and some ice cubes. If you’re going to have a liquid lunch, you’re going to make it as close to a milkshake as humanly possible. You blend that thing into a thick, rich smoothie frappe, pour it into a nice, tall glass. Then you lament when you look back at the blender and the amount of clean-up it is going to require. The sides are coated in congealing clumps of red, unidentifiable bits of brown and black stand out among the debris, and this is all coated with a thick white layer which, if left alone for too long, will mold a sickly greenish color.

  Right now, you’re staring at this journal wondering “where in the hell is this man going with this. Smack dab in the middle of a zombie invasion and this idiot is talking about shakes.” Stay with me–I’m about to get there. You see, the insides of a lot of the cars we were passing looked a lot like those healthy frappes. Like, instead of a gearshift, the car had a huge twirling blade inside of it and it made a puree out of everything living or dead in that vehicle. Though the brown and black strawberry seeds were more likely eyeballs or pieces of livers and intestines. I don’t know what horror show happened on this highway, but these cars were fucked up. Maybe one occupant was able to get a shot off, splattering the brains of a loved one all over the interior, or the more likely scenario–a hungry zombie with little-to-no table manners. Or it was even possible that the dead trapped in the cars had exploded as a result of the gases bodies released and the greenhouse effect the car would have on those corpses. Too much information? Try driving past it.

  Whatever the reason, it was happening more and more and no matter how much I tried to ignore it, avoid it, unsee it, even, I could not. Every once in a while, the nightmare would get just a little more vivid; a hand would smear against the detritus trying to clear away the gunk to watch the living pass. Once I even saw an incredibly long tongue try to lick its way through like it was tasting a corpsicle. Had to admit, I was happy Gary had switched rides. I was barely holding on; I could only imagine the strangled sounds his stomach and throat would be making. Those that weren’t driving were doing everything in their power to scope out their laps or check out the patterns in their skin from their clasped hands.

  “Can’t drive any faster, Mike?” Tracy asked, never looking up as she did so. I didn’t answer because I was afraid what would come out if I opened my mouth. It was a blessing when we finally got to the mouth of the tunnel; it was dark inside and made seeing the cars that much more difficult. According to BT, he had thought it had a slight bend in it, which I happily confirmed, as I could not see the light from the other side. This would work to our advantage. The jam was as thick as it could get. The only slice of luck that we’d had was that someone with a plow had done his best to slam his way through; cars had been pushed over and onto each other, as he or she tried to get past. Like a slow-moving needle, we threaded through the narrow opening afforded us.

  We weren’t more than twenty feet in when the temperature and the lighting plummeted. Not the first misgivings, but definitely the deepest hit me just then. The sun was setting, and when it did, well we all knew what that meant–the blackness was going to be absolute. The pile-up of cars had finally disappeared about three quarters through the tunnel. It was clear to us all, as we looked out the far side at what had caused it to begin with.

  “Military blockade,” BT said.

  “Why would they do this?” Winters asked.

  “In a vain attempt to stop the spread, of course,” Deneaux replied. We had gotten out and were all standing there in more or less a line, looking at the opening. The pull was strong to forgo this crazy plan and make a straight line up the coast and on to Etna Station. I wanted to check the Humvees up ahead for some heavy machine guns, but fun would have to wait, plus, that would defeat the purpose of what we were trying to accomplish.

  “I’m going to set the charges,” Winters said as he peeled away from the group.

  “This looked way better on paper,�
�� BT said when we were alone.

  We got the kids and the animals all locked up in one of the cars as we took our places. The idea was to fake a crash; the small explosion Winters was going to set off would hopefully convince Payne that we had crashed, and when no one came out the other side, she would be forced to investigate. When she was in range, we would kill her, just like that, quick and easy. Although now that we were here, it seemed anything but. First, a fatal crash seemed unlikely given the traffic. What if she didn’t bite? What if she waited a week? A month before checking it out? What if the stupid tunnel collapsed from a magnitude eight earthquake? What if it collapsed from Winters’ charge? I could do the bad outcomes game all day long and still maybe never come across what was really going to go wrong.

  “Fire in the hole.” Winters made sure we heard it, but not loud enough that it would reach either end. This was our cue to find cover and cover our ears. Even then, I thought the resultant explosion was going to shred my eardrums. The tunnel, the ground, the cars around us vibrated from the concussive forces, a few ceiling tiles shook loose and smashed against the ground and cars. The destructive noise was even scarier than the initial explosion because we had not been expecting it.

  “Should we light a fire?” BT asked. I thought about it; would certainly lend authenticity to our crash site.

  “No. As much as I’d like to chase away the dark and the chill, it’ll screw up our vision.”

  “Not to speak the obvious, Mike, but we’re not going to be able to see anything anyway.”

  “Are you already forgetting about the NVGs that came with Winters?”

  “I hate those things, man. Make everything look that ghostly green shit like we’re in a horror movie.”

  “I’m not sure what pleasure cruise you’ve been riding, big man, but we are in a horror movie and I for one don’t want to be the brother that goes down the basement by himself.”

  BT laughed.

  “What the hell is funny about any of this?” I asked in all seriousness.

  “Just trying to picture you with a ‘fro is all.”

  “I could pull it off.” I said.

  “No man, not at all, but it is funny.”

  “You want the night vision goggles or what?” I asked handing out a pair.

  “Naw. We only have the three and Winters isn’t giving his up. You keep them so you can keep an eye out on Deneaux,” he said.

  It truly sucked always having to keep one eye on a member of the group and there had been serious debate about giving her a set of the coveted goggles. But no matter the arguments against, it always circled back to her incredible marksmanship skills. Not a one of us could touch her. Now the problem was would she stand and fight or tactically withdraw as the situation dictated. It wouldn’t be the first time; that was obviously the flip side.

  “You just tell me when to hit the flares.” Winters had set up a string of flares, five on each side, spaced out roughly ten feet apart. The hope was we pulled Payne in close, BT lit up the tunnel putting her in the spotlight, and we blew her into whatever realm she belonged. We got into the best positions we could. Winters was facing the south entrance, Deneaux the north, and I was constantly turning back and forth like a weather vane in a fickle wind.

  The dark was a cruel and crushing enemy, but a necessary ally. Not sure how the cookie crumbles on that. By increments, we lost all of our ambient lighting. By the time we switched over to the goggles, it was impossible to see your own hand. You want to know what sense picks up the slack and distorts everything incredibly? Hearing. It feels the need to make everything it senses become a monster in the dark. Maybe not quite so relevant when there were fewer monsters in the world, but right now one had to assume everything one heard was a monster. Car suspensions squeaked as zombies shifted around inside their prisons, trying to find ways out. There was the skittering of rodents and other small animals as they scavenged for food, no longer able to rely on the droppings of the most wasteful beings on the planet. Fuck them. Now they had to work at it like the rest of us. Got to imagine rats were pretty pissed off, no longer able to subsidize their existence with potato chips and corndog crust.

  Bird calls entered in from either side; by the time they reached us, they had become how I figured the prehistoric world sounded. In the dark it was hard not to imagine them as fifteen-foot pteranodons. There was a cacophony of noise, but no Payne. She was conspicuously absent. With the goggles on, our sight took on the alien green ghostly landscape that BT disliked. Don’t get me wrong, these devices are an incredible invention, but they are not without their drawbacks. First off is that color. The human brain is used to dealing with vivid and varied colors. When the landscape suddenly becomes that drab, eerie green, the brain, in its ever-determined desire to make sense of whatever input it receives, will resort to creating shadows and hallucinations, specters where none exist. If you are vigilant, you can overcome this flaw, but the bigger one is the complete lack of peripheral vision, and that’s physical. A primary human defense is to spot threats from the side; the goggles are essentially blinders, creating the constant need to swivel your head, which is a diverting and a time-consuming venture.

  “Anything?” BT asked for at least the fifth time in the last ten minutes. I’d answered him civilly enough the first couple of times, then I had to bite back on what I wanted to say. “Yeah, man. They’re all coming–I’m just trying to see how close they can get before I sound the alarm.” I had to remember he was sitting in the complete dark, and I’ve got to tell you, that does something to time, or our perception of it, anyway. Seconds become minutes, minutes become hours, well, you get the picture.

  “Nothing man,” I whispered. The tunnel had been as black as Eliza’s soul for two hours; my eyes and my skull were beginning to fatigue from the goggles, and that was far from the worst of it. I kept looking up to the far right corner where information on what the goggles were receiving was displayed, along with the life of the batteries. I was sitting comfortably at half, but where would I be in another hour or two? Three hours from now, when Payne was sure to show, they would be completely drained. How many of us could she kill in that complete darkness before we were even aware she was among us?

  “I’ll be right back,” I said to BT.

  “You’re shitting me, right? You’re really going to leave me in the dark?”

  “Just got to talk to Winters for a second.”

  “Make him come over here.”

  “I’ll be right back, man.”

  “I hate you,” he hissed as I started to move. “Wait. Sorry. Just in case anything happens I don’t want those to be my last words. I loathe you. Yeah, that has more oomph behind it.”

  Winters turned as he heard me approaching.

  “How you doing?” I asked.

  “Feel the building of an enormous headache coming on.”

  “Yeah, I think I’ve beaten you to that punch. How’s your battery?”

  “Little under half,” he replied, knowing where I was going with this.

  “We should maybe do this in shifts,” I said.

  “I don’t like that; there are too many blind spots for one person to pick up.”

  “They’re all going to be blind spots if we don’t.”

  He mulled that one for a moment. “Half hour shifts then?” he asked.

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’ll take the first. Rest your eyes.” He said as he readjusted his position to be able to more easily see down the tunnel in both directions.

  I then found Deneaux and told her my concern as well.

  “You sure? She could cover the distance before any one of us could scope out the entire tunnel.”

  “Not sure what choices we have. We’re going to have to hope we’re not that unlucky.”

  “Michael, I realize you rely heavily on luck in your life. I am not sure how smart it is to bank everyone else’s on it.”

  “If the well runs dry, there will be no one left to be concerned about it
.” I wasn’t trying to be flippant, I was trying to ignore her words. To acknowledge them was to potentially imbue them with a potent curse or make them somehow true. Words can bring power to thoughts and ideas, one should be careful not to give negative ones any more of a hold over us than they already had.

  “I’m coming back,” I whispered to BT. I could see him doing his best to pierce the darkness with his eyes. Of course, he was not succeeding by straining, and I didn’t want to receive a friendly fire punch to the head.

  “What the hell, man? You go out for a sandwich and a show or something?”

  “I’ve been gone for five minutes.”

  “Really?” he asked. He sounded and looked so sincere I had to believe that was how he felt. “What’s up?” he asked, knowing full well I wouldn’t have left a post without having a good reason.

  “We’re running out of battery time.”

  “Shit. How long?”

  “Couple of hours at the most. Talked to Winters and Deneaux; we’re going to do shifts.”

  “Can’t say I like how vulnerable that is going to leave us.”

  “I know, brother. Don’t know what else to do.”

  “We could leave this tunnel,” he replied.

  “Thought of that, but I can feel it in my bones, BT. She is going to strike tonight. The tunnel keeps her somewhat limited to where she can come from; we won’t be afforded the same advantage outside.”

  “Advantage? Fighting in the dark is somehow an advantage to you? Is there anything you won’t say?”

  “Not much and it’s not the dark that’s the advantage it’s the set-up, odds are she can see pretty good in this and she thinks we won’t be able to,” I told him as I shut down my goggles.

  BT sighed at my words.

  “Wow, this sucks,” I said. I tried to peer through the darkness with the exact results you would expect.

  “You think?” he asked sarcastically.

  Could occasionally hear someone moving around, the murmurings of a baby or two; luckily Ben-Ben was keeping his bacon-loving self quiet. Of us all, he had me the most worried. That thought released some hold I’d kept on my claustrophobia. Suddenly I was doing my best to mentally push against the walls of the tunnel, they had begun to constrict around us. The more I struggled to keep control of the space around me, the harder my heart thumped. It was getting to the point where each beat physically hurt. I was just reaching up to turn the goggles back on when I heard the scrape of metal on metal.