Damage in an Undead Age

by A. M. Geever

  “Doug, wake up.”

  Miranda’s voice through a fog of sleep.

  Something was wrong.

  Doug reached for his Glock as he bolted upright. It was not where he had left it, just outside his half-zipped sleeping bag. He whipped his machete from its sheath. He kept that on his hip no matter how uncomfortable it made sleeping. After all these years, it wasn’t much.

  A woman and three men stood fifteen feet away from him and Miranda. Their firearms, the heavy-duty kind, were pointed at the floor. He saw his Glock and Miri’s handgun and rifle on the table the woman sat on.

  “Hello, sunshine,” she said. “We’ve been waiting over an hour for you two to wake up. Why didn’t you keep a watch?”

  She was pretty, willowy and tall. And strong. He could see that just by looking at her even though she was bundled up against the cold. Silvery-gold blond hair peeked out from under a black knitted hat.

  He glanced over at Miranda, who sat on an overturned filing cabinet a few feet away. She gave him a thumbs-up. They had not harmed her, nor confiscated her machete. But they put her just far enough away that she could not do anything useful, like toss him a hidden weapon. They had waited for them to wake up, presumably so they would not be injured if he or Miranda had weapons that they couldn’t see. Or maybe they were just considerate. Stranger things had happened.

  All speculation aside, they were definitely not amateurs.

  “Usually we do, but it’s pretty deserted out here. It was sloppy of us,” Doug conceded casually, as if he knew her well.

  Doug lowered and resheathed his machete, which was either a fantastic goodwill gesture or a huge-ass mistake. He gestured at the woman and her companions. “Case in point.”

  When she laughed, Doug realized that he knew who she was.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “You’re Skye Swanson.”

  The woman blinked in surprise.

  “And that means what?” Miranda asked.

  Doug looked over to Miranda. “This woman holding us at gunpoint is one of the best women rock climbers in the world.”

  “Guilty as charged,” the woman said. “But I’d like to point out that our guns are not pointed at you.”

  “Don’t tell him who you are,” one of the men beside her snapped.

  “He already knows who I am, Rocco,” she said, then returned her attention to Doug. “It’s been a long time since someone recognized me. And you are?”

  “Father Doug Michel. My friend is Miranda Tucci.”

  “A priest? What are you doing here?” Rocco demanded, his eyes flickering to Miranda. Almost imperceptibly, his posture softened.

  Rocco stood as tall as Skye but was heavy set—linebacker heavy set. His dark eyes were still narrowed in a suspicious squint, but his frown had receded when Doug said he was a priest. He had looked at Miranda when Doug said her last name. So…Catholic, probably Italian-American. His name and dark olive skin looked the part.

  “What we’re doing is none of your fucking business,” Miranda said.

  “Listen up, sweetheart,” Rocco began.

  Miranda cut him off. “I am not your sweetheart.”

  Skye put her hands up and talked over both of them.

  “Enough! Let’s dial back the pissing match a little,” she said, shooting Rocco an annoyed stare. “You don’t want to say, and I don’t blame you.” She shrugged. “But you’re on our patch.”

  “Are any of you in charge?” Doug asked.

  “I am,” Skye said.

  Doug shook his head. “I mean In Charge in charge. You’re well fed, you’re clean. You’re living somewhere nearby, and not rough.”

  Skye’s mouth twisted to the side, then she shook her head and grinned. “Not just a celebrity watcher, huh?” She turned to her companions. “Let’s take them home, guys. They can talk to the commander.”

  Rocco still looked suspicious. The other two stayed silent.

  Doug saw Miranda bristle from the corner of his eye, but she did not say anything. There was nothing to say. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and had been caught with their pants down.

  Doug sighed. “Can you at least reassure me you’re not a bunch of crazy people? I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.”

  “Do we look like crazy people to you?” Skye asked. Then she winked at him. “Trust me.”

  9

  A twinge of queasiness burbled in Doug’s stomach just after they crossed some railroad tracks. He, Miranda, Skye, Rocco, and the two silent types were on their way to where these people lived. Doug and Miranda were in the back of a pickup truck with Rocco and Mister Silence One. Skye drove, joined in the cab by Mister Silence Two.

  He and Miranda had been relieved of their weapons, which Doug had expected. And if they were a bunch of crazies, they were at least nice enough to bring along the bicycles that he and Miranda had found.

  “We’re almost there,” Rocco said.

  “Good,” Doug said, shivering. It had not been a long drive, perhaps twenty minutes, but in the low forties, it did not take long to get chilled to the bone. “I’m getting queasy with this hood over my head.”

  “Me, too,” Miranda added.

  “You know how it is,” Rocco said, sounding unsympathetic but less hostile.

  Doug did know how it was. If their captors turned out to not be New Jerusalem-level crazy, he was fully prepared to be understanding. They turned…right. He had to think about it since he was facing the truck’s tailgate, his back tucked against the cab.

  Rocco said, “Just hang on. The hoods do not come off early if you puke.”

  Less hostile is a relative measure, Doug thought.

  The truck slowed, the brakes squeaking softly, then stopped. Voices shouted a greeting, which were returned by their captors. Then came a sound he could not identify. Creaking, but not the usual creak of a gate. Nor did it have the rolling sound of a garage-style door. What it did have was a faint mechanical whine that Doug couldn’t place. After a minute, there was a loud thud, like a huge door being slammed shut, but hard enough that he could feel it. Then the truck started moving again. The sound of the tires became hollow with the repetitive clunking sound that tires used to make when they rolled over adjacent sections of concrete on an interstate highway. But this rate of repetition was quick, more like a road made of stone Belgian Block, but not that bumpy. What the fuck was it?

  He felt Miranda lean against his shoulder.

  “Drawbridge?”

  “Could be,” he said. It made sense. The creaky, metallic whine might have been winches, and the thud had been made by something big.

  The truck resumed its route but at a much slower rate of speed. Gravel crunched under the tires. There were less bumps and jolts, so a well-maintained road compared to those outside their compound. Casual greetings rang out, louder than those at the entrance. The voices faded as the truck passed. Maybe because people had seen the captives? That could go either way. People were not accustomed to seeing people in hoods, or they knew what horrible fate lay in store. Doug had followed Skye Swanson’s meteoric rise in the professional rock-climbing world. She had always seemed down-to-earth and nice, not creepy, and had been friendly enough while taking them captive. He decided to trust his gut and go with not creepy.

  The brakes squealed again as the truck stopped. The cab doors opened and closed.

  “You can take off the hoods,” Skye said, her voice on the far side of the vehicle.

  Doug pulled the black hood off, squinting for a second. Beside him, Miranda did likewise. Skye stood near Miranda.

  “Hop out, stretch your legs,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  They hopped over the side of the truck bed under Rocco’s watchful eye. Miranda whistled.

  “Nice setup,” she said before blowing on her hands.

  Doug did a three-sixty, taking in their surroundings. The pointed green metal roof of a building peeked over the top of overgrown shrubbery and younger trees straight ahead of them. Mayb
e on purpose, maybe not. A line of huge hardwood trees ringed the parking lot as far as Doug could see, with no discernible fence or barrier beyond.

  On this side of the overgrown landscaping were display boards sheltered with the same green metal roofing, with benches below and several light poles. A flagpole sans flag sat at the end of a concrete walk in good repair. A green-and-white sign warning that dogs were not allowed was next to a full bike rack. Miranda pointed out two weathered six-by-six stubs sticking an inch out of the ground at the corner of the sidewalk. They had cut down whatever sign had been there, presumably to make the location harder to identify.

  They were in an old park, a big one.

  People walked by—young and old, men and women, a group of children minded by two teenage boys. All were openly curious, but no one engaged beyond a returned smile or nod. Within minutes, foot traffic picked up. Word had spread. Their method of arrival or that they were outsiders, or both, appeared to make them news. Rocco chatted with a woman just a few feet from Doug, relaxed but watchful. Mr. Silent One and Two leaned against the truck bed behind them.

  Miranda leaned in close. “No one seems scared. I’m not picking up creepy undercurrents.”

  “Me neither,” Doug answered. “It helps that we’re not coming off an adrenaline rush like when Finn and Dalton got us through those zombies.”

  “Makes me trust my first impressions more,” Miranda agreed, picking up on his line of thinking.

  Doug sighed. “Either way, we’re at their mercy.”

  Skye came into view farther down the walkway.

  “Rocco,” she called. “The commander’s coming. Wants us to wait in her office.”

  Miranda and Doug glanced at one another. A female commander. Not unheard of, and usually a good sign.

  “You heard the lady,” Rocco said, gesturing to where Skye waited for them.

  Ten minutes later, the chill had started to loosen its grip on Doug’s bones. They sat in the commander’s office, the smallest of such rooms in the hallway of offices at the park’s Visitor & Nature Center. The room felt cramped despite the high ceilings and skylights because of everything packed into it. It looked like maps were affixed all over one wall, but Doug could not be certain since they were covered. Bookcases lined the wall behind them where Rocco had parked himself. Skye stood in the doorway, making small talk with passersby while acting as a surreptitious gatekeeper. Doug got the impression there was more foot traffic than usual.

  He and Miranda sat facing the small desk, their backs to the bookshelves, but Doug had taken a moment to check out the books and binders before taking his seat. Entire shelves were devoted to organic farming methods, irrigation systems, solar energy systems design and installation, and a few volumes of the City of Beaverton building code. Books on law, political theory, governance, consensus building, and communication styles were also represented. Stacks of paper, pencils, and bound journals littered the commander’s desk, along with a picture of a black mixed-breed dog, its wagging tail a blur as it looked up into the camera.

  “Hi, Anna,” Skye said.

  Doug perked up and looked to where Skye stood in the doorway. She pushed herself off the jamb to stand straight. Perhaps this was the commander, since Skye was not hurrying her along.

  “I hear you brought home some strays,” a voice said.

  A short, slight woman followed Skye into the room and shut the door. Doug got to his feet; Miranda followed his lead. The woman pushed her short brown hair streaked with gray out of her hazel eyes and looked up at Doug.

  “No one told me you were so tall,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Anna Smith, pleased to meet you. I help run this place.”

  Mid-fifties, Doug guessed. Anna’s hand was small in Doug’s, but her grip was firm. Direct eye contact with an air of easy authority. Sure she ‘helped’ run the place.

  “I’m Doug Michel,” Doug said. “And this is Miranda Tucci.”

  After introductions were completed, Anna Smith sat behind her desk. She shifted a stack of papers to see better, triggering an avalanche.

  “That’s what I get for trying to organize things,” she muttered. When Skye crouched to pick them up, she waved her off. “Leave it, Skye. I’ll get them when we’re done here.” She looked Doug and Miranda over. “I hear you’re a priest.”

  “I am,” Doug said. He grinned. “Catholic. Or as I like to say, The One True Church.”

  Smith smiled.

  “And what are you?” she asked, shifting her attention to Miranda.

  “I’m a farmer,” said Miranda.

  Anna Smith nodded. “You look like a shit kicker to me, but the two aren’t mutually exclusive. So. What are you two doing in our neck of the woods? They tell me you were looking for solar components. Where are you hoping to set up shop?”

  She doesn’t fuck around, Doug thought. She did not seem crazy, and her bookshelf indicated someone with a genuine interest in governance, not power. He decided to play it as straight as he could.

  “We’re over at the vaccine institute. We’re planning to stay, but only short term. A few months, hopefully.”

  “You’re a scientist?” Smith asked.

  “Yes,” Doug said. He was, after all. Just not the kind that worked on vaccines.

  “And you’re doing medical research?”

  “The kind that needs a lab, and that’s all I’m going to say. No offense, but I don’t know you people.”

  Smith nodded, then leaned back in her chair. “I appreciate your position, but that’s not an answer I can live with. What kind of research? A vaccine, maybe?”

  Doug shrugged.

  “For the zombie virus?” she prompted. “Maybe the flu?”

  Doug stayed silent.

  “Is anyone else with you?”

  Doug shook his head. “No. Just the two of us.”

  “This is your lucky day, Father Doug Michel,” Smith said. “I’m a biologist. I’m gonna go out on a limb here, but I can probably be of some assistance with whatever vaccine you’re working on. You are at a vaccine institute, after all.”

  Fuck.

  Aloud Doug said, “That’s a generous offer.”

  “But you’re going to have to tell me what you’re working on.”

  Silence filled the room. Doug glanced at Miranda, who had become very interested in her fingernails. After a minute or two, Smith sighed. She leaned forward, putting her elbows on her desk. The look in her eye reminded Doug of his most unfavorite high school teacher, Brother Anthony. Brother Anthony had been an excellent math teacher but had no use for class clowns like Doug Michel.

  “Okay, Doug. Let’s cut the bullshit. I did not become a full bird colonel in the United States Air Force without picking a few things up. We’ve had eyes on you for days now. There are three of you, at least. And if your pal’s deep interest in the floor the whole time we’ve been talking is any indication, she has no poker face, and you are no scientist.”

  The woman did not miss much; he had to give her that.

  “I am a scientist,” he said, relenting. “An astrophysicist.”

  “Ah,” Smith said, sounding pleased. “A rocket scientist. Now we’re getting somewhere. So the other guy is working on your vaccine.”

  “He’s doing the research.”

  “For?”

  “No offense, Commander, but I am not giving it up on the first date. I appreciate your position, I do, but that’s as much as I am willing to say.”

  Smith stared at him, hard. “Are you at liberty to share his name?”

  This question, more than all the others, was a problem. If Doug was sure of anything, he was sure that a community as well organized as this one seemed to be had at least a passing knowledge of what had happened in San Jose with the vaccine. People he had come across in remote parts of the wilderness had often heard about it. Smith would know Mario’s name and what everyone thought he had done. It would undermine any credibility they had built with her so far.

  “Jame
s Gideon,” Miranda said.

  “Or Jimmy, if you want to annoy him,” Doug added, sounding far calmer than he felt.

  A tidal wave of relief crashed through Doug’s body. She had no poker face, but if the stakes were high enough, Miranda could lie with the best of them.

  Smith leaned back in her chair. “I’m happy we can have a productive conversation, even if it took a while.”

  He knew it was coming as soon as Smith relaxed back into her chair.

  Smith continued. “We have to verify all of this, of course. I’m sure you understand.”

  Doug nodded. “I do.”

  If Doug were in Smith’s shoes, he would be verifying their story, too. The problem was they had to keep Jeremiah’s existence a secret. Maybe his initial assessment of Smith and this community was correct. Maybe they were what they appeared to be—decent people just trying to survive. But Jeremiah repelled zombies. He was the only person who did, in Doug’s experience with the undead. It was harrowing to use him to walk through a horde, but it beat the alternative. Even decent people did bad things to survive, and in a world as hostile as theirs had become, Jeremiah offered a unique survival advantage.

  Anyone could want such a thing for their own. Doug understood, he really did, but they needed Jeremiah. At least until the vaccine was finished. Now they had an even higher tightrope to walk. One with a frayed net.

  “Skye,” Smith said. “Are you willing to take Father Doug here over to the Institute and check it out?”

  “Please,” Doug said. “Call me Doug.”

  Skye said, “Sure thing, Anna.”

  Smith nodded. “Okay. Doug it is. You’ll be staying here, Ms. Tucci, until—”

  “No,” Miranda said at the exact time Doug said, “That’s not happening.”

  Smith gave it a few seconds, then said, “Ms. Tucci will stay, just to keep things honest. She will not be harmed. She won’t even be confined. She’ll have minders but will be our guest.”

  “You mean your hostage,” Miranda countered.

  “In the technical sense, yes,” Smith said. “But my read on you two is that while you aren’t entirely forthcoming, your motive is an abundance of caution. I understand that. Mine is the same.”