There were a lot more than he had estimated.
Chapter Seven: It’s The Job
The stairwell, the path she had taken into and out of work for years, the safest place she knew in the world, now terrified Michelle, and she stopped halfway up. Going up the stairs meant subjecting herself to zombies and if she was honest with herself, a likely death. But going back down the stairs meant two things: abandoning Stacy, and locking herself in with Madison’s body.
At that thought, Michelle continued on her way up the stairs at twice the speed.
Donnie was already at the top when she got there. “The zombies come, I go upstairs,” Donnie said when Michelle joined him. “Apparently this is what I do.”
Michelle nodded. That was usually enough for that sort of conversation. She paused, just long enough for Donnie to change the subject.
“So… once we go out there, what’s next?”
“My car,” Michelle said. “I’m parked a couple blocks away, on Winthrop.”
Donnie nodded. That was good; because he bicycled to work, his own car was close to five miles away. “And then… on to Cape Cod?”
“If we can,” Michelle said with a nod. “If we can, that’s what we do. We’ll see how far the roads are passable.”
Donnie absorbed this. He put his left hand on the door to push it open and, without thinking about it, raised his right to his face, then down to his crotch, before catching himself. He hadn’t been religious in two decades, but some things still were almost instinctive. He pushed the door open, and the two of them went out.
“Thank God!” came a breathless voice from just to Donnie’s right as he stepped into the daylight.
Donnie and Michelle both spun toward the sound, guns drawn. They saw no zombies there; instead, Nick Fillion, the security guard, stood a few feet away, on the other side of the broken-out window of the small store that had once existed there. His gun, too, was drawn, held in a shaking hand.
“Nick?” she said, stepping forward and stowing her gun. Besides Nick, she saw no other moving bodies, human or otherwise, on the street. There were a few dead bodies around, including one lying face-down in a guard’s uniform identical to the one Nick was wearing. Seeing Nick there was a surprise, though—considering the zombies downstairs, Michelle assumed Nick had been attacked and killed or had fled at the first sign of the undead. It was the only guess she had left as to how the zombies had gotten inside. Yet here he was, still in his position as sentry. “You’re still here?”
“It’s the job,” he said, his voice shaking as much as the gun in his hand. He stood up straight and jumped across the empty window and back onto the sidewalk, still looking nervous. “Part of what we signed on for. The Z’s come, we stay as lookout, as watchdog for… for fucking ever, I guess. They never told us how long we’d have to wait, just said, ‘If they come, you stay on guard.’ Probably should have asked, but I never thought they’d come back.”
“So you’ve just been waiting out here?” Donnie asked.
“It’s the job,” Nick repeated. “Soon as I realized they were back—four or five of them came around the corner a couple hours ago, be damned if I know where they came from—I went in there and hid out. Made sure none got in.”
“But… they did!” Michelle cried. “They were down there. Killed—” The words caught in Michelle’s throat, and Donnie finished for her.
“They killed everyone down there, best we can tell,” Donnie said. “Lambert, Madison, Cal, everyone… but us.”
“I know,” Nick whispered, nodding to the body in the guard’s uniform. “Thought it was all safe down there, until he came running out.”
“Who is that?” Donnie asked.
“Ben. From downstairs. I was hiding out in there, and he came sprinting out. I thought he was coming to check on me, make sure I was okay, and called to him.” Nick flinched. “But when he turned… those eyes….”
“You had to shoot him,” Michelle said, trying to be comforting. “You had to, Nick. It’s not your fault.”
“So, wait,” Donnie said, sounding confused. “If none of them got down there, where the hell did the Z’s come from? How did they get down there? And who the hell was that little girl?” Michelle’s mind had already landed on the little girl, as well.
“That one I know,” Nick said. “You know Lindsay Quinn? Worked in the commissary down there? She brought her daughter today. Said she had to, whatever reason. That’s how she got in. But Ben checked them both. Ben checked. However the infection got down there, it didn’t come through my door.”
Michelle and Donnie both fell silent. If the zombies hadn’t come in through the door, and no one had been infected when they entered, Michelle couldn’t fathom what had happened.
But what did that mean? Could people spontaneously turn into zombies, without a bite? As far as Michelle knew, no one had ever pinpointed exactly how the 2010 outbreak had begun. Based on what she was learning, she couldn’t think of another possibility outside of the spontaneous transformation, which if anything was more chilling than the guesses she had. Nick said no zombies had come in or out—other than Ben, who had only made it a few feet—yet there were undeniably zombies downstairs, and there was clear evidence of them in the street. Either they arose spontaneously, or Nick had fallen asleep at the door long enough for some zombies to sneak by. Only one of those seemed possible.
“What are you guys planning?” Nick asked, nodding to their packs. “Where are you going to go?”
“Hyannis,” Donnie said.
“Hyannis…Massachusetts?” Nick repeated, incredulous. “Why in hell…?”
“Stacy Crane,” Michelle said. “Madison’s daughter. Before she died, she….”
“She asked us to go get her,” Donnie finished, leaving out the details of how they had found Madison.
“That’s noble of you guys,” Nick said, with a tone that indicated he didn’t really think that, “but going across New England for one girl? That’s suicide. You don’t have to do it. It’d be insane.”
Donnie put his hands up, signaling Nick to stop talking. “Michelle’s going,” he said. “No matter what. And I’m not going to….”
“Then she’s an idiot,” Nick said, giving Michelle a look. “Plain and simple.”
“Nick,” Donnie said in as stern a voice as he could muster. “Stacy was… is Michelle’s stepdaughter.”
Nick stopped, looking like he was trying to draw a family tree in his mind. “Wait… Michelle and Stacy’s dad…?”
“No.”
“Then…”
“Madison and I were married,” Michelle said, finding her voice at least. “She was my wife. So I’m sorry you don’t think it’s a good idea, but I am going to find my daughter. With or without you or your approval.”
Nick froze. After a silent moment, he nodded. “Where’s your car?” he asked, his gaze still on Ben’s unmoving body.
“Winthrop.”
“You know to stay off the interstate, use back roads?”
“We do.”
“How much did you pack?”
“Knives. Ammo. Meal bars. Water. Much as we could carry.”
Nick nodded again. Then he reached under his shirt, and pulled out a small cross on a chain. “And do you have…?”
Donnie had to prevent himself from rolling his eyes while Michelle nodded.
“Good,” Nick said.
Michelle stepped past the two men and turned left, toward Winthrop Place. She didn’t want to waste any more time than necessary. For one thing, the sooner she got to the car, the sooner she could get to Stacy. For another, the sooner she got to the car, the sooner there was one extra barrier between the zombies and her.
As she walked away, Michelle heard Donnie fall in step behind her. A second or two later, Nick’s footsteps followed as well.
“What are you going to do?” Michelle heard Donnie ask Nick. “Are you coming with us?”
“With you?” Nick echoed. “To Cape Cod? Y
eah, I think I’ll be fine here.”
“So what are you going to do?” Michelle asked.
“I’ll find somewhere,” Nick said. “Somehow. ‘The Lord will rescue me from every evil attack and will bring me safely to his heavenly kingdom.’”
Michelle recognized the verse as a line from 2 Timothy 4:18 and, despite her hurry, she slowed and smiled. She remembered herself quickly though, and sped up again.
Donnie, just behind her, noticed the steps, but said nothing. He had also recognized the verse, and again decided to let it pass. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, something appreciated hearing it stated in an appropriate situation, but the majority of his brain told him it was a fancily dressed fortune cookie.
The three of them turned the corner onto Broad Street. The first building they approached on their side of the road was a large church, looming over the small road. Without thinking about it, Donnie veered right, off the sidewalk and out into the road, putting more distance between himself and the house of worship.
“What was that?” Nick asked once they had cleared the church and Donnie stepped back onto the sidewalk.
“What do you mean?”
“Donnie, there might as well have been a force field around the church when you went by. You took a berth wide enough for a semi truck.”
“Did I? I didn’t even realize it.”
Nick stopped and eyed Donnie suspiciously. At the end of the examination, Donnie felt fairly certain Nick had come to an unfavorable conclusion. “Donnie,” he said in an accusatory tone, “could I see your Bible?”
Donnie didn’t stop his eyes from rolling this time. Michelle and Lambert had always been religious without proselytizing, without condemning Donnie and other atheists for their decisions, he had encountered. But there were just as many—Nick included, it seemed—who felt the Donnies of the world were no better than the zombies, had been the ones to anger God to the point of sending the zombies in the first place. In their defense, Donnie acknowledged to himself, there were just as many atheists who treated the devout as true idiots for their beliefs. And, he mused, that wasn’t all that different from the world before 2010. Some things never change.
“I don’t have one, Nick,” Donnie said, speeding up to catch Michelle.
“Care to explain that?” Nick said, not losing a step.
“Not really.”
“Try.”
Donnie sighed. Nick wasn’t going to leave it alone. That much was clear. “Fine,” he said without turning his head. He’d tell the story if he had to, but he wasn’t going to let Nick slow him down. “2010, I was dead. Z’s all around me, and I was sick as a dog. Didn’t stand a chance. Had maybe ten seconds at most, and nowhere to go. Standing on a sidewalk in the middle of the city. Nowhere to go. Nowhere.
“Then I heard this, this gunshot. Turned around, there was a Z not two steps away, on the ground, hole in his head. Looked toward the shot, and there was this church.” Out of the corner of his eye, Donnie saw Michelle flinch, her head turning toward the one he had just avoided. “No, no, not that one,” he said. “New York City. But yeah, there was this church, and the priest was standing out front, gun in his hand. He had shot the Z, and he herded me into the church. That place was stocked, man. Upstairs, had enough food, supplies. Looked like our storeroom back in the office. Holed up in that church throughout.”
Nick nodded. Donnie didn’t often talk about his experiences in 2010, but he knew Nick’s story. Nick, barely a teenager in 2010, had been working at a church potluck and bake sale against his will. He had been his family’s resident goth loner, anti-church, anti-religion, anti-everything, Nick said, until the outbreak. It was during that time, though, that Nick, having lost his father and two brothers, hid out in the church basement with his mother, the preacher and a handful of members of the congregation.
“There was no way we had enough food,” Nick always said of the events. “No way. I mean, it was a potluck. A bake sale. We had some brownies. Hot dogs. Lemonade. Nothing non-perishable. Should have starved in a week. But we stayed holed up the whole time. Never even felt hungry.”
In recounting the story, Nick always drew parallels to the Feeding of the 5,000, to how faith and prayer could supply when natural means couldn’t. Donnie, on the other hand, always heard that story as the tale of how an adolescent boy ate stale food for a while and then glorified the memory.
“Sounds like you had just about the best 2010 you could ask for,” Nick said, his tone judgmental. “Sounds like about five and a half billion people would kill for that experience. Literally,” he added, his voice dripping with malice.
“Maybe so,” Donnie said. “Maybe I did get lucky, Nick.” For the first time since passing the church, Donnie stopped and looked at the guard. “In fact, of course I did. But that’s all it was: luck. There was no divine intervention, no ‘God’s will’ at work.”
“There was, Donnie,” Michelle said from several feet ahead; she hadn’t stopped when he did. “There was. You just didn’t see it. But how can you have lived through that, had a holy man save your life, and not seen it? You saw what you were looking for.”
“I wasn’t looking for it?” Donnie said, trying not to get annoyed with Michelle. She was far more important to him than Nick. “Michelle, do you know what I was doing in New York City? I was in a cab, just back from Aruba.” Donnie heard Nick scoff and went on. “I was there on a mission trip. I was faithful, Nick. I was. I was the best Christian you’d ever want to meet. Prayed to God every night, every morning. But what good was that? Sure, I survived. But, like I told you, our hideout? It was upstairs. That meant I spent the whole outbreak watching. Saw things worse than anyone should have to. Parents eating their children’s bodies. Children eating each other. And why was the priest carrying a gun? I mean, if there’s anyone who shouldn’t have had a gun back then, wasn’t it him?
“So, yeah, I survived. Hooray for me. But there was no reason I could see—then or now—why I should have been one of the ones to survive when women, children, better people than me had to die. So they could go to heaven? So those of us that survived could value our lives more, turn to God more, be better people? I mean, if you say so, but Z’s seem like an extreme measure.
“I’m sorry, but the only thing that made sense to me—the only thing that makes sense to me, is that I was wrong. There’s no God out there pulling some fancy strings. And any god that would choose zombies as his method of enforcement isn’t a god I feel much allegiance to. I mean, I’d love it if there were. It would make a lot of this world easier to handle. But wanting something to be true doesn’t make it true, you know?”
“So what do you believe in, Donnie?” Nick asked, still with a spit in his voice.
“What do I believe? I believe that out of all eleventy billion planets in all the kajillion galaxies out there, one of them was bound to be the perfect distance from the perfect star to provide the perfect atmosphere for life to develop. I believe humans, like dinosaurs and amoeba and whatever else before them, are subject to the waxing and waning that comes with planetary dominance. I believe that, twenty years ago, we had a period of waning, just like we did during the World Wars and the Black Plague. We’ve been waxing ever since, and today, for some reason, we started waning again.
“And you know what else I believe? I believe that what goes around comes around. So if there is a God out there, and he, for whatever reason, did decide to send the zombies down here to, I don’t know, teach us a lesson, then that is one hell of a hit his karma took. Because that’s just a bullshit tactic. So if there is a god, he’s due for a whole load of shit for sending those things. Twice.”
The three of them walked in silence until they turned onto Winthrop. Donnie saw Michelle’s car about fifty yards away when Nick finally spoke.
“You’re going to have a lot to answer for someday.”
“Maybe he will, Nick,” Michelle said, not wanting to continue this conversation any more than she had to. She knew there
was going to be no changing Donnie’s mind, no making him know what she knew—at least, not in the time it would take to get to the car. “Maybe he will. But maybe he won’t. I mean, if ever there were extenuating circumstances, the Z’s would be it, wouldn’t they? I don’t know, and I hope Donnie never has to pay the price for his beliefs, but I don’t think it’s our place to tell him that.”
Nick nodded, clearly annoyed. By this point, they had reached the car, and Michelle opened the driver’s door. Immediately, the repetitive ding-ding-ding noise started, letting them know that the keys were in the ignition—theft in 2030 was not nearly the worry it had once been, and Michelle rarely bothered to secure her vehicle.
Donnie opened the passenger door and turned to Nick. “Are you going with us?”
Nick shot Donnie an annoyed look and shook his head. “No thanks,” he said. “I don’t have a kid in Hyannis.”
Michelle closed her eyes. Nick was right; he didn’t have a kid in Hyannis. Neither, she thought sadly, did she. Neither did any living person she knew. Still, she was going.
“So what are you going to do?” Donnie asked.
“Who knows?” Nick said. “I’ll find somewhere to hole up. I’m a survivor.”
“What about the office?” Michelle asked, trying to will herself not to think about Madison. “Didn’t you say you had to stay there no matter what? Isn’t that ‘the job’?”
“Screw the job,” Nick said. “The only job now is to survive.”
Chapter Eight: Fast Food
The gun in Celia’s hand felt huge, unwieldy. When her father had shown her how to shoot, how to carry a gun, how to clean it, how to reload, it had felt heavy, sure. But this was a new weight. Like the gun in her hand had gained about fifteen pounds in the past few minutes.
After Life | Book 1 | After Life Page 11
