“No, sergeant,” Olivia said. “We’re on a date.”
“A what?” he demanded.
“A date,” she said.
“A date? Think you’re a joker, eh?” the sergeant said, his voice dripping with disapproval.
“We worked the kitchens last night,” Olivia said, “and this morning, and now our shift’s over, so we came to the ornamental gardens on a date. Life goes on, sergeant. Even in a crisis.”
The sergeant’s lips twitched as his brain searched for a vaguely reasonable objection, before settling into a thin smile. “The ornamental gardens are off limits. So is the golf course. You want a date, go have it elsewhere.”
“He doesn’t approve of romance,” Olivia said, as they walked away, angling towards a recently rutted path that, in turn, led towards the entrance.
“He’s the kind of soldier who disapproves of children,” Pete said. “Bet he thinks all babies should be born in uniform.”
“Babies? Now that’s definitely not first-date talk,” Olivia said.
“I… um… oh, sorry.”
“I’m kidding,” Olivia said, taking his arm. “And who cares what the sergeant thinks? Who cares what anyone thinks? We’re all in this together now. Everyone alive. We’re all saving the world, one day at a time, and we’ve done our bit for today, so why shouldn’t we…” She trailed into silence.
Ahead, emerging from a two-metre-deep trench, a steel lattice was being constructed. In the trench were a gang of civilian workers.
“It’s him,” Olivia whispered. “It’s Mack.”
“Who’s who?” Pete asked, looking at the crowd of construction crew.
“That’s him,” Olivia said, and without any further warning, stormed forward “Hey! Hey, Mack!” she called, pointing at the crowd who turned to look at the approaching, angry soldier.
Before Olivia had managed another five metres, one of the mud-coated labourers pointed back at Olivia, and yelled. “That’s her! That’s the murderer. She’s the killer. She’s one I was telling you about.”
Olivia stopped in her tracks. “What?”
“She’s crazy,” Mack said. “She killed my girlfriend. Killed my bro.”
“Nicole wasn’t your girlfriend,” Olivia said, wrong-footed.
“See?” Mack said, turning to the crowd. “Oh, sure. It was an accident. The gun went off. But only because she was acting like a lunatic. Completely off her head. Totally loco.”
“I… No.” Olivia turned to Pete. “That’s Mack.”
“Who killed Nicole?” Pete asked.
“She killed her,” Mack said. “She killed Nicole and Dante. We had food. We had a plan. We could have made it. All of us. But she lost it, and they died. I almost died, too. Barely got out of South Bend alive. Look,” he added, raising his hands. “The past is the past, right? What’s done is done. I forgive you.”
Pete had left his rifle with Corrie, who’d said she’d find someone who knew how to clean it, but he had his sidearm, and so, still, did Olivia, now secured in a professional holster attached to her belt. Her fingers fumbled as she undid the button.
“Whoa! No,” Pete said grabbing her hand. “Don’t.”
“Who said you could stop work?” the sergeant bawled, storming over. “Get back to it!”
“He killed my best friend,” Olivia said.
“She killed my girlfriend,” Mack said.
“Hand off your weapon, soldier,” the sergeant said. “And you better explain.”
“Sure. Fine,” Olivia said, shaking Pete’s arm free. “But I’ll explain it to Commissioner Peterson because I’m filing charges.”
Two hours later, Pete and Olivia sat in a booth in the donut-cop-shop, waiting for Peterson to return. She’d stormed across the town, back to the green zone, and to the temporary police station, Pete struggling to keep up. She’d informed the commissioner about Mack being a labourer at the ornamental gardens, and insisted she be allowed to press charges. The police officer had taken the briefest of statements, then left, leaving Pete and Olivia alone.
“What happened in South Bend?” Pete asked. “It wasn’t just that Mack shot Nicole. Something else happened. Something at the university.”
“Sort of. I mean, yes,” she said. “Yes it did. But… it’s complicated.”
“Tell me,” Pete said. “I think this is one of those things you’ll have to tell me sooner or later.”
Olivia sighed. “Yeah, maybe. Okay, you know how I told you about going up to the cabin, meeting Naomi and Conrad? How they died, and I ended up driving their RV, with Tyler and Robyn aboard, back to South Bend? It was the day after. That’s when it happened.”
24th February
Chapter 24 - The Destruction of Notre Dame
South Bend
It was still less than a week since the televised horrors of Manhattan had upended her world, but Olivia had already forgotten how comfortable, and comforting, a real bed could be. Though she was reluctant to get up, Rufus was sitting at the bedside, licking her hand for attention.
“Is it morning?” she asked.
Rufus yipped.
“Don’t get snippy with me, mister,” she said, to which Rufus replied with another enthusiastic bark.
Yesterday she’d met Tyler and Robyn, and their parents, Naomi and Conrad. It was only one day since the two adults had died, leaving her with the responsibility for their children. One day since the cabin had burned down. It already seemed like a distant memory.
She’d driven the RV back to South Bend, aiming for Nora’s house because it was familiar and had running water. The drive had been fraught at the time, but in hindsight, without incident. On arriving, they’d retreated inside. She’d barely begun to wonder what next when she’d spotted the light moving around the house opposite, belonging to Jenny. Inside, she’d found the twins, Dwayne and Wayde. And she’d found Rufus. Rather, Dwayne and Wayde had found Rufus hanging around outside Nora’s house.
Now they were hiding in a different property, three blocks to the south. A house with real beds and a solid roof. Sadly, there was no power and no running water. Not anymore.
“And there you are,” Jenny said, scolding her for the benefit of the children as Olivia entered the kitchen. “The last up, and we’ve all been awake for hours. You can help me with the washing up. Kids, we need some bags. Dwayne, Wayde, off you go. Tyler, Robyn, go on. Did you sleep well?” she added, turning to Olivia.
“It was wonderful sleeping in a real bed,” Olivia said, adding, when the children were out of earshot, “but I suppose I shouldn’t get too used to it. And it’s even more wonderful waking up in a house full of friendly faces.”
“And if I’d known it was you traipsing in and out of Nora’s with that dog, I’d have said hello. I thought you were just another looter. And a nasty one, to leave her dog behind when she fled.”
“Rufus didn’t seem to want to come,” Olivia said.
“Oh, he’s a strange one, that mutt, and no mistake,” Jenny said. “He has a will of his own, and a plan to match.”
“At least one of us has a plan, then,” Olivia said, as she attacked the plate of eggs. “These are perfect.”
“They’re not. They were supposed to be waffles,” Jenny said wistfully. “No power, you see. I made do with the barbecue grill. The waffles were a disaster, but Marge liked her eggs, so we’ve got plenty of those.”
“Marge? Did she own this house?”
“Marge Robinson,” Jenny said. “We played bridge together. Do you know how?”
“Sorry. I can just about manage blackjack.”
“I’ll teach you,” Jenny said.
“What happened to Marge?” Olivia asked.
“That is a very good question,” Jenny said. “But her daughter has a chicken farm just east of Teegarden. She’ll have gone there.”
“Maybe we should, too,” Olivia said.
“I considered it,” Jenny said. “But no, it’s not far enough away. This is going to be the last j
ourney. Wherever we end up, that’s where we’ll stay. A chicken farm slap bang in the middle of America doesn’t appeal. No, we should go west. To Oregon if we can, Canada if we must. We’ll know how far we can reach once we know what state the roads are in.”
Olivia nodded. “Then we’ll take the RV, but we need diesel.”
“We might be okay for food,” Jenny said, opening the pantry. “Marge always did insist on overstocking.”
“Then I’ll go back to the RV to get the keys,” Olivia said. “I left them there last night, and that’s just the kind of vehicle someone might steal.”
“The children can pack the food,” Jenny said. “I’ll come with you.”
“To make sure I don’t leave?”
“To make sure we both get back,” Jenny said.
Leaving Rufus to watch the children, and Dwayne watching the windows, they left by the garden door. Jenny had her shotgun. Olivia had her crowbar, with the handgun once again in the tasselled shoulder bag. It was supremely less convenient than a holster. To her mind, it was less threatening, too. After her run-in at the fortified gas station in Bangor, where she’d arrived just after the RV, she knew that most people were terrified. Just like her. Appearances might not matter to the undead, but looking peaceful to strangers might save her some grief.
They walked briskly the short distance, with Jenny keeping her eyes ahead while Olivia looked around, watching the houses, looking for signs of life. Of movement. There was none. Not until they reached the RV.
Olivia grabbed Jenny’s arm, moving to the partial cover of a white picket fence shaded by a towering green ash.
“That’s Marge Robinson,” Jenny whispered, using the shotgun to point at the zombie leaning against the RV’s engine.
Dressed in sweatpants, trainers, and a tight-fitting ski-suit that had been ripped to shreds on the left side. Over Marge’s right shoulder hung a heavy-duty leather bag that had survived the mauling she must have received from the zombie that had infected her.
Jenny lowered her shotgun. “Are we alone, dear?” she whispered.
“Utterly,” Olivia said, sparing a quick glance around, but her ears heard nothing. No birds. No cats. No people. Just the wind whistling in the trees, and the zombie clawing at the RV’s paintwork.
“Quietly, then,” Jenny said, and pulled a large wrench from her bag.
It wasn’t the most obvious tool to use as a weapon, but it was no worse than Olivia’s pry-bar. A forgotten memory surfaced, of a blistering Tuesday last summer, when the store was as empty as their appointment book. She and Pete had watched Romero movies on a tablet propped against the register, discussing apocalyptic weapons. Spears were their favourite. After guns.
She shook her head, clearing it, and focused on Marge Robinson. What she and Pete hadn’t discussed, and what she and Jenny should certainly at least have addressed, was precisely how to attack this zombie. Before, with the undead trucker, and with Conrad, the fight had begun before she’d had time to think. Jenny solved the dilemma by whistling.
Marge spun around, her arms moving as if they were on string. Her neck jerked, her teeth snapped. Her hand scraped and scratched against the paintwork, tearing flecks free.
Jenny hesitated.
Marge didn’t.
The zombie lurched forward, arms punching out, grasping and reaching. Jenny stepped back. Olivia swung the crowbar two-handed. Carbon steel slammed into bone, snapping Marge’s arm. The zombie didn’t notice, still snapping and swiping as it spun forty degrees. Jenny swung her wrench, breaking the zombie’s other arm while Olivia stepped to the right, changing her angle, swinging low, this time cleaving the crowbar down on the zombie’s leg. Again, bone snapped. This time, Marge toppled. Sprawling to the ground, she began crawling and rolling, thrashing her broken limbs until Olivia stabbed the crowbar’s chisel-tip through her eye.
“It was harder than I thought,” Jenny said.
“That was your… your first zombie?”
“First time killing someone I knew,” Jenny said.
“A reply which begs a question or three,” Olivia said, though she didn’t ask them. “The RV looks okay. Tyres are fine.” She stepped back, then bent down, careful not to touch the asphalt where the zombie’s blood had oozed. “No damage underneath.”
She went to the cab and tried the ignition. The lights flashed, the needles danced. “Looks fine,” she said.
“Then we have wheels,” Jenny said. “Ah, it’s a shame. Poor old Marge.” She gave a sigh, then seemed to shrug off the horror. “How much fuel is left?”
“Ten miles, give or take,” Olivia said.
“The university had a groundskeeper’s compound near the stadium,” Jenny said. “Carly broke in there once.”
“That’s what she went to prison for?” Olivia asked.
“No, that was for doing it a second time. First time was a prank. Second time was a robbery.”
“Ah.”
“But it was a long time ago,” Jenny said. “She’s a different woman now. A grown woman with two kids, who should, by rights, be with her.”
“You said she was in Oregon?”
“At a job interview. Hence why I had Dwayne and Wayde. She got the job, too. Not that it matters now. The boys think she’ll return. I think they’re right, but that doesn’t mean we can stay here, waiting for her. We can get the diesel from Notre Dame.”
“They had a pump?”
“They had a roadblock of tractors,” Jenny said. “About twenty of them, I think. That was a while ago, of course, and their tanks will hardly be full, but it’ll be enough for us to make a start. Now, tell me, how are you on a bicycle?”
The bicycles, two of them, came from Marge’s garage, which was festooned with barely used exercise equipment and hobby-sport paraphernalia.
“Bit of a hoarder, was our Marge,” Jenny said as they wheeled the bikes out onto the road. “Liked to try things, but never found her passion. Dwayne, you keep an eye on the others. And you keep an eye on that dog. If he seems nervous, that means trouble. We’ll be back in two hours. Olivia, give him the keys.”
“To the RV? Do you know how to drive?” Olivia asked.
Dwayne gave an exasperated roll of his eyes.
“He knows how to crash, but he won’t do that again. If we’re not back by morning, you know what to do,” Jenny said as Olivia handed the boy the keys.
Cycling felt safer than walking, though not nearly as safe as driving, and far from as secure as staying inside. Again, on the ride south through the city, she was sure she saw movement behind windows, shadows moving through backyards, but it was only when they reached the bridge that she saw a zombie, partially trapped beneath an upturned car, waving at them as they cycled on.
They didn’t make it to the university because a barricade had been thrown up outside, on East Angela Boulevard. On top, a woman with a hunting rifle stood sentry, though she barely paid them any attention. Below was a giant of a young man with the physique of two defensive tackles crammed into one body. He held an improvised plough made of a ten-foot V of corrugated fencing to which a sawn-off flagpole had been added as a handle. Prior to their appearance, he’d been clearing the undead corpses from the road. At least three were tumbled at the base of his plough. Perhaps four. There were too many heads and too few limbs to get a proper count.
“Good morning,” Jenny said cheerfully, as if the corpses, weapons, and barricades were an entirely everyday sight. “Never has the sight of a rifle been so welcome.”
The young man nodded, while the armed sentry ignored them. It was an older man who spoke. “Jenny? Jenny O’Dwyer?” He emerged from behind the barricade, a shovel in hand, a holster on his belt. About forty, he had a hipster’s beard and a lumberjack’s dress sense, and a physique halfway between the two.
“Marv?” Jenny said. “It’s odd to see you not in a tie, and not on my screen.”
“Glad you made it,” Marv said.
“You know each other?” Olivia asked,
then paused, in partial recognition. “Do I know you?”
“From TV,” Jenny said.
“I did a bit of commentating when I wasn’t coaching,” Marv said.
“And he was a boyfriend of Carly’s before she met Trent. Marv Wainwright, this is Olivia Preston. Are you in charge here?”
Marv shrugged. “Hard to say.”
“He’s the coach,” the muscled young man said.
“Things are fluid,” Marv said. “You better come in.”
“We’re not alone,” Jenny said. “Well, we are, but we’ve got Carly’s kids, and a couple others we acquired over the last few days.”
“Where are they?” Marv asked.
“The other side of the river, and to the north, near my old house,” Jenny said.
“I see. Still, better we talk over here so we leave a clear line of fire in case more arrive.” He waved his hand at the corpses as he led them through a gate in the container-and-fence barrier that had been thrown up on the road. “We tried to turn Notre Dame into a fortress,” Marv explained. “But we assumed— I assumed that the government would arrive. Clearly, they’ve gone to help somewhere else, and we’re beyond the limit of what we can achieve here.”
“You’re leaving?” Olivia asked.
“We are,” Marv said. “There are zombies in town. Each time we shoot one, more arrive. Then there’re the damn fires. No matter how many we put out, more start. I guess people left their stoves on, though how that would start a fire since the power was cut, I don’t know. That was the clincher, the power going down. It proved that wherever the government’s chosen to save, it isn’t here.”
“Where are you going?” Jenny asked.
“Wisconsin, to start with,” Marv said. “We’ll make plans after that, depending on what we find. Maybe continue west. Maybe cross the border. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Do you have diesel?” Jenny asked.
“Plenty. Not much gas.”
Surviving The Evacuation | Life Goes On (Book 2): No More News Page 19
