by Dana Fredsti
Gabriel paused up ahead, waiting until we all caught up. I took advantage of the pause to take a close look at him, both to see how he was doing and, well, to enjoy the view while I had the chance.
So sue me for being shallow.
“We’re nearly up to the edge of the Presidio,” he said quietly. He pointed to a road winding through the park to our right. “Follow that road until it intersects Pacific Avenue. Follow Pacific to Arguello. We’ll be overshooting by a few blocks, but Arguello is a straight shot to Golden Gate Park without any of the weird jinks that a lot of the streets take between here and the Haight.
“If anyone gets separated, just go straight to Golden Gate, stick to the east edge, and you’ll hit Kezar. Got it?”
We all nodded.
Soon we could see Pacific Avenue, with well-kept houses that were visible through the trees, and streetlights glowing softly on the other side of the road. People streamed past on foot, some heading west, others darting into the Presidio. I could see yet more cars in the street beyond. These were moving, but very slowly, and even so the occasional crunch of metal on metal could be heard. No gunshots, though, which was either a positive sign, or an indication that San Francisco needed a few more hard-core survivalists.
Not that most hard-core survivalists would feel at home in San Francisco. My dad, for instance, was an interesting mix of liberal environmentalist and selfprofessed gun nut. He preferred Lake County, where he could grow his own organic, sustainable food and have live ammo delivered by mail.
God, I hope my parents are safe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
* * *
By the time we reached Arguello Boulevard, the sun had set, the lengthening shadows giving way to darkness.
The sound of screams and sirens increased as night fell.
Gridlock was, as I expected, outrageously bad. Where cars had been moving on Pacific, Arguello and the adjacent streets were parking lots, so congested not even a Smart Car could negotiate its way through the city. Hell, a moped would’ve had trouble getting from one block to the next. And yet people were honking horns as they tried to pull out into the non-moving traffic.
The gated entrance to Presidio Terrace, a swanky private community on the west side of Arguello, was blocked by a very expensive three-car pileup; a Mercedes, a Porsche and... was that a DeLorean?
Threats of insurance and lawsuits mingled with the sound of barking dogs, blaring sirens, and screams.
Most of the cars were empty, though, with the exception of those sandwiched between other vehicles. The unlucky occupants were trapped unless they were agile enough to wriggle out of their windows.
The sidewalks and streets were clogged with foot traffic, people weaving in and out between cars, calling for missing friends and family, or just trying to make their way to some other, safer spot, without having any real idea of where that might be or what they were fleeing from.
Would there even be a safe refuge, if they succeeded in getting out of the city? Or would the country collapse into roving bands of paramilitary types and cults headed by nut jobs with messiah complexes? If they were really unlucky, they’d make it to an island inexplicably inhabited by clans of feuding Irishmen with bizarre ideas of training the zombies to adjust their eating habits.
Stop it! I gave myself a mental slap.
Oblivious of my mental digression, Gabriel consulted his jacked up iPhone.
“Looks like no matter which way we hit it, there are going to be crowds,” he said. “Just keep moving, whatever you do—don’t stop until you’ve reached the destination.”
“What if we run into zombies?” Tony asked.
“Try not to get distracted, but... use your judgment. Just keep moving.”
We spread out in a line, Gabriel a block and a half ahead of us. The crowds seemed to part before him, and we all just followed in his wake, trying to take advantage of the opening he’d created before the crowds closed in on us like the waters pouring back on Pharaoh’s army.
Some people pulled rolling luggage behind them, others had pet carriers. Dozens of little cheap “bag lady” shopping carts were in evidence, stuffed to the brim with whatever the owners considered essential.
I had no idea what I’d take with me if I were in the same situation—I hadn’t had the chance to decide. And I hadn’t really missed any of my belongings. So I couldn’t imagine how these people must have felt.
“Montana! Come back!” A woman’s voice called out frantically as a dog ran by—some sort of cattle dog mix—leash dragging behind it. Before I could do anything, Lil’s foot stomped down on the tail end of the leash, stopping the dog in its tracks, jerking it backward.
She immediately grabbed the leash as the owner hurried over, her expression flashing between panic and gratitude as she dropped to her knees and gathered her dog against her in a fierce hug.
“Montana, don’t ever do that again!” Tears streamed down her face as she looked up at Lil. “Thank you.”
Lil didn’t say anything, just handed her the leash, her expression fierce, angry, and distraught at the same time. So I spoke up.
“If you live near here, just get back inside,” I said.
“I’m trying to get to the vet,” the woman said in oddly apologetic tones.
That surprised a laugh out of me.
“I don’t think they’re gonna be open.”
“No, I work there.” The woman patted her dog. “There are a bunch of animals and someone has to take care of them. I’m meeting one of the other techs and we’re. we’re going to stay and make sure the animals are okay.”
Lil’s fierce expression relaxed.
“Where is it?” she asked. “The vet’s office, I mean?”
Oh, no. Before I could say anything, the woman pointed south.
“Arguello and Geary. Just a few blocks away.”
Lil nodded.
“We’ll make sure you get there.”
I didn’t bother arguing. It was on our way, and if it soothed Lil’s troubled heart, I was all for it. And yeah, okay, it’d make me feel better too.
I just hope Gabriel doesn’t notice.
“Stick with us,” I said to the woman. She nodded gratefully, wrapped the leash twice around her wrist, and followed as best she could.
“Are you part of some sort of SWAT team?” she asked, panting as we navigated the stream of pedestrians.
“Something like that,” I said. Fortunately, it was enough to satisfy her.
There weren’t any zombies at the moment, though we couldn’t entirely escape their undeniable scent. I wondered how many people were lying inside their homes, dead or dying from Walker’s or a random bite or scratch, and how many of those people would soon emerge to join their fellow San Franciscans on the streets.
We crossed Geary Avenue, threading our way between parked cars to the gas station on the far corner. Vehicles queued up for the pumps, but no one was moving. Fist fights broke out for no reason other than frustration. A couple of enterprising men filled two gallon cans at the pump and ran back toward their cars, but unless they had hovercraft they wouldn’t be going anywhere.
“Here!” The woman stopped in front of the building adjoining the gas station, her dog heeling next to her. “This is where I work.” She fumbled in her purse, bringing out a set of keys.
“Do you think your friend is here?” Lil asked.
“The lights are on... I hope so. He’s supposed to bring the people food and bottled water.” Her hands shook, but she managed to insert the key and open the door. Lil and I shielded her from view.
“Good luck,” I said.
“Thank you.” She slipped in after her dog. “And best of luck to you, too, whatever you’re doing.” The door shut after her and I heard the definitive click of the lock.
“Better now?” I said to Lil as we resumed our path toward Golden Gate Park.
“What about the rest of the animals?” she said.
Guess not.
“I
mean, the animals in there are lucky. But are people just leaving their pets behind?”
“Don’t think about it.” I kept walking. Lil hurried to keep up with me.
“But don’t you—”
I stopped so suddenly Lil ran into me. I turned and took her by the shoulders.
“You can’t think about it because if you do, you’ll go crazy. We can’t save everyone, Lil. We just can’t. That includes the animals. And it sucks and I hate it as much as you do. But we can’t think about it. If we do, we will shut down. We have to count on there being more people like that woman and her friend, people like you and me. Okay?”
She didn’t look at me and I shook her gently by the shoulders.
“Look. We went back for Binkey and Doodle, right? And they’re safe and sound with Simone and Jamie. There are lots of crazies like us out there. So think about those people instead, okay?”
“What about the pet stores?”
I just shook my head.
“Remember. Crazies like us. Good crazies. We’re not the only ones. Just remember that, okay?”
She nodded, still not looking me in the eye—and there was a distinctly mutinous expression on her face. Lil wouldn’t make a good poker player. I’d have to keep an eye on her, or she’d be haring off every time she heard a dog bark.
LOS ANGELES
Griff yawned and stretched, a long satisfying movement that allowed each limb to wake up slowly. His hand brushed against a faux fur throw that had ended up thrown against the headboard at some point during the night’s activities. Good quality stuff, not cheap. The fur was as soft as a Persian cat.
Griff liked cats. Beautiful and amoral creatures, they gave affection on their own terms, taking it away just as quickly if touched the wrong way. He had no doubt that if cat owners suddenly became mouse-sized over night, their beloved pets would eat them, but only after playing with them first.
Nothing personal, that was the thing about cats.
He’d like to get one—maybe two——for companionship if things ever settled down to the point that he could stay in one place for longer than a few months. Until then it wouldn’t be fair. Cats didn’t much like change.
Griff thrived on change, on chaos. And variety was, after all, the spice of life.
He glanced at the girl in bed next to him, enjoying the satisfied smile on her face. Giselle, a sweet young thing from Kansas, blonde, blue-eyed, corn-fed. And—wonder of wonders—she didn’t want to be an actress or a model. No, Giselle wanted to be a makeup artist, and had made it as a contestant on Face Off.
For that reason alone, Griff had used condoms when they had sex. Who was he to deprive the world of the next Tom Savini or Greg Nicotero? As far as he knew, the amount of infection in his saliva was minimal—enough to bring her back when she died, but not enough to kill her any time soon.
From what he’d seen on the news, heavily censored though it was, things weren’t looking too bright and cheery for the United States. If the USA went south, where did that leave Canada and the rest of the Americas? Border fences only went so far. And with modern transportation, international airport hubs. well, Giselle might not have time to see her career rise.
Griff felt something else rise as Giselle gave a little moan, somewhere between discomfort and desire, and wriggled her ass against him in her sleep. Very tempting. Although it would mean getting out of bed to see if he had any more condoms stashed away in the bathroom.
He really didn’t want to get out of the warm comfort of his bed, especially with the enticing curves pressed up against him.
Would it be such a bad thing if he didn’t bother? Considering the tone of the news he’d been watching, it might even be a kindness on his part.
Before he could make up his mind, the doorbell rang. A cheap generic buzzer, nothing fancy like Big Ben or a chintzy version of Beethoven’s Fifth. He glanced at the bedside clock, which indicated 11 p.m.
A bit late for visitors.
“Is that the pizza?” Giselle said groggily.
“Did we order pizza?”
She murmured something that sounded like “with anchovies,” and curled back up under the covers.
The doorbell rang again. Maybe they had ordered pizza, somewhere between the second and third bottle of wine.
Giselle made a sound of protest as Griff got out of bed.
“Be right back, love.” He was steady on his feet—his improved metabolism was very handy, one of the better side effects. He’d always had a good head for alcohol, but this was like having the entire buzz with none of the downside.
The doorbell rang yet again, a shrill, piercing sound that was really getting on his tits.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake...” The pizza delivery boy might not like his tip.
Griff considered pulling on a pair of jeans, but the doorbell ringing yet again changed his mind. Fuck whoever it was if they couldn’t take a joke.
He threw open the door, not bothering to look through the peephole first.
It wasn’t a pizza delivery boy.
Griff raised an eyebrow when he saw his visitors.
“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.” He let them in and shut the door.
He hoped they’d let the girl live.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
* * *
The smell of necrotizing flesh became stronger as we neared Golden Gate Park, and more gunshots peppered the auditory chaos. Lil was back helping Tony corral Dr. Albert, who had started lagging behind. That couldn’t be helped—he was neither young nor fit, and keeping up with Tony’s long-legged stride would have been a challenge for most people.
Red and Carl loped along at an easy pace a few yards behind Gabriel, while the Gunsy Twins were nowhere to be seen.
What could be seen were a lot more sick civilians, the telltale signs of the amped up Walker’s virus clearly visible. Eyes looking like bloody egg yolks, dark fluids leaking from body cavities, and the smell of impending death. A woman in jogging clothes suddenly fell to the ground, body convulsing.
Moans rose in a chorus over the rest of the noise.
“Shit,” Tony said. “Time to level up.”
He was right. The zombie population explosion had officially begun. They were appearing from side streets and buildings, at first one or two at a time, with the trickle slowly turning into a steady stream.
People could do all the macho posturing they wanted with friends while watching The Walking Dead, all “Dude, I’d totally shoot you in the head if you were a zombie.” But when it came right down to it, most people—no matter how many zombie movies they’d seen—couldn’t accept the reality of it suddenly lurching into their midst. Which is why so many were bitten within minutes after the zombies appeared.
My head knew we couldn’t stop and help everyone we saw along the way. My gut, however, kept trying to convince me otherwise by twisting in knots every time we passed someone who looked lost and afraid. I could only imagine what this was doing to Mack, who felt others’ pain with an empathy I didn’t envy.
A female zombie wearing a “Team Edward” T-shirt and jeans staggered out from a doorway, reaching for the nearest warm body, which happened to be mine. I automatically shoved the business end of my katana into its left eye, using my foot to brace against Edward’s sparkly white face as I pulled the blade back out, really wishing there was a way to do it without the nasty suction sound.
Schlorp.
Ugh
“You killed Bebe!”
I barely had time to register movement behind me when something smacked into the back of my head, hard enough to knock me into a nearby garage door.
I turned just in time to ward off another blow from a young man, mid-twenties and built like a gym rat, all pecs and biceps and deltoids and possibly steroids, judging from the insane rage in his eyes. Of course, if the twice-dead Bebe was his girlfriend or a relative, I couldn’t blame him. But I wasn’t going to stand still and take another hit to the head.
He swung and I
slipped to one side, his closed fist missing me by a narrow margin. I grabbed his wrist, twisting his arm up and back, driving him to his knees.
“If that was your girlfriend, I’m sorry,” I said harshly, holding the struggling, swearing man in place. “But she was dead before I did anything to her.”
It was then I noticed the bite mark on his arm, a hunk of flesh the size of an egg gone from his forearm, a putrid smell already wafting up from the wound. This man was already dead, too.
He just didn’t know it yet.
I let him go and he collapsed onto the sidewalk, cradling the dead girl in his arms as he started sobbing.
“Bebe, Bebe!”
I stood awkwardly next to him, guilt and anger mixing in a stomach-churning cocktail. I’d had no choice, but that didn’t stop me from feeling his grief, or wonder if I should put him out of his misery before he turned and started spreading it. I heard a faint pop, and a hole suddenly appeared in the man’s head. He slumped lifelessly across his girlfriend’s corpse.
I looked around to see who fired the shot, but none of my fellow team members were visible. Then I looked across the street to see Davis—or was it Jones?—standing on top of a car, rifle in hand. He gave me a little nod before vanishing again. I was just as glad he’d taken the decision out of my hands. And I hoped he and Jones—or was it Davis?—had a lot of ammo.
Golden Gate Park was smack dead ahead of us, less than a block away. A large group of what I’d started to think of as refugees streamed across Arguello on Fulton, the street that ran parallel to the park. They were heading towards the ocean. Babies wailed and children cried in that tired, hopeless way a truly exhausted kid will cry. Voices rose in frustration and fear as families and friends tried to keep their groups together. A woman ran past me.
“Sophia!” she yelled. “Where’s Sophia?” A man was close on her heels, with two little girls in tow.