by Adams, Lucia
I snapped back around and aimed in the general direction of the desk. “I’m not sick. If you’re OK, come out.”
No answer. But something stirred. I waited, holding my breath. I took a step, and a young woman of about twenty pulled herself drunkenly to her feet, snarled, and ran at me. I backed out of the room, keeping her in my sights, praying she’d speak or stop coming, but she didn’t. I shot her once in the neck, spinning her, but she quickly found her feet and kept coming. I raised the gun, aimed, and shot her through the eye. She fell and stayed down.
Back out in the hallway, I turned in time to see five more infected stumbling toward me. I shouldered past the door marked EMERGENCY EXIT and entered the stairwell. Upon spying a crowd of them lurching across the lawn outside, I opted to stay inside and head for the basement, to the garage used by the police for prison transport. With any luck, the transport would still be there.
The door at the bottom of the stairwell didn’t lock, but opened up to a small ante room with one that did. Thankfully, this inner door wasn’t locked. Not yet, anyway. Those… things… had already found the stairs, and would soon be hammering at the locked door.
I paused and held my breath, listening for any movement or noise in the basement. I was met by silence, but decided not to celebrate until I was safe. Intuition seemed to be working well for me; the first door I checked was the garage, and yes, the keys hung from the ignition of the prison transport. I reached in, swung the lever to open the folding bus-style door on the passenger side, ran around, hopped into the driver’s seat, and fired the engine. I wasn’t out, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I had a way to get out. Then I thought: Guns. I’m gonna need guns. No better place than here. I checked the fuel gauge, saw it was full, then decided to leave it running while I checked the rest of the rooms.
In all, there were four doors to open. Stenciled across the first was Emergency Response Unit: STORAGE. A card reader panel was mounted to the left of the door. I gave it a longing glance, but moved on. The next was the firing range, and there I was in luck. A metal cabinet on the wall held three police-issue handguns, along with an unopened box of ammo. I tucked the three weapons into my belt and dumped the ammo into the front pocket of my pants.
The next door was a janitor’s closet. I was no MacGyver, so there was nothing in there for me. The last door led to another locked door, but one of the keys on my stolen utility belt took care of it. The door might as well have opened to the sound of Beethoven’sOde to Joy. There, glowing like manna from Heaven, was the fabled regional stash of guns, drugs and other illegal substances and paraphernalia. I’d once heard my father speak of it in passing. He said the RCMP, local police, and OPP housed all confiscated items here until they’d been inventoried, had ballistics done, or their court date had passed, then they were taken away and destroyed. Blah blah blah. All I saw was guns, guns, and enough weed to last me a lifetime. A rolling cart had already been stacked with assorted ammo, so I checked the boxes and tried to match them to at least a few of the tagged guns located high on the shelves.
In all, I took two pump-action shotguns, a suitcase sniper rifle, a box marked GRENADES, and an AK-47 that looked to have seen better days, but seemed to work. On the way out, I couldn’t resist grabbing a duffel bag with the word CANNABIS scrawled upon the ident tag. What the fuck, right? It’s not like they were gonna miss it. Hell, there was no one left to miss it.
I loaded everything into the bus and walked over to the panel marked ‘OPEN’, but couldn’t bring myself to push the button. Everything was about to change. There was no going back. The ship was about to sail. Fuck, if I could’ve thought of another cliché, I would’ve used it too, but instead, I pushed the button and took off back to the bus. Once inside, I slid the door shut, dropped the transmission into ‘Get-The-Fuck-Going’, and stomped down on the accelerator.
Then I hit the brakes. The door was slow, so I needed to wait. I nervously tapped the steering wheel, my head swinging, searching for movement, until the door was high enough for me to punch it. Outside, all along the ramp, more of the infected wandered. I closed my eyes and floored it. Picking up speed, I ploughed through the few in my way and rocketed out into the parking lot.
What I earlier thought was going to be ‘freedom’ turned out to be a nightmare. The streets were clogged with the slouching infected. I’d stopped thinking of them as human after seeing the cop with half his face gone, still moving despite suffering from a clear case of (in my amateur opinion) death. I didn’t aim for them, but they sure aimed for me. More than once, I had to reverse back down a street because their sheer numbers and derelict cars rendered the street impassable. I soon saw that I was boxed in, and decided to retreat to the marina to find a boat to take me down river.
All around me, the city burned. Screams of the living mingled with the moans of… I don’t know what… filled me with terror. There were others out there in the dark, fighting for their lives. Women, children, people I’ve known my whole life, dying, but I couldn’t help them. This city belonged to the dead now.
The marina stood deserted and locked. I burst through the gate and cruised toward the slip reserved for the police boat, a twenty-one foot cabin cruiser modified to double as an amphibian assault vehicle. I knew it would be there; I’d found the keys on the peg board back at the station. In the rear-view, I spied a meandering cluster of shapes heading toward the water. The gurglers had already found me. I pulled up to the dock, loaded up my arms with weapons, and ran for the boat. Three trips took care of everything, and I loosened the mooring lines before jumping aboard.
Before bothering to try to start the engine, I used a ten-foot salvage pole to push off from the dock. If the engine didn’t start, I’d rather it happen away from the dock. They were coming.
After a few panicked minutes, the boat fired up, and I smiled my first real smile in days. But elation turned quickly back to panic as my eyes flicked to the fuel gauge. It sat just below an eighth. Without fuel, I was fucked. I didn’t have time for this. My time crunch had nothing to do with the infected, which were now stumbling off the side of the dock like lemmings off a cliff and disappearing beneath the water’s surface. My time crunch had everything to do with Chemical Valley. It may take an hour, or it may not happen for days, but I wanted to be as far away as possible before Sarnia was blown into the stratosphere.
I knew where I could find gas for the boat, so I steered down river toward Corunna. It was then that I afforded myself my first ‘big picture’ look at the nightscape around me. Fires raged out of control, through most of the city and alarms bled together and rose like a chorus of insanity. Fuck, man—I was Dante, floating up the river Styx without a coin.
Next stop: Hell
CHAPTER 7
Ohio River, Pennsylvania, USA
Lucia
The boat was stocked—Jason was wealthy, so we could have lived in comfort on the boat for days. “Comfort” was a word that would fade from the vocabulary of the remaining humans—I was sure of it. Fred was able to drive the boat, so I took his cell phone and climbed down below to call my parents. I kept replaying this song in my head—their joy when I told them I was Okay—Oh-kay! Oh-kay! An inevitable word, hollowed out by a virus, but I still had hope. They never answered. Instead, my father had changed his voice mail message:
If you are listening to this message, we want you to know how much we love you. Do not come back here. It isn’t safe. They’re trying to break in now, so we haven’t much time. We knew we couldn’t make it out of here, so rather than have those things eat us… oh, God! We’re going to kill ourselves. Do not come back, please; get to safety. We love you.
And then my mother’s sobbing voice. We love you so much, honey. Just run; go west. They’re saying Western Canada is still safe. Please…
I hearda pounding.
We have the gun. It will be quick. We love you.
And then there was nothing but my teeth against the carpet as I screamed silently until I
remembered to breathe. I held the floor and the floor held me. The boat lolled in the water. The pain was unbearable. I shed my furry costume and went above to find Fred as I choked on my own spit and tears.
“My parents are dead.”
“How do you know?”
“They killed themselves—they left the message on their voice mail.”
“Couldn’t they make a run for it?”
“My father can’t walk and my mum is waiting for a lung transplant, so she can’t run. They were doomed. The creatures were already there.”
I noticed I had referred to them in the present tense, and it made me cry even harder. Fred put his arm around me as snot and tears streamed out of me onto his FedEx shirt.
We could see people along the shore—normal people doing normal things. Word hadn’t spread yet. The people in Pittsburgh were either too dead or too busy trying to survive to call. More than likely, all phone calls out of the city had been blocked. There was a rumor on the Internet that is what happened in Baltimore when the virus got out of control—all of the phones stopped working. I imagine I only heard my parents’ message because I the call somehow bypassed the central system.
My crying slowed as I tried to calm down. “Do you know how far it is before we reach a lock?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never been up the river this far on a boat.”
“Do you think they can swim?”
“The zombies? Nah. I don’t think they can. They aren’t coordinated enough from what I’ve seen.”
I peered into the water at the rotting wildlife floating past us. The top of the water was littered with decaying rats and unidentifiable furred mammals. “This river’s going to be a dead end for us. We can sleep on the boat, but if the virus spreads faster than we travel, it will be too hard for us to get to a vehicle. Plus we need to outrun roadblocks and the panicking crowd.”
“So you think we should abandon ship?”
“Yeah. I hate to do it, but I think it’s our best chance. And we should do it before nightfall so we can still see any infected people.”
“I agree. Okay, go down below and see if there is anything else we can scavenge from this place. We’ll take everything, if we can. Let’s keep going for a while, and when we pick a spot, I’ll steal us a vehicle while you stay on the boat. We’ll transfer as much stuff from the boat to the vehicle and take off. We’re going to have to take turns driving for a while until we can get far enough ahead of the virus that we don’t have to drive 24/7.”
“I can do that. I can drive.”
“Good. First thing we take are the guns, then fuel, water, and food—in that order. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Then say it back to me—in what order?”
“Guns, fuel, water, food.”
“Right. Now get ready, because I’m stopping at the best opportunity.”
*
Transferring from the boat to land was easier than we expected. Fred found a UPS truck idling in front of a business that he stole and then drove down the boat portage where he had docked us at. We took everything, even things we thought we wouldn’t need, because we didn’t know what the future held. As Fred drove, I slit open boxes addressed to such pleasant addresses as “Cherry Lane” and “Arbuckle Farms Road”. Some of the items would be useful, but most of it was just shit. Along some deserted road, we tossed out boxes and packing material, but nonsense such as cookie jars and Bibles had the potential to be weapons or firewood. We knew we’d need the room to stock up on food and fuel when we could find it, but I was determined to keep everything we could until we were desperate for space.
*
Somewhere in Ohio, Fred and I agreed we wouldn’t tell each other much about our lives so it would hurt less if one of us died. He joked that we could just make up new pasts and that he could call me ‘Giuseppe’, because he thought that is what I was yelling from under my squirrel head as I ran from the hotel. I told him it was a combination of “Get!” and “Help me!”, but the foam head stifled and skewed the sound.
I kept the squirrel suit, but only because it was bite-proof. Besides the boy shorts and white tank top I wore under my costume, it was the only thing I had left that was mine.
Each town was more stupid than the next. People mowed lawns and businesses accepted credit cards. No one knew what was coming, and they trusted the government to keep them safe.
Newspapers were still being printed and the infection map showed that the United States was being cinched into a V—I kept thinking: vagina, vestibule, viper—as the virus stalled at the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains. We heard that the Air Force had vaporized all of the bridges across the Mississippi two days before the virus reached there, but three days after we’d already crossed it in Minneapolis. But even Vs can fill in from the bottom, and upwards from Texas, the infected zone crept.
*
I liked Minnesota. It was flat enough so we could see for miles, and I saw one lone cow standing in a field. In my mind, I named him ‘Worthington’ and would return to his black and white spotted memory as a sign of hope. The fall was kind to us, and most days were sunny, and the nights weren’t too terribly cold.
When it rained, we took turns getting naked and bathing ourselves with designer shampoo and Egyptian cotton wash cloths someone had ordered from Macy’s. One of us was always on lookout. We learned that we’d only survive if we kept our guard up.
By this time, our UPS truck was a cross-country treasure chest. We had cleaned out two pharmacies in South Dakota and I had been collecting things at hardware stores to make a homemade flame thrower. I had a nice supply of chemicals, wood screws, and other materials to make pipe bombs. Best of all were the four sticks of dynamite we found at an abandoned granite quarry. Amazingly, the GPS on the truck still worked. The satellites suspended in Earth’s orbit never blinked at our plight. We were guided down back roads, and we avoided cities. It wasn’t until we crossed into Montana that the virus reached us from the south.
CHAPTER 8
Dublin, Ireland
Paul
One of the three at my back asked, “Is she dead?” I turned to see which one the idiot was.
“Her head is all over the street. What the fuck do you think?”
“Shit! Sorry… I’m not… Fuck it. I don’t know.” He was babbling. After what we’d been through, I couldn’t blame him. What the fuck was his name? Gary! Yeah, Gary. Maybe I was a bit harsh on him, but fuck it—the woman’s brains were decorating the road. My only thought was for the lad, Brian. Shit-fuck, had he seen his mother jump, fall? Which was it? Had she jumped or fallen? A stray thought slid under the door into my brain… pushed?
I ran towards the main entrance, my heart thumping in my chest, my mind doing somersaults, trying to find a reason for what I’d just seen. At the main door, I stopped and my blood froze.
Like I said: forgiveness and regret mean nothing to the dead.
“Who was last out?” I demanded, whirling around to face my three neighbours. They all looked at each other. I spotted Gary’s eyes drop and his face go pale.
“You left the fucking door open!” We all stood aghast, looking at the front door, slightly ajar.
“Jesus! I’m sure I closed it. I must have!” he said.
I shook my head in disgust, turned on my heel and ran. Jesus, what if little Brian had run downstairs to get to his mammy? How long would a nine year old kid last on these streets?
“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” I called over my shoulder.
I passed the deserted lobby and headed for the stairs.That fuckin’ stink, I thought to myself as I took the steps two at a time. I would never get it out of my nostrils. My heart was racing now; how things had turned all of a sudden. An hour ago, we were all relatively safe, just sitting it out, waiting for it to all end, or for the rescue services to get their act together and come to rescue us. Now, five of us were dead. At least I assumed they were dead. Mrs. Watson certainly was, and surely the four men l
eft behind on Talbot Street were, too—or, God help them, infected and turned into zombies. Fuck! What a nightmare.
I still had the axe in my hand and the bottle of pills stuffed into a pocket. I’d dropped most of the bags I carried back in the pharmacy, except one sports bag I had on my back. I was pretty sure the whiskey was in there. I was going to slaughter that bottle sometime soon. What a disaster! Half of the foraging party was left behind, presumed dead, and bugger all supplies to show for it. I decided there and then, there was no way I was setting foot outside the door again. Even if I had to barricade myself into my own apartment, well, fuck it, so be it.
Who was going to look after little Brian now? Why the hell had his mother taken a high dive off the balcony? It was easy to imagine the pressure getting to her. Fuck, we were all on the verge of snapping. There did not seem to be a Mr. Watson; at least I’d never seen him. What were the chances he was still alive somewhere? Fuck all.
I burst into the corridor and felt the stench in the back of my throat. I wondered if it was coming from my clothes. That bastard zombie in the pharmacy was probably all over my jacket without me even noticing. I slowed down as I noticed Mrs. Watson’s door was open. Her apartment was at the end of the corridor, three doors down from mine. I’m not sure why, but I felt nervous—kind of cold and clammy. The smell didn’t help. I started to wonder if I was imagining it.
Just then, I felt something grab my shoulder. I jumped and swung around with the axe, ready to strike.
“Jesus Christ, you fucking bollocks!” It took a huge amount of effort to stay the axe from splitting Gary in half.
“Sorry, man. I’m really getting creeped out. What the fuck are we going to do?”
This fuckwit was really starting to get on my nerves. There’s always one—always one sniveling little shit who brings everybody down. Funny enough, I thought it would have been me.
Then I heard a muffled groan coming from Mrs. Watson’s apartment.