The Plan

by Shawn Chesser

  Likely alerted by the noise of the V8 engine, the woman whipped around to face the approaching vehicle.

  At first glance, Riker put the woman in her mid-twenties prior to dying the first time. The tight-fitting khaki shorts she wore that fateful day were muddied and bore dark-red vertical streaks. Barely clinging to her slight frame was a tattered yellow tank. It, too, was stained a shade of crimson that matched the blood dried on her chin and neck.

  “Look out,” Tara warned.

  A quick glance to the mirror told Riker the nearest vehicle was a good distance back. He braked hard, rapidly halving their speed.

  He brought the truck to a dead stop perpendicular to the cypress grove from which the figure had just emerged.

  Craning to see past Tara, he said, “I already saw it.” Not her or the woman—just it. And it hadn’t been some kind of slip on his part. One look at those dead eyes roving in his direction—even viewed from a great distance and at speed—had cemented his initial assessment.

  The abomination was just as far from deserving the title “human” as was the zombie deckhand that had torn into the neighbor and his trophy wife on Sunset Island.

  The zombie took a few stilted steps through knee-high grass bordering a rectangular pond of brackish, standing water. Then, oblivious to the obvious outcome, the creature trudged headlong into the pond. Immediately it was waist-deep in the inky morass and continuing onward at a much slower pace.

  The surface frothed white for a tick, then the water all around the zombie turned the color of milk chocolate as sediment was kicked up.

  Powering her window down, Tara said, “She looks pretty young.”

  “Younger than you, Pretty Lady.”

  Shooting Steve-O a look that only a woman whose age had just been questioned could conjure, Tara said, “What I was getting to, Steve-O. Is that she isn’t moving very fast. She doesn’t seem to have the same dexterity as the other Bolts I’ve seen.”

  Watching the zombie struggle to reach the dirt berm on which the nearby guardrail had been planted, Riker said, “Unlike you, Sis … this one’s kind of worn out. Check out those scratches and abrasions. Looks like she died during a bender weekend at Burning Man.”

  Tara said nothing. She was mesmerized by the tenacity shown by the thing. Its eyes never left the idling truck as it got to the near side of the pond, where the water was knee-high to it.

  “Don’t you think we ought to put it out of its misery, Lee?”

  “What, do you have a mouse in your pocket? Because I’m not part of that we alliance you’re talking about. That … it, whatever, used to be someone’s daughter. Hell, that’s even old enough to have been someone’s mother.” He regarded his wing mirror. Saw the red speck bearing down on them in the right lane become distinguishable as an SUV. Then he recognized the roof-mounted gear boxes.

  It was the same rig that had been on their bumper and honking at Trooper Sharpe back at the roadblock.

  The zombie was now face down on the pond’s muddy shore and struggling to stand. But every time one bare foot would find purchase, the other would shoot out from under it.

  Riker stole another quick glance at the SUV. Saw that its right blinker was now strobing.

  Clued in to the vehicle rapidly approaching from behind, Tara said, “You can’t let them walk into this situation. They’re probably going to stop, see it as a bloodied young woman needing help. And then … they’re going to be compelled to help.” She dragged the Sig from the console. Handed it butt-first to her brother. “You have to kill it, Lee.”

  Without warning, the sensation of a vice squeezing his head was back. He could almost feel his shoulders being drawn together due to the instant rigor manifesting in his neck and back muscles.

  Wishing he’d remembered to grab his bottle of ibuprofen before leaving Villa Jasmine, Riker shook his head. He said, “Not my job. They’re going to have to choose their own fate. If they’re stupid enough to let it get close, it’s on them.” Without signaling his intention, he slipped his foot off the brake and again opened the throttle up, making the truck fishtail and dirt and gravel belch from under the right rear tire.

  As the Shelby straightened out and both rear tires found traction on the interstate, Steve-O jumped right back into Waylon Jennings’s Dukes of Hazard theme.

  Riker watched the red SUV come to a slow-rolling stop on the exact spot on the shoulder the Shelby had just vacated. “Don’t let the mud fool you,” he muttered to himself as he witnessed all heads in the SUV turn toward the wallowing zombie.

  Under her breath, Tara said, “I think you just signed their death warrants, Lee.”

  “It’s not my responsibility, Tara. I’m no cop.”

  “You’ve always been the sheepdog. It wasn’t just Dad who was always telling me not to be a follower. You had a part in that. In words and deeds.”

  “I joined the Army for a job, Sis.”

  “And to help get back at the kind of zealots who dropped the Twin Towers. You used to care, Lee.”

  “I still care. I care more right now than you know.” He paused as he regarded the rearview mirror. Seeing three people on the shoulder by the red SUV, and another crawling over the guardrail, he added, “I just want us to survive long enough to get to where we’re going. We do that, maybe you can convince me how becoming a big black Mother Teresa is a good strategy going forward.”

  Face screwed up in thought, Tara said, “How many zombies do you think we’ve seen since this all started?”

  “Not counting the ones on the footage you found on the deep, dark web, or the thousands we saw crowding Battery Park, maybe forty or fifty.”

  “Deep Web,” she corrected. “And how many of those, let’s say, fifty have we seen just today in Florida?”

  They passed a roadside sign promising all manner of services at the next exit.

  Riker said, “Five or six from the yacht—”

  Interrupting, Tara stuck out a thumb and motioned toward the headliner. “Higher.”

  Reluctantly, Riker revised the count. “Ten from the yacht. Villa Jasmine’s neighbors. Susan and her kids. And now we have Swamp Girl and however many from the SUV she infects.”

  “Let’s assume Swamp Girl gets to all four of them.” Tara had been ticking the victims off on her fingers. “That’s twenty right there. Then you have the pair of security guards who tangled with the yacht zombies. The responding Dade County PD and SWAT team we passed on the bridge. Are they going to gun down the yacht zombies and rich bitch neighbors? Or are they going to try and subdue them and render aid?”

  Brows lifting, Riker said, “I just doomed whoever happens to come across Susan and her kids.”

  “Add all those up, throw in their potential victims, and I think we’re looking at another Manhattan scenario, but on a much larger scale.”

  Steve-O planted both elbows on the front seatbacks. Jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “You forgot about all the monsters back at the hospital.”

  Nodding, Tara looked to Steve-O. “I somehow blotted that out.” Staring out her window, she added, “And Mount Sinai, I’m sure, is just one of many besieged medical facilities.”

  Suddenly Riker was dragged back to the night the 4WTC building fell. He was in the helicopter and looking down as they overflew the southern tip of Manhattan en route to the golf course landing in New Jersey. In his mind’s eye he saw the group of terrified people trapped between the seawall and stalled-out ambulance. They were huddled down, bloodied, and surrounded by hundreds of zombies. He saw one survivor dragged under the ambulance and into the throng of dead, only to be ripped apart before he could avert his eyes.

  As the helicopter passed over the survivors, every one of them had looked expectantly skyward. The sight had chilled him to the bone. In that moment—though every face wore a hope-filled expression—he had shared in the helplessness of their situation.

  Throwing a visible shudder, Riker said, “It’s scary to hear you put it into words, Sis. But I think y
ou’re hammer on the head right.”

  Chapter 15

  Coming out of Big Cypress National Preserve, groves of its namesake trees thinned considerably. Shortly thereafter, all at once, the landscape opened up and the interstate cut through parcels of land dotted with old farmhouses, swaybacked outbuildings, and monstrous barns.

  The narrow slough of brackish water that had been a common fixture beside the interstate for most of its run through the preserve dried up within sight of the first Naples exit.

  Maybe fifty feet from the interstate were a pair of Ford Crown Vic police cruisers, parked across the exit ramp, red and blue lights strobing rhythmically.

  A lone officer stood before the nearest cruiser. He was thick around the waist and wore a wide gun belt containing a holstered pistol and all manner of gear. Clutched in one gloved hand was a black AR-style rifle. In the other was a lighted baton which he waved lazily as Riker signaled his intention to exit at the ramp.

  Though a powder-blue surgical mask covered the officer’s mouth, his message was clear: Exit closed. Move along.

  So Riker drove on.

  A bit further down the interstate, between Exit 101 and 105, positioned within sight of each other, were a number of police motorcycles. Each beefy Harley had an officer astride it. And like the rotund officer manning the first exit, the motor officers were armed with carbines and wearing blue surgical masks.

  So Riker drove on.

  Nearing Exit 105, where Riker first saw a long line of vehicles being turned away by more of Naples’ finest, it became clear to him their plan needed adjusting.

  Craning to see the gun-metal gray writing on the sides of the white Ford Explorer SUVs parked sideways across the exit, Tara said, “These are Naples PD, too. The bastards are sealing off the city.”

  Nodding, Riker said, “Naples is under quarantine.”

  Steve-O said, “I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.”

  Sliding into the fast lane, Riker said jokingly, “Civilized people don’t eat horse meat, Steve-O.”

  Steve-O sat back and buckled in. “No duh,” he said. “It’s just a saying, Lee.”

  Tara dove a hand into the center console and came out with a pair of Clif Bars. She handed them over the seat. “These will have to do until we find something else.”

  “Thank you,” said Steve-O as he tore into the packaging.

  “Steve-O approves,” quipped Riker, passing another closed exit ramp. Looking to Tara, he said, “What’s our navigation computer showing as the next city?”

  “There’s a bunch of smaller ones all bunched up between here and Fort Myers.”

  As Tara manipulated the screen’s zoom function, Riker steered the Shelby through a long sweeping right-hander. Soon the interstate straightened out, the twin gray stripes running due north for as far as they all could see.

  “Kick on the radio,” ordered Riker as another closed ramp blipped by. Only this time, instead of the armed police presence, it was manned by men and women in civilian attire and armed with a smattering of weapons. Blocking the end of the ramp was a lifted late-model Chevy pickup and some kind of foreign compact car.

  Tara started the radio scanning through the FM band. It scrolled past the dead areas and skipped the weak signals before acquiring the strong signal of a station broadcasting out of Miami. The female announcer was going on breathlessly about the area hospitals filling to capacity with people who had all of a sudden snapped. “Seen it,” said Tara as she pressed a button to continue the scan. “And with my own eyes, too. But, hon, those weren’t people off their meds.” She went quiet and watched the digital numbers climb the dial. Remained attuned to the static coming from the speakers between stations filled mostly with music. On a station based in Cape Coral the deejay was reporting on widescale unrest happening in some of the bigger cities in the central and northern parts of the state. Areas Riker knew they’d have to skirt if they wanted to get out of Florida alive.

  Continuing the scan on the AM band, Tara again buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know if I have it in me.”

  Coming upon yet another exit closed off by what looked to be members of an armed militia, Riker said, “You navigate and leave the rest to me. I promise you I won’t freeze up next time.”

  When Tara regarded her brother, the low-hanging sun made her skin glow with a radiance that belied her expression. “I’m not wired for this, Lee.”

  “And you think I am?”

  She said nothing.

  Filling the silence, Steve-O issued a plea for more cereal bars.

  “You got a tapeworm or something?” she asked as she again dipped her hand into the voluminous center console.

  “Or something,” Steve-O replied as he thunked his hand palm-up onto the seatback.

  After fulfilling the backseat order, Tara cycled back to the navigation screen, scaled it down, then recited the names of the cities in their path.

  “Coming up we have Bonita Springs, Estero, and then San Carlos Park, which is real close to Southwest Florida International Airport.”

  Riker signaled and moved over to let a trio of fast-moving European imports pass. “I hate those bright blue lights kids are putting on their cars these days.”

  “You sound like Dad, Lee.”

  “Wish he were here about now. I’d love to pick his brain.” He stared off at the westering sun for a beat. Finally, he said, “The fact they have an international hub here tells me we’re going to be passing by some heavily populated cities. What’d that sign back there say the population of Naples is?”

  “Twenty-two thousand, two hundred and seventy-two,” answered Steve-O.

  Looking to Tara, Riker asked, “And how big are those cities coming up?”

  By the time they were nearly upon the exit to Bonita Springs, his question was answered by the sign announcing the city and listing its population at 45,659.

  Tara said, “That answers that question. Hard to gauge the others because Naples is really affluent, and the homes are mostly spread out. If I had to guess, which is what you’re asking me to do, I’d put Estero and San Carlos Park at around the same population as Naples.”

  “I don’t like it,” Riker stated. “If those places are not already quarantined, we can’t let ourselves get trapped with twenty thousand other desperate people when they do make the call.”

  “Nothing about Martial Law on the radio,” Tara said. “Don’t they have to declare it before they go and start denying people the right to travel freely?”

  “I have a feeling this is all still localized,” answered Riker.

  The northbound exit to Bonita Springs loomed, and it, too, was blocked. However, instead of police or civilians and their respective vehicles denying entrance to the city, a dump truck carrying a load of what appeared to be sand sat across both lanes. Speaking to the seriousness of the powers that be in Bonita Springs, the dump truck was backstopped by a Florida National Guard Humvee and a squad of soldiers outfitted in camouflage fatigues and wielding carbines. And like all of the previous exits along I-75, the scene was mirrored a stone’s throw away at the opposing southbound ramp.

  “I think you’re right, Lee.” Tara flipped the guardsmen the bird as they passed them by.

  “Not cool, Pretty Lady,” declared Steve-O. “Those soldiers are just doing their jobs.”

  Riker edged Dolly back into the fast lane. Cutting the blinker off, he said, “I think Tara was flipping off the situation, not the messengers.”

  “Since when did you start talking for me, Lee? You channeling Dad now?”

  Wisely, Riker said nothing.

  Voice adopting a hard edge, Steve-O said, “You’re better than that, Tara Riker. Those soldiers would probably rather be at home with their families than standing out in the sun.”

  “You have a valid point,” she conceded. Then, changing the subject, she proposed they drive for as long and far as possible before stopping.

  “I’m hungry,” said Steve-O.”

  T
ara offered up her share of the Clif Bars.

  “You can eat mine too,” said Riker. “And when we see a place similar to the Iron Pan, we’ll stop and get chicken fried steak and all the fixings.”

  Steve-O’s hand appeared in the airspace between Riker and Tara. Flashing a peace sign, he said, “Two orders and a milkshake and we have a deal.”

  Speaking nearly in unison, the Riker siblings agreed to the compromise.

  Chapter 16

  A hundred yards south of the cloverleaf, where arterials branched west to Fort Myers and east to Southwest Florida International Airport, multiple Florida Army National Guard Humvees and what looked to be a couple of squads of soldiers were busy locking down travel on I-75.

  With a long run of cement noise-abatement barriers rising from the earthen berm paralleling the southbound lanes to Riker’s left, and the narrow slough bordering the northbound lanes to his right, he couldn’t fathom a better place to control access to the rest of Florida and all points beyond.

  Looking left, Riker saw a number of multi-story apartment buildings, their red-tiled roofs rising a dozen feet over the noise barriers. To his right, beyond the narrow strip of standing water, was a large shopping mall. The acres of gray asphalt ringing the sprawling affair were mostly devoid of cars. He saw nothing moving over there. Not a single person on foot. No vehicles sliding into a lined parking spot. Nothing.

  Dead ahead, though, a pair of armed soldiers stood before a barricade decked out with reflectors and flashing amber lights. A third soldier stood a safe distance from the driver’s door of the first vehicle in a short line of three. As Riker braked and slid Dolly into the right lane, he saw the driver of the silver-gray minivan at the head of the line step out onto the freeway lane and form up in front of the soldier.

  Setting the brake and leaving the motor running, Riker craned and watched the minivan driver remove his shirt and turn a slow pirouette before the African American soldier.