The Loss (Zombie Ocean Book 4)

by Michael John Grist

  Mecklarin smiled. "I need to be careful. You're pulling the curtain back on Oz. Keep going, please."

  She was on a roll. "But that's no way to live ten years. This many people signing on for the most exciting experiment of their lives, then facing that kind of privation? You'd have a riot within six months. Prison is a fragile balance at the best of times, with a powerful system of carrots and sticks. But you can't do that kind of brutality with volunteers, because their good intentions will only take you so far. People need to be motivated, so you've made…" She trailed off.

  "Made what?" he pressed.

  She didn't know because so far she'd only seen one room, but now she could guess. Cruise ships were a kind of prison, but most people weren't hungering to escape them. Theme parks were a kind of day-prison, but people stayed and loved them. High-tech companies like Google had been encouraging their employees to stay at work round the clock since 2008, with highly attractive themed zones, decorative relaxation areas, great food, generous amenities and even slides to zip between zones.

  "A theme park," she said, shooting into the dark. "Themed zones. Some kind of system to allow for exploration, spread across the full ten years. Tricks like your breeze through the window. A cruise ship's worth of entertainment. Enough stuff to keep us looking inward for the full duration, without any thought of what's out there."

  He raised his hands and gave a slow clap, with a look of genuine pleasure in his eyes.

  "You have nailed it right on the head, Salle Coram. I am glad you're here; your predecessor had to have all of that explained to her. Well done."

  She blushed under his gaze. "But that would be prohibitively expensive," she said. "Space flight is all about the cost to lift every single pound of weight. How can you justify the expense?"

  "Ah, a mechanical engineer as well?" Mecklarin asked, clearly delighted. "Someone's been doing their research. Of course you are right, but then you're mixing up your priorities in the same way they always have, fundamentally misunderstanding what a colony is. Space flight up to the International Space Station, it's for a year max, and those people are coming back. They can grin and bear the misery for the respect and glory they'll get upon their return. The Earth is waiting. But colonists? All they've got is what they take with them, and we all know there's nothing on Mars."

  Salle's mind sped on. "But what about the pilgrims on the Mayflower? They didn't have widescreen TVs. They didn't know what they would find in the Americas."

  Mecklarin wagged a finger. "Precisely. You're quite right. But then, crossing the Atlantic didn't take ten years, did it? And whatever they thought they were going to find out there, I expect they never doubted they'd be able to breathe the air. They may have stuck to their wooden fort through the winters, but they weren't fated to stay in it forever. The whole world was out there. Yet even with all those advantages, many of them went mad, the murder rate in the colonies was sky high, stress was a great killer, and it's really a miracle any of the landings managed to take hold at all."

  Salle gazed at him, entranced by his confidence.

  He laughed. "I've thought about this a lot. And you, you've cut right to the quick. Salle Coram, I'll look out for you. What induction do you need? It seems you're on top of the whole operation here already. You know the work, you know the mission, you know what we're doing. It only remains for me to leave you this."

  He handed over a security pass on a lanyard and a thick, spiral-bound handbook.

  "The pass will only admit you to your assigned areas. Over the years those areas will change, and you'll gain access to new areas and new people, like levels in a video game. At times you'll get to choose where in the Habitat you want to live, who you want to be close to. And every zone is different. We have a swamp, somewhere. Somebody will want to live there. Others will just visit it. Hell, we're supposed to be great explorers, right, the people who would go to Mars? Why not make every day an exploration?"

  She sat dumbfounded. A swamp?

  "Why keep this a secret?"

  "Yes, you cut to the heart of it. I keep it a secret so it'll work on the actual colonists for Mars too. If they're expecting all that bleak, grim misery, every day for years on end, then they get this? Joy in little things."

  He tapped the handbook on the table. Her name was printed across the front. "Last, this is your user manual. Think of it like a map to the theme park's attractions. It's got limited maps, timetabled events, upcoming parties, work expectations and so on. You're a guest and crew at the same time, with time off and time on. It's all in here, though of course that'll evolve too, according to your work, your desires and so on. Now, any questions?"

  She looked at him across the table. He was truly larger than life, like a nineteenth century explorer plunging into the jungle, with his long curly hair and eyes so bright with intelligence and vision. He wasn't even that much older than her.

  "Yeah," she said, subtly pushing her considerable breasts forward so they strained against her shirt. "When do I see you next? Touch base?"

  Mecklarin's grin widened, reading the intent with pleasure. "Soon. For now, acclimatize, Salle Coram. Get used to the rhythms of the Habitat. And remember, we're doing vital work here. I'm so glad to have you with us. You're going to play a pivotal role, I just know it."

  5. MAINE

  Julio was a real punk to travel with.

  I brought along a set of audiobooks to listen to on my shifts at the wheel, but since he claimed to hate them with a burning passion, and since he seemed to hardly ever sleep, I had to accept a compromise where I could only listen to a few chapters an hour.

  I'd hoped to get through Mecklarin's earlier back catalog, along with a range of accompanying books by the various 'colonists' who'd been in his experiments and had their personal stories published, drafting behind his global success. As it was, I just had more time to contemplate, as Julio preferred to drive in silence.

  We rode in the same RV Cerulean had come over in from New York. It felt strange at first to be at the wheel of this vehicle I'd left behind in the Empire State Building's basement, back when I had no idea what lay ahead, but I got used to it.

  "Are you not gonna put on some music or anything?" I asked him at the start.

  "No," he just said.

  "So, silence?"

  He answered with silence.

  We rode in silence for thirty minutes with him at the wheel, while I watched the LA sprawl and flocks of flowing gray zombies roll by out of the window, getting annoyed. I had my Mecklarin on after that for a bit, then thirty more minutes of silence.

  "This is more macho bullshit," I said after three more cycles of it, unable to keep the annoyance in.

  "I told you not to talk to me like that."

  I gave a big sigh. "Lighten up."

  We were already through Las Vegas and heading into the wild deserts of Utah, where the zombies roamed in random waves like aliens descending in Galaga. Sometimes they followed us, trying to mass like hyenas on a gazelle and take us down, but we sped by with ease. Just looking at all that baking red sand and all those pointless zombie bodies made me want to rile Julio further.

  "Quit doing the moody teenager act. Act like a man."

  That got him hot. "This is how a man acts," he said.

  "What, in the 12th century?" I goaded. "Where are you even from? Wait, I forgot I'm not supposed to ask that."

  "I'm from Chicago."

  "Right, I can't ask you about your job, that's off-limits."

  We both went silent. He felt like a scab I just wanted to pick at. He had that about him, something I hadn't realized until then. He had a few scabs actually, still, from Cerulean's beating. He was so completely punchable, and all I wanted was to punch him. I couldn't do that, so I decided to try my hand at Mecklarin-izing him.

  "You were bullied in school, am I right?"

  "Shut up, Amo."

  "Abused, then?

  He turned to me, then slammed down the brakes hard enough to make the tire
s screech and send us skidding off onto the sandy verge. My seat belt caught me hard across the chest, dust plumed up around us, then Julio had his hand on the gun at his waist. For a second we held like that, with his hand rock steady and the pain in my chest just kicking in. "I'm warning you, Amo. I am."

  "You are," I said, even more pissed off now and still unwilling to let go. At that point I didn't know what I was doing at all, except possibly being an asshole. "Put the brakes on properly next time, OK? I guess that means you were abused. Mommy or Daddy? Daddy, of course, maybe that explains why you're such a massive dick."

  He drew his gun. His pupils had gone huge, swallowing outward into the whites of his eyes. "You need to shut your mouth."

  At that point reality hit me like a zombie in the Yangtze dark, and I saw the situation for what it was. I was being the bully. I had everything, he'd already been punished, and goading him like this wasn't leveling the score, it was just grinding him further down.

  So I shut up. A half hour later, once we were going again, I spoke up.

  "Sorry."

  He grunted.

  It didn't warm things up between us, there was no chance of friendly banter or a few jokes shared, but I hadn't expected that. Instead we got just what we needed: trust. Sometimes you find that at the edge. He'd drawn his gun but not pointed it at me, and that was progress.

  We drove on, and states flew by along I-80 a lot faster than they had in my battletank convoy. That was just a month or so earlier, before Lara, before Don, before Cerulean, but it felt like a lifetime. I was a different person. I napped on the way into Colorado, during which time he didn't assault me. I woke for the night shift, and we both got out, stretched our legs and took a piss in a parking lot, then I checked in with Lara over the HF radio.

  The connection was crackly but good. I went round the back of the convenience store, standing amongst orange gas tanks and a big blue trash bin to talk in a quiet voice that seemed obscene in the dark. She was fine, I was fine.

  "And Julio?"

  "Fine," I told her. "We're getting on swell."

  "Good times, huh?"

  "Good times," I confirmed.

  "Keep your eyes open. I'm not losing you now."

  "Roger that."

  I drove down the dark highway at a modest pace, wary of hitting wrecks or wandering zombies. The rules still applied about airplay, and I only went through my Mecklarins slowly, while Julio sat in the passenger seat and stared moodily out of the window. Probably he was thinking of all the ways he wanted to kill me.

  "What are you thinking about?" I asked him.

  He looked my way. Lit only by the dashboard lights and the wash back of the headlights, his face was pale and sickly.

  "None of your business."

  "Trust," I said, forcing some bitter cheerfulness. "Come on, open up."

  He sighed. "I was wondering why God saw fit to deal me you. What a hand."

  I stared at him for a minute, then laughed. "Was that a joke?"

  "It's just what I was thinking. You asked."

  I laughed more. It was the most human thing he'd said yet, and I told him so. He grunted and went back to being strong and silent. At that point, I had a lot of hope.

  I drove through the night until we reached Denver, where the pale yellow disc of Pac-Man hung on the Wells Fargo Center by moonlight, just as I'd left him. I thought of the Simon and Garfunkel song 'Old Friends', even chanced humming it a little until Julio eyed me angrily.

  "Swap," he said. He'd barely slept but he looked alert, so we swapped. I went to the back and lay down on the bed to sleep properly. This was trust.

  I woke in early afternoon somewhere in Nebraska.

  "Nearly Iowa," Julio called back. "Site of your great zombie revelation."

  I chuckled. How long had he been planning to say that, I wondered.

  "Swap?" I asked.

  "I'm good."

  We listened to Mecklarin a little through Iowa's golden fields, one of his earliest books called, 'The Human Machine'. It outlined in broad strokes his theory that humans were ultimately knowable, the same theme from 'Life on Mars'. If you had perfect information in a completely contained world, with control over every event and knowledge of every surrounding human's 'programming', then you could predict with perfect accuracy what they would do. It amounted to 'free will was an illusion'.

  Julio snorted at a particularly enthusiastic recitation of this statement.

  "You don't rate this?" I asked.

  "It's bullshit," he said solemnly.

  "Care to unpack that a little?"

  He considered briefly. A small horde of zombies whipped by on the right, clustered round a Dairy Queen.

  "People just do stuff," he came up with. "There's no knowing that. Things just happen."

  I considered this piece of wisdom. Mocking him would be easy, but I held back. Perhaps this was an apology for Anna?

  "Yeah," I said.

  I took over and at last he went to sleep in the back. Even with him snoring, my back kept itching all through Iowa that he would creep up and plant a knife in me. I checked the rear view mirror every few minutes, but he remained asleep.

  We went past the site of my 'revelation', where I'd knelt down expecting the zombies to eat my brains, and all they'd done was gather in for hugs through the night. Recharging. I'd left my first comic book cairn there, cars and coffee, which looked good still, though I didn't stop to investigate. I took us through Iowa and Illinois to Chicago, where Julio took over and we turned off the I-80 to head north-easterly on the 94, bound along the top of Lakes Erie and Ontario, toward Quebec and through to Maine. I slept and he took us over the border into Canada, past Toronto in the night where we planned to drop a cairn on the way back, and into New England.

  I'd never been before, and the slight cold nip in the air was a welcome break after the summer heat of California. Late on the third day I led us carefully off the main road and into the mountains of Maine. They were beautiful granite beasts, blue and silver spikes thrust up through forests of aspen, oak, Balsam fir and spruce. The air smelled of warm sap and fresh grass.

  "Careful now," Julio said every now and then, as we approached the area we expected the gun turret to be in.

  "Cerulean said they didn't shoot him on the road," I said, remembering the story of how Matthew had exited his RV and charged across the grass toward the gun turret, only to be cut down with a bullet through the throat. Still, I slowed down and kept my eyes open.

  The best research I'd come up with before leaving suggested a bunker site near the southern foot of Mt. Abraham, potentially in a Cold War fallout shelter for the government. There weren't many roads in that vicinity, so even taking them all at a crawl, constantly peeking ahead with binoculars, it didn't take us long to find it. The flow of gray-faced, white-eyed zombies was a dead giveaway, as they trooped south on a straight line through the mountains toward it.

  Then we were there. We broached a rise in the road and saw it, a pole in a sloping field surrounded by zombie bodies, and I backed the RV up rapidly, muttering, "Shit shit shit."

  The guns didn't fire. I stopped the van and looked at Julio. His eyes seemed to be alight with excitement. I nodded, feeling the excitement too. Together we got out, carefully and quietly, as if someone might be watching us, and dropped down on our bellies on the road. The asphalt was freezing. The notion that I might get run over by passing traffic, lying there in the middle of the road, came comically.

  Then Julio shuffled forward and I joined him. At the lip of the rise we brought up our binoculars and studied the gun turret, about five hundred yards away. In the middle of a sloping field well-stocked with both dead and not-yet-fully-dead zombies, it stood on a silver pole like a clover stalk, growing out of a big concrete 'planter' box and capped with four silver 'leaves'.

  "Those are not machine guns," Julio said. "They look like autocannons, probably Bushmasters; often they're mounted to vehicles. I expect there's a chain feed system up the
pole, and who knows how many rounds they've got down there. They can fire anywhere up to two thousand five hundred times a minute."

  I turned to gawp at him. He enjoyed the moment, no doubt.

  "Twenty-five hundred rounds a minute?"

  "You didn't know that, huh? Seems you were wise to bring me. This is serious gear. Look closely, tell me what you see."

  I studied the guns on their pole. They had very long snout-like barrels, backed with several blocky items that might be scopes, cameras or batteries. A small orange light glowed under the leaf-like metal hood extending over each gun barrel, alongside the wink of reflected light.

  "Those orange lights are heaters," Julio said, "to keep the barrels from freezing up. That's smart. Reflection must be a camera lens. The rest of the stuff up there, I would guess, is an anti-jamming mechanism. Somebody really planned this."

  I stare. The wink of light seems to shift, and I wonder if it's a camera training in on us.

  "Can they shoot us out here?"

  "Definitely," Julio responded. "Although we might get some warning, as they find the range. Probably long enough for us to back up."

  I resist swallowing loudly, and resist saying something that would betray my lack of knowledge, like, 'Oh shit.' Rather I figured it was good to have Julio with me, just as he said.

  I scanned the pole down to the concrete block. Around it there were about fifty zombie bodies standing and smacking at the concrete like a drum. Beneath their feet were perhaps a thousand dead zombies, laid out like a hellish carpet that left barely any sign of the grass below. Most of them still wore clothes, as they hadn't shriveled enough to slough them off, so in truth it looked like a massacre.

  It looked like Times Square, where I'd killed thousands. I gagged and this time swallowed back acid reflux. Julio didn't comment.

  The sound of the fifty or so beating at the block was a steady, low drum line.

  "There has to be people underneath it," I said. "Enough to pull all these over and keep them coming."