The Loss (Zombie Ocean Book 4)

by Michael John Grist

  "We should go to the front now," Lara says.

  "Not yet. Let them call the vote. Going up ahead of that seems presumptive."

  "Then the back? We need to get ready. We'll be nearing Pittsburgh within the next twenty-four hours."

  "The back is good for now. There'll be another change-over."

  We kiss the kids. They're getting tired of us anyway, or at least of me, ready to go to town on Uncle Brandeis and Auntie Martha. We head out.

  It's my first time out in a few days, and the air outside is bracing, the kind of air that makes your teeth ache and your jaw throb, full of the sharp knives of winter. Around us are white rolling fields coated with snow that remind me of Iowa, except in Iowa the fields are all flat, and they're green and yellow with corn. Scattered telegraph poles line the highway, those that haven't already fallen to the elements, and a few remaining cables hang between them, bowed low with ice. The sky is a high pale blue, like a slice of deep-ocean ice. Our breath makes clouds of steam.

  "California makes you forget winter even exists," I say reverentially.

  "Not me," Lara says. "I've been up front with the window open while you were back there hibernating."

  I chuckle. "Hibernating wouldn't have been so exhausting."

  "You look better for it. Healthier than since Cerulean disappeared."

  "Yeah." There's that reminder, slapping like a wave on a far-off beach. Slap, slap. I'll be dealing with all this death for years to come. "Let's go."

  We crunch down the convoy along virgin powder snow. Here I see tiny paw prints, perhaps a fox. People bundled in winter jackets, packed two thousand miles away in California and now unfurled against the cold, hurry to finish fitting their chains, refueling their gas tanks and scraping ice off their back windows.

  We pass Cynthia coming to replace us.

  "I figured," she says dismissively, like we're lightweights who couldn't handle the kids' car.

  "Once more into the breach…" I reply, and deploy my wink again. She gives me an evil look that could chop down trees.

  The RV at the back is waiting, with a fresh coating of snow on the roof. Inside I check in with the passengers; Alia, Reynard, Sulman and two of Julio's survivors unconscious in the booths. It's good to see them all, though seeing Sulman reminds me of Anna and sends a twinge running up my spine.

  "Are you good to drive?" Lara asks, as we stamp off snow and shake warmth back into our fingers. "I've had enough."

  "I'll do it."

  I take the wheel. I switch on the radio. A few minutes later, Ravi gives the signal to get underway from the front. Less than twenty minutes all in for the pit stop. It's impressive, neat, high-level survivor stuff.

  We roll out, the snow chains gripping the powder with a satisfying crunch. The pace drops to fifty, which is a concern, but Lara assures me they've discussed this with the survivors, who are sure the snow is slowing the demons some too.

  On the radio open channel Witzgenstein announces the five new Council positions, seconded by Masako. She makes a call for candidates and suggests a voting deadline by nightfall. Discussion follows.

  I focus on the road while their voices warble on, like white noise. It's good to be driving. Lara sits in the passenger seat watching me.

  "It suits you," she says, "this."

  I can't argue. And now, if it really goes through, it'll be official.

  "I'm ready to kill some demons," I say.

  * * *

  We vote after dark falls. The convoy slows to forty and we rumble on through the night like a lonely freight train, hauling its solitary load across the country. Voices come in hushed tones over the radio, respectful of the office, of the darkness, of the cold. I look out to either side and see only my own reflection glinting back.

  There are no lights out there anywhere. America is a wilderness, now. Cairns are a dream of something better, but in truth really we're it, we are all that's left, and we're in the midst of instituting a mini democracy.

  More than anything, America feels lonely. It moves me to think the whole world is like this; endless expanses of darkness stretching like a muffling skin over our great cities and all our noisy, baffling, beautiful constructions in silence. Nobody's walking on the Pyramids now. Nobody's admiring Stonehenge. Nobody's making their pilgrimage to Mecca.

  "Are you crying?" Lara asks incredulously. "They've not even finished voting."

  "It's that," I say, pointing into the darkness. "It just goes on forever. It used to be so full of light. Our kids will never see that. New York lit up. Lasers shooting into the sky. Drive-in movie theaters."

  Lara snorts. "You never went to a drive-in theater. That's from the 60s or something."

  I don't know what to say to that. I'm feeling solemn, a big-picture moment.

  "I get it though," Lara says, dropping to my wavelength. "It's vast."

  It's so damn vast, and all gone. I'm feeling maudlin but that's all right. We've already lost so much, and it's good to reflect.

  We ride in silent reflection but for the slow roll call of names in the vote, read out by Witzgenstein. She reaches Lara, and Lara casts her vote for me.

  "Last of all, Amo," she calls, and for a moment my own name catches me unawares; not that I'm about to win, but rather the absolute, beautiful dignity of what we're doing here, and what I'm now a part of. It's the next chapter in our story, promising many more to come, and it moves me far more than all the cold wilderness outside.

  It took millennia for our race to achieve and maintain any kind of self-determination. What we're doing here today, while fleeing demons and racing towards zombies and a bunker of thousands, is an act of pure hope. We are beginning to manage our future, no longer just scrabbling to survive.

  Perhaps we're at acceptance. A few tears roll down my cheeks.

  "Amo," Witzgenstein presses gently. "Your vote, please."

  "Cerulean," I say, out of nowhere. I don't know why, because Cerulean's dead and he can't be voted for, but the name just forms in my head and feels right, so I say it. A silence hangs afterward, as Witzgenstein doesn't now what to say, and I don't know what to say, but this single word seems to trigger something in me and throughout the rest of the convoy.

  We haven't grieved. We've lost so much and we haven't stopped to grieve, and maybe it's time that we did.

  Someone else says his name, Cerulean, alone into the radio. Ravi. Lara repeats it too, then others follow; Feargal, Sulman, Macy, even Cynthia, and I realize I've stumbled into my first duty as the new, official First Mayor of America.

  Griever in chief.

  For this duty no fancy words are required, just names. Witzgenstein doesn't speak again, somehow picking up that this is what is needed, and this is my role.

  "Ozark," I say, and up and down the convoy his name is repeated back at me like a mantra, calling him out into the night. "Abigail," I go on, allowing them time to repeat each name after me. We've got no graves and no ceremony in a church, but we have this. "Lucy," I say, summoning the names from the well-worn list in the back of my mind. "Chantelle. Sandy. Ferdinand. Roger. Hayley. Peters. Jake." I pause before the last, readying myself. "Anna."

  A long silence falls. People sob down the line, unwilling to cut themselves off from this moment. We're a community again, united in loss, in hope, in our refusal to give in.

  "By a near unanimous vote, I can confirm that Amo is officially instated as Mayor of New LA," Witzgenstein says. Applause follows; some muted cheering. "Amo?"

  "I've got nothing else to say," I say, then go on anyway. "Except I want to thank you. All of you, who came to LA on a wing and a prayer, based on a dream painted on buildings or your own desire to find others. Masako was right that I killed myself. I did it and I was spared, but I was ready to do it again, until you came. You all came, and I want to thank you for coming, and for surviving, and for wanting to survive. I'm so glad to be here with you. I'm glad you stayed alive this far, so we can do this together. We've all lost so much on the way. The
loss can't be calculated, you can't express it in any way that does it justice, but here we all are. I'm so goddamned proud. Excuse the blasphemy, Cynthia, Janine."

  There's a slight chuckle, breaking the solemnity.

  "I want to say that I don't take this lightly, you choosing me as your Mayor. I want us to be better in every way. I want there to be more of us, until we fill every square inch of this country with light and life again, just like we used to. I've got so many dreams for us, and I know we won't do them tonight, or even in the term of my mayorhood, but over the generations to come. We're going to survive this and we're going to thrive. We're going to bring fire out of the ashes, and that fire will only burn brighter for all the losses we've seen."

  Somebody cheers. Somebody else cheers, and it catches on, and soon people are cheering up and down the convoy. I've made myself cry and now I'm just bursting with pride.

  "We've done well," I say, over the cheers. "All of us, we've done so well. And I promise you, we're getting better. We will survive this. Thank you."

  Cheering follows. Cheering and people calling my name and the names of the lost.

  It takes a minute before I can look at Lara. It feels like I've just channeled something bigger than I am, not a god or any holy presence, but some unknowable facet of the human spirit. I wonder that Lara will be looking at me with the usual cynical expressions we use on each other all the time, good for punctuating pomp and circumstance, but when I turn I find she isn't.

  She's looking at me with something akin to awe.

  "That's why I married you," she says.

  She reaches across the divide and takes my hand. So we drive on into the night.

  15. OUR LAND

  They delay the council elections until an hour later, to allow the elated mood in the convoy to calm. The votes shake out just as Lara predicted for four out of the five: Witzgenstein, Masako, Lara and Feargal. For the fifth the votes are more mixed, and ultimately the result is a shock to many of us.

  Ravi.

  On the radio he stammers out a thanks, plainly in shock. It is nothing like as polished as Witzgenstein' acceptance, as muscular as Feargal's, as passionate as Masako's or as accomplished as Lara's, but it is by far the most impactful.

  He is after all the closest person in the world to both Cerulean and Anna, to whom the seat would have undoubtedly gone. Above that is he is just a fundamentally good person, and a survivor through and through, after living in the empty world alone for four years.

  "Well done," I say, adding my voice to the chorus of those congratulating him. "You've earned it, Ravi."

  After the election is done I gather reports from the various survivors scattered through the convoy. There are thirteen left now, after the loss of Lucy and the three in Ozark's care. Seven of them are near comatose, pushed further down after the clash with the demons near Albuquerque, leaving only six capable of speech. Two of them are only partially conscious and often mumble out in their dreams, leaving four we can rely on: Crow, Rajnar, Talulah and Jack.

  They are hardy, resolute souls. Crow was with Julio for three years, the longest of the survivors not in a coma. He's Native American and grew up on a reservation in Montana, where the apocalypse struck just as hard as anywhere else.

  "We're closing on the horde," Crow tells us, and the others confirm it. "The demons are closing on us."

  "Like a ball in a game of pong," I say randomly. "Crow, can you give us a reading?"

  He repeats the best forecast he can give, and the others agree. Northwest, towards Pittsburgh. "I'll know better as we get closer."

  So we drive. Through the night we cross from Illinois into Indiana on I-70, and the snow gets thicker, falling steadily and slowing us more. There are no government plows out here now clearing the roads. We drop back into single file to cut drag, each following in the trail cut by the lead RV, swapping out regularly to let the engines cool.

  "They're gaining fast," Crow says on the radio. He's well enough to sit in the passenger seat of his RV and take an active role. "I can feel the cold inside, like when we escaped Maine. They're closing on us."

  "And the zombies?"

  "I can't say specifically. To the north and east. It's like a fog, and with the demons getting nearer it only gets less clear."

  "Thanks Crow."

  I switch off the radio and turn to Lara. "It's not enough."

  She nods. "It's not what we expected. We're liable to over or undershoot."

  It's all I think about now; the estimates and the directions, constantly working vectors in my head. If they come here and we go there, then what? If they're over here and we go this way, can we still make it through alive?

  "We can't afford to feel this out as we get closer," I summarize. "If we aim for Pittsburgh but the horde's not there, we won't have time to adjust."

  Lara nods. She's smart, smarter than me probably, and I know she's thought of this too. "What else can we do?"

  I don't know. That's the trouble.

  I rally the council on a private channel and ask for their thoughts. Feargal suggests sending out three RVs in different directions, each with one of the conscious survivors on board, and using them to try and triangulate a reading.

  Lara knocks that one down. "There isn't time, and any RV that goes off on its own faces the chance of solo breakdown, more than usual since they'll be driving on non-highways, roads none of us have ever seen and can't see in this snow. They could easily get lodged fast, and we won't be able to come back and help them."

  "So we split into three or mini-convoys," Ravi suggests, "two or three RVs each, that spread out to cover more ground and adjust as they get nearer. We can triangulate faster that way."

  "It's too risky," Witzgenstein says, "the same problems remain as if we send them out one by one."

  "It's the best idea yet," Feargal says.

  "Make a fire," Masako says abruptly. Her voice sounds flat.

  "How's that?" Witzgenstein asks.

  "Make a big fire in Pittsburgh. The demons are coming for us, aren't they? The zombies are going to the demons. We sit by and let them cancel each other out."

  "That's the theory," Lara says, but gently. "The problem comes with the speeds. The zombies may be heading for us, Masako, but the demons are coming much faster. We could all be dead by the time the horde arrives. They were rough estimates only."

  "You said Pittsburgh," Masako insists. "I think we should stick with that plan. I want this over."

  Lara looks at me and I shrug. We all want this over. "I'm not on the council," I say softly.

  "Is anyone in favor of that plan?" Lara asks, but no one, not even Witzgenstein, is. "Are there any more ideas?"

  Feargal starts to say something but stops. "No, it was nothing," he says when pressed. "Something about drones…"

  "Then I propose we go with Ravi's idea," Lara announces, every bit the lawyer. "Split the convoy, hunt for the horde in three parts and triangulate by feel. It's three sets of eyes and ears over one. All for?"

  Three voices chime their agreement. Only Masako abstains.

  "Then I put it to the Mayor. Amo?"

  I weigh it. Splitting up is the worst thing we can do.

  "Where would we split?" I ask. "We'll need to do it soon, we're already close to Ohio."

  Lara pulls out her map and runs a finger over it rapidly. "In Indianapolis we could send one RV north on I-69, then have it run east on a parallel track after Fort Wayne. We could send another southeast on I-74, bound for Charleston. The convoy continues along I-70 to Pittsburgh. It's a trident, and we'll cover a sweep of over two hundred miles."

  "That might work," I say. "We send out two satellites. Any volunteers to lead either of these expeditions?"

  "I'll go south," Ravi says without any pause.

  "North," says Feargal.

  "Then that's done. I think it's our best plan. Take two RVs each. Ravi you get Rajnar, Feargal take Talulah. We'll keep the other two in the main convoy, along with the sick and the
kids."

  "That leaves only four RVs for the main convoy," Feargal says. "You won't be able to fight them off at all."

  "If it comes to fighting we're all done anyway," I counter. "The explosives are gone and a few more RPGs aren't going to make a difference. It's get the horde or nothing now, and I think this is the best way to do it. We'll stop in Indianapolis and split to the trident. Agreed?"

  "Wait," says Lara.

  "What is it?"

  "I just thought of something. We've got seven demons on our tail. What if when we split up, they split up too?"

  Shit. I should've thought of that. Nobody talks for a minute.

  "They could," Lara goes on. "They may split so far apart that when it comes time for the zombies to pile on, some of them aren't in the attack radius. They might get away."

  She's right.

  "It's a great point," I say. "But I don't see that we have any choice. We're planning to all meet up at the horde anyway. If we don't split up our chances of finding them in time are much smaller. If we do split, the demons may split too. I still think we have to do it. Anybody?"

  "Agreed," Feargal says, "we're out of choices."

  The others concur, all except Masako who says nothing. I think she's in shock.

  "Agreed," Lara says.

  Agreed.

  It's all a risk. I imagine the demons like the ghosts in a game of Pac-Man, getting faster and more numerous as the clock runs out. Our power pill is out there somewhere, strong enough to let us swallow all the ghosts in one go, but it's nearly invisible. We could be half a mile in the wrong direction and the zombies won't arrive until it's too late.

  Shit. Like hunting a very faintly humming needle in a haystack.

  The snow comes down and we roll on.

  As we pull close to Indianapolis a rumbling uncertainty grows in my chest and stomach. I've had job interviews that felt like this before. The sensation vibrates in wave-like ripples, making me jerky and unsure. My bowels get indistinct and I hand over the wheel to Lara.

  When I return she hands the wheel back and says, "Me too."

  The four-lane highway condenses as we come into the canyons of downtown Indianapolis, through veils of falling snow. Everything is blanketed in perfect white, like frosting on a wedding cake. There's nothing alive here at all. All the sewers and rail lines, all the concrete and glass buildings, all the coffee shops and fashion boutiques and offices, they all add up to nothing. Indianapolis is a white desert where nothing can live.