Dead World | Novel | Dead Zero

by Platt, Sean

  Had it really been this morning that things had been so normal?

  An officer rushed to Sanjay, covered by gunfire. They spoke, then broke apart.

  The crew was so much smaller than they’d been anticipating carrying out of the city.

  “Hold tight and stay low.” The driver swung his head toward the gunner while shifting the transmission into drive. “You know. Unless you want a haircut.”

  One of the new arrivals moved to the compromised barricade, just inside the circle and waving the Jeeps through. He pointed to one without any occupants other than a driver and gunner, then the other, lining them up as One and Two. Those Jeeps were supposed to be full of soldiers and staff, Thom assumed, but all those zombies had changed that. Now they were in the lead, meant to slice through the horde so the sole occupied Jeep could come from the rear.

  With the miniguns cutting a swath through the crowd and the Jeeps behind, Thom found himself wondering how they were driving so smoothly. Shouldn’t they be running over bodies?

  Then he saw that all three vehicles had been fitted with old-fashioned cow-catchers like they used to put on the front of trains.

  The bodies rolled aside.

  The Jeeps rolled on.

  Twenty

  No Longer Fit to Pull the Trigger

  The crowds opened up once away from Hemisphere.

  Bakersfield’s residents had the full city to spread out in, so the hordes couldn’t be this dense everywhere. Wreckage was the biggest problem, but the Army guys had thought of that, too. Metal logjams were rammed at just the right angle and with just the right speed to shove them away from the cow catchers, same as the bodies.

  Rick seemed uneasy.

  Thom repressed an instinctual urge to avoid his father and moved closer. “What’s bugging you?”

  “Other than the zombies? Honestly, it’s our company.”

  Thom looked ahead. They’d stopped once the roads cleared, to distribute passengers evenly between the Jeeps. Two of their remaining soldier-guards were in the front Jeep with new guns in their hands, Sanjay and his tech were in the second, and the entire Shelton clan was in the rear Jeep, like a caboose in the back. They were more crowded than the others, but Thom would damn anyone who so much as tried to split them up now.

  “You mean Sanjay?”

  “I mean all of them. Sanjay told me some things I don’t think he wants anyone else to know.”

  “But he needs you. You’re helping.”

  “Yes. For now he needs me. He says the whole world might need me.”

  “He said inside that you’re a dead end.”

  Rick nodded. “Maybe. But I also know they haven’t played straight from the beginning. My guess is there’s still a chance, but then what? We’re a liability.”

  “Officially, only you know,” Thom said.

  “Officially. But they must know I’ll tell you guys eventually.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Rick didn’t have to respond. Sanjay answered for him almost as if the man had been listening. They were nearing the city’s edge; Thom could tell by a swarm of helicopters above the border in a semicircle. With little left to go, Sanjay said something to his driver, who picked up the radio and called the Sheltons’ driver, and then the man started reaching for his holster. Their saviors must not have known whether Sanjay was done with Rick yet, so they’d taken everyone. Now that the pieces were settling back into place and their shared secrets were soon to come out, Sanjay had decided it was best to sweep the floor.

  Rick understood. He leapt on the driver, pinning his gun hand to his side.

  The Jeep, suddenly without hands on the wheel, skidded and nearly tipped.

  It hit the side wall of a bistro, smashing glass, raining it into all their hair.

  Rick got the man around his neck while the other Jeeps went on ahead, but the soldier was too strong and Rick just a little too far past his prime. He had him pinned, but the soldier immediately started prying him off.

  Rick compensated with bodyweight; he wedged next to the driver and let gravity squeeze them into a single seat. Unbalanced, the driver reached for the stopped vehicle’s sides, but Rick must have gotten his foot to the gas because he reached for the shifter, put the Jeep in reverse, and floored it in a rubber-squealing backward arc.

  “HIT HIM!” Rick bellowed.

  Thom was too far, but Brendan leapt the seat like a hurdle to comply.

  He put a size-ten Converse in the man’s face, striking hard enough to rattle some teeth. He lost his grip on wheel and sides. Combined with another touch of the accelerator, the driver tumbled over the half-door to the ground.

  At the same time, Carly leapt onto the gunner’s back. He hadn’t seen it coming, especially from the rear. She somehow got him into a full nelson and, surprising everyone, it was Rosie who punched him — not in the gut as Carly probably intended, but in the balls.

  He squealed, buckled, fell. Thom gave the final shove and Rick hit the gas.

  Ten seconds later they were back on track … but marked for death by the border guards without question.

  Rick hauled ass after the other Jeeps, but they were almost to a checkpoint ahead.

  “We’ll never get through,” Thom said.

  “Oh yes, we will.”

  Carly fished a phone from her pocket. Only, it wasn’t hers. It was Sanjay’s.

  Thom watched her text whoever he had messaged about evacuation before. She wrote, FIRST TWO JEEPS COMPROMISED. THIRD JEEP CLEAN.

  “They … They’d know, though, right?” Thom said. “They’d know who’s up front and who’s in the rear?”

  A fireball bloomed. The first Jeep rolled sideways, and then its gas tank exploded. For the second shot, Thom had found the source and trained his eyes. This time he saw the RPG launched. It struck the second Jeep right in the center — no rolling away for that one.

  Rick floored it. But in the dark of midnight, the fireball from all that detonated gasoline burned like a second sun, and in its glow Thom could see walls of zombies closing in from both sides.

  It was a much larger group than before.

  The gap to the gate closed. A simple cow catcher wouldn’t be enough to plow through this furiously swarming horde.

  “Shit,” said Rick.

  Carly pointed. “Look. Maybe we can get by over there.”

  Thom turned his head. He saw what she meant, but there was still no way. The rightmost group of oncoming dead had a long tail behind it, all walking toward the flames like moths to a lantern, but they weren’t moving quickly. Their group was a bunch of sitting ducks, waiting for the zombies to cross like sacred cows across an Indian street.

  And in the meantime, there was commotion from the ad-hoc tower from which the RPGs had been launched. It was difficult to see from this distance, but Thom was willing to bet he knew what was happening. Carly had confused them with her message from Sanjay’s phone, but they weren’t entirely stupid. They’d soon figure out what had gone down, and it looked to Thom like they were reloading the launcher.

  They had two choices: Stay where they were and be blown up, or charge for the gap right now … and get swallowed by walkers.

  No way out.

  Unless …

  Thom stood. He’d been toeing an equipment locker at his feet, and inside he’d noticed a most unusual road kit: flares, a jack, and one of those blunderbuss weapons he’d seen Hemisphere agents carrying in the mall.

  He picked it up, deciding it looked simple enough to use. There was a switch on the side: ON/OFF. That plus a conventional trigger seemed to tell the whole story.

  “You can’t shoot them all, Thom,” Carly said.

  “I don’t need to shoot them all,” he grimly replied.

  He got out. Carly watched him, arms on Brendan as if to hold him back. She must be starting to understand. By the way she held their son, she must be starting to see.

  He moved to the Jeep’s front, just outside Rick’s driver door. There wa
s no window; the thing had an open top for shooting. Thom looked down at his father.

  Rick said, “I can do it, son.”

  Thom shook his head. “You said it yourself: there might still be something in you that helps them.”

  Rick’s face held a curious emotion. Stern, yes, but something else as well. Something Thom had never seen from his father before. Maybe two or three things.

  “I don’t want to help them.”

  “Then help them.” Thom ticked his head toward Carly, Brendan … and yes, even Rosie.

  Behind Rick, Carly was shifting, truly understanding at last. He had to move quickly. He didn’t have the strength for what she had in mind, and if Carly tried to play hero, this might all be for nothing.

  “You’re sure?” Rick asked.

  Thom nodded. “I’m sure.”

  He took a slow breath, then grasped his son by the forearm. “I’m proud of you, Thomas.”

  Thom could only give a grim nod. He couldn’t face his father’s eyes and he certainly couldn’t look more rearward, to where Carly and Brendan were both starting to speak. To resist.

  Without the strength to look back, he ran.

  He heard Carly and Brendan shout after him, but he didn’t have time for that right now; no way and no how could he take that in this moment. It took everything he had to pump his legs. To aim for the burning Jeeps and the center of this melee.

  Thom fired his weapon once he got close. He didn’t know how far it would shoot, but he aimed at the stragglers anyway — the ones he had to hurry up. The gun gave a mighty whistle like launching a mortar shell, then two of the zombies at the back of the group broke in half, their heads popping like squished grapes.

  Encouraged and shouting now, Thom kept running. This time he aimed at the clot’s center, but the gun seemed to need a recharge between shots.

  They came on while he waited, looking down as he ran, watching a small gauge turn from red to yellow to green. Once green, he fired again. He only got one this time, but he was near enough to his target that the thing simply blew like a bomb.

  But it was working; between the sight of Thom running and the sound of Thom’s shouts and, somehow, the fury of Thom’s weapon, the dead were coming fast. Those at the rear, eager for a meal and afraid it’d be gone by the time they reached the front, accelerated their pace, same as the ones he had seen in the mall and the city.

  Thom watched his father drive maniacally into the gap at the rear, throwing a few stragglers high and wide with the modified front end. The dead came, still fast, still clearing the way. Thom saw the Jeep through the gate and into a waiting crowd of onlookers and press, knowing they’d be safe now; the Army wouldn’t jettison them in front of all those civilians.

  He’d done it.

  He’d been brave.

  He’d made his stand.

  Now, Thom had to find a way out.

  He fired, blowing six or seven away in a semicircle.

  But there were too many.

  And by the time the gauge turned green again, his finger was no longer fit to pull the trigger.

  Twenty-One

  Dead City

  Carly insisted on civilian quarters. She wanted to trust the Army, but this close to Bakersfield, they were hopelessly entangled with Hemisphere. They ended up in low-income housing. The neighborhood hadn’t been especially good before, but now — thanks to the comparative despair of Bakersfield — it seemed just fine.

  It’d been fifteen days, and Carly was all cried out. Brendan too, though he was fourteen and only had so many tears to publicly shed. He stuck to his room a lot more than he had before, and Carly knew it’d just take time.

  Only two weeks, and they were both walking an incongruous balance. Thom was gone, but he’d died to save them. That, at least, meant something. In time they could be proud, once the hurt was gone.

  There was a knock on the door. For some reason Carly expected Rick, but of course he and Rosie had rented an RV in the Nevada desert just five days after the borders closed. He had a hunch that things would get worse before they got better — and as with all things Rick lately, that was already proving true.

  Carly had stopped seeing him as off his rocker and started seeing him as something like an oracle. They talked on the phone daily, and then she always handed it over to Brendan … and neither he nor Rick ever divulged the nature of their discussions. She had a good guess anyway.

  “Hello,” said the newcomer. He was moderate height with black hair, small round glasses, and a neat little goatee. He had handsome, birdlike features. “My name is August Maughan.”

  Carly blinked. “You are, aren’t you?”

  He smiled. “Does my reputation precede me?”

  “Almost as much as Archibald Burgess’s. But … I thought you left Hemisphere?”

  “I did. May I come in?”

  Gobsmacked, Carly let him in, closed the door, and entered her shabby living room to find he’d already made himself a seat on the couch. She sat in her usual chair opposite him.

  “To answer your question, Archibald — Mr. Burgess — doesn’t know I’m here. I’m afraid he’s been a bit of a prickly pear on the matter.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Permission to resume? I’m afraid I don’t have much time. I know Colonel Calais, who’s in charge of this sector, and he sort of … owes me a favor. He said I could have ten minutes before my gate card no longer works. So unless you’d like me to move in with you—”

  Carly smiled. The man was as charming in person as he’d been on TV, back when he and Burgess were partners. “Sorry. It’s a two-bedroom.”

  “—or arrested, then … Well, I’d better make do with the …” He looked at his watch. “At the seven minutes and thirteen seconds we have. Closer to six if I want time to make it through the gate.”

  “Please. Go on.”

  “Good, then.” Maughan looked pleased, but not at all rushed. “I’ve been told you’re on Necrophage?”

  “The cure. Yes.”

  He cocked his head. “It’s not a cure, Mrs. Shelton. It’s really just a holding pattern. I hope they explained that you’ll need to take it for the rest of your life to keep the disease from progressing?”

  “They did. I’m sorry. I misspoke.”

  “Is it working for you? Do you feel you’re at the same developmental stage as you were when you came out?”

  “How would I feel if it wasn’t working?”

  “Let’s see … it’s been about two weeks. The disease seems to have settled at around a three-week development period. After three weeks, you’d basically be a walking corpse … or at least on your way to being one. You don’t look two-thirds corpse to me.”

  “Thank you,” Carly said.

  “So I’d guess it’s working just fine. You understand I have no official ties to Hemisphere, correct?”

  “Good. I’d rather not associate with Hemisphere.”

  “It’s not all bad. It was half my company once upon a time and it was noble then, and I daresay that even Archibald Burgess, though he’s many things, isn’t quite as ‘evil’ these days. Hemisphere is to thank for the drug that’s keeping you human.”

  “Necrophage,” she repeated.

  “Precisely.” He tapped his crossed-over leg. “Anyway. Time, time. We should keep moving. May I test your blood?”

  “My blood is tested constantly.”

  “Yes,” said Maughan, removing something the size of a wallet, “but as I’m not officially Hemisphere, I’m not officially here. I believe competition is good for development, and I know quite well that you have an axe to grind. See, Necrophage has a base formulation that will keep your disease from worsening, though you will forever be what we’re calling ‘necrotic.’ But there is potential for other formulations in the future. Better formulations. So what I’m hoping is that we can make a deal. If you let me sample your blood, I promise to share whatever I develop with you.”

  “Does it screw Hemisphere?�
�� she asked.

  “Definitely.”

  Carly extended a finger, and he sampled a drop of blood before pocketing the device.

  “Well, then.” He rose. “It’s been wonderful, but our time is already almost up.”

  “Mr. Maughan?” Carly rose as well.

  “Yes?”

  “Is it really spreading out there?”

  “I’m afraid so. The Bakersfield containment was not enough. It’s no one’s fault. Nature has its inevitable ways.”

  “But Necrophage will stop it.”

  “We shall see.” He turned again, with a smile.

  “Mr. Maughan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why me?”

  “Why you, what?”

  “You could take any … necrotic’s … blood. So why go to all the trouble to come into Mr. Calais’s compound to get mine?”

  Maughan smiled. “Oh, nobody’s told you?”

  “Told me what?’

  “You are patient zero, in a way.”

  “I thought it was already named after patient zeroes,” Carly told him.

  “Yes. ‘Sherman’ is for Emma Sherman, who first contracted Rip Daddy. ‘Pope’ was the first to develop the new form. Ergo, the disease is ‘Sherman Pope,’ and there’s no room for ’Sherman Pope Shelton.’”

  “That’s okay with me,” Carly said.

  “But you were the first stable case to leave the city. Your virus phenotype was the only survivor. Even Pope died in Bakersfield. Well, ‘died.’ I guess it’s a matter of opinion.”

  Carly shrugged. “Are they really not going to destroy the city?”

  “No need. It’s contained, and by now the entire population is necrotic. Feral, really, not just necrotic. It was your exit that made them change their minds.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Bakersfield is a petri dish now. It gives them something to study. Maybe a way, in time, to help.”

  “But that’s what I don’t understand. Containing Bakersfield did nothing. The virus still got out.”

  “Ah, yes. But so did you. You are both cause and mitigator in one.”