by Frank Tayell
The red lights on the minivan flashed on as it came to a halt. Helena slammed on the brakes. The truck stopped. All was far from silent. A few horns blared, a few bumpers crunched, and a few voices were raised in anger at a driver who’d not stopped in time. Helena uncurled her fingers from the wheel and turned the engine off.
They were on a shallow incline. Ahead and to the left, the road curved around a meadow. Beyond was a water tower, and the rooftops of a small town. On the right lay managed woodland.
Three vehicles ahead, a four-wheel drive jolted forward, knocking down the fence delineating the field from the road. The truck behind it followed, its wheels churning up the dull winter grass. The minivan sped forward, managing ten yards before it got bogged down in the saturated soil. An impatient horn blared from the rig immediately behind. Tom turned in his seat, but the cab was too close for him to see the driver.
“We’re walking, right?” Helena swiftly sorted through the food in the boxes, muttering, “Can’t take this. Or this. How far to the airfield?”
“Seventy miles, give or take. Probably a bit less.”
“We can walk that in three days, right? So water’s more important than food. What about the fuel? Can’t take that, I suppose. Seems a shame to leave it. Another two hours, and we’d have reached the airfield.”
Two hours in a car, but three days on foot. They had more than enough supplies to sit here and wait that long, but what for? It was over an hour since they’d seen their last zombie, but that was just another way of saying that the nearest zombie was no more than a day’s lurch away. No doubt there were more creatures, and far closer.
“Yep, we’re walking.” He got out of the truck.
The driver of the rig stuck his head out of the window.
“Move forward!” he bellowed. Ignoring him, Tom reached in and picked up the assault rifle. The driver’s head retreated behind the illusory safety of his windshield.
There was no point moving the vehicle a meager few yards. The driver of the minivan was standing in the meadow by his vehicle, throwing covetous glances at the distant town, and hopeful ones at the people on the road. Perhaps the man was hoping for a push, or a tow. A few other trucks took to the meadow. Tom slung the rifle, checked his pockets for the sat-phone, tablet, and the 9mm he’d taken from RV. He picked up the machete. Helena passed him one of the bags and threw the other over her shoulder. She had her automatic pistol in her hand.
“Any chance we’re coming back?” she asked. Before he could reply, she answered for him. “No. I guess not.” She dropped the keys on the driver’s seat and closed the door.
Walking along the median strip, she picked her way through the stalled vehicles. Tom followed, a few paces behind, watching the people. They weren’t the only ones to leave their cars, nor the only ones armed. Most, however, looked better prepared than they were. There was a profusion of lurid fleece jackets, neatly strapped backpacks, and tightly laced boots. By contrast, his and Helena’s mud-splattered clothes, though they were the best pick of a bad selection, looked like rags. The better prepared were drifting off into the woods. It was those dressed in denim and cotton who stayed on the road. Tom’s attention was on the people staying in their vehicles. Usually it was a solitary driver, though sometimes with younger passengers. All exhibited the same shifting nervousness. Each passing refugee was further proof they would have to get out, but only emphasized that they were unlikely to find a better refuge than their vehicles.
More troubling were the cars with a solitary occupant in the backseat. It was possible that some had weighed the slim chance of rescue as greater than that of a journey through the wilderness, but some were clearly unconscious. He met the eyes of an older man huddled under a tartan rug. The man gave a short, shallow shake of his head. Tom moved on.
Two cars ahead, he saw a teenager in the backseat of a car. His eyelids fluttered. He couldn’t be more than fourteen. Tom wanted to help. He wanted to do something, but there was nothing anyone could do. On the boy’s leg was a bloody bandage, another on his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and walked on. There really was nothing he could do for the boy, the old man, or any of these refugees.
“Nothing,” he said aloud. Guilt stung as sharp as the truth in that simple realization. In front, there were hundreds of people drifting toward the town. Behind them were even more. This had been the event he’d wanted to avoid when leaving Manhattan. They were on foot, seventy miles from an uncertain salvation, surrounded by thousands of refugees, and an uncounted number of the dying infected. Soon the sound of slamming car doors would be joined by that of undead fists beating against the thin glass of their temporary tombs.
“We need to get off the road,” he said, jumping up onto the roof of the nearest car. The driver slammed a fist against the windshield. Tom unslung the rifle, pointing it at the driver, but the woman was still alive. She cowered back in her seat, hands raised in front of her face. He ignored her and scanned the woods.
“There’s a track,” he said, jumping back down.
Helena turned to the woman in the car. “You need to get out,” she yelled. “Get out, get moving. Don’t stay here.” The terrified driver just shook her head.
Tom turned away. “What was it that woman with the RV said? We have to help everyone we can, but we can’t help everyone.”
They headed away from the road. There were refugees on the track. Too many, he decided, and cut a route away from the churned-mud path.
Regularly spaced pine trees had deposited a thick carpet of needles on a forest floor made uneven by up-jutting roots. He tripped twice before he found his footing, but felt easier as the sound of the slowly fleeing refugees receded. The noise from the road was barely diminished.
The ground began to rise, and he found himself walking up a steep incline. At the top, a tree had fallen, knocking into the nearest, ripping it out of the loamy soil. From the height of the splintered stump he saw the town, and the barricade on the road leading into it.
Two yellow school buses had been parked across the road. Their windshields touched. Their rear tires were sunk into the muddy ground. Razor wire glistened in front and around the vehicles, and over corrugated metal embedded in the field on either side. On top of the school buses were eight figures. They were too far away to identify any more than the long gun each carried. In front of the barricade, filling both lanes of the road, were cars and trucks of every size and make. In and around them was a swarm of people.
“Why did they come here?” Helena asked.
“I don’t think they did,” Tom said. “Not intentionally. Someone stopped, asking to be let in. Someone coming from the other direction did the same. When the third stopped, it blocked the road. This is the result.”
There was a stretch of empty ground, about twenty feet deep, between the buses and the refugees. It wouldn’t remain empty for long.
“I make it close to four hundred people within a hundred yards of the barricade,” Helena said. “And only eight people to stop them. They won’t let them in, will they?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Do you remember the compact that drove off the road a couple of miles back? That track must lead to the far side of town. They’ve already been overrun, they just don’t know it yet.”
“Overrun? You talk as if it was an invasion.”
“The effect will be the same,” Tom said.
“No. It doesn’t have to be. They’d argue that they can’t save everyone, that they can keep the people in the town longer if there are fewer people with whom the supplies have to be shared. That’s not the right way to think. They can keep all these people alive today, and tomorrow that help will be repaid when the zombies come, or next week when food needs to be planted. We can’t be refugees, not here in our own country. We have to make a stand. It could be here. We could clear the road, build walls far stronger than links of razor wire, and—”
There was a shot, fired by one of the townsfolk. The
refugees’ muttered protest, only a distant whisper, was replaced by a high-pitched howl of despair that echoed across the treetops. The crowd parted around two figures, one lying prone on the ground, the other kneeling.
The tableaux remained frozen just long enough for Tom to imagine the shouts of apologetic recrimination from the barricade; for a doctor to be called; for the injured to be tended; for the infected to be dispatched; for the refugees to be offered shelter.
There was a second shot. Tom didn’t see from where it came, but it was followed by a fusillade, fired from both sides. The refugees fell, cut down as they tried to flee. One of the townsfolk fell. Then another. The refugees surged forward. Many died as they stampeded toward the school buses, but some made it. The townsfolk fled from the baying mob.
“I don’t want to see the rest,” Helena said, turning away. She headed into the forest.
Tom spared one last glance at the town, and the horde running toward it. Zombies were never the real threat.
Chapter 2 - What’s Yours Is Mine
Centre County, Pennsylvania
“Not so fast,” Tom said.
“What’s to wait for?” Helena said. “We have to get out of here.”
“I agree, but I don’t want to twist an ankle.” A memory of Bill Wright and his broken leg came to him. Of course, Bill still had access to medical care. Tom took out the sat-phone, uncertain what message he was about to send, but turned it off as soon as he saw how depleted the battery was. Bill couldn’t help them. And they couldn’t help the hundreds of other refugees now tramping through the woods. The sound of leaves and needles being kicked aside, branches breaking, and quiet sobbing replaced that of gunfire and screaming.
After a tense hundred yards they came to a curving track. Tom wasn’t sure if it was the same one that led from the road, or if it was a trail cut by the refugees. It was full of people.
“They look like zombies,” Helena said. They did, walking single file, heads bowed, eyes half shut. It was surreal. They were still human, but it was as if they’d already given themselves up to death. They pushed their way through, and kept going.
“That way’s due south,” Helena said when the nearest people were only vague sounds.
“You sure?”
“Yes.” She looked about uncertainly. “Pretty sure. Which way?”
“East. Avoid the mountains, stick to the low ground, and we’ll find a road.”
“What was it you said a few days ago? That we’d all end up heading toward the same supply of water, all competing for the same shelter. That’s what it’s going to be like, isn’t it? The survival of the most brutal.”
The trite reply that life had always been like that died on his lips. “I guess so,” he said. “At least, for now.”
“It didn’t have to be this way.”
Helena set the route, and Tom was happy to let her. In some ways, direction didn’t matter. They had to get away from the immediate threat, but realistically needed a car to complete the next part of the journey. He couldn’t guess in which direction the nearest road lay, let alone predict the odds of finding a car.
Helena paused, leg half-raised. There were shadows ahead, not moving quickly, yet not moving toward them. He unslung the rifle. They continued more slowly. The shapes coalesced into humanoid forms. He raised the gun, but lowered it when he saw the people were still alive. There were three of them, more ill-dressed than Helena and himself. They gave his rifle a greedy glance, but made no attempt to take it. Helena steered a path away from the group, picking up the pace until they were slowly jogging through the forest. His eyes scanning for more figures, he didn’t see the fallen branch. He tripped, fell, and the rifle went off. Helena spun around.
“Sorry,” he said as he picked first himself, and then the gun, off the ground. They listened to the silence, and it was silence for almost a full minute as if all those currently out of sight were listening for more gunfire. The sound of movement resumed, but now he was certain that the nearest person was over two hundred yards away.
Twenty minutes later, they both heard the faint cry at the same time. It came from ahead. A man sat with his back against a tree. He had bloody scabs on his face and arms. Though the wounds weren’t deep, he was clearly close to death.
“Please,” he called. “Please help me.”
“Drink this,” Helena said, raising her water bottle to his lips. The man managed a sip, but spluttered most of it back out.
“Please,” he said again. “Please help.”
Tom knelt down. There was no help that could be offered. “What’s your name?” he asked instead.
“Paul Zelner,” the man said. “I was trying to get home.”
“Where’s that?” Tom asked.
“Williamsport. I have to get to my daughter. I have to tell her… to tell her—” The words ended in a wracking cough that quickly subsided. The man sagged. Tom drew the 9mm, and reached a hand toward the man’s neck. The head rose, and vacant lifeless eyes stared up at him. He jumped back as the zombie hissed, raising its arm. Tom fired. The zombie died. Silence engulfed the forest once more.
“Drop that,” he said, turning to Helena.
“What?”
“The water bottle. It’s probably contaminated.”
Clouds gathered. The wind rose. The sun moved toward the horizon. They walked as the temperature dropped. Occasionally they saw people, and even less frequently found themselves walking in parallel with, in front of, or behind a small group. It was never for long. Either the others would steer away from them, or they would cut east or west. Soon after, they had the sound of gunfire to warn them of where not to go. It wasn’t close, and never more than a few shots at a time. He hoped it was people offering a merciful end to their infected loved ones, but the alternative was too vivid a threat. Every person was a potential zombie, and soon would be a bone fide thief. When the shooting stopped, something told him it wasn’t the zombies that were dead.
Tom was debating the few pros and many cons of sheltering with others for the night when they heard the sounds of people.
“There’s a lot them,” Helena whispered, peering through the trees. “I can’t hear any screaming, though. Just voices. And so many it might be safe. Do we risk it?”
“I’d say no, but if they’ve come from the other direction, it would be best that we know rather than creep into some even greater danger.”
“Cautiously, then?”
As they drew nearer, he saw that it wasn’t a single group, but a large collection of people gathered in a camping site. That was almost too glamorous a description for a parking lot, a row of cement barbecue grills, and a concrete blockhouse. From the line outside, he took that to be a restroom. It was impossible to tell by smell alone, as a rank fug hung over the entire area. There were close to a hundred people, mostly footsore, mind-numbed travelers like themselves. Other than those lining up for the washroom, they sat at picnic tables, on felled logs, or had collapsed when their feet refused to take them any farther. He scanned that last group quickly, but none appeared infected.
“Appearances can be deceptive,” he muttered.
“That’s a water faucet,” Helena said and then asked, “What was that you said?”
“Nothing.” She was right; the line wasn’t for whatever was in the concrete building but for a standpipe outside. They stood by the edge of the woods, watching. A pair reached the faucet, filled their canteens, and then drifted toward the narrow road beyond the gravel-covered parking lot. The reason most people weren’t leaving was the aroma that filled the air.
Not all the people in the campsite were recent refugees. In the parking lot was an RV, far more dented than the one that had come to their aid earlier in the day. Next to it were two cars, the type of junkers bought with the first paycheck from a first proper job. That description matched the pop-tents set up on the lot’s edge. They clearly belonged to the group of six teenagers huddled around the raised barbecue grill furthest from the end.
The smell was coming from there. Charred fat mixed with enough seasoning to disguise the scent of cheap meat. Theirs weren’t the only eyes to be looking toward the teenagers’ ill-advised cookout. Greed and hunger were written deep on dozens of exhausted faces. Perhaps it was the presence of so many others that had stopped the youngsters from being robbed. Or perhaps it was just that everyone was waiting for the meat to be cooked.
“Let’s get some water and get going,” Tom said.
“This is like something you’d see on the news,” Helena said. “One of those reports about somewhere far away you’ve barely heard of.”
“Yeah,” Tom muttered, as they joined the back of the line. He was only half listening. There were no wires or lights, nor any sound of an electrical pump. That meant the pipe was gravity-fed. The road beyond the lot was sloped, so uphill, somewhere, was a pumping station or well, and with it was electricity. Perhaps there was a generator, still being tended. People meant vehicles, and that was what they really needed. Except there were vehicles far closer. The line shuffled forward, and he turned his eyes to the RV and the two cars. There were a few shotguns and some handguns in evidence among the refugees, but those youths didn’t look armed. He could take one of their cars easily enough. Somehow it felt wrong. Taking a vehicle from an abandoned house, or even from an occupied one, didn’t seem like such a great crime. The owners had the safety of being inside, even if he’d robbed them of a method of escape. Here, he couldn’t help think he would be sentencing the teens to death. But wasn’t his need greater? His purpose a just one? No. It was simply a justification for a truly selfish act. Yet, there was an inevitability about the coming hours. When darkness fell, a shroud would fall on the campsite, and that would be all it took for people to fall on one another.
“It’s a powder keg,” he muttered, and they needed to get away before it blew up.