by Frank Tayell
Broome County, New York State
“This’ll do,” Kaitlin said, bringing the truck to a halt. It was half an hour since they’d left the interstate behind, but probably only ten miles in distance. Tom put the sat-phone and tablet on the armrest. He’d been trying to work out where they were and had narrowed it to three different sections of rural road. The precise location wasn’t important, but puzzling over it offered a distraction to the children. They were more subdued than before, feeding off Kaitlin’s tight-lipped anger. Part of that was caused by Soanna’s excursion into the store, part of it was everything else they’d seen. Tom got out. Helena followed. Kaitlin closed the door to the cab, this time without admonishing the children against leaving.
“There’s not as much damage as I thought,” Helena said, examining the front of the truck. “We’ve lost some lights, but how much night-driving are we going to do?”
The exit from the interstate had been full of the undead. They wouldn’t have taken it if the road ahead hadn’t been packed with more of those monstrous creatures. A long column, thousands strong, had been drifting south. They’d made it to the off-ramp just ahead of that hideous pack and found it almost as densely packed with the living dead. They’d driven through and over them, running them down, crushing them against the stalled vehicles lining the ramp, but they’d made it.
“I’ll get the crowbar and clean the tires,” Helena said.
The door opened.
“Can we use the bathroom?” Luke asked.
“No bathrooms here,” Kaitlin said. “Just plenty of trees.”
“I’m going to take a walk up the hill,” Tom said, gesturing to the sloping rise to the right of the truck. “I’ll give you a hand in a moment.”
He walked across the verge, and onto the scraggly grass. The ground was soft, damp, with a few brighter shoots among the darker wintery blades. There were buds on the bare branches of a tree whose type he couldn’t guess at, and the sound of a bird, trilling softly somewhere out of sight. Spring was on its way, but that gave him no peace.
Soon after they’d joined the interstate, a pair of motorbikes had overtaken them. One of the bikers had waved, but neither had stopped. They’d hashed over the possible meanings of that gesture because it was their only distraction from the surrounding horror. Just before the interstate exit, they’d seen both bikes, lying on the road. There was no sign of the bikers.
He reached to top of the incline. It wasn’t a hill, just a foreshortened slope at the edge of farmland. In front lay acres of fields. Small green shoots sprung from ruler-neat rows, stretching off into the distance. Beyond, a trio of giant metal columns jutted up above the beginnings of a town. They might be steam-pipes, and the poles visible beyond the row of trees at the field’s edge might be football posts. Perhaps they weren’t. At another time, it might be worth investigating. Now, it was too dangerous. He thought of the zombies on the interstate. Where had they come from? How had so many people become infected all in one place, or had they? Did the zombies attract one another? Perhaps they’d been at some camp, similar to Providence. He hoped not.
“Hey.” It was Soanna.
“Don’t you ever stay put when you’re told?” he asked.
“No one said I had to stay in the truck,” she said. “Besides, it’s safe, isn’t it?”
Helena had begun to follow the girl up the hill. Tom waved that it was okay.
“As safe as anywhere,” he said. “Which isn’t very safe at all. There really could be monsters hiding behind the trees. You need to understand that.”
“If it’s as safe as anywhere, then I’m as safe here as in the truck,” she said with frustrating logic.
“You know what I mean,” Tom said. “But I don’t think you understand it yet. You will. Do you know anything about farming?”
“Of course. Is that a farm?” she asked. “What’s it growing?”
“No idea.” Nor did he know when the crop would be ready for harvest, or even if it was edible. “We can get fish from the sea, but in a few months we’ll have to come to places like this and pick the food. There’ll be no more grocery stores, no more cardboard packaging. No refined sugars and added salt. Salt, now how do we get that? From the sea, I suppose. One more chore to be added to the long list.”
“Salt? I thought that was bad for you.”
“You can’t live without it. They used to use it as currency, did you know that? It’s where the word salary is derived from. There’s so much that will have to be done, and so much that we don’t even realize.” He could almost hear her brain trying to process what he’d said.
“So we have to come back here to pick this field when it’s all grown?” she asked.
“No, probably not. It’ll be too far for us, and it’s too close to that town. Whoever’s there will harvest it.”
“I can’t see anyone,” she said.
Nor could he. There were no zombies, but at the same time, no one was standing guard over the field.
“Are we going there?” she asked. “To the town, I mean?”
“It’s too close to those zombies on the interstate. No, we’ll go to the coast. We’ll stick to the plan. But as we get nearer, we should keep an eye out for fields and livestock. That’s a thought. Maybe chickens or… or…” He trailed off. His ears had caught something. “Do you hear that?”
“What?” she asked.
“Shh! Listen.” The sound seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, and it took a moment for him to understand what it was. “Helicopter. It’s a helicopter.” It was coming from the south and approaching fast. He saw it. A black speck, growing larger as it drew nearer.
“Is it the Army?” Soanna asked.
“No. That’s a civilian model.” Or he thought it was. There was something red on the tail-wing. He raised his arms, waving at the others by the fire truck. “Helicopter,” he yelled, though surely they would have realized.
He turned back to watch it get closer. It was a civilian model. The tail wing was emblazoned with the logo of a Pittsburgh broadcaster. “Must be heading to the town.” And coming from somewhere else. That meant that the town was in contact with somewhere. Perhaps it was worth going there. Perhaps… and then he realized that he was wrong. The helicopter wasn’t heading to the town. The craft hovered over the field, and came to a sudden, thudding landing, side on to them, less than fifty yards away. The doors opened. He saw the figures inside. The guns. The uniforms.
“Run.” He yelled at Soanna. “Run. Go. Back to the truck!” He grabbed her arm, pushing her down the incline, but he didn’t follow.
In the back of the helicopter were three figures in military fatigues, all wearing headsets that obscured their faces. The rifles two of them carried were pointing at him. He stood his ground. He wouldn’t draw in time. But they weren’t firing, either. Not yet. He might be wrong. This might be help. It could be anyone. A figure jumped out of the helicopter, and ran, head bowed, until he was clear of the blades. Hope died as the figure took of his helmet. Tom saw the shock of blond hair above a familiar face, partially covered in a bandage.
“Powell,” he hissed. He turned around. Helena and Kaitlin were halfway up the incline. “Powell!” This time he bellowed it. “Run! Go!”
Helena stopped, her face going pale as the meaning sunk in. She grabbed Kaitlin’s arm, and Tom turned back to face Powell. The man was saying something, but the words were caught by the rotors. Powell motioned to the pilot. The rotors slowed and then stopped.
“Far better,” Powell said. “How are you, Mr Clemens?”
“By the look of it, better than you,” Tom said. “You get those wounds at the motel?”
There was a roar from the fire truck’s engine.
“Sir, the others,” one of the guards said.
“Leave them. We’ll get them later,” Powell said. “It’s not as if they matter. They don’t matter, do they, Mr Clemens?”
“I thought you were dead,” Tom said.
Powell raised a hand to
the bandage on his face. “It is remarkable what the human body can withstand. But I knew you were alive.”
“How?” Tom asked, though he could guess the answer. Arrogant stupidity had blinded him to the obvious, but he wanted to keep Powell talking so the others could escape.
“What comes down must go up,” Powell said. “We followed the data trail. Interfering with a satellite? That’s a federal crime.”
Tom nodded. The sound of the truck grew more distant. “So what, then? Aren’t you going to shoot me?”
“Believe me, Mr Clemens. I would like nothing else,” Powell said. “In fact, I would like a lot more. My masters, however, have decreed otherwise. I told you before there was someone who wanted you alive. He still does.”
“Who?”
Powell smiled. “Come with us and find out. If you don’t, I will kill you, and then hunt down your friends. A vehicle like that really isn’t hard to track.”
Tom eyed the two gun barrels. His choices were limited. He’d have to dive to the ground, roll down the hill, and hope he wasn’t shot before he found cover. He’d have to fight back, and he didn’t have the ammunition to do that for long. He might kill Powell, but he might not, and he probably wouldn’t get the other two. If Powell was dead, they might leave and give up searching for him. They might not. If he went with them, he would meet Farley, and there might be an opportunity to kill the man, and perhaps destroy the rest of the cabal. That was what he’d wanted, to end the conspiracy for once and for all.
“Who gets to live forever?” He raised his hands and took a step toward the helicopter.
“Stop,” Powell said. “I know you’re armed. Slowly, drop your weapons.”
Tom carefully extracted the 9mm and dropped it. He took another step.
“Wait. Search him,” Powell said to one of the guards.
The man stepped behind Tom. Metal prongs bit into his side. There was a moment of white-cold pain, and then nothing but contradictory sensations.
Chapter 10 - An Old Friend
Location Unknown
By the time Tom regained his faculties he was in the helicopter. His hands were bound with plastic ties, and his pockets felt suspiciously lighter. The chopper hovered in the air as Powell gave orders through a headpiece. Then it swung around, heading south. Tom relaxed. Helena and the children were safe. Then he rid his mind of them, and focused instead on Powell, and the confrontation with Farley that he knew was about to come.
Powell opened his mouth, yelling something that was lost in the roar of the helicopter’s rotors. Tom shook his head. Powell shrugged. There was another stinging jolt as he was stunned again. He slumped in his seat, head lolling on his chest. Keeping his eyes closed, he marshaled his strength.
The flight took longer than an hour, but less than four. He tried to recall what little he knew about helicopters, and their range. He knew the difference between a Huey and a Black Hawk, and that this was neither. A hundred miles, two, it didn’t matter. They were taking him to Farley. Soon, it would all be over.
Finally, the helicopter began its descent. It wasn’t the military base he’d expected, but an abandoned factory. Giant, rusting pipes disappeared into broken-windowed buildings out of which decaying chimneys jutted, smokeless, into the empty sky. Though there was an unrecognizable, faded logo on the tallest chimney, there were no signs or company names that might give a clue as to where the place was.
“Out!” Powell yelled.
Tom pushed himself out of the door, and onto a weed-covered helipad. There was at least three years’ growth of moss on the ground, but a helipad meant the site had once been economically important. He scanned the horizon for signs of a town. Or the landing pad meant that it was somewhere so remote that the employees slept on site.
A barrel was shoved into his back, and he was pushed away from the helicopter. Wherever he was didn’t matter; he wasn’t going to escape.
Beyond the helipad was a parking lot containing three APCs, two police cruisers, a tanker, and a portable power plant – a giant generator hauled by a twelve-wheeled rig. It was the vehicles next to it that caught his eye. Two ancient four-wheel-drives, and three six-wheeled deuce-and-a-halfs. They were all painted green, not with a camouflage pattern, but in a cheap, dark-forest color. Set against the far more modern armored personnel carriers, they looked incongruous. There was something puzzling about the vehicles which were almost as old as him, something that nagged at a recent thread of memory.
“I said move!”
He staggered onto the asphalt. It was clear where they wanted him to go. Cables snaked from the power plant into a two-floor building that looked less decayed than the others. Two people came out of a set of double doors repaired with plyboard. Like Powell and his goons, they were dressed in military uniform, complete with rank and insignia. He doubted the ranks were real, but the rifles were. For each vehicle to have a driver, there had to be at least twelve people on site, not counting those who’d just arrived. Realistically, he should expect twice that number. However, there were no machine-gun nests or searchlights, no patrolling guards, or even snipers on the roof. He thought back to the few certainties he’d uncovered regarding the cabal. Though the leadership had sufficient influence to enlist official support, he’d always suspected there were fewer than a hundred and fifty members, and perhaps a lot less. It could be that they were all here.
He was shoved inside the building. There was no reception area, just a long corridor with doors leading off it. He couldn’t tell what was inside, or whether they’d been offices or workshops. Though each door had a window, some were covered in board, the rest were coated in a thick layer of grime. Halfway down, and on either side of the corridor, were a set of closed fire doors. The only light came from irregularly positioned freestanding electric lamps.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Tom said. “It’s very homely. So where’s Farley?”
Powell gave a short laugh completely absent of humor. “Secretary Farley? Oh dear. Put him in the hole. There is a lot we need to discuss, assuming you survive the night.”
This wasn’t how he’d imagined it. He’d assumed he’d be put in a room with Farley, that there would be a moment where the two of them were mere feet apart. He would attack, and that was as far as he’d thought. There was something sinister in Powell’s words, a barely contained glee that could only have one meaning.
He counted the paces as he was prodded down the corridor. Not because he thought escape was likely, but to take his mind from the evil fate awaiting him. One of the guards opened the fire doors on the left. With the encouragement of a rifle barrel, he was pushed through. Outside a padlocked door halfway down the corridor were a table and chair, and a guard who looked like he’d been sleeping just minutes before.
“He’s the fresh meat, is he?” the recently sleeping sentry asked. He grinned as he reached into his left pocket for a key. A look of puzzlement crept across his face when he didn’t find it. The hands began a patting search of his uniform. There was an exasperated sigh from behind Tom. Any relief at discovering he had an incompetent jailor was tempered by the very sturdy fitments to which the padlock was attached. The key was found. The padlock unlocked.
“Gag him,” one of the guards behind him said. “Don’t want you to scream.” Rough hands tied a foul rag over his mouth. His hands were still cuffed with the plastic ties, but they were in front not behind. Before he’d made up his mind to make his stand here and now, a gun was pushed against his temple.
“Enjoy,” the jailer said. The door was opened, and Tom was shoved into the pitch-dark room.
Two stumbling steps from the doorway, the floor disappeared. He tumbled down the unseen staircase, coming to a halt in a heap on a landing halfway down. There was a cruel laugh from above before the door was closed, plunging the room into absolute darkness. Tom growled in anger and pain. The stench from the rag almost made him retch. He reached up and pulled it off. The smell wasn’t coming solely from the ga
g. There was an earthy odor to the room, of damp, mold, and rank sweat.
Hands outstretched, he searched about until he found a railing and pulled himself up. Shuffling his feet, he mapped out the landing. It wasn’t large, perhaps three feet square, at a point where the stairs bent at a right angle.
As the sharp pain from the fall resolved into a dull ache in his knees and shoulders, there was a sound from below as of a figure slowly straightening. Fear swept over Tom unlike anything he’d ever known. There, below him, invisible in the dark, were the undead. The soft crack of air in a knee joint sounded louder than thunder. The low exhalation of breath more violent than a tornado. If he was going to die, he’d go down fighting.
“Come on, then. You want to fight? Let’s go.”
There was a cough that turned into a brief laugh. “Fight?” The voice was male. “I’d rather not.” Male and familiar.
Tom froze. “Who’s there?” he asked.
“I could ask the same question, but I think I know the answer. They said they were going to bring a friend. I should have guessed it would be you.”
“Max?” Tom asked, he couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it.
“Hello, Tom,” President Grant Maxwell said.
Question after question flooded Tom’s mind, but it was a statement of the obvious that battled its way to his lips. “You’re alive,” he said.
“Alive? Yes,” Max said. “Though in very reduced circumstances.”
“How? I mean, why? I mean, why didn’t they kill you?”
“Because they have plans for me, Tom. They have plans for you too, I suspect.”
Tom reached out, found the railing, and descended the stairs. He reached out until his hands found warm flesh. “Max!” He awkwardly gripped his friend’s hands. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” Max said. “The stairs are cleaner than the floor. Perhaps we should sit there.” They sat down.
“How long have you been here?” Tom asked.
“That depends on the day. Did you see my speech? My address to the nation?”