by Duncan, Ian
Cole took three more shots, four, five, and glanced behind him, backing into the alcove formed by two neighboring houses, a shadowed corridor with a flagstone path that led to a six-foot wooden privacy fence, and no idea whether the gates there would be locked, or what might lie on the other side.
He lined up another shot at about twenty-five yards, always picking off the closest cougher and then the next, knowing the magazine was about to run dry and not sure if he would have time to reload before the next reached him, and needing to buy time and precious distance while he could. He shot one more, then turned and ran toward the gate. Deafened by gunshots, he did not hear the drone following him, nor did he have time to observe the man who had emerged, head and shoulders, from the hatch atop the armored vehicle, his video camera panning the mayhem on the street.
Cole struck the gate latch with the butt of the rifle and crashed against the door with his shoulder. It flew open on the hinges and Cole nearly fell through it, taking three steps on hardscape pavers before his brain could process the layout before him. He skirted the perimeter of an in-ground pool, a dark green cover stretched across it taut as a trampoline, and on the far side he whirled to fire on the first Cord zombie to follow him through the gate, two shots to the chest that sent the cougher staggering into a chiminea, shattering the clay, and then another appeared in the gate and nothing happened when Cole squeezed the trigger. The magazine was dry.
Cole turned and ran beneath an arbor, past several deck chairs stripped of their cushions, and leaped up two small terraces formed by low walls of railroad ties. He grabbed the top boards of the back fence and climbed the narrow rails, barely able to gain footing with his boots turned lengthwise, but hands grabbed at his legs, pulling him back down into the yard, the empty rifle tumbling from his hands as he fought for his balance. He landed flat on his back in lava rock mulch on the highest terrace, the backpack softening the impact, but the breath still knocked from him. He recovered quickly enough to box the cougher’s head with his fists, and then he brought a knee up and planted a boot in the cougher’s chest, kicking him, sprawling, onto his back—just enough time to rip the Glock from its holster in his vest and, firing between his knees, place three rounds in the cougher’s chest.
Cole rolled onto his side and fired at the next, nearly on him, who fell to reveal a half-naked woman close behind him, a middle-aged woman whose flopping breasts were a sight even more terrifying to Cole, and even though the bullet found its mark she uttered a wild, gurgling scream and pitched forward overtop him, and by the time he got out from under her body he realized it was he who was screaming. He jammed the Glock back into its holster and picked up the empty rifle just as a fourth cougher entered the backyard and another appeared swinging its leg over the far fence. Cole ejected the AR’s empty magazine and swapped it for a full one from the load-bearing vest as calmly and swiftly as he could, though his hands were shaking and slicked with blood. They were running for him across the hardscape, leaping over the lawn chairs. Cole dropped the bolt. He shouldered the rifle. He shot them both before they could climb the first terrace and turned to climb the fence again, leaving the yard behind him writhing with the gutshot and mortally wounded.
He swung his leg over and perched atop the privacy fence, scanning the concrete alleyway on the other side, a cougher running toward him there past clusters of trash totes and recycling bins full of discarded wine bottles, their drippings not unlike the bloodsplatter that soon besmirched the alleyway.
Cole paused long enough to shoot the next cougher that appeared at the gate behind him, then swung his other boot over and leapt down. Sharp, electric pain in his knees when he landed, feet first, on the concrete. He limped worse for a few strides, the AR leveled, the barrel leading.
This was not a damn video game, he knew. Sooner or later his luck was going to run out. He needed some sort of shelter, a place to hide, and he needed it fast. He limped down the narrow corridor of fencing, passing the rear entrances to several double and triple-car garages before he saw it: a single-car garage door left standing perhaps a foot above the concrete, a dark gap beneath it, as though to allow a household cat to come and go as she pleased. Cole sprinted for it with everything he had left.
He dropped to his knees and attempted to wriggle under the door, forgetting for a moment his backpack and other cumbersome gear, until it became obvious he would not fit. He clambered back to hands and knees and wrestled out of the backpack straps, shoving the bag under the door just as a cougher ran down the alley, nearly passing him altogether before it noticed. The cough that it emitted in that moment was as much a bark of surprise, and it charged within fifteen feet before Cole could pick up the AR and shoot it.
Even before he was sure he had stopped the cougher completely, Cole flattened himself against the pavement and forced his way beneath the door into the darkened garage, the filters of his respirator scraping and the AR dragging behind him, his finger still on the trigger, still covering his retreat, and the last thing he saw in the strip of daylight behind him was the cougher lying with his cheek flattened against the concrete, a pair of pale but still-living blue eyes watching Cole with absolute and unrelenting hatred.
Seventeen
COLE’S LABORED BREATHS through the respirator gradually slowed. The interior of the garage was dim and empty, save for cluttered shelving units against the far wall, piled high with clear plastic totes. A bag full of golf clubs was propped in the corner. Two small stainless steel bowls stood on a laminated placemat on the floor, one licked clean and the other with an inch of water in it. Cole sat staring at the water, his mouth parched. He was not above drinking it if he had to.
On the other side of the garage, a small set of steps framed out of two-by-fours led to the house, and beside the door, a square white button glowed faintly.
Cole got up and limped toward it, taking the precaution of slipping back into the straps of the backpack and cinching it into position in case he had to run again. He hesitated at the button, and for a moment he stood holding the AR, listening. No footfalls in the alleyway yet. He needed to do this now. The body of the cougher outside the door might lead them to him. He pressed the button.
The garage door motor came to life overhead, a light bulb winking on and the chain jerking taut and the gears ratcheting the door upwards, the crack of daylight widening. Cole pressed the button again and it stopped. He pressed it again and the door began to close, the gap narrowing, smaller and smaller. Cole covered the opening with the AR until the weather stripping at last rested against the concrete. He reached for the worn brass doorknob, a thousand key scratches on its surface, and turned it slowly. It wasn’t locked. He pushed the door open, hinges creaking. He saw a laundry room with a travertine tile floor. White paneled cabinets. A utility sink. Light from a small window over the sink. Wadded linens in plastic baskets atop the washer and dryer. Another closed door led to the house.
Cole stepped across the threshold and closed the door quietly behind him. He locked the deadbolt, though he wasn’t sure how much good it would do. As anyone that has ever broken into a house knows, most of the precautions that allow homeowners to sleep at night are mere irritations to intruders. He hoped to God no one was still home. He took some reassurance from the empty garage and driveway.
He reached for the second door knob, the AR in his right hand, barrel pointed at the floor. He needed a strap for the rifle so he could swiftly transition to the pistol. He made a mental note to look for something in the house that might serve—the strap to a piece of luggage or a messenger bag, maybe. He turned the knob slowly.
Please don’t be home.
He pulled the door inward slowly, looking through the gap.
Please don’t be a zombie, either.
He couldn’t see much at first. A plaster wall hung with a watercolor in a heavy gilded frame. Children in straw hats wading in tidal pools, dawdling on rocks. A kind of tranquility be
come suddenly incomprehensible. Cole pulled the door all the way open and wrapped his supporting hand around the magazine well of the AR, bringing the barrel up slightly as he moved into the doorway.
He stepped into a breakfast nook, an oak table and chairs. A suitcase lay unzipped on the table, nothing in it. Blinds were drawn over most of the windows but the room still glowed from light coming through the high transoms, and rays of sunlight refracted in the crystal chandelier splayed across the ceiling in strange patterns.
All these sights Cole took in without conscious thought, his mind open to everything but focused on nothing. The utter lack of movement and noise held him in perfect tension.
Beyond the breakfast nook was the kitchen, banks of white cabinets and black soapstone countertops. Massive stainless steel appliances. Barstools lined under a high countertop. A collection of copper cookware hanging over the center island. None of the lights were on. No sound.
The ticking of a large clock somewhere deeper in the house.
Cole took several quiet steps. A swinging door led away from the breakfast area, and on the other side of the kitchen was an open doorway, but Cole could see nothing in the room beyond but a chandelier and china cabinet. He stepped to the swinging door and pushed it slowly with his left hand until he could see into the hall beyond. A narrow Persian rug led into the foyer, where stood the grandfather clock he had heard, the polished brass pendulum gliding silently in the cabinet, and for a moment Cole stared at it, nearly mesmerized.
He began to breathe easier. He let the door close and walked into the kitchen. He stared out the window over the sink, over the yard, over the rooftops of the neighboring houses, where, for all he knew, the dark shapes ensnared in the branches of the trees were the very owners of the house in which he stood.
He safetied the AR and laid it lengthwise on the countertop. He slipped out of the straps and let the backpack stand on the floor against the dishwasher. By degrees, he began to allow himself to think about how much every single part of his body ached, about how dirty he was, even indulging the thought that he might find a bed in some corner of that house and sleep there three or four days straight while the outside world destroyed itself. What difference would it really make?
He pulled the Glock from its holster and laid it by the kitchen sink, then unbuckled the tactical vest and pulled it off, shucking what felt like a hundred pounds from his shoulders. He let it drop to the floor beside the backpack. He turned a pair of porcelain knobs on either side of the swan-necked spigot and held his stained hands under the falling water for several long seconds, waiting for the water to warm before he lowered his entire head, respirator and all, under the flow, feeling it soak to his scalp and run in rivulets down his face. He stared at the drain, at the water swirling into it, bearing away blood, bits of brain and glass, and the spores that had transformed the city into the hell he had often revisited in his nightmares, so often that it seemed somehow inevitable that the rest of the world would eventually come to share it with him.
He poured dishwashing soap over his head and scrubbed his hair and face and the respirator itself before he slipped the straps over his head and laid the mask in the sink. He leaned against the basin, elbows locked, letting his hair drip into the sink.
It was then that a presence took shape in his consciousness; he did not see her so much as feel her standing on the other side of the kitchen, as though, by some nearly imperceptible degree, the tenor of the house’s deep silence had changed.
Wet locks hung in Cole’s eyes, but very slowly he turned his head.
She was pale and blonde, wearing white and a light gray tunic sweater, her whole form nearly translucent in that light. She was holding something at eye level, and it took Cole a moment to realize it was an enormous handgun, or at least it appeared enormous relative to her slight build. Her face was calm, even resolute, her mouth drawn out in a firm line. Her pale blue eyes were visible over the sights of the gun, the muzzle wavering slightly as she clenched it. Her left arm was draped protectively over the globe of her belly.
“Get out,” she said quietly. Almost a whisper.
Cole stepped back from the sink, slowly raising his palms. He never thought of reaching for the Glock. “I’m just a survivor, ma’am. I’m not infected. I had no idea anyone was here.”
“Get out,” she repeated, louder now.
“Can I at least dry my hair?”
The muzzle continued to shake, but she said nothing.
“Look, I’m just going to reach for that towel right there on the counter, okay?” Cole pointed to it before he moved, making exaggeratedly careful motions as though he were walking across ice. She followed his movement with the gun. Cole unfolded the towel and rubbed it vigorously over his scalp. When he lowered the towel and looked up at her she was still holding it on him.
“Start moving,” she said. “Front door.”
“Look,” Cole said, “if you send me out there now you’ll be killing me.”
“Walk.”
“You might as well just shoot me,” Cole said. “Do you have any idea what’s going on out there? What it’s like?”
She said nothing, but Cole could see how white her fingers were from squeezing the gun. One slender finger was on the trigger. Cole hoped it was a double action with plenty of travel. “I’ll leave, okay? Just do me a favor and at least let me crash in your garage tonight, and then I’ll leave in the morning. Okay? You can lock the door behind me. All I want is a place to sleep.”
She seemed to consider it.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” Cole said, softening his voice. “I’ve been on the run for a couple days. I’m exhausted and I honestly don’t think I’d make it more than a couple blocks if I had to keep going.”
She swallowed and the cords in her neck tightened. She nodded.
“Thank you,” he said.
He started to move toward the rifle.
“Stop!” she cried.
“Whoa, whoa.” Cole held up both hands.
“Get away from that.”
“Lady, I have to take my things with me, including these guns. I have no desire to hurt you, okay? But if I leave these behind the coughers would get me in about thirty seconds.”
The gun was shaking harder now.
“Look, I’m going to pick up the backpack and the vest and carry them to the garage, then I’ll come back for the rifle and the pistol, okay?”
She backed further into the eating area and followed him with the pistol while he walked to the laundry room door, pushing through it and opening the garage door and rolling his eyes as soon as he was out of sight. He felt sorry for her, to be honest. He wondered if she was alone in the house, and if so, what might have happened to the other occupants, if they had simply walked out into the yard and started climbing the trees while she watched, horrified.
She was sitting in the furthest chair in the breakfast nook when Cole came back, her face flushed and butt of the pistol resting on the arm of the chair.
Cole paused at the counter. “Let’s just talk through this so there are no surprises, okay—I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
She only raised the pistol and pointed it at him again.
“Alright, that’s fine. My name is Cole, okay? I’m going to pick up this rifle by the stock and carry it barrel down, okay?”
She nodded.
“Then I’m going to pick up the pistol, just with two fingers, and carry it the same way back to the garage.”
“Okay.”
Cole lifted the AR from the counter, stock first, and let the barrel swing down, then crossed to the sink and picked up the Glock with only two fingers on the grip like he’d promised. “Now I’m just going to walk back to the garage. Be sure to lock the door behind me, alright? When I came in here it was unlocked.”
She kept the pistol trained on him all the way through th
e laundry room door, where Cole resumed a normal grip on the weapons and rolled his eyes and closed the garage door behind him.
It was dark now without the garage door activated. He found a light switch beside the door and flipped it. A single fluorescent bulb flickered overhead. He tucked the Glock in his waistband, stood the AR, backpack, and vest against the far wall, and began to examine the cluttered shelves for anything that might serve as bedding. He couldn’t help but piece together an idea of what the life of the household had been like, judging by the contents of the plastic totes. Stuffed animals in one. An umbrella stroller lying propped in the corner beside the golf clubs. Rolls of Christmas wrapping paper and spools of ribbon in another. A wheeled Coleman cooler. Cans of aerosol paint. Two pair of cross country snow skis on the top shelf.
Behind him, Cole heard the dead bolt slide home. He cursed her softly.
So much for that bed.
He pulled down a bin that looked like it might contain beige-colored blankets. He popped off the lid and found that it was actually a large painter’s drop cloth, marked here and there with boogers of hard latex. It would do.
He unfolded it along the side wall where he had propped his gear, making a sort of pocket like a sleeping bag. He thought why not and went back for the stuffed animal bin, picking out a plush teddy bear with a nice fat belly that would make a good pillow. He pulled out the Glock and set it in the bear’s lap and smiled weakly.
He decided his one indulgence would be taking off his boots. He sat on the painter’s drop, his fingers nearly numb at the laces, picking at the knots for a minute before he got them untied. He happened to look back across the garage and notice two white plastic grocery bags sitting by the steps. He walked across the floor stocking feet and bent to look. Two cases of La Croix sparkling water. Lemon lime. He ripped open one of the cartons and pulled out two cans, cracking one open as he walked back across the floor. He sat on the painter’s drop and pulled out some of the nuts and jerky, and he ate until his jaw was sore from chewing and he found himself nodding off between bites. At last he crawled into the drop, flipped the canvas over himself, positioned the teddy bear comfortably, and passed out with his hand lying on the Glock.