“He’s a good man.”
“So were Daniel Ellsberg and Robert Hanssen.”
***
10:16 p.m.
The newscaster spoke in solemn tones and read the information not at the typical speed news reports are delivered with, but in a deliberate manner as one might read product assembly instructions. It was as if he were making sure that the station’s listeners completely grasped the magnitude of the situation.
“There are reports out of East Contra Costa County, in the Pittsburg-Antioch area, that a passenger train involved in a collision that killed fifty-seven riders struck another carrying military cargo that mandated the evacuation of all residents within a two-mile radius. There have been unconfirmed reports of gunfire in the vicinity of the crash site, which is on the IRL rail route that runs along the California Delta.
“KGO News received a report from two separate sources that some of those presumed dead, were somehow revived and were seen attacking police and military personnel. While these reports have not been substantiated, police are advising all residents of East Contra Costa County to shelter in place. Do not leave your homes. Employers in the region are encouraged to keep their workers on site. National Guard troops are mobilizing in the area to affect a curfew that will last through at least the next seventy-two hours.
“Now earlier this evening we received a frantic call from someone…a caller from Pittsburg. We warn you that this call is very disturbing and that if you have children present you may want them to leave the room.”
The announcer waited fifteen seconds before resuming his broadcast. “Here now, is that phone call that we at KGO News received earlier this evening.”
The voice was that of a frantic young man:
“…Jesus! Oh my God! This….this is un-[bleep]-believable! People are covered in blood and are mangled, but somehow they’re coming up from the rocks and out of the water! Some of them have broken and deformed limbs….oh. my God, my God…My kids and I are trapped…(in the background can be heard cries of ‘Daddy! Daddy! They’re coming! I’m afraid, daddy!’ followed by screams and sounds of breaking car glass) It’s…Arrrrrgh…we need help! Jesus...”
There was a brief moment of silence before the newscaster came back on the air.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the graphic nature of that phone call. Unfortunately there is other dire news to report. There are reports from eyewitnesses traversing the John A. Nejedly Bridge that links Contra Costa and Sacramento Counties, that a helicopter has crashed near the span. Witnesses include a California Highway Patrolman who was traveling south on highway one-sixty, who told KGO radio that he saw what looked like a police helicopter flying erratically and that it struck the concrete barrier on the side of the bridge. The chopper then burst into flames, wobbled for another hundred yards, and crashed into the delta.
“KGO has confirmation from the State Police Air Service in Martinez, that they’ve lost contact with one of their rescue units headed to the area.” The man cleared his throat. “Recapping, we have reports from the Pittsburg-Antioch area, the scene of a fatal railroad crash that also spawned the leak of military cargo, that gunshots have been fired. Reports are that….for lack of a better term…zombie-like creatures have attacked police, military personnel and a family that was trapped in the area. These reports cannot be confirmed. Following that, a helicopter crashed into the John A. Nejedly Bridge that crosses the San Joaquin River between Antioch and unincorporated Sacramento County. All aboard that chopper are feared dead…We will bring you updates as soon as they become available. We now return you to regular programming.”
***
10:31 p.m.
The Langdon family dined at the Whaler restaurant. Because of the dearth of customers they received the full attention of their waiter who provided what they considered superb service. The family feasted on baked salmon, sea bass, potatoes, and an assortment of vegetables and pastas, washed down with tea for the three children and red wine for their Grandfather Dave and parents, Earl and Paula.
Though the patriarch of the family, Grandpa Dave Langdon, knew of the evacuation in Antioch, it was of little concern to him. At worst, the family would have to spend the night on the other side of the bridge at a hotel in nearby Rio Vista.
We’re outside of the evacuation area, he thought. I’m not one to let the government scare me. They caused a panic with the bird flu, Y2K, and those damn terror alerts, so to hell with ‘em.
After dessert, the family sat and engaged in small talk for nearly an hour, even when the waiter told them about the “riot” that had take place less than ten miles away.
“There’s some sort of commotion near the bridge, a copter crash,” he summed up.
“Long way from where we are,” the old man mumbled.
Grandpa Langdon looked at the check the bumpy faced kid set on the table. He slid four twenty-dollar bills under one of the saucers on the table, and then the family headed for the door. The window at the front of the restaurant provided a distant view of the bridge. A faint orange glow emanated from it. They took sight of a bank of red and blue lights from across the water.
“Guess that crash will slow traffic,” Earl opined.
“Hope no one was killed,” Paula chimed in.
As they walked across a gravel parking lot Grandpa suggested they pay the scene no mind and the six piled into the mini-van with Paula and the children taking up the rear. All were quiet as their meals sat in their stomachs like a load of buckshot. No sooner had they hit the backroads when the kids drifted off to sleep and Paula looked as if she, too, might nod off. As the Langdon vehicle approached an intersection, they saw someone sitting Indian-style along the side of the road, and with his head down. There was a large patch of blood on the man’s shoulder.
Grandpa Langdon slowed to a stop, for in his youth he’d been raised by parents who preached the virtue of kindness toward those in need and drummed into his head the story of The Good Samaritan.
Earl looked out the passenger side window and deduced that the man was probably a drunk who’d taken a spill.
“Well, if he hurt himself, maybe we can call an ambulance for him,” Dave suggested.
He slowed the minivan and as soon as he opened his door, one of the undead rushed from the shadows behind the vehicle with the speed of a top-flight NFL lineman. The thing wrapped its gray, molded fingers around the old man’s forehead, yanked backward and snapped his neck.
Earl knew immediately that his father was dead. The man on the side of the road was on his feet and moving toward them. Earl slid behind the wheel of the van and fired up the engine, but as he tried to throw the car into gear, the bloodied man snatched the steering wheel. The van slipped into drive and as Earl struggled to fend off his attacker, Paula snapped alert and tried to come from the second seat and take control of the vehicle.
The van swung right and went over an embankment, where it crashed onto the rocks below. Paula was hurled from the vehicle and struck her head on a sharp stone before her lifeless body slid into the water. Earl and the beast were both knocked unconscious by the airbag. Seconds later the gas tank ignited and the hot, yellow flames flickered in the night as the screams of the children filled the night air.
Within minutes the van exploded killing what remained of the Langdon family and their two attackers.
***
10:53 p.m.
A lighted ball field became the scene of another attack, when 27-year-old Jerome Sewell took a shortcut home. He hummed a Stevie Wonder song and strolled along holding fast to an opened bottle of MD 20/20. When he and his three friends received news of the chemical leak, Jerome bid them adieu. Already buzzed, he decided he’d rather be home with his ailing eighty-three year-old grandfather than waste more time gabbing with his fellow slackers.
He tilted his head back, pressed the bottle to his lips and savored the burst of the fruity and acidic beverage. He narrowed his eyes and was surprised to see two people limping toward h
im.
They’re moving pretty fast for gimps…
He noticed that were respiration was audible, but it sounded unlike normal breathing. The two headed toward him were snorting like wild boar. Their blood-soaked clothing and the faraway look in their eyes caused Jerome’s arms to bust out in goose bumnps and he slowed his gait.
Whoa…okay, these folks…
As they drew closer he veered to his left. They followed suit.
What the heck do these people want?
By the time he realized he should have run, his path was blocked by a chain link fence. He spun back toward the gruesome duo. One reached out and backhanded him with such force that Jerome fell onto his back. The other thing stomped on his leg and then bent it forward at the knee. Jerome’s knee snapped at the joint and right after he screamed, he knew he’d better throw up a prayer, but it died in his throat as the beasts sank their teeth into his belly.
T W E L V E
10:56 p.m.
Deputies Walter Mixon and Fiona Cruz fidgeted and shared a nervous silence. They’d been assigned to patrol the area north of The Low, in the event that the bank robbers tried to make their escape over the back fence surrounding project. Every other sworn officer of the Pittsburg and Antioch police departments was pressed into duty at the waterfront shared by the two municipalities, but radio transmissions were nil.
“The military’s in the area,” Cruz said, as she took note of her partner’s rigid posture and arms folded across his chest. “I guess to keep the media at bay, they’re jamming the lines of communication.”
“We need to find out why,” Mixon insisted. “We ought to at least be on a private line so we can stay in touch with Hobbs and McElroy.”
“Especially McElroy. You know how anxious he gets. He’s already fired his gun and hit someone tonight.”
“You sure it was him?”
“Who else could it be? Sure wouldn’t be the first time he shot at a suspect.”
Mixon, the superior officer, feared doing anything without the permission of his commander. His ten-year modus operandi as a by-the-book sort was legendary, even more so as he sniffed a possible promotion, so he could ill afford a misstep. His goal was to become Chief of Police before by age forty, even though he was seen by his fellow officers as “a strange bird.”
He didn’t drink, smoke nor hang out with the boys. It was known throughout the department that he didn’t own a television. His house was filled with books on bodybuilding, war history and scholarly tomes such as Death By Black Hole, And Other Cosmic Quandaries by Neil deGrasse Tyson. His physicality and persona also formed a strange paradox, as Mixon had a physique that Arnold Schwarzenegger would have envied, but when he spoke he sounded like Woody Allen.
“We’ve had a major train wreck that took more than fifty lives, but I’ve heard not a single ambulance,’ Mixon began. “There’s a blackout, but no utility trucks are out. On top of that a chopper clipped the Antioch Bridge, yet dispatch provided no additional information.”
He looked at Cruz, whose demeanor never changed. “Now here we are, supposed to be keeping an eye out for two bank robbers with a hostage, and there’s gunfire and some sort of disturbance taking place in the area the robbers fled to, and we’ve heard nothing from our partners on the other side or from command.”
“The lights aren’t out all over the city,” Fiona corrected as she brushed her auburn locks out of her eyes. “The utility trucks can’t go in the Willows to do repairs until we’ve assessed whether or not the area’s is safe.”
“I’m not buying that,” Mixon said with a shake of his head. “Hell no, something’s not right and we shouldn’t be just sitting here.”
“So make a decision,” Cruz said with a yawn. “I want to get out of the car and stretch anyway.”
Mixon started the squad car. “We’ll go around to the other side. If Hobbs and McElroy aren’t sleeping on the job, the four of us will do a door-to-door search.”
Cruz gave him a smile. “Listen to you, trying to act like you’ve got sap in those balls.”
Mixon laughed at her joke. “I know I’m usually reserved, but we can’t sit here all night and do nothing.”
He eased away from the curb and rolled the car in a four block semi-circle to the southern entrance of the Willow complex, which took less than two minutes. Mixon’s heart thumped once he spotted the abandoned police car with its doors open and what looked to be a pool of blood nearby.
“Radio for back-up,” Mixon ordered.
He climbed from his car and shined his light on the ground in front of him. He examined the two separate coagulated pools that partially blended into one. He found a black dress shoe, one that looked like his. Upon closer examination Mixon saw that there was a foot still inside.
“Whoa shit…”
“Walter?” Cruz ran toward him. “There is absolutely no response from dispatch or anyone else. It’s like we’re the only cops in town.”
“Never mind that. Take a look at this.” Mixon shined his flashlight on the foot. “I say we go in.”
Fiona checked out his find and then they ran back to their vehicle.
“Keep trying to reach someone,” Mixon said.
He drove into the complex and turned left, shining the car’s spotlight on the vehicles parked beneath the carport. He found three smashed cars and glass and blood in the vicinity.
“Looks like a freakin war zone,” he muttered.
The spotlight reflected off the windows of the back doors of the apartments. Mixon bent the corner separating buildings 1 and 2. The broken door and glass at Bob Goodman’s place, and the trail of blood leading from the Lewis residence drew his interest.
“Looks like our bank robber friends went on a shooting spree,” Mixon said. “Still no contact from command?”
“Nothing.” Cruz bit her lower lip. “Think it has something to do with the blackout?”
“Doubt it. The station has a back up generator.”
“This is starting to creep me out.”
Mixon was surprised to see fear in his partner’s eyes. From day one he’d always trusted her to have his back. Those were the days when most of the male officers refused to work with females, fearful that in a life and death situation a woman would freeze-up. They equated Cruz’s beauty with her being “too delicate.” Mixon didn’t see it that way. Cruz was smart, with a sharp eye for detail. Over time he learned that she was not only tough, but street savvy.
“The blood leads to that apartment,” Cruz said, pointing at Grace’s door. “It’s the only one with light.”
They stepped from the police cruiser and Cruz drew her firearm. The two froze when they heard the door of Grace’s apartment creak. Cash stepped out with his hands in the air.
He called to them, “Officers, there are nearly a dozen of us holed up here.”
“On the ground!” Cruz shouted.
“If you don’t mind I’d rather not. There’s blood all over the place and something’s out here.”
Mixon shined the spotlight on Cash, who held his head down, fearful the cops might recognize him as one of the bank robbers.
“What’s your name?” Mixon shouted.
“Fuck all that. I have three women, three children, three teens and two other men in this house. We witnessed some horrific shit and want to get out of here.”
“Horrific like…“
Mixon looked on pie-eyed as he caught a glimpse of someone lying prone in the shadows. It took several seconds for his eyes to adjust and it was then he realized there were two headless corpses on the ground. The legs of one had begun to twitch. As he and Cruz moved forward, a man leapt from the roof and fell face first onto the ground. The man’s skin was a ghastly shade of blue, and his eyes bloody red. His arm was twisted behind his head, yet he managed to rise.
The roof flier staggered toward Mixon and as he did so, spewed blood and growled with the intensity of a rabid dog.
Cruz and Mixon both shouted in tandem. “Freez
e!”
The man took two more steps, all the while Cash was yelling, “You have to take his head off!”
Mixon’s first shot nearly succeeded in doing just that, but the living corpse backed into the wall and staggered forward. Cruz and Mixon emptied their guns into the torso, which dropped the beast to one knee for all of forty seconds or so. Cash disappeared inside the house and returned with the machete.
He saw both Cruz and Mixon desperately trying to reload. Cash made up his mind to make his move. He raised the machete over his head, ran forward and with all the momentum he could muster made one swing to finish the job Mixon’s first shot started. The officers looked at the head as the mouth moved for several seconds, but made no sound. The eyes remained open for several seconds, blinked twice, then closed slowly.
“There’s at least a half-dozen of these things,” Cash said.
“What the hell is it and where did it come from?” Cruz asked.
“How the hell do I know?” Cash thundered. “Just radio for some back-up so I can get these women and children to safety.”
Grace, with lantern in hand, stepped outside. It shined on the corpse as it twitched and raised its leg as if goose-stepping.
“We’ve got a problem,” Cruz said, looking at Grace. “There are no other police in the city, at least none we can make contact with.”
“Two of them are running around as ghouls,” Cash said. “So far we’ve killed three of these damn things.”
Mixon gave Cash a hard look. “You killed two police officers?”
“No. I’m saying we killed three of these demon things, and the two police officers who changed over…” he realized how lurid and absurd his tale sounded, even with three decapitated corpses lying nearby. “The cop things…they just ran off.”
“So you killed the ones lying here on the ground?” Cruz asked.
“I beheaded them, yes.”
Mixon shined his light on the bodies then looked at Grace. “Did you witness any of this, ma’am?”
Zombie Factor Page 7