Weiner stopped kicking and his arms fell limp. The bubbles were smaller and came in spates. And then they ceased.
“Fuck!” Jeff stepped back and could only gaze at the Supreme Leader’s body hanging flaccid and lifeless over a toilet bowl. He waited a few seconds. Long enough to ensure the bastard wasn’t about to rouse and shout the alarm. The ground shook. Tanks. Rolling past, just outside the building. There’d be people looking for Weiner. Soon. If they weren’t already.
Jeff surveyed himself in the mirror. No scratches. No marks. Some sweat. A big bald patch close to the crown.
Time to go.
He exited and made his way as calmly as possible along the corridor toward the stairs before descending, nodding to the guard in spandex, who thankfully ignored him. It was quiet, the only people still inside were the waiters. Jeff felt safe to continue but just as it was beginning to look like most people had left to take their seats outside, there was Drake pacing about the vestibule, checking his watch, shaking his head, mouthing silent curses. Jeff hung back on the staircase, less than a minute, until finally Drake threw up his arms and exited through the main doors at the front of the building where the VIP seating had been arranged on an elevated stage.
Jeff breathed, wiped his forehead, and continued his descent into the underground parking lot. He entered his car. Fired the engine. Calmly drove up the ramp. Slowed for the guard. Jeff was leaving early, which might raise questions, but the guard merely lifted the barrier and allowed him to pass, evidently more concerned with who was arriving than leaving. He was back on the road and his breathing eased for the first time in several minutes, but he wasn’t out of danger yet. The moment the alarm was raised, which almost certainly would be very soon, he would find himself the prime suspect in the murder of California’s Supreme Leader.
Stragglers were still heading in the direction of City Hall, families, wheelchairs, groups, which slowed Jeff considerably but he avoided attracting attention to himself by blasting the horn or revving the engine, and instead moved safely and cautiously whenever he could. The crowds, he told himself, might even work in his favor once the authorities came after him, but that was wishful thinking, anything to make him feel safer. Twenty minutes later, Jeff was in the suburbs where nearly every storefront was destroyed, every car was overturned or burned out and the roads were clear. He also had a decision to make.
Going straight north along Highway 5 for Redding was too obvious. They’d find Weiner and within minutes would get the skinny from Drake, who knew exactly where Jeff would be heading. They might even beat him to it, to them, and bring the three targets in for protection, maybe even use them as bait. If Jeff was quick, he might still beat them to one, maybe two, but it was extremely doubtful he’d be able to get to all three before they closed in on him. Jeff’s future then would be spent in a cage, alongside Durrant and Baker, to be sent on a tour of California, for every red in the country to abuse. Somehow, he’d have to face Drake, would have to answer for the betrayal and Jeff wasn’t sure how he could adequately explain murdering his beloved Supreme Leader by drowning him in shit, and all because of a minor bathroom altercation.
The other option was to head northeast along Highway 80, past Baxter and into Nevada, the United States. There, he could claim political asylum along with the many millions of Californias who’d already left. That was when he realized.
“I’ve carried out the President’s orders.” Fuck! They’d have to welcome him. And after being privy to Graft’s conversation with the American professor, Jeff already knew they were keeping the borders open for a full year.
It was all coming together now.
He slapped the wheel. “America!”
Just over an hour later, he reached Baxter and turned off Highway 80, taking Highway 20, a minor road that for several miles twisted back on the journey before reaching Nevada City, a small town in fact, that still had the old America aura of a place built during the gold rush. A population of only three thousand, even here they had not escaped the recent and still ongoing upheaval.
Even from a mile outside, it was obvious that something had happened. The first sign was the hundreds of tents in the approaching fields just off the side of the highway, abandoned because their former owners had found better digs. Those thousands of destitutes Jeff had seen on the way to the lab had been conspicuous by their absence on this journey. Now, the bodies of Nevada City's former residents were lying faced down in a large pit hastily dug on the approach, their homes appropriated by their killers, some of whom, even now, were sitting on porches, lazing back in chairs, cooking on BBQs or sharing beers with new neighbors. Wheelbarrows filled with the dead bodies of men and women sat abandoned on red-bladed grass. Flag poles, once proudly adorned with the Stars and Stripes now openly flaunted the Bear Flag with its single red star. There were other flags too. Now, with the need for pretense all gone, numerous hammer and sickles were stirring in the small wind. Jeff had expected this, even though he’d feared seeing it.
He’d taken this detour for a reason.
Staying on the main highway was too dangerous. His car had vanished from the underground lot at City Hall and it would take Drake less than a second to put two and two together. In fact, he had been reckless driving as far as he did, but it was bound to get even more perilous the closer to the border he came.
He pulled up on the main street, parked behind a Jeep, got out, locked the door. He began casually walking down the road and out the town. When he reached the town limit, he emptied his pockets of anything that might identify him, throwing his wallet, less a few foul smelling bills, into the bushes. A sign said it was 88 miles to the Nevada border, maybe a day and a half on foot. Easy for an Afghanistan War vet still in good shape.
Darkness fell a little over ten miles out of Nevada City. Jeff persisted for as long as he had the energy, wanting to make the most of the dark’s cover. When he came across an old barn, its outline illuminated by the lights of a passing truck, he fashioned a bed from a heap of straw with the intention of stealing a few hours before getting an early start next morning.
He fell asleep almost immediately, only to be roused when a boot pressed down on his wrist. When Jeff opened his eyes, the only thing visible was a set of white teeth.
“Don’t mind if I join you?” It was definitely the deep rumbling voice of a black man with those thick gums that always gives them up by distorting the sound. The whiteness in the void from above continued to move. “And I don’t mean that in a sexual way.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Feeling the pressure release from his wrist, Jeff sat up. “You running from the obvious?”
“For as long as I’m able.” The straw muffled floorboards creaked as he moved away and the teeth lowered as the man leaned into the corner. “Walked all the way from Roseville. Them niggers stole my hotdog cart.” He groaned as he removed his boots and there were two heavy thuds when they were thrown to the ground. The stench of feet after a hard day’s exertion quickly filled the barn. “Ain’t nothin’ round here for an honest workin’ man no more, so I figured I’d go back to the country I thought I was always in and maybe try again.”
Jeff nodded. “Commendable. Name’s Jeff.”
“Friends call me Deuce.” He was silent for a time, in which Jeff assumed he’d dozed off, but he roused suddenly and snorted with contempt. “Fucking selling wieners, man, you’d think they’d hold me in higher regard, being a nigger and all, but no.”
“Maybe that was the reason … not being a nigger, I mean, but selling wieners. Some of them can be quite touchy about it.”
“Who knows, man, but I’ll tell you this … I reckon they have about a month before that dude comes crying to the United States begging for help. Weiner…” he said the name derisively and coughed, “was still hoping Uncle Sam would have a sniper up in one of them windows but no … the little bastard delivered his speech with all his usual allure and theatrics.”
Jeff wasn’t sure he’d heard ri
ght. “What?”
“Huh?”
Jeff brought himself up onto an elbow. “You saw the speech?”
The overpowering cheesy stink of feet wafted through the barn. “Didn’t see it. Heard it. Stole a radio. Seems so sure we’re enterin’ a new golden age.”
What the fuck? How was that even possible? The bastard was dead. Murdered by Jeff’s own hands. He’d felt the man’s very life ebbing away through his fingers. “I’m sorry,” Jeff shook his head, “you heard Weiner’s speech?”
Deuce sounded suddenly closer. “Don’t believe my story, huh, white boy? Is it cuz I’m a nigger?”
Jeff was quick to raise a hand. “No, I … believe you.” Clearly, the nigger was delusional, probably on some kind of a psychedelic, it had been a long walk and he was obviously dehydrated, and so Jeff decided it was best not to further contradict the deranged man. They both fell silent and within a few moments, Deuce began to snore.
After that Jeff couldn’t get back to sleep, not with some crazy, erratic black guy so close. He lay still for a while until eventually deciding it was probably wise to make an early start. Alone. He came to stand and was at the door when he heard the voice.
“I’m comin’ witchu.”
The road that meandered its way east was all but deserted save for the occasional tractor, their drivers believing they were safe out in the sticks and that the coming fire would not reach them. Jeff hoped to make the border by nightfall and to that end, they stopped only to urinate and once to buy candy bars for energy.
Deuce barely stopped talking the whole time, mostly about his long list of grievances. The people who’d taken his hotdog cart, if it ever existed, weren’t even mentioned.
A long day’s walk, there was nothing to do but allow the mind to wander and so, inevitably, Jeff could only think about his plan to have all his enemies together in one room, at his mercy, an ambition that was now all but dead. It wasn’t an easy thing to live with, knowing how close he’d been, to stopping them harming other people, to avenging Daniel’s memory, to destroying the demon that lived inside of him. A part of him wished he’d been even more docile to what was happening all around, to do a better job of ignoring the many crimes. Instead, he’d got involved. He’d got involved emotionally with people who hadn’t deserved it. He had owed them nothing, and yet he’d sacrificed his only burning desire regardless.
Now it was done. He was fleeing to America.
He would never get another chance.
He would have to live with the torment for the rest of his life.
Deuce took off at a sprint, leaped a fence and vanished into a cornfield. A smash announced a Humvee crashing through the planks and flattening everything in its path, throwing corn cobs by the dozen clean over the top and shooting birds into the sky.
“What now?” Jeff was too distracted by the shock and sudden change in circumstance to notice the second Humvee speeding in his direction. He found himself glued to the road and was too tired to run even if he thought he could get away.
The vehicle halted, kicked up stones, three soldiers with rifles jumped out the side and surrounded him, closed on him, didn’t even bother telling him to get down, just seized his arms, applied cable ties, dragged him across the asphalt and dumped him in the back of the Humvee.
Two other men, vagrants by the look of them, were also present, leaning against the sides, hands behind their backs. One of the men, a Honduran or Nicaraguan, had vomit stains covering his wife-beater. The other was white, possibly of similar age to Jeff, and was staring straight at him. “You got closer than I did. How far to go?”
Jeff shrugged. “Too far.”
The man gently jerked his head at the guy passed out at his side. “Never thought I’d see the day when I got caught with a spic trying to bust into America. You know where they taking us?”
Jeff shook his head.
“Looks like they’re rounding up people trying to flee,” he kicked the wall, “got so fucking close. Name’s Terrence.”
“Jeff. Let’s hope it’s not the firing squad.”
Boots scuffed from outside and then Deuce appeared between two soldiers and was manhandled into the back. “Motherfuckers!” The door was slammed and the vehicle rumbled down the road. “That’s three more who’ve made my list.”
Over the next hour, ten more men and two women were picked up and crammed into the back, which was starting to become more uncomfortable with every addition. Terrence wouldn’t stop talking about rushing the bastards the next time they opened the door, there were enough people in the back to overcome them with only minimal deaths. He was ignored. Likewise, Deuce ignored all protests and removed his boots again, pleading his blisters that were “hurting like fuck.” Jeff decided not to mention he’d earlier leaped a five-foot-high fence. Nobody spoke about Weiner or what in the Hell was presently going down in Sactown, and Jeff dared not draw attention to himself by mentioning it. What he could be reasonably assured of, however, was that he hadn’t been snatched off the road for being a suspect in his murder. The soldiers, it seemed, were literally grabbing anyone walking down the highway, attempting to make it out of California.
No, this was something else.
It was early evening when the door opened for the final time, by which point Jeff was weary and weak with thirst. They were ordered out the Humvee and slowly, one by one, the prisoners heaved themselves out.
They were in a large, barbed wire enclosed field with a dirt track snaking out towards a gate set between two guard towers that loomed down threateningly. Three more such towers were ominous around the perimeter, their occupants lounging back against rails with rifles slung over shoulders. Various wooden buildings dotted the expanse, about half of which were unfinished and had men in uniform white full-body overalls on scaffolding lugging planks or hammering nails. Elsewhere, foundations were being dug by lines of wretched men grasping shovels, the length of the trench indicating that by far the largest building in the complex was under construction. More men wearing the same overalls were using ropes to drag logs inside a barn that reverberated with whirring noises. Elsewhere, boards were being planed by men hunched over large tables and an endless wave of sawdust swirled away in the air. The gates opened and a large truck lumbered inside with its cargo of newly felled trees and the guards barked at a group of inmates to fetch more rope so they could help unload the latest batch. When one man reacted too slowly, he was beaten with a long steel baton and still, he was made to drag the logs off the back of the truck. On the horizon, another three Humvees similar to the one Jeff had just exited were slowly approaching through the desolate former forest.
The two females who’d been with Jeff’s group were separated and pushed in the direction of the only building that did not appear like it had been assembled on the fly from an IKEA flat pack, probably the guard’s premises. The man Jeff had taken to be the husband and father protested and was repeatedly beaten on the back by a baton until he stopped moving.
Everybody else was then screamed at and with guns pointing at their heads, were ordered to move to a small outhouse from where they were hosed for several minutes with cold water that tasted vaguely of soil and shit. Several sets of the standard-issue cream overalls were thrown to the ground along with a random assortment of boots and they were then told they had one minute to get changed.
Terrence had suddenly lost all his prior bravado and succumbed willingly, going down on his knees and sifting through the boots for a matching pair. Deuce had a face that suggested he was waiting for the smallest chance, a moment’s lack of concentration on the part of a guard, to rush him and steal the rifle before busting out. Jeff made a note to avoid him at all times.
Luckily, Deuce was first to be dragged out and was taken to one of the trenches before having a shovel thrust at him and told to dig, long and straight if you know what’s good for you. Jeff was next to be led away and was taken into a structure that had rats dashing around on the floorboards.
“If you need the bathroom, you get a permission slip from me or Drudge.” That had to be a fucking joke, Jeff decided not to ask who Drudge was. “You in there.” The guard pushed Jeff into the kitchen and pointed to a large heap of potatoes piled into the corner. “There’s your quota, now fucking peel.”
Jeff exhaled and then spent about a minute just staring at it before finally picking up a peeler and his first potato of many. It was the loud barking laugh that alerted him to the other man whose head came out from the inside of a cow’s stomach, knife in one hand, a length of intestine coiled around the other.
“Well, ain’t this a surprise?” The man dried blood from his hands with a cloth.
“Fuck,” Jeff sighed.
It was Sean Parker.
Now
“The court orders that Fantasia Harper must undergo gender reassignment surgery…”
“No,” Jeff cried as the small, claustrophobic room began to swirl and spin around him. He felt sick, helpless, lost.
“The court orders that the procedure must take place at the earliest possible convenience, or at a future juncture chosen by the mother, Ms Lara Delaney. Further, if you stand in the way, Mister Harper, I will have no alternative but to enforce the order already binding against you, and sentence you to no less than six months imprisonment.”
He couldn’t bring himself to face Lara across the table, or her sleazy lawyer, Isla Bergmeyer. He’d long since accepted there was nothing of worth in his ex-wife, nothing but some warped need to make drama, to always be the center of attention, and boy, had this case ever made her dreams come true. She’d had a makeover for the cameras.
The Day After: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller Page 26