Omega Days (Book 4): Crossbones

by John L. Campbell

  Evan wanted to keep moving south toward where he knew the carrier to be, but he stopped himself. Did he really think he was going to walk out of here? Walk the shoreline down through El Cerrito and into Oakland, and not be eaten? Did he think he would find a boat south of his position in Brickyard Cove? He’d flown over that too, and already knew there were no boats. He was being stupid. He could walk out of here, but only into another hell. At least here it was quiet.

  What would Vlad do? First, he wouldn’t have gotten himself shot down, and even if he had, the Russian would probably be halfway to Nimitz by now. But Evan was still alive and still moving, so he congratulated himself for that small victory. How long he remained alive would depend on straight thinking and a good measure of luck.

  High ground. He thought about the locator beacon with its rubber antenna sticking out of his pocket. Vlad said it used satellites, like a GPS unit, so high ground wouldn’t matter, would it? Evan knew from his time aboard Nimitz and his conversations with the handful of Navy men that there were precious few of them left functioning. Would the beacon even do him any good? And the unit’s battery would have a limited life span . . . eight hours, Vlad had said? He didn’t dare count on it. No, it had to be high ground, where he might have success using his flares.

  Evan headed up the curving street, walking down the center, watching the ruins to either side. The silence was palpable, and he wondered at the absence of crows. Everywhere he’d been since this nightmare began, there had been crows, a dominant, surviving species shrieking and squabbling over carrion. Not here. Had they been burned out of the sky, or was the air too poisonous even for them? He shook his head. You think too much.

  The rain made sooty puddles on the asphalt, backing up in the cement gutters along the curb where drains were choked with debris. Around him, blackened trees stood behind soot-covered walls, their limbs reaching for the sky like skeleton hands, and the wind rattling through those fingers carried the scent of meat left too long on the grill. His boots scuffed along the street, his eyes constantly searching.

  At an intersection he came upon what had been a landscaping truck, and a quick inspection yielded nothing of use. He turned left, taking a street that curved up past an enormous house missing its roof, a shell of walls and windows missing glass, fallen beams visible beyond.

  The street climbed past several more big homes, then curved left again. Ahead of him, a Porsche Cayenne had broadsided a ’67 Camaro—someone’s pampered toy—and pinned it against a curbside electrical box. Both vehicles were burned down to their rims, and as Evan discovered upon looking inside, any evacuation supplies the vehicles might have carried had gone up as well.

  The lump of charcoal pinned behind the Camaro’s melted steering wheel made a wheezing sound and tried to turn its head. Evan ignored it and went to the trunk, kicking at the lid until it popped a bit and he could work his fingers under the lip, heaving it up with a loud squeal. The spare was a congealed mass wrapped around a rim, but the jack and, more importantly, the tire iron were still screwed down on top of it. Thank God for good old-fashioned Detroit iron. New cars only had that crappy swivel wrench thing. He left the crash behind, now carrying the jack handle instead of the pistol.

  Still nothing came at him from the burned houses, and at the top of the curve the street climbed again, cutting back onto a higher tier. Evan followed the incline, seeing that there were no more houses higher than the ones on this street. He’d reached the top of the hill. Rainwater tumbled down a curb gutter on his left, and he crouched to let it flow across one hand, tasting it. Then he cupped his palms and swallowed more. It didn’t taste particularly good, but it also didn’t have a metallic flavor, so he drank his fill.

  There’s probably a dead thing in this gutter just up the street. Fuck it.

  As he squatted beside the curb, he caught movement in his peripheral vision and jumped to his feet, gripping the tire iron once more. The thing was moving slowly, coming through an opening where a driveway passed through a decorative brick wall. Iron gates stood open to either side, one hanging on a single hinge. The thing—male or female, he couldn’t tell—was missing an arm and walking with its torso bent to the left, moving in a crooked, halting gait. It was slow, clumsy, but it was still coming at him.

  Evan strode to it and swung the jack handle, coming at the head from the side, like a kid aiming at a T-ball. The head disintegrated in a puff of black dust, burned black chunks, and gray sludge. The body collapsed with a cracking sound, and Evan stood over it, looking at the sluglike brain matter.

  How the hell is that making it possible for this thing to move and kill? And for him, that was the single most frustrating aspect to the entire goddamn apocalypse. How? He shook his head and gave the sludge a stomp for good measure.

  Ahead, he saw a house that looked like it would do. It had no wall around it and was fairly close to the street, but it was tall, set into the hillside behind it in a series of climbing floors, perched highest among its neighbors. It must have been an impressive thing once, he thought, a boxy, modern design of stucco-faced concrete and expansive windows. The glass was gone now, and the stucco was baked black and encircled the base of the walls in a ring, but the concrete remained intact. As Evan walked up the short driveway, he saw that three of its four garage doors were open and empty. Holding his small flashlight between the fingers of his slung hand, Evan readied the jack handle and went into the garage.

  Fire had swept through here as well; piles of ash were heaped in the corners and the remains of a long workbench and cabinets stood against the far wall, the stainless steel doors warped from the heat. To his left, in the remaining, closed garage bay, Evan saw something that broke his heart. The former biker recognized the twisted motorcycle’s shape at once; a 1947 Indian Chief. It would have had big curving fenders, whitewalls, a fringed seat, and acres of chrome. Evan wondered if it had been red. Now it was black and warped, someone’s thirty-thousand-dollar vintage toy reduced to scrap metal.

  The interior of the house was as expected; every room on every level was scorched and blackened lumps were all that remained of top-end furniture and electronics. The concrete stairs between each floor remained intact, and the roof had managed to hold up in places. Evan continued his tour of the home, finding nothing of interest but, more importantly, ensuring that he was alone.

  A pair of curled-up, charcoal bodies lay in a pile of ashes that might have been a king-sized bed, but they were long dead and harmless. The oily remains of a pistol dangled from one skeletal finger. Murder-suicide. Evan turned away, suddenly ashamed for having mourned the loss of a motorcycle.

  Satisfied that he was alone, he returned to the kitchen and poked through the debris until he found a stainless steel mixing bowl that wasn’t too badly warped. He figured it could hold rainwater and carried his prize upstairs to the highest room, which featured a balcony that looked out over the neighborhood and the misty bay beyond. He set the metal bowl outside.

  For a while he stood in the balcony opening, staring out at the grim afternoon. It was after six o’clock, and the weather would help bring on an early night. Should he find a way up to the roof and use one of his flares? If someone was tracking in on his beacon, it would pinpoint his position. If anyone was close enough to see it. If anyone was coming.

  And what else might the flare attract?

  He decided the weather would cut visibility to the point that using a flare now would be a waste. He would wait until morning, and hopefully it would clear. For now he needed rest.

  He’d have to take his chances, as there was no way to barricade the place, nothing he could use to warn him if a drifter entered the house. Evan sat and settled his back against a wall, trying to make his wrist comfortable and wishing for some Advil. Pistol in his right hand and resting in his lap, he closed his eyes and listened to the rain peppering the metal bowl, doubting sleep would come. He was cold, and he never slept well when he was . . .

  Evan dreamed of running, ho
lding Maya’s hand as the two of them fled from something they could not see, something that wanted to hurt them, wanted the baby. As he dreamed and night fell on the Bay Area, the long, black silhouette of a ship slid silently past Richmond, heading south.

  TWENTY-ONE

  January 12—Nimitz

  Chief Liebs stood in what had once been a Nimitz classroom, where crewmen learned everything from first aid to the repair protocols for broken catapult equipment. It had since been transformed into a school, and twelve children sat at the tables, half of them orphans. They were doing work that ranged from junior high mathematics to the coloring and pasting of kindergarteners.

  The young girl named Wind was hugging Miss Sophia’s leg, telling her about what happened in the bow, and about Michael. The chief filled her in on what he knew.

  “You said Doc Rosa sent Denny back here?” Sophia asked the girl.

  “He was scared to go back there,” she said, “so she told him to come find you.”

  Sophia, one of the survivors whom Angie West had rescued at the firehouse, and who had taken up housekeeping with their pilot Vladimir, looked at the chief and shook her head. “We haven’t seen him.” She glanced nervously at Ben, the three-year-old orphan she and Vladimir had adopted. He was sitting with some of the other children, coloring a cow Sophia had drawn for him.

  The gunner’s mate shook his head. Another missing kid? “We’ve got problems with Evan’s flight. I can’t go look for Denny right now.”

  Sophia was about to say something when the room began to vibrate, the shaking growing in intensity. Children began to cry out and then scream as markers and toys rattled off tables and a freestanding whiteboard tipped over with a crash. The bigger kids held on to the smaller ones, huddled on the floor as the shaking made table legs jitter and the steel walls of the room seemed to rumble with the voice of some monstrous beast.

  Then it was over. The adults moved through the room, checking to see that no one was hurt. A minute later a speaker mounted to the ceiling hummed with a voice they all knew.

  “This is Father Xavier, speaking to all Nimitz residents. We have been boarded by a group of dangerous people who mean us harm. They are loose on the ship, and we are working to find them. Everyone is to lock down someplace safe, and make sure you are armed.” There was a pause, and then, “Be prepared to defend yourselves.”

  Sophia looked at the chief, then at the only other adult in the room, a woman named Kay who was part of Calvin’s extended family, and who had two of her own children in this room. Calvin’s other son and two daughters were here as well. Kay saw the look and nodded toward a pair of shotguns that had been leaning in a corner and were now lying on the floor.

  “I can’t stay,” said Liebs, running for the hatch. “Lock down and don’t come out until it’s over,” he called, ducking through and slamming it closed behind him.

  Sophia walked to Kay and spoke quietly. “Let’s keep them all in here, and keep them calm,” Sophia said. The younger ones were already picking up fallen papers and crayons, but the older children were watching the adults.

  Kay nodded. “We can use metal chair legs to wedge the handles. They should hold, and we have the shotguns.”

  Sophia walked Kay to the corner and picked up one of the weapons, holding it close against her leg so the children wouldn’t notice, still speaking softly. “Denny has to be somewhere between here and sick bay. I’m going after him.”

  Kay put a hand on her friend’s arm. “Xavier told us to—”

  “I heard the announcement. We can’t leave him out there.”

  Kay hugged her. “Be careful.”

  “Lock up behind me. I won’t be long.” A moment later Sophia was in the passageway, and the hatch to the school thumped closed behind her, followed by a metallic rattle as Kay jammed the handle.

  Sophia took a deep breath, racked the shotgun, and headed out.

  • • •

  The gunner’s mate was still in his full battle gear from when they’d brought the refugees on board and escorted them to the officer’s mess, and so now he jogged down a passageway with his M4 up and ready. Xavier’s announcement—the equivalent of a general quarters alarm—hadn’t given any details, but it was easy enough to put together what had happened. Liebs cursed himself. This had been their greatest fear, and he’d let his guard down. Stronger even than the self-recriminations was anger. Hostiles had breached his security and were roaming his ship. He was going to goddamn well put them down.

  He ducked into an office that at one time belonged to a team of flight deck officers and snatched the phone off the wall, punching in an extension.

  “Communications, Petty Officer Katcher,” said a voice.

  “PK, it’s the chief.”

  “Hey, Guns,” the man started, “what the—”

  Liebs cut him off. “Listen up, PK. You heard the skipper’s announcement. We’ve been boarded, nine adult hostiles. I don’t know how they’re armed. You packing?”

  “Affirmative, I’ve got a sidearm.”

  “Good,” said Liebs. “Make sure Banks is up to speed, and button up the bridge. Any luck with Evan’s beacon?”

  “That’s a negative, Guns. I’m scanning the frequencies, but no contact yet.”

  The gunner’s mate blew out a breath. “Okay. We can’t try a rescue right now, anyway. Keep trying, and call me if that situation changes.”

  “Aye-aye, Chief.”

  “And PK, report any sightings or contact with boarders. Don’t leave the bridge, don’t try to engage.”

  “But Chief, if I get a shot—”

  “You heard me, Petty Officer,” Liebs said.

  “Copy that. And by the way, the ship is adrift.”

  “I know, I can feel it,” said the chief, clicking off. He spoke into the mic for the Hydra radio attached to the shoulder of his combat vest. “Stone, it’s Guns, come in.”

  The boy responded at once. “I heard the announcement, Chief. Where do you need me?”

  “Meet me at the armory. If you can find anyone along the way, bring them with you.”

  “Copy that.”

  “And Stone,” Liebs said, “if you see someone you don’t recognize, open fire. No hesitation.”

  “No problem.” Stone clicked off.

  Liebs headed back into the passageway, jogging once more. He keyed the mic again. “Xavier, it’s Liebs.”

  • • •

  Xavier and Calvin faced one another across the officer’s mess; Mercy lay dead on the floor by an entrance, and Big Jerry lay near the galley doors with a butcher’s knife sticking out of his chest. The two men were without words, looking at their lost friends, both consumed by a torrent of grief and guilt. Tommy went to the crying toddler still sitting on the deck, trying to comfort the boy as he watched the other men.

  Xavier spoke first, his voice low. “We have to find them, Cal. We have to stop them before they hurt anyone else.”

  Calvin’s eyes flashed, his face that of a wounded animal. “I’m going to find Michael.”

  “No,” said Xavier, and Calvin took a step toward him, one hand still clenched around the knife he’d used to make sure Mercy didn’t come back.

  “Stop me,” the hippie leader said.

  Xavier walked toward him slowly, meeting his eyes. “Rosa is already looking for him.”

  “I’m taking this little guy to the school,” Tommy said, “and then I’m going after Michael and Rosa.”

  The priest nodded, and the orderly lifted the abandoned toddler into his arms and pushed through the mess hall’s doors, leaving the two men alone. “It’s the best we can do for Michael,” Xavier said. “For now.”

  Calvin said nothing.

  “They’ll find him, they’ll bring him back.” Xavier stood before his friend now. “And telling Maya about Evan will have to wait. If he’s still alive, we’ll find him too, but not right now.”

  “Everything you do gets people killed,” Calvin said.

  The wor
ds were a slap. He couldn’t deny it, but there was no time to indulge in self-pity. Neither could his friend. The priest’s expression remained hard, unchanged. “We need to find them,” Xavier said. “Nothing is more important than that right now.”

  “My son—” Calvin started.

  “There are other people who need protecting besides Michael,” Xavier said, his voice sharp. “Your other kids, among them.”

  Tears sprang to Calvin’s eyes. “You’re a bastard,” he whispered.

  I know. The priest stepped close to the man. “I need you to toughen up, Calvin. Yes, I said to let them in and it was a mistake. Hate me later. It doesn’t change the fact that they’re here, and they’re killing people.” Xavier’s eyes were cold. “The only way to save our people is to hunt these murderers down. You have to do this, and right now.” Oh, he was such a poor excuse for a friend and a priest.

  Chief Liebs called him on the Hydra then, and Xavier filled the gunner’s mate in on what had happened with the refugees, and what he wanted from the chief. Then he clicked off and looked back at his friend.

  The hippie stared at the ceiling, tears on his cheeks, thinking of his son wandering lost and afraid; of the young pilot and writer who had become a son to him, missing as well; and of his eldest daughter, who had now lost as much as Calvin. He thought of all the other faces aboard Nimitz, people he’d known for years and new friends he’d made. Other faces looked back at him, the people he’d failed, ever-present spirits haunting him.

  “I’ll go,” Calvin said quietly, but then he pointed a finger at the priest. “But understand something, Father. If you come with me, then it’s a manhunt and nothing less. No negotiating, no forgiveness, no mercy. You leave God behind for this.”

  A silence stretched between them, and then Xavier unslung the shotgun from his shoulder. “Let’s go hunting.”

  • • •

  Sophia padded down the corridor in sock feet, her shoes left behind at the school’s hatch. The shotgun held eight shells, and other than blue sweatpants with NAVY down one leg in yellow letters and a zip-up sweater, it was all she had.