by Schafer, Jon
He was brought out of his reverie by the sound of gunfire coming from the television. He looked at the screen and saw a reporter crouched down, looking wildly about while he spit out little bits of information. "-on the edge of the Minneapolis quarantine zone atop the 494 overpass where it crosses Interstate 35, where moments ago -."
Gunfire erupted, causing the man to fall flat to the concrete. A credit to his profession, he kept his eyes on the camera, face turned upward to look into the lens. He swallowed hard and continued, "Where moments ago an armed group of civilians tried to run the blockade set up by police and sheriff’s deputies. We don't know who fired first but its bedlam here."
The name of the reporter, Biff Grant, flashed on the bottom of the screen. Steve noticed it was the same man who had reported from the roof of the Mall of America a few days previously. He gave a half wave to the television and said enthusiastically, "Looks like you're in the shit now, Biff."
On screen, Biff turned his head to the right with a quick jerk as if something caught his eye and startled him. Motioning to the cameraman, he said, "Kenny, get a shot of that over there."
The view panned vertically and settled on what looked like a bundle of colored rags splattered with red paint lying on the road. Off to the far left edge of the screen, three people could be seen climbing over the guardrail. The camera zoomed out to take in the whole scene.
Biff narrated, "What you're seeing are people who are trying to break the quarantine perimeter to get into Minneapolis. As I reported yesterday, a tent city sprang up on the southern approach to Richfield on Interstate 35 since the lock down. These are people who live in Minneapolis and Richfield but got caught outside the quarantine zone when the blockade was initiated. Most are people returning from out of town but some were coming back from overnight visits to friends or relatives in surrounding cities and found they couldn't return home."
The scene showed the three refugees who had crossed the guardrail start to run across the freeway toward the other side. They only made it half way before gunfire erupted from off camera and cut them down.
"Did you see that?" Biff called out in anguish. "They were unarmed. Unarmed and shot down in cold blood."
A series of muffled explosions could be heard. The view changed from what now looked like four bundles of red splattered rags lying in the road to spin in a dizzying panorama as the cameraman turned. The focus went in and out before settling on a view of the Interstate heading into Minneapolis. Figures could be seen in the distance firing at groups of people moving toward them from two directions.
Biff came back on saying, "It seems that the National Guard has engaged people infected with the virus that are inside the safe area. I can hear one of the police radios in the car behind me saying they're facing multiple attackers. This is madness. No one knows where they came from. We have those on the outside of the zone trying to get in, and on the inside, we have an outbreak of the HWNW virus. It seems that maybe the police need to turn around and point their weapons into the city."
In a lower voice, Biff said to Kenny, "Try and zoom in on that car at the center." He received a muffled reply to which he said harshly, "I know they're about to get overrun. Get it on film damn it."
The scene lurched forward to focus on an armored Humvee in a chain store parking lot in the center of a dwindling circle of National Guard troops. One soldier fired a grenade launcher into the mob pressing in on them, his shell landing in the midst of five or six lurching figures.
A brief flash was followed a second later by the noise of the explosion. A number of the dead were knocked down, but before the sound of the concussion faded, Steve could see three of the figures climb back to their feet to keep coming. One zombie, its legs blown off, pulled itself after the others by its arms, lengths of intestine trailing after it.
As the soldier paused to reload his grenade launcher, another figure could be seen staggering toward him from behind. Sitting on his couch, hundreds of miles away, Steve felt the overwhelming urge to scream, "Look out", but he could see that even if he had been right there that it wouldn't have mattered. In two steps, the dead thing was on the guardsman, pulling him to the ground.
Even though the shot was live it was still on a five second delay. With the demise of the guardsman and the deaths of the rest of his squad imminent, the station pulled the plug. The television screen went blank as the audio cut out. This continued long enough for Steve to whisper, "Dead air", before a shot of the anchor in New York came on.
The talking head, unsure what to say, looked off to the side before returning his gaze to the camera. "We'll be back in just one moment. Stay tuned for up to the minute breaking news on CNN."
A commercial that featured talking animals came on, but Steve had seen enough. He wasn't going to stay tuned. He was going to get as ready as he could for the shit storm blowing his way.
***
Steve pulled into his assigned parking spot with relief. If it had been deserted on the streets last night, it was the exact opposite today. Even the downtown area, where you could normally walk down the center of the streets in the business district on a Saturday, was bumper to bumper traffic. The people were weirded out too, he thought. They either drove like wannabe kamikaze pilots, yelling and cursing at everyone around them, or they sat hunched behind the steering wheel of their car, not making eye contact or looking around, focused only on what was directly in front of them.
Steve was amazed that on the short drive to the station, five accidents had to be navigated around. The worst one was a motor home that had rolled onto its side and then been rammed by a pickup truck. It blocked all four lanes of the street.
The police were there directing traffic through a parking lot to bypass the wreck so Steve looked to see if Heather was one of them. Not seeing her, he was scanning the faces of three deputies looking down into a storm drain when he remembered she had told him that she was off duty.
The vehicles going in his direction stopped, waiting for traffic coming from the opposite way so Steve got a good view of what the three cops were looking at. Someone had removed the grating that covered the rectangular drain near the curb. From the wreckage scattered around, he guessed the motor home had been cruising along when one of its tires dropped into the opening, causing it to lose control and flip. The Dodge truck had then smashed into it when it couldn't stop in time. He’d heard that thieves sometimes stole the heavy grates and manhole covers to turn into the recycling centers for scrap. He figured this was the case until the three deputies moved aside to make room for a photographer.
Lying next to the hole was the grate.
Traffic started moving again so he nudged the gas pedal. By the time he pulled his Jeep into the parking ramp he had forgotten the incident.
Grabbing his backpack from the passenger seat, he headed for the stairway. He exited at the second floor and went to the elevated walkway that connected the parking garage to the Garnett Bank Building.
Halfway across, he halted and looked over the side. Buried in the ground below was a tank that held diesel fuel for the station’s backup generator. Since KLAM was part of the Emergency Broadcasters System, they were required to have thirty days worth of power supplied by an alternative source. The FCC didn't care if it was nuclear power, solar power or a hamster on a wheel. Whatever it was, it had to provide thirty days of uninterrupted electricity to enable continuous broadcasts. Steve knew the generator was more than big enough to supply adequate power to the transmitter but they only kept the tank a quarter full, counting on enough lead time before a hurricane or other disaster to have it topped off. No one had figured on the dead coming back to life and eating the living as a realistic situation, but since it was happening, Steve had called yesterday for the mobile fueling service to come by.
Judging by the wheel tracks in the grass, it looked like they had come and gone, so he went to the door and punched in his entry code.
During business hours, all access doors were unlocked. On
ce the bank closed, and on Saturdays and Sundays, the only way in was if you were a tenant and had the code for the security system. You could still enter the foyer to reach the galleria, but the elevators were locked down. The deserted halls of the building were a little spooky as he went through them, so he was glad when he finally entered the station and locked the door behind him. Tuned to KLAM, music drifted from speakers set in the ceiling. As he listened, the song 'Basket Case' by Greenday ended and was replaced by one of the weekend on-air personalities who went by the name of Tick-Tock.
"It's seventy-eight and sunny here in Clearwater. A perfect day to be at the beach, though from where I'm sitting it doesn’t look like many of you are heading that way. Looks like you're all heading in the opposite direction. Sal the traffic gal just called and told me that everything leaving town is bumper to bumper, stop and go. If you're planning on leaving town, you might want to wait a while. There are too many accidents to list so I'll just say that if you're planning on going anywhere today-." Tick-Tock paused and then said mockingly, "Not".
He laughed at his own wit and added, "After the break, we got Meat Puppets, Everclear and Ned’s Atomic Dustbin."
A commercial for a hair loss replacement center came on as Steve went to the control room to talk to Randy, the station’s engineer. He found the tech working on a CD player, so he knocked on the door and waited to be received by his highness.
Only twenty-four years old, Randy Tangleoni was overweight, smoked three packs of camels a day, and hadn't seen the rays of the sun on his skin in months. Sitting in his chair, he reminded Steve of a huge albino slug wearing a Hawaiian shirt and horned rimmed glasses. His demeanor toward most humans could at best be called surly, but he treated all with contempt in his arrogance. He insisted everyone call him Brain, after his favorite cartoon mouse.
Steve told Brain the first time he met him, that if he ever pulled any of his prima donna shit on him, he would kick his fat, sloppy ass out the door and into the unemployment line. While Brain thought himself unfireable, after this, he seemed to sense that Steve couldn't be treated like his fellow co-workers. A strange relationship developed between them, and while Steve knew he held the upper hand, he still followed a twisted sort of protocol with the Brain. Like now, waiting at the door for an audience.
Setting aside his work, Brain waved him in and said, "To what do I owe this honor? A visit by the program manager? On a Saturday?"
Without preamble, Steve asked. "Did you finish with the wiring job I gave you last night?" As an afterthought and to appease the fat man he added, "Brain."
Pleased with the acknowledgement, Brain said in a slightly prissy voice, "I finished it off this morning. I'm not really an electrician you know, but I'm sure you'll find my work superior to any of the riff-raff that call themselves electricians in this town."
To keep from having to look at the engineer, Steve gazed through the window into the studio next door. "And you checked all the equipment?" He asked.
Waving expansively at the guts of the CD player on his workbench, Brain said, "Just finishing up."
Steve nodded and turned to leave but Randy spoke first, stopping him in his tracks.
"I know what you're up to with everything that you're doing," he said with malicious glee in his voice.
Turning back to look through the glass again at Tick-Tock, who now appeared to be asleep in his chair, Steve remained silent. If Brain had guessed what was going on, it wasn't such a bad thing since the engineer was included on the short list of people to be included in his plan. It was now a matter of how easy the fat man could be put in his place.
"I want in," Brain stated arrogantly.
"In what?" Steve answered innocently.
Brain sighed dramatically. "You plan to barricade the station when those things take over the city. It's obvious to anyone with a brain. You had me re-wire the emergency generator to power the whole suite, not just the transmitter. I saw Jonny G moving all that food and water into your office and when Florida Oil filled the tanks with fuel for the generator earlier, the driver needed someone to sign for it and that someone was me. You're circling the wagons and you need me to keep everything running."
Steve could see Brain in the reflection of the glass as the man settled back in his chair, a satisfied expression on his face.
Time to burst his bubble, he decided. "Can’t use you Brain, you're too much of a liability. You smoke too much and eat too much. You're a coronary just waiting for a place to happen. I got a guy from ITT Tech coming in this afternoon to talk with me. Sorry, but I won't need you."
Continuing his bluff, Steve turned as if to leave.
"Wait," Brain almost shouted. “You can't leave me out there. I've seen on the Internet what those things do. It's only a matter of time before they show up in Clearwater. They'll kill me and turn me into one of them. They'll eat me."
"You'd make a meal for a family of four," Steve said maliciously.
"I've got nowhere to go," Brain pleaded. "I live in a condo for God's sake. What'll I do when the power goes out? It could take weeks for everything to get back to normal."
"Months," Steve said and then added, "If ever."
"I'll bring my own food and water." Brain begged, "I need somewhere safe. I've even got my own gun, see."
Steve turned to view Brain holding a little .25 automatic that was almost lost in his porcine hands. He wanted to laugh at how ridiculous it looked but didn't want to humiliate him further. He’d proven his point.
"Put that thing away," he ordered.
Brain complied, but then started trying to bargain again. "No one knows this equipment like I do. I'll quit smoking. I won't bother anyone. Please, please, please, Steve. I don't want to be alone. I've got no one out there."
Acting like he was considering it, Steve turned to look into the studio where Tick-Tock was now speaking animatedly into the microphone. Brain started to whine again so he held up his hand and said, "I’m thinking, don't push it."
As Steve watched, Tick-Tock finished what he was saying and dropped back into his chair as if struck unconscious.
How the hell does he do that, Steve wondered. I've watched this guy for months and I'd swear he's asleep, but when it's time to broadcast, he's bang-on. Go figure.
Turning back to the Brain, he felt a small twinge of remorse. Tears were silently streaking down Brain’s chubby face. Steve wasn't trying to teach the tech a lesson, but if he stayed on for the duration of this thing, he needed to be absolutely clear who was in charge.
"I've got a few conditions if you stay," Steve said in his most commanding tone.
The Brain wiped his eyes as he nodded vigorously. "Anything," he promised.
"One, no more of your arrogant bullshit, I don't care if you can re-engineer this station to fly to Mars, I can't have you causing friction."
"Agreed," Brain said enthusiastically as he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
"Two, you do what I tell you to, when I tell you to. This isn't going to be some kind of half-assed encounter session."
"Agreed," Brain said, now looking relieved that he would have somewhere safe to go.
"Three, bring as much food and water as you can. Store it in my office for now."
"No problem," Brain replied.
"You can keep your little pop gun for the time being but everyone turns in all firearms when we lock down. Do you have any other weapons?"
"No, that's it. It was my mother's gun."
Figures, Steve thought.
"Are we clear on all this?" He asked as he moved to leave.
"Crystal. And you don't even have to call me Brain if you don't like it. Call me Randy."
Stopping at the door, Steve said without turning. "You weren't completely right on what I plan to do, Brain."
"What's that?" He asked curiously.
"I'm not just taking over the studio when the shit hits the fan. I'm taking over the whole fucking building."
CHAPTER NINE
; Indian Rocks Beach, Florida:
The Intracoastal Waterway is under the authority of many agencies, but the suspected drowning near Indian Rocks Beach was investigated by the Pinellas County Sheriff’s Office.
Deputy Hamilton Fitz looked at the dock forty feet from where the patrol boat had anchored. Turning to his dive partner, he said, "I’m gonna start where they think this guy fell in and do a grid search from the seawall out. We've only had one tide and it was a weak one, so I don't think he moved much if he's there at all."
"No one reported a floater so he's probably nearby," Terri Carter, the other diver agreed. "He shouldn't be too ripe either. I hate bringing up the ones who've been soaking for a few days."
Fitz slipped into his BC and secured it. Checking his gauges one last time, he stood and duck-walked across the deck to sit on the gunwale. Carter joined him a moment later. After exchanging 'okay' signs with each other and the boat’s driver, they donned their facemasks and first one then the other rolled backward into the murky water.
Carter was right in one aspect, the zombie that had fallen off the dock the previous night was far from ripe. Although dead, it hadn’t decomposed and in fact was quite animated. After losing the joggers, it had wandered between two houses and out onto a dock. Some slight echo of a memory had told it that food could be found in this location. When it saw the silvery shapes swirling through the water, it reached for them. Its primitive nervous system was not up to the task though, so instead of bringing up something to eat, it had gone in headfirst.
With no air in its lungs or decomposing organs to emit gases that would keep it afloat, the thing sank twelve feet down. Straight to the bottom.
Thrashing about at first, it finally managed to right itself, so it was standing knee deep in the mud and decomposing material that covered the floor of the Intracoastal Waterway. With no need to take in oxygen, it wasn’t panicked from being completely submerged. Instead, it spun around in a circle until it located the dim glow from the dock light filtering through the settling silt.