by A. M. Geever
“Of course. Where else would she be?”
“Do you think she’ll want to see me?”
“She’ll see you one way or the other. The world’s a lot smaller than it used to be.” Walter studied Connor’s face, his expression suggesting that he did not like what he saw. “She’s not the same, Connor. She’s more—” He sighed, and then shook his head. “I almost said she’s more brittle, shut down and dangerous, but who do I know who isn’t?”
“I get it. I do. What about my cousin?”
“Emily’s well.”
Walter put his hand between Connor’s shoulder blades and gave him a good-natured shove. “That’s for calling me Old Man,” he said, opening the chapel door. “Get a shower and a sleep, Connor. There’s time enough to bid the Devil good morrow when you meet him.”
7
“Hold up!” a voice called up the stairwell.
Miranda stopped and looked back. Harold Peterson, Director of Procurement for The Farm, took the stairs two at a time to catch up with her.
“I was worried when I heard it was you on the Expressway yesterday,” Harold said, a little breathless from his sprint. “A zombie? What the hell?”
Even when etched with concern, Harold’s face, like everything else about him, managed to be unmemorable. Hidden behind the facade of his average build, knobby chin, and receding hairline, Harold was the canniest strategist Miranda had ever met. He used his unimpressive facade to such advantage that Miranda almost felt sorry for anyone who tried to get the best of him.
“You know me, always in the thick of it.”
Miranda pushed on the door but Harold caught her hand.
“The important thing is that you’re okay and you took care of the zombie.”
As his thumb stroked the back of her hand, Miranda suppressed her lips’ strong desire to form a moue of distaste.
“Nothing a machete couldn’t handle,” she averred, withdrawing her hand from Harold’s overly familiar paw.
Harold narrowed his washed-out blue eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t drive around by yourself all the time. You should think about getting a roommate, or at least carpool with someone.”
He is so transparent, she thought. Miranda had never been able to figure out how Harold could be so subtle at office politics but so clumsy at romance. He had doggedly refused to take the hint that she was not interested in anything more than friendship for years.
“I can take care of myself, Harold.”
“It was a worn-out shambler this time, but what if there’d been a swarm?”
“If there’d been a swarm, I’d have stayed in the Rover and turned on the flamethrowers.”
I wouldn’t be asking the most average man on the Earth for help, she thought irritably, then felt like a jerk. Sure, Harold refused to take the hint, but he was an ally and friend whose only crime was being lonely and annoyingly persistent.
“I get it, Harold,” she said, softening her tone, “but I’m fine.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Just stop.”
“Have it your way,” he said, relenting, if only for the time being. He turned to go, then turned back. “Did you get the package?”
Miranda’s cheeks blazed scarlet. Damn him, he did that on purpose, she fumed, re-evaluating her opinion of his romantic obtuseness.
The package Harold referred to was the black silk and lace bra, along with a scrap of matching panties, that she wore at this very moment. As head of procurement for The Farm, Harold had an unparalleled knack for finding things that were hard to come by. If Harold couldn’t find it, then it didn’t exist. She had no idea how he had discovered her taste in lingerie, never mind her bra size. Every time a package with an irresistible bra and panty set appeared on her desk, Miranda told herself if she had a shred of integrity, she’d give them back, but somehow she never did.
“I did,” she managed through a tight smile.
“You liked it?” he asked, all innocence.
“Yes.”
She squirmed, the bra not feeling quite as comfortable as before.
“Oh, you’re wearing them now, aren’t you?” he cried, delighted. “Is the demi-cup a good fit?”
She wanted to smack him. The twinkle in his eye and the smirk on his lips made her feel as if he was undressing her. She might not be sleeping with Harold, but the gifts definitely were not free. She forced herself to look him in the eye.
“The fit is just fine, thank you. Now, if you don’t mind.”
Harold opened the door and held it for her.
“Of course,” he said as she stalked past him.
Hours later, Miranda stepped back to survey her handiwork. She stretched her arms over her head, several vertebrae in her back popping. All the bean teepees were tied and placed, all one hundred and thirteen of them.
Her fingers felt thick and clumsy after tying all day long, but there was no denying the feeling of accomplishment. As Ops Director, she didn’t have to do fieldwork, but she liked it. It was good for morale, not that it needed a boost after her fight with Alan. If the staff wasn’t gossiping about the fight, they were buzzing about how she brought Timmy back into work yesterday.
She checked her watch. Almost six, well past time to go home. She whistled for Delilah and was rewarded a moment later with the scuffle of paws on metal. She turned at the end of the row and saw the pit bull waiting for her by the fire doors, tail wagging, when she felt a buzz in her pocket—her phone, vibrating for attention. She fished it out and answered.
“Hello?”
“Ah, Miranda, how are you?” a voice with a thick Irish brogue asked.
“Father Walter! I’m fine, but I’m falling on my face. I’m just about to head home.”
A pause, then, “Could you swing by here, if it’s not too much trouble? I need to talk to you.”
“Can it wait? I barely got any sleep last night and my day has been insane.”
“I can hear that you’re tired, Miri, but this is important.”
“And you can’t talk to me on the phone?”
“Not really.”
Fuck.
“Okay, I’ll come by. Do you happen to know what the traffic report is for Guadalupe River Park?”
“I checked since I knew you’d ask. Very little zombie activity. There was a riot outside the gate yesterday, but you should be fine. You can always backtrack on the Expressway.”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head even though he could not see her. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.”
“Okay, Miri,” Walter answered. “We can feed you dinner if you’re hungry.”
Saliva flooded her mouth. The cook at the Jesuit Residence knew how to put a meal together. “I will definitely take you up on that.”
She hung up and groaned. Even with a meal thrown in, Father Walter’s timing sucked.
“Looks like we’re going to see the Holy Fathers, Delilah. Maybe there’s a bone in it for you.”
Five minutes later, she paused at the Julian Street Gate and waited while the massive structure opened like the maw of a monster. Similar to the Expressway entrances and exits, an exterior electrified fence and double gate awaited her. She pulled forward and waited while the gate closed behind her with a deep, shuddering thud.
Beyond the gates, signs of yesterday’s riot: shell casings, rocks, scorch marks on the wall, a shoe next to a trampled bandana. Bodies below the overpass and blood, lots of blood. More than two people had died if the amount of blood on the concrete was any indication. Miranda realized that her jaw was clenched. A sense of building energy swelled beneath her skin.
“Do not get angry,” she said to herself. “You make mistakes when you’re angry. Let it go.”
She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down, and followed the curve of the road for half a mile toward Guadalupe River Park. The trickle of water within its boundaries barely constituted a stream, let alone a river. Twilight began to fall, soft and silent. She turned on the Rover’s headlights.
>
This is inconvenient, but if I get a good dinner out of it, it won’t be so bad. Maybe we’ll just stay the night.
She turned left at Hedding and looked ahead—all clear. She started to relax as the Rover crested the overpass when she saw it. Seventy yards ahead of her, a very old two-door Honda Civic hatchback approached a clutch of twenty shamblers. The driver seemed unsure of what to do. Miranda laid on the horn.
“Speed up! Keep going!” she said as if the driver of the Honda could hear. The worst thing they could do was stop. Either turn around or barrel through, but don’t stop.
“What the fuck are you doing, you idiot? You have four fucking lanes! Go around!”
Picking up on Miranda’s agitation, Delilah began to growl. Then the car stopped. Heads and torsos twisted out of the windows.
They were going to try picking them off.
Such a reckless course of action took a moment to register. Miranda watched for a moment, aghast, then checked her rearview mirror. She was all for killing zombies, but this was the kind of stupid that got you killed.
She had the Rover half turned around when she saw the shapes spilling out from the shadows on the far side of the underpass. Large and fast, moving with a contradictory mix of awkwardness and grace. And speed. Whatever they were, they were fast.
“Holy shit,” she said, her brain catching up with her eyes.
It had been ages since she’d seen one, but there was no mistake. Dashers, a lot of them, four or five, maybe more. Their fat, bloated bodies belied their unnatural speed as they hurtled up the roadway. They looked like a pack of stampeding rhinos, mindlessly intent upon their target.
Panicked shouts carried on the breeze. The people in the Civic started firing at the dashers. I am out of here, Miranda thought, but she made a mistake; she hesitated. Leaving them to deal with a mess of their own making was the smart thing to do. She didn’t know these people. They were nothing to her. But she couldn’t leave them so outnumbered by Dashers. She wouldn’t sleep at night if she did.
She flipped the flamethrower “ON” switch before she knew she had made a decision. Small blue pilot lights popped brightly along the Rover’s undercarriage.
“Delilah, down!” she shouted, jamming the clutch into first.
The Rover roared toward the Honda. A dasher had already dragged the driver out through the Honda’s window. She barreled into the mass of fat, inhumanly fast creatures and flipped the “FUEL” switch. Pillars of fire billowed up the sides of the Rover. Three dashers caught fire as she sideswiped the dasher attacking the driver. She felt the satisfying thuds as she ran over two more. She braked hard and turned the steering wheel sharply to the right, skidding the back end of the Rover around a hundred-eighty degrees.
The driver of the car slumped on the ground, bleeding from wounds on his neck and arm. The girl in the front passenger seat slid behind the wheel of the car and kept shooting at the remaining dashers. The other passenger had scrambled into the front seat and rolled up the window, which would hold off the shamblers approaching from the other side for a few moments. The girl handed off her weapon and opened the driver’s side door, reaching for her fallen friend.
Miranda sprang from the Rover. She stood behind the open door.
“Hey, over here,” she shouted, catching the attention of the last dasher. In a detached part of her brain, she realized the people in the Honda were teenagers, just a bunch of stupid kids.
Miranda aimed for the last Dasher and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. She squeezed again, but the firing mechanism had jammed. Lightning quick, she ducked behind the lower section of the door. She tossed the gun inside and reached for the crowbar next to the seat. She braced herself as the dasher slammed into the door. She fell to the ground. Knocked from her hand, the crowbar clattered on the concrete and skittered under the Rover.
She rolled onto her back and kicked at the door with both feet. The dasher staggered back as the door smacked against it. Miranda flipped onto her stomach and stretched under the Rover for the crowbar. She gritted her teeth against the searing pain of her shoulder, bumping the blistering pipes of the flamethrower apparatus.
The dasher was upon her as she twisted onto her knees. Miranda swung the crowbar hard. It connected with the dasher’s ankles, knocking its feet out from under it. Miranda scrambled up, but the dasher rolled toward her and grabbed her ankle. She began to lose her footing as the crowbar arced down. She smacked against the ground as the crowbar crushed the zombie’s skull. Yanking her ankle free, she scooted away from the pool of gooey black blood that had splattered her. The girl from the downed car was dragging her injured friend to the Rover.
“Put him in the front!” she shouted. She looked past the girl, expecting to see the third passenger, but he wasn’t there. She snapped her head back to the Honda. Through the deepening twilight, she saw the boy crouched down in the passenger seat. The shamblers were making their way to the driver’s side. The kid did not even have the presence of mind to pull the door shut.
Miranda bolted toward the car, wielding the crowbar like a bat. She hit the closest shambler on the side of the head. It dropped like a sack of stones. She reached in the car and grabbed the glassy-eyed passenger by the collar. She thought it was a trick of the fading light, but no. He couldn’t be more than ten. She shoved the boy toward the Rover. He stumbled, but once in motion did not stop. Another shambler rounded the back of the car, lurching toward her as she sprinted to the Rover. The injured passenger slumped in the front seat, bleeding from what Miranda could now see was definitely a bite. Sensing undead infection, Delilah snarled and snapped at him from the back seat.
Miranda grabbed the dog’s collar and pushed her over the back seat into the cargo area so the children could scramble inside. She slammed her door shut and flipped the flamethrower “FUEL” switch. Bright yellow-white flames licked up the doors as they raced down the overpass. Miranda wrenched the wheel so abruptly at the intersection that the Rover went up on two wheels for an endless, harrowing moment before slamming back down to the pavement.
Buildings on both sides of the road streaked by in a fiery blur. The girl leaned forward, toward the moaning, semiconscious boy. The kid wasn’t more than fifteen, tops. The girl reached out to inspect his wound and Miranda backhanded her, connecting with her nose. A startled yelp escaped the girl’s lips
“What the fuck were you thinking? Don’t touch him unless you want to get infected!”
“We have to get him to a hospital,” the girl wailed. Blood from her nose dripped onto her ragged t-shirt. “They have the vaccine here. We have to get him to a hospital!”
“You can’t afford it and you don’t want one.”
Miranda fumbled for her phone and punched a speed-dial number. “This is Miranda Tucci! I’m coming in hot at the Accolti Gate with three civilians. One is injured.”
“But he’ll turn, he’ll turn! We have to go to a hospital,” the girl cried, hysterical.
The Rover’s tires screeched as Miranda turned onto Accolti Way. She saw movement in the elevated watchtower, then the gate opened. She finally flipped off the flamethrower switches, belatedly realizing that she was literally coming in hot. They streaked through the gate and into the nearest parking lot. Miranda slammed the brakes so hard she felt the children in the back seat thump against her own. Medical personnel streamed from the brightly lit Cowell Health Center. She breathed a sigh of relief and sat, unmoving, still clutching the steering wheel. Delilah barked and growled from the cargo area of the Rover, making an enthusiastic contribution to the chaos.
Miranda heard a voice, as if from a very far distance. She turned her head to see Doc Owen next to the injured boy. She roused herself with an effort.
“Took a bite on the neck. He might have some burns. I didn’t get a look at the others.”
Doc nodded, barking orders as he eased the boy from the front seat onto a waiting stretcher. His gloved hand applied pressure to the boy’s bleeding wound while the other childr
en were coaxed from the back seat. Delilah hopped to the back seat and stuck her snout in Miranda’s ear, whimpering and licking.
“Are you getting out, Miranda? We need to check you out.”
Ellen, a nurse practitioner at the health center, peered into the Rover as Miranda began to shake from head to toe. She looked at her hands, clutching the steering wheel.
“I can’t let go,” she whispered.
Ellen walked around to Miranda’s side of the Rover. She reached through the open window, avoiding the still hot exterior handle, and opened the door. She cooed nothing in particular as she tucked some stray strands of hair behind Miranda’s ear and stroked her head, ignoring the gore stuck in it. Miranda began to relax. Ellen leaned in and unlaced her fingers.
“Look at me,” she murmured, coaxing Miranda to turn in her seat and put her feet on the ground. Her calm brown eyes regarded Miranda’s wild blue eyes. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Take a few deep breaths.”
Miranda obeyed, halting at first, but soon breathing deep and smooth. She felt grateful, embarrassed, relieved that no one else had witnessed her meltdown. She looked down at her spattered clothes and her gore-specked hands.
“I’m okay now. Thanks.”
“Ready to go in?”
“As long as there’s a Valium with my name on it.”
8
Miranda struggled to open her eyes. She lay on her stomach, on a mat on the floor. She tried to sit up but quickly realized that was a mistake, so she lay back down. Her shoulder throbbed. Delilah, snuggled up along her other side, raised her head and began licking Miranda’s face. Miranda could not have said where she was if her life depended on it.
Ellen popped her head into the room. “I thought I heard you, Miri. How are you feeling?”
“Like a truck hit me.”
It all came rushing back: the kids, the zombies, spending the night at Ellen’s apartment in Swig Hall. She rolled onto her uninjured side, crowding her trusty pit bull, and pushed herself up. When the room stopped spinning, she asked, “How badly did I burn my shoulder?”