by Jason Offutt
Jenna snatched the can from his hand. “Fuck you, Terry. Just fuck you.”
***
“Where do you think they came from?” Nikki asked. She sat on the hood of the Prius with Jenna, sipping a warm Budweiser; Doug and Terry sat in law chairs on either side of them. Doug held a bottle of water; a pile of empty beer cans lay at Terry’s feet. Nikki pulled the Prius off the highway once the sky cleared and the terror was behind them and drove up Trail Road, a country road off the intersection of Interstates 80 and 76, near the Colorado border. She stopped at an intersection of dirt roads; they could see for miles, they simply decided to wait and watch. The Prius couple had been going camping, so the trunk was full of gear. The lawn chairs were just a bonus.
“The Communities, probably.” It was Doug, watching the highway through the 300mm lens on the Prius couple’s Nikon Df. “We got out. Those things could have made it out once the fences were blown down. And they just started walking.”
“The same direction we went?” Jenna asked.
Doug shrugged. “Why not? They had to go somewhere.”
“Or maybe they followed our scent.” They all stopped and stared at Terry.
“You think they can smell us?” Jenna spat.
“Whoa.” Doug could smell a fire starting and he wanted to put it out fast. “We don’t know what they can do, except kill us. We can’t start speculating over every little thing. It’ll drive us all crazy.” Doug lowered the camera and handed it to Terry.
Nikki scooped the Nikon out of Terry’s hands and focused on the cloud of birds moving slowly away. “But where are they going?” she asked.
Doug raised a hand and pointed to the east. The effort was smooth, easy. For the first time since he regained consciousness in the culvert, he knew he was going to be okay. “Omaha,” he said. “They’re heading east.”
“And how do you know that?” Jenna asked, nudging the back of his lawn chair with her sneaker.
“Honey, I’ve got a concussion. That doesn’t mean I forgot how to tell directions, or how to read. There was a sign.” The sun lighted the day again, unattended fields swayed in a soft breeze. The cloud of birds moved over the pack of zombies, casting a black shadow that rippled over the countryside. “What do you make out of those birds?”
Terry shrugged. “I dunno.” He dropped a spent can on the ground and lifted another out of the case at his feet. “Why do animals do anything? Food maybe? Those bastards don’t have the best table manners in the world, I can imagine they leave a feast behind after they kill something.”
Doug nodded. Yeah, that makes sense. Maybe too much sense.
“Why Omaha?” Nikki asked.
“I don’t think these things are going to a place. They’re probably just walking. The one in the lead saw something shiny, so he started toward it. From what we’ve seen, these things don’t have any higher brain function. They just want to eat. That’s the only thing in their heads. They’re like a drove of sheep, except dangerous.”
Jenna laughed. “A drove?”
“I’m from Paola, Kansas. Fucking sue me.”
The afternoon fell silent as they watched as the flock moved east toward Omaha. Sound should have been everywhere. The din of great trucks on the interstate, the hum of farm machinery, the occasional car stereo played too goddamned loud. But there was nothing except for the breeze. In two months, the monsters accidentally born of the antidepressant Ophiocordon had wiped America’s volume level clean. The noise of civilization was gone. At least, most of it.
The crack of a can opening broke the silence. Nikki took a drink of sparkling water the Hipsters had in the trunk and burped into her hand. “I think I might know where they’re going,” she said.
Terry turned his lawn chair to face her. “Where?”
Nikki took another drink and sat silent for a moment, looking across the plains, watching the cloud of birds as it drifted over the fields. The Rockies behind them weren’t visible from this far out, from a 360-degree view of where they sat, the entire world looked flat, desolate and lonely. “This whole thing was caused when a pharmaceutical genius noticed a Southeast Asian fungus infected a species of ant, right?”
Doug nodded, his head was still clear. That was a good sign. “That’s what we got from the news.”
“The infected ants turned placid,” Nikki continued, “then they turned into zombies under the control of the fungus.”
“I remember reading a story when that Ophi, Ophio–” Jenna started.
“Ophiocordon.”
“Thanks. Ophiocordon was introduced. The headline even said ‘zombie ants.’”
Nikki sat her can on the hood of the Prius and stood. “The fungus made the ants climb into the canopy in search for the perfect humidity and temperature for it to thrive. Then the ants would die, having served its purpose.”
Terry frowned. “So?”
“Oh, my God, Nikki,” Doug said, the words coming out slowly. “You think it’s doing the same thing to people.”
Nikki nodded, her once full black hair flat against her head; it barely moved. “Why not?”
“Then these things might be looking for a better way to make this fungus spread.” Doug rubbed his temples. “I think I might be just well enough and just fucked up enough to have one of those beers.”
***
Nikki had never seen so many stars. Even if the power had been on in this part of the world, the light pollution in western Nebraska was about that of the night side of the moon. Was the power on anywhere? She hoped it was. The Orion Arm of the Milky Way dusted across the sky, Nikki thought she could make out the constellation Scorpio. A low light in the sky traveled steadily westward, a satellite broadcasting signals to machines that couldn’t receive them anymore. Nikki shook off a tear and stirred the food.
The four of them sat around a Coleman camp stove Terry had pulled out of the trunk of the Prius, just another part of the camping gear the Hipster couple never got around to using. This Prius was a gold mine. Terry also found a hammer, probably for pounding in tent stakes. He hadn’t put it down. A small blue flame on the stove heated Velveeta Shells and Cheese with tuna in a small pan. The Hipsters had packed enough food, mostly crap, for a week, so Nikki figured the four of them should be okay for at least a couple of days. They could camp out here, just close enough to the highway to keep an eye on things; just far enough away nothing would notice them. A little town sat a few miles down the highway, but towns meant people and people meant zombies. Terry set up the tent and Jenna spread out the two sleeping bags into a bed. They could hang out here for a couple of days; by then Doug would be better and they could figure out what the fuck they were going to do.
Hopefully.
“Where’s the closest spot that would make the fungus happy?” Jenna asked, eating dried apricots.
Doug plucked an apricot from the bag. “It’s got to be warm and humid.”
Another beer cracked open. Terry held it in his left hand while he smashed an empty flat with the 16-ounce hammer; he wondered how the weak-kneed Hipster boy was able to swing something that heavy. The tent sat off the road amongst the tall weeds at the beginning of an open pasture, good enough to be hidden, visible enough to keep an eye open for anything dangerous coming their way and close enough to the car to run to it in a pinch. Nikki didn’t take into consideration the beer supply; they might have to move a bit sooner.
“Well it’s pretty hot and humid in the Midwest,” Terry said. “That’s for damn sure.”
“Yeah, but that’s just part of the year. These things were moving east, back toward Omaha,” Doug said. “Where is the closest place to western Nebraska that’s hot and humid all year long?”
“Texas,” Jenna said through a mouthful of apricots. “Houston is a bitch.”
“Then why aren’t they trekking cross country?” Terry asked. “If they’re really following some zombie fungus instinct, they’d just go in the direction that felt right, but these guys are following the highway
. Why?”
Nikki shrugged. “I don’t even know if what I suggested is right, but if it is, maybe they still have more brain function than we think.”
“Then that would mean they’re, at some level, solving problems,” Doug said.
“Yep. I hope I’m wrong,” Nikki said, “or we’re even more screwed than we think we are.”
Nikki held up a flashlight, another treasure from the Hipsters, as Jenna began spooning mac and cheese and tuna into Styrofoam bowls. “Then we just need to stay where the zombies aren’t,” she said, sticking a plastic spoon into the first bowl and handing it to Doug. “That should be simple, right? I mean, if they’re going someplace hot and humid, we should go someplace cold and dry.”
The night fell silent, the hiss of the tiny propane fire the only noise for miles. Then far off a coyote yipped and part of the world became normal again. Jenna finished filling the bowls and Nikki clicked off the flashlight, thrusting the group into darkness, illuminated only by the stars and the waxing quarter moon.
“I don’t want to live in Alaska,” Terry said, tapping the orange-handled hammer against his leg. “I hate Sasquatch. Can you imagine a zombie Sasquatch?”
Doug shook his head. “Terry, we’re not going to Alaska.” He stopped and looked at Jenna and Nikki, his face grave. “We’re going back to Omaha.”
“No,” softly spilled from Jenna’s mouth.
Another empty can died in a dull crunch under Terry’s hammer. “What the fuck, boss? Do you not remember what happened to us the last time we were in Omaha? It wasn’t a party, that’s for sure.”
The camp fell silent. Another coyote yipped in the night, louder this time. A second joined in.
After what seemed like minutes, Doug finally spoke. “I want to know what happened,” he said. “And I want to know what they’re doing to fix it.”
Terry reached back and launched the nearly full beer into the night, foam spraying behind like a contrail. “Jesus Christ, dude. They stuck us in a fucking concentration camp, then tried to kill us – with airplanes. Airplanes with bombs. BOMBS.”
The coyotes yipped again; they were closer. “I know this sounds crazy,” Doug said, absentmindedly stirring his dinner with the plastic spoon. “But it’s the one place we know where there are people. Real, live people. It’s the one place so far we’ve been safe.”
“Safe? Dude, are you using the Big Dictionary of Opposites? Because what I lived through is the opposite of safe. If anything, we should go in any direction but east.” Terry turned toward Nikki. “Honey, would you hand me another beer. I kinda lost the handle on the last one.”
Nikki didn’t move, she looked from Terry to Jenna. “Doug’s right,” she said. “It’s our best chance at survival. We just spent the past three days in a culvert; scared shitless one of those zombie things would stumble across it and eat us in our sleep. We’re going to spend tonight in a goddamned tent, which, considering all the zombies and those birds who almost caught us on the highway, is just as secure as absolutely nothing.” She paused for a moment, looking from face to face, the sound of the coyotes somewhere just beyond the tent. “We have to go back.”
“I want a bath,” Jenna said, her voice shaking. “I want a good, long hot bath and a meal that didn’t come out of a can. But I don’t want to find these in Omaha.”
Nikki pulled a beer out of the case and waved it in front of Terry. “And you?”
He reached out his left hand; the right one gripped the hammer handle tight. “Toss me that flashlight, babe,” he said, his eyes focused on the weeds near the tent. Nikki stood slowly and put the flashlight in his hand. Something rustled in the quiet night; the coyotes had gone silent. Terry slowly sat the hammer in the trunk and picked a can of Armour no-bean chili from a cardboard box in the trunk. He raised his left index finger to his mouth, then lowered it and clicked on the flashlight; a yellow beam stabbed into the night.
A coyote stood about ten feet outside the circle, if four people can make a circle. The beam hit the coyote in the face; it didn’t back down. They all saw why. Six more pairs of eyes shone in the night. That was seven 46-pound carnivorous mini-wolves and four people. Terry and Doug had grown up in coyote territory. Coyotes aren’t bold predators, they’re skittish at best around anything bigger than them and not nearly smart enough to order a giant magnet and rocket skates from Acme. But back in Kansas before the world went to shit, coyotes wouldn’t have approached four grown humans this closely. The pack leader, a great, fat beast the size of a medium dog, bared its teeth at Terry. In a couple of short months, they’d lost their fear of humans. Oh, fuck.
Terry pulled back his right arm and snapped it forward, the can of chili without beans hurdled in a straight line toward the lead coyote. It struck the beast in the forehead, sending the canine tumbling backward, yelping in pain. The coyote slowly reclaimed its feet, shook its head and yipped before it disappeared into the night, the pack on its heels. Everyone stared at Terry. “What?” he said. “Who the hell eats chili without beans?” He grabbed the hammer out of the trunk and scratched his back with the claws. “It looks like we have more to worry about than zombies.”
They ate their macaroni and cheese in silence.
***
The light came on just before midnight. Doug sat on the trunk of the Prius, the Nikon Df with its long lens next to him, but he didn’t need its 300mm optics to see the light. It shone in the Nebraska night like a beacon, or a warning. Doug had seen the movie “Alien” at least twenty times; he knew what could happen when people got the two confused – they died. The sign they passed on the highway, about a mile before turning onto Trail Road and stopping where their camp sat right now, read “Julesburg: Pop. 1,227”; the blue attractions sign a quarter mile farther promised the “Fort Sedgwick Museum.” Doug hadn’t mentioned anything at the time; besides, who wanted to see a museum? The whole world was a museum now. Just more than 1,000 people wasn’t very much, most of them were dead. But how many might have stood back up made him nervous.
Despite Jenna’s protest, Doug had taken first watch to look for any movement in the scant moonlight, to make sure nothing ate them in their sleep. He had promised to wake Jenna at midnight, then she would wake Nikki at 3 a.m. Terry got the 5 a.m. wake up call simply because he’d passed out in the tent around 11 p.m. and would lay there snoring softly until at least sunrise. Doug’s watch clicked on 12:01, then 12:05 and 12:30. He wasn’t going to wake Jenna. He wasn’t going to wake anybody. That light was a problem, but it was going to stay his problem.
Who’s down there? Doug wondered. And why are you signaling us? He knew whoever was in the town of Julesburg, Colorado, wasn’t signaling them directly. The Prius had flown in on angel’s wings. Unless the gas motor kicks in, a Toyota Prius doesn’t make a sound. And the highway was just far enough from the town no one would make out a car, unless they had binoculars, or a camera. Oh, shit. The night closed in on Doug in a claustrophobic blanket. Any warm feeling of health he’d started to have in the macaroni and cheese evening was gone. His head began to swim, his mouth dry as a drunk’s. Somebody was down there in that town and a feeling, nothing more than a feeling, told Doug whoever it was knew they were up here. By the time the sun came up, Doug wanted to be gone.
He slid off the trunk and opened it with a soft click. The Coleman stove was easy to find, but the pan, bottle of water and jar of coffee were stuffed in different boxes and Doug did not want to turn on the flashlight. As he lifted the stove, he clanked the green aluminum rectangle on the side of the trunk and froze. Terry’s soft snoring from the tent never wavered. Doug let out a long, soft exhale and rested the stove on the ground behind the car. It fired up easily. He gently sat the pan on the burner, poured in a bottle of Aquafina and plopped down in a lawn chair to watch it come to a boil, then he’d dump in the coffee. Doug was going to stay awake until daylight, until that light was gone, if he had to poison himself with instant coffee to do it.
***
“Dou
g.” The word sounded weak, distant. Sleep. He just wanted to sleep. “Doug.” Someone shook his shoulder. Who? Who would do that? “Wake up.” Nikki. The voice was Nikki’s. Doug pulled open his eyes. Nikki stood before him, he could see her in the dim gray of, what was this? Morning? Her hands were on his shoulders. She didn’t smile. What’s wrong, Nikki?
“You saw the light,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
The light? Yeah, the light. Doug nodded. His head felt off center, like he’d stayed up most of the night on only caffeine.
“Is that why you didn’t wake anyone up?”
“Yeah,” Doug said. He focused his attention on Nikki. “You saw it, too?”
She nodded. “I’ve been up for an hour. It went off at 6 a.m.” She motioned for Doug to grab her hands and he did. “Are you going to tell anybody?”
Doug shook his head; it felt like it was filled with sand. “No.” He looked up at her in the darkness, her body just a silhouette. “We have to go back to Omaha. We have to find out what’s going on.”
“I know,” Nikki said, pulling him out of the lawn chair. “I’d rather trust the Army that sentenced us to death than whatever’s down there in that town.” She started walking Doug toward the tent, an arm across his shoulder to compensate for his ankle in a cast. “You’re going to get some sleep, then we’re getting the hell out of here.”
July 28: Julesburg, Colorado
Chapter 5
Donnie stood at the window. He liked standing at the window, the big plate glass covered most of the living room’s western wall, the neighborhood he grew up in spread out before him behind 3/16-inch of see-through magic. Mrs. Abernathy’s little yellow house sat across the street, Gary Grimes’ house next to it, with his sweet tree house in the back yard. Donnie stared at the tree house, its green-shingled roof sagged on the sides; that tree house had seen better days. When had he last played in it? Yesterday? No, it couldn’t have been yesterday. He’d stayed inside and taken care of Mother all day yesterday. It had to be the day before, but why did the tree house look so old? And when did everybody get so lazy in their yards? Tall grass and flowers, white Mouse Ears and purple Milkvetch, danced gracefully in the slight breeze that caused the lawns Donnie could see from his window ripple like the surface of a lake. The stretch of West Third Street between Walnut and Maple looked more like a prairie than the neat, well-trimmed Colorado town he grew up in.