Omega Days

by John L. Campbell

  The fighter pilot stared at him. “No, you don’t. The shit I’ve seen…” He shook his head. “LA is gone. We’re bombing the shit out of it right now. Rockeyes, napalm, whatever we got. The Reagan’s off Catalina right now, every pilot making three, four bombing runs a day. Hammering the shit out of the City of Angels.”

  “Why are you not with them?”

  “I’m assigned to reconnaissance, but they’ve got us scattered all over. Air groups from different ships are all mixed up, orders changing all the time. No one’s in charge, everyone’s in charge. It’s a clusterfuck.”

  Vlad had to agree. The briefings were becoming confusing, and he had begun to think they weren’t actually withholding information so much as they just didn’t know anymore. Gossip ran wild, stories changed, and there was a subtle atmosphere of growing panic among the officers. It made him nervous.

  “Why are they bombing Los Angeles?”

  Rocker looked up with a puzzled look. “To contain them. The skinnies are moving. Millions of them, moving out of the city, moving north. No one’s told you?”

  “Nyet. They are moving together? In a group?”

  A nod.

  “Why?”

  Rocker shrugged. “My CO says it’s like a herd mentality, they just follow each other. From the air it looks like spreading lava, only made out of people, and they don’t stop for anything; tanks, rocket attacks, gas, nothing works. They just keep on rolling.”

  He took a long pull of his beer before continuing.

  “The bombs and napalm don’t do much. They get blown down, and get right back up. They get blown apart, and the pieces still attached to the head keep crawling. Napalm just makes them crispy, and gas doesn’t bother them at all.”

  “And they are coming north?”

  Rocker nodded. “It’s a sea of bodies. Mexico, San Diego, now LA, growing all the time. I saw them tip over a garbage truck just from their mass.”

  Vladimir drank his beer. He saw that the young man wore a wedding band. “What is next for you?”

  “I’m waiting for orders. I might get called back to the ship, or they might send me east. Probably Salt Lake City, because both Vegas and Reno are gone.” He looked at the Russian and lowered his voice. “I hear they might use nukes to keep them from getting out of LA.”

  Vladimir blinked. The Americans were thinking of using nuclear weapons on their own soil? On one of their greatest cities? It was madness.

  Rocker finished his beer. “I’m going to throw up and pass out, hopefully in that order. Nice talking to you, Ivan.”

  The Russian watched him leave, then went outside a few minutes later, breathing deeply of the night air. It was almost ten o’clock, the sky clear and full of stars. He walked past dark, quiet buildings, street lights run by the base’s self-sufficient power station throwing his long, gangly shadow on the walls. He saw no one, but from up ahead came the drone of a big, propeller-driven aircraft coming in for a landing.

  He passed warehouses and hangars, and at last arrived at the edge of the airfield. Vladimir found a crate to sit on and leaned back against a hangar wall, lighting a cigarette. The field was lit for night operations, rows of red glowing orbs marching into the distance marking the runways, lights flashing atop turning radar dishes and antenna clusters.

  Somewhere out there in the dark was his Blackhawk, waiting to carry him back out into what the other men called the Freak Show. Closer in, he could see the silhouette of the only fighter jet on base, Rocker’s Super Hornet. NAS Lemoore was normally home to an entire carrier air group, as well as a wide assortment of cargo planes, tankers, airborne radar craft and trainers. They were all gone now, off on other missions, scattered as the Navy pilot had said. Vlad wondered if they were all still flying, if they were wrecks strewn across some mountainside, or sitting empty and quiet on an overrun airfield.

  The plane Vlad heard was a C-130 painted in a green camouflage pattern. It had already rolled to a stop, and civilian refugees trudged down the wide cargo ramp to climb aboard buses lined up near the plane. He wondered at the origin of this latest batch. Southern California? Nevada? Oregon? NAS Lemoore was now a refugee center, and civilians evacuated from all over had been flying in for days. The now-empty hangars had been transformed into enormous housing units, and after they filled up, a tent city was erected nearby. One of the briefings reported that there were already over ten thousand refugees on base.

  How long would the Navy be able to feed them? Protect them? Where would they go after that? How would they get there? He saw families moving from the plane to the buses, parents carrying small, tired children, bigger kids shuffling along with the adults, holding onto shirts and pockets. How much worse was it for them, he wondered, looking at the adults. How much extra fear they must be experiencing, worrying about their young and knowing what was out there in the darkness, waiting on the other side of the fence.

  Even this far from the chain link Vladimir could hear them moaning.

  He smoked his cigarette and watched the refugees, wondering what would become of them all. He included himself in that question.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Alameda

  Both vans, the one from the senior center and Angie’s Armory, were packed with supplies; food, water, sleeping bags, first aid kits and spare cans of fuel. It was just a precaution, and in the event of an emergency whoever made it out in the vehicles would have something of a chance, at least for a little while. The gas tanks were topped-off, and a map of California sat on each dashboard.

  Margaret Chu, in a friendly but firm voice, had pulled Angie and Bud aside and suggested the preparation. She said it wasn’t just about emergencies. She was concerned that the group had become overly dependent upon the two of them, and she feared what would happen if neither was around to give direction. She also insisted that a handgun and a box of bullets be hidden under both driver’s seats.

  They did as she asked. Angie was ashamed that she had underestimated Margaret, considered her less important because she wasn’t a shooter. A quiet strength was hidden behind those plain features, and it reminded Angie that leadership wasn’t just about carrying a gun and giving orders.

  Angie shut the back door of her van and hooked the Galil over a shoulder, then retrieved her pocketbook off the front seat and locked the vehicle with an electronic chirp. On her way up to the roof she met Big Jerry coming down the stairs.

  “Headed up to take a watch?” he asked.

  “Elson’s been up there long enough. He needs some dinner.”

  “I’m pretty sure Maxie has plenty of chili left.” He patted his belly. “It’s good. I would have gone for seconds, but no one wants a fat man in the house after a second bowl of beans.”

  She chuckled.

  “You look tired, Ang. Why don’t you get some rest, I’ll take your watch.”

  She shook her head. “You’ve been working all day.” The big man was a quick student and a hard worker, paying close attention to everything Angie taught him about cleaning and caring for firearms. He had sat at a table with brushes, rags and rods until his face was beaded with sweat and he reeked of gun oil.

  “I don’t mind. Besides, you work harder than all of us.”

  “You haven’t learned to shoot yet,” she reminded him.

  He leaned his bulk against a railing. “And whose fault is that?”

  “Tomorrow,” she promised. “We’ll start on the basics tomorrow.”

  He stayed put. “I won’t need a gun up there anyway, because as you’ve pointed out gunfire attracts them. Come on, take me up on the offer. If anything happens I’ll come get you right away.”

  She smiled, and on impulse kissed him on a round cheek. He blushed. “You’re sweet. It’s okay, I could use the quiet time.”

  He nodded and squeezed past her, then stopped. “Thank you.” When she looked confused, he took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “None of us would be alive if it wasn’t for you, and we all know that. So thank you.”

&
nbsp; Angie didn’t know what to say, and Jerry let her off the hook by going downstairs before she tried.

  Elson was walking a slow circuit of the roof, his shotgun resting in his arms. She sent him down to get some food and sleep, and then sat on the low wall at the edge of the roof, looking out at the street and the surrounding neighborhood. It was twilight, purple and pink smears peeking out between thickening clouds, the temperature dropping into the fifties. A lone seagull coasted by, and the air smelled like rain. There were no lights in any direction, the streets below silent except for the shuffling feet of the dead.

  Angie opened her pocketbook. It was a heavy thing, made of fine leather, and had set her back twelve hundred dollars at Bloomingdales in San Francisco. Only a couple of years ago she would have choked on the idea of spending that kind of money on a bag, but the money she and Dean made from the TV show made it a casual purchase. She ran her fingertips over the leather. What did any of that mean now? She took out her wallet and opened it to the plastic flaps holding pictures.

  Leah smiling and hugging a Winnie the Pooh.

  Dean, handsome and grinning.

  The three of them together, Leah caught in the middle of a belly laugh.

  She stared at the photographs as her eyes welled up. From the purse she removed a blue plastic teething ring, the kind which held water and could be frozen in order to soothe aching little gums. It was rough with tiny teeth marks. Angie closed her hand over it and held it to her breast. Was she eating right? Was Dean able to bathe her? Did she have toys to play with and her footie pajamas?

  She’s safe at the ranch, she told herself. They both are. Dean got them out, and he would destroy anything that got in their way – man or creature - in order to protect his child. Leah was safe at the ranch, with her daddy and grandparents to look after her.

  Angie wrapped her arms around herself and started to cry, something she hadn’t allowed herself to do until now. It was a deep, wrenching thing, and she bent over with her hands clamped to her face, her back heaving as it overtook her. She was still like that when Bud found her on the roof, and he went to her and folded her into his arms, holding her close as her body shook with sobs. He didn’t talk, didn’t offer meaningless noises, only held her. They stayed that way a long time, until the emotional storm passed and her body stilled. Finally she pulled away, sniffling and wiping at her tears. “What am I doing?”

  He waited.

  “All this. This place, these people. What am I doing?”

  “You’re taking care of others.”

  She laughed. “Strangers. I’m running a damned orphanage.”

  “You can’t think that’s a bad thing.”

  She turned away, staring out at a dead world. “I should be taking care of my family, Bud, taking care of them, not collecting strays.” She had, in fact, found two more today while she was out gathering food. One was a malnourished high school girl named Meagan, who had armed herself with the type of curving blade landscapers used on high weeds. The blood on the blade and her shirt said she had used it. The other was a nine-year-old girl who didn’t speak much English but said her name was Theresa. Angie had come out of a store and caught her trying to steal a jug of water out of the back of the Excursion. It took some coaxing to get her to climb in instead of running away.

  “You’re saving lives,” Bud said.

  “For how long? We can’t stay here forever. I can’t stay here.”

  Her uncle nodded. “Every time you go out alone I wonder if you’re coming back.”

  She knew he didn’t mean he was worried she’d been killed. “I’ll give it another week. I’ll get this place as stocked and fortified as I can, but then I’m leaving.” Fresh tears sprang into her eyes. “I have to go to them, Bud. I have to know.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “And I want you to come with me. Our family needs to be together.”

  The man sighed. “I don’t think I could, Ang.”

  “Oh, bullshit!”

  “I’m not sure you could, either. But if you do, it’s going to destroy them. Are you telling me you don’t realize that you’re the only thing holding them together?”

  Angie shook her head. “They’ll be fine. Margaret will step up, and Jerry and Elson, Sophia…” She stared at her uncle. “They’re not my responsibility!”

  Bud rested a hand on her shoulder. “Have you even thought about what it would take to get to the ranch? It’s over two-hundred miles. How far do you think you’d get before you were on foot and exposed. You saw it; we couldn’t even get off this damned island.”

  “I’ll make it.”

  “Even if you scavenged food and water on the move, you couldn’t carry enough ammo to deal with what’s waiting out there.”

  “Two of us could.”

  “No, we couldn’t.”

  She pulled away. “What do you expect me to do, just write them off? My husband and my baby are out there, and they need me. And the family needs you. What do I tell my father, that I left you behind?”

  “My brother knows me a lot better than you do, little girl.”

  She blinked at the sharp tone.

  “I know what you want, Ang. If you have to go, then you’ll go, and my heart will break along with everyone else’s. But we brought these people here and told them they’d be safe, that we’d protect them. It probably won’t matter, I know how this will all end, but I’ll make my stand with them. They’re not strangers anymore.”

  Angie’s cheeks burned with shame, and she hung her head as more tears fell. Bud took her in his arms again, hugging her tight.

  “I miss them so much,” she cried. “I need my baby.”

  “I know, honey, I know. We’ll figure it out.”

  Neither of them noticed that Maxie had been standing in the shadows just inside the door to the roof, eavesdropping. They didn’t notice him slip silently back downstairs, either.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I-80

  They stood side by side, two armed men with binoculars at the guardrail of a highway off-ramp, scanning the scene below. A sprawling travel plaza sat on over an acre of asphalt; twenty pumps under a big canopy on the left, a dozen diesel pumps on the right under a higher canopy for the big rigs. There was a service garage, a car wash, space for RVs and overnight truckers, vast parking lots and a big central building. Signs offered restaurants, a gift shop, restrooms and showers, hot coffee and a visitor’s center. Everything a traveler could need.

  The dead meandered among the cars in the lots, in and out of the covered fuel service areas, bumping against the main building’s glass doors. They counted over a hundred of them, scattered across the plaza.

  “Do you think they know what they are?” Evan said.

  Calvin took a while before answering. “Probably about as much as a potted plant knows itself. That would be a blessing, don’t you think?”

  Evan agreed. “I hope they can’t remember what they were. Their lives, the things they knew and dreamed about, what they loved and wanted… What they’ve lost. I hope you’re right.”

  “Having a heart in this new world isn’t necessarily an asset, my friend. But I’m glad you still have one. Hold onto it.” They watched for a bit longer. There weren’t any of the hand written NO GAS signs they had seen over the past two days, but that didn’t mean much. With their binoculars they found the concrete slab for the underground fuel tanks. The round, metal covers were off, not a good sign.

  “Want to keep looking?”

  Calvin shook his head. “The caravan won’t make it much beyond this.” Three miles back, the line of cars, vans and campers carrying Calvin’s family of hippies was stopped and waiting, gas tanks nearly dry. Over the last two days they had followed Interstate 80 south through Vallejo, past the California Maritime Academy and over the Carquinez Bridge. The San Pablo Bay on the right sparkled as if brushed with gold flake, a vast expanse of empty water. They passed through Foxboro Downs and Richmond, and exit after exit found gas stations which
had been pumped dry or burned to the ground.

  They didn’t dare stray too far from the interstate, for fear of wandering into a heavily infested neighborhood. They did add a tow truck to the column, and it led the way, pushing aside blocking vehicles when it could, dragging them away when it couldn’t. The further south they went, the more time was spent clearing obstacles, and that burned more fuel.

  Siphoning became the next option, but it didn’t work out very well. Almost every vehicle sitting in that great outbound graveyard had been run until its tank was dry. Now the caravan was on vapors, their spare fuel cans empty.

  “If there is gas down there,” Calvin said, “this will probably be out last opportunity before Oakland.” He waved towards the dead. “Lots of drifters down there, but there’s sure to be more farther south, more than we could hold off.”

  They discussed how they would do it, assuming there was fuel. Option one was to pump it out a can at a time and transport it back to the caravan. This way, only a few people would be exposed, but it was a slow process, and extremely dangerous for the pumpers. The other option attracted more attention; roll the entire caravan in at once, keep all the guns together and form a perimeter while the vehicles were fueled, blazing away at anything that moved. More noise, more moving parts that could go wrong, but faster. It occurred to Evan that he had never fully appreciated the simple ease of pulling up to a pump, paying with the swipe of a card and being back on the road in minutes. No one had ever tried to eat him at a Sunoco.

  “First let’s see if there’s any fuel,” the younger man said, and they climbed onto the Harley, Calvin with his assault rifle across his chest.

  Without anything being spoken, Evan and his motorcycle had been given the role of scout. He could weave in and out of traffic, ranging well ahead of the caravan and spotting danger before they rolled up on it. He was happy to do it. They had taken him in as one of their own, and it felt good to be useful.

  He believed, however, that they were chasing a dream with this hospital ship. Calvin’s wife Faith said it was waiting at the Oakland Middle Harbor, once part of a naval supply base back in the forties, and since converted to commercial operations. Evan couldn’t say the ship existed. What he did know was that every mile south brought them closer to destruction. The numbers of the dead were multiplying, as were the attacks, corpses stumbling out from between cars and trucks, coming in at night, drawn by smell or sight or God knew what. Rifles and shotguns sounded with regularity now, and last night they had lost a young man named Otter while he was standing watch, a boy barely eighteen overwhelmed by three drifters in the dark. And that was just the highway on the outskirts of the city. Oakland would be a nightmare.