Another shrug. “Not at first, I guess. But I know now that it’s always been inside me. A deep love of the Lord, untapped, waiting to be shown the light. That’s what He said.”
“What who said?”
“God.”
“God speaks to you?”
A beaming smile. “All the time.”
The shrink scribbled some notes and smiled back. “Let’s meet again.”
Sitting before him was a young man assigned to the missile silos in Omaha, someone who was highly trained and regularly worked up close with nuclear warheads. Someone who thought America’s nuclear arsenal existed to bring about biblical destruction, and who thought God spoke to him directly. He would be run through the standard battery of tests, as the regulations required, but the results of this single interview would be more than enough. Airman P. Dunleavy had touched his last nuke.
• • •
Brother Peter came to realize that he had been wrong to be angry. Being forced out of the military was an important first step toward his ministry, toward his understanding of the level of affluence and power that could be attained by someone who knew the right words and had the courage, the daring, to say them. He had made a wildly successful career by shearing the sheep with lucrative words like charity and blessings and demonstrations of faith. Along the way his faith had become an effective tool with which to achieve his desires, and as his empire grew, the days when he would pray on his knees with tears in his eyes, when he would joyfully proclaim his beliefs to strangers (other than when he was being paid to do so), faded with the past.
And then suddenly, the Lord announced His presence once more by sweeping away Peter’s empire along with humankind. There was no question in the minister’s mind that it had all been done specifically for his benefit, a divine reminder that He was real, that the pursuit of worldly goods and pleasures was a path to damnation, and that the passion with which Peter had once worshipped the Word was the only true thing. That, and God’s love for him. Peter was special, that much was clear to him now, and the Lord had a plan in mind, something of biblical proportions, a mystery. Brother Peter was ashamed for having turned away for so long, for his many debaucheries and faithlessness, for his use of God’s word as a ploy to satisfy his earthly desires, and he vowed to become that strong servant that God required. Thy will be done.
It was obvious that God had decided to forgo the fiery destruction and skip straight to the Rapture, for this was surely what was happening. Those left behind would walk the earth as lifeless shells, and the faithful would be lifted up to heavenly glory. How much longer this would take remained to be seen, but certainly long enough for His purpose to be revealed. Peter had his suspicions, his guesses, and he believed it would involve culling the goats from the lambs. He would relish the task.
But like Job, he would first be required to suffer.
And he was. He was starving.
Brother Peter looked out a small, grimy square of glass set in a metal door. Behind him was a corridor leading to another door that opened into a barnlike room of baggage conveyor belts, the metal twisted into odd shapes by the fire, a stink of roasted rubber thick in the air. There was also a stairway that led back down to their subterranean world. Four people were here with him: Anderson, a female staffer, and both of the G6 pilots, whom he had quietly begun thinking of as Thing One and Thing Two. They were all, including himself, skinny, dirty, and developing sores from poor hygiene.
“Get ready,” he said, his hand on the door handle. The female staffer and Thing Two moved up close to him, each holding an empty gray bin used at security checkpoints to hold laptops, shoes, and pocket items. Thing Two had a hammer stuck in his belt.
Peter yanked open the door. “Now!” The two ran out with their bins, and the minister shut the door quickly behind them. He pressed his face against the glass, whispering, “Go, go.” A United food services truck sat a hundred feet away on the tarmac, its glass shattered, tires melted, sides scorched black from the fire. The rear roll-down door was closed, though, which meant some of its contents might have survived the blaze. Peanuts, pretzels, and cookies would be a feast at this point. Thing Two and the staffer ran for it.
The dead noticed.
A dozen were in view, and they looked far different from the ones that had first forced them underground. These were burned, without clothing, charred black from head to toe like beef ribs left too long on a grill. When they bumped against objects or each other, little puffs of soot rose off them, and pieces of charcoal fell to the ground. They were hairless and without eyes, wandering blindly, but they heard or sensed the two runners at once and turned toward them.
“They’ll never make it,” Anderson moaned, standing just over Peter’s shoulder. He smelled like a chicken coop.
“They’ll make it,” the minister said.
And they did, at least as far as the truck. Both arrived at the back end, and the woman kept a nervous watch as Thing Two struggled to pull up the door. It wouldn’t move.
Dead, moving charcoal let out a chorus of dry croaks and closed in.
“C’mon, c’mon, put your back into it!” Peter shouted, slapping the cinder-block wall beside the door.
Thing Two heaved, but the roll-up door wouldn’t budge.
“The fire must have fused the metal,” Anderson said. “Maybe melted the rubber seals.”
“Thank you, Professor.”
Anderson shook his head. “We should have thought of that. We should have sent them out with the crowbar.”
Behind them, Thing One held the crowbar close to his chest and shook his head. Brother Peter elbowed his aide away. “I can’t stand your stink. And do you want to eat or not?”
Blackened corpses soon encircled the truck, and the staffer began tugging at Thing Two’s shirt. They looked around and saw that there was no way back, so they went to the front and climbed the bumper, the hood, finally up to the flat roof of the cargo box. Then they knelt and looked down at the things crowding in from all sides. More began drifting in from the field and emerged from the burned ruins of the lower terminal.
“Shit.” Brother Peter stomped a foot. “Shit, shit, shit.” He threw his arms in the air and turned away from the door. “Well, it was a good idea, anyway.”
Anderson glared at him with eyes sunken deep in dark hollows, his skin jaundiced from poor nutrition and lack of sunlight. They had been living off vending machine snacks, moldy lunches found in employee lockers, and the occasional rat. There was no shortage of those. The bold little creatures crept up on them while they slept, sniffing at faces and often taking a bite out of a lip or earlobe. They were quick, though, and difficult to catch. On those rare occasions, they offered only a little meat. There was no way to cook anything, so the animals were eaten raw.
“We can’t just leave them out there,” Anderson said.
“We sure can,” Brother Peter replied. “Look out that window. More showing up every minute, all of them as hungry as we are. Those two are finished.” He started toward the stairwell, the remaining pilot falling in behind him.
Anderson turned and opened the outside door, yelling as loud as he could. “I’ll draw them away! When they start to spread out, make a run between them!”
At the top of the stairs Brother Peter spun, his hollowed face paling further. “What the fuck . . . ?”
“Hey, over here! Over here!” Anderson banged a fist on the metal door. “Come and get it!”
The charred dead began to move toward this new sound.
“Anderson, you close that fucking door right now.”
“That’s it! Over here, keep coming!”
“Now, Anderson. Right now!”
“They’re our friends, Peter,” he said, not looking back. “We can’t leave them to die. It’s not Christian.”
“Christian,” Peter muttered, reaching for the automatic in his waistband, except it wasn’t there. Then he remembered he had left it behind, hidden high amid a nest of pipes. There we
re only three bullets left, and he couldn’t risk using them or losing the pistol on a scavenging run.
Outside, the dead were leaving the food service vehicle and shuffling toward the doorway. As Anderson predicted, they were scattered, with plenty of space between them. “Now!” he shouted. “Now, go now! You can make it!”
Thing Two and the female staffer sat down at the edge and jumped. The pilot landed in a squat. The woman hit wrong, and she screamed when her tibia snapped and punched through the flesh of her leg.
The noise caused some of the dead to turn back.
“Dear Lord,” whispered Anderson.
“Don’t drag him into this goat fuck,” Peter snarled. “This is your doing.” God, how he wanted to shoot Anderson in the head. It would be worth the bullet.
Thing Two picked the woman up and put her over his shoulder, pulling the hammer from his belt and running for the door as fast as his burden would allow. He dodged and weaved, evading outstretched arms and once even shouldering a creature aside. When it fell its legs splintered, and the torso broke in half amid a cloud of ash. What was left tried to drag itself after them.
“They’re going to lead them right in here!”
Anderson shook his head. “They can make it.”
The pilot darted left around one of the dead, then had to swing his hammer at another. It struck at the shoulder, breaking off the arm and making the creature stagger just enough for him to get past. The woman howled with every step, her compound fracture bouncing against the pilot’s chest. He didn’t stop, and then suddenly he was five feet from the door, puffing hard.
Four of them fell upon him from either side of the door, lunging out of the shadows, twisted hands catching hold. He dropped the woman, who screamed when she fell. Thing Two started swinging the hammer, even as teeth bit into him. Anderson leaped outside and grabbed the woman by her wrists, backing up quickly and dragging her inside. Brother Peter slammed the door behind them as the dead took the pilot to the ground. More arrived to feed, and others pressed against the door, pounding at the thick glass and leaving black smudges.
Anderson was holding the female staffer, speaking softly to her. Brother Peter looked at them both, shaking his head. “Carry her back.” He motioned at Thing One, who handed off the crowbar and helped Anderson lift her. The woman shrieked.
“You better stay quiet, honey,” Peter said, wagging a finger. “Or you’ll bring them down on us. I know what they like to eat, and I’ll be happy to feed them.” He went down the stairs.
Life underground was a trial and had become a timeless haze of unlit tunnels, dimming flashlights, and constant hunger. They found a few tools and managed to pilfer some suitcases without being eaten, which provided them with scraps of burned clothing. All of the toiletries were in trial sizes, and melted beyond use. Stairs that led to the main terminal revealed a vast haunted house of blackened bodies drifting through spaces completely scoured by high-intensity heat and flames, barely recognizable as an airport. Nothing of use there.
The network of tunnels and engineering spaces was untouched by the fire but had little more to offer other than darkness and the occasional zombie. One of the staffers, the young man who had whined about going underground, had walked straight into the arms of a hungry corpse when he opened a door without listening at it first. Brother Peter had been forced to expend a bullet to put the thing down, and then had waited patiently until his bitten disciple first died of his wounds, then arose minutes later. Peter switched to the heavy pry bar, relishing the crunch of the head when he connected. Now, after the botched raid on the food service truck, they were down to six, with one of them badly wounded.
Peter didn’t want to admit it, but it had been Anderson who made the discovery that kept them alive this long: the water. What few restrooms were down here had industrial toilets with direct plumbing instead of tanks, and the water in the bowls was blue with chemicals. Juices and soft drinks from a lone vending machine ran out quickly, and the only water fountain they found sat dry and silent.
“The sprinkler system,” Anderson suggested. He was right. Once the pressure in the system dropped off from fighting the unstoppable blaze, there was still residual water left in the pipes. They broke one open and caught a thin drizzle in plastic buckets and totes, repeating the process everywhere they went. It tasted awful, but it kept them going.
Brother Peter hadn’t congratulated Anderson. He loudly praised God for His gift, and quietly hated his senior aide even more. And now Anderson had done something heroic and saved a life. Might the others start looking to him as their leader? It deserved some thought.
They had made a home of sorts in a cluster of rooms somewhere beneath the northern end of the terminal. Peter was the only one who instinctively knew north from south down here and had in fact committed the layout of the entire maze to memory. All his life he’d had an uncanny sense and nearly eidetic memory for directions, depth, distance, and spatial differences. His time in the Omaha silos had only sharpened this ability.
A small break room was where everyone but Peter slept, people curled up on makeshift beds of scorched clothing, their only light source a large, battery-operated work light that in the beginning had been a dazzling white and had now faded to an amber shimmer. The televangelist took over a small adjacent office and slept tilted back in a swivel chair with his feet propped on a metal desk. He kept the water and what little food they had in there with him, forbidding the others to touch it until he distributed it personally.
When they arrived back at their base, the remaining two staffers, a man and a woman equipped with a flashlight and armed with screwdrivers, were out hunting for food. Before they left, Brother Peter warned them not to come back empty-handed, and they had yet to return. At the minister’s direction, Thing One and Anderson carried the wounded staffer through the break room and into a small locker area with a common shower at one end. They set her down gently on the white tile beneath shower heads that had been broken off but yielded no water.
Anderson squatted beside the woman and told her she would be okay, wiping at her tears with his thumb and offering a smile. She cried softly, leaning her head against his shoulder. Several minutes later he joined the televangelist in the locker area, hands thrust in his pockets. “That’s a really bad break. I’m worried about infection.”
Brother Peter nodded. “I don’t think any of us know how to set a broken bone, or even get it back through the skin without hurting her worse.”
“And it would still get infected.” They were quiet for a while. “What are we going to do?”
Peter gave his aide a pat on the shoulder and walked back into the shower, Anderson behind him. He smiled at the female staffer, who tried to be brave and smile back. Then he swung his crowbar like a big leaguer in a home-run derby and caved in the side of her head, snapping her neck at the same time. She made a short noise like a newborn kitten and slid over onto the tiles.
Anderson stood with his mouth working silently, staring at the dead woman, a piece of bloody skull fragment stuck to his cheek. Brother Peter picked it off and flicked it away.
“We’re going to eat her, that’s what.”
TWENTY-TWO
Oakland
His name was Terry Younger, a twenty-nine-year-old IT specialist who still lived in his mother’s house. Single, pudgy around the middle, and with thinning hair, Terry was most comfortable in jeans, flannels, and sarcastic T-shirts, like the one he was wearing now. WTF? was spread across his belly in white letters.
The bites on his thighs, which had shredded his jeans along with large portions of meat and his femoral artery, were rotting and black. His skin was the color of skim milk, and his eyes a glazed yellow. He didn’t know who Terry Younger was anymore, didn’t know anything except to follow three others of his kind as they shuffled down the center of a suburban street. Maybe there was food nearby.
Pufft.
In front of him, the side of a corpse’s head blew out, and it colla
psed to the asphalt. Terry stopped and cocked his head.
Pufft.
Another went down. The sound had come from the right, soft and muffled, like a cough.
Pufft.
A third creature fell, a small hole above one eyebrow and a much bigger hole in the back of its head. Terry moved toward the sound. It meant food.
Pufft.
Something punched through his WTF? shirt and into his chest. He didn’t feel it.
Pufft.
His collarbone shattered. Yes, up there, in that window. The sound was coming—
Pufft.
Through the M4’s sight, Skye Dennison watched the last of the four go down to a head shot. Damn, three bullets to hit the mark. Unacceptable. She sat back on the bed that had been her shooting nest, lifted the M4 off the pile of pillows on the window ledge, and ejected the magazine. Taking loose rounds from a pouch on her vest, she refilled it, gave it two sharp taps on the bed frame so the bullets were well seated, then inserted it and armed the weapon again with the charging handle.
Six shots. Four tangos down. Time to move.
She shrugged into her pack and extra bandoliers of ammo, slung the padded case for the sniper rifle over her shoulder, and retreated back downstairs with her M4 ready. The first floor was as she’d left it: front door with dead bolt on, back door locked and braced with a chair, kitchen cabinets all standing open and the remains of a small meal still on the table.
She slipped out the back and crossed the yard, scaling a fence after she checked to see if anything was waiting on the other side. Moving yard to yard this way, she reached the last house on the block and peeked out at an intersection through a wooden fence. A green Prius was mashed against an elm tree, its driver’s window broken and dark streaks of blood on the door. A mountain bike lay on its side near a fire hydrant. Several pages of newspaper tumbled past, a light breeze rustling through the late-summer leaves of stately trees. Nothing else moved.
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