Chad leaned in, trying to pick up the indecipherable chatter of the others off-camera.
"Fuck it!" the anchor yelled before another coughing fit. The sound seemed to echo in the studio. Eventually the man's breathing slowed to a raspy gurgle.
"Stay back—I know what I'm doing. My wife is dead…my sons…" He sobbed as his normally clear, professional voice cracked and he descended into a blubbering mess.
Through gasps for breath, he continued to relate the truth of the new world order as he saw it. The riots had all died down, the looting was only still thriving in the extreme southwest—the rest of the country had gone into hiding or went dark. The death toll in the major coastal cities was astronomical—by last week's numbers.
"Won't let us tell you the truth because they're worried it'll spark the complete collapse of society." He coughed again, leaning on a desk. "Do they think there's any society left to collapse?”
"I can't do this any more," the anchor said again, his voice tired and old. "Goodbye out there.” He coughed. “May God have mercy on our souls."
Chad watched the anchorman get a running start and push a cart full of computers into the large plate-glass window, smashing it wide open. He held on to the cart as it sailed through the opening and disappeared before anyone could stop him. A gust of wind sucked up papers and coffee cups, creating a mini-vortex of trash that flew out the window in tribute to the fallen anchor.
Off-camera, a woman shrieked, then the screen went black. A message appeared in front of an American flag rippling on a gentle breeze next to the network logo. Chad stared at the screen, open-mouthed.
Please stand by, we are experiencing technical difficulties.
CHAPTER 9
Man's Best Friend
SOME TIME AFTER TURNING the TV off, Chad was scrounging in the kitchen for more food when the radio he'd left on the coffee table chirped. He froze, one hand in a bag of stale chips.
"Three, you got anything on that cross street?"
"Negative. No movement," replied a gruff voice. "Nobody livin' here but the dead."
His new treasures forgotten, Chad ran back to the front room and snatched up the radio, turning the volume down even more. He'd forgotten he'd even turned the damn thing on.
"The signal we picked up was centered on these two blocks," said a third voice.
"They couldn't triangulate any better than that? Jesus, what kind of shit does the army have for SIGINT these days?"
"Here comes the 'back in my day' speech…" grumbled a third voice.
"Shut the fuck up, Carl."
"Cut the chatter, you two. I got something here! You know the drill—switch to twenty-three."
The radio went silent. Chad looked for a button labeled "23" but only found a volume control knob and a little orange button labeled 'emergency broadcast'. His fingers tingled.
"Oh shit."
He dropped the radio like a hot rock. His heart raced and his hands grew slick with sweat wondering if he'd activated the emergency beacon last night without knowing it. Were the soldiers out there tracking him based on that?
He peeked out the window around the curtain. Down the street, a big black Humvee sat parked in the middle of the road. Soldiers in black uniforms and masks worked their way up the street, checking each house by kicking in the front door. They moved with relentless precision and never hesitated in their work. They seemed better rested than the ones he’d seen at DFW too.
Are those guys special forces or something?
He jumped back from the window. If they caught him now, he'd be in big trouble. His only option was to keep running. Chad looked at the radio on the floor in the living room. The back cover had shattered when he’d dropped it but the damn thing was still in one piece and chirping.
This thing has got to stay here. I don't know what I was thinking bringing it with me. Shit!
He flinched at the sound of someone scratching at the back door. They're here!
He couldn't go out the front door, they'd see him for sure. His only option was upstairs—maybe he could get out onto the roof over the first floor and drop into the backyard after they came inside…
He turned to go up the stairs when he heard the whine, low and plaintive. More scratching followed the silence and then another long, pitiful whimper.
Chad trotted through the house, dodging piles of garbage and buckets of dried vomit until he found the back door in the laundry room. He cautiously looked through the window next to the door first.
The door led to a decent yard with a six-foot tall privacy fence around the perimeter. A child's playset dominated the yard along with a large tree, its branches bare in the winter cold.
Chad swallowed, staring at the playset. Kids. He was doubly relieved to not have gone upstairs now. He didn't know if he could take seeing more dead children—or their parents—knowing what they all went through at the end. He shook his head to clear away the morbid thoughts.
Clock’s ticking.
As long as the radio worked, they'd track him here. He wasn't even sure if taking the battery out of the damn thing would do anything.
What if there's some kind of hidden backup battery in there?
The dog barked again—not the angry, protecting-my-territory sound, but a happy, 'thank goodness you're home' bark. He had his hand on the doorknob before he stopped. If the dog was starving and cold from being outside for a few weeks without food and shelter…what were the chances it might attack a stranger like him?
Chad went back to the kitchen and grabbed some of the sliced cheese. Back at the door, he unwrapped the cheese and got ready. Closing his eyes and hoping for the best, he opened the door just a crack.
A medium-sized dog that looked like a small golden retriever backed up immediately upon seeing Chad. Its ears were pinned to the sides of its head, teeth bared in a silent snarl, and a ridge of fur rose on its back. Chad whispered coaxingly to the dog and held out his hand with the cheese.
The food got its attention. The half-starved dog lowered close to the ground, stretching forward to sniff at the food and inched slightly closer.
"That's it," Chad said quietly, in a friendly voice. "There you go, boy…just a little closer…come on, take it."
The dog sniffed the cheese, then snatched it quickly and gulped it down. He quietly kept his eyes on Chad, but didn't growl. The dog sat, ears at attention and yawned while still watching him. Chad opened the door a little and held out a pair of slices this time. He smiled as the dog quietly accepted the cheese and his tail swished against the concrete step. Chad opened the door all the way and he gave the dog more cheese. The dog jumped up, licking every inch of exposed skin, his bushy tail wagging.
"Easy boy, easy!" Chad laughed. “Damn, you stink.” He forced the excited dog down, only to have it jump up and lick his face again. He gave the dog more cheese and walked back to the kitchen. Now for the test. The dog followed, its claws clicking on the grimy tile floor as it licked its chops.
"Awesome. Here you go boy—the smorgasbord's open!" Chad threw open the fridge and watched as the dog turned in a circle, hopping and so excited he didn't know what to do. Chad took a knee next to his new friend and slipped the radio’s heavy metal clip over the dog's leather collar. He read the jingling tags.
"Good boy, Tristan." The dog barked at hearing his name, then shook himself, trying to dislodge the bulky radio.
It didn't fall off. Chad smiled. He put the moldy leftovers in the freezer and out of the dog’s reach then urged Tristan forward. Not needing any more instruction, Tristan put his front paws in the fridge and gorged himself, creating a mess on the floor.
Chad raced to the hall closet and yanked it open, rifling through coats and boots until he found what he was looking for: a backpack. He pulled it free and took a look. It was a Benny the Steam Engine bag. A pink princess backpack hung on the coat hanger next to the one he'd selected. Chad's chest tightened.
God, they were just little kids…
He ran b
ack to the kitchen, focusing on his own survival. No time to worry about them, too late now. He scooped in packs of crackers and cookies, as many cans of soda and bottles of water as he could fit, then zipped up the tiny backpack. The straps were too small to fit over his shoulder, so he carried it and ran for the door.
Tristan barked and followed. "Follow me!" Chad called over his shoulder. If the soldiers were tracking the signal from the radio, he hoped Tristan would lead them on a little chase long enough for him to slip away.
He reached the back gate by stepping on the paving stones that stuck up above the thin crusty snow blanketing the backyard. Tristan ran along beside him, yapping in sheer joy.
In the distance he heard the black truck's engine rumble as it shifted position. It sounded close.
Chad opened the gate, peering through the crack to make sure no one waited on the other side. Tristan forced his way through into the neighbor’s yard and barked while he spun in a circle. The coast looked clear so Chad slipped through and shut the gate behind them. He thought for a moment.
The soldiers had talked about a signal in a two-block radius. He had to get away—fast. Standing in the neighbor’s yard, he suddenly realized he'd have been up shit creek if an angry dog had been waiting for him.
Got to be more careful from here on out.
There were no pavers in this yard, so he ran, not caring if he left prints or not—hopefully the soldiers would find Tristan's house and not think to go this way. Chad grimaced as he hopped over the three-rail fence and worked his way through the front yard. Tristan barked behind him, anxious and unsure about following.
Chad turned back and knelt, patting the ground and coaxing the dog until the attention-starved retriever scurried froward.
They ran out into the street and Chad turned west. He squatted next to the panting dog.
"Okay boy, you got a job to do." He pulled another piece of cheese from his pocket and the dog sniffed it eagerly.
"Yeah, you want this, don't you?" Chad asked, his eyes searching the sky and roads for signs of his pursuers. He stood and threw the cheese as far as he could into an open yard to the east.
"Go get it!" Tristan took off like a yellow missile. Chad threw two more balled-up pieces of cheese near the first one, then turned north and jogged two blocks up, careful to stay on the street despite feeling so exposed.
When he heard a helicopter off in the distance, coming from the direction of the airport, he decided he'd gone as far as possible. Tristan was nowhere in sight. He hoped the dog wouldn't get shot on his little decoy mission.
Chad decided to head for the next backyard. He wanted to see if there was another dog waiting for him beyond the bushes and trees lining the property. If there had been one there, it had long since run off.
Chad slipped through the evergreen shrubs and hopped from decorative rock to rock until he made it to the back deck, then tossed the bag over the railing and climbed up. Chad brushed the snow off the ledge as he pulled himself up, but couldn’t completely cover his tracks. He scraped the rest of the snow visible from the driveway off the railing then turned to the rear door.
The helicopter's thup-thup-thup grew louder—he had to get inside. He reached out and tried the door but found it was locked. Shrugging, he picked up a wire frame patio chair and took aim at the sliding glass door. He launched the chair and cringed at the explosion of glass.
"Shit—that was loud," he hissed. He cleared the shards from the top of the door frame, then carefully stepped through the gaping hole and into another dust-covered tomb.
"Hello?" he called out, his voice echoing off the walls. The lights were on in the kitchen and family room—so was a TV.
"Hello?" he called again, louder. "Anybody in here?"
He moved cautiously into the family room and noted the TV displayed nothing but static. He checked the channel—the same 24-hour station he'd been watching at the first house. "Signal Lost" glowed in green letters in the top right corner.
He let his hands trail on the leather furniture as he moved back into the garishly painted kitchen. The fridge was open, and the floor covered in slime and mud. As he stepped around the open appliance, he realized it wasn't mud, but rotting food that had spilled out of the room-temperature fridge as it struggled to keep the remains cool. He shut the door, taking pity on the loudly humming machine.
Chad found a bloody trail of discarded tissues and hand towels leading from the kitchen to the stairs. Empty boxes of crackers and fruit snacks littered the floor. He looked up and got a whiff of something nasty—really nasty. It was altogether as bad as what he'd lived through the night before at the mass grave. Chad turned away, his eyes watering.
The helicopter made its presence known again overhead. He moved to the front door and carefully locked the deadbolt. It wasn't much—the lock wouldn't keep the soldiers out more than a few extra seconds, but the simple metal click made him feel better. Stepping to the front room, he carefully pulled down a wooden blind slat and peered outside.
A black helicopter hovered in the air a few blocks away to the south. As he watched, lines dropped down from its belly and men slid down to the ground. They'd found his first hideout.
I hope they don't shoot Tristan, he thought again.
He looked up and down the deserted street. Other than a few cars in driveways, the road was empty. From what he could see, only one house had been looted. A black X on your front door worked better to deter looters than the best alarm system money could buy.
Chad sighed, his heart rate finally slowing back to normal. There were no footprints out front and he'd gotten inside before the helicopter arrived overhead. They had no idea where he went and would have to search through at least eight blocks now—house by house—to find him.
Maybe more if Tristan wanders around.
He stepped over the junk on the floor, avoiding books and briefcases until found the dining room. Using one arm to sweep a section of the table clear, not caring now about the noise or the mess, he dropped his little bag and sighed. He was the only one alive for a few blocks and didn't think the dead would mind him rearranging things. Plopping down into the chair at one end, Chad put his elbows on the table, and rested his head in his hands for a moment.
I've got to keep moving. I need to get out of the city and away from the army.
Beyond that, he had no plan.
Stay focused, he chided himself, wiping his palms down his face. I need food, water, shelter. I can't stay here—the army's too close. I need to move fast.
He sat up. Maybe there's a car in the garage I can take…
Something thumped in the room above him. Chad's heart skipped a beat as he looked up. The chandelier hanging over the big dining room table shivered, the reflected light bouncing in a hundred different directions. Another thump sounded through the ceiling, confirming his fear.
"Hello?" he called out, his voice cracking.
A muffled voice replied something unintelligible—someone was alive up there.
"Holy crap."
CHAPTER 10
Cry
CHAD SPRINTED UP THE stairs, ignoring the wall of stench that tried to force him back. Someone up there was still fighting the disease that had taken so many lives and that made them special—maybe not as special as he apparently was, but he had to help.
"Hello?" he yelled, trying not to gag. At the top of the stairs, the hallway split to the left and right. To the left, he spotted an open door and mirror—that had to be a bathroom so he ignored it. Just in front of him and slightly to the right was an open door; a teenage boy's room judging by the posters on the wall. He slowly approached until the corner of the bed came into view through the open door. Near the edge, he saw a very blue, unmoving foot sticking out.
You definitely didn't say anything, Chad thought grimly.
He looked to the other end of the hallway where a glass-lined curio cabinet held a little army of cherub figurines. Opposing doors on either side of the hallway were both shut
.
"Help."
The muffled word—so faint he almost didn't hear it—came from the other side of the door on the right. He swallowed and forced himself not to vomit. A trail of dried blood and bile led from the door to the bathroom and mingled with other smears and stains that trailed back to the two rooms at the end of the hallway. Smeared hand prints—not tiny ones, thank God—marred the walls near the doors. Chad grimly closed the boy's door and moved toward the voice.
He gripped the crusty doorknob to the room on his right and braced himself. A wall of odor struck him as the door opened. His eyes watered as he pulled his shirt up over his mouth to keep from adding to the vomit and excrement already on the floor.
As his eyes cleared, Chad realized he was in the master bedroom. The air was thick and moist, so stuffy he could almost feel it as he walked forward. He forced himself to ignore the two lumps on the bed, mercifully covered by blankets. A gray arm, slender and smooth hung limp from one side of the bed under the stained duvet.
A light by the bed cast an ironic, warm glow throughout the room. He glanced at the wall-mounted TV next to the door. It was muted and displaying static. No one was alive in this room. Had he imagined the voice? Chad swallowed and turned away from the bed. Before him were two doors, both cracked open.
Closet and bathroom, then. Neither one looked appealing for further investigation.
"Hello?" he called.
"Help…" a small voice replied.
Chad looked left, then briefly closed his eyes and moved toward the partially open door The light escaping from inside showed the closet to have fewer stains on the carpet than elsewhere in the house. He gently pushed the wooden door open enough to stick his head in.
"Please help me…" The girl seemed to be near his age, but she'd wasted away until she looked almost skeletal. She lay buried under filthy rags that at one point must have been nice clothes. As she lifted her arm, the fabric fell away and Chad watched sparkles of light shimmer around the closet. She'd used a sequined dress as a blanket.
The Source: A Wildfire Prequel Page 6