“So?”
“Jesus Christ?” he said, eyebrows raised. “Mr. Ehrens, he was the first zombie.”
Chapter 5: Now More Than Ever
Donnie glanced over his shoulder as he slung his pack up. In doing so, he failed to notice Michelle stopping short in front of him and collided with her.
“What’s up?” he asked. Michelle had turned back to the room. She had a confused look on her face, like she had forgotten something.
She squinted at Donnie, then motioned him aside and surveyed the room. Donnie tried to do the same, wondering what they might have missed. He remembered no fewer than four sheathed blades — two in Michelle’s pack, one in his own, and one tucked into his belt — and as many rounds of ammo as they felt they could safely carry, with their respective guns tucked again into their holsters. They had stowed a few bottles of water, but had gone light on that supply because water bottles had a terrible weight-to-volume ratio. Because they hadn’t been planning on the supplies being used for any significant outings, they hadn’t kept explosives in Stamford — even the ammunition was on the less plentiful side — so the remainders of both packs were crammed with food bars.
No, Donnie decided after taking his mental inventory, there were no supplies in this room he thought they’d prefer to their current stock, no matter how hard the trip to Hyannis might be.
“Michelle,” he said finally. The look on her face showed that she was still trying to figure something out. “What in God’s name are you looking for?”
Michelle’s eyes lit up. “That’s it!” she said. She moved past Donnie to a small cedar chest that sat in a corner of the room. Donnie hadn’t spared the chest even a glance while stocking up — he had no idea what it contained, but he couldn’t think of anything it could have that they might need.
Michelle, though, approached the chest with definite purpose. She opened it and fished inside, pushing a few things out of the way before finally pulling out a book.
“What’s that?” Donnie asked.
She held the book up for him to see. Written across the black cover, embossed in ornate gold letters, were two words. “Holy Bible.”
Donnie resisted the urge to roll his eyes, to scowl. “The Bible?” he said.
Michelle nodded. “Now more than ever,” she said solemnly.
“Michelle,” Donnie started, then stopped. He wanted to tell her that wasting valuable space on a book was a terrible idea, that he wouldn’t feel comfortable with their current allotment of supplies if they ran into any real obstacles at all. Leaving behind some supplies for a mere book seemed insane.
But he didn’t say anything. In the years since 2010, Donnie had learned that trying to talk someone out of a foolish religious conviction was…well, foolish. While Donnie, during 2010, had found himself more and more convinced that there was no god, and knew that others had made the same conversion away from religion, at least as many had gone in the other direction. They took their survival as some sort of divine intervention. “How else could we have survived that?” they said. “Only God’s will could have made the Z’s go away.”
Donnie had realized long ago that there was no more passivity when it came to religion. Everyone he knew fit neatly into the seriously devout or the steadfastly atheist. Cal and Lambert had often sparred on that — Cal had lost any faith, while Lambert’s had only grown. Donnie tried to stay out of the discussions whenever possible, but always thought those whose faith had increased during 2010 were only kidding themselves, showing weakness and an inability to accept that sometimes bad things couldn’t be explained away by an imaginary friend. After all, he figured, if it was God’s will that had made the Z’s leave, who had brought them into existence in the first place?
Non-Christian religions, at least among Donnie’s circle of interactions, were almost nonexistent in 2030. He knew many things had gotten more insular — in the Middle East, Christianity was unheard of, while Islam was the only accepted recourse. Judaism, Buddhism, whatever, all had their centers, just as they had in 2010, but in America, at least in the northeast, it was Christianity or nothing.
Michelle didn’t acknowledge Donnie’s protest, barely seeming to realize he had even said anything. She was busy removing one of the knives from her pack. She then pulled out two bottles of water and tossed them to the floor.
A few seconds of cramming later, the Bible was stowed into Michelle’s now-re-zipped backpack. Donnie had watched, incredulous but silent. She was eschewing water in favor of a book? Donnie didn’t care what the book was, what anyone might have believed in — the book couldn’t quench any thirst he might have.
“You ready?” Michelle said.
Donnie nodded. “What do we do, though?” he said. He knew they were going to Hyannis, but he wasn’t sure how to do so. He hadn’t set a foot out of the church during 2010, and so didn’t know the first thing about being on the move during a Z attack.
Michelle didn’t, either, but she didn’t want to tell Donnie as much right away. “We have to get to Stacy,” she said. “There are only so many ways to do that, I guess. Go outside, find a car that runs, drive it until we can’t drive it anymore. I-95 isn’t far.”
Suddenly, Donnie remembered something Cal had often said. Donnie didn’t know if it was true or merely more of Cal’s talk, but he didn’t feel like disregarding any piece of advice he might get. “Cal used to say,” Donnie started, “that Z’s gathered at populated places. They knew somehow or other to get to places like interstates, malls, whatever. I guess they maintained some intelligence, or something. No idea. But he told me they liked to gather.”
Michelle considered this. It jibed with some things Madison said. “Fair enough,” she said. “Plan’s pretty much the same, though. Just keep to the back roads. I think I know the way.” She started to lead the way out of the storeroom, then stopped. “Donnie,” she said. “Why don’t you stay here?”
Donnie immediately shook his head. “I can’t let you go alone,” he said. “One person out there? That’s just asking to die.”
“Two isn’t that different,” she said. “And I couldn’t forgive myself if you died, or worse, just because I made you come with me. Maybe Cal was wrong — we haven’t seen any Z’s down here since that first group. Maybe it is safe here. There’s food, supplies, I bet one guy could stay down here just about forever. I have to get to Stacy. You don’t.”
Donnie had to admit to himself that he didn’t love the idea of trekking across New England, likely to death. But he didn’t think he could stay. “Michelle, if you leave to go after Stacy, and I stay, I might never learn what happened to you. I hope we find Stacy, sure. I hope it more than anything. But after everything else that’s happened, I have to know what happens to my last living friends. My last living friend.”
Michelle smiled, though her eyes had watered over once again. “That’s exactly why you should stay here,” she said. “But okay. Thank you.”
They left the storeroom and proceeded down the corridor, toward the stairs. Toward the outside. Toward whatever awaited.
Chapter 6: Protect Them from the Shitstorm
With the various factions gathered behind them, Andy and Roger stood at the base of the stairs. Lowensen in particular, Andy noticed, looked as nervous as the ones who were twenty years younger than him.
“We don’t have to leave yet, do we?” the teacher asked. “I mean, I ate like an hour before this all started. Most everyone did. Why not wait until we have to go? Until we don’t have a choice?”
Andy snorted. “That’s an excellent plan. Starve ourselves, weaken ourselves, leave us without options, and wait until everywhere that might be safe has locked their doors. You want to cut off your arm before we leave, too?”
Lowensen nodded. “Sorry.”
Andy ignored the apology. A few feet farther back, he saw the man with the dead leg limp forward. “You were the last one out there,” he said to Roger. It wasn’t a question, or a search for confirmation, just a state
ment. Maybe an accusation. “How many were left when you came in?”
Roger shook his head. “People? Didn’t see any. Wouldn’t have left anyone out there on purpose.”
“Not people,” the man said with a spit. “The hell do I care about more people we’d have to find room for? No, how many of them? How many zombies?” He patted his injured leg. “’Cause I doubt I’ll be able to outrun too many. If there are more of them than there are of us, might not be any sense in me going out there at all. More likely I’ll slow my people down than be able to protect them from the shitstorm.”
Celia watched her father listen to the man impassively. She had had a similar thought about the female half of the married couple in their group. The woman was roly-poly, short, with stubby legs, little more than a bowling ball with breasts, and Celia worried that having her accompany them would be a lot like the Everest mountaineers who died because they tried to bring the uneducated tourists to the top of the mountain.
Her father, though, shook his head. “No. We all go. What good are we if we decide you aren’t good enough? Only time I’m using a sacrifice is when I have a fast guy on third and less than two outs.” Celia didn’t get the reference, but her father went on. “You people know my story. I was not exactly what you’d call a strapping young man in the day. I spent more time at my microscope than I ever did in the gym. My primary group? There was a woman, maybe 110 pounds when she was retaining water. Not an athletic small, just small. An old guy, in his 70s if he was a day, barely mobile, leg not much better than yours. And this guy, Carl, who could have bench-pressed the three of us healthy… but he wasn’t. Carl’s right arm was held onto his body by not much more than skin and shirt. Tell me, then — if we’re deciding who gets left behind based on who’s most likely to impede survival, which of us would have been allowed to survive? Maybe my count’s off, but I don’t see that number rising much higher than zero. Yet here I am.
“No,” he went on, “we’re in here together, we all leave here together. Even you, dead leg and all. We aren’t leaving anyone behind. Not for that reason, at least.” His last sentence was said while staring directly at Barry Lowensen, Celia noticed.
“Anyway,” Roger Stone said, “to answer your question, there weren’t that many out there. Would I want to go for a walk? No, I wouldn’t. But I can’t say as I think we’re that bad off, if I’m being totally honest.”
Celia found herself nodding. Already, she thought, things were better, compared to her father’s story. They were armed. They were aware. They were prepared.
“All right,” her father said, exhaling. “Are we ready?”
The question was met with several murmurs, more tears from the crying woman and several whispered prayers. Stacy, a couple of feet to Celia’s right, pulled out her gun and stepped forward a half-step. She was the only one Celia noticed doing so, though. Celia looked around, but when none of the adults seemed willing, she spoke up.
“Yeah, dad,” she said. “We’re ready.” Immediately, Simon stepped next to her.
Andy looked to her in surprise, a look that faded just as quickly as it had arrived. “Okay,” he said with a nod. “Parents, stay with your kids. And I don’t care if you spent 2010 locked in a room, if you were protected, if you never fired a gun —” Again he looked at the teacher. “— you are the protectors here. I just saw two young ladies, two children, take the initiative to face down the Z’s. Maybe these are two exceptional young women — I like to think mine is — but they’ve not seen this before. You have. You are the ones who should be taking the lead.”
With that, Celia watched her father turn to the stairs. He marched up the cement slabs, Roger only a step behind. The three kids — Celia, Simon and Stacy — followed after, with Mr. Lowensen scampering to keep up. Slowly, the rest of the group shuffled behind them. Celia could hear that the crying woman continued her tears, though her sound moved along with everyone else.
Andy reached the top of the stairs. The first thing he did at the top was to try the phone once more, with no expectation of a response. Nothing had changed with the device, so Andy let it fall free instead of putting it back on the hook. The handset smacked against the wall a couple of times, echoing even above the footsteps and quiet murmurs behind Andy.
Ignoring the clatter, Andy ran his hand over the crossbar that worked as the lock on the door to the outside. He started to lift the crossbar, but reconsidered.
“Quiet!” he called down to the mass behind him. Feeling like a middle school teacher, he had to repeat it three times before everyone cooperated. Andy nodded to the group, then turned back to the door. He pulled up the crossbar, then put both his left ear and his right hand to the door, as he pushed outward just enough to hear.
Silence.
Or close to it, at least. There was noise out there and, when Andy pushed the door a bit further, he saw a handful of zombies wandering aimlessly. Farther away, another group were on their knees devouring a young man’s body. A little farther away, a body suddenly lurched back to life, pulling itself upward despite its guts spilling out onto the ground as it struggled. But all told, from Andy’s vantage point, there weren’t more than fifteen or twenty of them out there.
On the other hand, he knew, with six or seven on the one body, that likely meant that there were five or six other similar groups, bare minimum, out there, putting the count of Z’s closer to the 60 range. He glanced over at Roger, who was also looking out, then let the door close.
“Rough guess,” Andy said, turning back to the group, “I say there’s no more than 20 out there.” He paused as a relieved murmur swept down the stairwell. “I guess we got more of them than we thought on the way in. The rest probably wandered in the general direction of Highway 6.”
Andy and Roger shared a look, but he could see right away that Roger understood. Andy had lied to the group, yes, but it was, in his opinion, an intelligent lie. Tell them they’re outnumbered and they might panic, never even go out the door. Lowensen and Dead Leg had certainly seemed hesitant without even knowing numbers.
So, while Andy didn’t like lying to people who were facing death, he knew that letting them get outside, ready to shoot, before they saw the truth, was preferable. In his heart, he knew it was better to tell them one white lie to get them outside. Let them see for themselves what they were facing and react then. People don’t panic with their fingers on the trigger. They shoot.
“Everyone knows where they’re going?” Roger said. “I don’t just mean final destination. Cars, groups? We all square?” The group at large seemed to give its assent, so Roger and Andy turned back to the door. They shared another look, each man pulled his gun from his waistband and held it ready, Roger crossed himself once, and Andy pushed the door open.
There were a lot more than he had estimated.
Chapter 7: I t’s the Job
The stairwell, the path she had taken into and out of work for years, the safest place she knew in the world, now terrified Michelle, and she stopped halfway up. Going up the stairs meant subjecting herself to zombies and if she was honest with herself, a likely death. But going back down the stairs meant two things: abandoning Stacy, and locking herself in with Madison’s body.
At that thought, Michelle continued on her way up the stairs at twice the speed.
Donnie was already at the top when she got there. “The zombies come, I go upstairs,” Donnie said when Michelle joined him. “Apparently this is what I do.”
Michelle nodded. That was usually enough for that sort of conversation. She paused, just long enough for Donnie to change the subject.
“So… once we go out there, what’s next?”
“My car,” Michelle said. “I’m parked a couple blocks away, on Winthrop.”
Donnie nodded. That was good; because he bicycled to work, his own car was close to five miles away. “And then… on to Cape Cod?”
“If we can,” Michelle said with a nod. “If we can, that’s what we do. We’ll see how far the
roads are passable.”
Donnie absorbed this. He put his left hand on the door to push it open and, without thinking about it, raised his right to his face, then down to his midsection, before catching himself. He hadn’t been religious in two decades, but some things still were almost instinctive. He pushed the door open, and the two of them went out.
“Thank God!” came a breathless voice from just to Donnie’s right as he stepped into the daylight.
Donnie and Michelle both spun toward the sound, guns drawn. They saw no zombies there; instead, Nick Fillion, the security guard, stood a few feet away, on the other side of the broken-out window of the small store that had once existed there. His gun, too, was drawn, held in a shaking hand.
“Nick?” she said, stepping forward and stowing her gun. Besides Nick, she saw no other moving bodies, human or otherwise, on the street. There were a few dead bodies around, including one lying face-down in a guard’s uniform identical to the one Nick was wearing. Seeing Nick there was a surprise, though — considering the zombies downstairs, Michelle assumed Nick had been attacked and killed or had fled at the first sign of the undead. It was the only guess she had left as to how the zombies had gotten inside. Yet here he was, still in his position as sentry. “You’re still here?”
“It’s the job,” he said, his voice shaking as much as the gun in his hand. He stood up straight and jumped across the empty window and back onto the sidewalk, still looking nervous. “Part of what we signed on for. The Z’s come, we stay as lookout, as watchdog for… for fucking ever, I guess. They never told us how long we’d have to wait, just said, ‘If they come, you stay on guard.’ Probably should have asked, but I never thought they’d come back.”
“So you’ve just been waiting out here?” Donnie asked.
“It’s the job,” Nick repeated. “Soon as I realized they were back — four or five of them came around the corner a couple hours ago, be damned if I know where they came from — I went in there and hid out. Made sure none got in.”
After Life Page 10