This Plague of Days (Omnibus): Seasons 1-3

by Robert Chazz Chute

  “Pulled my superior officer over top of me. He bled all over. First time he was useful, sir.”

  “I see that. Serves him right for getting outflanked so easily.”

  “I’m going to want to see in the back of that trailer, sir. The militia were locusts. Took everything we’d gathered.”

  “You eaten lately?”

  “Only water from a creek in the woods for two days. The militia left nothing. I’ve been going farther into the traffic jam each day, searching. Lots of rotting bodies and spoiled food.”

  The lieutenant smiled. “I guess this makes me the cavalry, boy! I got food!”

  The soldier relaxed further and let his rifle’s muzzle point at the ground.

  “Come on back and we’ll break bread together. Not actual bread, of course. That’s all hard as rock and mouldy.”

  “Cut the mould away and soak old bread in water and it softens up again, sir. It’s more filling that way, actually.”

  “I haven’t tried that. Say, you been listening to the radio?”

  “Yeah. Something happened in Indianapolis. Lots of screaming and casualties. Doesn’t make sense. I shut it off. It was weirding me out.”

  “I passed by that way. I was going to check the refugee camp there but it sounds like it got overrun.”

  “Overrun? By what?”

  “Zombies. I heard about it over a ham radio back in Kansas City. London’s gone. Paris is dead. Madrid’s under attack. Sounded like Italy was next. Crazy days.”

  The soldier paused and shouldered his weapon. He went white.

  “Zombies? What kind of bullshit is that, sir?”

  “I know, but that’s what they’re calling them. Lots of warnings. And somebody from the CDC says they need an escaped prisoner. They’re looking for a family van. The last name’s Spencer. You see them? They have a teenage boy with them who’s autistic. Big ears.”

  The soldier shrugged. “That’s weird. I’ve seen lots of family vans, sir. They’re back there in the fields with their occupants. You can pick through the graveyard, if you want.”

  “That’s okay. The boy is still alive. I’m sure of it.”

  “Didj’hear anything from Eugene, Oregon, sir? My folks are there.”

  “Sorry, son, but no, I didn’t. All I know is what’s left of the army is running west from Indianapolis.”

  “To where, sir?”

  Carron clapped him on the shoulder. “If your folks are lucky, maybe they’ll end up in Eugene! Command doesn’t seem to have much of a plan at the moment. They’re running west to regroup.”

  “Why west, sir?”

  “Because whatever they let loose from that camp is headed east.”

  “They’re coming this way then,” the soldier said. “This is the only open route. It’s all north from here.”

  “I know.” Carron smiled and waved the soldier to follow him, walking so fast that the hungry man almost stumbled trying to catch up. Carron popped the latch on the trailer and pulled the door wide.

  “How do you know the escaped prisoner is still alive, sir?” The soldier stepped forward to peer hopefully into the trailer’s dark interior. He wrinkled his nose. “And what is that smell?”

  “Death.” Carron slipped the serrated combat knife from its hiding place at the small of his back and plunged it into the base of the soldier’s skull. He twisted it viciously as he pulled it back, the blade’s teeth cutting and ripping on the way in and out. The lieutenant took the Bushmaster from the young man’s hand before it hit the ground. The private’s body slammed against the roadway, loose-limbed and beyond care.

  “Sorry, son. Gotta make the food last.” He bent to wipe the blade on the private’s camouflage. “But to answer your question, I know the boy’s alive because sometimes he visits me in my dreams. Strange days, worse nights…Usually, he just looks at me like a sad little puppy. Sometimes he warns me to stop following him. He doesn’t know, telling me to stay away is a red flag to a bull. He’ll get the horns.”

  As he pulled away from the traffic blockade, Carron turned north wearing his new shooting glasses and a smile.

  We are all bound for the ghost parade

  The two-lane road — which was now one lane, one-way north — was so straight and slow, Jaimie thought of parades he’d seen on television. Instead of floats, marching bands and flowers, twisted metal stretched into the ditches. Tanks or bulldozers had cleared the narrow way. Threading the needle, the refugees drove so slowly that they had too much time to inspect each shattered vehicle.

  “We’re driving like we’re in the mall parking lot at Christmas,” Jack said. “This trip is going to take forever.”

  Anna reclined her seat as far as it would go. Her head was almost in Mrs. Bendham’s lap but the old woman didn’t complain. Instead, she shifted around as best she could so she could sleep, as well.

  Though they had locked the doors, Jack double checked every few miles. Despite the heat, she brought the windows up, ever wary for threats. The humidity was punishing, but at this speed, she felt vulnerable to attack. If carjackers tried to take the van, she would simply run them over. After running over two men already, maybe it would get easier.

  I will feel nothing, Jack decided, but that’s the sort of promise I’ll only figure out I can keep after the deed is done.

  She wondered if anyone but a crazy person could actually dismiss such things successfully. However, if they were going to make it to the farm, she would have to cross out all that she had been: the watcher, the thinker and God-fearing suburban mother. To protect her family, maybe even the fear of God was a luxury she could no longer afford. People who turned the other cheek would have a hard time surviving the road.

  Jack adjusted her rearview mirror to survey the cabin. Everyone in back was finally asleep. She glanced sideways at Jaimie. He was wide awake and looking out the window attentively. His lips were together, concealing his slight overbite. He looked quite normal, almost handsome and, for once, his head wasn’t in a dictionary.

  Getting shot at might have brought out the best in her son. She would have laughed and danced at his apparent normalcy a few weeks ago. How long had it been since the plague had made them prisoners in their home? She wasn’t sure of the date or the day. Jack cleared her throat, swallowing a lump. It hadn’t been that long since the Sutr plague struck, but she wasn’t sure. Was this Tuesday or Friday? Did it matter anymore?

  The cars and trucks were scattered like a huge child’s forgotten toys. They were often spray painted. The refugees passed several large trucks with their trailer doors sprung open. The word Food was spray painted on them. This had later been crossed out and, beside that, written in a cheery purple was the word Empty.

  Another read: Contaminated.

  The ubiquitous bright orange X was spray painted across many cars.

  The silver BMW still forged ahead of them, traveling slowly, apparently conserving gas as Jack was trying to do. They glided through a tiny village called Darbyville where a huge canvas sign draped across the pumps read: You got it all, you bastards!

  Jack glanced at her gas tank reading. Despite her efforts to conserve fuel, they had taken so many turns around wreckage she was running out of gas.

  By the time they had passed a marker for the 30th side road, an orange square appeared in her dash display. They were dangerously low on fuel. She cursed Douglas Oliver again.

  Before they left Kansas City, Jack had gone back alone to walk the ruins of her house. The day after the explosion, the ashes were still smoking. There wasn’t much left, but she found the big cookie tin she had used for Theo’s love letters. She’d figured out where Oliver had stored all his damned gas cans. She wished she had them now. The orange square was another reminder of her losses.

  Jack ignored the fuel warning light and kept the pressure on the accelerator. She gripped the wheel harder as they went uphill. Downhill, she slipped the van into neutral and coasted to conserve fuel.

  They w
ere surrounded by cars that no doubt still had plenty of gas, but Jack was afraid to stop and get out. What if someone came up on them, fast and from behind? What if carjackers emerged from behind the wrecks? The BMW ahead made the road less lonely. Once she was out of gas, they’d be alone on the road.

  No one had followed the Spencers from the shootout at the barricade yet. Jack pictured the short soldier going down as the van hit. His body had twisted as he fell. She had expected him to scream, braced for it. The pain must have been too much, even for screaming. Maybe now the soldiers would simply fire on anyone who approached their roadblock. Her family’s salvation might be the death of any refugees fleeing after them.

  The two little old ladies had seemed almost nonchalant about sneaking past the soldiers at night. Would the gunner have night-vision goggles? After all the death he’d already dealt, would he hesitate to mow anyone down?

  Don’t think. Do.

  She glanced back at Mrs. Bendham. In the end, maybe they’d find out if old ladies tasted like chicken. If their way east was blocked, their old neighbor was too old to walk to Maine. They still had a long way to travel. The best they could do was head northeast instead of a straight shot to the hope of her father-in-law’s haven. Jack wanted to talk to Theo about all her worries, but she couldn’t do that in front of the children.

  Someone — apparently the same person with the purple paint — had tagged an eighteen-wheeler with the word: Empty. Another scavenger had crossed out the purple and replaced it with a bright, red, frustrated: Useless!

  Two blue family vans, each like their own, lay abandoned in the ditch. One read No room, no riders on the hood and down one side it read Don’t even ask!

  The other van lay on its side. Jack could see the remains of a similar message on the rolled vehicle. The word ask was printed very neatly, like someone had copied the font from the alphabet on a child’s set of blocks. She hoped the occupants of those vans had scavenged a larger vehicle and traveled on from their accident scene.

  Jack glanced at the gas gauge. “We’re running on fumes. We’ll have to stop and siphon gas. Both gas cans are empty.”

  Jaimie leaned over, glared at the gas gauge, and reached out to press the horn in three short, sharp blasts. Jack was so surprised she yelled her son’s name as she brought the van to a sudden halt. Mrs. Bendham snorted awake.

  Anna awoke and sat up, annoyed. “Are we there yet?”

  Ahead of them, the BMW’s brake lights lit.

  “He’ll help,” Theo said, confidently.

  A short, bald man with a potbelly stepped out of the BMW. His pants were pressed denim and the silver buckle at his waist was as big as a pie plate. His shirt was sky blue and he wore tall cowboy boots with pointed toes. The color of the boots matched the shirt. He smiled and waved as he walked toward them.

  Jack grabbed for her big flashlight. “Damn it, Jaimie!”

  Jaimie pointed to the van in the ditch they had just passed, the one with the neat painted message that read: ask.

  “Dead again,” Anna said, sounding resigned.

  Mrs. Bendham scrunched down, apparently trying to make herself invisible.

  “Easy,” Theo said. “Our new friend is wearing cowboy boots. I have a feeling this will be alright. Cowboys are supposed to be good guys, unless they wear black hats.”

  The man walked up to driver’s side of the van and smiled at Jack. When that didn’t encourage her to roll down her window, he stepped back and showed his hands were empty.

  When Jack failed to respond, the man turned in a full circle slowly reciting the 23rd Psalm in a clear, musical voice.

  He was starting his second circle and saying, “He leadeth me beside still waters” when Jack rolled down her window a few inches.

  “Daniel Chester,” he said, pointing at his chest. “My friends call me Chet. You doing okay?”

  “We’re out of gas. We have big gas cans but, do you have any gas to spare? We’re worried those soldiers, or marauders, will come up behind us while we’re finding gas.”

  “Marauders? Heh. Never heard that word outside of old movies. I wouldn’t worry. If those soldiers were going to chase us this far, they’d have caught up by now, don’t you think?”

  They both turned to look back down the road and waited a few heartbeats before breaking into low chuckles.

  A little girl holding a plush unicorn stepped out of the BMW. “Daddy?”

  “I’ll be there in a sec, honey.” Chet turned back to Jack and nodded his head toward his daughter. “Nope, none to spare,” he said. “But yours is a good kind of problem to have. There’s lots of gas in most any wreck that isn’t burned up. I’ll show you. Y’all want t’come on out?”

  Jack unlocked the door, hopped out and locked the door behind her quickly. “Our man is still recovering,” she said warily. “He’s okay now but he was very sick.”

  Chet gave a quick, disinterested nod.

  Jaimie brought his face close to the windshield to get another look at the cowboy’s bright blue boots.

  Jack glanced at her son and waved him back from the window. “Don’t worry,” Jack said. “None of us have Sutr. We’re all good.”

  “You’ll need your cans.”

  Jack went to the back of the van and began shifting their supplies around to pull out the tall, plastic containers.

  Chet walked to his car and quickly returned with a garden hose. He took a long knife from his boot. Jack stepped back and reached for the long flashlight she had tucked in the rear of her waistband. She only relaxed when she watched him saw a length of the hose away and demonstrate his gas-gathering technique on an empty station wagon.

  “You stick one end in a gas tank, suck on the other end and get out of the way when it comes up. It’s something awful for your teeth,” he said. He smiled wider this time and Jack saw that his teeth were brown. A few looked like old corn kernels.

  She tried to smile back.

  “You got a knife, too?” he said.

  “Several,” she said, trying to sound confident.

  “Good,” Chet said. “Tell you what. You cut up a water bottle or something. Make a funnel out of it. Makes the whole thing less of a chore. Siphoning all this gas is playing hell with my girlish figure,” he said, patting his immense belly.

  “Some say the easiest way is to puncture the gas tank with a screwdriver and toss a tub under the car to collect the fuel. I find puncturing gas tanks ain’t as easy as some might think. Plus, I’d be paranoid of sparks.”

  The little girl stepped around the back of the BMW again and smiled at Jack.

  “I told you to stay in the car, Charlotte,” he said lightly. The girl climbed back into the car without a word. Chet handed Jack the length of hose. “No charge for the hose today,” he said.

  “Thank you so much,” she said.

  “You’re very welcome.”

  “Mr. Chester?”

  “Chet,” he said.

  “Chet. We’re very glad and grateful you decided to run that roadblock back there. It helped us get away, too.”

  “I do like the chaos.” He dipped his head.

  “One other thing, Chet. How did you know saying that psalm would work on me?”

  “A little prayer works for everybody, don’t you think? It worked on the guy who was driving this pretty BMW,” he said. “Leastwise, just before I bashed his brains out with a rock and took his fancy car from him. I always wanted a BMW and now I can have as many as I want.”

  Jack’s smile went flat.

  Chet glanced sideways to the girl in his car. “Be careful out here, ma’am. Some people got stuff and some people didn’t ever think it would get this bad. People with children to protect…you know. Like us? We’ll do things we never thought we would.”

  He stepped close enough that Jack could smell candy breath over decaying teeth. He kept smiling at Jaimie in the van, but Jack could feel a shift in his demeanor.

  �
�The way it is,” the man said, “if you’re desperate enough, it doesn’t matter how ill-prepared you were before the plague. You’ll do anything for your kids. I’ve learned. I used to be a God-fearin’ man. That’s fine, but in these times, I’ve found it’s better if I keep an eye to makin’ men fear me.”

  His eyes shifted to Jack. “I’ll leave you the hose and the siphoning lesson for free, but I’ll be taking that full jerry can with me. Now smile and nod so nobody in your vehicle kicks up a fuss.”

  “Please!” Jack said loudly. “We don’t need two gas cans! Take it for you and your daughter! Thank you so much!”

  Chet dipped his head and gave a wide, brown corn-kernel smile. “You’re very welcome, ma’am!”

  When the BMW roared away, she stood in a cloud of dust. Her grip was so tight, the heavy flashlight’s textured steel bit into her palm.

  As she hurried for the other gas can, she slipped into chanting the 23rd Psalm. Before the gas can was full, she gave it up. The psalm wasn’t comforting anymore. Jack coughed up gasoline and curses.

  Apple sauce and one last pink lemonade

  Whipped by rotor wash, Dr. Sinjin-Smythe’s knees felt like jelly as he leaped down from the helicopter. Apart from a solitary fishing boat chugging from the harbor in the dawn light, the city of Reykjavik, Iceland appeared empty.

  It was the ocean that drew the virologist’s attention. Captain Paul had told him that Shiva had been obliterated aboard the container ship. Somewhere nearby, ocean currents and deep water denizens were pulling apart what was left of the family he was supposed to have.

  As the helo pulled into the sky and away, the empty hill above the city went quiet. The doctor felt alone, despite his companions. “It feels like a tomb,” he told Aadi.

  “That’s a busy brain talking, mate,” Aadi said. “We stay here for a couple of days until the American submarine arrives and soon all will be well.”

  “You sound chipper. I hate chipper.”

  Aadi clapped a hand on the doctor’s shoulder and squeezed. “We have reason to be. You got me, Dayo, Desi and two beautiful little girls to keep you entertained and,” he tipped his head toward the four Royal Marines who served as their escort, “big badass security for the little problems I can’t handle.”