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

by Robert Chazz Chute

  “You’re very demanding.”

  “And don’t come back a vampire, either. I don’t fancy staking you through the heart in front of the children.”

  “You’re staking my heart right now.”

  “Don’t be a big baby. If you need my answer that bad, I’ll give you a hint.” Dayo kissed him again.

  Desi pulled her to him, savoring the softness of her body against him. When he opened his eyes he was startled to find the whale was still at the surface.

  Its eye was larger than he expected. It was the huge bulk of the rest of the mammal that only made it look small. The unblinking eye regarded him steadily.

  Desi held Dayo ever tighter, unsure if it was the rising wind or his fear that made him cold.

  Before he could say anything to Dayo, the whale slipped back into the deep, it’s tail high in the air.

  “That was a baleful eye,” Desi whispered into Dayo’s hair.

  “What?”

  And the flip of that enormous tail. To Desi, it looked like a sad wave goodbye.

  Run, don't walk, if things get beastly

  Ed Bruce honked the pickup truck’s horn all the way into Wilmington. On his left, picturesque little white houses flashed by. On his right, the river fed by the reservoir wound beside the road. Somewhere behind him, the zombies were coming.

  Don Tate Junior’s big pistol clattered in the bed of pickup with every jounce as he sped toward the gate. It wasn’t really a gate. Two yellow school buses blocked the road into the West end of town.

  Two old men snatched up their deer rifles, ready for trouble. They knew him as Junior’s pal, but Ed, jittery and high on adrenalin, couldn’t think of their names. When they saw Ed at the wheel, one of them started forward but Ed leaned on the horn harder, warning the guard away. “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

  The old man, a volunteer fireman who drove the water truck, froze in place. “Where’s young Tate?”

  “They ate him! Now move that bus!”

  That, as Ed’s father would say, “got the old farts hopping.” One jumped behind the wheel of a bus and moved it out of the way, pulling it into the small parking lot of an abandoned gift shop.

  The old fireman spoke into a walkie-talkie while he waved Ed forward. Before Ed hit the town’s first intersection, he heard the fire station’s siren blare.

  Ed’s tires screeched and the pickup rocked to a stop outside the town hall. He left his door open as he rushed inside. “Dad! Dad!”

  He found his father, Philip Bruce, where he expected to find him, holding a clipboard and working out the next week’s ration distribution of canned goods. Beside him stood Don Tate Sr.

  “Where’s Junior?” the mayor of Wilmington asked.

  Ed swallowed and kept his eyes on the ground as he spoke. He voice trembled. “We’re under attack. The zombies are coming from the West.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “It’s real, Mr. Tate. This is happening. And your son is dead.”

  “No.”

  “I’m afraid so. What we’ve heard about…what happened in Europe is here. They’re coming from the West.”

  Don Tate, now bereft of the Junior to his Senior, gathered the teenager in his arms and hugged tight. The man shook as he began to weep.

  Ed Bruce buried his face in the grieving father’s shoulder and returned the embrace. He thought of Helen Stevens, said a prayer for her and allowed himself a small smile.

  Before Don Tate broke that embrace, Ed lifted his head and whispered, “I saw. Donny died horribly. More horribly than you can imagine.” It was all Ed could do not to break into a wide grin.

  Tate wiped his tears away with a knuckle, snuffled and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He blew his nose and wiped his face dry and took a deep breath.

  “Alright. Boy,” he said, grabbing Ed by both shoulders, “how many are there?”

  Ed’s words tumbled out in a babbling rush. “They took us by surprise. It all happened so fast. They snuck up on us. We didn’t even get off a shot.”

  “Think! How many?”

  “Not many. A couple dozen or so. If that.”

  “Good.” Tate pulled the walkie-talkie from his gun belt. There was already heavy, staccato cross-chatter as scouts and guards pulled back into the town. “Everybody to the West gate. Every gun in town, get there now. Duke,” he told the dispatcher, “ask Christian Dale to get the ambulance to wait over in Buzzy Park, just in case we need him for casualties.”

  Don turned to Phillip. “This is why I’ve been hard. I knew something like this would come someday. This is what I’ve tried to prepare us for.

  “Ed, give me a ride over to the West gate. Phil, secure that door after us and keep listening to the walkie-talkie. Something like this, there might be a panic and somebody might try for our ration supply. Somebody starts coming in, shoot a looter. Got it?”

  Phil Bruce nodded and hugged his son. “Be careful, son. I love you. I love you so much.” For the first time since Ed was a little boy, his father kissed his cheek.

  Ed left with Don Tate, eager to drive Helen Stevens’ murderer to his doom.

  Cannibals are coming, mad and hungry

  The ditches were filled with cars and eventually the flat road opened again. Someone must have towed hundreds of cars out of the way. The woods dropped behind them and fields stretched all around the Spencers, exposing the family to the elements and anyone with evil intent. There was no longer a forest to hide in but, West of Montreal, they came upon another huge refugee camp in which to lose themselves.

  In the distance, a random patchwork of orange, blue and red tents, large and small, dotted the landscape. Pillars of smoke from numerous campfires rose above the fields. Jack first suggested they should try to skirt the area entirely, but the tents stretched as far as they could see.

  “It’s like the world’s largest jamboree,” Jack said.

  Anna looked quizzical. “A what?”

  “Jamboree. Never mind. Something ancient.”

  “If you mean camping — ”

  “Yeah, ancient stuff looks like it’s made a comeback.”

  Unseen behind her, Jaimie nodded vigorously.

  As they drew closer to the edge of the tent city, they came upon a huddle of young teenagers.

  An Asian boy, whose face was painted with white Kabuki makeup, stood and broke from the group. A lumpy girl with stringy, strawberry blonde hair and white, frosted tips struggled to stand. Once erect, she bounded forward. Her hand shot out and caught the boy at one wrist, snapping him back to her like a rubber band. A head taller than he, she bent so her nose was no more than an inch from his.

  All the kids stopped what they were doing to watch the confrontation. The Spencers couldn’t hear what the boy said. The girl pointed a finger in his face and shouted, “My turn! I been waiting!”

  In answer, the boy stuck one foot behind her and pushed. She landed in the dirt with a thud, screeching. This brought a roar of approval and laughter from the group as he strutted away, arms held high, triumphant. Defeated, the girl crawled to her feet and slunk back, cursing.

  The boy with the bright, white face waited for the Spencers in the middle of the highway, waving them closer. He kept waving his arms as they made their way forward, as if hailing a ship at sea.

  “Hello, pilgrims! Welcome to New Montreal! How many are you? Got any more friends or family hiding behind you? Are you the scouts or the whole group? Anyone sick? Need any medicine? Parlez-vous francais? Speak English? Moi, je parle un petit peu de francais mais je peut vous aider, bien sur!”

  “How many are you?” Anna asked, stepping in front of her mother. Her eyes were on the group of teens, though they appeared to ignore the newcomers.

  “I am one,” he said. “They are friends!”

  “They aren’t all your friends,” Jack said.

  “I’m everybody’s friend.” He looked back at the group. The fat girl
watched, her lower lip pushed out and her right middle finger stuck up. He returned the gesture with a cheery wave at the sulking girl and shrugged. “She’ll get over it. Somebody else will be coming soon.”

  That spurred Jack forward. “Let’s go.”

  “Go? Where you going? Good lady, your kids have reached their destination. Are you traveling through?”

  Jack looked at the boy, uncomprehending.

  He tried again, equally cheery. “Everybody comes to New Montreal. No need to worry about me. I am Haroun.”

  The boy stuck his hand out as if to shake Anna’s hand but then mimed a handshake without touching her. He noticed her confused look. “Don’t worry, pretty girl. No weapons, no bugs! Empty, open hands!”

  “Are you the tour guide?”

  “Tour guide! Yes, I am the tour guide!” he said, excited. “I went to Universal Studios when I was eight. I never thought I’d get to be a tour guide this fast, but things happen. We’re in charge.”

  Haroun stared at Anna with greedy eyes, taking no notice of the rest of the family. Jack kept her gaze fixed on the huddle of teenagers but, after some initial curiosity and turning of heads, the group had turned their attention back to their circle. Though Anna had stepped in front of Haroun, Jack took her arm and got them all moving again. Haroun walked beside them.

  “You need new shoes? Everybody who gets here says the same thing. Feet hurt. Your hiking boots are nice. Bet you’d like me to score you guys some new inserts for your boots, though, huh? Those can be hard to find, but I can get ’em. Something with some nice gel in it so every step is easy and you’re a happier hiker, walking all the way on a trail of thick pillows. How about that?”

  As they walked past the group of teens, Jack rose on her toes and saw that they were playing a card game. It looked like poker. Instead of money or chips, each player’s ante came from a small pile of tins of cocktail wieners.

  “There’s cockfights in town if that’s more your speed. It’s pretty exciting.”

  Anna’s eyebrows shot high. “Cockfights?”

  “Sure! It’s New Montreal! There’s something for everybody here. Vegas North, I call it. Everybody’s raising chickens so there’s lots of eggs from the hens and cockfights with the roosters. Or how about this? You want me to find your crew a good spot for a tent? Maybe get you some firewood? Your kids planning to stay, Ma’am?

  “I could find a nice, clean house. I got big cousins. They clear out a house easy. No bodies, no mess. Give us a day and we’ll have a house for you in move-in condition, my personal guarantee. How about that? Nicer house than what you came from? How about that?”

  “Any house would be better than ours,” Anna said. “Ours blew up.”

  This information seemed to take Haroun aback. For a moment, he was quiet.

  “What’s the charge for your tour guiding and real estate service?” Jack asked.

  “What you got?” the boy answered brightly. “As a guide, I’m cheap. Gimme a few cans — even Spam. Any kind of canned meat is great. For real estate, we can work out a long-term payment plan. Easy-peasy lemon-squeezy!”

  Jack burst out laughing. “Why hustle, kid? If there’s all this real estate around, why don’t you move into a mansion and live off whatever food supply is lying around your new estate?”

  “No, no. This is no hustle, lady. The real estate is there. It’s just that me and my cousins? Our services are in demand. It’s not so easy getting a house. We’d have to evict somebody so you can move in, understand?”

  Anna looked at the boy with new eyes. “So you’re saying the bodies you and your cousins could clear out of the way for us might not have died of the flu? They might have passed on more recently?”

  “Nothing to worry about. We got a territory. My cousins are pretty big guys. They’re nineteen and strong! They’re much bigger than me. We can sell you security, no problem.” Haroun grinned even wider, a nasty, clownish parody of a smile.

  “There’s got to be food lying around,” Anna said. “Why don’t you and your friends just go get it instead and avoid causing trouble?”

  “It’s a business, pretty girl. Everybody needs a business. Besides, there’s been a lot of looting so you could spend a lot of time looking before you can liberate some cans of food without somebody getting kind of surly about it. But refugees like you always have at least a little food. How about it?”

  “New Montreal is the Old West,” Theo said.

  Haroun took in their faces, measuring them shrewdly. “It’s not so bad here. The water still works. It’s not hot but the pressure’s good. My cousin even has a satellite internet connection.”

  Jack and Anna talked over each other asking the boy the latest news. Haroun stopped walking with them and held out his hand. Jack shrugged off her backpack and pulled out a soup packet.

  The boy took the packet but made a zipped lip motion.

  Jack debated a moment and snatched the soup back. Haroun made a disgusted sound, nodded and Jack gave it back to him.

  “The infection rate in some places seems to be eighty percent, but mostly it’s close to sixty percent dead of the flu. But after the flu? It gets more complicated. ‘Conflicting reports,’ they say. No one’s heard anything from China in weeks, but my cousin says that could be just their government shutting down the information. They say Sutr hit Africa hardest, but the scariest thing is the nuclear power stations. A bunch have gone down and they’re spilling radiation. There are rumors of a mushroom cloud over New York City, too. A boat somewhere off the East coast reported a long line of refugees coming North from the blast zone.”

  Jack snatched the soup packet from the boy’s hand again and Haroun bellowed in disbelief.

  “What you’re telling us isn’t worth soup,” Jack said. “I’m not paying for information that’s a curiosity, especially stuff you could have just made up.”

  “Made up?” The boy backed away.

  “It’s just as likely lies as not,” Anna added. “The bulletins from the government were full of lies. We’ll never know what happened. No one will ever know the truth.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell you something. The infected people in Britain? They’re hardly human anymore. Europe’s running out of people. The French air force says so. In Britain, they’re out of people who survived the plague. There are so few survivors left, the infected have begun to eat each other. The only people who live are the ones who make it to a boat or a plane.”

  “Interesting, but could be just another rumor,” Anna said.

  Haroun’s lip curled. Exasperated, the boy threw his hands up. “You people don’t get what you’re doing! I need to get paid so my cousins get paid! You don’t understand at all! I’ve lost my place in line and wasted my time on you!”

  “We didn’t ask you to do that,” Anna said.

  Haroun stalked back toward the group of teens, cursing Anna with particular vehemence. The boy looked back, shaking his fist and yelling in a language they didn’t understand.

  “Do you feel better now?” Anna yelled back.

  “Come back once your Mom leaves, girl. Maybe you’ll be more in a mood to bargain then. When your Mom leaves, you’ll get lonely and you’ll want some help then! See if you get it, or what you’ll have to do to get my help!”

  Anna started toward the boy, but Jaimie grabbed her arm and kept walking East.

  Anna shrugged him off. “No, Ears! What’s he babbling about?”

  “Lord of the Flies,” Jaimie said.

  Shocked at such a direct answer, Anna stared at her brother a moment before searching the faces of people milling by the side of the road and outside of their tents. They were all little kids and teenagers. There wasn’t an adult in sight.

  “Great,” she said, “’cause Lord of the Flies worked out well. Let’s get out of here before they start sharpening sticks at both ends.”

  The beasts will meet them, sharp and angry

  Townspeople, mostly
armed with long guns, rushed to the West gate. Don Tate climbed into the rear of Ed Bruce’s pickup to survey the battleground.

  He noted with grim satisfaction that several of the men and women rushing to defend Wilmington today had stood opposed to him the night outside the town hall.

  “They bawled over the hangings and Helen Stevens,” he told Ed, “but look at them now.”

  Tate’s face fell when the toe of his boot touched his son’s pistol. He bent to pick up the Super Redhawk and brought it to his nose. Recently fired. All the cartridges had been fired, but his son’s friend had said they “hadn’t got off a shot.”

  Tate frowned as he looked once more to the pickup’s crumpled safety glass. He hadn’t had time to ask Ed about the windshield and he really didn’t want to know more about his son’s death. The boy had told him he couldn’t imagine how bad Don Junior’s death had been. That was worrying. Don Tate had a good and grisly imagination. Still, finding his son’s weapon in the truck bed spurred him to think he would indeed have to find out more about Don Junior’s demise.

  He would have questioned the boy then, but a bearded fellow in his thirties ran up to Tate. It was Josh Olsted.

  Josh had been the owner of a little shoe store that had opened within weeks of the beginning of the Sutr flu. Josh closed the doors to his new business and then lost his wife and baby daughter to the pandemic, all within one week. Mayor Tate had taken to giving him the ironic moniker of “Lucky.”

  “They’re coming!” Josh’s blue eyes were huge. “It’s the Sutr-Zs we’ve been hearing about.”

  Before Tate could bring the binoculars to his eyes, some fool on the line in front of the first school bus started firing in a panic.

  “Do not fire!” Tate bellowed. “Do not fire!”

  Two more quick shots rang out. The guardians of the West gate to Wilmington murmured to each other.

  “Quiet! Quiet on the line!” Tate looked through the binoculars. Just as Ed had reported, he could make out a small mob of perhaps a dozen people shambling toward him. “Lucky, bring me a good rifle with a scope!”