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

by Robert Chazz Chute

  Outside, the attackers were undeterred. “I don’t know if they feel pain,” Providenza said. “Anyone hear any pain in that scream? I don’t. We made them mad.”

  Lucy wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Her voice shook. “All I hear is pissed and hungry.”

  Meanwhile, four people jockeyed for position atop their attacker. The infected woman was large through the shoulders, but even now they could tell she’d been a beauty of about thirty. Her navy blue overalls were torn, exposing white flesh across her torso marred by claw marks, yawning gashes and the tracks of tearing teeth. The woman’s curly hair was wild, but her red eyes were wilder still, like those of a rabid animal. The stitching over her left breast — gold thread spattered with the stain of blood’s rust — read: Suzanne, World’s Greatest Mom.

  World’s Greatest Mom began to kick and shriek. She squirmed beneath the weight of her captors, trying to get away.

  Two women and two men sat heavily on her arms and legs, screaming for her to stop resisting. Even as they did so, they stared at the gashes and bleeding tooth marks across her bloated fish belly which undulated hypnotically with her labors. Her wounds bled more as she struggled.

  Hunter Richardson, a dental hygienist who’d worked in Brattleboro before the plague, stood frozen in a pink sweater, hugging herself. “I saw dogs in the mob! They go for the throat. The zombies eat and run but…the dogs…they don’t stop. They…they clamp down and shake their heads. That little blonde girl who works behind the counter at the pharmacy…the dogs got at her. Looked like a rag doll. I’ve heard that expression so many times. But seeing it — the angle of her head…her neck was just wrong, like all the bones were gone.” She began to sob. “Why don’t the zombies and the dogs attack each other?”

  The group’s oldest woman, Carol Glassman, tsked and rolled her eyes. She pointed at World's Greatest Mom. “Look at it. Nothing of us left in there. They recognize their own somehow.”

  Hunter grasped the crucifix at her neck. “This is a judgment. This is all a judgment.”

  “Hunter, girl,” Carol said. “I never did nothing to nobody what didn’t deserve it. Speak for yourself, will you?”

  World’s Greatest Mom began to pant, but she kept struggling. Too soon, the humans holding her tired.

  “The force is strong in this one,” Carol’s teenage grandson, Charles Glassman, joked. He did not step forward to help.

  “Shut up, Charlie.”

  “Sorry, Grammy.”

  As three more townspeople volunteered to help hold the zombie down, the gray-haired woman shook her head. “You people do understand we’re going to have to kill her, right?”

  With a new surge of energy, the infected woman managed to twist away, raised her head and almost closed her teeth around the bare wrist of one of her captors.

  “I’m not sure,” Hunter said, “but I think she might have understood that much.”

  “Hold her! Hold her!” many cried, but no one else stepped closer to help subdue the infected.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!” Carol Glassman disappeared deeper into the church. “Charlie! Charlie! Help me a minute! We’ve got to get this show on the road!”

  A moment later, grandmother and grandson returned. Charlie held the long shaft of a brass candleholder in his fists like a staff.

  “What are you going to do with that?” Rod asked.

  “Grammy said the base that holds the bowl of water is too light. Looked heavy, but it’s a little column made of hollow plaster.”

  Carol Glassman trailed in, out of breath. “That’s the best weapon I could find. If this had happened at my house, I’d have done that thing in with my .12 gauge and we’d be having tea by now, God bless us. Go ahead, Charlie. You’re young and fulla blue piss. Put the poor thing out of our misery.”

  The boy stepped forward but the old woman clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not a spear, boy. If you have a sharp end, go for the heart or the throat. It’s a candleholder. Use the big, heavy end.”

  “Wha — ?”

  “On the head.”

  “Um…”

  “Wait a minute,” Hunter protested. “This woman is sick. Her name is Suzanne! We can't.”

  The old woman snatched the candleholder from her grandson's hands. “I’ve done something similar with cows and it was easy. And they weren’t even trying to kill me at the time. Hold her head, Rod.”

  Skold did as he was told. He held World’s Greatest Mom at the temples and leaned back. “Careful you don’t sledge me in the head, Carol!”

  “God bless us,” Carol Glassman said. “Am I the only one here who grew up on a farm?”

  Hunter knelt beside the zombie and began to recite a child’s prayer. “Now I lay me down to sleep…” She glanced up, embarrassed. “It’s the only prayer I can honestly remember right now…uh…now I lay me down to sleep…”

  Rod leaned back too far and the weight came out of his hands just enough for the zombie to lunge and howl in Hunter's face. Skold fell on his back.

  Hunter raised her hands in front of her face in terror. She would have been bitten, but the old woman brought the base of the candleholder down as hard as she could using all her weight.

  The infected woman’s skull cracked and blood ran out of her ears. Carol pulled her weapon back and brought it down again.

  Once more.

  Twice more.

  Carol only stopped when the candleholder’s base caught and got stuck amid bone fragments. A line of wet gore stretched up from the open skull, making her weapon slick.

  Hunter peddled backward on her heels and palms to avoid the spreading pool of blood. She wept and wailed between long, choking sobs.

  Carol leaned on the candleholder. “Easy, now. We gotta live, girl.”

  Hunter continued to weep and the old woman’s face softened. She spoke, for the first time, softly and kindly. “If we make it out of this place, it means we’re meant for a higher purpose. I believe that with all my heart. Dry your tears, Hunter, girl. You've got such a strong name. It's a good name. In time's like this, it's deathly important you live up to that good, strong name.”

  Hunter Richardson stood, gathered her pink sweater around her and nodded to Carol Glassman. She brought her hands to her face to wipe her tears. Her bare hands were unwashed. In the seconds before her death, World’s Greatest Mom sprayed just enough saliva to spread the Sutr-Z infection. The spittle found its way to the dental hygienist's tears ducts.

  Within fifteen agonizing minutes, there were no longer any humans left in the church. The zombie children of World’s Greatest Mom ran from the church to join the Army of Light, recruited to a higher purpose.

  * * *

  He was in New Montreal, of course, but Jaimie's consciousness was here, too, floating above the church. He did not feel the wings of fire that spread behind him. Inside, all he felt was cold shame. The boy watched the battle of Wilmington, and his part of the bargain, unfold. Like all wars, the civilians suffered most and death turned the innocent into warriors. None escaped. Rage and hunger spread easily.

  The only mercy for the fallen was that, when they rose, they were no longer themselves. They didn’t know their names. All human allegiance evaporated. Family members chased down family members.

  Jaimie saw two small children, guileless and seeking safety, running into the arms of their infected father. That’s when he turned away. The boy could watch no more.

  “This is too terrible,” he told The Way of Things.

  It replied in a soothing, sing-song chorus of male and female voices. “All crimes committed in the name of justice are excused by the victors. History excuses no atrocities committed by the vanquished.”

  “For all the human sacrifice,” Jaimie said, “we’d better win.”

  Were the Queen's intentions really so bad?

  An old printing press took up the width of the back room. Jaimie stood mesmerized. He turned a crank and the huge machine’s g
ears clanked out a pleasing staccato rhythm as the smooth rollers hummed together. Jack made him stop for fear the noise might gain unwanted attention.

  Jaimie complied but stayed close to the machine, as if hoping it might start up on its own. The room smelled of ink and oiled metal, glue and paper. They slept on piles of paper. It was the most comfortable mattress they had slept upon since leaving their home.

  In the middle of the night, a far away scream roused Jack. Cars raced by the front of the building. It took a long time for her to allow herself to sleep. Still worried, she slipped into the cotton fog between waking and dreaming. Theo put his arm around her and held his wife until her mind settled.

  In the quiet darkness, Theo whispered, “That old press will be used again. When this is over, there’s going to be a big… reassertion. Books will be printed again for quite a while before everything else comes back.”

  “Sometimes I thought you loved books more than me,” she whispered back. “You always preferred books to people and you had so many books. You were…promiscuous with books…”

  “I only had one of you.”

  His warm breath in her ear made Jack smile even as tears slipped from her eyes. “Not everything will come back.”

  * * *

  Despite the morning chill, Haroun lifted his wool sweater and shirt to inspect the ugly black bruises across his ribs. His cousins never let him alone long enough for his bruises to yellow and heal. When he took a deep breath, he felt a sharp pain shoot through his side.

  “Broke one,” Stacey said, her mouth full of Twinkie.

  “What do I do?”

  “We duct tape it tight and wait.”

  “How long?”

  “How should I know how long? Until it doesn’t hurt so much. Until you sweat the tape off. Until we can watch TV again.”

  “Okay, Okay…could this get infected or something?” Haroun asked the older girl.

  Stacey appraised the damage to the boy’s ribs. “Your cousins wear steel-toed boots, huh?”

  “Matthew does. Soyichi wears cowboy boots. I hate those cowboy boots. The toes are really narrow and Soyichi is more vicious, like he’s trying to crack me open.

  Stacey finished her inspection. “It hurt a lot?”

  “When I breathe.”

  “Cracked a rib, I bet. If it doesn’t snap and puncture your lung with a hunk of bone, you’ll prolly live.” Stacey smiled at him wickedly. “Lots of guys take beatings. Don’t be weak, even if you can’t hardly help it.”

  Haroun’s scowl deepened but she laughed in a bubbly way. “You need to earn, Haroun,” she said. “If you go back to Soyichi light on cans…well, you better not get another beatin’ soon. Not with those ribs.”

  “When I’m bigger, I’m gonna get myself a pair of cowboy boots,” he said.

  “You’ll never be big enough to take Soyichi.” Stacey unwrapped another Twinkie. He held out his hand for a share. She ignored him. “You’re not even big enough to push me down today.”

  Haroun looked away to the West so Stacey wouldn’t see him cry. He knew how to cry quietly. Any more would hurt too much.

  A man lit orange in the pale light of dawn walked out of the distance. He carried a heavily-loaded backpack that made him bend forward from the waist.

  “Welcome to New Montreal!” the boy yelled. “I am Haroun, your new best friend. I’m here to help you!”

  The man said nothing until he was close. His lips were parched and his voice ragged, as if bolts and gravel filled his throat. “Is the road ahead clear?”

  “Yes, my friend. No more jams except the tunnel to the East. Then the roads are all clear.”

  “Thank God,” the man said. “I’m sick of those woods.” He looked the boy up and down. “You here all the time?”

  “I’m always here unless I’m serving my customers. I find things for people. What do you need, General?”

  “Heh. Lieutenant. I’m looking to see if someone special passed this way.”

  The man’s tattered uniform looked so big on him, the boy suspected it was stolen. “If they’re headed East or West, they pass here,” Haroun eyed the heavy pack. “Lots of people.”

  “This group would stick out,” the man said. “They’ve got a funny-looking retarded kid with them. Big ears. And he’s with a really pretty girl. A real stunner.”

  “They were here late yesterday,” Haroun said. “You aren’t far behind them.”

  The man smiled and stuck out a hand to shake. “Frank Carron,” he said. “For your customers, how are you at scaring up guns and ammo, son?”

  * * *

  At the far edge of Montreal, the Spencers came to the tunnel and the way East. At its mouth, a middle-aged, heavily bearded man knelt to comfort a little girl of no more than four. She blubbered into his shoulder.

  Even at a distance, Jaimie felt the waves of fear emanating from the girl. He’d seen too much of that and had tasted too much bitter lemon from the shimmering auras of frightened children. He hunched his shoulders, pulled his hood farther forward and stared at the ground.

  When the little girl looked up to see the Spencers approach, she stifled her cries and went silent.

  The man stood, picked up the child and turned to face them.

  “Is that the tunnel the way?”

  “Yep.”

  Theo peered down the tunnel’s dark throat and shook his head.

  “Is that the only way?” Anna asked.

  “Pretty much. She’s doesn’t want to go in,” he said. “Afraid of the dark, I guess.”

  “That’s okay. We all are. Do you know what’s ahead?” Jack asked.

  “I went in a little way to look. Cars rammed the barricade on this end. Looks like a chain reaction collision. Lots of sharp metal and dead-ends. The fools must have been trying to break through.”

  The man explained that he was going to make camp and try to go through the tunnel in the morning. “It’s not that long, but it’s jammed and kinda claustrophobic in there. Heard rumors the military had blocked off the way on t’other end by blocking the tunnel with big rigs.”

  “Makes sense,” Jack said. “We saw the same to the West. It must have made for an effective quarantine.”

  “Until the military left and stopped shooting people,” the man said. “The chain of command fell apart after too much of that nonsense, I'll bet.”

  Anna peered into the tunnel. She could make out shapes of cars and trucks. “Are you sure there’s a way through, Mr. — ?”

  “Mitch. Just Mitch. This is Lane. And yeah. People have been going through in fits and starts. I’m told it’s single file all the way.”

  “Let’s go through in the morning, too, Mom,” Anna said. “It’s getting dark.”

  “I used to work summers in Collingwood, back in Ontario, when I was a kid,” Mitch said. “They got caves up there. There’s a particularly thin choke point in one. They call that bit of rock Fat Man’s Misery. I think it’s like that in there…but…there’s some dead, too. It’s grim, man.”

  “These people have something for you, Jaimie,” Theo whispered to his son. “Can you feel it?”

  Jaimie nodded.

  The girl began to sob quietly again.

  “Surely there’s another way around?” Jack asked.

  “This tunnel goes under the river. There’s ways around, but those ways are too far. You got a boat? I’d do that.”

  “What’s on the other side for you?” Anna asked.

  “I got new friends I gotta find.”

  “If it’s alright with you,” Jack said, “we’ll go through with you in the morning. If Lane has another hand to hold on to all the way through, maybe it will be easier for her.”

  The man looked reluctant.

  Theo touched his son’s arm. “Show them who you are.” Jaimie sighed and pulled his hood back to reveal his face.

  The little girl stared at him with wide, hazel eyes and pulled on her fa
ther’s sleeve and pointed. Mitch looked surprised, then let out a sigh of relief. “Yes…let’s do that. The way people come out on this side…they look awfully happy to get through. I think we’ve got a few things to talk about, too, yeah?”

  Mitch gave Jaimie a friendly wink. The connection between them sputtered to life for just a moment.

  The boy’s excitement grew. He was sure, in that flash of insight, that Theo was right. Mitch did have a gift for him and now he was sure. It was a book. He hoped it was a dictionary.

  When the curtain falls, will you be sad?

  The Earl of Burton rocked gently, tied up at the end of the long, uneven pier that stretched out into Poeticule Bay, Maine like a broken arm. The wharf’s black timbers were rotted through here and there, its beams shattered.

  The town of Poeticule Bay lay spread on a long hill. Storms had battered the small town to defeat. Trees had fallen across several streets and no fishing or pleasure boats bobbed in the tiny marina to the North. To the left and right, the high tide thinned the coastline to ribbons of black rock beaches. The green Appalachian range stood close behind the town, making Poeticule Bay appear even smaller.

  As soon as he stepped on deck, Sinjin-Smythe blurted, “Ghost town.”

  Aasa looked up at him with her serious brown eyes and said, “No, doctor. It’s simply empty. Ghosts are people who don’t know they’re dead. Or they don’t want to know.”

  “The first mate says this used to be a busy place,” Sinjin-Smythe said.

  Aasa nodded. “A long time ago there was a ferry, from Nova Scotia to Boston and they’d stop here.”

  “Oh?”

  “Over there,” the girl pointed toward an abandoned marina, “and here, under us, the water is really deep. Cruise ships and oil tankers could dock here. Poeticule Bay needed the lighthouse because it’s so shallow over there at low tide.” Aasa pointed to the narrow beach.