“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!”
“From where?”
Tate could barely contain his impatience. “If somebody doesn’t volunteer their rifle, you voluntell them, got it?”
Josh Olsted jogged off and was back a couple minutes later. In that short time, Tate watched through the binoculars as the small mob on the horizon grew to a large crowd that filled the width of the road.
Then there were more.
As he watched the zombie army crest the hill and walk down the long grade toward town, his breath came in shallow sips. Ice cubes formed in Tate’s stomach and began to freeze his heart as it pounded in a smaller and smaller cage.
He cleared his throat, searching for words. The only orders he could think of were remembered from a high school history class. “Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes!”
But there were far too many for that.
The townspeople with deer rifles ignored their leader and began to fire. As soon as the first zombies fell, the other attackers began to run. Attracted by the sound of gunfire and undeterred by those who fell from their ranks bleeding, the Army of Light charged.
“Maybe a couple dozen or so, huh?” Don Tate tore his gaze away from the advance to face Ed. Instead, he found that he was alone in the pickup.
Ed Bruce — the liar Ed Bruce — had slipped away.
Good things break and come to grisly ends
Jack pulled Anna along with her, hurrying her daughter with hands that had turned to ice. The group of teens followed them a few hundred feet, jeering. The girls yelled curses. Haroun and a couple of the older boys threw stones, but missed. The group did not follow them farther, apparently reluctant to leave the post where they received travelers.
For the first time since they left for Maine, the family felt like they were in a real city again. Even a few cars pushed through the crowded streets.
Cooking smells hung in the air. Hawkers, some looking as young as eight and none over eighteen or nineteen, yelled, “Viand! Viand! Meat! Meat!” It made the Spencers hungry until they saw that the meat was pulled from the carcasses of dogs turned slowly on spits. Then they saw a pair of urchins skinning brown squirrels and fat, black rats by a cooking fire.
No one, it seemed, was over the age of twenty. Call it New Montreal or Vegas North, the Spencers walked through a city populated solely by children and young adults. A few kids still wore masks.
Jaimie could still see their empty eyes. He didn’t need to read their auras to fathom the depth of the sadness that infected the children.
Jaimie knew several words for what he saw in the people of New Montreal: depression, shock, dysthymia. But his father had the best term for what he saw: “High lonesome.”
Theo looked to his son. “That’s what Papa Spence would say. ‘High lonesome’ sounds like a sad, muted trumpet playing for broken souls, doesn’t it?”
Jaimie nodded. In the Dreamscape, he’d told many of the adults to head East to join the Army of the Word. All but invalids and the mothers with babies still suckling had to go to the meeting place. The decree he’d made on behalf of The Way of Things sounded dire and biblical. He told himself he was only the messenger, only doing as he was commanded.
The Way of Things required terrible sacrifices, true, but the boy thought the kids shouldn’t feel quite so sad. The dangerous trio of Sutr was done here. Dr. Sinjin-Smythe was needed elsewhere, but Dr. Harper was on her way with the formula to a vaccine. Soon, these children would be safe from Sutr-X.
Misericordia himself had ordered his tribe to leave children unharmed. It was a rule he didn’t follow himself, but the tribe didn’t know that. This meant New Montreal was largely safe from Sutr-A infection, as well. If Jaimie failed to kill Misericordia and his tribe, the adults now heading East would serve as a wall of meat for the vampires. He’d rather feed the enemy than allow them to come here.
But the children were still counting their losses. They didn’t know yet what their parents’ sacrifice had bought them. Not yet. If the battle went well, these children would be spared zombies and vampires and much worse, forever.
The Way of Things was not merciful, but it was practical. The force Jaimie labored for had spared the city’s children, saving it for the new future Jaimie hoped he’d win.
A new future!
To make history and a new future…. Those were Shiva’s words.
The Way of Things and Shiva sounded too similar…if Good and Evil act and sound alike…?
Jaimie turned to his father. Theo gazed back. His father did not look surprised. It was as if Theo had been waiting patiently for his son to work it out for himself.
“That one bothers me, too. A lot,” Theo whispered. “Maybe God and the Devil are the same guy. That’s why I’ve called myself an atheist for so long. When I look around and see trouble everywhere, I honestly don’t know what people are believing in.”
Jaimie’s whisper creaked out of his throat, as if his body were rebelling, choking the words before they could be made real. “Am I still one of the good guys?”
Theo gave one of his eloquent shrugs. “Dunno. If you do what the enemy does…well…sorry, but it sounds like you’ve got something to worry about.”
“But I’ve just been doing what I was told.”
“Evil frequently starts there, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not sure The Way of Things really believes in Good versus Evil as opposing concepts.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to agree.”
“Can I disagree with an all-powerful force that sees and knows everything?”
Theo shrugged again, infuriating Jaimie.
“You’re the father. I’m the son. You were always giving me advice before…”
“Yes?”
“Advise me now.”
“I’ll ask you a question instead. Why do you have the power of reason and the option of choice if you aren’t meant to use those things?”
This time, Jaimie replied not in a whisper but in a thought: What do you believe in, Dad?
Theo reached out and squeezed his son’s hand.
Bad things are determined and rarely bend
Binoculars were no lon
ger needed to see the enormity of the force bearing down on Wilmington, Vermont. When the townspeople saw how many of the infected were coming at them, most of them didn’t fire their weapons. The smart ones ran.
Tate screamed for his forces to hold the line, but no one was listening to him anymore.
“There are too many of them!” Josh Olsted screamed. “Our only chance is to get out of their way! Staying ain’t brave. Staying's stupid!”
“I have a backup plan,” Tate replied.
“Me, too! I’m gonna back up! Get out of the truck or hold on!” Olsted jumped behind the wheel of the pickup and turned the ignition.
“Stay put, Lucky!”
Olsted glanced back. “I never liked you calling me that. You think I don’t know why you call me that? Ass. You think everybody but you’s stupid.” He reached for the gear shift.
Tate raised the deer rifle without aiming and shot Olsted in the back of the head.
“Smarter than you.”
It was then that Don Tate realized, and knew with certainty, that Donny Junior, his only son, had missed shooting Ed Bruce and plastering the traitor’s brains across the dashboard.
The first wave of zombies approached, led by snarling dogs that foamed at the mouth. It could be Sutr, or rabies or just that the dogs had gone feral and were crazed for meat. Four of Wilmington’s hunters, too stupid to run or too slow to get away, were taken down at once.
With what he saw through his scope, it was easy for Tate to guess how his son had died. He wanted to throw up. Instead, he steadied the rifle on the top of the pickup’s bloody cab.
He took a breath and let it out slowly. He’d seen hunters shake just before the kill shot. They called it buck fever. The pressure now was worse. Tate willed himself not to shake as he aimed through the scope, carefully lining up his shot.
He put his finger on the trigger, and told himself to squeeze, not to pull. The swarm passed the first bus. The zombies shrieked and the sound of their pounding feet filled the air like approaching thunder.
Tate took his shot.
Hundreds of pounds of an explosive, tannerite mixed with high mesh aluminum from the town’s printing shop, sat in the back of the nearest school bus. The explosion took both buses and the cloud of flame enveloped much of the first wave of the horde.
He’d killed the fastest of the Army of Light, but the rest kept coming, inexorable. The surviving attackers fell and crawled over burning corpses of the Sutr-Z infected. Seeing that, Don Tate Sr. knew his town was doomed. Tate jumped down from the pickup and pulled Olsted’s body out and to the ground. The engine was still running.
Though the steering wheel was slick with Josh Olsted’s blood and brains, Tate gripped the wheel with white knuckles and gunned it. The rear wheels spit gravel. He sped past many of the town’s would-be guardians running East.
Since fuel was rationed only to a few, many of Wilmington’s defenders had arrived in other people’s vehicles. In the panic of the attack, several drivers had abandoned their former passengers, leaving them to a grisly fate. Some even dropped their weapons as they ran. They waved to Tate, trying to get him to slow down so they could leap into the pickup’s bed and to safety.
He ignored their plaintive cries. Instead, with wet, fumbling fingers, Tate grabbed for his walkie-talkie.
To Time or Mercy or Blessed Forgetting
Beyond the tent city, New Montreal was a post-industrial landscape under a darkening sky. The Spencers passed a tire store and a recycling yard, ironic considering there was now a huge supply of junked cars and unused tires stretching out past many horizons behind them.
The highway ahead was empty of cars, and better, devoid of the dead. Free of looming trees, crowding cars and the rotting dead, the refugees breathed deeper. The road had been claustrophobic and the weight of that closed in, corraled feeling slowly lifted from the travelers. New Montreal felt like a city, except for the deep silence.
“The adults went East, like the French girls said,” Anna said.
“I don’t get it,” Jack said, mystified.
Theo peered at his son. You still haven’t spoken to your mother or your sister. No visits in their dreams, hm? The Way of Things must be sparing them for something else.
Or saving them for something more terrible, Jaimie thought.
A red pickup sped past. The driver blared his horn as the slipstream whipped the Spencers. Its red taillights fishtailed in the gathering gloom, horn still sounding in a long, shivering blast.
“Doppler,” Jaimie said.
“And he’s back to being a less than sensational conversationalist,” Anna said.
Jack turned, about to deliver a rebuke, but Anna was smiling and holding Jaimie’s hand. Jack smiled back and nodded. “It’s nice seeing you two get along.”
“We get along fine, Mom. Except when we don’t.”
“I guess that’s the normal brother/sister dynamic.”
“Normal…” Anna pondered a moment. “I guess some things can stay the same no matter what happens.”
As they came upon a cloverleaf, black clouds in the distance flashed and far off thunder issued its first threat. Jack peered down from the elevated highway. “Let’s get off the Trans-Canada,” Jack said. “No cars and no trees is nice for a change, but it also means no shelter. Storm’s coming. We won’t lose our way if we parallel the highway. We’ll find a place to sleep down there somewhere. I don’t fancy sleeping on cold asphalt in the rain.”
“Let’s not get too far from the highway,” Anna said.
“The highway has been an anchor, but we need to get off it. We won’t lose sight of it and, even if we did, we’ll still be able to navigate without it. Besides, once we find a car we can use, we’ll be safe at Papa Spence’s in no time.”
“You think the road will still be open past Montreal?”
“Has to be.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t walk much farther. Not without about a month of sleep. I thought I could run on adrenaline, but that supply doesn’t run on forever.”
The family veered right and tightened into a knot. Despite the oncoming storm, people crowded the streets as they continued East through the suburbs.
Most were young and wandered in all directions. However, anyone beyond their teenaged years was headed East threading through the city single file, like ants. None of these dusty, ragged strangers wore masks and they could be spotted at a distance: they trudged slowly, eyes straight ahead, unwavering.
The young citizens of Montreal wore wrinkled clothes but they looked clean compared to those traveling through. There was another difference, too. The young moved with energy, swarming on springy legs. The old moved slowly, but with purpose. Resigned exhaustion marked the refugees’ every step.
The Spencers looked sinewy and thin compared to the children of Montreal. The road people were all unkempt and the men were unshaven.
“The kids have slept,” Theo said. “I betcha the older ones haven’t.”
“They’re afraid to sleep,” Jaimie whispered to his father.
“Afraid you’ll come back with more orders, yes,” Theo whispered in Jaimie's ear. “An angel with burning wings of fire is much more terrifying than a burning bush. You're theatrical.”
An old woman walked by the Spencers. As the steel-haired woman’s gaze met Jaimie’s eyes, the crone’s face went to granite. “Cochons!” she said.
“Don’t take it personally, Jaimie.” Theo whispered again. “Your mother and sister don’t know they’re traveling with a celebrity.”
Messenger. I didn’t choose this.
“Either way, yours is the face of the Draft Board.”
Jaimie pulled the hood of his sweater up to shield his face from strangers’ accusing eyes.
* * *
The buildings grew taller and the city swallowed them. It was like being back in the forest again, with potential enemies on all sides. The Spencers hurried
on, kicking through trash as they went. Dust devils rose up, blowing litter in small circles. Whatever else may still work, city sanitation was not a priority.
More cars passed in the street and Jack looked at them with longing. Soon, one car slowed to a crawl to keep pace with them. It was a new Shelby Mustang painted cherry red with a banana yellow top. The windows were tinted so dark, the Spencers couldn’t see inside. A hard rhythm beat at the insides of the car so loudly they could feel the base pound malice into their chests.
“You think Haroun sent his cousins after us?” Anna asked.
“Or Carron found a snazzy new car?” Theo suggested.
Anna scooped up a glass Coke bottle from the sidewalk. “Whoever’s in there, they are messing with us. What should we do about it?”
“Only three choices to any stress,” Theo said. “Fight, flight or freeze.”
Jack nodded to her family and they turned into a tight alley away from the street. The Shelby squealed away, tires smoking. Jack signaled for them all to stop. They waited for what seemed a long time, listening for the base beat to return. When they moved again, they did so stiffly.
“Too tired to run,” Jack said. “I feel like an old lady. My knees hurt.” She arched her back, sick of the heat and weight of her backpack. Her spine gave a loud crack as she twisted to alleviate the strain. Her shirt sucked to her skin with trapped sweat. “I’m so exhausted, I am an old lady, especially in this city.”
“Energy cannot be created nor destroyed,” Theo murmured, “and an object at rest tends to stay at rest. We have to keep moving. It will be dark soon. Wherever it’s dark, Evil feels comfortable and comes out to play.”
Jaimie let go of his father’s hand and gripped his mother’s and sister’s hands hard. To their surprise, the boy took the lead and pulled them along behind him. He'd never taken the lead.
They were several long blocks down before the same yellow-topped car pulled beside them again. The driver gunned the engine and pressed the horn in three short blasts and one long honk.
This Plague of Days OMNIBUS EDITION: The Complete Three Seasons of the Zombie Apocalypse Series Page 76