Contagion On The World

by J. B. Beatty

  “You don't even have a watch.”

  “I need to get a watch. True. I got so used to using my cell phone to tell time. Now I'm having trouble finding bars anywhere. But how's she supposed to know what time we get here?”

  “Look, it's imprecise. We'll get here sometime after dark. We'll stay about an hour. Roughly. About. Approximately. It's not a choreographed extraction and we are not the intelligence community.”

  “Ah yes, our very accomplished intelligence community, that couldn't stop the Russians from stealing our election. Good thing we're not them.”

  “Whatever. No need to cry over spilled milk. What's done is done.”

  “Like America. Civilization. The human race.”

  “You make it sound so dramatic and final.”

  I lean back, my eye scanning the area assiduously. “It's probably not overstating matters to say that the world ended up in kind of a dramatic and final situation.”

  “Not final. It's not over till it's over.”

  “It's over for a lot of people.”

  “Not for us. Not for the human race.”

  “It will be if we don't track down that vaccine.”

  “Agree there,” she says. “But it does no good to talk about the politics anymore. That's over. America's finished. We have no government, we have no army. We've got nothing.”

  “You never really got into the politics, did you?”

  “What's there to get into? It's just what idiots argued about in the bar. Taking America back vs. handing it to the Russians on a silver platter. As a bartender with Lupus, I reserved the right not to give a fuck.”

  “Did you even vote?”

  “Why the hell would I vote? I officially could not have cared less.”

  “How did that work out for you?”

  “One vote did not make a difference.”

  I growl. “Math, democracy and logic are not your strong points.”

  “Maybe not,” she snorts, “but I have a cryptic and challenging outlook on life.”

  I let that percolate a while. It's kind of peaceful sitting in the truck in the rain. The kind of rain that would be great for the crops, if anyone were still bothering to plant. Peaceful, though, but I find I have to work a bit to suspend my disbelief, to ignore the fact that the night indeed harbors monsters. One could be just feet away from us right now and I wouldn't even know it. I check my door lock. I brush the trigger guard of my handgun.

  Somewhere out there—we hope—a 10-year-old girl is making her way toward us. Braving the rain and the darkness and the monsters.

  Somewhere out there, an army of private goons is strengthening their fortifications, protecting their privileged, vaccinated few from the monsters—and the likes of us.

  Somewhere out there is an answer to this calamity that has wiped out most of the human race. And in that answer may be the solution to moving forward.

  Somewhere out there, someone's got to be thinking the same thoughts, fighting the same fights. We can't be the only normal—if mostly terminally ill—“family” that is trying to survive and find answers.

  Any day now—I need to sit down with a calendar and figure out what today's date is—I will turn 20. A little young perhaps to be worrying about things like this. I'd say something about this being the “new normal” but I hate that phrase. Sometimes you don't get to pick your reality, though.

  “Well?” I say to Carrie.

  “Hmmm?”

  “It's definitely been more than an hour.”

  “A little bit longer.”

  “It's not a good idea for us to be exposed out here all night.”

  “We're not going to be out here all night. And it's fine. We're under a tree. We're not moving, lights are off, the drones are not going to spot us. And the most important thing, we've got no other plans.”

  I'm anxious and I'd like to go. Carrie has a different sort of anxiety going, I realize. She's concerned about Artemis, and I get that. It's not that I'm unconcerned, but I haven't bonded with Artemis the way she has. To be cold, Artemis's just a drop in the bucket. One more kid among the thousands who have probably survived this long who is facing the grim prospect of zombification at puberty and a buffet of horrors before then at the hands of older survivors.

  The answer is north. We need to find that vaccine. We need to find out who made the vaccine and why some people are worthy in their eyes of being protected while the rest of us have been left to die.

  “Another half hour,” I tell her.

  “Alright,” she sighs. But it's not alright with her. I can feel there's more coming, so I just wait. The wind picks up; I can feel it buffeting against the truck, raindrops striking sideways now.

  “You ever wonder who we really are?” she says, and I groan inwardly because she's going deep, deeper than I was prepared to go. This is going to get philosophical. Often, I'll go with her in that direction—I enjoy the banter. Tonight, I go because I have no choice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, are we good guys or bad guys? I think that's the essential question. Looking past the obvious, that since all hell broke loose, we have been engaged in a quest for safety. We don't want to die in a world where it's suddenly very easy to die. I remember people used to talk about America's safety net, and now we have a death net. It's tough to escape getting caught up in it. So, looking past all that, what are we really doing? Are we in any way a force for good? Or are we a force for evil?”

  She turns her face toward me. I'm on: “We've killed some bad guys. By definition doesn't that make us good?”

  “We've also killed people who were in the gray area, and arguably, our actions at times may have resulted in the death of good people.”

  “Maybe...”

  “And it's not like I have an uncompromising morality. Maybe I should, but I don't. I can understand that the death of a few innocents might be justifiable as long as we are working toward an end goal that benefits the greater good. But are we?”

  “Getting the vaccine? That's greater good,” I say. “Finding out who the hell is behind all of this, I'd argue that's greater good too.”

  “And what if we do get the vaccine and the answers? What then? There are only three of us. It's not as if we're an army or a movement of any kind.”

  “If we end up working with the Resistance, we're bigger.”

  She sighs. “I don't know. For all the information we have, that 'Resistance' is just a handful of senior citizens listening to country music, playing bridge and communicating on MySpace.”

  “So far they're all we've found. But you're right, if I'm hearing your words. To get anywhere in the world, we will have to reach out and develop some connections. Or we're just going to be mole people forever.”

  “Over there,” her voice quickens. She points. “There's someone.”

  I bring up my gun. I see the movement. But I don't see one person, I see two. At first I think zombies, the way they are stealthily moving, almost stalking toward us, taking cover behind trees.

  “They've got guns,” she says.

  They are close, perhaps 40 feet away, when they both duck behind a large tree. They stop moving. I scan the mirrors and crane my neck, but I don't see movement in any other direction.

  “This could be an ambush,” I say.

  “No one else would know we're here.”

  “Unless she talked. Then anyone else could know we're here. This could be people on her side who don't want her to go, or it could be the boy gang. It could be people who know about our bunker and want to take it over.”

  “No one knows about the bunker.”

  “You've haven't told her?”

  “The only thing I've ever told her is that we have a safe place.”

  Movement. One of the figures steps away from the tree, arms raised, still holding a rifle. Walking toward us, she finally says, “Don't shoot. It's me.”

  Carrie starts opening her door.

  “Careful,” I caution.


  She stays behind the door, rifle ready. “Artemis?”

  “Yeah, it's me.”

  “Come forward about five steps.”

  She does so, and I can begin to make out her features.

  “Who's with you?” says Carrie.

  “She's my friend, Comanche. It's okay.”

  “I thought it was supposed to be just Artemis,” I say to Carrie.

  “Why is she here?” asks Carrie.

  Artemis walks forward. “She needed to leave too. I can tell you it all later in a private talk. Can you take us both now? She really doesn't want to go back. It's bad there. It's worse than you could ever ever imagine.”

  “Arvy?” She's asking for my vote. I know hers already.

  “Fine,” I say. “Why not?”

  And so we take in both Artemis and her friend. Comanche doesn't say much on the truck ride back. Withdrawn maybe, or perhaps just a bit slower on the draw than Artemis, who needs to talk.

  “Oh my gosh, you wouldn't believe how scared we were that you wouldn't be here. It's stormy and the trees are all moving and so there are shadows moving everywhere. We kept jumping because we thought it was zombies everywhere we turned! And a branch fell! Right behind us as we were walking here. It was loud because of the rain so we were trying extra hard to listen for zombies or patrols or anything that might be moving out there, you know? And there's this big craaa-aaack and a branch falls right behind us. I thought I was dead. Seriously. Thought I was dead. We hear it break and then I didn't even know how to dodge it. So I just stood still. Comanche tried to pull on me to get me out of the way but I just stood still and then whomp! Right behind me it hits the ground. Oh my god! Then I ran. You better believe I ran. I thought I was dead...”

  It took her about three seconds to say all that. I tune out and concentrate on driving as she continues with her excited monologue that mainly seems to cover their daring escape from their patrol duties and their walk from downtown to the rendezvous. Along with interjections about scary noises, the weather, and the fact she's hungry.

  “Don't worry, we've got food.”

  “Oh thank god! I hope it's not beans and tuna. Because I can't take any more beans and tuna. Separately or mixed...” And she's off again.

  When we get within a mile or so from the garage, I clear my throat and say, “Carrie...”

  She looks at me and nods somberly. “Hey girls,” she says. “We have to do something that may seem weird but it's going to make things more safe for you. We're going to cover your heads with these shirts. I only had one ready—let me something else for Comanche. It's to keep you from seeing things about where we are. That way, no one can trick you and find out our location from you. Do you understand?”

  Comanche says nothing. Artemis confidently says, “Sure, that's fine. We would do the same. But don't worry, we would never crack under torture. We have training in that.”

  I wonder what sort of merit badge the Big Rapids brownies give for torture tolerance. Meanwhile, Carrie fashions another hood by tying off the arms and neck of a t-shirt. She covers up both the girls' heads.

  “Do you want us to have our guns while we're walking with our hoods on?” asks Artemis. “Because I'm not sure I could shoot accurately if I can't see.”

  “No, we'll probably carry your guns for you.”

  “But what if there's a zombie attack?”

  “Don't worry. There are very few zombies around here. And we're good with guns.”

  “Okay,” says Artemis, a touch of worry in her voice.

  We park behind the garage, and check the area before we bring the girls out of the truck. I grab a length of rope so that the girls can follow us more easily up the rough terrain of the hillside leading to the hatch.

  “Wow, I'm going to fall on my face,” Artemis says.

  “You'll need to be quiet now,” says Carrie. “No words at all.”

  “What if we see something?” Artemis whispers.

  “You're wearing a hood.”

  At the hatch, I lift them and lower them into Carrie's arms. She starts guiding them through the tunnel while I grab the duffel that contains our supplies and the girls' guns, locking up behind me.

  49→LOCK SHOWS PRISONER

  Carrie gladly takes mother hen duties and settles the girls in one of the bunks in her room. Their eyes are agape as they wander through our quarters. “Where even are we?” Artemis keeps saying.

  Justin says hello to Comanche but gets nothing back. The girl appears to be older than Artemis, with thin auburn hair and a drawn face that is too pale. I hadn't noticed before, but she walks with a slight limp.

  “Oh,” says Artemis, turning to me in confidence. “Let's not call her 'Comanche' anymore. She doesn't want to be called that now; that's what the old people called her and she wants to be different now.”

  “So what do we call her?”

  “She's going back to her old name: Roxanne.”

  I check with Carrie and she shrugs.

  The girls eat Spaghetti-Os and then watch movies.

  We gather in what's become our war room and talk. Carrie fills us in. “So Comanche, or Roxanne now, has been taken a few times by one of the old guys who's running their part of the town. She's not really talking, but I'm guessing she got raped. Artemis is saying that they 'did things to her.' I can only imagine she's a mess and could probably use some therapy.”

  “That's kind of a first world thing,” I say. “The therapists are all dead. And probably every survivor out there needs therapy.” Carrie's eyes flame at me. “Asshole. What, you think child rape is just a 'get over it' thing because civilization is gone? She's going to need some special attention.”

  “...That nobody here is qualified to give.”

  “I will take care of her.”

  “Works for me.”

  “The problem,” says Justin, “with you taking care of her is that we're shorthanded. We have a mission to go on to find that vaccine that's going to keep those girls alive. We can't afford to leave you here to run a boarding school for troubled pre-teens.”

  “I wasn't suggesting that,” says Carrie curtly. “Artemis is good for her. They've already got a relationship in which Artemis is acting as kind of a caregiver. I think we can leave them here while we go. How long will this mission take?”

  “The same as all of our missions,” I say. “Somewhere between a couple nights and eternity.”

  “Is it even safe to leave two kids here unattended?” asks Justin.

  I look up at the ceiling, thinking. Carrie falls silent.

  “We can lock doors,” he says. “The weapons room, some of the supplies. Give them access to the food, of course. Can they cook?”

  “Nothing gourmet, I'm sure, but Artemis knows how to fend for herself. I'm sure she can take care of Roxanne.”

  “What about if they try to leave? That could cause big problems.”

  “We don't let them leave,” says Justin. “That's clear-cut. The old entrance is blocked forever. They can try all they want and they're never getting out. And we can lock the door to the room with the escape hatch.”

  “What if something happens to us?” Carrie says—suddenly alarmed. “What if they need to get out?”

  “Not an option,” Justin says. “If they have any way at all to get out of here, then they can and probably will at some point betray the location of this bunker. And if we lose this, we're dead.”

  “So if we get killed, they're just stuck down here?”

  “Until they die,” Justin says.

  Cold, but true. I nod. Carrie stares at him without blinking before she shakes her head in disbelief.

  50→THE SOFTEST, GLIDINGEST, STEALTHIEST MAN I EVER SEE

  The plan is simple because we don't know what we are doing. We pack light, though we will be heavily armed. We will take the truck—we'll travel with lights off. Will that make us safe from drones and enemy aircraft? Who knows. Anything with a heat-seeking capability could easily find us. Our timing is good
, in that we are supposed to have some clear nights with ample moonlight.

  Our destination is the other side of the wall. We have only the faintest idea of how to get there. Plan A is we head to the Lake Michigan coast, find a boat, and cruise completely around the wall to somewhere on the Leelenau Peninsula. The reasoning is that their defenses seem to be based on keeping zombies out. They're probably not looking for aquatic zombies, and as far as we know, the Resistance is not active enough to constitute any sort of naval threat.

  Once on land, we travel with stealth to that medical clinic in Suttons Bay and hope we can find a supply of the vaccine there. Then we come back, hopefully alive.

  Plan B is wing it.

  Carrie advances a Plan C, which she introduces by saying, “Give me a fish, teach me to fish, yada yada.” When we look at her with inquiring eyes, she explains, “Even if we're lucky enough to get some vaccine, that's just a temporary fix. We need to find out where they're manufacturing it. We need to get what we need to manufacture it. That's the only way we can ever mount an effective resistance.”

  “Of children,” I clarify.

  “They're not always going to be children,” she says. “This fight is going to take a long time. And we need to get started now.”

  “We don't even have the skills to manufacture vaccines,” I say. “No offense, Justin, in case you kind of have something resembling those skills.”

  He shrugs.

  “We need to get a person who does,” Carrie says, matter-of-factly.

  “They may not come willingly,” I say.

  “Screw willingly. The fate of the human race is at stake, the fate of democracy. The fate of everything. We've got to do what we've got to do.”

  She is resolute. I look at Justin. His expression tells me that Plan C might have turned into Plan A. And it will probably get us all killed.

  The next day we make our way northwest to Portage Lake, which has a channel at its west end that connects to Lake Michigan. It also is well supplied with marinas, yacht clubs and private homes with docks. Just by looking at the maps, it's hard to imagine that we won't be able to find boats.