Mason mentally cursed while scanning the perimeter of the Ammunition plant. He saw sporadic bursts of weapon’s fire about the compound but was too far away to discern anything more. Bright flashes lit up an alley between two buildings accompanied by the slightly delayed sound of small arms. Three dull-black vehicles shot past his field of view.
“Is that a firefight or just one group panicking?” Mason wondered underneath the binoculars.
A booming report split the night and echoed through the valley. The thunderous weapon barked again with a supersonic crack.
“That’s a big rifle,” Tony whispered in awe.
Mason’s hope for more ammunition disappeared with the realization that either the dead were inside the perimeter of the plant or a number of well armed men were; possibly both. Lowering the binoculars he looked at Nikki. She was staring off towards a cluster of homes with a pained expression.
“Nikki, does your Pop own a gun?” He asked.
“No, Mom doesn’t like ‘em.”
“Figures.” Jack sighed then continued to her.
“Look for a pen and something to write on in the glove compartment. Draw us a map of your neighborhood, as best you can.” Mason said as he handed the young blond Tony’s flashlight. She turned and double-timed back to the truck. Tony moved to follow but was stopped by Mason’s hand on his shoulder.
“Hold on man.”
“What’s up?” Tony asked worried by the weight of his friend’s tone. Mason waited until Nikki was well away.
“What if her parents are dead?” Jack asked while looking down and scratching his head.
The thought hadn’t occurred to Tony. He shuttered at the grim possibility.
“Shit,” Tony said slowly, “I’ll stay with her until we find out.”
Jack hesitated then looked up.
“You might have to put ‘em down.”
Tony recognized the doubt in his voice.
“Yeah…” he reasoned unable to finish.
Tony’s attention fell on the light in the truck cab as Nikki jumped in the cab. He saw her pretty blond hair fall over her face as she began searching the glove box. The thought of her parents joining the ranks of the rotting army gave Tony a hopeless feeling. He resolved that he would stick by her. If her parents had become mindless monsters, he would protect Nikki and put them out of their misery. The three shells he had should be enough for the task. He would act quickly and end it as painlessly as possible, if painless still applied to the undead. He frowned as he wondered if she would forgive him if it came to such a thing. He just hoped that she would understand. While watching Nikki speak with Veronica, Tony thought about a practical question of space.
“If they’re okay, where are we gonna put ‘em?” he asked.
“Damn,” Jack whispered, “help me get my bike down; we’ll hide it in the trees.”
“You sure?” Tony asked knowing how much the Kawasaki meant to him.
“Don’t have a choice really. We need the room and it’s too damn loud to ride into town.”
They moved back to the rear of the truck as a trickle of gunshots sounded once again in the town.
“We need a solid plan, and a contingency.” Jack said.
Inside the truck Nikki rifled through the contents of the glove box. She quickly found a pen and was now sorting through paper items in search of something with enough blank space to draw on. She found two white envelopes and her flurry of movement quickly faded. Veronica saw her turn ghastly white.
“What is it?” Veronica asked.
“These are their prize checks for the match.” Nikki said quietly, “Andy had me bring these to the boys at their camp.” She looked at Veronica sadly.
“If he hadn’t asked me to bring these, I wouldn’t have been with you guys.” Nikki said holding up the envelopes. “I’d probably be dead right now.”
Veronica watched Nikki begin to sketch out a small map on the back of one of the envelopes. Nikki spoke.
“I can’t stop thinking about it; shooting Lance.” She said without looking up from her drawing, “I killed someone, a real person,” Her voice was beginning to crack and become deeper “Someone who wasn’t sick like the others.
“Try not to think about that. Stay focused on what were doing.” Veronica said.
“Trying to...” Nikki flashed a fake smile, “But it keeps coming back. I mean, I’m not sorry, because I know it was self-defense but I feel like I’ve sinned or something. Like people will be able to look at me from now on and tell what I’ve done.”
“What you did was a hard thing, but it wasn’t the wrong thing.” Veronica said, “You saved my life. I wouldn’t be here now if Andy didn’t send you to bring those checks to the boys.” Veronica touched Nikki’s arm. “I’d probably be dead if you weren’t there when I needed you.”
Nikki looked at her map and nodded, “I still have this bad feeling that I wish I could just wash off somehow.”
Veronica breathed deep and sighed as waves of pain grated over her injured flank. She steadied herself and spoke.
“I did something really horrible once.” Veronica found herself saying. “I’ll never forget it but it was the right thing to do. You do learn to live with it.” She hadn’t meant to go as far as she had but Nikki needed to know that she wasn’t alone. Veronica wasn’t one for confiding in people but she found herself trusting the young woman. Nikki stopped and looked at her.
“What was it?” Nikki’s voice was low and scratchy. Veronica shook her head and frowned.
“Something no one should ever have to. Something I’m not ready to talk about.” Veronica said looking away into the night, “When all of this is over and we have time to just talk, maybe then I can tell you but not now.” Veronica looked back to Nikki.
“You can learn to live with almost anything.” Veronica flashed a contrived smile of her own, “Right now your parents need you to be strong for them. You can’t afford to be distracted from that.”
Nikki nodded and her face took on an aspect of resolve. Veronica touched her arm and continued.
“Imagine putting your doubts in a box in the back of your mind and locking it up tight. You can deal with it later. Now, right now, it’s about your parents.”
Two
Margaret McCormack ignored the terrible arthritic tightness of her hands as she gripped the dusty fabric of her family room curtains. Pulling the frilled cloth aside just enough for her to peer out with one eye, she saw only a dark blur. Her eyes were not what they had once been. Most evenings when she would look outside of her window she would only see orange blooms reflected underneath each streetlight, blurry and indecipherable. Now with the power outage, she saw nothing but the infinite darkness of night. She had noticed a loss in her ability to recognize detail at a distance ever since her seventieth birthday. For a decade now her vision had grown worse with each passing year. She now noticed distant objects only by their movement. If something shifted, a blurry form shimmered or slipped one way or another, she knew that there was a good chance that something was there. Margaret was thankful that she could still recognize things close up in good light. As she carefully looked out through the thick pane, she felt anger that her age and a power failure had rendered her so blind.
Her small house had been silent since sunset, now that the gunshots outside seemed to have settled down. Over the past two days, there had been such a clamor outside. Cars raced past her home with residents seeking to escape. The chaos that dominated the television was also outside her door. Desperate for some assistance, for someone to take her with them, she had ventured outside in the daytime to try and catch some kind soul’s attention. Margaret found it very frightening to leave the safety of her home because she had trouble moving very fast, even if it was only to the end of her driveway. A lone vehicle, a neighbor that she couldn’t recognize at a distance, slowed down for a moment, stopped, and then sped off without acknowledgement. She felt exposed and horribly vulnerable as she waved in vain for help.
How could a person just ignore her like that? As her view of the retreating vehicle blurred out of sight, she sank into a deep sadness at the thought that no one cared to help her. A gunshot in the distance shocked her and spurred her to return to her empty home.
Since the loss of her husband Al, just three months prior, Margaret had suffered a crushing loneliness. Yet she was no stranger to loss. Her son had died almost sixteen years earlier; a casualty of the first Gulf War. Her boy’s death was a difficult time for Margaret and her husband. So much so that Al continued on at the Richardson Plant for five years past the age of retirement. Making bullets for soldiers became a constructive if not vengeful output for his anger. He said that each round he packed could save one of our boys by killing one of theirs. Al dealt with his loss by loading ammunition without realizing that he was also abandoning Margaret to her grief each day. Not willing to burden her husband in a time when she needed his love most, she stayed quiet about her feelings. She often wished that they had spent those years consoling each other instead of mourning separately. Now that he was gone, she regretted every moment that she could have spent with her dear husband. When he succumbed to heart failure she was devastated and more over, she was very alone.
No one would be coming to her aid. She had no one left to care for her, and no one remembered her. The people from the church hadn’t sent anyone by since Sunday morning to bring her a meal as they had done since Al passed away. After waiting two hours past her dinner time, she fed herself a can of chicken noodle soup and saltine crackers. Her arthritis made opening the can an ordeal as her hands persisted in slipping off the thin metal lever of the opener. Since losing her husband and with him his social security benefits, she had scrimped and scraped out a meager existence and was lucky to have the soup on her shelf. The television had fallen into disuse and no longer blared her husband’s baseball and beloved horseracing at all hours. Margaret found the television a sad reminder of her loss and instead used a small battery powered radio for daily entertainment. When the news came on about the meteorites, she decided that she had to have a look. Margaret regretted her curiosity. The televised images, the violent flashes, quick and confusing, would not leave her mind. Confusion was plentiful on the other side of the glowing glass tube and no one seemed to have any real answers. She wished that she had never turned the damned thing on in the first place. When the power went out in the afternoon, she was glad that she still had the radio to keep her company even if it only was a constant barrage of bad news. Keeping the volume low while hiding like a church mouse in her darkened home, she listened all day long.
The radio encouraged the citizens in disaster areas to assemble in community centers, police stations, and sports facilities to find safety in numbers against the “infected.” At around five P.M., one hour after the lights went out, the gravel voiced announcer made a plea for residents to check on elderly or disabled neighbors before heading to a refugee station. With this one announcement Margaret almost cried; finally some tiny bit of hope that she could hold on to. If someone had heard the newsman’s reminder, there was a chance that they might come for her. She would be ready if the moment presented itself. At eighty-one years old, the former jitterbug champion, mother, wife, and widow, would coax her tired old legs to once again try and catch the attention of any vehicle that came around the corner.
Waiting, watching, and worrying at her front window caused Margaret to consider her age and isolation. She knew that she didn’t have many more years on this planet and anticipated the rounding of her life’s compass. The end would be welcome when it came as she believed that she would be reunited with her family, but it had to come naturally. Years of Catholic doctrine had instilled in her a belief that suicide, no matter ones age, was an affront to the Lord. Yet she couldn’t help but wish to be reunited with her family. In her silent home, she constructed a deal with herself; the kind of mental coin-flip that a child might make when they were unsure about a course of action. She would wait for help until she was too tired to continue. If no escape presented itself, she would lock up the house and go to bed. To stay without food or her medication, which was quickly running out, until the angels escorted her across. The Lord couldn’t be upset with her for that. No, surely that would not be considered taking one’s own life. In an instant she imagined lying in the bed that she and Al had shared, the bed that she found too large without him, waiting to endure her last moments of loneliness until starvation or her tired heart took her. Margaret lifted a large pair of old shearing scissors that she had armed herself with, as if to ward off the thought. There was something that just didn’t sit right with her about such an end.
Al, you weren’t supposed to go first, she thought, you said you’d always be here. Suddenly longing to see her husband, Margaret realized that if she did leave her home she may not return for some time. She walked as quickly as she could to the back of the house, to their bedroom. On her night table was a photograph of Margaret in a rocking chair holding her newborn son, with Al standing beside her. Looking at the faded old four-by-five photo in a silver frame she became immersed in emotional nostalgia. She remembered the dress that she wore that day; her favorite dress that she hadn’t worn since making the switch to maternity clothes. Her husband was so young and strong; so devilishly handsome in his Air Force uniform. She remembered his remarks that the dress fit perfectly on her. He was always trying to make her feel better back then. She remembered how Al had set up the house for visitors, borrowing chairs and tables from the St. Michaels church and enlisting their neighbor’s wives to help with the cooking; all for her birthday, not allowing her to do a thing to help. He was such a sweet man. Oh what a perfect day that was, she thought.
“I miss you husband.” She whispered.
The memory of loss set upon her constricting her breathing. She grew cold under a wave of anxiety as something hard began to squeeze inside her. With a tremulous hand she retrieved a plastic sandwich bag from her pocket and removed a small pill, leaving only three left. Placing the medicine under her tongue, she steadied herself with a hand on her dresser as it dissolved. Her blood vessels dilated restoring sufficient blood flow to her heart. The cold grip released and her body relaxed.
Why did I do that? She wondered. I could’ve just got into bed and let the waves take me. Ever since Margaret had begun to experience her “Spells”, she had a growing curiosity to see just what was on the other side. At first the spells were terrifying, causing her to want to stay in bed for the rest of the day. After a few years, they become another of life’s little problems, easily dealt with by modern medicine. In this case, Mother’s little helper were vasodilators. The good Samaritans from church were going to give her a ride to fill her prescription tomorrow. Now with only a few pills left, she wished that she could have afforded to keep more on hand for emergencies.
Margaret removed the faded photograph from the frame and placed it in her sweater pocket. On her dresser she reached for Al’s old stainless steel Ray-O-Vac flashlight. Behind the flashlight she saw the last bottle of Al’s after shave; the same kind that he had worn since he was a young man. In the first months after her husbands passing, she had taken to smelling his clothes from time to time as a fond reminder. Opening the discolored ceramic bottle, she dabbed a touch of after shave on a handkerchief. The familiar scent of her husband comforted Margaret and with the thought that she may be away for a while, she wanted to take something with her; Old Spice and an old snapshot to comfort an old woman.
Three
Mason drove his truck down the middle of Chaucer Avenue. The roads of Whisper had a width that one didn’t see anymore. Streets designed for grand automobiles made in the thirties and forties to pass each other with old-time American pride while still leaving plenty of parking along each side. He maintained his speed just a touch above idle. The Chevy’s powerful engine made quite a racket when accelerating so Jack kept his foot light on the pedal. The sky was mottled with low clouds that glowed with reflections
from the light in town. In this area street lamps burned bright, spilling an eerie hue in the night. A few ghouls stalked the streets in the distance and around far corners. Upon noticing the vehicle, they gave weak pursuit but were left behind by the truck’s steady pace.
“I thought there would be more infected around,” Veronica wondered.
“I wanna circle the neighborhood before we pull in”, Mason said.
“Left, here.” Nikki said pointing. Mason swung the truck in a turn without breaking almost causing the all-terrain tires to skid. He let off the gas to bleed off some inertia and proceeded in a wide survey of the outer neighborhood.
“I wonder how many people are hiding in there?” Tony mused.
“How many aren’t people anymore?” Mason added.
The bulk of the neighborhood’s perimeter was corralled by a tan brick sound wall, broken by street inlets and a few walk-through gates. Almost half a mile down, they took a right turn to follow the outside rear of the neighborhood. In the distance Mason could now see the vast storage field of the ammunition plant. Automated search lights from high towers pursued each other across the expanse. Rows of different bunkers lined the area. Concrete facades with heavy steel doors set yards away from each other as a precaution against cascade explosions. He didn’t see any creatures inside the yard. Jack knew that getting into the plant wouldn’t be easy, and the sheer number of bunkers made the prospect of finding what they needed very slim. Even if we did get inside, there’s no telling where the right ammo would be, he reasoned. As they turned on the road that parallels the plant, Mason saw several red signs on the twelve foot reinforced cyclone fence. Tony noticed the warnings as well.
“Electrified; they’re not screwing around” said Tony.
“Their security got an upgrade after Nine-Eleven” Nikki said, “Government paid for it, I think.”
Rise & Walk (Book 2): Pathogen Page 4