by Tim Morgan
“Way,” Meghan said. The three of them smiled.
Chris wiped sweat from his brow. “We’re making pretty good time. I think we’re a day or two ahead of where we wanted to be.”
“So we can slow down now?” Dave asked.
“I didn’t say that,” Chris said.
Dave turned to Meghan. “So what do we have ahead of us?” he asked.
“More of the same for a while,” she said. “We’re going to hit Minnesota, then North Dakota, Montana, Idaho and finally Washington. When we get to the Rockies it’ll get tough.”
“We can handle it,” Chris said. He took a deep breath as he strapped the tent onto his bike. “We’re tough.”
Dave rolled his eyes. He couldn’t tell if Chris was flirting with Meghan or not. He acted the same way when the girl in the house answered the door. Dave guessed she was maybe sixteen and looked kind of like Katy Perry. Chris was all about trying to talk to her, but she didn’t have any of it. Her eyes were glued on the TV, and she kept looking at her parents. There was a newscast saying something about the Iowa National Guard being activated, and her father was stuffing things into a duffle bag and talking to his son, who was probably eight years old.
While Meghan was talking to the wife and Chris was trying to pick up Katy Perry, Dave was listening to the father and son.
“It’s going to be fine,” the father said. “There’s a lot going on and I need to go to work for a while.”
“How long?” the son asked.
“I don’t know,” the father answered. “Probably a few weeks like I do every summer.”
“Will you be back for my birthday?”
The father stopped, put his hand on his son’s cheek and smiled. He blinked back tears. “I’ll be back and we’ll have the biggest party—”
Dave turned when Meghan said they could spend the night out front. Dave thanked the mother and left as quickly as he could. As they were setting up the tents the father climbed into an Expedition and drove off. Dave saw the son watching until the car was out of sight then he stared at the tent for a while. The kid was back in the morning watching them pack up the tent. Dave’s heart went out to him; he wished he could go say something to comfort that poor kid . . . but what? Sorry your dad’s gone?
“Last night they said they’re activating the National Guard,” Dave said.
“It happens every time there’s a hurricane, or a snowstorm,” Chris said. “Don’t worry about it.
“You guys believe the rumors?” Meghan asked.
“About people going nuts from the virus?” Dave asked.
“She means about dead people going nuts,” Chris said.
“Yeah,” Meghan said. “The thing about dead people.”
“That’s got to be a rumor or an urban legend,” Chris said. “Dead people don’t do anything. They’re dead!”
“I don’t know,” Dave said, “there was a lot of that coming out of India before the blackouts hit.”
“Dude,” Chris said, “which part of that isn’t getting through to you? Dead people don’t get up, they don’t walk, and they sure as hell don’t kill people. They’re dead! As in absence of life.” For a guy who calls himself an “aspiring journalist,” Dave could sure be led if you did it right.
“I don’t know, Chris,” Meghan said, “Dave’s right. There are a lot of people talking about this.”
“A lot of credible people,” Dave added. “Reporters, generals, presidents.”
“You think because a lot of people say something that means it’s true?” Chris asked.
“Enough people denying something happened doesn’t make it go away,” Dave shot back.
“So dead people really are getting up and attacking living people?” Chris folded his arms over his chest and tilted his head. Meghan blinked a couple times then looked at Dave.
Dave held up his hands. “I don’t know,” he said, “I know a lot of really credible people are saying that’s happening. There’s got to be something to that rumor.”
“So dead people are or aren’t getting up and attacking people?” Chris knew he was close to winning the argument and just couldn’t let it go.
“When we see it for ourselves we’ll know for sure,” Dave said. “Now come on, let’s ride.”
They were on their way early that morning and breakfast was a granola bar on the road washed down with water. Something about it wasn’t sitting right in Meghan’s stomach. Probably all that water I drank, she thought.
Today the ride was easy—the sun was shining, the wind was calm. and the road flat. They were making good time until about ten o’clock. Meghan was playing with the GPS and trying to figure out where they could stop for lunch when Chris said, “Hey, what’s that?”
She looked up. On the side of the road was an ambulance, turned on its side with one of the back doors open. There were woods on either side of the road and about a dozen police cars on either side—town cops, state cops, and—what does it say on that car—USAF Security Forces? What are they doing here? What are those sheets on the ground?
As they got closer Meghan could see bloody handprints on the back door. There was a smear of blood and meat in the middle of the right lane. As they approached a guy in camouflage held up his hand. He had a machinegun strapped to his chest, a black beret, and black mirrored sunglasses. “Hold it up please,” the man in camouflage said. The sheets were stained red; Meghan thought at first it was paint but realized what it was when she noticed the feet poking out from underneath the sheets.
“What’s going on?” Dave asked.
“There’s been an incident,” the man in camouflage said.
“What kind of incident?” Chris asked.
“Just stay here, where I can keep an eye on you,” the man said.
Meghan thought. What does that mean?
Cammo man tried to talk into his radio but spoke just a little too loud. “Any word on Flu Manchu?”
A dog barked in the woods. And then came the sound. It was a guttural moan, human and animal in one horrible sound. The sound alone made Meghan think she was going to puke, but then the wind picked up and there was that smell. She couldn’t describe it, it was awful and sickening. If she had to put a word to it, that word would be death.
“Ugh,” Dave said as he glared at Chris, “you fart?”
“I wish I could fart like that,” Chris said.
“What the hell?” Dave asked.
“What?” Meghan said. Her senses were on high alert and she knew something was going on behind her.
“Shit!” cammo man said.
Meghan turned. The bodies under the two sheets got up. They were paramedics and they opened their mouths and let out moans as they broke into a run right toward them.
Gunfire erupted in the woods. Cammo man shouldered his machinegun. Pop-pop-pop! Meghan watched bullets hitting the first paramedic. She saw the red splotches where the bullets were hitting, puffs coming out the other side but the paramedic didn’t slow down. Cammo man fired at his legs, hit the paramedic in the knee, and sent her leg at a weird angle. She went down, then crawled at them, moaning the whole way.
Cammo man turned to them. “Go!” he thundered.
Meghan was frozen with fear but it was like the voice of God himself was speaking to her. She turned her bike around and went, pumping her pedals with a piston-like drive.
“What the fuck,” Dave asked. “What the fuck?”
“Come on!” Chris said, “Go! As fast as you can and don’t look back!”
More pops of gunfire echoed through the fields, followed by a man screaming. Tears filled Meghan’s eyes as her heart pounded in her temples and her arms shook with fear.
Oh my God! Oh my God! That did not happen!
THIRTY-ONE
Things are going slower than we want. We’re sticking mostly to side roads and trying to avoid big cities after what happened in Cleveland. It’s not the same country we went through on the way out here.
Whole towns have
been almost wiped off the map. Most of them look like they’ve been bombed out. We can’t tell whether they’re mined or not, and we don’t want to find out.
We’re just outside Binghamton, New York. We’re wicked low on food and water and we need to scrounge for more. Neither of us wants to go into the city but we’ve got no choice.
If we make it through this we’re about five days from home. Depends on how much we want to ride. Part of me is exhausted and wants to just stop. Part of me wants to suck it up and get home. I just want this to be over.
The hills suck, Meghan thought. Her thighs and her calves were burning, she felt a thirst she could not quench, and a hunger she could not satisfy. The last few days they resorted to picking grass and eating it. Isn’t that funny? Meghan thought. We’re eating grass. Like cows. Cow. Right. You’re the sickest cow in history. When we started my riding shorts fit. Now I have to hold them up with a belt made of clothesline we snagged somewhere in Pennsylvania. I can’t remember where and I don’t care.
Poor Dave. He looks worse than me. His clothes hang off his body, and he’s so thin. He looks like one of those poor kids on the commercials with that old guy begging for money. If I thought this was how it would end, I never would have gone on this trip.
Dave slowed down. The sky was overcast but he was squinting. He took his straw and sucked a puff of air and mostly droplets into his mouth.
“You want some of mine?” Meghan offered.
“If you have any, sure,” Dave said.
Meghan grabbed her water bottle. Shit, it’s light. She shook it. Empty. No! She opened the cap and looked inside. Her eyes turned to Dave.
Dave sighed. “I really didn’t want to scrounge in Binghamton.”
“I know,” Meghan said.
“It would be so much better if Chris were here,” Dave said. Tears welled up in his eyes again. When is it not going to hurt to think about him?
Meghan reached out and touched Dave on the arm. She slid her hand over his. “I know it’s tough,” she said, “but we have to keep going. For Chris.”
Dave nodded. “Yeah, right. For Chris.”
The air was still and there was silence. No birds chirping, no zombies moaning. I don’t like this, Dave thought. They pedaled along keeping an eye on the road. There were abandoned cars and trucks; a few were burned to blackened hulks. No mines, thankfully. The grass was waist high, riddled with weeds and thorns and God-knows-what under there. As they rode, a spot where the grass was parted caught Dave’s attention.
He slowed down and stopped. Meghan stopped by his side. “What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Dave said, “that grass there.” He put his kickstand down and got off his bike. Then he unzipped his pannier, took the pistol in hand, and snuck toward the grass.
“Be careful!” Meghan tried to whisper.
“Believe me, I will,” Dave said. He inched into the grass. It smelled—well, grassy—sort of comforting. When he got a little closer Dave could see the ground a few feet away was dug up, and something gray was broken into three pieces. What looked like wings were crumpled on either side of it; it had a V-shaped tail . . . was that a propeller?
“What’s that?” Meghan asked. “Don’t get too close—it could be a bomb!”
Dave pushed his way through the grass to get closer. Bombs didn’t have propellers, did they? “I don’t think it’s a bomb,” he said. Dave inched closer. The front of this thing looked bulbous, alien. On the bottom was a clear dome; through cracked glass Dave could see three or four cameras. “It’s not a bomb.”
“What is it?”
“I think it’s a drone,” Dave said. He let his guard down, lowered the pistol.
Meghan came a little closer. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” Dave said. “Look—those are cameras.”
“How do you know that?”
“I used to be a Military Channel junky.”
“Looks like it’s been here awhile.”
Dave looked at the wreckage. The grass was swallowing the wreck; in another couple days he’d never have seen it. “Yeah,” he said. He wondered if the drone crashed because of a mechanical failure, or because the guy flying it was killed by zombies. He stood up and looked around. Did it matter?
“Come on,” Dave said. “We need water.”
They walked back to the bikes and continued on. “We’re coming up on the city,” Meghan said. “We can start looking in the houses. Maybe there’s running water.”
“Hmm,” Dave said. If the zombies are overrunning the military . . . we’re screwed. We’re never going to make it through this. If Chris were alive, we’d stand a chance, but without Chris . . .
A little while later they saw houses. The first one they came to had the door broken in and bloody handprints all along the outside. Scraps of bloody clothing were strewn about the yard. They kept riding.
Down the road they decided to check another house. As they were walking up the path something broke the silence. A scream.
Meghan and Dave looked at one another. Dave gripped the pistol, scanning the area around them. They listened. Nothing.
“You hear that?” Dave asked.
“Uh-huh,” Meghan said. She held onto Dave’s arm like they were riding a roller-coaster.
They waited a few minutes. Nothing.
“Maybe we should help . . . ” Dave said.
“No!” Meghan said. Tears welled up in her eyes, she looked at the ground for a moment, then looked at Dave. “No, we can’t. We need to take care of ourselves. There’s nothing we can do.”
Dave looked empty. He blinked a couple times. “You’re right,” he said. “We have to look out for ourselves.” He nodded.
They went into the house. The front door was busted off its hinges and lay crookedly in the jamb. Inside the first floor was trashed. Broken glass, ransacked furniture, bullet holes in the walls; a gutted body on the kitchen floor with no head.
Meghan stepped over the corpse. The stench stung her nose and made her think about puking. But she didn’t. I know that’s a body down there. It should bother me. Shouldn’t it? She was starting to feel a little crampy in her back. My period’s coming on, and that bothers me more than the dead guy with no head over there. What’s happening to me?
Dave tried the faucet. The pipes groaned a moment in protest, then puffs of air and water flowed. He filled Meghan’s Camelbak as best he could before the water stopped.
Flies were buzzing around Dave’s face, driving him nuts. He walked back through the kitchen to the bathroom. The sink was smashed apart and the medicine chest hung at a strange angle, but the tub and toilet were intact. Dave went to the toilet, lifted the cover off the tank and peeked inside. There was water—clean water. He filled Meghan’s bottle, then his own.
“That’s gross,” Meghan said from the doorway.
“We can’t drink it from the bowl,” Dave said, “but you can drink it from the tank if you need to.”
“You’re not worried we’ll get sick?”
“I’ll worry when I stop worrying.” Dave offered the bottle to Meghan. She smiled and took it. Then she took a look through the closet. She pulled a few towels out, tossed them on the ground. She found what she was looking for—a couple of pads—and grabbed them.
“Anything good?” Dave asked.
“Supplies.”
“What kind of supplies?”
“Nothing you’d be interested in.” She showed them to Dave.
“Oh,” Dave said. He blushed a little, rubbed the back of his head with his hand. “I’ll see if there’s any food.”
Meghan covered the body with a sheet. Dave found concentrated tomato soup. There was no gas or electricity, so they opened the cans and drank it straight while they sat in the living room. It was thick and salty and tasted like super-concentrated tomatoes. Dave almost gagged on it and Meghan’s face puckered up.
“This is awful,” Dave said.
“You’re supposed to put water in it,”
Meghan said.
They sat there a few minutes before Dave spoke again.
“I wonder if this is what it’s like being a vampire.”
“There are no such things as vampires.”
“We used to say the same thing about zombies.” Dave finished his soup and tossed the can aside. “What’s the first thing you want to do when we get home?”
“Hug my parents. And Karen. And Rocket. And shower, and lay in my own bed . . . how about you?”
“Same. See my folks, and Joey. Then go see Chris’ parents and tell them what happened.” Tears welled up in his eyes and he tried to blink them away.
Meghan put her arm around him. “That’s a good idea,” she said. “I want to go with you.”
“We should build a monument to him. In the center of town.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“It could be him on the bike. Him looking off in the distance.” Dave noticed he wasn’t crying when he spoke about a monument.
THIRTY-TWO
New York, New York (Reuters). Victims of the Mumbai virus overtook military forces attempting to quarantine Manhattan. News footage showed a horde numbering in the tens of thousands descending on fortified positions. In a last-ditch effort to keep the swarming zombies at bay, the President ordered all but two bridges to Manhattan destroyed.
Some Americans fled urban centers while others hunkered down and prepared to fight for their homes. Firearm sales hit record levels and ammunition was in short supply as citizens armed themselves amid reports of collapsing police forces across the nation. Rioting broke out in Los Angeles on a scale not seen since the Rodney King verdict in 1992. Unchecked fires were burning across the city as hordes of zombies squared off against vastly outnumbered citizens with police nowhere in sight. Violent scenes such as this are playing out in cities large and small across America.
“This is an unprecedented emergency,” says the President. “We are doing everything in our power to bring this situation under control. The American people need to understand these things are going to take time.”