Karen squeezed her eyes shut and let the comment pass, taking control of the tablet. Greenport’s city wide wireless network still broadcasted, and she opened a browser and navigated to the city’s employee management portal. Even without her phone, a method to access her controls still existed. Logged in, she saw reports of increased calls in Belleville and two additional ZMT crews were en route. The original responding crew should be arriving any moment, along with the fire trucks. She messaged the incoming crews to be aware of three individuals dressed in all black who should be considered a threat.
Down the list of reports were two calls regarding large trucks parked in Foxer. She tapped one of the entries, and it stated that a plain white eighteen wheeler idled with its headlights off with two passengers asleep. She swiped back to the message console, and composed a note to Milo, her third-shift equivalent on duty, to send crews to investigate the trucks in Foxer.
“Well?” Nicholas said.
Karen looked up, cocked her head forward and raised her eyebrows. Yes?
“Did you request ZMTs for my store?”
“Of course,” Karen said, knowing any other answer would invoke a more entitled response. She swiped to the map with real time locations of crews. “In fact, one crew should be here at any moment.”
She stepped back from the counter and stood behind a mannequin dressed in a red velvet pea coat in the store’s window. A ZMT ambulance stopped beside a brown SUV, its blue and red lights still flashing and headlights beaming at the walls of the buildings. Two crew members exited the front cab, one holding a semi-automatic pistol, and the other carried an assault rifle. She let out a deep breath, grateful for a secure presence to sweep through the street and put a stop to the assault.
Karen lost track of the commando that kicked in the head of the woman in the brown jacket who turned, but she was certain it was the one that walked off the sidewalk and into the headlights of the ambulance. A pair of bloody boot prints trailed.
The ZMT with the pistol called out something in the commando’s direction, motioning the gun to the ground, while the other raised its rifle. The commando tread forward, arms stiff at its sides, ignoring the ZMT. It took a longer stride and sprung. The ZMT with the assault rifle fired first. A boom erupted, and its shot hit the commando in the chest, knocking it backward, while the the pistol shot walloped its right shoulder.
Karen fell to the floor covering her head.
***
“Bobby?” Paul said, unclenching his fists.
“Indeed, I am.”
“What are you doing here? And why the—”
“Aside from saving your ass, again, I need to pick something, or rather, someone up.”
Paul looked around. People ran up the street away from the wreckage. A man sat on the sidewalk, clutching a belt around his leg, the same man who tried to help Paul. Damon buried his face into the neck of Cynthia, the woman with the brown coat, while three figures—they all looked like men in all black—walked up the street.
Paul pointed. “What the hell?”
Bobby turned as zombie Damon was knocked into the street onto its back.
“Yeah, it looks like someone just turned—”
“No, not that. The three guys in black. That’s not us.”
The guy in front stepped up to the woman and threw her against the wall, making a dull thud against the brick. She collapsed to the ground, wailed again and received a kick to the back of her head. Paul’s stomach dropped. He thought they were past the senseless horror. “Jesus,” he whispered.
“Holy,” Bobby said, waving his gun, his voice shrill. “That sure isn’t a ZMT.”
“No shit. What are you doing here?”
“Like I said, I need to pick someone up, and that someone apparently set off this whole shit show,” Bobby said, pointing the gun at the cab. “Can you climb in and get him out? Looks like his buddy over there wasn’t buckled up.”
“What? No. I need to go find Karen.”
Bobby raised the gun to Paul’s forehead. “I saved your life twice today. Can you at least do this one favor? I’ll stand here while you climb in.”
“What the hell? Pulling a—”
“Just do it.”
Paul turned and opened the passenger side door. A thin, lanky man lay between the steering wheel and the driver’s side window, with the seatbelt still strapped across his stomach. The man’s shoulders rose and fell with each breath.
“He’s still alive,” Paul said.
“Great. Now, get him out.”
Paul gripped the frame of the truck and pushed off the door and climbed into the cab. He steadied his feet on the floor board and leaned himself on the seat. Due to the angle of the cab, Paul guessed that if he pushed the button on the buckle, the man would tumble loose, too fast for Paul to catch him.
Paul dug his feet into the corner of the floorboard underneath the dash and leaned to his left. He held out his right arm and stretched his left to press the button.
“Paul, a crew is here. Move a little faster.”
The inside of the cab flashed red and blue, and two doors popped in the distance.
A faraway voice, not Bobby’s, yelled, “Get on the ground! Get on the ground!”
“Paul, get moving. Something not very good is about to happen.”
“Like this is any good to begin with.”
“Just hurry up.”
Paul stretched out his left arm again and pressed the button. It clicked gently, and the strap repelled. Outside, a boom sounded, and the man fell, bouncing off Paul’s right arm and rolling into his chest. He groaned and air escaped his lungs while his torso supported the weight of the man, heavier than he anticipated. A burst of two shots fired.
“Paul, move!”
Paul wrapped his right arm around the man. He smelled of cigarettes and sweat, and Paul’s fist clung to the loose fabric of the man’s jumpsuit. Paul rotated to steady himself, unplanting his right foot and motioned out of the cab.
He turned his head. “A little help.”
Bobby stuck the gun in the small of Paul’s back and stood at the base of the cab. “Okay, okay, come on down. I got you.”
Paul swung his left foot down to the running board, fingers still clutching the truck. The man’s legs fell clumsily along the seat, pulling his weight with Paul. Bobby’s hands held Paul’s hips as he descended out of the truck, guiding him backwards.
“One more. Step to the ground,” Bobby said, holding the gun lower. He steadied Paul’s shoulder. “That’s it, almost there.”
The man’s legs clunked against the running board and a foot brushed against Paul’s shin and hit the ground. Bobby picked up the feet and nodded to the SUV. “Help me get him in the car.”
Paul readjusted his hold, pulling the man’s back closer to his body and locking his hands across the man’s chest. The burning pain in his shoulders rolled down to his lower back, and despite the cold night air, sweat seeped through the sweater under his jacket. He glanced to the ambulance across the street. Blue and red lights flashed, intermittently cascading across two black figures. One pointed an assault rifle to the ground while the other swung its fists at a ZMTs head. At the edge of Paul’s vision, a third jogged in his direction.
“There’s a guy coming at us,” Paul said, quickening his pace.
Bobby turned. The figure’s boots grew louder, maybe ten yards away. “Paul, go to your left.”
Bobby dropped the man’s legs and reached behind his back for his gun. Paul pulled his stride to the left, keeping his balance to pull the weight of the man in the jumpsuit. Bobby raised the gun and fired a burst of three rounds at the person charging them. They slowed and stuttered as each round burst through its chest, stopping to catch its balance. Sprinting, it continued its pursuit.
“He didn’t drop!” Bobby shouted through his mask. “Fuck, get Julian in the backseat. Go, go, go!”
Paul looked down at the jumpsuit to see the man’s white and blue name tag and pivoted, d
ragging Julian backwards to the SUV. The sooner he got Julian in the car, the sooner he could search for and find Karen, and then wrap his aching and throbbing body around her.
Bobby locked his arms, firing off another succession of three bursts. In mid stride less than ten feet from him, the bullets struck the helmet. Sparks flew from the ricochet of the first two shots that hit the top and side, but the third slammed and cracked through the visor. The man fell, helmet smacking the pavement and skidding to Bobby’s feet.
Across the street the remaining two men stood, stepped over the dead ZMT bodies and sprinted in Bobby and Paul’s direction.
Bobby ran to the SUV and pulled the door hard, bouncing it against the hinges on the frame.
“Get him in, get him in!”
Paul began to spin and hoist Julian into the backseat, but Bobby picked up Julian’s feet and pushed Julian and Paul into the car. Paul stumbled onto the seat and fell backwards, and the back of his head landed on a seatbelt. Julian grazed over his chest and his head hit Paul’s jaw before Julian’s body rolled in between the front and back seats. Paul’s knees kicked back as Bobby shoved Paul’s feet inside and slammed the door shut.
Caught
By the time the girl stepped out of the woods and into the shadows of a deserted park, the sun was resting above the top of the tree line.
A field of grass as high as her knee spanned the distance to a reservoir, while wooden boards floated, the feet of their benches hidden by the overgrowth. A packed pebble path wound around towards a play ground with a swing set and a weathered wooden fort where a red tube slide caught the edge of the sunlight. Crumpled paper and empty rusting cans of food littered the parking lot, and the waste barrels appeared charred black. Trees rustled in a gentle wind, and she set sight on the playground, not before snapping a dry branch on the ground to sweep a path in front of her, checking for hidden, malnourished zombies.
She had kept a slow pace through the woods, nursing her bloody scalp with the camisole stashed away in her backpack, while sipping on water to settle her nerves. When she picked at the cut, it didn’t feel long or deep, but the amount of blood that stained the blue cami a muddied shade of purple made her self conscious hiking uneven dirt and exposed tree root terrain, lest she trip and make things worse.
The stinging gash on her forehead had stopped bleeding sometime ago and now throbbed with warmth. With no aspirin or ibuprofen, she loathed the oncoming headache that would make sleep difficult, a minor complaint compared to her lack of shelter. Despite the good weather, the comfort of a backpack full of food, the wide open space, and especially the quiet surrounding her, she remained hyper alert. She constantly scanned the field, keeping her breath measured to attune to any zombie stumbling near by.
She stepped onto the playground area, spotted with weeds and dandelions. Warped cardboard cereal and cracker boxes were scattered amongst empty bottles of soda and juice. She wrinkled her nose at the bright blue torn condom wrappers at the foot of the slide.
An engine hummed along the road entering the park and a silver Subaru wagon made a lazy turn and drove across the parking lot. The reservoir was a wide open space and she’d be spotted, as well as if she ran back to the woods, if her feet didn’t catch a dead tree stump or zombie. She tossed the branch aside, crouched low and quickly climbed the fort’s metal ladder and huddled in the opening at the top of the slide, hoping they were temporary visitors.
The wagon squealed to a stop, and a pair of car doors opened and closed.
A haughty female voice said, “I keep saying, we didn’t get much this time.”
“It’s getting harder to trade for goods. They only want women now, girls preferably,” a nasally male voice said. “Most hikers we find are scrawny as a year-old zombie.”
“We still didn’t get much. Beans, peaches, a liter of water for the two of us after we gave them those two.”
“We just gotta keep our eyes out is all.”
Their footsteps shuffled on the dirt, and she breathed slow, her chest beating against the backpack she clutched in her lap. They weren’t going to leave, and she didn’t have anything to fight them off with, save hurling cans of food at them. And it didn’t sound like they’d be open to a trade of food for safety. She’d have to sit in place until they were asleep.
A light tap plunked on the outside of the slide.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember her mother before the chemo. Warm skin, auburn hair in a braid under a green floppy hat in her flower garden.
A scrape etched up the slide.
God damnit.
She squeezed her eyes tighter and balled her fists.
Crows feet at the corners of her mother’s eyes and wrinkles below her cheeks.
The scrape sound transformed into a persistent brush, tap, tap, brush pattern.
She’d claw, kick, punch.
Her mother placed her garden gloved hands on her hips.
A thump came from behind her, and she was yanked backward by a hand that felt like sandpaper. The back of her head hit a corner post at the top of the fort’s platform while her bag slammed into her face. She yelped and her bag was ripped from her arms and a well worn tennis shoe stopped short of crushing her windpipe.
“Lana, come speak of the devil and look what we have here,” the man said. He wore dirt brown jeans and a vintage Lynyrd Skynyrd tee shirt, and looked like he hadn’t shaved his greasy brown beard in weeks. His thin lips grinned and his deep set eyes were alive.
Lana climbed the ladder. She had dark blonde hair and round cheeks, and a scar ran diagonal across her left one. Her eyes and mouth went wide and she double tapped her hand against the wall of the fort. “Hell yeah! Sweetie, did you think we weren’t gonna notice ya up in here? Your shadow was clear as day. Give me her bag, Hank.”
Hank threw down the bag and the can inside plunked and jostled.
“Sounds like,” Lana unzipped the bag and smiled a toothy grin, “yep, you got food and… a laptop.”
“A computer?” Hank tilted his head.
“You got electricity?” Lana asked.
The girl shook her head.
“Interesting,” Lana said, her brows furrowed. “Hank, we’ll take her back to the trading post tomorrow, but lock her up in the car tonight.”
“Can do.”
Hank jerked the girl up and over his shoulders. She flailed her arms and kicked her legs as he attempted to get control of her. She pulled up the back of his shirt and clawed at his back.
“Shit, Jesus,” he yelped and twisted side to side. “Fine, be a difficult bitch.”
Hank stepped to the side of the fort and tossed her off the side. She landed first on her right buttock, but her torso flopped back and her head hit the ground and—
Chapter 10
Alan’s eyes darted across the array of monitors, mayhem growing exponentially in downtown Belleville. He sat paralyzed in the control room chair. Figures darted across the monitors and bright flashes of gunshots star burst on the screens. Failure mocked him, littering debris in his city street, and more importantly, fucking up his carefully planned assault on Nasher, not to mention the first experiment with his new drones.
When the semi flip, he rubbed his cheeks. When it and bounced along the parked cars, Alan whispered, “No, no, not like this, God damn it.” He turned to Sophie, “Get Ed back here, now.”
Sophie looked up. “Would you like me to alert the mayor, too?”
“What?” he said, still transfixed on the screen.
“Would you like me to call Mayor Denning?”
Caroline Denning knew nothing of tonight’s operation, and Alan preferred to keep it that way. She served as the friendly face to the city—a position he put her in.
Without knowing the outbreak was winding toward Containment day, Greenport survivors sought to restore a sense of order within its city limits, including elections and a city government. To assert his vision, he needed someone who could attract the spotlight while he worked backst
age, reimagining a city as his laboratory. He discovered her not long after she arrived to the city. She sold blankets for a merchant in parking lot turned bazaar, and Alan, seeking someone he could install as mayor, stopped to inquire about a new blanket. He conversed with a frizzy-haired brunette with brown eyes. During their talk she spoke of life as a mixed race woman in America who, before the Plague, performed in a semi-professional theatre troupe in Chicago.
Finding his star, he grinned.
“We were never big,” she said, emphasizing the lack of success, “but we always put on a good show, stripped-down versions of musicals and dramas.”
Alan watched her exaggerated facial expressions and hand gestures, quickly calculating how Caroline would serve as a good mayor.
“What if I put you on the city’s biggest stage,” he asked.
She paused before picking up a blanket. “What do you mean?”
Alan smiled. “Well you see, we’re going to need a mayor soon. People are talking about holding elections, and—”
“Oh, I know nothing of running a city,” she said, folding the blanket in front of her. “I barely kept my bank account in order before the Plague. Plus, people don’t know me,” she set the blanket down and patted it, “from any other woman with dirty hair walking in the city.”
“I could help you with that,” he said, picking up the blanket she just refolded. “I’d get you your own place with hot water, a bed for your own blankets, and,” he eyed her stained jeans and worn long sleeve tee, “fresh clothes. Surprisingly, the designer outfits and shoes didn’t get stolen, here.”
Caroline’s posture stood straight and her dimples leapt off her smile. “For real?”
“For real.”
“But…If I hear you right, I’ll win for sure, which means you’ll rig an election just so I can be mayor?”
“People just want a friendly face who makes things look like they’re getting done. Someone comforting. I’ll be behind you the whole way, making sure the city hums along.”
Alan walked behind her, and unfolded the blanket. “What do you say?” he said draping the blanket over her shoulders. “Mayor Caroline?”
Survivor Response Page 10