“I don’t need someone taking care of me!” Max snapped.
“With all due respect, Max, you have a deer carcass on your leg and can’t put weight on your left side. Buell, can you please search the house for some candles or food or some shit? I will be back in a few, bro.”
Buell knew damn well that, as tough as he is, Max would be an easy target if left alone. At least Buell could keep a constant moving watch, and get him in the truck in a pinch.
“All right, man, I will go look for the keys, but I bet they are down at the bottom of the hill with Hee Haw,” Buell answered.
I walked outside the sliding glass window, stepping over the body now covered with a curtain which had assumed a bloodred color. I looked over the edge of the balcony at the crash site, and could see the monster on the side of the road. I could also see how the balcony railing had collapsed. The dumbass probably heard the bikes, leaned too far, and broke through the weathered wooden railing. I should not be such an asshole. He could have been a decent guy just behind on his home repairs. It wasn’t his fault.
“So what do you think happened here?” Buell asked as he was washing his helmet in the sink.
“My guess is the jumper was bitten by the guy outside the door before, and he then decided he didn’t want to eat his family, and chose to end it. Maybe whoever is on the balcony showed up after,” I said, looking down at the body.
“Maybe they knew they were all infected. Word had been getting out about the flu vaccine. A couple of guys from that BBQ at the reservoir told me they had heard about it. Maybe they all had the vaccination and knew what was coming,” Buell theorized.
“Did you tell those guys at the BBQ about the senator? Or where we’re going?” I asked.
“Naw, man, this is all you, bro, nobody’s business.”
“Shit, I gotta go if I am gonna be back before dark,” I said while looking at my watch.
It was already twelve-thirty and Monterey was only thirty miles away, but the sun sets around five p.m. in California during November, so I needed to leave. I did not want to be rushed, and who the hell knew what I would find when I got there.
It was time.
“Aighty, bro, put the safety on your gun, so you don’t shoot yourself on the ride there. Oh hey, take this rifle,” Buell said as he lifted it from the floor. “It has a scope, you never know.” Buell then grabbed the opened box of rounds that was lying on the floor and stuffed them in my jacket pocket, zipped it closed, and slapped me on the back. “There’s the safety.” He pointed. “It’s got a scope on it ’cause it’s a deer-hunting rifle. That sucker will shoot at least a thousand yards with decent accuracy. Don’t lose that thing, I want to use it later.”
Thump.
We heard a noise coming from the kitchen—more like a soft tapping than the open-handed monster slap we had become so accustomed to. It came from the door to the pantry at the far end of the kitchen. I picked up the rifle, and Buell took it right out of my hands, gave me a tire iron, and pointed.
“You didn’t check?” I whispered.
Why did I ask that? I mean, if he had, we would not be standing here in this situation. It reminded me of when you lost something, and your mom said, “Where was the last place you saw it?”
As I approached the door by the kitchen nook, I saw a small piece of folded paper, wedged chest high in between the pantry and the door jamb. I grabbed the note, while Buell covered the door. Out of habit, I idly tried the door while still holding the folded piece of binder paper.
Locked.
Buell shined a small flashlight over my shoulder as I read the note. I dropped the note about five seconds later, stepped back, and slammed my tire iron down on the doorknob. Buell jumped back and shouted, “What the fuck, dude! Give me second to get rea—”
“Cover me, man,” I shouted as I grabbed Buell’s flashlight and pulled the door open.
The door led to a huge walk-in pantry. Inside there was food, water, camouflage suits, and even a few hunting bows hanging on the far wall. Hunters need some shelf space, and there was no shortage of it in this room. But hunting equipment was not what I was looking for.
There she was.
Hunched in the corner of the room, trying to hide behind a small folding camouflage chair and a dog bed, was Jordan. Well, that was the name on the note anyway:
If you find this note in the door, please be kind enough to check on my niece Jordan. If the note is on the floor, just know there may be a nine-year-old girl in the home, dead or alive or other.
She looked scared but unhurt.
“Hey, Jordan, we are the good guys, we aren’t going to hurt you,” I said as I put my hand out toward her.
Once she heard my voice and saw my normal colored complexion and eyes, she visibly eased up. I expected a longer conversation to coax her out of the pantry, but she quickly jumped up and ran past me to the bathroom.
“I gotta go potty!” she yelled, bolting past Buell and Max and the covered bodies on the floor without so much as a nod.
“I am gonna talk to her in the back for a minute. Buell, can you remove the bodies real qui—”
“Got it. It’s nothing I haven’t done—” Buell caught himself mid-sentence.
“It’s okay, man,” I said, punching him in the chest and smiling. And, strangely, it truly was okay. Emily was gone, and the more time passed, the less I grieved. I guess fate doesn’t always mean Happily Ever After, together.
Just then I heard the water faucet running in the bathroom. She’s washing her hands? Pretty impressive, I thought. I mean, with all things considered, proper hygiene at this point was impressive. Jordan stepped out of the bathroom looking ten times better than she did just a few moments ago.
“Is that your room down the hall? With the Taylor Swift posters?” I asked.
“No, my cousin’s,” she said, grabbing my hand as she stepped into the hall. “Is it okay in there?” she asked as her smile disappeared.
“Yes, we checked all the rooms. Don’t worry. That’s my buddy Buell, and that scruffy guy on the couch is Max,” I said pointing.
They waved and said hello. She waved, walked down the hall, opened the door to the little girl’s room, and pulled me inside. After about ten minutes of showing me around the bedroom, including her cousin’s impressive collection of stuffed animals, it dawned on me that I was running out of time. I looked at my watch and realized I needed to leave soon, but still I did not want to cut her off, so I went to my backup plan.
“Buell!” I shouted. “We good?”
Buell popped in, and I explained to her that I had to leave, and said he would be watching her until I got back. She seemed okay with that, which was no surprise. Buell was like a giant cartoon character, and all the girls loved him. He instantly became Uncle Buell after he labeled himself as such.
“Are any more of those mean people coming?” she asked.
“I don’t think so, honey, but Uncle Buell and Max are going to protect you,” I said, looking up at Buell, who was staring at the Taylor Swift poster.
He shook himself, looked down at her, and took a knee. “Yeah, sweetie, we will protect you.
“Well, I guess you are going alone, no matter what I say, huh?” Buell said looking to me.
I shrugged. “Serendipity.”
Chapter 20
“I bet she still starts right up."
I knelt down next to the KLR and double-checked my bags and the bungees which held the hunting rifle and the tire iron in place. I pulled a map out of my pocket and placed it in the clear sleeve on top of the tank bag, so I could follow the directions Buell highlighted for me.
It was thirty miles to the office supply store on the outskirts of Monterey if I took the highway, but I decided to use the trails and fire roads. Buell helped me plot a course that avoided the freeway altogether, at least until the last mile or so. It would take about thirty minutes longer to stay off the main highway, but I didn’t think there was much risk in the Santa Cruz Mou
ntains compared to the highway. I could get to within a mile or so of the outdoor strip mall by taking the back roads, and from that point, I was going to have to improvise.
I straddled the bike, started the engine, and flipped my visor down. I put on my gloves and looked at them closely. They no longer matched my gear as I swapped some of my stuff with Buell at his insistence. I figured a full leather suit would be tough for a zombie to bite through, and the added protection was worth the fashion faux pas of my clashing gloves. So this is how the Road Warrior felt?
I felt a sense of peace come over me as I let the clutch out and started my journey. This had become my battle, and I meant to finish it alone. I was about to go “make my mark” as Emily would say. I knew I was not coming back until this was settled, one way or another. Despite what I told my friends, I had no intention of just scoping things out. I felt guilty being disingenuous with Max and Buell, but I was sure they’d understand.
Who am I kidding, they fucking knew. This was never a reconnaissance mission. They weren’t naive.
As I was gearing up, Buell found the key to the truck, and it started right up when he tried it. It was a load off to know they could bug out at any time. The plan was for those two and the little girl to head back to Lexington Reservoir if I did not show up by tomorrow afternoon. I knew I wouldn’t make it back the same night.
As I put up the kickstand, a sudden wave of understanding came over me. The world was not ending. Now that the powers that be knew what was spreading this virus even more prolifically than the monsters, the United States could dig in, prepare for the inevitable war against a known enemy. I planned to join the greater war in due time, but first I had a little battle of my own to fight.
Along with this new understanding came an incredible epiphany. By alerting the media and blowing the whistle on Dr. Evans, Emily had most likely saved millions of lives. She had changed the tide of the first battle, depriving the virus of its element of surprise and letting people know what we were up against. How much longer could the vaccines have been distributed had Emily not made that vital information known? Emily was a hero and I want to write that down here, so everyone knows it.
My eyes were misty as I took the left onto Highway 9. I followed the road south for six miles, seeing an occasional car and a few people on foot. I was encouraged to see healthy people and even got a few waves from passing motorcyclists. The more the merrier, I thought. Then it was time for me to exit the highway and hit the dirt. I took a quick right off 9 before it crossed Highway 1. It would be all trails and fire roads for the next thirty-some miles.
As I rode into the direct sunlight I noticed a reflection coming from my tank bag as I looked down at the map under the plastic cover. I knew the source instantly. I slowed and stopped at the Aptos Creek trailhead then opened the flap on the side of my bag and removed my iPod. I grabbed the auxiliary cord out of my side pouch, plugged one end into the iPod and the other into the headphone jack on my helmet and selected shuffle.
Before I could release the clutch and start down the trail, “Talk to Ya Later” by the Tubes was blasting in my ears. While my musical taste is fairly eclectic, the majority of my MP3 player is filled with rock ’n’ roll from the ’80’s. This was a welcome song to resume my road trip. Listening to Fee Waybill belt out the lyrics certainly got my blood pumping. This was actually the first time I had listened to music since The Outbreak, and it was invigorating. I forgot how much I loved music. Hell, I forgot about music altogether. Hard to imagine that something that was such a huge part of one’s life can be completely forgotten in times of turmoil.
I followed the map as closely as I could manage while riding the bumps and divots of the trail. I welcomed the distraction of mountain bikers, horseback riders, and even some campers. The group of campers was perched on top of a large rock formation which appeared monster-proof.
I waved, no time for a stop-n-chat.
As “Red Barchetta” performed flawlessly by Rush massaged my eardrums, I headed southeast toward the fire road that would get me to within a mile of the office supply store. Buell would be proud of my riding pace, as it was brisk to say the least. My KLR’s suspension was working hard as I navigated the switchbacks and uneven earth. My mind was lost in thoughts about Emily and where my life was just a few short days ago. I made excellent time, and expected to reach the fire road intersection in about fifteen minutes. My shoulders were starting to tense up. I realized I was getting close to Monterey. I tried to listen to the music and enjoy the ride, but it was harder to relax the closer I got.
Twenty miles down the highway, my musical euphoria was stifled. The music was still blasting in my ears, but I could not hear it as all sound was drowned out by my brain shifting into soldier mode. A dozen monsters were straddling the road a hundred yards in front of me. There was an overturned church bus. Originally the monsters were heading the opposite direction but as my pipes whispered their combustion fueled notes, they turned. Looking to my left I saw a cliff face forming right at the shoulder, no dice. I looked to my right, and saw a meadow leading up to a gently sloping hill. This was my play, unless I wanted to turn around—which I did not. I hoped to ride west toward the coast and circumvent them by heading south over the hill. Thanks goodness for the KLR, not even Buell could ride across a meadow and up the face of a hill on a street bike.
Well, maybe he could.
I slowed to twenty-five, dropped the bike into second gear, and revved the motor enough to lift the front end as I dumped the clutch. Again noticing the music blasting into my ears, I pressed the iPod button to turn it off, this was gonna take all my concentration.
As soon as I left the street my smooth ride turned to a bumpy test of strength and skill. Had I just had my normal gear on, wrestling this uneven high grass meadow would have been considerably easier. But decked out in Buell’s leather, I felt like a fat guy trying to get to the middle of a movie theater with popcorn and sodas in tow.
After about a minute I began the ascent up the hill and to the south. The hill, though a fairly steep incline, was surprisingly smooth and a welcome respite for my arms and legs. I felt the rear tire lose traction momentarily until I shifted my weight back to plant the tire and gain purchase. I was just cresting the hill when the scene in front of me unfolded.
“Hey!” a man shouted, loud enough for me to hear over my motorcycle’s roar.
I took my eyes off the terrain long enough to see the source of the yelling. A man was in a tree, and there were four monsters clawing the trunk, trying to get purchase. I also noticed a pickup truck backed up to one side of the tree. It was the only tree on the hill, and he was perched about fifteen feet above the ground like a cat who had been run up a tree by a pack of dogs.
I waved emphatically to him to let him know backup had arrived and defaulted to my old standby offensive maneuver. Well, post–The Outbreak old anyway. I pointed my bike back down the hill and revved the motor and hit the horn. Before long all four of the clumsy monsters were on my tail. All four were women, and not one of them had an obvious wound. Maybe from the church bus? They shared the telltale black eyes and gray skin, but there was not a drop of blood to be seen. Were it not for those two fateful attributes, I certainly would not have been going the other direction with these women walking toward me. The smallest one, maybe five foot four or so, had the most normal gait, and she pulled ahead of the shambling others. She was approaching fairly quickly, so I was not able to sit and muse on their former attractiveness for more than a few seconds longer. Anyway as she got closer, I could see the bite mark on her hand and that kind of ruined the fantasy element. One small red patch and a missing finger was all it took to turn this otherwise pretty, petite woman into a fucking monster. Riley was going to pay, or I would die trying.
Once she got within ten feet of my bike, I sped back down the hill, in the direction I came. As I rode down the hill, the dozen or so other undead who had been blocking the road were approaching from my right, but still hu
ndreds of feet away. Damn these bastards were relentless. I looked back and saw I had pulled all four lady-monsters off the guy in the tree and proceeded to string them along at a wide arc west, away from both the road and the tree. I stopped and watched with a twinge of satisfaction as the four of them quickly lost their balance and tumbled down the hill. So these monsters were not good on uneven terrain, note to self.
My arms were tired and aching as I circumnavigated the remaining dozen monsters and pulled them away from the hill and the highway. Within moments, I had managed to corral them all into one pack a hundred yards west of the hill. As I turned east, I saw the highway in the distance and figured the guy was safe to come down.
“Aww shit,” I yelled into my helmet, turning my bike around as I realized what I had to do.
I rode straight back to the hill and headed for the tree. I had to see if that guy was okay, if his truck was running, if he’d made it. I thought back to when Buell and I had passed that house on our long ago Kmart run, and how bad it felt not stopping. It was a no-brainer, and I had time. Hell even if I hadn’t, I still would have turned around. The man was sitting in the truck bed wrapping rope around a tire. I pulled up next to him, turned off the KLR, took off my helmet, and offered a hand.
He shook my hand and smiled from ear to ear. He looked about forty, and had a lush beard that I would not be able to grow in a lifetime. He looked like he’d had a few too many beers in his life, but otherwise a fairly average-looking guy. Sweat glistened off his brown skin.
“Thanks for your help, man, I had no idea what I was going to do. Damn, they just snuck up on me,” he said and slapped me on the shoulder. “Name is Ron.”
“No problem, Ron. My name is Remy, you want some water?”
He waved me off with a smile.
“What the hell were you doing out here anyway?” I said as I stepped off the bike.
Riding The Apocalypse Page 16