...Shelter in place. Lock doors and windows. Await further instructions.
And then the message began again from the top.
The following message is transmitted at the request of the Arkansas State Emergency Management Agency. Due to the evolving situation in Maripo and Warren Counties, as of 5 pm, all residents of the state of Arkansas should remain indoors. Being outdoors—including driving—is extremely hazardous. If you become stranded, emergency vehicles will not be able to reach you. Shelter in place. Lock doors and windows. Await further instructions. Pause. The following message is transmitted at the request...”
It was unclear when the message first began its loop, but I assumed it was at least a day earlier, maybe two, and I took it to mean the worst had already occurred, that the Corrupted had indeed made it as far south as we were then—across the Arkansas state line—and had likely been spotted somewhere in the area. Suddenly, the ‘They’ in Charlotte’s sister’s message was as clear as a bell.
I heard the thump of the pump, indicating the tank was full, and I grunted in surprise, returning to the moment. I exited the car and quickly pulled the nozzle from the tank, and as I turned to place it back in the metal slot, a reflection on the street, from something distant and moving, caught my eye.
The stretch of road between Drew’s and our cabin was as straight as a pencil, and any vehicle headed toward me—or away for that matter—could be seen from miles away. But I knew it was no vehicle moving toward me; the image was too small and low to the ground, and it wasn’t covering ground the way a car would.
I had a pair of binoculars back at the cabin but not in the SUV, so I pulled out my phone and tapped the camera app, and then I heaved myself up to the roof of the Explorer and focused the phone horizontally on the horizon, toward the reflection.
I couldn’t make out any details on the screen, only the flash of the sun as it hit the image and retreated, like a beacon calling from a lighthouse. But I could see shapes, at least three of them, and they were headed in my direction.
Running. Moving the way living things do.
I coughed in fear as a wave of nausea filled my belly. There was an agitation to the approaching movement. Franticness. Were they men? Travelers on the run from the meltdown of Maripo?
(“No matter who comes, we don’t let them in.)
It was possible, but I knew better.
“Oh, Jesus.”
I slid down the windshield and hopped to the ground, and as I turned to run back inside the store, Charlotte and the kids were on their way out, each with several bags in their hands, including in Ryan’s.
“Come on! Now!”
Charlotte stiffened immediately and began striding toward the SUV, pushing the kids from the back as she did a panoramic surveillance of the area. “What is it?”
I opened the door to the back and shuffled the kids inside, and as I lifted Ryan into his seat, I instinctively turned again to the street. I could see them clearly now, the cold, blank expressions in their eyes, a look I had come to know so well from the famous parking garage footage. For a moment, I was paralyzed by the approaching beasts, my legs feeling cramped and heavy, as if all the fear in my body had suddenly flooded down from my head and torso and collected in them. But I recovered quickly and snapped at Ryan, “Strap yourself in,” and then I closed the door and darted around toward the back of the truck, headed for the driver’s side of the Explorer.
The move was a mistake; I knew it before I slammed the back door closed. I wasn’t going to make it to the driver’s door, not with enough time to reach it, open it, and then close it again without the monster’s hands finding their way inside. I should have gotten in with Ryan and just climbed over him to the driver’s seat.
I heard Emerson scream first, and then Charlotte, and when I cleared the tailgate of the SUV, I could see the Corrupted already on the grounds. Then, for just a moment, they disappeared, blending in with the white pole that held the signage for Drew’s, advertising regular unleaded for $2.59 a gallon. But as quickly as they were gone, they reappeared, and within seconds they were standing beside the forward pump, the one in front of where the Explorer was parked currently.
They stood swaying on their haunches now, no longer moving forward, instead staring with interest at my family who sat mesmerized behind the protection of the glass windshield.
“Lock the doors!” I yelled. It was all I could manage; otherwise, I stood frozen near the back bumper, level with the driver’s side quarter panel, watching the grey monsters with dread and suspicion. They were simply hovering on their haunches now, hunched and curious as they watched us, their postures reminding me of the flying monkeys from The Wizard of Oz.
“David, no!” I heard Charlotte scream, followed by a chorus of “Dads!” and “Daddys!” coming from the back seat.
I reached for the gun at my back, intending to fire a single shot into the air and hopefully draw the monsters toward me; but the .357 was currently tucked beneath the driver’s seat, hidden from view, resting in the place to which I had automatically returned it as I waited for the tank to fill.
“Dammit!” I said to myself, and then, as if I were looking for trouble from some burly guy in a pool hall, I yelled, “Hey, assholes!”
All three of the Corrupted turned their attention to me, in unison, each of them holding a steady stare as they bobbed and jerked their heads spastically, up and down, side to side, as if afflicted with some disorder of the nervous system. But their attention on me didn’t last long, not consistently, and within seconds, their gazes were back on the Explorer and its contents, just for a moment, before returning to me again, back and forth, as if they were watching a tennis match.
And then, suddenly, as if an internal alarm had sounded within them, the trio of Corrupted broke from their holding position and began to move forward, in a straight line toward the front of the truck.
My first instinct was to fan out to the left and keep a visual on them as they approached. But I resisted the urge, deciding instead to let the move play out, holding out hope that maybe the creatures would be drawn to the store instead, to the neon of the signage or the smell of food and stale coffee.
They had moved close enough to the SUV now that I could no longer see them from my position, so low to the ground were they, and I could only cringe at the sounds of the screams from inside the Explorer, which were ones of pure terror. My family was blind to the position of the monsters now, which was almost certainly the cause of their panic, and I was beginning to rattle as well as I considered my children’s fear and the pain they would experience if their dad didn’t survive the day.
My brain clicked on and ordered me to move back, away from the pumps. I needed space to see the monsters, room to draw them out, toward me, while still leaving myself time to react to the imminent attack. I could only hope that when they did come for me, they would do so as a group, clumped together as one mass. If they split up, if at least one of them fanned out toward the passenger side and came at me from the opposite angle as the others, I knew I would be in a heap of trouble.
I began to backpedal, slowly at first and then at more of a jogging pace, screaming at the top of my lungs as I went. Then, when I’d created a wide enough gap between me and the Explorer, I turned my back and ran, fifteen paces perhaps, continuing to scream as I covered the short distance. On a dime, I stopped and turned back toward the pumps.
The Corrupted were nowhere to be seen.
I quickly estimated I was about forty yards or so from the Explorer now, and I could see Emerson in the back window—just barely—the outline of her face and the shine of her eyes. The tint of the glass hid any detail of expression she might have been showing, but it appeared she was holding up a hand, perhaps pointing, trying to give me a signal. If she were, however, I couldn’t make out the instruction from that distance.
I began to sweat and cough, nearing the verge of hysteria as the lack of a visual on the trio of beasts began to suffocate m
e. I didn’t know if they were currently on the hood of the car, pressing against the windshield, or perhaps had dropped down beneath it and were trying to come up through the floorboards
But if the latter were the case, the shrieks from inside the SUV would have been deafening, so I could only assume the creatures were still too low for anyone in the car to see them.
I took a step back toward the car, not quite knowing the plan now. But in seconds, it was decided for me.
They appeared one by one, two of the mutants arriving at the driver’s side of the Explorer, the third on the passenger side, appearing timid as they came, like a frightened animal who, after hours of siege, had suddenly decided to test the waters. At their appearance, I felt a sigh of relief emerge in my chest, despite having arrived in the position I had feared most, two on one side and one on the other.
They cleared the back bumper of the SUV by six feet or so and then stopped, their black eyes unblinking as they studied their quarry. The Explorer suddenly rumbled to life behind them, Charlotte starting the car, and though the beasts were momentarily startled by the engine, peeking behind them at the disturbance, their attention didn’t linger there long, and they were quickly back to focusing on me.
Thank god, Charlotte. Get out of here.
The Corrupted on my right, the solo attacker, took two hopping steps forward and to its left, widening the perimeter. Then, a second later, the two creatures to my left made a move which mirrored that of their friend across from them. In seconds, the creatures were on my flanks, distancing and widening their positions, creeping steadily into my blind spots as they came, leaving the path in front of me wide and clear. The lane was inviting; I could sprint through it, use the best of what was left in my middle-aged legs and maybe even make it to the car before they caught up to me. But we weren’t playing a game of tag. For the risk to pay off, I had to get to the car, open the door, get inside, and close the door again. It was an impossibility; by the time I opened the door, their fingers would have been around every one of my limbs, pulling me down to the ground as they began to rip me apart. Had I been alone, perhaps the risk would have been worth it, a long shot with a worthwhile pay off. But with my family inside the truck, all I would have done was expose them to the danger, and that was a risk I would never take.
I turned to see what options lay behind me, but there was only the unending asphalt of Campbell Farm Road stretching into eternity, and the lush cover of white oaks lining the roadway. The forest was a possibility, fleeing into the shroud of branches and greenery, but it was one of a last resort. Even if I could make it through the tree line and onto the forest floor, there was little doubt the threesome would be upon me moments later, devouring me like a swarm of white hornets on a housefly.
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to imagine some as-of-yet-unforeseen solution, and suddenly music began to play in my mind, the glorious woodwinds of Ravel’s Bolero piercing the quiet air of the Arkansas countryside. For a moment, I considered this was the music of my death, a requiem for the angels that had been sent down to retrieve my immortal soul. But my mind instinctually searched for less ethereal sources of the orchestral piece, and finally it occurred to me: the music was coming from my pocket.
My cell phone.
I pulled the phone from my pocket and stared at it as if it were something foreign and dangerous, but when I saw my wife’s name—along with her beautiful smiling face on the screen—I realized she was calling me from the truck, igniting my Bolero ring tone.
I tapped the screen to answer and held the phone to my ear, watching as the creatures continued to move closer, noting the absurdity of the scene, as if I were closing some business deal while absently watching my daughter’s softball game. I could no longer see the pair on my left and the one to my right simultaneously. They were out of my periphery now; I had to follow one or the other.
I answered the call, “Charlotte, why are you still he—”
“Shut up, David and listen to me.” Charlotte’s voice was as stern as I had ever heard it, as if she had only seconds to diffuse a bomb and couldn’t waste a beat on superfluous conversation. “Here is what you’re going to do. The second you hang up the phone, you’re going to run to the truck like you’re goddamn Usain Bolt. Not to the doors, but to the back. The bumper. When you get to it, you need to jump on and grab the luggage rack tight. Tight! And then we’re going to get the fuck out of here. I can see them in the mirrors. They’re very spread out, which means you must have a wide lane in front of you. I know you don’t run the forty like you did in high school, but you’ve got enough for this. I know you do.”
I was prepared to argue, but what was the point? It was a good plan. “Okay, but you should get the car rolling a little—like we’re in a relay race and I’m handing off the baton to you. And don’t wait for confirmation. Once you feel me hit that bumper—or not—get going.”
There was the slightest of hesitations. “I’m hanging up now. You better be on your way in the next five seconds.”
I stuffed the phone back in my pocket and, almost by instinct, I lifted my foot and grabbed it behind me, stretching the quad on my right leg. I glanced one more time in both directions and then back toward the awaiting bumper of my Ford Explorer.
And then I ran.
4: The Intruders
The world went silent, as if for a moment I had gone deaf; all I could hear were the noises coming from within. The beating of my heart. The voices of doubt in my mind. From the fringes of my sight I could see fleshy death chasing me, gaining ground, closing on me in a gradual v-shaped pattern.
Unconsciously, I pondered the mutants, considering in that brief, flashing sprint what thoughts they were generating, if any at all. Were they on par with those of a pride of lions or pack of wolves? Purely instinctual, processing only the satiation of hunger and any surrounding danger that might prevent it? Or was there humanity left in the Corrupted, a sense of being and introspection, even if they were no longer able to identify the qualities as such? They were humans, after all, at least they had been at one time, before the accident or experiment or whatever had occurred back in May in Warren County.
The accident.
To date, there had been no official explanation for what had brought Warren and its neighboring county of Maripo to its knees, and there had been shockingly few investigative reports on the matter. Where were the crying families who had loved ones trapped inside? Where was the class-action lawsuit against the manufacturers of the disaster, assuming it wasn’t anything natural that had turned the people of those areas into chalky zombies?
I was halfway to the truck—a sprint which, on a good day, should have been shorter than six seconds—when I knew I wouldn’t make it. The two corrupted to my left had already overtaken me and were moving in to block my path to the bumper. The one to my right was still even with me, even lagging a little, and I soon realized it was purposeful, a strategy so that it could move in behind me, closing the snare.
I stopped running, nearly falling over as I did, which, had that happened, would have certainly been the death knell, a signal for the predators to move in for the kill. But I maintained my footing and was now standing only ten yards or so from the monsters in front of me, the one behind perhaps a few yards more distant.
I felt my throat tighten as my mortality set in, and my only prayer was that Charlotte wouldn’t make any desperate attempts with the gun below the seat. Then, as if my prayers were being instantly answered, I saw the brake lights flash and the car begin to pull away.
Thank God, I thought, thankful for Charlotte’s sense of preservation, both for herself and our kids. It was her only choice, and though fear gripped me like the jaws of a vise, I was glad she had made it quickly.
“Don’t stop,” I whispered, nodding with encouragement for the car to continue moving forward to the exit of the station. Then, as if my spoken words were some type of opposite incantation, the white of the reverse lights flashed to life, and
a second later, I heard the squeal of the tires as the truck began to roll quickly backward.
It took me a moment to realize what was occurring, but my reaction was speedy enough, and I scurried to my right and collapsed to the ground in a combination head-first dive and shoulder roll, feeling the gravel and pebbles of the unpaved lot etch into my right cheek and forehead. I was on my knees almost immediately, in time to see that the mutants were again coming toward me. It was as I suspected; the moment I hit the ground, they sensed vulnerability.
But they took only a step before the chrome bumper of the Explorer collided with their ribcages simultaneously, like a professional bowler casually picking up the eight and nine pins for the easy spare.
The Explorer bounced as it rolled over top of the monsters, and I winced at the gruesome sound of crunching bone beneath the tires, the tearing of skin and muscle as the flesh snagged in the underbelly of the two-ton vehicle. But there came from the beasts no screams; if the pair of Corrupted were still alive as the truck flattened them, there was no indication of it vocally, like the silence of an ant dying under the boot of a hiker.
The SUV continued backward toward the third mutant, but that one had already started toward me as well and was now out of the path of the truck.
From my knees I yelled, “Go! Do the plan!” and then I looked to the misshapen ape moving toward me, ambling and distressed, perhaps subdued from the loss of its partners.
The Explorer began to roll forward again, and I got to my feet. The Corrupted was now only steps away, but my adrenaline was flowing like gasoline, and I re-ignited my sprint toward the truck, praying the energy in my legs remained.
I felt the burn, the desire for my thighs and calves to give out; but I willed them to action for a few strides more, and when I reached the back of the Explorer, I leapt like a ballerina to the chrome ledge, feeling the friction of the rubber sole of my shoe as it gripped the bumper. I quickly grabbed the luggage rack with my right hand and pulled myself onto the SUV, and from there, Charlotte merged onto Campbell Farm Road with me riding the bumper like a Dust Bowl migrant worker headed west for a brighter future.
The Ghosts of Winter Page 3