by Jay Smith
Bubbacop didn’t have anything over his face. It was red and his mouth hung open to catch the air. I don't think he ever kept up a pace like that in real life because he was puffing and swelling like a respirator balloon, sweat pouring down his back and staining his yellow shirt an ugly mustard color. It looked like someone turned on a faucet inside his cowboy hat. I imagine I was a wet mess myself. Being skinny isn't the same as being in shape, after all.
We stepped between a small purple car and an old truck with one of those camper things in its bed. Bubbacaop had to stop a moment to figure a way through a narrow gap. It took him a second to decide to back up and go around the purple car to the left instead of up the middle between it and the truck. That gave me time to close the fifty yards or whatever he'd built up between us. I didn't know where the hell we were going, so I didn't really want to lose sight of him. When he ducked left, I ducked left out of fear I'd lose him between the cars. As I did, I noticed the rear door of the camper open. I say notice, but I mean it barely registered under my desperate need to keep up with this gasping asshole in a stupid hat.
By dodging left around an abandoned shopping cart, I completely lost sight of Bubbacop. I came around to the left side of the purple car and considered climbing up on top of the car…maybe the truck…to see if I could catch sight of Bubbacop or where he might be headed. I thought maybe I could ask the skinny man over by the truck if he knew what the hell was going on or where we were supposed to go.
But the skinny man over by the truck wasn’t going to answer me. His mouth was full. And his face and shoulder were black, but his right arm was pale white. A scorched gray t-shirt covered a distended, blue-purple belly that hung down over his naked crotch. He wore jeans, but they were open and were low on his thighs, making it difficult for him…it…to shuffle forward.
The blackened face was due to severe burns, like someone had pushed a torch into his face or he had fallen into a campfire. The skin had curled back in places and the muscle glistened with a puss of melted fat. Its left eye was missing, probably boiled away by fire. With every movement of the thing’s jaw, charred skin flaked off over his shirt and onto the road, sprinkling over the fresh, bloody string of entrails it had been feeding into its horrible mouth. It’s only eye, lidless and bulging from its socket, seemed fixed on me.
Within a second of realizing what the thing in front of me was, it realized what I was and began to move toward me, slowly as though the act of eating and walking were difficult to process at the same time. It pulled sausage links of intestines, still bulging with undigested contents, along from behind and I realized that they led back into the bed of the truck. They pulled tight like a leash against a fence as he advanced.
When the length of entrails caught on the closed camper door the thing paused as if to make a decision. The hand and arm holding what it saw as food fell back while its free arm reached out toward me. It was ten feet away in the other lane but with nothing between us. It started forward, the greasy red meat sliding through its fingers that slowly parted and curled toward me. It made no sound except for the slap-scrape of its footsteps. If it had not taken notice of me, if it had been content with its meal, I might have been able to tear the image from my mind and run off. It moved slowly, deliberately, but with pain and confusion – like it didn’t have control of itself. But at that moment, it was a problem we shared.
To my left, from the direction Bubbacop disappeared, I spotted another shape heading my direction. Hoping it was my escort, I turned and called for help, but I found a second corpse standing at the front of a delivery truck parked on the far side of the purple car. This one was an older man in bloodied jeans and a biker vest. He was well over 200 pounds even though he was missing most of both arms. Soon there were more of them popping up from behind or in gaps between cars. They were all looking at me (if you can say the dead can do that) like I wasn’t supposed to be there, like I was the intruder in the dirt.
A journalist with a missing jaw and a camera still slung over his neck. An older woman with peroxide blonde hair, yoga pants and a chest torn open from her Throat to her Sacral Chakra. An old man in a powder blue track suit, his right cheek smashed into pulp and a crowbar hooked into his exposed rib cage. Two medics in bullet-punctured reflective jackets. A fast food worker still wearing her drive-through headset. A four year old boy with no face, no teeth… Just eyes on a pulpy glob of meat and bone. I hope that writing this down means I can start forgetting those images. I’d really like to. Those and the hundreds of other eaters and lifeless bodies along the road. They say panic enhances the memory and as I stood there screaming into the jacket still pressed against my mouth, I took in every streak and smear of dried blood on their fingers, every bit of inside left hanging on the outside and every hungry grunt and gargle from deep inside their dead chest…
The hand that went over my mouth made me realize that I had been screaming and as I realized this, I started moving. Another arm pulled me backwards. My throat felt raw, dry and swollen and my nails were deep into my palms.
A voice behind me shouted “no guns, no guns: It’s a herd!” And all around me, shapes leaped into view with swords and bats, I kept moving backward and the voice continued to assure me I’d be okay and I watched fast moving shapes obscure my view of the corpses, flash metal and wooden implements of destruction and go to work in the dying light.
I turned around to face the direction we were moving and got control of my legs. My escort kept pace with me and kept telling me gently, but firmly “move! Move! 30 yards, bear right around that cargo van! Watch that pile of boxes! Just a little further down! Keep going! Look for the sign to Liberty Road!” I kept looking for Liberty Road. My heart and lunch couldn’t keep up with my need to keep moving and I felt sick. A thick gray haze covered the road near the Liberty Road exit. The sign over the highway had big holes in it and the cars were lined up across four lanes in a row of black, twisted metal. It felt like a movie set, but smelled like someone roasted a pig inside a car. I was choking, drowning in the air and exhausted. I collapsed at the side of the road to die.
Somehow, I fought on because I remember being awake inside a shelter surrounded by soldiers. No tin star deputies. No corpses. Just the Red Devils of the 82nd Airborne Division, Company C.
CHAPTER THREE – GET ON THE BUS
A yellow school bus arrived and the dozen of us piled on. Instead of cops, we were now dealing with soldiers. Everyone looked focused on the task. No polite greetings. Questions got answered with short, direct statements punctuated by “ma’am” or “sir .” No one knew what was happening or the scope of it or when it would be over. Their answers felt sincere, like they’d been wondering the same thing themselves for a while.
Here's what I wrote from the bus.
I imagine that this must be what new settlers felt like as they set out into the old west. There are sour-looking guys up on the roof of these buses with more guns and ammo than I've ever seen except in movies. Everybody here is either cowering down in their seat to avoid the windows or staring up over the rebar and welded bars protecting them from whatever's outside. Of course the old west didn't have diesel engines or radios. They didn't have hollow-point explosive rounds like the ones these boys are so proud of up on the roof. The inside of the bus stinks. There's no toilet and little ventilation. We're packed in pretty tight, but no one wants to talk or even acknowledge the other people rubbing up against them. So one wants to look at anyone else. You can tell who's with whom because those are the only groups that look each other in the eyes. We have kids here, too. You'd expect them to be fussy or acting up from all the boredom and waiting, lack of food or the funky humid stink...but all of them, even the smallest ones, are too tired to even complain.
The soldier driving the bus will only say we're headed to a relocation center where I hear we'll be able to try and contact our loved ones and tell them we're safe. Not sure I believe it. [Author's Note: Boy was I right, there!] . After that, he goes back to h
is no-nonsense, no-tolerance-for-tom-foolery soldier face, keeping eyes on the road and his hands at 10 and 2. There's another soldier in the back of the bus, Sergeant Charlie Rock of the 82nd Airborne. His eyes are sharp, set deep in dark circles. I don't know what he's looking for out there, but it scares the hell out of him. He's from Tennessee, says he's 22 but looks at least 30. He, like most of the uniformed soldiers I've seen, is running on some secret reserve that keeps fighters from drifting away like the rest of these people. They remind me of every news story of a disaster's aftermath I've ever seen. Their clothes and bodies are caked in mud and blood and they've stopped caring. The shock has worn off. It scares me to think this is their new reality as sheep on a bus, content to accept their losses and go along for the ride. The sergeant hasn't fallen to that level, but I'm watching the lights in his eyes flicker. It's only when he openly engages someone that the light glows bright again. But right now, there's nothing to do but sit and wait, keep an eye on the edge of the road and over this flock of sheep heading northwest.
Sergeant Rock -- yeah, I know -- doesn't seem to expect anyone to cause a fuss because there is no meal service or any on-board entertainment. He just casts a casual glance up the rows from time to time, not really seeing the people in the seats. I asked him if he had family back home in Tennessee and he told me he had family all over. He has an ex-wife in Chattanooga and brothers helping evacuate Philadelphia, a girlfriend, nephews, comrades, pets and all that. I asked him what's going on in the world and he told me he's under orders not to discuss what he's seen because it could cause a panic or contribute to the spread of rumors and misinformation. He did tell me that he dropped out of a plane over a completely blacked out Manhattan Island and had to chute through something he described as "worse than 9/11 and worse than his worst month in Iraq." Once a little distance down that track, his train of thought got too rough and he switched back to the moment...the here and now of our situation. He reset to the default response of a forced smile and the promise that we'll all be okay once we got to Site 2210.
"What's Site 2210," I asked.
He took a breath and raised his voice a little so people could hear in the adjacent seats. "Site 2210 is a relocation center serving western Pennsylvania, New York and Ohio where you will be processed, given shelter, food and some rest before being sent elsewhere."
"What do you mean 'elsewhere'," someone else asked. Fair question.
He peered up the center aisle toward the source of the voice, then I saw him lock eyes with the driver who was glaring back through the rear view mirror. He answered "I am not at liberty to say."
It was dark and I overheard something about roaming hostiles. We were all instructed to remain silent -- no problem with this crowd -- and to keep away from the windows. We were advised to try and sleep if possible. We were driving by night vision. The sergeant didn’t give me a hard time about my book light, I guess because my window is completely covered by sheet metal and the light is too dim to be seen beyond my row. I write this now because I’m afraid to close my eyes, afraid of what might reach out for me from the darkness. So I watch the sad young sergeant. He’s keeping watch on the roadside. His eyes glow with the flickering green light of his night goggles.
I can’t sleep because I know what he’s looking for. I know what he’s seen. Out there, in the dark, oblivious to the absence of sun are the dead ones. And they’re coming for us wherever we go.
CHAPTER FOUR – AUTHOR’S NOTE
I look back at that trip from my place here at “Site #2210” and I don’t know what I pictured it would be. Since then, I’ve learned not to trust anyone in authority to know what the hell is going on. I’ve learned not to accept someone’s promise that something is “safe” or “it’ll all be all right.” Around here, you don’t ask about it. You don’t think about it. And somehow, people think that’s okay. The walls are thick. The fences are steel, 40-feet high, topped with razor wire that can be electrified. When an eater comes up to a spot that isn’t covered in plywood or sandbags, they don’t last.
We’re in this phase of denial with a sense of total safety. Some of these people are so deluded that they think living in a cot in a tool shed is better than the life they had before they got here. Maybe it was, but I cannot imagine that all of these people – the former bankers, lawyers, teachers and builders, some with kids – believe that crap. Some of these people came here in the same bus convoy. They saw the same things I saw and maybe they assume all is lost, like this is the last patch of humanity left on the planet and they’re content to live in this human zoo, even have children here. I heard Constable Harris talk the other day about opening up a school here. And not like a trade school – history and art and manners…soft skills to help them integrate and become used to this brave new world they’ve constructed. I’ll admit, compared to the trip here, I was tempted to treat the inside of these walls as a god-damned paradise. But not anymore. Before I write all that down, I have to make sure you know the whole story. Before I tell you about Jack and that psychotic, ice-skate wearing blob called Ruby, the pervert hoarding contraband and the sadistic constable with naked pictures of a dozen women in this facility… before I tell you about these monsters I need to compare and contrast them against the ones outside. So let’s go back to the bus so you know why most everybody here is so damned happy to be useful idiots inside HG World.
CHAPTER FIVE – ON THE ROAD
The few hours I’d spent back at the FEMA camp waiting for the bus gave me an opportunity to record my name with a processing worker; a lost-looking woman with a name badge reading “Ginny Swann .” In another life, Ginny Swann might have been the sweetest, most generous person in the world. She looked the part of a mom, though I can’t really explain why I thought that. Here, though, she looked like a ghost. Ginny processed new arrivals to the camp and kept an eye on every face that entered the processing tent. Distractedly, she asked me for identification, about where I had been heading, who might be looking for me and any message I had for them in case they came through. Ginny’s eyes were red and she typed my information into a laptop. There was a moment when our conversation stopped abruptly and she stood up in her chair with a look of hope and excitement, only to melt back down into her seat looking like someone else got the award for Best Processing Clerk. I think it might have been that moment when I saw the real Ginny emerge from that shell that I pegged her as a bright, bubbly human being. But that person disappeared like the soul from a corpse by the time she looked back at me. She apologized, of course, and resumed the interview.
I was pretty sure I knew the answer, but I had to ask: “What are you looking for?” I could tell she didn’t want to, but answered softly: “My husband and son. I last saw them back in Mansfield. I’m told anyone they find on Interstate 80 gets processed here, so I volunteered to stay and help them work in case they showed up.” I asked how long she’d been there and she had to think. The best she could come up with was “Days…I think.” And then she returned to processing my information so the next poor soul could tell her his life story. In the end, Ginny handed me a voucher for services in the camp while I waited for the bus. I wanted to tell Ginny I’d keep an eye out for her family, but I think even at that point I knew it would be just a comforting lie.
On the hastily written and typo-riddled document, FEMA promised to pass the info I gave Ginny along, but didn’t tell me where or to whom. It said, “Watch for the buses as they arrive and gather promptly at the door of bus number…” Ginny scribbled a number in the blank space. “Buses will not be announced and will only remain at the center for ten minutes.” It continued with a lot of scolding and consequences for missing a bus. Its coupons were good for a ration of water, a couple of granola bars, a change of clothes, shower and access to a power strip to recharge my gadgets. I think I was most grateful for the power-up.
I keep everything straight and organized in my school netbook, so I was glad to board the bus with fully charged gadget. While catching up o
n my journal on the road, I kept checking the little, spinny network icon in the bottom right corner of the screen, hoping it would change to a green checkmark. If it did I would upload my files and a simple message to my mom’s email: “I’m alive. Headed 2 Relocation Site #2210.” I did not add “Wherever the hell that is.”
Meanwhile my cell phone had like a dozen or so texts cycling through infinite resend attempts with the same message. I hit everyone in my contact list hoping maybe one of them still had service. All that seemed to do was bleed the battery, but I had to try.
Every so often someone would detect a weak wireless network signal and send a ripple of hope through the crowd. This happened at the processing center and on the buses. We heard claims that some email and texts were squeaking through before the connection winked out. None of those people could confirm anything they sent made it where it was going. To keep trying might seem pointless, but committing my phone to that one task on a never-ending cycle made part of my brain feel like it was doing something about the situation. It freed that part of my mind to focus on my more immediate problems.