A Place Called Hope (Z-Day Book 2)

by Daniel Humphreys

  And he’d never been much of a runner.

  “We gotta get inside,” the older man breathed.

  Jason snapped, “What about Barry? Can we carry him inside like this?”

  Boots thumped in the bed of the pickup truck as the florid man returned. He hesitated as he saw the line of infected stumbling their way and murmured, “Oh, shit.”

  He jumped up and over the cab and off the hood. He came halfway down the ramp and shoved a hard rectangle into Sandy’s chest. “We can’t do this out here. Can we move him?”

  Sandy was too flabbergasted at what the other man had brought to offer any sort of cogent response. It was a small metal kit of the type you might find in a glove box. He opened it with shaking hands, smearing blood on the glossy white finish. It had a partial tube of antiseptic ointment, an assortment of Band-Aids, and a roll of gauze.

  “I can’t do anything with this!”

  Barry groaned, and his breath rattled in his throat. Sandy looked down. The old timer had stopped breathing. He stared blankly at the sky.

  The florid-cheeked man reached out and shook Sandy by the shoulder. “Mister, come on. It’s all right. But we need to get inside and block off the driveway with the plow blade.”

  “Will it stop all of them?”

  “I sure as hell hope so.”

  Chapter 6

  March 11, 2026

  Forward Operating Base Hope—Southwestern Indiana

  Z-Day + 3,066

  The piston of the reloading press rose, socketing the polished brass of the shell casing into the die set screwed into the top of the large oval frame. Charlie lifted the handle, separating the brass from the die with a soft pop, and lowered the piston to its home position. He drew the casing from the shell holder and studied the flared rim of the brass. After a moment, he nodded to himself in satisfaction and poured in a measured amount of powder using a small, almost delicate, scoop. He replaced the brass in the holder and fit a heavy, cast-lead bullet into the flared opening. Taking his time—slow is smooth, smooth is fast—he unscrewed the die and replaced it with another, calibrated assembly. He repeated his initial process, and a finished cartridge sat in the shell holder.

  The bullet was hand-cast from melted-down wheel weights but was no less effective for the crudity of its construction. Up until last week, Charlie’s weapon of choice had been a WWII-surplus M-1 Carbine. In the desperate fight for survival, he’d swapped it out for a harder-hitting Marlin lever-action chambered in .44 Magnum.

  Considering that the shamblers that he’d thought were rotting away to nothing were now running and shrugging off all but the most accurate of headshots, something with a little more oomph seemed called for. Maybe the Marlin wasn’t the best choice, but it had saved his bacon, and that gave it sentimental value in his book.

  He still had plenty of compatible rounds for it, but Charlie, like all the survivors of the Hope community, hadn’t made it this far without being scrupulous about ‘waste not, want not.’

  Anyway, reloading gave him the opportunity to zone out and avoid thinking about things.

  He didn’t think Eberman had thrown any obstacles in his way, but it was a moot point. By the time he’d stormed out of the clinic and gone looking for the rest of his crew, they’d already joined up with another group and headed out on a run. One big advantage the Marines had brought with them was drone reconnaissance, and on a recent sweep, they’d noted a subdivision that seemed to be both bereft of shamblers and intact. The salvage teams had united and were hitting the neighborhood to strip it in force before any unwanted attention came upon them.

  As a result, he was rattling around the community with little to occupy his time. After lunch, he’d bounced off the walls of his cabin for a while. He’d read every book in the place three times if not more, but he wasn’t feeling social enough to go browsing through the library. If Charlie had thought that people considering him a freak was bad, being on the pedestal of a hero was annoying.

  So he made ammunition.

  He was midway through another downstroke when someone rapped on the door to his cabin. Annoyed, he paused, then rushed through the steps to complete the round. By the time he’d dropped the completed product into the old tin can he was using to hold them and pushed his chair back from his workbench, his visitor had knocked two more times.

  He couldn’t keep the annoyance out of his voice. “Coming.” He pulled the door open, prepared for someone to demand he report back to the clinic for more tests. He needn’t have worried—the visitors were friends.

  Frannie Ferguson was one of the founding members of the community. A registered nurse, she’d been at ground zero of the outbreak on Z-Day, right in the middle of a double shift at the local hospital. What most of the world believed was a virulent strain of the flu originating in Brazil had actually been a revolutionary blend of nanotechnology and virology. On Z-Day, the technological side of the virus went active. The infected dropped dead, only to rise moments later with their bodies co-opted for the sole purpose of spreading the disease.

  A more common outbreak might have been more survivable. Authorities could have quarantined centers of infection and slowed the spread. Instead of a brushfire, Z-Day had wrought an almost simultaneous worldwide conflagration. The mechanism of civilization failed in a matter of days.

  Charlie’s introduction to the changed world had been bad enough, but he’d never fathomed how Frannie and Trina Matthews—the community’s doctor—had made it out of Lewisville Regional Hospital alive.

  Now that he had his voice back, he might have the opportunity to ask. Charlie had the good fortune to be immune to the nanoplague. Every other survivor he’d ever met hadn’t been so lucky. Bites were a guaranteed source of infection, and scratches were a 50/50 proposition. Survival post Z-Day was a harsh, Darwinian process. The members of the community were either capable or lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.

  “Hello, Frannie,” Charlie lowered his eyes to meet those of her young son, Cole. The skinny youngster far preferred the nickname bestowed upon him by the younger members of the community. “Hey, Twigs.” The little guy gave him a gap-toothed grin in response. “What can I do for you two?” If it had been Frannie on her own, Charlie would have been more on guard against a medical lecture, but he doubted she’d bring her son along if that were her intent.

  “It’s been crazy, these last few days. We’ve been so busy in the clinic that I’ve barely had time to sleep. But it’s dying down a bit, and I wanted to stop by and thank you.” Frannie nudged her son in the shoulder.

  Twigs echoed her thanks. “You were awesome, Mister Maddox,” he added.

  Charlie shrugged. The praise and back-slapping from his contemporaries was bad enough. The beaming look of appreciation the face of the young boy was too close to that of his son, Cooper, for comfort. “Thank you,” he managed. “I hope that sort of thing doesn’t happen again.” Well, that was lame. “Head for the shelter next time, huh?” The look of adoration faded into a shifty-eyed guilty look. Had Twigs not mentioned to his mom what he and the other kids had been up to out in the Wild before the wall came down? None of my business. He looked back to Frannie. “You guys have done plenty for me over the years. I’m glad I was there to help.”

  “Well, thanks nonetheless. Are you feeling all right?”

  He fingered his side. “Better and better. If I could get that di—doctor,” he corrected, glancing down at Twigs, “to leave me alone, I’d be right as rain.”

  A near-shouted proclamation by the youngest member of the trio shattered the brief moment of silence. “We’re going to dinner. Have you eaten yet? Do you want to come with?”

  Charlie glanced up at Frannie. Her cheeks had taken on just a hint of an embarrassed blush. “Well,” he temporized. “I guess. If it’s okay with your mom.” He gave her a look that he hoped conveyed that she could shut it down, no hard feelings.

  “Sure,” she said after the barest hesitation. More eagerly, now.
“Why not? It’ll be fun.”

  “Okay, then,” he said. He was beginning to get the sense that had been her intent all along, but the little guy had jumped the gun. “Let me wash up, I guess, and I’ll meet you there.”

  “Promise?” Twigs demanded.

  “Pinkie promise,” Charlie said. At the look of confusion, he held out his good hand. The pinkie on his scarred right hand had little or no bend. “Wrap yours around mine.” Twigs barely got his halfway around Charlie’s, who intoned seriously. “And there we go. You can’t break a pinkie promise.”

  “Huh.” The look of wonder on Twigs’ face made him feel more than a little sad. There was little room for frivolity in the world. Yeah, the kids learned math, and history, and all the other subjects, but they spent their time out of school learning how to fight, survive, or scavenge. In a way, he supposed it was a throwback to the frontier days of old, but with an added twist. Little House on the Prairie with flesh-eating monsters. “Be there in a bit,” he said to Frannie, and the smile and nod she gave him looked far too happy for a mere dinner date.

  After he closed the door, Charlie turned to the chest of drawers on one wall of his cabin. He kept a pitcher of water and a small bowl there, and he doffed his shirt and gave his face and chest a quick and sketchy wash with a wet cloth. Air conditioning wasn’t a distant memory, but it had become a rare luxury. Even sitting in the cabin, he’d broken a bit of a sweat—summers were far worse.

  As he buttoned a clean shirt, he looked at himself in the mirror. What are you doing? The answer to the question was obvious, but the way in which it had manifested was still surprising. Frannie was at least fifteen years younger than he was. She’d met her husband after Z-Day, though he’d died before Cole was born. Killed, if Charlie remembered right, in some misguided attempt to change the leadership direction of the community. Charlie’s memories of that time were hazy—he’d been in his ‘crazy’ state until a year or so after the outbreak—but he knew that Sticks had been on the right side of the issue. Being one of the good guys didn’t make you immune to the stupidity of others.

  Frannie had been alone almost as long as Charlie, though she at least had her son. In all honesty, he wondered what she saw in him. As far as he could remember she’d never shown any sign of interest.

  Though, he did have to admit that he hadn’t had the mindset to be looking. He’d been on a loop of eat, scavenge, sleep for so long that anything outside of that narrow framework was unfamiliar.

  In a way, the evolved infection had brought him back to life. These past few years he’d been walking around little different than one of the shamblers. Existing, not thriving. Having his voice back was a help, but it was more the kick in the pants that it had provided than the actual healing.

  He shook his head at his reflection in the mirror. Welcome back to the land of the living, huh?

  March 12, 2026

  The Wild—Rural Indiana

  Z-Day + 3,067

  Pete had enjoyed his stretch of civilian life, but he had to admit that rank did indeed have its privileges. While Lieutenant Ross was scrambling back at the base, lining up supplies and equipment for the operation, he was taking an air-conditioned road trip back home.

  The command staff had made the executive decision to curtail helicopter usage to absolute necessity, so what should have been a trip of no more than few hours had morphed into a half-day excursion, accompanying a convoy of supplies. Half of the Marines earmarked for Operation Icarus were cooling their heels waiting for transport back to Camp Perry. The near-disastrous failure of one of their helicopters had left them stuck in his old community—Hope, Pete amended, mentally. They’d decided on the name right before he’d left. He’d have gone with something different, himself, but it was what it was. As much as he’d screwed things up, he didn’t deserve a say in what they did. Not anymore.

  There were extenuating circumstances, of course. And knowing what he knew now about the nature of the outbreak and the growing danger their evolving enemy presented, the epic self-recrimination that he’d consumed himself with over the past week seemed misguided. Yeah, he’d known about a growing horde literally on their doorstep. Yeah, he’d kept it quiet in hopes of staving off a potential panic. And all things considered, that had been the right move. The enhanced infected had shown no hesitation when presented with an opportunity to assault Hope. If Pete had led an attack party out to face them in the woods, he doubted that the resolution would have been a better one.

  He rapped his knuckles on one of his legs and huffed a chuckle to himself. Like Norma and the rest of those busybodies would have let me go looking for a fight outside of the fence. More likely he’d have had to watch zombies tear his people apart through a scope.

  Without the assistance of the Marines, would they have been able to win? Even with their help it had taken the last-minute arrival of a helicopter gunship to save the day. Pete remembered the crack of gunfire and the hiss of spears cutting through the air and tried not to shiver.

  No, he’d made the right call. He’d lost friends and neighbors in the fight, but it hadn’t been anywhere close to a worst-case scenario. And now it was time to get his game face on and start worrying about the future. He wasn’t going to have time over the next few months to worry about any mistakes he’d made in the past.

  He glanced out the window and considered the angle of the sun. They’d left at first light, and it was now about midmorning. Getting close, but not too close, he judged. Pete glanced across the aisle. Just because Ross had been too busy with mission prep to ride along didn’t mean that he hadn’t sent a babysitter along. He supposed the SEAL would more likely characterize it as security.

  “Chief Foraker, you up?”

  The bigger man slid his boonie hat back on his head to raise the brim and met Pete’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  He gave the SEAL a crooked grin. “Knock that off, sailor. If it weren’t for circumstances you and I would be talking smack in the Last Bar.” The converted house in Hope was, as far as he knew, fitting of the moniker. “What’s your take on the mission, Chief?”

  Foraker ran fingers through his bushy, salt-and-pepper beard and grimaced. “Should be interesting.”

  Pete shook his head and laughed. “Whole time you boys were in Cincinnati I was half-wishing it was me with you and not Miles. The universe seems to have a funny sense of humor.”

  “There is that,” the chief agreed. “What are your thoughts on the op plan?”

  “Like you said, should be interesting. We’re gonna need to be slow and smooth at some points, and balls to the wall at others. You happen to take a look at the census data General Vincent attached in the back?”

  “I have not,” Foraker admitted.

  “Pre-outbreak population of over ten million.”

  He considered that and said, “Well, if it goes bad, at least it’ll be over quick.”

  Chapter 7

  April 4, 2018

  Southwestern Illinois

  Z-Day + 168

  “Mister, you got any food?”

  Sandy raised his eyes from his blood-smeared hands and blinked at the little girl standing next to him. If the blood bothered her, she didn’t show it. He hadn’t spent enough time around kids to make a guess on her age, but she had blonde hair and blue eyes made all the more striking by the fact that they were set in a drawn face. His heart began to sink, and he wondered how secure this ‘safe place’ was.

  “Not on me,” he said.

  The engine on the truck roared to life, and the younger of the two men he’d met outside the wall—Jason?—pulled it forward to block the opening. From the size of the swarm coming their way, Sandy wasn’t sure that the snowplow blade would work. If enough of them packed up against it, they’d start tipping over the top or even push the truck backward.

  Need something to break up the flow on the driveway. More boats? He shook his head to throw the thought off. The older man from outside stepped up and stuck his hand out, then pulled
it back when he saw the blood on Sandy’s hands.

  “Richard. Richard Fox.”

  “Nice to meet you, Richard. Sandy Scopulis.”

  Richard lowered his head and murmured to the young girl. “Penny, find Mason and get inside the showroom, all right?” She gave a silent nod of assent and scampered away. He looked back and half-smiled. “Owner’s kid.” He glanced at the pistol holstered at Sandy’s side. The weight of the silence between the two of them swelled until it was palpable, and Sandy felt compelled to speak.

  “I’m not here to make trouble,” he said. “You mind if I grab some water out of my bag?”

  “Sure,” Richard said. Despite the assent, he stood and watched as Sandy pulled a plastic bottle with a faded label out of his bag. He unscrewed the cap and poured enough on one of his remaining socks to make it soggy, then began scrubbing at the blood.

  The bald man from earlier stepped up beside Richard and gave Sandy the once over as he washed the blood from his hands. “I’d ask if you came to buy a boat, but it’s not a time for joking. Pat Viebey.”

  “This is Sandy,” Richard introduced, then sighed. “Barry bled out. But we got Doctor Sandy now, I guess.” There wasn’t much concern for his dead friend in his voice. He sounded defeated, ready to quit.

  “Great,” Pat said, with, if anything, less energy than the other man. “Got any brilliant ideas on how to survive this, Sandy?”

  He glanced from face to face. Everyone here seemed on the brink of exhaustion. Dark circles under the eyes, slumped shoulders, and drawn cheekbones were the rule of the day. “You’ve never dealt with this many?”

  “Nope. And we didn’t have much ammo before those jackasses stopped by.”

  “Are they Army?” Sandy guessed.

  Richard snorted. “If only. Most of them are local ne’er do-wells. They lucked into the gear, and now they think they’re some sort of Mad Max crew. We’ve blown them off a time or two, but they’re getting bolder. Feeling their oats, I guess.” He grinned, though the expression didn’t touch his eyes. “Joke’s on them. We cleaned everything but the chewing gum out of the vending machines a week ago.”