by Russ Melrose
Chapter 3
Black Saturday
It was the glaring light that woke me. It filtered through the sheer drapes covering the balcony's sliding glass door and penetrated the tissue of my eyelids. Its brightness nagged at me and caused me to stir. And though I stubbornly refused to open my eyes, my senses began to awaken.
The first thing I noticed was the rancid smell of vomit. I had a vague memory of hovering above the toilet, retching violently and hugging the bowl. I couldn't be sure if the smell was from the memory or from something I was smelling now. My confusion faded as I became aware of a throbbing in my head. I could feel it contract and release with each pulsing of blood through my brain. I stayed perfectly still, afraid the slightest movement might cause my head to split in two.
My mouth and throat were caked dry. I was severely dehydrated from the excess of alcohol. I tried licking my lips but there was no moisture in my mouth. I wanted to fade back into the comfort of darkness, but my awareness continued to sharpen and I couldn't slow it down. I became aware of a host of sensations throughout my body—a dull aching in my shoulders and upper arms along with a biting pain in my shin where the glass shard had struck me.
I wondered how long I'd slept, but I didn't want to open my eyes to check the mantle clock. I nestled my eyes into the crook of my arm, seeking a safe haven from the light, but the smell and the aches and the pain wouldn't go away. I rarely experienced hangovers. Three to four beers were my usual limit. But last night I couldn't stop myself, nor did I want to.
My cautiousness with alcohol stemmed from my mother's free-wheeling ways during our childhood. She was a happy drunk, laughing and stumbling about. But my mother never drank alone and never took into consideration how Alex and I might be impacted by her partying.
Thoughts about Alex and the events of the previous day began to proliferate through my mind. None of it seemed real. Not Alex being infected and turning, not the Glock, not the mob of infected trying to get at me, not the pudgy man headbutting the window. None of it. It felt like a bad dream, but dreams fade away and this memory lingered vividly, was almost palpable. Then there were my injuries. They were certainly real. But real or not, I didn't want to think about what had happened. I had to distract myself, and that's when I opened my eyes.
It took me a few moments to orient myself. I'd fallen asleep on the couch which was now further away from the television than I remembered it being.
Then a memory of barricading the door floated into my mind. The door was the only accessible point of entry to my second-floor condo. Half the furniture in the apartment, including the couch, was now crammed between the front door and its opposite wall. It was a snug fit that made it virtually impossible to open the door without first moving some of the furniture out of the way. Constructing the barricade had made me feel more secure. There was no way the infected could get in.
I knew I had to get up and get moving, so I coaxed myself into sitting up. I was careful not to move my head too fast. Moving my leg actually turned out to be the most painful part of sitting up. I wondered if the shard of glass had cracked my shin bone. The acrid smell of vomit stung my nostrils and I noticed a large smear of dried food particles on the thigh area of my jeans. I needed to clean myself up.
The television was still on, though I'd muted it at some point during the night. There was a camera shot of a massive traffic jam on the freeway. It came from a helicopter. At the back end of the jam, a few cars were peeling off, making u-turns and heading in the wrong direction. People scurried about between the rows of cars. It didn't make any sense. Why would there be a traffic jam on a Saturday?
The helicopter's camera panned up the rows of cars to the source of the jam. Just past a freeway exit, a large group of police cars and military vehicles barricaded the freeway. Apparently, the barricade had been placed just past the exit to allow cars to funnel off the freeway via the exit. But the freeway exit was bottled up and littered with wrecked cars. People were climbing all over the cars trying to get in. It was difficult to see exactly what was going on as the helicopter camera wasn't steady and the helicopter seemed to be some distance away.
Then I realized the people vandalizing and ransacking the cars weren't people at all. They were the infected and they were everywhere. I grabbed the remote off the coffee table and got up from the couch and limped over to the television, doing my best not to put any pressure on my leg.
The camera was now focused on the exit and the helicopter was moving quickly toward it. The scene came into better focus and it was horrific. The infected were battering the windows and windshields of cars with their fists and heads. They had broken into several cars and had dragged a number of people out of their cars and were violently ripping them apart. Some people struggled to get away, but there were too many infected. The camera panned to the streets adjacent to the exit and showed scattered groups of infected still coming, staggering up the exit ramp.
The camera focused on a woman exiting her car with a small child in tow. She was late twenties and wore a colorful summer dress. The little girl must have been around five. The woman gathered her daughter up in her arms and hugged her to her chest and headed toward the embankment. One of the infected who was hammering away at a car window spotted her and moved to head her off. He was tall with an elongated gray face, wearing a cowboy shirt and jeans and boots. The helicopter moved in closer and the downdraft from the rotor blades whipped the woman's dress tightly against her legs and wildly tousled her hair. The infected cowboy stumbled about in the downdraft which allowed the woman to reach the embankment first. She half slid and half ran down the sharply angled embankment, holding her daughter tightly against her. When the gray cowboy reached the embankment, he took a single step over the embankment and tumbled head first down the slope, rolling over again and again.
When the woman reached the bottom of the embankment, she ran parallel to the freeway and well away from the nearest street. The young girl cleaved to her mother's chest, arms and legs tightly wrapped around her mother's torso. The infected cowboy gathered himself up, one of his arms now permanently twisted at an awkward angle and continued his pursuit. The chopper veered around and headed back to the exit ramp and focused on the chaos there.
I'd had enough. I turned the television off and hobbled to the bathroom to take a shower and nurse my hangover. Before showering, I took several Ibuprofen tablets and downed them with a large glass of water.
I sat in the shower so I wouldn't put too much pressure on my injured leg. I doused it generously with warm water. The evening before I'd iced it while drinking my first couple of beers. It was a nasty looking welt and the dark purple bruising was the diameter of a baseball. My shoulders and upper arms still ached, but it wasn't too bad. My headache had dissipated, but I was tired and foggy headed. As I sat in the tub with the warm water cascading over me, I thought about Alex, and I couldn't get away from the sight and sound of the shots I'd fired at my brother. The scene lingered in my mind. And though I clenched my jaw and fought against it, I began to sob in fits and starts.
*****
I spent the afternoon picking up and cleaning the apartment. I needed to keep busy. I washed the dishes by hand and meticulously cleaned the kitchen and the dining room. I picked up the empty beer cans off the dining room table—nine of them—and remembered pouring the last three beers in the fridge down the sink. I could recall feeling woozy and nauseous and didn't trust myself to stay away from the last few Bud Lights.
That evening, with the help of the internet, I pieced together what had happened on the freeways. Roadblocks had been set up overnight by what was left of the police, the highway patrol, and the military. The idea to quarantine larger cities to contain the virus had come from Homeland Security. It quickly turned into a disaster. In Salt Lake, they blocked freeway entrances all throughout the valley with road-closed signs, and they set up blockades on any road that provided a way out of the valley, canyons included. It didn't stop people from t
rying to leave.
Tens of thousands of people attempted to leave the valley that morning, and a few signs weren't going to stop them. They tossed the road-closed signs aside and headed out onto the freeway and everyone followed, desperate to get away from the growing hordes of infected. Authorities had anticipated the possibility and had set roadblocks up just past the last freeway exits out of the valley. The idea was to channel the traffic onto the last freeway exits and force people to stay in the valley and head back to their homes over surface streets. But not everyone wanted to get off on the exits. People challenged the officers and servicemen. A few warning shots were fired. The traffic at the exits became congested, and frustrated motorists began honking their horns. It was only a matter of minutes before the first groups of infected showed up. They climbed onto the cars that were trying to exit the freeway, causing accidents. Everyone panicked and the infected just kept coming. The military and police fired on the infected, but before long they too were overwhelmed.
Five days into the crisis, a number of media outlets were still operating. Several helicopters filmed the disaster as it happened. Not long after they'd arrived at the exits, the infected spilled onto the freeway and began going after people in their cars. Thousands of cars were backed up from the blockades with nowhere to go. At first, most people stayed in their cars thinking they'd be safe while a few left their vehicles and made a run for it. As it became obvious the infected could eventually find a way to get into the cars, more people chose to run. A few people managed to get away unscathed, but most were bitten or mauled or eaten, and those that fled that day with their wounds spawned a new generation of infected. The feeding frenzy had gone on all day, but I stayed away from the television.
As I read various accounts of what had happened, I couldn't help but wonder about my fifth-grade students from the past year. I wondered how many of them might have been caught out on the freeways that day. School had been out for a little over a month and some of their faces were still fresh in my mind. The thought of them being infected plagued my mind.
Chapter 4
The Robbery
It was a perfect day for it. The storm was just beginning in earnest. The wind had been blowing all afternoon—wild, chaotic gusts that whipped the slender birch trees in every which direction. The birch trees grew out of the banks of the Cottonwood Creek that separated the condos, and the close-knit density of their leaves obscured the view of the buildings across the creek. I watched the storm through the angled slats of the wooden blinds in my darkened living room. The rain had just begun to fall, heavy drops that fell at odd angles, blown wildly by the wind that blew in erratic gusts out of the south. Several drops had already slapped against the window pane, and as I watched the blustery rain, I couldn't help but wonder if the storm frightened them. I was hoping it did. I would need every advantage I could get.
Every now and then a flash of sheet lightning would light up the sky, and I knew it wouldn't be long before the driving rain started. The storm hadn't actually been a part of my plan. Call it what you will—luck, providence, serendipity, a good break. But the storm was giving me the impetus I needed to get my rear end out the door. I knew the chaos and noise from the storm would give me cover. There would be no better time than now to get out of the apartment. As soon as the rain began in earnest, I'd leave.
Even though it was mid-evening, it was already getting dark outside from the gathering storm clouds. Thick roiling clouds rolled across the sky.
Over the past several days, I'd been torn over the prospect of leaving the safety of my condo apartment. I'd felt relatively safe since the night I'd barricaded the front door. But the kitchen cupboards and the refrigerator were all but empty now.
Before it went off the air, the last local television station still broadcasting encouraged people to shutter up their homes. I followed their advice and kept the lights turned off. I draped blankets over the windows and the sliding glass door to the balcony, creating a blackout effect. If the infected caught a glimpse of you or heard any kind of non-ambient sound, they'd start headbutting windows and ramming themselves into doors. They'd do anything to get in. And once they knew you were there, it was only a matter of time before they'd get inside.
Nearly everyone shuttered up their homes—windows and shutters were closed, drapes and curtains drawn, shades pulled. If a home was shuttered up, you knew someone had to be there. And it was that tidbit of logic that served as an inspiration for my plan, because the opposite also had to be true. If a home had lights on or the curtains or drapes or shades weren't closed, the home was almost certainly vacant. I could see a few examples across the creek. Even though I couldn't clearly see the apartments themselves, when it got dark, I could make out a faint amber glow filtering through the trees. I counted six apartments with lights. Lights that never went out.
I knew from experience I could travel through fenced backyards safely, and I no longer had to worry about dogs as a possible backyard hindrance. Most dog owners had either let their dogs loose to fend for themselves or had found a way to put them down. A barking dog made you and your family vulnerable. When it came to making my way across the valley, the only real danger would come from crossing streets. But if I was careful, I'd be okay.
The gist of my plan was to cross the valley to the base of the Wasatch Mountains, then travel through the mountains to the cabin. The mountains would likely be free of the infected, and there would be a plentiful supply of food at the cabin. Alex and I kept a supply of canned goods in our underground storage bunker near the cabin. A nearby stream was stocked with trout and an endless supply of clean drinking water. The cabin would make for a perfect sanctuary.
Of course, it was possible the infected could die off. The first generation seemed to be withering away. Their facial skin had dried up and turned a dull shade of moldy gray, obscuring the veins and arteries that had been so prominent at first. Their gums were receding, exposing the roots of their teeth, and their eyes had retreated deep into their sockets. Only the recently infected could run and that only lasted about a week. Despite their lumbering, palsied gait, the first generation was still dangerous. They seemed to hold an incredible reserve of energy for whenever a possible meal would show up. And these days they almost always hunted in large groups, overwhelming any possible resistance.
Most internet sites referred to them as grays now. The newly infected were called runners.
My plan wasn't without a few possible hitches. When I left the condo, there'd be no fence to provide me cover. I'd have to make my way around the building to cross the bridge that spanned the creek. Then I'd have to cross the parking lot in front of the streetside condos along with the adjacent street.
Once I made it across the valley, I'd have to cross the I-215 freeway that bordered the Wasatch Mountains. Since there was no way I could climb the freeway's ten-foot walls, I'd have to find the right underpass. I'd decided the 39th South underpass to be the best option.
My biggest problem had to do with gaining entry to the homes where I'd spend my nights. Breaking a window or forcing a back door open would make too much noise, and I obviously wouldn't have access to a key. But you didn't need a key if you knew how to pick a lock. I googled "how to pick a lock to a back door" and came up with over six million results. I watched video tutorials and it didn't look too complicated. All I needed were the right tools—a lock pick set.
The electricity was still going, but I knew it wouldn't last. Coal-fired plants served as the source of energy for the Salt Lake Valley. The plants required manpower. Coal had to be transferred via truck or conveyor to energy conversion factories located in rural areas. The first week Utah National Guardsmen had been sent to the facilities to protect the plants and conversion factories and help out. But what if they left or got infected. If just one of the plants stopped operating, an overload could cause the entire grid for the valley to shut down.
The rain was coming down hard now, rifling through the trees, and I real
ized I needed to waterproof the contents of my backpack. I had plenty of gallon-sized freezer bags to keep my electronics and the rest of my stuff dry.
I'd thought long and hard about the essentials I would need for my cross-valley trek. I packed basic toiletries and a half roll of toilet paper for any emergencies. I included some utilitarian items, my Swiss Army Knife, matches, a can opener, and two small screw drivers. I packed sunglasses with chums, a water bottle, my iPad, my iPod, earbuds, and my iPhone along with their respective chargers. I added my GPS Navigator which would be critical once I got to the mountains. I also included the small binoculars I used to use to watch Alex's football games up at the U.
I included the surgical masks I had taken from Alex's house along with some household cleaning gloves—in case I ever had to touch one of them again. I also included the 27-inch little league baseball bat Alex had given me as a gag gift a few years back. "Home security," he called it. And I packed Alex's Glock 17.
I positioned the baseball bat to stick out of the backpack for quick removal in case I needed it. I'd decided it would be better to use the bat than the Glock because of the noise factor. The last item I packed was the most important of all, at least for tonight—my battery-operated travel alarm clock.
Once I had everything repacked, I set my backpack by the door. Even though the rain was coming down hard and there would be no better time to leave than now, I was hesitant. Doubts began to worm their way into my mind. What if I couldn't open the back doors to homes? What then? And if I were able to pick the locks, what would I do if there were infected inside, trapped in their homes by their limited motor skills and their functional ineptness? If they were unable to break their way out through one of the windows in their homes, they'd still be there. And how many other things could go wrong. The risks were enormous. I was being paranoid, but I also knew I could be turned if I made the slightest mistake.