“Keep an eye out,” Nolan said, and jogged over to the cluster of remaining vehicles. Kesha watched as he tried handles, reached through open windows, and searched glove boxes and visors for keys.
Then, on a distant hill, Kesha saw a classmate of hers. Melanie Adams.
The girl’s clothing appeared to be torn, and her hair was streaked with what looked, from a distance, like mud and dirt. She stumbled forward slowly, moving determinedly, as though near exhaustion. The expression on her face was completely flat. It said that she didn’t care anymore. That she could take it or leave it.
“Aha!”
Kesha heard Nolan’s cry and swiveled back to the parking area. The policeman was sitting behind the wheel of a Jeep Wrangler. Kesha heard the jingling of keys. Moments later, the engine vroomed to life. Nolan smacked the steering wheel with pleasure.
Kesha jogged over.
“And it’s even got a full tank of gas,” Nolan beamed down from the driver’s seat.
“I see a girl from my class on the other side of the valley,” Kesha said. “I think she might be a zombie.”
Nolan’s expression grew serious.
“Get in,” he said.
Kesha climbed into the passenger seat. It smelled like pine-scented air freshener and cigarette smoke. Nolan put the Jeep into drive, and they trundled toward the hill in the distance.
It was bumpy. The Jeep was old, and the shocks clearly weren’t what they once had been. Nolan slowed down considerably as they entered the grassy field beyond the carnival.
“Who’s the girl?” he asked.
“Melanie Adams,” Kesha said. “She’s standing over on that hillside.”
“I see her,” Nolan said, swerving to avoid an abandoned Chevy van.
“She’s friends with Madison,” Kesha said. “Not in the inner circle, but close.”
Nolan nodded silently, his eyes fixed like a laser on the girl in the distance.
When they were halfway across the valley floor—halfway to where Melanie stood—the girl in the distance suddenly fell down and disappeared into the grass.
“Oh shit,” cried Nolan. “Where did she go? I lost her.”
“I’ve got my eyes trained on the spot,” Kesha said. “Just keep going.”
Nolan drove to the base of the hill. He turned off the Jeep and put the keys in his pocket. They got out and began walking up the hillside.
Nolan drew his gun.
They soon came upon the girl. She had fallen onto her side, and lay with her eyes closed. Her head had been grievously injured. Her long blonde hair was caked in dried blood. But unless it was a trick of the wind, she appeared to be breathing.
“Melanie?” Nolan called out. “Melanie, can you hear me?”
The girl rolled a few inches. Then she opened her eyes and looked up.
Her eyes lingered on Nolan. Her face showed only pain and confusion. Then she noticed Kesha standing beside him.
“Kesha . . .” the injured girl whispered. Her voice was so weak and soft—almost lost entirely on the warm wind—it made Kesha think of a dying bird.
Kesha kneeled beside her wounded classmate. From this perspective, Kesha could see that Melanie’s head had been hacked open, as if with a giant blade. She thought maybe she could see a bump that was the top of Melanie’s brain.
“What happened?” Kesha asked.
Melanie started to cry.
“I’m so sorry, Kesha,” Melanie said. “I’m sorry we weren’t nicer to you. I’m sorry we never invited you to parties. I’m sorry we ignored you. I’m so, so sorry.”
Kesha looked up at the horizon for a moment, confused.
“I . . . I don’t care about any of that,” Kesha said. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“It wasn’t because you were black,” the injured girl continued. “It’s important you know that. It was never because you were black . . . it was because you were poor. And also the new girl. Most of us . . . we had known each other since we were little. But you? You were new and didn’t fit in. And you were from the poor part of town. But those were the only reasons we were mean to you.”
“It’s okay,” Kesha said absently. “Honestly, I don’t care.”
Melanie began struggling to breathe in a way that had nothing to do with her sobs. Kesha experienced the sobering realization that this girl had only moments to live.
“My friend here is a policeman. He’s looking for Madison and anybody else from our class who might still be alive. Do you know where Madison is?”
Melanie continued breathing hard, and looked over at the big policeman.
“No,” she said. “We all got separated after the cave. We met some people. Some of us wanted to go with them—I did—but she didn’t. I should have stayed with her. The people we went with . . . they were bad people.”
Nolan nodded. Kesha found her own eyes were welling with tears, and intentionally looked away.
“They were stupid rednecks,” Melanie said, now obviously struggling to keep her eyes open. “Goddamn . . . stupid . . . downstate . . . redneckssssssss . . .”
With this final sickly hiss of distaste, the girl in the designer jeans ceased to breathe.
Kesha turned so that Nolan could not see her crying.
Nolan knelt down to inspect the body. Finding no signs of life, he placed his arm reassuringly around Kesha.
“It’s stupid,” Kesha said to him, trying not to blubber. “I didn’t even like Melanie. She was a jerk to everybody. I shouldn’t even be sad.”
“It’s okay,” said Nolan. “However you feel, it’s okay.”
Kesha stayed like that for a few minutes, with Nolan’s arm around her.
“Are we just going to leave her in the grass?” Kesha asked as they walked back to the Jeep.
“It’s not safe to bury her right now,” Nolan replied. “I don’t know what makes a dead body come back to life as one of those things—or how long it takes for that to happen—but I don’t want to find out while we’re moving her into a grave. Imagine if she rears up and bites off your finger.”
Kesha shrugged to acknowledge that this was, in fact, a reasonable concern.
They climbed into the Jeep and rode back across the bumpy field toward the carnival.
“What are we going to do now?” Kesha asked.
“I’m going to head for Bedford and find that cabin.”
Kesha did not like Nolan’s use of emphasis.
“I talked with that woman—Sheree—a little bit while you were asleep,” Nolan continued. “She seems like a good person. It sounded like it would be all right if you stayed with them for a little while.”
“What?” Kesha said. “No. That’s . . . I want to get back to Indianapolis. I have to find my dad. Not stay here.”
“Look,” Nolan began. All at once, his tone had shifted in a way that said he wasn’t going to be a nice, cool, friendly policeman (who was maybe even a little bit handsome)—he was going to turn into a shitty adult, just like all the others in Kesha’s life.
“I want to keep you as safe as possible,” Nolan continued. “After our little walk around, I’m more convinced that this fairground might be one of the better options for that. It’s down in a valley, and you can see people coming at a distance. They’ve got a trailer that locks and some food. Did you think about that? I don’t think grocery stores are going to be open today.”
“No,” Kesha said defiantly. “I’m not staying here with these people. You can’t make me. I can steal a car and drive back to Indy myself.”
“Yes,” Nolan said, clearly perturbed. “You certainly can. You can also end up like your school friend back there, with a goddamn machete wound in your skull. Listen, Kesha, there are a lot of people in this world who are basically good. I think Sheree and her son might be some of them. But there are a lot of people who would use a disaster like this to do whatever they wanted, to whoever they wanted. For most of my years as a police officer, I’ve worked narcotics. You wanna talk about not giving a fuck . . . I’ve d
ealt with people who did not give a fuck—not about what they were doing to their bodies, not about what they were doing to other people’s bodies, or to other people’s children’s bodies. A whole lot of folks out there are living just for today, and I don’t mean that in a good way. Until this—whatever ‘this’ is—blows over or calms down or whatever the fuck, it’s not safe for you to be running around. I’m a police officer with a gun, and I don’t feel fucking safe. But a fifteen-year-old high school kid with no map and no gun who doesn’t even have a proper driver’s license?”
There was a pause as Nolan used all of his concentration to avoid a shallow ditch.
“I wouldn’t wish that on my enemy right now,” he concluded.
“Okay, fine,” Kesha said, staring straight ahead into the windshield.
“And I’m sorry for cursing so much,” Nolan said. “I don’t usually. It’s just . . . this.”
“Yeah,” Kesha said, looking at the wrecked, abandoned cars on the other side of the window. “Tell me about it. Fucking this.”
They arrived back at the carnival grounds, and Nolan pulled the Jeep all the way up to the door of Sheree’s trailer. It was now no longer dawn, but full-on morning. The sun inched its way higher into the completely cloudless sky. Steven was standing in front of the trailer, limping a little on his burned leg. He waved as they pulled up. Sheree was standing to the side of her trailer talking to a tubby man in a green baseball cap whom they had not seen before.
Nolan and Kesha got out of the Jeep and walked over.
“You wasn’t kidding!” the large man said in a thick Southern accent. “Jimmy Nolan in the flesh!”
“Hi,” Nolan said, and looked to Sheree.
“This is Walter,” Sheree said. “Part of the crew.”
“Can I shake your hand?” Walter wondered. “Big basketball fan.”
Nolan extended his hand, aware that it was still caked in dried zombie-goo. Walter gripped it and pumped hard without a second thought.
“Yeah,” Nolan said to Sheree. “I guessed some of your folks might trickle back in when dawn broke. Is Walter the only one so far?”
“Yes,” Sheree said. “I’m surprised there aren’t more. There are twenty of us who travel full-time with the carnival.”
“Welp . . . give it some time,” Nolan said. “Maybe more will come over the course of the day.”
“I ran and hid in some corn when I saw those things,” Walter announced. “Then I climbed a tree. Stayed up there pert all night.”
“I’m going to run a little errand in this Jeep,” Nolan informed Sheree. “I told Kesha what we talked about. She’s going to stay here with you. I’ll be back soon, if I’m able.”
“That’s just fine,” Sheree said.
Sheree walked to a table near her trailer and picked up a paper sack. She brought it over to Nolan. The wind hit it from behind, and Nolan’s stomach grumbled.
“It’s just carnival food—hot dogs and fried dough—but it ought to get you through the morning,” she said.
“Thank you,” Nolan said, accepting the sack. He could hardly wait to dig in.
Steven limped up beside them.
“And here,” Steven said. “You also ought to have this.”
He handed Nolan a wrinkled road atlas.
“We never know when our GPS is gonna go out—usually, it’s at the worst possible time—so we keep a few of these around.”
“Perfect,” Nolan said, accepting the atlas with his free hand. “This is just what I need.”
Steven turned and looked out at the wreck-encrusted road out of the valley.
“I keep waiting for the cavalry to come rolling in, you know?” the young man said. “That . . . or for the power to come back on. This is just . . . I don’t know. I keep thinking: ‘They’ll have it fixed in the next hour. Okay, they’ll have it fixed in the next hour.’ But they don’t. This is the longest blackout ever. It’s like they just don’t care.”
“Yeah . . .” Nolan replied pensively. “I don’t know if there’s even a ‘they’ right now, if you follow me.”
Steven nodded grimly.
“But if I find any answers, you’ll be the first to know,” Nolan added.
He opened the atlas and flipped to the pages marked with Is.
“Here we go,” Nolan said to Steven. “We’re somewhere east of Oakland City?”
“That’s right,” Steven replied.
“I’m guessing that’d put us around here,” Nolan said, touching a spot of farmland in the southwest quadrant of the map. “That makes it maybe 60 or 70 miles to Bedford.”
Nolan looked over to Kesha, who was eating a cold hot dog.
“With the roads messed up, I’m guessing it will take me at least an hour and a half to get where I’m going,” Nolan said. “If I don’t find anything, I’ll head straight back. You could see me again in three hours.”
Kesha nodded, restored by the hot dog, but still uneasy.
“Here,” Nolan said, handing Kesha a business card from his back pocket. “That’s got my cell on it. The moment the phones go back up, you give me a call. Got it?”
“Yeah,” Kesha said.
“And if I can’t come back here, I’ll try to send word somehow,” Nolan said.
Kesha did not reply.
Nolan walked to the Jeep and climbed inside. He started the engine and waved once. Sheree, Steven, and the fat man—Walter—waved back. Kesha only looked on with an uneasy frown. Nolan put the Jeep into drive, headed through the parking lot and down the road leading away from the carnival, and into whatever world might exist beyond.
9
Ellard van Zanten’s full title was assistant director of communications for the Indiana governor’s office. A relatively recent graduate of Indiana University, van Zanten was originally from Holland but had shown great interest in—and aptitude for—American politics. During Burleson’s re-election campaign, van Zanten had managed the governor’s social media presence and spoken to groups of young voters on the governor’s behalf. Burleson liked the athletic, perpetually smiling Dutchman, and had made him a full-time member of his administration soon after the election.
And though the word “assistant” was embedded right there in his title, van Zanten was starting to get the feeling that he might have just received a battlefield promotion.
As dawn broke over the capital building, Governor Burleson sat at the head of the conference table in his war room. He sat unmoving. Both hands on the table. Eyes staring straight ahead. (Presumably, the governor viewed one of the three television screens, or twice as many computer monitors, arrayed throughout the busy room. Screens and monitors that were now entirely filled with static and test patterns, or “no service” messages. Still, to van Zanten, it seemed Burleson’s eyes stared into cosmic distances far beyond the four walls of the Indiana State Capitol. The governor was not “zoned out.” His brain was working, always working. If van Zanten knew anything about the man who ran this state, it was that he never stopped thinking.)
In the fourteen or so hours since the outbreak, almost none of the governor’s regular staff had reported for duty. With telephones now completely down and power out in most of the city—the capitol, a rare exception, had generators—there was no way of contacting the staff, short of sending police cars to their homes . . . which, in fact, was what Burleson had ordered done. The problem was that most of Burleson’s staff were not in their homes. They had fled the city entirely, taking their families with them. Van Zanten ran through the list in his head.
Director of operations? Gone. Chief counsel? Gone. That community-liaison manager lady, whatever the fuck her title was? Gone. Even the lieutenant governor had failed to show up. Certainly, van Zanten’s boss, the director of communications, had not been seen since five o’clock the day before.
As van Zanten looked around the room, he realized with mounting terror that he and Doug Huggins—the governor’s chief of staff—were probably the two highest-ranking members of st
ate government in the building . . . behind only Burleson himself. The few employees who otherwise remained were all secretaries, IT staff, security guards, and interns.
It was a time of great mystery and confusion, but a few facts had begun to solidify among the stream of more and more unbelievable news that flowed in every hour. Van Zanten tried to put together a timeline in his mind . . .
Early the previous evening, reports of an unexplainable uptick in violent acts had washed over the city. Mobs had formed in the streets, and people were brandishing weapons openly. Nobody knew why. A few hours later, this became tentative—then definitely—linked to reports of dead bodies getting up and eating people. The people in the streets with guns and clubs weren’t just attacking each other—though some of them were definitely doing that—they were defending themselves against these walking dead men . . . which, incidentally, it seemed you could not “kill” unless you had destroyed their heads or punctured their brains. And speaking of brains, it seemed eating the brains of the living was the ultimate goal of these things. To achieve this end, they would bite and scratch and claw like wild animals. They could not be reasoned with. They could not speak. They could only kill.
That was where knowledge ended, and speculation began.
The duration—if, indeed, an end was in the cards—was the central matter of conjecture. Would this insanity soon pass? Would the dead fall motionless back to the earth after a few hours or days? Or . . . was this the new normal? Was the land forevermore to crawl and lurch with zombies?
It was this last idea that seemed to stymie van Zanten, Huggins, and even Governor Burleson. After all, they had plans and procedures in place for emergencies—natural disasters, terrorist attacks, and so forth. Oh boy, did they have those. The last three administrations couldn’t wait to get that gold star, A-plus rating for terrorism readiness. (They could even claim to be anti-terrorism leaders, in a way. The Indy 500 was the largest single-day sporting event in the world—almost half a million people came—and it had never been attacked by a terrorist. So that meant they were doing something right, right?)
But this was different. This was one of the few things the United States no longer worried about: an invasion.
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