ZOMBIE WORLD ORDER

by P. J. Kelley

  Chapter Seven: Zombies At The Tollbooth

  The small bus had merged with I-80, and sure enough I-80 East was fairly unobstructed, at least up to Stroudsburg, which they had just passed. I-80 West was a mess, however. The two lane highway had morphed into four jam packed lanes of obstructive traffic. Nothing seemed to be stirring, but a long stretch of cars just looked wrong. Doors hung open, windows were smashed, and car bodies were crumpled. It looked as if there had been a massive pile up and everyone had just left the highway for coffee after. On closer inspection though, one could make out figures walking through the wreckage. Dante pulled the minibus over and everyone peered through the windows. There were a couple of battered and stranded emergency vehicles. The bus stopping immediately started drawing attention from the moving figures, many of whom started climbing slowly across the highway divider. The appearance of these figures, even from a distance, did not inspire a desire for a closer association.

  “Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to keep moving,” Gregor mused, as if to himself. “I’m not seeing much from here with no lights on. This mist doesn’t help either.”

  “Do you think there could be survivors trapped in those cars?” Bridget asked this unwillingly, as if afraid someone would say yes, and the onus of trying to offer assistance would fall upon the group, and by extension, herself.

  “I’m getting the feeling that whatever just happened already happened,” said Keisha. “It’s like after a thunderstorm.”

  “It’s funny, but you’d think more people would just cross over when they could and just go west using the I-80 East. People don’t think that way though,” David said.

  “Why is that funny? It’s funny that people try to obey the law, even when it’s completely broken down? I think it’s tragic more than anything else,” demanded Al from the back. He had woken up, if he had been sleeping at all.

  “It’s funny to me because I think. It’s tragic to you because you feel,” David responded, suddenly loquacious. “It was a poor choice of words on my part. There are a bunch of gas stations near The Water Gap, and even if we have to wait until Jersey, there is a huge truck stop just a couple of miles in, just in case anybody cares. Al is right, a full tank and even two five gallon tanks would be a pretty good safety buffer. We are bound to have to take a detour or get stuck in traffic.”

  “David, of all of us, you might need to finish this program the most,” Al said quietly. “You need something, man.” Al spoke without rancor.

  “I’m not loving the idea of stopping around here for gas,” Dante said, staying on focus. “A lot of the gas stations I could see from the highway looked like the windows were smashed. We might be better off finding some hose and siphoning some gas rather than risk stopping at a public place.”

  “What do we do if there is a blockade at the Delaware Water Gap?” Dan asked.

  “They won’t be blocking traffic into Jersey, I don’t think. They might be. There is another way across the river, if you follow 611. It’s a good question really. We’ll have to see.” Approaching The Water Gap had piqued David’s interest. Indeed, most hardened interstate commuters would understand the significance of this step. “If we can get through the Gap, then in all probability we can get through to New York. This is the fastest way.”

  I-80 runs right through The Delaware Water Gap. On one side are tall majestic stone cliffs with dozens of hawks wheeling through the sky during the day heralding the entrance to The Appalachian Trail, and on the other side is The Delaware River. It never seems to change. The place has a lot of natural beauty, but also a lot of strategic significance. This narrow pass connects New Jersey and Pennsylvania. There is not another major road crossing the River until Port Jervis to the north by almost fifty miles. To the south, there were several small bridges running into 33, but nothing major until close to Philadelphia. Close this artery and several large population centers could be separated from each other by natural physical barriers. Any Psychos that could make it past the high rugged cliffs or the wide and fast moving river would be up against a million registered Pennsylvania deer hunters as they wandered through the woods.

  There was no real sign of trouble until they got within visual range of the toll booths, the lanes of which were dark and jammed with cars. The only sign of life was a group of people standing atop a tractor trailer. They were surrounded by a swarm of Pill Heads, who kept trying to climb up from the hood of his truck. A man with a cowboy hat was shooting them, one by one, and a pile of bodies around the cab was a testament to the length of time had been there. When the people atop the truck saw the minibus they started waving their arms either as a warning or as a call for help, the group in the minibus wasn’t sure.

  “This looks bad,” Dante said.

  “Should we try to help?” Bridget wondered aloud. “A couple of them look like children.”

  “What attracts them is noise and light, from what I’ve seen,” Jorge observed. “If we make a disturbance, maybe we could distract the Psychos long enough for those people to get down and escape.”

  “It looks like they were waiting at the toll booth and got taken by surprise. Maybe their vehicles are boxed in by others and they can’t escape?” said Gregor.

  One thing seemed certain, whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon. The cowboy seemed to be conserving his ammo, meaning he was running low. The people atop the truck’s trailer were starting to show symptoms of panic, screaming and cowering on the roof.

  Jerry said, “I have an idea. Just pull up to the beginning of the line.”

  Jerry’s idea was not complex. He vaulted out of the door of the minibus and quickly climbed onto the roof. Then he started blasting away with his AK47, the immediate result of which was that the Psychos all began moving towards the bus.

  “Now slowly back up as they approach,” Jerry screamed from the roof, and started tapping the window with spent magazine. “Reload these empty magazines for me,” he instructed, as he handed them to Jorge through a bus window.

  The crude plan had the genius of simplicity, and was starting to work. Dante started beating his horn and flashing his lights. The plan started to seem like it was working too well when the whole crowd of Psychos abandoned the tractor trailer and began moving quickly toward the minibus, but the people on the truck seized the moment and quickly climbed down and got into the cab of the truck. Through a series of advances and reversals, the truck started battering its way out of the line of vehicles, knocking them aside.

  As the minibus backed away, Jerry, seeing the people were relatively safe, climbed back into the bus from the roof. Moments later, the bus was surrounded by the frothing maniacs.

  “What now?” Dante asked. “Should we turn back? This looks impassable.”

  “Wait a few minutes,” Jerry said abstractedly. He was watching the tractor trailer with great interest.

  The massive truck had succeeded in pushing enough cars out of the way to break through a toll booth gate into Jersey, but persisted in backing up more cars behind it.

  “I think he’s clearing a lane for us. Well, that’s a fine thank you,” Bridget spoke up. “I might have floored it out of here.”

  The truck battered enough vehicles out of the way to clear a path for the minibus, and then drove past the toll booth into Jersey. About fifty yards in, the truck paused and the horn started blasting.

  “Looks like he wants to form a small convoy,” David started laughing. “Never met that guy, but I’m starting to like him, whoever he is.”

  “Yes, I admit that was pretty cool,” said Keisha.

  Dante shifted into drive, and did a pretty respectable job of blasting through the danger zone at fifty miles an hour, cleaving through a swarm of angry Psychos who seemed to be trying to crash the bus by using their own bodies as speed bumps. Some Psychos did manage to latch onto the bus somehow, but they were scraped off by the remains of the toll booth. Dante drove up to the waiting truck, and after an exchange of sign language,
began following the truck down the highway at a reduced rate of speed. There were wrecked vehicles here and there, but no signs of life. I-80 was fairly desolate on the eastbound side. The westbound was just one large automobile graveyard.

  After a safe distance from the toll booths had been attained, the truck slowed down, and a hand appeared outside the window, waving the minibus forward. Dante pulled up alongside the truck, and they spoke through their windows.

  The man with the cowboy hat was behind the wheel. He facially grimaced in a manner reminiscent of a smile.

  “Thanks for your help back there. I mean it. I was just about out of ammunition. The truck stop down the road is still open, if you need to eat or gas up. My treat.” The cab was crowded with toll booth refugees, faces peering out from the gloom.

  “Are you sure it’s safe? We’ve been seeing and hearing some bad stuff,” Dante said.

  “Positive,” said the cowboy. “I’ve been communicating by CB with a couple of my buddies who are there already. The locals set up a kind of militia with The National Guard, and are using the truck stop as a rallying point. There’s plenty of food and gas. My name is Sammy.”

  The people in the minibus looked at each other. They all suddenly felt very hungry and sick of being on the bus, and it showed in their faces.

  “Okay, you lead and we’ll follow. Thanks for the offer. We’re The Celtics,” Dante replied, chuckling, and the bus began tailing the truck through the early morning stillness. A chilly mist was rising from the river, obscuring their vision as they navigated through the gloom. Here and there they saw moving shadows, elusive forms scuttling through the burnt offerings which formerly had been the frames of cars and trucks. The figures neither waved nor made any comprehensible appeal for help. The minibus rolled on, silently, passing through the carnage the way a dreamer can traverse a nightmare.

  The truck stop was close, and within a mile or so they were jumping off at the exit. The entrance was heavily guarded by armored vehicles that bore National Guard insignias. In addition, there were several jeeps which, though lacking armor, were heavily fortified with fifty caliber machine guns mounted on the backs. These were manned by support troops with lighter machine guns. These jeeps roamed the parking lot of the complex incessantly, policing the complex for any stray Psycho wandering through.

  The parking lot itself was packed with RVs, campers, SUVs, vehicles of all makes and models which could accommodate several people and a load of supplies. There was a surreal quality of a tailgate party to the whole thing. Several dozens of charcoal grills were seen functioning as food was distributed. Although Sammy must have vouched for them, a uniformed man poked his head into the bus at the first checkpoint, and waved them through only after a long look at them. The next guards made each of them say their name, and asked if any of them had been bitten or was bleeding. After this brief and cryptic interrogation, they were allowed to follow Sammy into the parking lot, and parked near his truck. They got out of the bus carrying their weapons.

  When Sammy and his group emerged from the cab of the semi, they immediately ran up and hugged the minibus passengers as if they were long lost relatives. They had, to use an expression, received a good scare back at the tollbooth. They were a motley group, explaining that the Psychos had spilled over in a sudden inundation from I-80 West while they had been backed up at the tollbooth, and Sammy had had just enough time to scoop up some of them onto his roof while grabbing his guns and ammunition. They had watched from the roof as dozens of people had been killed by Psychos. Sammy’s methodical shooting had kept them safe for two hours, but they had been seeing the writing on the wall until the minibus had shown up.

  “You’ll have to check your guns when you go in, but bring them in with you, nobody will confiscate them,” Sammy advised. He led them into the truck stop diner. If one had visited this establishment early in the morning over the course of a normal week, it would have seemed a clean, well-lighted place. Good truck stops usually have better quality, service, and hygiene than common stereotypes suggest, since it is a highly competitive business with a mobile and gossipy clientele. Now it was bedlam, as waiters and waitresses ran through the packed dining area seeking not to acquire tips through stellar service, but to feed as many people as possible in the shortest amount of time as possible. Diners were not encouraged to dawdle over brandy and cigars, in other words. Smaller groups that did not use all the chairs at their tables soon had visitors, as every chair at every table was immediately taken upon the vacation of the previous tenant. The Celtics and Sammy’s group had a twenty minute wait with which to look upon the scene until a table was ready. They stood by the door, watching the packed diner function like a physical entity.

  “It reminds me of The Most Excellent Dumpling House,” Gregor said smiling. “It’s in Chinatown, and you never know who you will be eating with. It is not altogether unpleasant really. The food is so good and so cheap that it is constantly filled to capacity.”

  “I can’t eat Chinese food. All that MSG gives me heart palpitations,” Bridget said.

  “It depends on where you go. Comparing most Chinese restaurants to the Dumpling House is like comparing frozen pizza to real Italian pizza,” Gregor said, sounding slightly hurt.

  The atmosphere of the place was altogether different from even the busiest of Chinatown hole-in-the-walls. Though all guns were ostensibly checked at the front desk, many of the diners displayed bandoliers of ammunition across their chest. Although the new arrivals were greeted with non-hostile stares, this was a place where really hungry people were eating fast so that other really hungry people could come in and eat as well, so there was not any of the false cheeriness sometimes associated with such establishments.

  Sammy spoke briefly to the hostess, who he apparently knew fairly well, who nodded to Sammy when he made some sort of a request. When a large table became free near the door, “and close to our guns”, as Sammy had put it, the group of fourteen crowded around it. Extra chairs were brought. Menus which had been greatly simplified to expedite the cooking and dining process were distributed. Some fresh and perishable foods were on the menu, but there was also a lot of anything that could be canned or frozen. This was actually a pretty good place to eat, as many of the truckers holed up here had full loads of goods in their trailers. A loose barter system was developing, and Sammy had already made arrangements to pay for the meal with cases of beer from his truck, beer being a commodity with high trading value here.

  The food was brought with the supernatural speed that some truck stops seem to be masters of. The group tucked in to plates of cheeseburgers and fries, steaks, pancakes, home fries, waffles, and club sandwich platters. The sight of the food revived any waning appetites, and indeed, a lot had transpired since any of them had eaten anything. The trail mix given to The Celtics had largely been ignored. Coffee, soda and water were produced in a seemingly endless supply, and for a little while the memories of the evening’s horrors were temporarily shelved.

  Opinions regarding the age of the human race, or what is known as “modern man” vary. Some say men and women were created about 12,000 years ago, along with the rest of the Universe. Others postulate that the human race has been essentially the same for several hundred thousand years. The extreme resilience shown by these people being able to sit down and eat a meal in the face of such a ghastly sequence of events makes a compelling argument for the latter theory.

  When everyone had eaten enough, plans were discussed, introductions were solidified, and rumors were perpetuated. Everyone agreed that whatever was happening was extremely worrisome, but the sheer normality of getting off the road and eating in a diner made the dangers just faced seemed remote. Food and coffee can often have a powerful restorative effect after traumas.

  Sammy became expansive as the remaining food began to be consumed at levels approaching politeness. “Now, whatever you guys are planning, you should consider this-this place is like an armed fortress. They have National Guard helic
opters choppering in guns and ammunition and reinforcements constantly. It looks open, but they are gearing up to start circling the wagons in the parking lot, by pulling all the trucks into loose rings and blockading them with lumber, plywood, anything we can use off the trucks. They are going to create a kind of encampment, with the first wall of defense the National Guard and militia you saw, and the last line being the ring of trucks. If they all get breached, it’ll be fixed so everybody can just pile into their vehicles and take off. I don’t think even the largest mass of Psychos could take us though. Everybody here is locked and loaded, so to speak, and whoever thought of those roving jeep squads with the 50 Cals mounted on the backs was really thinking.”

  “It was originally a Somalian War Lord, from what I understand,” said Al as he uncharacteristically broke his silence.

  This stalled Sammy momentarily, but he began again. “Now of course this is a really ugly situation, but if I was you I would think about going to ground right here. You have as good a chance here as anywhere else, and anything you need I can get you. I don’t know where you all are going, and it’s none of my business I expect, but you saved my life back there.”

  “We’re on a mission from God,” David joked, earning a contemptuous look from Bridget.

  “Everybody is feeling the strain,” Dante said, looking at David searchingly.

  “Now, you and me think alike. I had an emergency shelter setup for this type of thing but the Psychos came in so fast that I didn’t have time to get to it. Now I’m out on the road with limited resources and firepower. I would rather be in a safe place until this plays out. I mean, at some point the military has to start doing counteroffensives. These Psychos aren’t great fighters, but they just come so hard and fast that I have to admit they are scarier than shit. They’re like rabid dogs though, they have to run out of steam soon,” Jerry spoke in a torrent of words. Sammy and Jerry seemed to be poised at the brink of an epic friendship.