by JE Gurley
He started a pot of tinned stew heating over the fire to have ready when she awoke. She looked as if she had missed a few meals lately. Satisfied he had done all he could do, he pulled a chair up next to the window, grabbed a blanket against the chill, lit a cigarette and stared out into the darkness.
****
When Alex awoke, it was morning and the girl stood over him, his rifle in her shaky hands aimed at his head.
“You do this?” she asked. Her face was grim. He assumed she meant cleaning and treating her wounds.
“Yes.”
“You do anything else?”
He smiled, “I like my women a little cleaner and a little more able to cooperate, if you know what I mean.”
As if unsure, she stared at him a few seconds longer, but she lowered the rifle. “Thank you for what you did.”
He took the rifle from her and set it against the wall. “There’s a pot of stew on the fire and some tea I can reheat. Eat slowly. What’s your name?”
“Nicole, Nicole Blalock.”
“I’m Alex Nelson. Welcome to Chez Alex.” He waved his arms around.
“Nice digs,” she said. “I see you chose the penthouse suite.”
“Better view of the pool.”
She spooned some stew into a bowl and attacked it slowly, but with obvious relish. When she looked up at him staring at her eating, she said, “We’ve been living on tinned biscuits and canned jam for two weeks.” She held up the bowl. “This is wonderful.”
Alex set the teapot on the edge of the fire and washed out his cup. If she stayed for long, he would need to make a trip to the hardware store for more camping supplies, not to mention clothing to replace her worn out rags.
“What size are you?”
She looked at him over the bowl. “A three. Why?”
“Shoe size?”
“Seven and a half. I wear a 35 B-cup bra. Anything else?” she snapped.
He shrugged. “I thought I would do a little shopping. You won’t be up and about for a few days with those feet.”
“Sorry. I get bitchy sometimes. You’ve been very helpful.”
“No worries. I’ll get you rigged out, and then you can start out to wherever you were headed after you heal up.”
She stared at him a moment and he felt guilty at bringing up her leaving.
“All right,” she answered slowly.
“Don’t go anywhere.” He handed her his pistol. “Keep this handy. I’ll be back soon.”
As he dropped down the rope chair and climbed into the Jeep, he could feel her eyes on him. He vacillated between wanting to ask her to stay for a while and wanting her gone. Two people made it harder to survive. Alone, he was doing just fine. He could stay ahead of the zombies, and if he died, small loss to anyone. He had no kin, no friends, no one to mourn his passing. However, he was lonely. Just the few words they had exchanged had been more conversation than he had spoken in weeks. As he pulled away, he cast one quick glance into the rearview mirror, and saw her still watching him.
****
Looters had thoroughly ransacked the hardware store at the beginning of the Demise. Luckily, most had been more intent on destruction than clearing it of its contents. One section had caught fire and burned through the roof, but over half of the store remained intact. In the outdoor camping gear section, Alex found boots, socks, pants, and shirts in the size he needed. Underwear was a little more difficult for a woman, but he managed. He picked up a second cot, more dishes, a small propane stove, two electric torches with extra batteries and water purification tablets. He knew he should empty out the store, but took only what he needed, just in case some other survivors passed through. Even so, he had quite a load in the back of the jeep when he left.
As he drove down the back streets and alleys to avoid the main road, he saw only a couple of zombies, and he wondered if they were starving to death. He did not know how longed they survived, but anything short of forever would be a plus. Once, he saw a pack of dogs gone feral fighting over a mound of what could have been either a zombie or an unlucky human. They looked up at the sound of the jeep, but otherwise ignored him. Most pets had died soon after their masters, becoming food for zombies, starved, trapped in houses, or killed by other hungry animals. Those that survived had grown bolder and more vicious. He was constantly wary of large packs.
When he returned, Nicole was standing in the window watching. She helped him haul up the supplies. He handed her the bundle of clothing that he had chosen for her.
“I hope it all fits. Not much choice in colors, I’m afraid. If you want, I’ll heat some water for a bath. There’s a tank on the roof and a room with a door that locks at the end of the building.”
She smiled. “A bath would be nice. It’s been a while. Dad and I couldn’t spare the water.”
On mentioning her father, her lips trembled and her eyes began to tear up. She brushed at one eye hard with the heel of her hand, as if angry that she had allowed him to witness her show of emotions. Alex pretended to ignore her.
“I’m not flush with water, but I can spare enough for a bath.” He looked around for the first time and saw she had done some straightening up while he had been away. His things looked neater and were in some semblance of order. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of her prowling through his stuff. “I’ve got a couple of towels around here somewhere.”
“Thank you.”
For his own water needs, he had run a hose from the 800-liter tank on the roof and clamped it with a pair of vice grips, crude, but effective. He filled up his largest pans with water and placed two on the fire, and one on the propane stove to heat. While the water heated, they talked. He squatted by the fire; she sat on the edge of the cot.
“Have you seen many survivors?” she asked.
He did not mention the two men he had killed. “No, but there are a few about. I’ve seen signs of them. They tend to stay off the streets.”
“Shouldn’t we gather everyone in one place, band together to help each other survive?”
“It would draw all the zombies to one spot as well.”
“Easier to kill them all,” she said with a coldness that rivaled his own. He wondered what her experiences with them had been.
“I’m a loner. I can look after myself. You get everyone together, and some will have to do all the taking care of the others. Most folks aren’t equipped for survival.”
“They will learn,” she countered.
He said nothing as he added a few sticks to the fire.
“We have to stick together or we all lose,” she continued. “Civilization will die.”
Alex sighed. “Look. The old world is gone, at least as far as I know. Civilization and all it entailed went belly up. It’s going to take a special set of skills to survive. Some will learn; most won’t have time to learn. They could take the others down with them.”
She glared at him. “You won’t even try?”
“You and your dad dug in and stayed, until you ran out of food, before trying to get away. The thing to do was to get away quickly, stock up on supplies. You thought like most people – someone will come to your rescue. If someone tries to help them, they immediately fall into that same old thought pattern. You might have to kill a couple of people to change that attitude. I don’t want to do that.”
“You helped me,” she retorted.
“I almost ran you down. I thought you were a zombie. I came back to finish you off.”
She smiled. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
Her smile disturbed him. “Look. You’re a woman. You’ll find some man willing to take care of you.”
She stood up quickly and sneered at him. “You mean I can trade sex for food and protection. That go for you, too. How much do I owe you for those?” She pointed to the stack of clothes.
He took her anger and threw it back at her, “I meant most men have a soft spot for women and kids. They want to protect them. It’s harder to take an old couple under your wing or some
useless dropkick you can’t trust to stand guard while you sleep.”
“You’re wrong about people,” she snapped.
“Maybe so,” he admitted, “But I decided early on not to put my trust in others.” He looked at the water. “Your water’s hot. You’re welcome to stay until you’re healthy enough to travel. I don’t begrudge anyone a hot meal and a bed, but I travel light and soon I’ll be off for Alice Springs or maybe the coast to see how things fare there. If they’re as bad as I think, I’ll need to make more permanent plans.”
“And I’m not in them.”
“No.”
Her voice softened, “I shouldn’t be angry with you. I owe you my life.”
His emotions were still in turmoil as he said stridently, “Anger’s a good thing to have on your side. It might keep you alive.”
She picked up one of the pans of water and carried it to the empty room. He grabbed the other two, followed her, and set it on the floor.
“Sorry I don’t have a tub. It wasn’t high on my list when I was searching for digs.”
“I’ll manage.”
He turned and left. He could hear her splashing as he poured a cup of tea. He tried to erase the mental image of her naked body with water rolling off her soft tanned skin. It was difficult. Two years was a long time. If he wasn’t careful, he would wind up asking her to stay. He reached in his pocket and rubbed the opal, reminding him of Jiselle. He knew that dwelling in the past wasn’t a good idea, but it took his mind off Nicole.
She returned, clean and dressed in the new clothes he had brought her, no longer the half-dead waif he had first seen. She had brushed back her wet hair, and her freshly scrubbed face glowed with a clean, healthy shine. She smiled and pirouetted slowly to display her new attire.
“Khaki is your color,” he said more warmly than his earlier words. “Goes with your brown eyes.”
“The boots were a bit large, but I put on two pairs of socks.”
“We’ll find the right size later. You can’t walk far in ill-fitting boots.”
Nicole’s smile faded as his words sank in. “No. That’s true,” she answered slowly.
“Do you have kinfolk anywhere?”
She shook her head, “No one, now that Dad’s gone.”
Great, an orphan. “Well, you can figure it what you want to do later. Right now, how about some lunch?”
7
Aug. 26, 2013 Casey Base, Antarctica
Roger Basky decided it was time to quit playing it safe, especially if doing so would probably kill him. The temperature in the small office was now 10 below Celsius and he had no more wood to burn in his makeshift stove. He was tired, but afraid to sleep for fear of not waking up. He glanced at the body of mechanic Craig Dylan. A fine layer of frost now covered the headless corpse. Dylan had died from his bite wounds but Basky had severed his friend’s head at his request to prevent his turning into one of the creatures roaming the base.
He had heard a series of explosions during the first few hours of his and Dylan’s detention. One of the explosions had been very loud and had shaken the building. He interpreted it as the fuel depot going. Someone, probably Brett Springor the base commander, was attempting to confine the plague to the base. Basky doubted it would work. The two pilots had brought it in from the mainland and they had landed in Mawson first. The Americans or the Russians might be all right, but he held little hope for Mawson.
Two days had passed and no one had come to rescue him. He was out of heat and had no food. He could either chance it out among the zombies or die a slow, cold death in the office. He picked up a piece of metal chair leg, opened the door as quietly as he could, looked down the hallway and stepped outside. Several eviscerated bodies he thankfully couldn’t identify lay on the floor amid frozen pools of blood. Cautiously, he stepped among the corpses on his way to the front door. A frigid breeze struck him as he pushed open the door at the end of the hall. Daylight blinded him. The wall of the front office had vanished. Only charred wood remained. Through half-frozen lips, he whistled appreciatively. The explosion that had rocked the building two days earlier had been closer than he had thought. A light dusting of snow covered the shattered furniture and the two bodies grotesquely sprawled on the floor.
The welcome center next door was gone as well, consumed by the fire that had swept through most of the base, leaving few buildings undamaged. Snow softened the blackened outlines of the skeletal buildings. Bodies lay in the snow. He counted eight mounds, plus the three bodies in the hall, the two in the front office, and Dylan. It was late winter, going into spring, and none the 150 or so summer workers, expedition members, and researchers that kept the base lively during the summer season had arrived. Only the permanent staff of 20 remained and some of them were off base. That still left several people missing. Where were they?
Basky froze when he heard a sound of footsteps on metal from nearby. He picked up a piece of wood to use as a club, unsure if it would be effective against a zombie. He grasped the wood with both hands and peeked around the corner; then laughed aloud when he saw his intruder was a curious Adelie penguin. One of the several species of penguins that nested in the Windmill Islands, the tiny black and white penguin stood just over seventy centimeters, and was one the smallest in Antarctica. Used to human activity, the penguin was not afraid of him. In fact, it stopped and stared at him for several seconds, before squawking loudly and waddling toward him. Then he noticed the dried blood on the penguin’s beak.
“Bloody hell!” he cried and raised his metal chair leg. The penguin kept advancing, falling over debris, but quickly regaining its footing. Basky’s hands tightened on his makeshift weapon. He hefted it with both hands, and as the penguin lunged at him, brought the metal rod down on the demented penguin’s head with all his strength, splitting its skull. The penguin fell dead at his feet.
“Christ almighty,” he muttered. “Even the bloody penguins are zombies.”
Basky dropped the blood-splattered chair leg and looked around. Other than the penguin, there was no movement anywhere in the base. The only sounds were the ghostly rattling of the chain of the Australian flag against its metal pole and the snapping of the windsock above the spinning anemometer at the weather station. He checked to make certain the penguin was dead and laughed when he saw the open crate of dead fish around the corner. The penguin had been feasting on fish, not human flesh. For some bizarre reason, he was relieved the disease had spared the wildlife.
Basky spent several hours rummaging through burned out husks searching for survivors and for food and water. He stood in the wreckage of the Big Red Shed, the main living area, and looked around in despair. Only a week earlier, he had sat on the sofa, drinking beer and joking with his mates about his turn at slush duty in the kitchen, which was cleaning up after the evening meal. He remembered the meal had consisted of a hearty beef stew, fresh baked bread, steak and potatoes, and a salad of fresh vegetables grown in the base greenhouse. He wished he had it now. Other than the tinned food, it had been his last bite to eat. The greenhouse, like the other buildings was gone now, the hydroponics vegetable garden burned to a crisp or frozen solid. He dug through a pile of charred wood and ash where the Woolie, the open pantry had been. Anyone could walk into a Woolie and take what they needed – food, clothing, and lanterns – just by signing, the preferred way of doing business in a cashless society such as theirs. He found a soot-covered, but undamaged box of cereal, a box of cocoa powder, a handful of protein bars and a small camp stove, but no Sterno for fuel. It had gone up in the flames. He shoved everything inside his parka.
He needed transportation. The motorized vehicles were useless burned out hulks. He checked the dog kennel, careful that they might also be zombies. The only sign of the sled dogs was splashes of blood on a couple of the kennels, and a host of dog prints churning up the snow heading away from the base. He would not be leaving by dog sled.
One of the few remaining undamaged buildings was the weather shack, but like th
e others, it burned fuel oil for heat. With no electricity, there would be no way to pump the oil to the building, even if he had fuel oil, which he did not. At least it got him out of the wind, which was beginning to pick up. He set up the camp stove, used bits of broken furniture for fuel and melted some snow to get water for hot chocolate. He removed his mittens and warmed his nearly frozen hands over the small fire. The tips of his fingers were an ominous black. Teeth-gnashing pain shot through his hands, as the blood began to circulate once more. He bit back on the agony until it subsided. He hoped he didn’t lose any fingers.
When he could once again flex his fingers, he ripped open a pouch of cocoa and poured it into his cup, followed by the hot water. The aroma of the chocolate started his mouth watering. He sipped slowly through parched lips. The hot chocolate warmed his belly and eased the dull ache inside. He wolfed down a protein bar in three bites. Although, he badly wanted a second protein bar, he knew he had to conserve them as long as he could. Surely, someone would come to his rescue soon. If anyone was left alive.
****
Aug. 29, 2013 Casey Base, Australia
Val Marino stood frozen in mute horror beside the passenger door of the Russian Kharkovchanka, staring at the remains of Casey. Less than three weeks earlier, the base had been his home away from home, a vibrant thriving city nestled amid the frozen rocks and frigid soil near the coast of Antarctica. The Big Red Shed, the prominent main building of Casey, where he had lived for two months, was now merely black skeletal ribs protruding from the snow, like the fossilized carcass of some Gondwanalandian dinosaur, surrounding a pile of rubble and ash. Marino recognized the blackened outline of two metal file cabinets incongruously standing untouched along one section of wall amid the wreckage. Several other buildings were fire-ravaged husks with gaping wounds that had once been doors and windows. The rear end of one of the base’s red Sno-Cats jutted from the side of the gutted dormitory.
The devastation extended the length and breadth of the small city. Small, snow-covered mounds lay scattered around the buildings, corpses hidden beneath white death shrouds. The fuel depot was a blackened ruin, as were a row of Skidoos and all the Sno-Cats and Hagglund tracked vehicles. The fire-charred skeletons of a Sigorsky helicopter and a rust red De Havilland Dash-7 sat at the edge of the runway. It looked as if someone had destroyed all means of transportation to prevent any infected personnel from leaving the base, dooming all of them. He wondered what anguish had gone through the mind of the person who had agonized over that decision. He hoped the perpetrator had not learned about Vostok base. Marino breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the silver glint of an intact Hercules C-130, which appeared miraculously untouched by the carnage and violence that had wracked the rest of the base.