He continued walking westward, where the street forked into different directions. He continued his stroll through the apocalyptic scene, walking around corpses as he went. Any infected here had long since been dealt with. When he reached the fork, he chose the road heading northwest. The neighborhood was quiet; not even the birds were chirping. Cale hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d heard birds sing. He wished he hadn’t taken it all for granted. He missed all the sounds of the world. Hell, he missed the smells of the old world too, but he didn’t have time to reminisce. Even though he now stood in France, he’d lost time. Time was the thing he wasn’t sure his wife and daughter had. For a moment he imagined them locked in a room, begging for his help, with infected snarling at the door…
A crash brought him back to the street in France. An undead fell through what was left of an iron gate. It groaned as it stood up to follow its meal. He’d been badly burned and looked like a hotdog that had been left on the grill too long. Cale looked around the narrow street. It was just the two of them, so he pulled out Zach’s knife, ready to feed the blade’s hunger for death. His crispy assailant approached with hungry hands. Cale feigned left and then jumped right, causing the infected to fall to the ground, and making him an easy target. Cale stabbed the golem in the back of the neck, at the base of the skull, ending its miserable existence. With the knife safely tucked back into its sheath Cale continued on.
He’d need to find a place to stay, somewhere he could get dry and rest up. His stomach growled; the infected weren’t the only hungry ones walking about. Cale picked up his pace and started to jog. Some infected trapped in a fenced in yard moaned when they saw him. He ignored them and began to look for another neighborhood. If any of them saw him enter a house, they wouldn’t stop until they got him. He knew he’d have to find an emptier area. Unsure which direction to go, he continued on until he arrived at a cul-de-sac.
He remembered a cross-country practice from back in high school. Part of their route had them turn around in a cul-de-sac. His coach took the time to educate them.
“Cul-de-sac is French. Translated literally, it means ass of the bag,” he informed them with a laugh.
Cale smiled at the thought. The street actually looked normal. There were no bodies, no burned out homes, and the cars were parked neatly in their driveways. The only thing out of place was the grass. It was a few inches taller than he viewed as normal. None of these houses looked disturbed by what the world had become. It was as if this little cul-de-sac was in its own little world, free of infection. Cale looked back to ensure he hadn’t been followed, but the street was deserted. Satisfied, he climbed the steps of the nearest house. For a moment he wondered if he should knock, or ring the doorbell, then dismissed the notion, and attempted to turn the knob.
“Locked. Damn it,” he groaned.
Cale backed off the porch. The street was still clear.
“Back door,” he said, as he cut between the houses.
A wooden gate separated the backyard from the side of the house. A latched door was his only obstacle, and it groaned on its hinges as he slowly swung it open.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
If there were infected, they’d be expecting company. He stepped through into the backyard. A child’s swing set and a cement patio with outdoor furniture sat abandoned. The gate groaned as he closed it.
“God damn it,” he cursed in a hushed tone.
He peered into the windows one by one on his way to the back door. Other than a layer of dust, the house looked safe. He felt like a neighborhood prowler as he moved on to the next set of windows. It was the kitchen. On an island counter he could see a bowl of rotted fruit. This assured him that no one was home. Ignoring the last couple of windows, he crossed the patio and went straight to the door. He tried the knob, but it, like the front door, was locked.
“Great,” Cale sighed.
He could always break in, but it wouldn’t be as effective if the undead came sniffing around. Reluctantly, he used the stock of his rifle and attempted to break out a small portion of the glass on the door. More of it crashed to the floor than he’d have liked, but it would have to do. Careful not to cut himself, Cale reached in and unlocked the door. He entered an enclosed back porch. Coats hung on hangers and beneath them were pairs of boots. It was more like a mudroom, a place to remove dirty or wet clothing. An open doorframe led into the house. Behind him, he heard metal creaking. He spun around, rifle at the ready, and looked out the open back door. He moved slowly toward it, and he could see someone sitting on one of the swings of the swing set. The person appeared blurry, as if he were looking at him through a fogged window.
“What the…?” he said, as he lowered his rifle.
Suddenly, something struck him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He fell back on the floor, gasping for air. While he struggled to ready the rifle, a man stepped into the space, wielding a wooden club. Cale raised his weapon to fire, but the man batted it away and began shouting at him in French. Cale didn’t understand a word.
“Stop,” he managed to say.
The wild man continued yelling. He struck the door with his bat angrily.
“I don’t understand! Wait!” Cale shouted back.
The man broke the rest of the window out and started hitting the wall as he shouted at the American.
“English! Do you speak English? I don’t understand!” Cale tried communicating with him again.
The man ignored his words, and began pointing the bat at him and then at the door, still shouting. Cale didn’t need a translation for that. The man wanted him gone. As he gathered his things he looked past the man toward the swing set. It was unoccupied. Whoever he’d seen must have run away. The Frenchman shoved him out the door, and Cale limped back through the gate and into the street. He turned around to discover the man had followed him. In French he continued to tell Cale what to do, pointing down the street.
“No,” he said, as he gestured to the cul-de-sac.
Cale understood a little bit more now. The houses on this street were off limits. They both knew Cale wouldn’t shoot him. The noise would draw infected right to them, something neither of them wanted. Cale turned and left the man where he stood. He’d undoubtedly have to find another place. After he’d walked out of the cul de sac and down the street a few houses, he looked back and the man was gone. He looked at the homes that lined the street here. Some of them had had their front doors broken in. One had its door still intact, but a few of its windows were broken.
“This will have to do,” Cale said to himself.
After he’d cleared and barricaded the house, he set up camp in an upstairs bedroom. There was no running water or electricity now. Without human interaction, both services could continue for about six months before they shut down on their own. How long had it really been since the outbreak began? He recalled the last time he’d actually known what day it was. It was mid-December when everything went to shit, during the rainy season in Iraq. Here in France, the sun was shining and the plants were green. Why hadn’t he been keeping track?
Cale undressed and laid his damp clothes on the floor in front of a large window. The sun would have to be his dryer; he didn’t want the Frenchman to see his clothes hanging in a window or outside, and figure out where he was. Cale sat naked on a bed, holding the Ziploc bag that contained his iPod. He searched for something to listen to, and settled on some Linkin Park. He kept the volume low, so that he could still hear as he ate his meal of canned fruit and peas.
After he finished eating, he put his iPod away. With no way to charge it readily available, he wanted to save what power it did have. Soon, he was wandering naked through the house, getting a feel for the people whose home he was squatting in. He still thought of it as their house, despite the fact that they were probably outside somewhere looking for living flesh to consume.
He found a family portrait sitting on a dresser in another bedroom. There was a goofy looking guy with one
arm around his goofy looking son, and his other around his very attractive wife.
“How’d you pull that off buddy?” Cale asked aloud.
In all fairness, he wondered the same about himself. Goofy guys with pretty girls. Maybe the world had a shortage of handsome guys? Actually, the world had a shortage of human beings in general right now, at least ones that weren’t undead, with human flesh hanging from their mouths. Cale returned the photo to the dresser and walked to the window. He peeked through the curtains to look at the street. There were a few infected spread around the neighborhood. No doubt they’d tracked him to the area. He watched as a pair of them bumped into each other. Another was messing with the handle on a car door, as though he were trying to get into it. His dead hands fumbled and flopped, only frustrating the poor beast.
An undead child, maybe about ten years old, stood in front of another house and just stared at it. Cale wondered if someone might be alive inside, or maybe he’d lived there once. There was really no telling with these things. Downstairs he heard a thump.
“Ah, crap,” Cale whispered.
It would be best if he dealt with it right away. If any more infected heard their comrade banging around, they’d join in for sure. Cale grabbed Zach’s knife and crept down the stairs. He started for the door, but then saw the infected was moving around to a window. Cale watched as the thing passed the boarded up window and continued to the side of the house that had no windows. He could still hear someone brushing up against the building, and wondered if maybe it was the Frenchman. Cale moved into the living room, and sought out a better vantage point from the window.
It wasn’t the Frenchman. An undead passed by the window, startling Cale. He barely managed to keep from yelping as it did so.
“What are you doing?” Cale whispered, wondering out loud.
An undead woman shambled into the backyard, and once there, she stood for a moment, and then went back the way she’d come. Cale shadowed her from within the house, and watched as she went back into the street with the other infected. He let out a sigh of relief when she did. It was obvious they knew he was in the area, but they couldn’t pin him down. For now, they all gathered in the street and moaned. He’d have to be careful when picking the time to sneak out.
Quietly, Cale climbed the stairs and returned to the bedroom. Outside, he could still hear them calling to one another. He hated that sound but knew, of course, that he’d have to endure it. He sat at the bedroom window and watched them for a while. They were like cattle, not sure where to go, they just kept circling within the group. They’d snowballed in number to fifteen or so. The sun was beginning to set, and he used what light he had left to place barriers between the front door and himself, just in case they got in. He’d set up a zombie obstacle course at the base of the stairs, at the top, in the hall, and at the bedroom door. He’d hear if they got in, and would have plenty of time to get ready and leave. His plan was to lower himself from the second story window and drop to the ground.
He checked his clothes before turning in for the night. They were still a little damp, so he left them out, hoping they’d be dry in the morning. Cale struggled to find sleep. He was exhausted, but on high alert, given his location and its proximity to the infected. He imagined the street being packed with them. His curiosity got the best of him, and he jumped up and moved to the window. The crescent moon provided little light, and he couldn’t see anything outside, scaring him even more. He hadn’t been afraid like this since he was a child.
He thought back to that time long ago when he was a little boy. He was what, four? Maybe five? He couldn’t exactly recall. A thunderstorm shook the house and rattled the windows in their frames. Cale began to cry as his brothers slept through it.
“Momma!” he had shouted.
His mother quietly opened the door, and sat on his bed with him. She drew his Ghostbusters blanket up around his shoulders.
“Shh,” she whispered.
“Momma?” he asked in his little voice.
“Yes, honey?” she said softly.
“I’m scared,” he said innocently.
“I know,” she said, as she stroked his head “It’s only a storm.”
She climbed onto his bed, and moved toward the window. The glass was speckled with rain. He remembered the way the shadowy streaks of water looked on her pale face, and her auburn hair, and how bright her blue eyes were. She motioned for him to join her at the sill. Reluctantly, he moved to the window with her, and she put her arm around him. Together they watched the sky flicker with lightning.
“One, two, three,” she counted until the thunder roared.
Cale whimpered, but she held him tightly, making him feel better, safer.
“Momma,” he started.
“Shh,” she whispered again.
He looked out and saw another flash.
“One, two, three, four, five,” she counted ‘til it boomed again.
“What are you doing, Momma?” he asked.
“It’s moving away,” she explained.
“Why does the sky do that, Momma?” he asked.
At first she didn’t answer, and he knew now that she was carefully deciding what to tell him.
“The clouds are bumping into each other, and it rains because they’re crying,” she explained.
“Why do they bump into each other?” Cale asked
“I don’t know, honey. Maybe they’re just playing too rough,” she offered.
Together, they watched as the storm moved away. Later that year, or into the next, both his parents were killed in an accident, hit by a drunk driver. He was only seven at the time, but he somehow held onto the memories of his parents. His ‘Greyma’ and his aunt Marie had taken him and his brothers in. They didn’t have the memories he had, and sometimes resented Cale for it. Tristan was eighteen and Jacob seventeen, but Cale still caught himself acting like they were still children; he’d never quite kicked the protective brother habit. Together, they took care of Aunt Marie. Both brothers were upset when Cale announced to them that he was going to Iraq. They were proud of him, but scared at the same time. Cale didn’t know it, but the two of them feared losing the only one of them who still had memories of their parents.
Cale wiped tears out of his eyes. He hadn’t thought about any of that in a long time. Outside he could hear the undead groaning in the darkness, returning him to the fear he’d felt just seconds before. If only there was a thunderstorm now, he might be able to see what was going on out there. A cold chill went up his spine. He wondered if they had caught him looking at them through the window. If so, they’d lay siege to the house in an instant. Quickly, he moved away from the window, hoping it wasn’t too late. He sat naked on the bed, listening for them. Every now and then he thought he heard a thump downstairs, or a creak in the hallway. He knew it was fear-induced paranoia. They were auditory hallucinations.
“Cale,” he heard his name whispered in the darkness.
He froze, and his heart pounded as he strained his eyes to see. Another creak in the hallway caused Cale to aim the rifle at the door. He stared hard, hoping to penetrate the darkness. Out of the corner of his eye it seemed like someone was standing in front of the window, but when Cale looked he couldn’t see anyone, just the darkness. The calls of the undead in the street seemed to grow louder.
“Cale,” the voice whispered in his ear.
Cale swung wildly in the dark, striking nothing as he did so. He took a couple deep breaths.
“You’re just hearing shit man, psyching yourself out. That’s it. Just your imagination,” Cale whispered to encourage himself.
No matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he didn’t feel alone in the room. Even knowing he’d imagined it, didn’t help. All he could do was sit with his weapon ready. Every sound, imaginary or not, fed his insomnia. As the dawn of the next day filled the room, he could see it was empty. Groggily, he crept toward the window. The group outside had attracted more followers. There were now upwards
of thirty undead packed into the street.
“Fuck,” he whispered to himself.
24.
Unwelcome Diversion
After a sleepless night, he wasn’t sure if he could trust his own judgment. Not only was he suffering the effects of physical fatigue, but mental fatigue as well. He debated whether he would be able to slip out through the backyard, jump the fence, and put some distance between himself and the creatures. Cale’s body shivered uncontrollably for a moment. He felt cold, but his skin was burning up. He knew what this meant; on top of all of it, he was sick. Something simple could become fatal in the apocalypse.
He pushed the thoughts out of his mind. He’d once read something about the effects of positive thinking.
“If I just tell myself I’m not sick, I won’t be,” he said.
His clothes were stiff. Dry but stiff. Casually, he slipped them back on. His tan combat boots were still wet on the inside, but he couldn’t be picky. He didn’t want to deplete his rations, but if he were sick he’d need the nourishment. He opened his pack and rummaged through it. For breakfast he’d have a can of pears and a powder packet of a Tang knockoff. He shivered as he dumped the orange powder into one of his water bottles, spilling some of it on his lap.
Z Plan (Book 2): Red Tides Page 15