Here We Stand (Book 1): Infected (Surviving The Evacuation)

by Frank Tayell

  “They must work there,” Tom said. “They’re taking the flour and whatever else they can eat.”

  “Maybe we can get a ride,” Helena said.

  “Maybe.”

  He took another step toward them. The young man came out, a trio of bags in his hands. He saw them, hissed something to the sentry who’d been watching them with terrified curiosity. The kid raised a shaking hand, pointing the pistol at them.

  “Keep walking,” Tom said.

  “And then what?” Helena asked.

  Tom wasn’t sure. Unless they were going to take a couple of the dirt bikes by force, their only hope of getting a ride was for the zombies to appear, and that a common foe might create a sense of camaraderie. That notion was dispelled two paces later when there was a booming gunshot from inside the restaurant. Three people tumbled out through the door. The young man carried bags. Another had his hands free. The last, a woman, held a shotgun, pointing straight at the closing door.

  “In. Go. Get in! Go!” the woman said. She looked a little older than the others. The two young men with her jumped in the car. It drove off as the woman waved her shotgun in Tom and Helena’s direction. Tom stopped. The kid with the automatic pistol was trembling so much he’d probably shoot the ground if he aimed in the air. The woman was different. There was a stern resolve in her stance. She’d done a lot and was prepared to do more to keep herself and these others alive. They backed toward the motorized dirt bikes. The shotgun tracked between Tom and the restaurant door. They got on. They drove off.

  “Do something,” Helena said.

  “Like what? Shoot them? There’re only two rounds left.”

  “We need those bikes,” Helena said. “We need to get out of here.”

  “So do they,” Tom said. It was academic. The car was turning right at the next junction, the dirt bikes close behind. From inside the restaurant came the sound of bolts being slid home. The people inside would have food. They had electricity. Tom looked again at the door.

  “No, it wouldn’t be safe,” he said. “We need to get away from the zombies.”

  “If we’d gotten the bikes—” Helena began. Her irate reply was cut short by an almighty crash from the west. There was a shot. Another.

  Tom wasn’t sure whether he ran to help or to steal the bikes. The decision was made when they reached the junction. There was no sign of the car. Two of the bikes had crashed thirty yards from the junction. In front of each was a cluster of the undead. The woman with the shotgun still sat on her bike, the weapon raised. She fired. Tom couldn’t see the other two. They must have run… no. They’d fallen from their bikes. The zombies were crouched over the bodies, ripping and tearing at flesh.

  The woman fired again. She missed, swore, and dismounted. She fired again. A zombie flew back. The others slowly stood and turned toward the woman.

  He had two shots, and that was all. He should have found another weapon earlier. It was too late now. He raised the revolver, trying to get a bead on one of the zombies. The woman was in the way.

  “Get to that bike,” Tom said to Helena. “And ride away.”

  “No.”

  “They’ll follow you,” Tom said. “That’ll give me and her enough time to get those other bikes.” He wasn’t sure if that was true, but you couldn’t fight these creatures with fist and foot.

  The woman fired again. A zombie folded in on itself, but that still left seven snarling apparitions slouching toward them.

  “Get that bike,” Tom repeated. He sidestepped away from her, crossing to the edge of the road, measuring his aim. The woman fired. Another zombie collapsed. There was something wrong about the shots. She was aiming at the chests. The impact was knocking the zombies down. It wasn’t killing them.

  He had a clear shot. He fired. The bullet smacked into the creature’s temple just as it turned its head. It fell. The woman stopped. She looked back. She saw them. Her expression of grim anger froze, turning into confused recognition.

  “Watch out!” Tom yelled. The woman turned back to the creatures. They were only ten feet away. She fired again. The shot was hasty. The slug hit a zombie in the side. It spun across the street, but managed to keep its feet. She racked another round. Fired. Hit a zombie in the head. Raised the gun. Nothing happened. She was out of ammo. Tom fired. A zombie collapsed, but there were still three left, and one of those on the ground was slowly pulling itself to its feet.

  “Run!” Tom yelled at the woman. And she did, but not away. Swinging the shotgun like a club she charged at the zombies. The first blow knocked one from its feet, but that took the impetus out of her swing. The next staggered back a pace, its arms flailing erratically. The woman stepped forward, and into the clawing arms of a third. Its hands caught in her clothing. Her demonic yell turned to a scream of fear. Tom ran, but he was already too late. A jet of arterial blood sprayed from her throat as the zombie bit down.

  He clubbed the butt of the revolver onto the zombie’s head. It released its grip on the dying woman and turned its bloody mouth toward him. Tom smashed the revolver into its face again, and then lashed out, kicking at its knee. The zombie stumbled as its leg gave way. Hands pawed at Tom’s jacket. Cloth tore. He punched. He kicked. A snarling, snapping mouth got closer. From nowhere, the butt of the shotgun slammed into the zombie’s face. It fell sideways.

  Helena screamed as she swung the shotgun at the other creature’s legs. It fell.

  “Get that bike,” Tom yelled, pushing her toward it. He ran to the other, nearest bike, pulling it to its wheels.

  Helena was on hers, fumbling with the ignition. She got the engine started, wheeled it around, and drove off, the bike wobbling across the road. Tom started his. He glanced behind. He saw two things: the woman to whose aid they’d come slowly sitting up, and in a house across the street two faces were watching them, just as they must have watched the entire bloody fight. He drove away.

  His clothing was torn, his hands were bruised, and one still clutched the revolver. He thrust the gun into his pocket, almost losing his balance. He was mobile and heading west. That was something, but there was no sense of victory in it.

  Helena was already accelerating away from him. He didn’t try to catch up. They’d fallen into traveling together by accident, and though there was safety in numbers, he didn’t know if he wanted companionship. Then Helena slowed and came to a stop. Tom came to a halt next to her.

  She was shaking. The shotgun, which had been balanced across the handlebars, fell from her grip. Her expression was one of abject misery.

  “Why?” she asked. “All this… it’s… why?” There was no real question in the words. Or perhaps there were so many that none could be answered, certainly not by Tom.

  “How much fuel do you have in the tank?” he asked instead.

  Slowly her head turned to the gauge. “A quarter. You?”

  “About the same.”

  In the distance, there was the sound of a helicopter. A moment later it was drowned out by the roar of an explosion.

  “Will anywhere be safe?” Helena asked.

  “I don’t know.” He wiped his hands against his coat. Automatically, he searched for cuts, and wished he hadn’t. He saw none, but knew there was nothing he could have done had he found any. He picked up the shotgun and stuck it in the straps behind Helena’s seat.

  “We need to find better weapons,” he said.

  “Or more ammunition. Or a world where—” She stopped, took a breath. “We need to get out of here.”

  “Let’s keep moving, as far as we can get, and hope safety finds us if we don’t find it first.”

  “Hope?” She shook her head. “What good is that?”

  Chapter 10 - Grand Theft Auto

  Fair Lawn, New Jersey

  West End Avenue, Essex Street, Berkshire Road: the British names made him think of Bill Wright. He rocked his head from side to side, trying to shake those thoughts away. It was shock, he supposed, calling to mind all the things he’d left undone
and unsaid, but it was a distraction he couldn’t afford.

  The fuel gauge bounced erratically between empty and full. He had no idea what that meant other than it was time to find a better vehicle. The further west they rode, the more streets they found barricaded. Some of the barriers were hasty constructs of vehicles and junk. Others were of wood, concrete, and steel, made with an impressive professionalism matched by the armed figures standing sentry at windows and on rooftops. They passed a turning blocked by two police cruisers. A pair of uniformed officers stood nearby, and the people with them all wore vests marked ‘police’, but Tom didn’t think any of them carried a badge. At least, from all that he could see, people were staying at home. Whatever warnings had been given, and whoever had given them, they were being heeded.

  There was a bang from Helena’s bike, a rattle, a high-pitched whine, and it came to a sudden stop, billowing smoke from the exhaust. He brought his own bike to a halt. Wordlessly, she climbed on the back. When he tried the throttle, the engine wouldn’t start.

  “On foot, then,” he said.

  “There’s a car over there,” she said, pointing toward a drive.

  “Look at the window above. People are watching.”

  She grabbed the shotgun from the back of her stalled bike. “So?”

  “So they’re probably armed, and with ammunition for their guns. What have we got? A few bottles of water.” Automatically, he checked his pockets. He still had the money he’d brought with him from the apartment. He doubted that would buy them anything any more. He started walking. “Besides, do you know how to steal a car?”

  “I sort of assumed you would,” she said. “Isn’t that the sort of tradecraft they teach you in the CIA?”

  “I’m not CIA,” he said. “I’m not a spy. I analyze data.”

  “Yeah, sure. So are you saying you don’t know how to hot-wire a car?”

  “Well…. yes, I do, but not one that’s made of more silicon than steel. I need something at least a decade old.”

  “Ah.” She gave a self-satisfied smile as if he’d just confirmed her suspicions. He let it go.

  The next street was guarded, but there were no barriers. Vehicles were lined up on the curb, with people scurrying back and forth, loading their possessions. From the irate yells of the bearded man who seemed to be in charge, they were putting together a convoy.

  “Keep moving,” the sentry yelled at them. Tom did.

  “Remember the road,” Tom said.

  “Why?” Helena asked.

  “If we can’t find anywhere else, we’ll double back. They won’t have taken every vehicle with them. We’ll find an empty house with a car in the drive, break into the house, and find the keys. That’d be far easier than trying to hot-wire it.”

  “They might leave some cars, but they won’t leave the fuel in the tanks, will they?”

  “We won’t know until we check,” he said, but she had a point. Surrounded by armed people, even when those guns were being pointed at them, he felt safe again. Not relaxed, but able to think more clearly about the next stage of the journey.

  “We could look for a vehicle rental place,” she suggested. “Or a hospital parking lot, or—”

  There was an explosion behind them. They both turned around. Smoke billowed up from the east. The moment of calm was gone.

  “The next turning,” Tom said. “And we’ll take the next likely-looking car we see.”

  It was a slightly smaller road, filled with slightly smaller houses.

  “Do you see the people at the windows?” he said. “They’re protecting their own properties, not each other’s.”

  “So?”

  “So, do you see the pickup truck, four houses down?”

  “The one with ‘Mr Wu does the gardening for you’ on the side. Sure.”

  “The house is empty,” he said.

  “How can you tell?”

  “The leaves haven’t been cleared from the lawn in a week. If the guy’s a gardener, he’d keep his lawn pristine as an advertisement. The only explanation: the house is empty. Stay on the curb, hold the shotgun like you’re prepared to use it, and hope no one realizes it’s empty.”

  “Hope? Huh!” she muttered, raising the gun.

  Tom darted ahead, down the drive, and to the truck. There was no time to pick the lock, so he smashed the window with the butt of the revolver. Making a point of waving the gun above his head, he ducked inside, and pulled the panel away from under the dash. It was a long time since he’d done this. He’d learned the knack during his childhood, and had been surprised to find that cars across the world were wired more or less the same. The only problem now was remembering which one to—

  “Tom!” Helena called.

  “Ten seconds,” he said.

  “Not sure we have that long!”

  The engine bucked, stopped, and then it roared. He pulled off the handbrake, slid it into reverse, and slammed a foot down on the gas. Only then did he look behind. He saw Helena dive out of the way. There was a shot. Another. Helena jumped into the truck bed. Tom shunted the car into first. There was another shot. He glanced in the mirror. People had come out of the houses. One held a rifle, and Tom saw him lower it without firing again. He took the next turn, and they were all lost from sight.

  Chapter 11 - Syphon

  February 22nd, NY, NJ, or PA

  Tom woke, but didn’t open his eyes. As long as they were closed he could pretend it had all been a bad dream. The pain in his neck told him that wasn’t the case. A bird trilled nearby, echoed by another in the distance. At least there was no screaming. He opened his eyes. They were surrounded by trees, though they were not as densely overgrown as he’d thought when they had stopped.

  They’d driven, sometimes south, sometimes north, but more west than east until it was dark, pulling in to what he’d thought was a campground. They’d slept in the cab, covered by a muddy tarpaulin from the back of the truck. He’d tried telling himself that he’d slept in worse places. Trying to come up with an example had kept him awake long after Helena had begun snoring.

  They weren’t in a campground, just a cleared patch of woodland at the side of a farmed forest. Helena was by the tailgate, arms folded, her eyes on the trees.

  “Morning,” he said.

  “Hey. It’s so quiet, isn’t it? It’s wonderful. Peaceful. Listen. No traffic. No planes. Nothing.”

  He found himself looking up. He’d no idea precisely where they were. They’d kept driving until they’d left the suburbs and exurbs behind. He wasn’t even sure if they were in New York, New Jersey, or Pennsylvania.

  “The airports were shut down,” he said. “I checked, but it was done too late. The virus had already reached Paris.”

  “Oh, I wish you hadn’t said that,” Helena said, turning away from the trees. “I was trying to enjoy the moment. I know it’s stupid, but I’ve spent most of my life in cities. I mean, sure, I’ve been away on holidays, but I don’t think I’ve been anywhere that seemed as remote as this road.”

  As far as he could tell, it was no different to any other country road he’d ever traveled.

  “I was enjoying the dream,” Helena continued. “Imagining that I’d left New York and was finally beginning the next chapter of my life. But I have to wake up, now, and face reality.”

  “Yeah. And I wouldn’t mind it if this reality included some breakfast.”

  Helena gave an exasperated growl.

  Tom took out the sat-phone, plugged in the tablet, and waited for a signal. Waited. Waited. There. “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “I can give you our longitude and latitude, but the map’s not loading.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That particular part of the internet is overloaded. The only maps I downloaded were of New York and Washington D.C. I’ve got nothing for here.” He glanced up again. “Wherever that is.”

  “Oh. So…” There was a pause. “Where do we go now?”

  He glanced
up and down the road, hoping for a sign he’d previously missed. There wasn’t one. Dr Ayers’s home was around three hundred and fifty miles from New York. Precisely how far it was from where they were now, he wasn’t sure, but if he could find the gas, he could be there before evening. He or they, that was the real question.

  “You said you had a sister in Canada?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I’m heading west, almost as far as Lake Erie. You might be able to catch a ferry across the lake from there. Where in Canada does she live?”

  “She had a place in Toronto,” Helena said. “But she moved a couple of years ago. She’s not there anymore.”

  “So where is she?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  He recognized the tone. With a little prompting she’d confess to some secret. He didn’t have time for that. An idea came to him. He sent a brief message to Bill. If the man was out of surgery and back at a computer, he could find a map.

  “Who’s Bill?” Helena asked.

  “What?” He put it down to tiredness, but he’d not realized she’d been reading over his shoulder. “A friend. In London. He works in the government.”

  “Oh. Right.” She looked at the tablet, the sat-phone, and then at Tom, this time with greater scrutiny than since they’d met.

  “And there’s no reply from him,” Tom said hurriedly putting the sat-phone and tablet away. “Well, there’s no point standing here. Maybe there’ll be a diner open in the next town.”

  “Maybe,” she said thoughtfully.

  Tom’s policy the evening before had been to avoid the interstate. He still thought that a prudent decision, but it meant they were now on a two-lane road absent of any useful signs.

  “We’re traveling south,” Helena said. “Don’t we want to go west?”

  “There’s not much I can do about it.” He was missing his morning coffee. He was missing his bed, his house, even his life – as far from normal as that had been. “Sorry,” he added. “Didn’t mean to snap.”

  Helena made a noncommittal noise. “Who’s Bill? I mean, really.”