by Frank Tayell
“Like I said, he works in the British government.”
“He’s a spy, too?”
“No. And neither am I,” he said.
“That’s what you’re meant to say, right? I mean, you have a contact in the White House, and then first thing this morning, you try to reach someone in the British government? That’s not what normal people do.”
“Show me a normal person, I’ll show you someone putting on a very good act.”
“Hmm. So who is he, really?”
Tom sighed. She wasn’t going to be fobbed off. He’d long ago learned that it was easier to tell a version of the truth missing some facts than to lie outright. “He really does work in the British government. He’s a professional political operative. A strategist for hire. I tried calling him yesterday, a nurse answered. He was in a hospital with a broken leg. I thought that if he was conscious, he might have been able to help.”
“If he was conscious? Don’t you have any other contacts?”
This time, the truth was far too complicated to explain. “It’s all down to what phone numbers I can remember. His is one of them.” He checked the tablet. “And there’s no reply. He’s probably still sedated. Which means he can’t find us a map, and can’t tell us where we are.”
“Oh. Okay,” she said. “So who’s out west?”
He glanced over at her. Yesterday, she’d seemed… normal wasn’t the right word. Quiet, subdued. Had that been shock? Was this inquisitive questioning her true nature, or was it the product of all they’d experienced?
He reset the odometer. “About a fifth of a tank left,” he said. “Do you want to take a guess at what the most fuel-efficient speed would be?”
“Thirty-five? Who’s out west?” she asked again.
He thought of lying, but there was little point. “A scientist. Someone who might know how these… well, who might be able to give them a more useful name than zombies.”
“You know him?”
“Her. And we’ve never met.”
“Okay. And so you go to this scientist, and she says… what?”
“I don’t know. She might know how to stop them.”
“You mean she might have an anti-virus in a fridge or something?” she asked, skepticism returning to her voice.
“No. Maybe it would be more accurate to say that she might know where we start in coming up with a plan to stop these things.”
“If she did, wouldn’t she already have told someone at the CDC or somewhere?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. There’s no way of knowing until I ask her.”
“There’s more to it than that, isn’t there,” she said. “I’m a teacher, believe me, I’m used to subterfuge and evasion. Do you think she created it or something?”
He didn’t answer immediately. “Possibly. I don’t know. I mean, I have no reason to suspect her over anyone else, but at the same time, I can’t think of anyone else who could come up with something so horrific. Maybe she didn’t create it, but the scientific world is small, she might know who did. Yeah, it’s not much of a lead, and maybe you’re right. I’ll get there and find she’s already working with the CDC, but what’s the alternative? Wait this out in some well-stocked bunker? I don’t know where one is.” That wasn’t strictly true. “But even if I did, this isn’t going away overnight. How long do we hide? Months? Years? No bunker will have enough supplies. You saw what Manhattan was like. It’ll only get worse. People might stay in their homes and barricade their streets, but the power grid will collapse. The water will stop running. The food will run out, and people will turn on one another. Neighbor against neighbor, friend against friend. They’ll fight. They’ll kill. Some will run, straight into the arms of the undead. They’ll be infected, and we’ll—”
“Stop!”
He slammed a foot on the brake, looking around for the threat. He saw none.
Helena swore. “I meant stop talking like that,” she said. “I get it. This is bad. I… I don’t need you to spell it out. I was there. I saw it, too.”
“Okay. Sorry. Sorry.” He sighed. “Seriously, do you know of anywhere between here and the Great Lakes we can go?”
“Everyone I know is in New York.”
“There’s a place in Maine, I—” He stopped, remembering himself in time. “It’s too far.” He glanced down at the fuel gauge. There was Julio and the airfield. Depending on precisely where they were, that was due south, and perhaps a little to the east. It was probably closer, but he wasn’t going to run and hide. He couldn’t. “I don’t know of anywhere we can reach without stopping for gas. We might make it to the Allegheny only having to stop once. Right now, that’s as good a destination as anywhere.”
“The Allegheny? That’s remote, isn’t it? Okay. Fewer people means fewer zombies. Okay.” She sounded mollified. “But we’re going to run out of gas in seventy-five miles.”
“You sure?”
She tapped the odometer. “Teacher, remember.”
He started the engine, driving more slowly. Perhaps he could leave her in a town, or find someone heading to Canada. He wasn’t going to take her into more danger, but nor was he going to tell her that. Not yet, at least. To forestall any further questions, he turned on the radio.
“I know this is a tragedy,” a woman said. “And maybe it’s because of that. Seeing all those videos of deaths yesterday, but there’s something… I dunno… reassuring in the way they blew that bridge up.”
“Reassuring? Yeah, I know what you mean,” a man replied. “With Manhattan isolated, it does seem like they’re getting a handle on things.”
“The military are,” the woman said. “I don’t think Washington has a clue.”
“When does it ever?” the man said, adding a nervous laugh. “But let’s leave the party politics alone for a while. This has to be the time to for us to put aside our differences and come together as—”
“No, I think this is exactly the time to talk about politics,” the woman cut in. “Maxwell won the popular vote with fifty-five percent, and he’s claimed that as a mandate. That means that nearly half the voters chose someone else. Now, look at the turnout. Look at the people who couldn’t even be bothered to turn out. He’s only got the support of thirty-two percent of the population eligible to vote. That’s not a mandate.”
“I really don’t think this is the time to discuss the election,” the man said.
“And I agree,” Tom said, and changed the station.
“I’m going to repeat the information we have… um… the news, I suppose,” a woman said. She spoke with uncertainty, in a voice that wasn’t right for radio. There was the sound of paper shuffling. “Um… according to the major news networks, the outbreak has been mostly contained to Manhattan. The island has been cut off. The bridges have been destroyed. Shipping has been… has been sunk. There are isolated cases in the United States and overseas. Yesterday, they broadcast an… well, an attack, I suppose, in Paris. There was video footage, recorded on the Champs-Élysées. Two of the networks are reporting incidents in Sydney and in Moscow. Um… look, I’ve seen the footage they’re talking about and I couldn’t say where those where. They could have come from anywhere. Um…” There was a pause. “That’s what the major networks are saying. I… I’m not saying they’re lying. I mean…” She took a breath. “Look, there’s a huge contradiction in what they’re saying. They can’t have contained the virus on Manhattan while saying there are outbreaks in Australia, Russia, and France. What? Oh. Um… Brad says… My producer, Brad, he said that it could be possible, if the outbreak began simultaneously in multiple locations. I hadn’t thought of that. Is there a way of confirming it?”
From the pause, Tom thought the question was asked of the unheard producer.
“Good point. Okay, people. Listeners, um… I suppose it doesn’t matter whether this began in New York or not, or if they’ve got zombies on the moon. They’re here, in America. So what do you do? What should we do? The official line is that you should stay i
nside. Do not travel. Isolate anyone who gets infected. That’s it. That’s all we’ve been told. Or I assume it is. It’s just me and Brad here. Maybe FEMA’s sent us a message we’re meant to broadcast, but we’ve not found it. Everyone who was here yesterday has gone. No one else has come in. Hey, maybe you guys are listening.” Her voice rose to a yell. “If so, come to work!” There was a pause. “Yeah. Right. Okay. Well, that official line seems to be the best advice. What else do we know? The schools are closed, at least that’s the case for the ones around. No trains are meant to be running although I saw freight trains moving on the railroad when I went up to the roof a few hours ago. The hospital isn’t accepting any new admissions. Patients are being sent home. They’ve said that you shouldn’t come in to collect any family members; they’re moving them by ambulance. That’s for the Mother of Mercy hospital, and direct from their chief administrator. What else? Do we have anything else? Okay, well there’s no point me repeating the same thing over and over. I’m going to see if we can find something new to tell you. We’ll be back. As long as there’s electricity, we’ll keep broadcasting. Stay inside. Stay safe.” There was a moment of silence. “Do I press the red button? The green—” Her voice was cut short by a guitar riff that led into an old protest song Tom hadn’t heard in a decade.
“Do you think they can contain it?” Helena asked.
“Possibly. If it’s really only spread through blood and saliva, then it’s easy to avoid infection.”
“As long as you have the supplies to stay inside. You were right. They’ll run out. The power will go, and then…” She shivered and turned the music up.
At about the same time that song ended and another began, they turned onto a wide, four-lane road that ran roughly east to west. A blue hatchback had been driven into the ditch, a hundred yards from the turning.
“Must have crashed,” Helena said. “Hey, you’re going too fast.”
“There’s someone in the front seat.” Or something. “It’s moving.”
“Then stop. Stop! We have to stop!” She grabbed at the steering wheel.
“Okay, okay.” He slowed, and pulled in, fifty feet from the crashed car. “You know what it is, right? It’s a zombie.”
“It might not be,” Helena said, getting out. “You shouldn’t assume. It might be someone hurt, someone like us, someone… oh.”
He followed her out and saw what she’d seen. He’d been right. It was a zombie, sitting in the driver seat, and now trapped inside by the seatbelt.
“Do you… do you think he put the seatbelt on so he couldn’t get out and infect other people?” she asked.
“Maybe.” He took a step closer. The person the zombie had been was on the younger side of thirty, with a face that looked oddly familiar. “Do you recognize him?”
“Me?” Helena asked.
“I think he was on TV.”
“We should do something,” she said firmly.
“Kill it, you mean?”
“No, I… well, yes. I suppose.”
“There’s no ammo for the guns,” Tom said walking back to the truck. “It’s trapped in there, so we should leave it alone. There’s no point putting ourselves in more danger than we have to.” Other than the tarpaulin there was little in the truck beyond an electric lawnmower and a thin layer of soil. He heaved the lawnmower out of the back. The casing was cracked, and the wire had been cut through, six feet from the handle.
“What are you doing?” Helena asked.
He grabbed the cord and pulled it free. “Should be long enough.”
“What for?”
“You’re right; we have to do something. We need fuel, yes? Maybe that car crashed when he turned, maybe not, but there might be some gas in the tank. If there is, he doesn’t need it anymore, but that gasoline might mean the difference between life and death for us.”
“You can’t be serious,” Helena said, still twenty feet away. “You’re going to syphon fuel from the car while… while that thing is in the front?”
“Yep.” He walked back to the car. The zombie, which had been rocking back and forth in its seat, began moving more violently. Its hands beat at the dash, the door, the window. No, he thought, not beating. Its arms were moving, and the hands were hitting objects, but there was no aim behind the blows. Only when he was satisfied that the seatbelt would trap the zombie inside did Tom pull the fuel cap free.
The zombie slammed his head into the window. The door rocked.
Tom slid the wire inside.
An elbow slammed into the door. Then its head. Elbow. Arm. Head.
Tom pulled the wire free. The bottom eight inches were damp. It wasn’t a rigid cord, and he didn’t know the size of the tank, but there was gasoline in there.
Metal creaked. The car door shook.
Tom took a step back, and another.
“We should go,” Helena said.
“There’s fuel there. Not sure how much, but it might be more than we’ll find anywhere else.”
“Anywhere except a gas station,” Helena said, “but, okay, fine. We need some hose and a container, right?” She headed back to the truck.
“Other than the water bottles,” Tom began, “I don’t think—” There was a sudden, sharp snap from inside the car. The seatbelt had broken. The zombie was free. It slapped its face against the window, and then its hands. The car rocked, the door shook, and Tom knew the lock wouldn’t hold for much longer.
Panic replaced the calm of a moment before, and he looked around for a weapon. Upending the lawnmower, he peered at the blade. It was sharp, but firmly attached and so deeply recessed within the casing that the only way it would do any damage was if it were dropped on the creature’s head. The handle, however, was made of two connected sections. One folded back on the other for storage, and could be extended when in use. Two small clasps connected each section. He pulled, trying to jerk the top half of the metal frame clear.
“Tom!” Helena ran back toward the truck. He kept his eyes on the car, tugging and twisting the metal frame free.
The zombie slammed its head into the window, and this time it broke. Fragments of glass lacerated the zombie’s face and tore at its scalp. Hair and skin were torn off, leaving a red-brown fluid, darker and thicker than blood, to ooze down the car’s paintwork. The creature didn’t notice. It didn’t stop moving. Only the uncoordinated way it pushed its shoulder through the window before its hands slowed its progress.
Helena was back at his side, carrying the empty shotgun as if it were a club. Tom hefted the lawnmower’s handle. The hollow, U-shaped piece of steel felt absurdly light.
The zombie kept squirming free. They could drive away, but they needed that fuel. He ran forward, raising the handle above his head, stabbing it down, but had to jump back as the creature’s arm came through the broken window. It swiped a hand through the air, missing his legs by a hair’s breadth. Then, with its torso outside the car and only its legs still inside, it sagged forward. Tom stabbed down with the hollow-handled piece of steel. There was a crack of bone, and the handle stuck, but with less than an inch inside the creature’s skull. He tried pushing, but the zombie still thrashed. Its hand reached out and caught around Tom’s leg.
“Like a nail!” Tom yelled. “The shotgun. Like a hammer. Quick!”
Helena ran up, and Tom leaned back as she swung. The stock hit the metal at the point where it bent at a right angle. The metal went in another inch. The creature spasmed.
“Again!”
But Helena was already swinging. The stock hit the handle. It went in another eight inches. The zombie sagged, motionless.
“Thanks,” Tom said, taking a step back. Helena did the same.
“I..” She dropped the shotgun. “I…” She doubled over, and threw up.
“I found this in the back,” Tom said, holding out the bag. Inside were twenty packs of pecan and peanut butter cookies. “There was a photo I.D. for a grocery store. He worked there.” He threw a glance back at the car. The zombie
still sagged half in, half out of the window. Brown-red fluid dripped to the ground through the hollow metal rod embedded in its skull. “He wasn’t on television. Must have had one of those faces. The kind you easily mistake for someone else. Here. Eat something.”
“I don’t think so,” she said as she took the bag. “Was there much gasoline?”
“A couple of gallons.”
“Enough to get us thirty miles?” She gave a hollow laugh. “This is my new life, is it? This is the fruition of all my dreams?”
The only replies that came to mind were either trite or a lie. He said nothing, letting the radio fill the silence as they continued driving west.
That morning’s first sign of life came twenty minutes later when a two-seater vanity-mobile shot past them on the outside lane. As the fuel needle resumed its inexorable descent toward the red, more vehicles filled the road.
“They don’t look like refugees,” Helena said. “It’s like they’re trying to get somewhere.”
“They probably are. Out of the city to their country homes, or to relatives or somewhere. Yesterday they couldn’t believe what had happened. Today, they’re worried they’ve left it too late.”
Tom slowed the truck, pulling into the side of the road.
“Are we out of gas?” Helena asked.
“Not yet,” Tom said.
Ahead lay hills covered in a light dusting of snow. His attention was on the interstate, visible slightly below them and two miles to the north. A trio of helicopters buzzed over a hive of military activity. Trucks, tanks, and other equipment were being set up on the highway.
“Are they setting up a checkpoint?” Helena asked. “That’s good, right?”
“Is it? What are they going to do with the people they stop? I think… yeah, I think those are tents, aren’t they? Is that what they’re going to do? Hold them there? They won’t be able to send them home.”
“Maybe. And maybe it’ll be terrible for the people who end up trapped out here, but it’ll stop the infection. Except it won’t, will it,” she added, her tone changing. “The infection’s ahead of them. Behind them. They’re concentrating people in places with no walls to protect them, no food to eat, and no water to drink.”