by Frank Tayell
“Did you search them?” the agent asked the cop.
He blinked, then shrugged.
“You’re meant to search them,” the agent said. The cop gave another shrug, and left.
“Empty your pockets,” the agent said. “Tyler, get me some boxes.”
One of the teenagers grabbed a pair of empty plastic storage boxes from a stack by the wall and placed them on the folding table.
“I have a revolver,” Tom said. “It’s unloaded.”
There was a general shifting among the group of youngsters.
“If he was going to use it,” the agent said, “he wouldn’t have warned us. Take it out, put it in the box.”
Tom did. More reluctantly, he added the sat-phone, tablet, and the last of the money.
“That’s it?” the agent asked.
“Aside from some lint? Yes.”
“Your turn,” the agent held out a box for Helena. She had even less than he did.
“Names?”
“Thomas Dennis,” Tom said, hoping that Helena wouldn’t remember his surname. If she did, she didn’t say anything. The agent wrote the name on a piece of paper, and then again on the lid of the box. “And you?”
“Helena Diomedes.”
“I need your home address.”
Helena gave the boat, and that caused a few eyebrows to be raised. “It was sunk,” she said. “It’s why I’m on foot.”
Tom gave an address a few blocks from the apartment.
“I need you to sign this,” the agent said, turning the sheet of paper around. “Next to your names.”
“What is it?” Tom asked.
“You’re confirming your name and address,” the agent said. “Nothing more. You’re not under arrest, but you are being detained for the safety of everyone in the community. After twenty-four hours, you’ll be released, and returned to your vehicle.”
That wasn’t an answer to his question, but he recognized he’d lost his right to any legal recourse long before the events of New York. He picked up the pen.
“How did you get those?” the woman asked.
As he’d reached for the pen, he’d exposed his forearm and the jagged cut running halfway to his elbow.
“It was a couple of days ago. A piece of rubble,” Tom said.
“I see. Fine,” the agent said. “Ryan, go and get some bandages. We’ll see if we can get you some new clothes, too. Those things aren’t fit to be rags.”
There was something about her tone that belied the conciliatory nature of the words.
“Men and women are being housed separately,” the agent said. “Madison, please show Ms Diomedes to the lounge.”
“And me?” Tom asked.
He was taken to a storage room near the rear of the warehouse. It was full of wire cages, eight feet high, six feet square. The room was partially illuminated by harsh strip lights dangling from the ceiling, but mostly from the narrow windows high up on the far wall. They added shadows to the shapes of two figures in separate cages on either side of the room, but not enough depth to make out their features.
“What is this place?” Tom asked.
“Isolation,” the agent said. “You’ll be here for the night. You’ll get some food, some rest. Tomorrow you’ll get some clothes, and then you can be on your way.”
“But what was it before?” Tom asked.
“It was for compartmentalized shipping,” the agent said. “And if you can tell me what that means, I’d consider myself grateful. Inside. We’ll get you something to clean your arm.”
Tom stepped into the open cage. The door was closed. He was locked in. The agent left, and he took a closer look at his surroundings. His first thought was that it was a black site; some secret facility for temporarily holding detainees that the judicial system didn’t know existed. The lock was wrong and would be too easily broken. Yes, he decided, two or three good kicks, and it would give. The question was whether he should try. If he were to escape, that would mean leaving Helena behind, but she’d be safe here. This town was organized, and large enough that another mouth wouldn’t be too great a burden.
So he’d break the door, but then what? The FBI agent was old enough to be retired, though he knew appearances could be deceptive and age wasn’t a determinant of strength. The teenagers could be easily dealt with, but then what? He’d have to steal a vehicle, hope that the roads in whatever direction he traveled weren’t barricaded, and that there was enough fuel to outdistance the pursuit. Or, since he had to sleep somewhere, he could take advantage of the relative safety, and hope the new day brought some better prospects than this one had.
“Hope,” he muttered. “It seems like that’s all that’s left.”
Chapter 14 - Cellmates
Carthage, Pennsylvania
He wasn’t sure how long it was before the wide doors opened and one of the young guards came in. Tom stood as the man approached.
“I brought a bucket,” he said. “You have to sit down with your legs spread in front and your hands on your head.”
Tom sat. “My name’s Tom. What’s yours?”
“Ryan,” he said, opening the door. A bucket was placed inside.
“Hi, Ryan. Do you live in the town?”
“The bucket’s clean. There’s some soap and three bottles of water inside. And a bandage for your arm. We’ll bring food later.”
“Thank you.”
Ryan locked the door again. When it was closed, he seemed to relax. “You were in New York when it happened?”
“More or less.”
“Is it as bad as they say?”
“I don’t know what they’re saying,” Tom said, “except what’s been on the radio, and I’d say it was worse. The police were pulled out of Manhattan. There was no federal response. The National Guard did what they could, but there was little coordination.”
“Oh. Um… they said Manhattan was quarantined.”
“Who’s they?”
“The mayor. There was a meeting. She told everyone the infection was being controlled, but that there might be a few infected people who got out before the cordon could be set up.”
“Who told her that?”
“Dunno.”
“Well, it isn’t true,” Tom said. “Manhattan was cut off, but it was done too late. The people were left to fend for themselves after the police were withdrawn. Boats were sunk, the bridges blown up. God knows what it’s like for anyone still there. Did you hear about Paris?”
“The virus is in Texas?”
“Paris, France. But I heard a report on the radio saying it was in New Orleans and in Chicago. It’s all over the world. You’re stripping the grocery store?”
“What? Oh, yeah. Pooling our resources. The mayor says that it’s going to take months before it’s safe to leave the town.”
“She’s probably right. Do you have enough supplies for that?”
“Absolutely. I mean, I think so,” he said. “It’s really everywhere?”
“It is.”
Ryan left, lost in his own thoughts. He wasn’t a soldier on leave, or even a cop straight out of the academy. He was a kid barely out of high school, handed a gun that he carried without knowing how to use it. Tom took a bottle of water out of the bucket and began to wash and bandage his arm.
The interstates were the nation’s arteries, pumping truckloads of food from depots to stores to homes. Every part of the supply chain had been shut down. Assuming that grocery store was the principal supplier of food for the town and the surrounding area then, regardless of how large the town was, it wouldn’t stock more than a week’s worth of supplies. Of course, that was at a normal rate of consumption. If that was scaled back to a calorie-controlled diet, with communal meals to reduce wastage, it would stretch further. Two weeks? Factor in however much food people had in their homes. Around here, some would have a lot, but just as many couldn’t afford to store anything more than for their immediate needs. Hunting and foraging might stretch that a little further, b
ut it was the tail end of winter. So how long would they last? Three weeks? A month? Sooner, not later, their supplies would run out. They would turn on one another, and a leader capable of organizing the systematic looting of their town would know that. The only course of action open to them was to look for other supplies.
“Raiding, not looking. Taking them by force from people as desperate as themselves.” People who’d made the terrible choice of turning refugees away, and then survived the onslaught of the undead. They wouldn’t be strangers, either, but neighbors and friends. Many would die. Those who survived might have the supplies to last a little longer, but until when? Would anyone, anywhere, plant a crop this year? Would there be enough people left to plant one in a year’s time?
He finished wrapping the bandage around his arm.
The worst part was that there was only a small chance this town would survive a month. He’d made the right choice getting out of the city, but selfish self-preservation wouldn’t keep the rest of the world alive. There had to be a plan. He eyed the lock again. Yes, it would be easily broken, but then what? He could call Nate and tell him to pass the phone to Max. He thought the president would take his call. But then what? What would he say? What advice would he offer?
He’d always viewed politics as a game. Even with Max, and with all that was riding on that campaign, electoral victory had been the prize. The actual business of governing had never interested him. Yet he’d spent enough time talking policy that surely, taking what he’d seen, what he knew, there had to be a solution. The harsh truth was that millions would die, but billions could still survive. There had to be a way for towns like this to become beacons in the chaotic wasteland, the hubs from which the nation, and then the world, could be rebuilt. He sat back and tried to work out what it was.
The next time the door opened, it didn’t herald the arrival of food, but of another inmate. The FBI agent had her weapon drawn, the barrel pointed at the man’s back. Ryan followed a pace behind, his own weapon drawn, but it was aimed more at the ground than the prisoner.
“Inside,” the FBI agent said, gesturing at a cage opposite Tom’s.
“You can’t do this. It’s detention without trial,” the man said.
“I look forward to your lawsuit,” the agent replied. “Now get in.”
Still protesting, the man was pushed into the cell. “I have rights!”
“Simmer down,” the agent said, as Ryan locked the door. “You’ll be out tomorrow.”
“I’ll have your badge!” the man said. The agent shook her head and left. Ryan stopped. He looked at Tom as if there was something he wanted to say.
“And you,” the new prisoner yelled at Ryan. “I’ll have you arrested. You’ll be an old man before you’re eligible for parole.”
Ryan hurried from the room.
“They can’t do this,” the man muttered. “They can’t.”
Tom was too slow in sinking back to the rear of the cage. The man spotted him.
“What are you in here for?” the man called.
“A cut on my arm,” Tom replied. “You?”
“For telling them they have no right to do this,” the man said.
There was no point arguing. “Where did you come from?” Tom asked instead.
“Boston. You?”
“New Jersey. What was Boston like?”
“A nightmare,” the man said. “The police set up roadblocks and told us to stay inside. Then the Army drove through them and told us to leave. The whole place was a mess. Disorganized. Like no one was talking to each other. I don’t think anyone has a clue what’s going on. And this bunch? I’ll sue the lot of them. All I want to do is get to the cabin. It’s my property, isn’t it? What right do they have to detain me?”
“Your cabin, is it remote?” Tom asked. He wasn’t particularly interested, but if the man was going to insist on talking, Tom would rather it was more than a litany of complaints.
“Yeah, it’s—” And then, as if realizing that giving away the address of his secret hideaway wasn’t a wise course of action, the man finally stopped talking. “It’s remote, yeah,” he finished. Silence descended.
Beyond knowing that the world outside the high-fitted windows was dark, there was no way to track the passage of time. At least the warehouse was warm. In fact, he thought it was temperature-controlled. Forcing himself to ignore the mystery of what the warehouse had been built for, and the memory of the pointlessly old-fashioned watches he’d once owned, he turned back to the problem of how the nation could drag itself out of this apocalyptic mire. He’d got as far as realizing the closed interstates could be used to bring supplies to towns like this one when the new prisoner started talking once more.
“Hey! Did you see any zombies?”
There was an irritated grunt from the occupied cage in the far corner of the room, but neither of the other two detainees replied. Tom copied their example.
“Hey! Hey you! I’m talking to you!” the man called, without qualifying which ‘you’ he was addressing. “You seen any zombies?”
The man clearly wasn’t going to shut up, so, in the hope he might stop shouting, Tom replied. “A few, yeah,” he said. “In the city. In a refugee camp. A few more about fifty miles from here. What about you?”
“No. That’s what I mean. I’ve not seen any, so why are they locking me up? How could I be infected? You see what I mean? It’s pointless.”
Tom silently vowed to say no more.
“They said it was terrorists,” the man continued, oblivious to the indifference of his audience. “But terrorists can’t do this. I mean, they can’t! How long would it take to create a zombie? Decades, right?”
“They’re not zombies!” The words were shouted from the dark recesses in the far corner of the room.”
“Really?” the man opposite said, his tone brighter now he had a responsive listener. “So what are they?”
“Victims? I don’t know, but we can’t hide in a fantasy world.”
“It’s not a fantasy.” This came from the room’s other detainee, a gruffer, wilder voice than the other two. “These are the end times. I have seen the pale horse! This is the last plague, the final revelation before the ultimate judgment!”
“Right? Really?” the Bostonian said. There was an edge of glee to his voice. “Because I saw a priest try to stop them. He had a cross and a Bible, and they ripped him apart. Precisely how is your religion going to save you?”
“It is not religion, but faith,” the gruff man began. “A test placed before us…”
Tom sighed as the pointless debate raged. They were all filling time, none listening to the others, no one sharing any real information about what they’d seen. They were talking as a way of covering their own fear. That wouldn’t have been a problem if they’d done it quietly. The argument droned on until the door opened. The room went silent as Ryan came in, pushing a small metal trolley.
“Dinner,” he said, self-conscious embarrassment muting the half-hearted shout.
“What is it,” the man opposite asked.
“Fish stew,” Ryan said.
“I don’t eat fish,” the man said.
“Oh, I am sorry, sir,” Ryan replied, frustrated anger giving him confidence. “Would you like to see a menu? Sit down, hands on your head, or you can go hungry.”
“Thank you,” Tom said when it was his turn.
“It’s what we’re eating,” Ryan said. “It’s what everyone’s eating tonight.”
“Using up what won’t keep?” Tom asked.
“Yeah. And then what’s frozen. The mayor’s worried about the power grid. She says it won’t last much longer and we need to prepare for when it stops.”
“Wise.” He looked at the bowl. “Thanks.”
The stew wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good, but it was hot and the spices overwhelmed the contrasting flavors. When the bowl was empty, he stretched out on the floor, and tried to sleep.
A cage door rattled. It wasn’t his. He op
ened his eyes, guessing the cause. The man opposite wasn’t prepared to use the bucket as a bathroom and wanted to share his discomfort. The lights had been dimmed, but not extinguished. The rattle came again. He was tempted to tell the man to stop, that no one was going to come, but if he knew Tom was awake, he was likely to start complaining once more.
Then there was a hiss. A groan. A gasping moan. Tom leaped to his feet, curling his fingers around the wire as he peered into the darkness. All he could see was an indistinct shape. There was an atonal plinking as of a hand being dragged down the side of a cage. And again. And again. Then a banging, metallic creak as if a figure was trying to walk through the door.
He opened his mouth, about to shout for help. He closed it again. If there was no one there, if the sentries were all asleep, all he’d do was tell the zombie where he was. Zombie. That’s what it was, and that cage door wasn’t going to hold.
The dragging of fingers down the cage grew quicker. The butting, beating of flesh against the wire frame grew stronger. The creaking of the metal gate grew louder. Tom looked around for a weapon. There wasn’t one, and he wasn’t safe inside the cage. He kicked at the door. Once. Twice. The sound from opposite grew louder. He kicked again. The lock broke. The door swung open. He stepped outside, keeping his eyes on the cage opposite. The door was bulging. It wouldn’t hold for much longer. He backed away until his elbow hit the warehouse door. He tried pushing and pulling the handles. The doors were firmly locked. He slammed a fist against them.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Help! Someone!”
There was a sharp crack of metal. He spun around. The thin welding around the cage door’s topmost hinge had broken. The door sagged, and the zombie moved with it, adding its weight to the door. The lower hinge broke. The door fell outward. The zombie, its fingers still caught in the wire mesh, went with it, adding a meaty thump to the metallic clang as the door hit the floor.
“What’s going on?” The yell came from one of the other detainees. Tom ignored him.
The zombie tried to stand. It pushed upward with its knees, and then its legs, but its fingers were still trapped in the mesh. There was a sucking pop, and another, and a third, as one by one, its fingers were torn from its hands.