by Frank Tayell
Helena went inside, and back into the shower, staying there long after she would have washed off the dirt. Tom stripped his muddy, dirty, ragged, stained suit and bundled it into the washing machine. He locked the front door and moved the chair close to the window with a view of the road. With the shotgun beside him, he tapped away at the refresh button, trying to find a signal. When he did, he went through the other messages he’d received. There was no reply from Bill, but there was one from someone else in Britain. A submarine commander to whom Tom had sent that first message about Prometheus, back before he knew about the zombies. The message contained two words. “Prove it.” Tom formulated a reply, attaching a few files that he thought might. Then he turned back to the track, watching as the sun set, and thinking about evacuations, about Britain, and the past.
Chapter 18 - The Road to Washington
February 24th, Pennsylvania
“You ready?” Tom asked. Dawn was still an hour away.
“Let me finish the coffee,” Helena said.
“You want to savor your last cup?” he asked.
“No, it’s not that. It’s Officer Williams. The other zombies didn’t seem like people. Abstractly, I knew they were, but not in the sense that I could see the living person in that un-living face. Maybe it’s because I know her name, I don’t know. It’s… well, now I can see that happening to me. Infection, death, coming back, you know?”
“Not necessarily. It doesn’t have to be like that.
“I’m not being a defeatist, and I don’t want it to happen, but it could, and I’m trying to be rational about it. I mean… I’ve never really thought about my own death. It’s never seemed imminent before. I guess you have?”
“Yeah. Since I was a kid.”
“Some traumatic incident?”
“I saw my family die,” he said. “I ended up running with a gang, being a gopher for drugs and guns. I came to America to start a new life… Well, no. I walked into a bloodbath, and walked out of it carrying a bag of fake passports, and laundered cash. Half of the money was in dollars, and the passport with a picture that looked most like me was from the U.S. That’s why I came here.”
“Oh. I guess that explains a lot. Me, I…” She downed the coffee. “I expected that the world would keep turning, and that though tomorrow would be more or less the same as yesterday, next week would be much better than the last.” She put the cup in the sink. “We should go.”
“You don’t have to come with me,” he said.
“We’ve been through that. What’s the alternative? Stay here? There’s enough food for a week. Less, if the power is cut, but the food will run out, the power will be cut. Unless you left the car, it’s not like I could drive to the store. If we don’t get to Washington, there’s a good chance there never will be any stores, not anymore. No, I’m coming. I’ve packed all the food that’ll keep. It’s mostly canned peaches and some crackers.”
“Can opener?”
“And spoons. We need anything else?”
“Weapons. Here,” he placed a hatchet on the table. “It came from the tool shed.”
She picked it up uncertainly.
“Bullets run out,” he said.
With a sigh, she slid it into the belt of her borrowed clothes. “Did you find a flashlight?” she asked.
“No. I’ve got some matches, and a couple of candles, but no flashlight.”
“And the route?”
“Stay off the interstate, and head south, east, then south again until we hit Gettysburg. Then keep going until we can’t.” He pulled on the hat.
“You look ridiculous,” she said with forced cheerfulness and a brittle smile.
“Thanks.” He glanced at her jeans. She’d had to trim six inches off the legs, but despite her inexpert tailoring, she looked far closer to respectable than him. The washing machine hadn’t been kind to his suit’s silk and wool blend. Blotchy white patches from where he’d doused the more suspicious stains with bleach added an ugly contrast to the original dark grey. “Maybe we’ll start a new trend.”
As they drove past Officer Williams’s shallow grave, he tried not to look. Helena turned in her seat, watching until the road curved and it was out of sight. The track ended at the road they’d walked down the day before. A hundred yards to the east was an abandoned van. Tom put his foot on the brake.
“I think that’s how Officer Williams got this far,” Tom said. “We better check it.”
“What for?” Helena asked.
Tom didn’t answer because he wasn’t really sure. For other people? Other zombies? He was still uncertain of his motivation when he threw the doors open and found the van was empty.
“You think we should see if she left a note, or letter, or something?” Helena asked.
“She drove this far, ran out of gas, got out, and stumbled toward the only turning she’d seen, hoping she’d find people, and safety with them,” he said. “She died. Knowing any more won’t change anything, or make it better.”
“What if she left a letter to her family?”
“And if we took it, and if we ever found them, what would we say? That Shawna Williams is dead? How would that help them? As long as they don’t know, they have hope. Contrary to what you might think, that’s often all we have.”
They drove east until they reached another, equally ill-maintained road that led south, curving in and out of the forest. It was almost peaceful until a yellow sports car appeared from nowhere and sped past at over a hundred miles an hour.
“Wonder where they’re going,” Helena muttered.
“I wonder why they’re heading south,” Tom said. A minute later, a car traveling almost as fast overtook them. As dawn properly arrived, more vehicles passed them. A few were heading north, but most were going south. At first, one would disappear around a bend before another appeared. Then there were two in sight at all times, then three, four, and, after forty miles, they were part of a long stream of traffic.
Helena tried the radio, twisting the dial, muttering, “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing,” until they found the woman they’d heard a few days before. The signal was faint, but her words were clear.
“For those of you keeping track, add Hawaii and Alaska to the places where the outbreak has spread. I’ve seen messages saying that there’s no virus in Greenland. I don’t know how that rumor started, but don’t believe it. Why should they be different from everywhere else on the planet? The British news is reporting that there are no outbreaks there, but that’s for domestic consumption, people! They’re saying that to keep order. Besides, Britain, Greenland, you can’t drive there, so stop trying. And stop trying to drive to the coast. What do you think’s going to happen, that there are boats there, waiting to take you out to sea? Any ship’s captain with an ounce of sense would already have set out. The rest, well, I bet the crew would already have mutinied and done what the captain should have. Stay inside. Seriously, look at these creatures, these zombies. They can’t last forever. If we can hold out for another few days they’ll start dying. If you go out, you’re going to get killed, and come back to attack us.” She took a breath, and when she continued desperation had been replaced with weariness. “The ports are closed. The airports are closed. The interstates are shut. Just stay inside. We’ve got a message here that says that the president is going to make an announcement… Brad, you’ve not written when. What? Oh, okay, so we don’t know when. They said they wanted us to keep broadcasting, but they don’t give us anything to tell you, let alone…” The voice descended into muttering. “Some music now, we’ll be back in ten.”
Helena turned the radio down but not off. “Doesn’t sound good. Have you noticed the traffic’s all heading south? No one’s going north.”
“I had.” The other lane was empty, and for the most part, the traffic was still staying in the correct lane. Even so, they were managing fifty miles an hour, and the traffic was moving freely.
“They have to be heading somewhere. What’s due south of her
e?” Helena asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe a—”
“Hey, did you hear that?” Helena turned the radio back up.
“The FEMA camp at Winchester has been closed. They don’t say which Winchester but they want me to say this: refugees coming to this camp weren’t being flown out. They want me to stress that. It was a rumor. A myth. It wasn’t true. A cargo plane crashed into the runway in the early hours of this morning, killing hundreds of people who’d run on to the tarmac in the hope of catching a flight. Dozens were infected due to a passenger on the—”
“Look out!” Helena yelled.
Tom’s attention had been on the radio. He’d not noticed the RV weaving across the road toward them. The cars in front had, and had swerved around the coach. Tom spun the wheel. The RV slammed into the side of the car, and they were pushed off the road. The wheels bit into gravel and mud. The car spun, skidded, and slammed into a pine tree. The airbag exploded. Tom was stunned.
“Are you okay?” Helena asked, pushing her airbag out of the way.
“I think so.”
“You sure? You’re bleeding.”
He raised a hand to his forehead. It was only a small cut. “I’m fine,” he said, rubbing his neck. “I’m fine. What’s a little whiplash between friends?”
“Yeah, well next time, I’m driving.”
His arms worked, so did his legs. His hand was sore, and so was his neck, but that was all. He tried the door. The handle wouldn’t move. He saw the reason and should have realized it before. The door was dented inward and jammed shut.
Clambering across the passenger seat, he followed Helena outside, and then had to catch hold of the roof to steady himself.
“You okay?” Helena asked.
“Just dizzy. It’s fine. It’ll pass.”
Helena, seemingly unscathed by the accident, began a methodical examination of the vehicle. “Front tire’s gone, but we’ve got a spare. Bumper’s gone, but we don’t need that. The— oh.”
“What?”
“We need a new engine. The tree’s buried in this one.”
He blinked away the spots from in front of his eyes. “How far did we get? Sixty miles? Probably less, and not all of it was due south.” A thought came to him. He looked north. There was no sign of the RV, just a red sedan, heading toward them. He raised a hand, waving at the driver. The car didn’t stop.
“I guess we’re walking,” he said.
“You could try calling for a tow-truck,” she suggested.
He opened his mouth to tell her what an idiotic idea that was, but why not? He took out the sat-phone and paused. “I don’t know a number.”
“911?” she suggested.
“Right. Yeah, of course.” He dialed. There was a brief busy tone before the line disconnected.
“It was worth a try,” Helena said. “We could try hitching. I mean, there’s all this fuel. That’s got to be worth a ride.”
“Try it.”
Helena walked closer to the road. As a car drew nearer, she waved her arms. It moved into the other lane, accelerating past.
“See?” Tom said.
“No,” Helena replied. She tried it again. This time, the driver aimed the car straight at her, and she had to dive out of the way.
“On foot, then,” she said. She grabbed the bags. He picked up the shotgun and slung it over his back, keeping the crowbar in his hand. He held out a hand for one of the bags.
“Can you manage?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine.”
She clearly didn’t believe him, but reluctantly handed him the bag.
“No first responders. No police. No phones, even,” Helena said as they walked. “Maybe when things do come back, it’ll be different. There’ll be blood tests before you can board a flight. Or maybe people won’t fly any more. Maybe the kids will all be homeschooled, never going outside from one year to the next.”
“Maybe.” He wasn’t listening. His attention was divided between the traffic and the woodland surrounding them. His thoughts were on where the people were heading. That woman on the radio had said something about a FEMA camp near an airport. In itself it meant nothing, unless there was some rumor going around the creaking internet that you could fly out of the danger zone. Was that where these people were going? It wouldn’t be long before there were more crashes. Not long after that, this road would blocked. So would all the others. The entire nation would grind to a halt. Helena’s fears about a changed world would seem like a glorious fantasy. It was too late. Certainly by the time they got to Washington, it would be far too late. They couldn’t walk there. He pulled out the sat-phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“Nate.” There was no answer. “There’s a trail over there, you see it?”
“Shouldn’t we stick to the road?”
“No one’s going to stop, so we’ll be walking all day, and at the end of it, we’ll be on a stretch of road, not dissimilar to this. Except, by then, we’ll be surrounded by other refugees. All of whom will want food, water, and shelter that probably won’t be there. But the zombies will be. No, we need to get away from people. Maybe find another remote house where we can steal a car.” He tried the sat-phone again. Still nothing. “Or a clearing where a helicopter can land.”
“Or bicycles,” Helena said, following him into the woodland.
The sound of traffic vanished, replaced by creaking branches, and the rustling of rotten leaves.
“Or dirt bikes,” Helena muttered, but a lot quieter than before.
Tom was dialing the number for the ninth time, and the third time he’d told himself that the next time would be the last, when a mechanical thudding of rotor blades broke the silence.
“Did you get through?” Helena asked.
“No,” he said, looking up, back, around, searching for the helicopter. Wherever it came from, it disappeared to wherever it was going without them catching sight of it. Silence returned, more complete than before. He took that as a signal to put the sat-phone away.
The trail thinned, widened into a clearing, and then disappeared.
“I read somewhere,” Helena said, “that if you blindfold people and tell them to walk in a straight line, they’ll walk in a circle, almost always returning to where they began.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” Tom said. Did moss grow on the north side of trees, or the south?
“My point is: do we know which way we’re going?”
“I was thinking of that myself,” he said. “This way, I think.”
“That’s north.”
“You sure?”
“The sun sets in the west, rises in the east. Come on.”
He let her take the lead.
In his mind, the rustle of leaves became the shuffle of undead feet, the creak of branches became that of breaking bone. The sigh of wind became the hiss of air escaping through necrotic lungs.
“I think it’s funny,” Helena said. Her voice was such a welcome relief against his dark thoughts that he laughed. “Not that funny,” she added.
“Sorry. What were you going to say?”
“That for all we achieved, all we’ve built, people are inherently incapable of walking in a straight line.”
The day wore on. Sometimes they stopped. They saw no one, heard no one. Tom was a city boy, through and through. He’d grown up in a world of alleys and roads, concrete and steel. Trees belonged in parks, and never in such profusion as this. There was no escaping the truth. They were lost.
By mid-afternoon, the sky was overcast. They stopped at a stream to fill their water bottles. With no better direction to travel, they followed it, even though it was taking them down a hill Tom was sure they’d just walked up. But streams led to rivers, and those to lakes. People fished in those, and that meant roads. That reasoning kept him going until the stream grew so wide they had to make a decision as to which side of it they should walk on. They decided to cross. Helena managed it safely. Tom slipped halfway over. He lost his
footing on the slick rocks. His leg plunged into the ice-cold water. The chill seeped up his leg and drained away the remaining heat.
“Keep going,” he said, brushing away Helena’s concern. There was nothing else they could do.
An hour later, they spotted their first sight of civilization since that morning.
“We have to stop,” Helena said.
“Not yet. Not here.”
“No,” she said. “You need to rest.”
He was too embarrassed to admit that was true and too cold to argue. The two-floor building was about four weeks away from being a house. The roof was in place, and the two walls he could see looked finished, though not painted. Plastic sheeting covered the windows. The yard was nothing but mud, ruts, and congealed concrete.
“Do you think that pit is meant to be a swimming pool?” Helena asked.
“Or where they were going to put the septic tank.”
Leading from the house, and disappearing into the woodland beyond, was an unpaved track. Even from fifty yards away, he could make out the heavy tread of construction vehicles, but there were none on the site.
“Hello?” Helena called out.
There was no answer. The back door was locked and secured with a padlock. So was the front, but it only took one twist of the crowbar to break it. The house was empty and sparsely furnished. There was a black leather couch and matching armchair in the living room, and a mattress in the master bedroom, all still in their plastic wrapping. Next to the mattress was a pile of broken wood, discarded screws and an instruction leaflet, torn up in frustration, then taped back together during the owner’s attempt to construct the self-assembly bed. Throughout the house, the floors were bare wood, still covered in sawdust. Rolled carpets had been stacked in one of the smaller bedrooms. The kitchen cabinets had been fitted. The stovetop lay on the floor, waiting to be installed.
The protective plastic sheet rustled loudly as he collapsed into the armchair. A half-finished house? At least they’d be dry. He kicked off his boots and peeled off the socks.