by Frank Tayell
“Worry about that in an hour,” he murmured. Through the open door and the wide glass window of the reception area, and across the parking lot, he saw Helena climb the stairs. She reached a door, glanced left and right, opened it, and went inside. A moment later, she came out, waved in his general direction, went back in, and closed the door. Maybe she had the right attitude in pretending the nightmare was over.
He picked up the remote and surfed the channels. Most weren’t broadcasting. The rest showed a variation on the same theme; fighter planes, military convoys, roadblocks, and soldiers forcing entry into buildings. He stopped, went back a channel. It wasn’t a variation. It was the same footage, but the channels weren’t broadcasting it simultaneously. There were no zombies, no lines of refugees, and no civilians at all that he could see. It was all stock footage, he guessed. Clips filmed during training exercises to be used in recruitment ads.
Out of idle curiosity, he opened the desk drawers, and found a bundle of keys, though none were for a vehicle. Underneath was a map of the area. He grimaced. They were only forty miles from Dr Ayers’s house. The rest of the drawer was filled with delivery notes. The one underneath contained pamphlets announcing that the motel would open in March. Hoping that would mean the restaurant would already be fully stocked, but suspecting it wouldn’t, he pocketed the keys, map, and a pamphlet, and went to check.
A padlock and chain had been attached to the doors at the front. The padlock was intact, but someone had hacked a hole through the wooden door, cutting the handle free. Inside, tables and chairs, still covered in plastic, were stacked in the dinning area. The bar hadn’t been stocked, and the only delivery the kitchen had received was for crockery.
He went back to the manager’s apartment and collected the sat-phone. It had enough charge for the call, and there was something about the twitching curtains that made him uncomfortable not having it on his person.
Like the restaurant, the gas station hadn’t yet opened. The underground tank had been installed, and the filling cap removed. From the complete absence of any fumes, he guessed it had never been filled. The echoing clang of a pebble dropped through the opening confirmed it. The small store behind the pumps had the blue and red sign of an outdoor pursuits company he’d seen in a few of the larger towns in the northeast. A poster in the window advertised the latest in low-price, high-quality, all-weather clothing, but when he pushed the broken door open, he found nothing inside except empty racks.
He still had twenty minutes until he was due to call Nate. There was a ladder behind the store. He propped it against the gas station’s flat roof and climbed up. There was nothing to see on the road in either direction. No cars, no people, no signs of life. No zombies either. That was a blessing, but he knew it was only a matter of time before they arrived. His eyes fell on the vehicles in the lot, and he mentally debated the relative morality of stealing one until, finally, it was time to call Nate. The call connected.
“Nate, listen,” he said, and before Nate could interrupt, he gave the name and address of the motel.
“The Sunset View Inn? Sounds nice,” Nate said. “I’ll pass it along, but I wish you’d called ten minutes ago. You could have spoken to the president.”
“You said an hour.”
“Yeah, I know, but it’s busy here.” There was enthusiasm in Nate’s voice.
“Nate, what’s going on?”
“You won’t believe it. Or maybe you will. Someone was sabotaging… well, everything. They think it was a cyber attack launched specifically at the White House. It cut off communications and slowed the relief effort. And you know who did it? North Korea.”
“Korea?”
“Yeah. They were behind Air Force Two going down and everything. But it’s okay now. It’s all been fixed. There’s been… hang on, something’s going on. Okay, I have to be quick. If you called, I had to take your address. They’re going to send someone to get you. It won’t be until noon tomorrow. Will you be safe until then?”
Tom looked around at the empty landscape. “Probably.”
“Great. President Maxwell is going to address the nation in the morning. The country’s going to be divided up into zones, each with its own localized military command. Tomorrow’s broadcast is the signal. Like, forty-eight hours afterward, the plan gets put into place. I’m filming it. It’s going to be a proper documentary and we’re going to broadcast it at the weekend.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, footage of the president at work, that kind of thing. It’s pretty cool.” The kid sounded genuinely excited. “Then there’s going to be massive conscription,” Nate continued. “Everyone will be enlisted. The truckers, the farmers, everyone. It’s… it’s huge.”
“A cyber attack doesn’t make sense,” Tom said. “It would cut off communications, but doesn’t explain how orders were being given elsewhere.”
“Okay,” Nate said, not sounding as if he was listening. “Maybe we can talk about it tomorrow. You’ll be safe until then. Noon, right?”
“Probably. Yes, noon.”
“Great. I have to go.” He hung up.
Tom stared at the phone. Any relief at the prospect of escaping this hellish road-journey was tempered by the fact that the conspirators were clearly still at work. A cyber attack? North Korea? No. Perhaps they were desperately trying to hide their tracks now that their plans were in complete disarray. Perhaps. He hoped so. He’d find out tomorrow, but noon seemed a very long way off.
Chapter 23 - Rent
Clearfield County, Pennsylvania
He knocked for nearly a minute before Helena opened the door with the pistol in her hand.
“I was in the shower,” she said, though as she was wrapped in a sheet and her hair was damp, there was no need for explanation. She headed back to the bathroom. He followed her inside, propping the shotgun by the door.
“The water’s tepid, the soap’s foul, but I almost feel clean,” she said. “Did you speak to him?”
“I did,” he said. “They’re sending a helicopter. It’ll be here tomorrow at noon.”
“For you, or us?” she asked.
“Honestly? I didn’t mention you, but when they come, and if there’s an issue, I’ll say you’re an expert in virology who might have the cure for all this. By the time they know the truth you’ll be somewhere far safer than this.”
“Assuming I go with you. I still haven’t decided. What else did he say?”
“They think there was a cyber attack, and that the zombies and the downing of Air Force Two are all linked, but that North Korea is responsible.”
“But it’s not, right?”
“Unlikely. There might be some truth to some small part of it.” He crossed to a chair on the far side of the bed and sat down. “But I doubt it.”
“But they’re getting a handle on things?” she asked, stepping out of the bathroom.
“Yes. There’s going to be a broadcast tomorrow, and there’s some sort of plan in the works. He said something about zones and… and I didn’t get any more from him.”
“You’ll find out the rest tomorrow, so cheer up,” she said. “From the sound of it, the worst is over. I’m going to sleep for a bit. You should have a shower. And… maybe see if there are some clothes in the manager’s office you can steal. One of the piles in there looked like they’d been washed.”
Tom took the hint, forced himself to stand, and went back outside. A few minutes later, a random assortment of clothes in his hands, he was heading back up the stairs. He saw the curtains in the ground floor room move. Should he tell these people that a helicopter was coming? Would they mob it?
It was a problem to which he didn’t find the answer in the shower. He dressed, piling on the layers. The clothes smelled faintly of mildew, but they were cleaner than what he’d been wearing. He collapsed into the chair, and decided that if the other people in the motel wanted to be left alone, he was more than happy to acquiesce. He could only hope they would return th
e favor.
He was woken by a knock at the door.
“We’re sorry to bother you,” a man’s voice came through the thin plywood. Tom found himself smiling at the wave of relief that, for once, sleep had been interrupted by a human.
“We saw you come in,” the man continued. “We were… um…” There was a pause.
“We wanted to know where you came from,” a woman said. “What it was like there. We’re going to leave, but we don’t want to drive into danger.”
Helena was looking at him. She was dressed, wearing the overlong blazer, and with a bag in her hand. She looked like she’d been about to go out. “Shall I?” she mouthed.
Tom shrugged, and pushed himself up in the chair, looking around for a clock. Helena opened the door. To the left of the frame was a man, to the right a woman.
“Hi,” the man said. He gave a grin missing three teeth. His arm came up. In his hand was a revolver. He shoved it into Helena’s face. “Don’t try it,” he said to Tom, as Helena backed into the room. Tom didn’t move. The shotgun was by the door. There was no way he’d reach it.
Helena continued backing into the room until she stood against the wall. The woman came inside, closed the door, and picked up the shotgun.
“Got it,” she said.
“Good.” The man shifted aim, pointing the revolver at Tom as the woman aimed the shotgun at Helena.
“Sit on your hands,” the man said.
Tom shifted his legs and slid his hands underneath them. With his legs spread and covered by his thighs, the man couldn’t see him curl his fingers around the chair’s seat. He glanced at Helena. She seemed oddly relaxed. He looked back at the man.
“Why?” he asked. He didn’t think there was a need to ask anything more.
“This is our motel. You want to stay here, you have to pay.”
“How much?”
“Half of what you’ve got,” the man said. “Food, cash, ammo.”
“That’s robbery,” Helena said.
“Hell if I care what you call it,” the woman said. She grabbed the bag still in Helena’s hand, backed off a step, looked inside and dropped it. “It’s empty.” The shotgun came back up. “Where’s your food? Your ammo?”
“What do we get in return?” Tom asked.
“How about you get to live?” the man said.
Tom doubted it. He’d seen the man’s expression before; the eager, desperate nervousness that was part fear, part glee at a bad job half done. The man was so full of adrenaline and anxiety he’d be easy to disarm. The problem was the shotgun. He glanced at Helena. She met his eyes. They flicked toward the bed.
“If we work together,” Tom said, raising his voice, “we can make this motel safe. Keep the zombies away. Help one another stay alive.”
“Maybe. Maybe, but the rent’s due. Where’s your bags? We saw you come in with them.”
Tom made a point of leaning forward and looking around the room. On the table by the bed, he saw the shotgun shells lined up in a neat row. He looked back at the man, but didn’t lean back in his seat.
“It’s all in the bag. You can have half. No more. Agreed?” he said, nodding his head toward the side of the bed currently hidden from the man’s view. The man took a step forward, his eyes turning toward the floor. He was five feet away. Another step.
Pushing at the chair with his hands, and the floor with his feet, Tom launched himself forward. His head slammed into the man’s chest. The man staggered back. Tom swept his arms up. There was a gunshot as he grabbed the man’s wrist. His other hand jabbed at the man’s kidneys as he kept pushing with his head and twisting at his wrist. He slammed his forehead down on the thief’s nose. As the man stumbled, Tom changed his grip on the thief’s wrist, using the man’s own momentum against him. There was a snap as bone broke. The fingers went limp. The gun fell. Tom brought his hand back, jabbing it like a blade at the thief’s throat. The man went down, gasping for air. Tom scooped up the gun and turned to face the woman. She was on the ground. Blood pulsed from a wound in her chest. She was dead. Helena had the pistol, half raised in her hands, a look of disbelief in her eyes.
“You had to,” Tom said, taking her arm. He steered her away from the body, to the door, and outside.
“I… I…” she began.
“I know,” he said. Before he could say any more, he heard a curse from inside the room. The man was trying to draw a hunting knife with his broken hand. Tom swore, went back inside, and kicked the man’s hand clear. He pressed the revolver against the man’s head.
He wanted to kill the man yet he knew he shouldn’t. Self defense was one thing, murder another. Even now, especially now, there had to be laws. Justice had to be done. As to who would administer that was a problem to be resolved later. He forced his inner rage back into its box, ripped the curtain cord down from the wall, and roughly bound the man’s hands. He screamed. Tom said nothing as he pulled the man’s knife from his belt. The blade was covered in dried blood.
“Whose blood is this?” he asked, his voice low.
The man spat. It didn’t matter. Tom could guess. He backed away to the door.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Fine. I’m fine,” Helena said. She didn’t sound it.
“Can you watch him?”
“What? Why? Where are you going?”
He wished there was a way he could avoid telling her. There wasn’t. He held up the knife.
“That’s blood. That’s…” Her eyes widened in understanding.
“I need to check,” Tom said.
She raised the gun, pointing it through the open door at the man.
The set of master keys which he’d taken from the manager’s office was still in his pocket. Tom took them out. He started with the nearest room. It was empty. So was the next. He found the first body in the room second from the end on the upper floor.
The victim was an older man, at least sixty. On the table next to the TV, he’d placed a family portrait. Taken at least ten years before, he stood next to a man and woman, with four children in front. To his right, in the center of the picture, was a young woman wearing a graduation gown.
The man had been stabbed, and his throat had been cut. Tom assumed it was in that order. There was a bag in the room, and it had been opened. The contents were strewn about the floor. He closed the door and went to check the other rooms.
Downstairs in a slightly larger room at the end of the building with a clear view of the road, he found the killers’ stash. It was a meager haul, some canned food and a few packets, some loose shotgun shells but no gun to fire them, a half-empty bottle of bourbon and a half-full box of .357 rounds, a stack of bills that couldn’t amount to more than a few hundred dollars, and car keys. Those were lined up on the table. There were five sets. He guessed that one must belong to the victim upstairs, and one to the pair of killers. He was wrong.
He found four more rooms containing bodies. Couples, individuals, and one family. He looked inside long enough to confirm they were dead, and wished he hadn’t seen even that.
“What did you find?” Helena called from where she stood on the balcony above him.
“Bodies. Not zombies,” Tom said, and left it at that. He’d only checked one third of the motel. Opposite, he could see a man at a window, watching him. A curtain above and to the left twitched. Otherwise there was no movement. He’d have to deal with those people and check the other rooms. First, there was something else he had to do.
Wearily, he climbed back up the stairs.
“How many?” Helena asked.
“It doesn’t matter. You don’t want to know.”
“They killed them?”
He suspected the man had done worse to the pair of girls in one of the downstairs rooms. “Yes,” he said. “Swap.” He held out the revolver.
“Why?”
“I want a gun I know that works,” he said, and took the pistol from her.
He walked back into the room. He pushed the door
closed. The man had rolled onto his back. He stared up as Tom raised the gun.
“It wasn’t me,” he said. “It was her. It was all—”
Tom fired. Once was enough.
Chapter 24 - Refuge
Clearfield County, Pennsylvania
“Why?” Helena asked. “Why did they do it?”
“I don’t know,” Tom said. He stood next to her on the balcony, looking down at the parking lot, and the other rooms. “Because it was easy. Because they were evil. Because they enjoyed it. Or, maybe they were people like you and me, but the horrors of the last week broke something inside them. I really don’t know. Sometimes there aren’t any answers. Sometimes the ones you get aren’t an explanation. It doesn’t matter. They’re dead. We’re alive.”
“That’s how it’s going to be now? Alone, fighting and killing one another?”
“For a while, maybe.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be. It doesn’t have to be.”
Tom didn’t reply. The man was gone from the window opposite. Tom was dreading checking the other rooms, but it had to be done. And then there were the rooms with their twitching curtains. He wouldn’t be able to sleep until he’d found out who the occupants were, and whether they were in league with the two murderers.
“Noon tomorrow seems like a long way off,” he said. “Why did you unload the shotgun?”
“To see if I could,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about…” She trailed off. “I thought I’d go and see if I could find…” She trailed off again. “I wanted a new life. It was more than that; I knew I needed one. A new town, new friends, a new job. I had to put the past behind me. And this is…” She trailed off again. The next time she spoke, weary frustration had been replaced with angry fear. “Tom. Look.”
On the road to the south, still three hundred yards away but heading toward them, came a lurching, shuffling figure.
Tom sighed. “Better save the ammo, I suppose.”
In front of the reception and office were two raised flower beds. Plastic sacks of soil had been dumped in one, and the other was half-full. Next to them, left out to rust, were a pair of shovels. It wasn’t a good weapon, far from it, but the long handle would keep some distance between him and his foe.