Since The Sirens Box Set | Books 1-7

by Isherwood, E. E.

  He knew he had self-doubts about his abilities, just like anyone would, but he was haunted by his recent mishaps as “the guy who blows it.” More images spun up in his mind, fueled by every zombie book and movie he'd ever consumed. Would he get out onto the street and trip and break his ankle, to be easily hunted down by a sick person? Would he be the guy trying to start the car over and over, only to have a zombie pull him out through the window, or have one of the marauders in the area put a bullet in him just to get his working car?

  And P.S., if I die, Grandma dies, too.

  He had a vivid vision of Grandma standing in her kitchen where he last saw her. She was still there looking out the back, waiting. The vision faded, and he was glad because his next thought was that Angie was somehow in the house with her.

  It was too much to digest, and he had to sit down in a bed of flowers to give himself some cover while he kept his heart rate from exploding, and his brain from panicking. Nothing like this had ever happened to him.

  So many things can go wrong!

  He could see the car, and it didn't look like anything was going on in the immediate area. Now was his chance, if he could settle himself. He tried thinking of something peaceful—the lake where he spent a lot of time as a child—but that only reminded him of another incident where he almost drowned. So, he focused on the moment and studied one of the yellow wildflowers nearby. He ignored everything else for several minutes until his heart rate was back to normal. When he was ready, he willed himself to stay in the moment.

  He was up and over the final fence, and he felt strong as he topped it. He landed well and sprinted for the car. The hundred-yard dash took much longer than he remembered in grade school gym class, and his awareness was crystal clear as he sprinted. There were wisps of smoke drifting from the two burned-out houses behind Grandma's, and the air was foul with the smell of burnt wood and synthetic housing materials. There was a very slight breeze. The position of the sun indicated time was moving closer to late morning. The neighborhood was fairly quiet just then; gunshots and screams were ebbing low.

  And then Angie was there. She must have been hanging around in the alleyway and had a good bead on him as he ran down the street. She stumbled around a corner and began another earnest pursuit.

  It was a replay of yesterday, and all he could think about was falling down, twisting an ankle, tripping on his own feet, or some similarly stupid calamity. He slowed down a bit and became hyper-aware of the ground over which he was jogging, scanning for any sign of potholes that could end him.

  He looked at the distance to the car and knew he could outrun the lumbering and broken-footed nurse, but he wasn't sure if he could close the door and start the car before she was upon him, possibly breaking windows to get inside. It was time to use the gun and remove all those hypotheticals.

  He pulled the Ruger from his waistband, toggled the small safety on the grip, and aimed for the center of her mass. He had done the routine a thousand times before, though he had never shot anything living.

  Is Angie alive?

  He had mere moments to bobble that thought before he pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  He pulled back the slide, thinking he needed to chamber a round, but in doing so, he made the horrible realization that the gun was empty.

  OH MY—

  She caught up with him then, with his arms extended in front and her arms reaching toward him. The nurse was slightly taller and weighed a few pounds more even in her “condition.” He did have the advantage in dexterity, though. As the blood-covered woman pushed into him, he dropped his useless gun, grabbed both her arms and used her momentum to pull her forward as he sidestepped and stuck out his foot to trip her.

  Angie fell to the street, her face absorbing the brunt of the impact, though she let out only the smallest grunt. He regained his own balance, wiped the nasty blood off his hands onto his jeans, reached down to pick up his gun, and sprinted for the car.

  In moments, he was in through the passenger side. He pulled the door closed behind him, pushing the lock down in one smooth motion. He tried to ignore the fact he was sitting in sticky congealed blood. He definitely ignored what was sitting on the floorboard in front of him.

  I don't see the foot.

  He shuffled over to the driver's seat.

  As he put the key into the ignition, Angie stumbled up next to the passenger side window. The fall had scraped all the skin from her forehead, and the exposed bone and blood gave her an even more unholy expression. She was looking directly at him through the very thin glass of the car door.

  The car engine turned over, but it took him a few seconds to orient himself with the gear lever on the console, so he could slap it into drive and get moving.

  Angie was banging and screaming obnoxiously outside the window. A million thoughts clouded his mind at that moment, but the one that stood out most was how glad he was Angie seemed oblivious to tools. One strong rock would be enough to break the door's glass and end this whole affair.

  He solved the shifter question, put the car in gear, and smashed the gas pedal. The car lurched ahead, requiring a quick steering adjustment to keep him on the pavement, and he pulled away from the scene.

  He turned around at the next intersection, so he could backtrack to the front of Grandma's house. He sped by Angie who had been loping along the street in pursuit. He briefly thought about swerving to “take her out” but he couldn't quite convince himself it was necessary. He wanted to pick up Grandma and just leave the nurse safely behind.

  I did tell her to meet me in the front, didn't I?

  As he turned left around the corner, he was more than a little worried he forgot to mention that part of his plan to Grandma. When he got close, he didn't see her at the front door.

  He pulled up to her house, avoiding the few cars still parked on the street, pushed the emergency brake, then jumped out of the still-running car and ran for the front door, hoping against hope she would appear at the entry.

  Please! Please! Please!

  5

  He wasted no time at the front door. If she wasn't there already, she wasn't going to get there in a hurry. He moved to the back of the house on the run.

  He slammed the rear door after coming through, quite out of breath.

  Grandma was indeed still camped out in the kitchen, right where he left her. He decided now wasn't the time to chastise himself.

  “OK, Grandma, let's move up to the front door and we'll jump in the car. I parked it out front.”

  She was very understanding, or maybe just didn't notice the oversight.

  The trek to the front of the house felt like it took ten minutes. The entire time, he could think of nothing else but someone walking along the street, seeing the open car door, jumping in and driving off. He also imagined zombies seeing the open door, stumbling in, and hiding in the back seat like in a bad movie. He did everything he could to push these thoughts away, but it only added to his anxiety. He worried he was on the verge of having another panic attack caused by—worry.

  Out of habit, he patted his pocket to ensure his phone was there. Each time he left the house he repeated the ritual, even under such pressure. Content he had it, he hung on to Grandma's arm as they both moved slowly forward. She used her cane, so moved fine for her age, but he had to resist the urge to physically pull her.

  He opened the front door and held it wide while he helped her out onto her front stoop. He reached down to grab his backpack and slung it over one of his shoulders.

  He took an opportunity to look around but saw no one in the immediate vicinity.

  They both inched down Grandma's ramp and then along the walkway to the street curb. He reached over to open the door to gain access to the back seat. He was careful not to push her in, though his brain was begging him to do just that.

  Once she was inside, he threw his backpack in the space next to her, slammed her door, and jumped into the driver's seat.

  He dropp
ed it into gear, stomped the gas pedal, and they were accelerating up the street, away from Grandma's house. He realized why every car that went through here seemed to be speeding. He eased up to allow himself to catch his breath.

  I did pretty good.

  “Liam, I left my cane on the curb.”

  Oh sh—

  He slammed on the brakes and looked over his shoulder.

  “Do we need to go back for it?”

  He wasn't about to admit it, but he was scared to return. He wasn't sure why given that her home was the one place in the entire world he knew was safe at that moment.

  “I think I'll be in a lot of trouble if I don't have something to help me walk. I don't think either of us wants me to have to hold onto you for the rest of my life.”

  He couldn't argue with that. A better driver could probably have turned around in the narrow street, but he decided to proceed forward until he came to an intersection where he'd have plenty of room to reverse course. When he found the right spot, he needed every bit of that wide space.

  After turning around, he kept the speed low enough to be safe. They arrived in front of her house without incident. Both could see the four-legged cane out the right side, sitting on the grass next to the curb, right where she had left it. He pulled up next to it, got out, ran around the car, grabbed the cane, then ran around the car again and hopped back inside. He tossed it into the front passenger seat and saw it promptly tilt off, so its base sat on top of the bloody foot.

  He had no time to consider that horrible image. He pulled away from the curb heading in the wrong direction. Up ahead, he saw a lone figure standing in the street and knew who it was.

  He slammed on the brakes.

  “Grandma, Angie's up ahead. What should I do?”

  He secretly hoped she would let him plow her over and just be done with it, but he knew that wasn't Grandma's style.

  “I'm so sorry, Angie.” She hesitated for a few moments, though he never doubted for a second what her recommendation would be.

  “Let's carefully go around her, and we can leave her forever.”

  He drove the car slowly toward Angie, who gravitated to the side of the car to try to gain access to the people she could see inside. Once she moved away from the front of the car, he hit the gas. She bounced lightly on the side mirror.

  Blood had poured from the wound on her forehead to cover her eyes and cheeks, and totally drench the front side of her already blood-stained nightgown. Where she was getting so much blood was beyond his reckoning, but he and Grandma both gasped when they saw her up close.

  Grandma said a short prayer for her friend.

  He couldn't even muster the requisite “Amen” when she was done. He couldn't help but feel their problems were only getting started.

  His free-associating brain summoned a line from an old Rolling Stones song named, appropriately enough, Angie.

  In his rearview mirror, the nurse shrank as he sped away.

  Goodbye, Angie.

  Chapter 6: Coagulation

  After avoiding Angie in the road and leaving her behind them, Liam and Marty were dismayed to see several other sick people wandering the formerly peaceful neighborhoods of south St. Louis. He still wasn't ready to run anyone over, as long as he had a choice. He would use other means if he had to dispatch one of them.

  “Oh crap!” he blurted, remembering something critical.

  He looked in the mirror at Grandma, afraid she would chastise his language, but she said nothing.

  “I need to pull over and load my gun. I pulled it out when Angie attacked me—did I mention that?—on my way to her car, but, of all the stupid things, I forgot to put rounds in the magazine before I walked out the door. I'm such an idiot.”

  He pulled over into a parking lot for a large supermarket. He let the car run while he grabbed his backpack, pulled out the box of ammo, loaded nine small rounds into the thin metal magazine, then slid the assembly into the bottom of the pistol grip. He chambered a round, and after some consideration put the safety on so he couldn't accidentally fire the gun while sticking it in his holster. That was one accident he was determined not to suffer.

  He reloaded the other pistol as well. If he ended up needing it, he was fairly sure he wouldn't have time to load it at that point. Then, to be complete, he loaded the two spare magazines. Be prepared! That's what years of Boy Scouts taught him. He returned the backpack to the rear seat next to Grandma, so she could grab water or snacks.

  He knew there was only one highway that ran directly from downtown to the south, Interstate 55; that made things easy for someone new to driving.

  As they approached the on-ramp for the highway, he discovered the direct route also made things simple for everyone else. A massive traffic entanglement greeted them at the bridge interchange where the surface road went under the highway. Cars up-top and cars going up the access ramp were all stopped, and people everywhere were out of their cars, standing around. A few seemingly sick citizens lingered in the grass next to the highway or stood behind chain link fences.

  Some cars made it off the highway and they drove into the network of side streets. Everyone pointed south. Without the use of the highway he needed an alternative, so he pulled over to consider his options.

  The radio. He turned it on while mentally slapping himself for not doing it sooner.

  Only one station on the AM dial was live as far as he could tell. Every other station, AM or FM, was repeating the same emergency response warning along with the president's radio message. Apparently, the stations were ordered to play that nonsense rather than something that could actually help people on the ground. Or maybe the radio people were on the run too?

  They'd be some of the first to see the big picture.

  The one station still live was headquartered in downtown St. Louis and apparently had a reporter on a high-rise roof somewhere because they were describing traffic in the downtown area:

  “And we're looking at southbound 55 and can tell you it's snarled as badly as all the other highways we can see from our vantage point. Southbound is completely stopped. Northbound is also a mess coming into St. Louis, but everyone should be aware once you reach downtown, there is nowhere to go. The bridges to Illinois are all blocked now by the state police and what appears to be National Guard units. They are turning people back to the Missouri side of the bridges. As we've said before, you should try to get out of St. Louis while you still can. Just don't try to escape through downtown.”

  The reporter began talking about the north side of the city, and he said, as much to himself as to Grandma, “I bet the entire interstate is a parking lot from here all the way out to Mom and Dad's.”

  Grandma didn't respond. She was alert but casually looking out the window.

  The radio continued, “We have reports from some people talking to our roving reporter that there is a Red Cross station down by the Arch. From here we can't confirm that, but there could be medical help. If you can't make it out of the city, that might be a good place to rest. And we've heard a rumor there is a big FEMA camp at the Gateway Speedway just over the river in Illinois. If you are in the Illinois listening area, you might find help there.”

  The two announcers then began some banter between themselves about troubles in their respective neighborhoods, which he found annoying. He needed something that would help him right now.

  He was beginning to understand the sickness was a regional problem.

  The chaos had spread everywhere in the bi-state area. He had hoped—with the same sense of futility he felt upon reaching Grandma's—that once he reached home-home, he'd find safety.

  What if it's everywhere in the world?

  2

  He drew a mental map of the city. The most famous edge of the metropolis was the Mississippi River as it passed downtown St. Louis and its crown jewel, the Gateway Arch. That was roughly the eastern border. To the north, he was less clear of the geography but was pretty sure the Missouri River was up that
way. The south was his neighborhood. He knew that to get out of the urban and suburban sprawl, they'd have to cross the Meramec River—a relatively small waterway compared to the giant Mississippi below it. Rivers bracketed three sides of St. Louis. He aimed for the southern one.

  Grandma's home was a couple of miles south of downtown St. Louis; even so, they’d found the highway south was already choked to death going outbound from the city's center. Was every car in the city already out and parked on this stretch of road? Or was it the same going north or west? If so, it meant almost no one had actually escaped from the city. Everyone was on the road, but still within the gravity well of the collapsing star.

  What's keeping everyone bottled up?

  The radio had no answers. He decided to push through some of the comparatively empty side streets and see if Interstate 55 was more accessible farther south. He knew it was a long shot, and the farther south he went, the more cars he found on the roads with him. He’d sat in enough traffic jams as a passenger to know that when traffic stopped, drivers would try just about anything to find alternate routes. At every exit and entrance for I-55 that he approached he saw many more cars use the exit ramps and drive into side streets. Always south.

  Without working electricity and streetlights, gridlock increased with every block. There were just too many cars. He had to keep rolling over to smaller and smaller streets. He was considering using one-lane alleys if he had to.

  While driving on a side street through one of the old neighborhoods, he noticed the flashing lights of a police car behind him. He panicked; this was not the time to get in trouble with the law.

  “Oh, no! Grandma, I got pulled over by a cop.”