Here is a mystery, My Friend, a mystery you need to solve if you wish to remain alive. Look at the blood on the face. It looks normal, sanguine as it were. And yet this young fellow was very dead, or seemed so. Dead, then not dead, then bleeding and dead once more; how is that possible? Yet you saw it with your own eyes.
The broken end of the walking stick lay near his feet. He picked it up by the tip, holding the splintered end over the dead thing’s intact eye. The sharp wood drifted closer and closer to the glazed surface of the staring eye, finally coming to rest. There was no blink, no twitch, nothing.
He threw the stick aside, staring at the face, trying to remember something. Stepping away from the corpse, he looked up and down the street. On the far side, a car was nosed against one of the trees that lined the street. He could see a shadowed form slumped in the driver’s seat. He walked across the pavement under the cold November clouds. The back seat of the car was a jumble of belongings, a heap of clothing and packaged food. What had been a woman was hunched on the front seat. He stood to one side of the car door, using it as a shield between himself and the dead woman. A noxious cloud of gas escaped from the interior, gagging even in the open air. He stepped away, waited. Nothing moved.
Unwilling to lean into the car, he peered through the windshield at the dead face. The process of decomposition had begun. The woman was clearly dead; dead beyond recall. There was a stain of black along her chin, running downwards. Dried blood? He pushed the door closed, leaving the dead woman in her tomb. A crow cawed at him from a nearby tree as he retraced his steps across the empty street.
Standing once more above his dead foe, he made mental notes. The skin on the face was not that of the woman in the car. She was dead, dead for days. This one only looked dead, but he wasn’t. Use your head. Dead men do not rise from their mortal sleep and attack. And yet this one did, hence not dead. So what have we learned? Not all of the dead are what they seem. If you want to remain amongst the living, it would be good to remember that. The man turned away from the body.
I believe I have seen enough for today. A hunter needs weapons, and here we are on the street, naked amongst the dead and the not dead. He walked away, taking the route to his fortress, eyes alert and searching.
THE BALCONY LOOKED south across the skyline of Seattle. The grey, wet clouds of winter pressed close to the tops of the tall towers. The view was why he had bought this place, sinking his life savings into a modern concrete box. Away west of the glass facades, the waters of Elliot bay shimmered a dull silver. Smoke rose from the container docks of Harbor Island; a fire unattended. The city was gasping in its death throes.
The tall man snugged the neck of his jacket against the chill of the wind, then reached for a pair of binoculars. Steadying his elbows against the balcony railing, he scanned the streets below. He moved the lens methodically, up one street, down another, adjusting the focus as he did. The streets of Lower Queen Anne were empty of life. He raised the lens to take in the grounds of the Seattle Center, a monument to the hopes and dreams of the Space Age. The spire of the Space Needle pierced the sky. The foreshortened view ran across the angled hulk of the Key Arena, a dark, concrete pyramid in the late-afternoon light. The naked trees lining Queen Anne Avenue swept into his view. The skeletal branches of the trees reached out over the pavement. Through the fingers of the branches he could see a scattering of abandoned cars and trucks. His eyes caught a blur of motion. He panned the lens back, too far, readjusted the focus.
There, he was not imagining it, two figures on foot, moving fast. One clear look, then they were gone, disappearing under the trees. One taller than the other; a man and a woman? They were heading east, behind the Key Arena. He focused on the far side of the arena, waiting for them to emerge. Time ticked by, the lenses frozen to his eyes, eyes straining not to blink. He maintained his vigil, but there was nothing more to see.
Chapter 5
The Fort
Liz winced at the screech of the screw gun. Pat stood on a short ladder just above her. He yanked on the heavy plywood shutters, testing them.
“That should do it, Liz.”
Liz’s eyes roamed over the darkened galley.
“If these new shutters block out bad guys as well as they block out the light, we should be good.”
Pat climbed down the ladder, a hurt look on his freckled face. He pushed his newsboy cap away from his forehead, revealing a shock of sandy hair. Liz smiled, even through the gloom and the cold. Pat was almost forty years old. He looked it, too, in a good way. But sometimes, when he was pondering something, he reminded her of a confused puppy.
“I know it’s a bit dark, Liz. But we have to make this place as safe as possible. These top sections open up to let in the light, then we can drop them down at night. The light stays inside, the bad guys stay outside.”
Liz stepped beside him, pushing a strand of unruly hair back under the tweed cap.
“It’s a fine bit of work, Pat O’Shea,” she said, in her best Irish brogue.
“Ah, now you’re just making fun of me.”
Liz pulled him close, kissed his temple, then craned her neck upward. The last of the November light filtered down from the upper quarter of the high window. The rest of this window, like all the others, was blocked by a solid sheet of plywood.
“No, I’m not making fun. But it’s going to get gloomy and cold in here, that’s for sure. How long do you think we’re going to have electricity?”
Pat shook his head, still inspecting his work.
“Honestly Liz, I’m surprised it hasn’t gone dark already. But we should count on it happening soon, really soon. I’ve got all the tool batteries on chargers, which will help some. We can thank the city workers for a huge stash of batteries. There’s a lantern attachment for the lithium-ion batteries, but those won’t last long.”
“It’s going to be Candles and oil lamps after that. Romantic mood lighting for our quiet evenings together.”
“I hope the evenings are quiet, Baby. I’m trying to make this place as safe as I can.”
“And you’re doing a fine job. The windows are secure, we have those huge steel doors, we’ve got the roof hatch for an escape route. You’re doing good. It’s okay, Pat.”
“Thanks, Liz.”
His pale blue eyes sought and found her own.
Liz searched this face, reading the cloud behind his eyes. She shook her head, reached out to push his shoulder.
“Out with it, what are you chewing on?”
“I was thinking about what you said, about it getting cold. The gas will last longer than the electricity, or I think so anyway. But we are going to be needing propane. I think we can scrounge some tanks from the Seattle Center grounds. I bet those popcorn carts had propane tanks. With some propane, and maybe a kerosene heater or two, we can at least heat the Galley and the bedroom. We should be able to make it through until spring time.”
Liz gave him a long look, then turned towards the Galley stove.
“Come sit at the table, Pat. We’ve done enough for today. I’m going to make some tea. Do you want a cup?”
“Sure, when is a Mick going to say no to a cuppa tea?”
Liz filled the kettle, set it on the stove, watched the blue flame spring to life at the flick of a dial. Fire at the touch of a finger. Lights at the flick of a switch. Each thing a miracle, miracles she had taken for granted her entire life. She leaned against the sink, hearing the kettle snapping against the flame.
“Pat, when was the last time we saw anyone?”
“I guess maybe five, six days. There was that shit-show of trying to get back here, then two nights of hiding in that pitch-black storeroom. Some of that gunfire got close, way too close, but we were lucky.”
“It wasn’t just luck, Pat, it was a good idea. I don’t think many of those people got out of Seattle alive, and if they did, they didn’t get far. We would have been trapped in that chaos, just like they were.”
“Yeah, I think you’re ri
ght. Here we are instead, in our little Fort, complete with an Alamo.”
“So much for my six-month rule.”
She remembered laying out one of the rules, the relationship rules. The living together rule was simple: no talk of cohabitation before the six-month mark. That meant six months as a couple, not just six months dating. She and Pat were two months short of that mark when the world died. Liz shook her head at the thought. The kettle whistled at her. She poured the boiling water into a salvaged teapot, swirled it, dumped it down the sink. Bet you won’t be doing that much longer. She spooned the tea into the pot, filled it with the steaming water, carried the teapot and cups to the table.
Liz settled herself across the table from Pat, reaching for his hand. The fingers curled in hers were warm and rough, calloused from years of work. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly.
“What do you think happens if we make it until the spring?”
“When we make it until spring, when being the operative word. You know, it’s spring; warmer, at least in theory, warmer rain anyway.”
“Then what happens?”
“We need less gas?”
Liz arched an eyebrow, boring into him with her flashing eyes.
“Okay, sorry, I was trying to keep it light. I have no idea what happens if we survive the winter. I guess we figure out the next steps as they come.”
“You know what I think? I think almost everyone died; not just here, everywhere. And the ones that didn’t die, they seem to be busy killing each other off as fast as they can. I mean, those people just lost their minds, shooting at cops, cops shooting back. Hell of a plan, a few shots and the whole road is blocked. I never thought it could come apart that fast.”
“Yeah, that was insane. I just barely made it to your office, and it was worse getting back here. Once those crazy bastards started shooting at the cops, it all went to hell in a hand basket.”
“What I’m saying is that I don’t think anyone is coming to the rescue, you know? No UN helicopters or aide ships. I think we’re on our own.”
“Who knows, Liz? There could be pockets of folks out there, maybe big groups of them.”
“Maybe, but my intuition, the quiet little voice in my head, it is telling me that we are alone. I think we had better plan on surviving alone.”
“Why did we survive, Liz? I’m glad we did, but why us? It doesn’t make any sense. Millions of people don’t just die, not without a cause. But they did die. And a very few people survived. No matter how I play it out in my head, I can’t make it work.”
Liz shook her head, reaching for the teapot. When she had poured the two mugs full, she cradled one in her hands, leaning back in her chair.
“I have no earthly idea, none at all. If we throw out the bullshit about it being the wrath of God, then we’re back to the stuff they are babbling about on the news. Some new kind of plague, a virus, terrorism, but none of it makes sense. It just doesn’t match what was happening. What kind of virus kills healthy people in twenty-four hours? Not Ebola, not Marbung, not even the Black Death; it just doesn’t make any sense.”
“The other thing is that it only seemed to kill off humans. The birds are still there, the rats, those poor dogs howling for their dead owners, they’re still alive. Those damn crows are still alive.”
“Pat, why do you hate crows so much? What has a crow ever done to you?”
“Nothing, but they always look like they’re up to no good. They’re sneaky bastards.”
“Whatever. I think the mystery of why everyone died is going to remain a mystery. Just like why we survived; another mystery.”
“Since we’re talking about this, I think we are going to have to make a salvage run tomorrow. The more food we have on hand, the better.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I think the Mety Mart on Mercer is the best choice. We can cut across the center grounds, check out those popcorn carts for propane tanks. I like the idea of staying off the roads as much as possible. There’s better cover, more chance of seeing bad guys if it comes to that.”
“You still think it’s better to go on foot? We could haul more stuff in the truck.”
“Too true, but I think that any vehicle on the road is going to attract way too much attention. I don’t want to run into any of those trigger-happy bastards that might be lurking out there.”
“Okay, we go to the Mety Mart, and we go on foot. But that brings us to another thing. If we are going to survive, I think we are going to need more than canned goods. I know how you feel about this, but I think we need to find some more guns.”
She watched him, saw his eyes drop to his mug of tea. His head nodded slowly.
“Yeah, you’re right Liz. I don’t like guns, but I also don’t like the idea of getting shot by someone. We’ll keep our eyes open and see what we can find.”
Liz caught the look of pain in his eyes. Time to change the subject, Girl.
“What about water? Do you have any idea how long it’s going to last?”
She saw Pat’s attention shift, saw his relief at the chance to deal with a technical question.
“I think the water is going to last a lot longer than anything else. We’re lucky here. The reservoir is up on Queen Anne Hill, and the system is fed by gravity. The reservoir has a big security fence around it, so I think the water is safe, at least for the near future. I was thinking about ways to rig up a splash shower in the courtyard. I can’t promise hot water, but I’ve got some ideas. Still, it’s better than nothing.”
“You are one handy man, My Love, and I do love a man that can fix things.”
He smiled at the compliment.
“Do you think this is our place, our Fort? Have we decided to settle in here?”
Pat’s eyes left hers, roamed the room, came back to her.
“I think so. It was a lucky choice, not that I had many choices, but I still think it’s the best place given the horrible circumstances. Brick walls, good security doors, lots of tools and supplies, those are all on the plus side. It might be better if we were up off the street, maybe on top of some building. But moving now, I think it would be too dangerous. We’ve got some good food sources nearby, hopefully a decent water supply, so that’s good. One thing we don’t have is access to a hardware store. This neighborhood was long on boutiques and bars, but short on nuts and bolts.”
Liz laughed out loud.
“That’s you, Mr. Fix-it; always thinking about hardware. But you’re right, I could go scavenging for lingerie a whole lot easier than you could for a shovel. Okay, this is our Fort, and this is where we stay. I need to work on the Alamo, that’s for sure. It may be our safe room, but it’s also our bedroom. I need it to be a bit more of a bedroom, and a bit little less of a storage room. Canned goods and propane may be on the short-term list, but we’re going to need a mattress and a bunch of blankets. Too many more nights of sleeping on that cold floor is going to ruin me.”
Across the table, Pat’s face turned grim.
“You know what that’s going to be like, right, scavenging inside apartments, inside people’s houses?”
“Yes, Pat, I know, more corpses, more dead, more of this horrible new world.”
Pat reached for her hand. His words were quiet and slow.
“Even with all of this, all of this horrible stuff, I cannot tell you how glad I am that we are here, together. If I had lost you, I... I can’t imagine it, just can’t.”
Liz pulled her hand away, gently, and rose from her chair. Walking around the end of the table, she reached for him, settling into his lap, felt his arms closing around her. This was it, this was all the safety there was in the entire world, right here in this chair. Let tomorrow come, along with whatever horror it brought. This was all they had, right here, right now.
Chapter 6
Prey and Predator
The young man eyed the sky nervously, not trusting the light. It was hard to tell, these winter evenings. One minute it was grey light, th
e next it was black. He reckoned he had time. Enough time to find a place to hide, maybe; another cellar, or storage shed, or empty loading dock. Just one more miserable, cold night; waking to another miserable, cold morning. No fire, no heat, no hot food, nothing.
He ran the back of a grimy hand over his forehead, reached to pull a filthy stocking cap down to his eyebrows. Better to find a place now. Stepping away from the sidewalk, he vanished under the marquee of the old Showbox theater. Back against the wall, he slid to a heap in the entryway. A heavy double-barreled goose gun lay across his knees. He felt the weight of it, hating the thing. Of all the stupid guns to find, I get the longest shotgun in Seattle. Can’t even shoot myself with it, the damn thing is so long. Worthless piece of shit; I wonder if the damn thing even works?
He watched and listened, as still as a ghost. Downtown Seattle seemed truly dead; dead and empty. How could Georgetown be a battle zone, while the downtown was as quiet as a tomb? I guess there’s more to fight over in Georgetown. Jesus, I’m glad to be out of there. Let the Mad-Maxs have it, all of it. Crazy assholes, roaring up and down the streets, spraying bullets everywhere. Wasn’t it enough that almost everyone died? I guess not. Too much stuff in Georgetown; tools, gear, materials, even a brewery and a distillery. And pot shops; it was like a plague of locusts had descended on the pot shops. Killing each other for a bottle of booze or a bag of dope, and doing a damn fine job of it, too.
He craned his head, looking up and down the dark gorge of First Avenue. Across the street were the storefronts of the Pike Place Market. Colorful signs hawked caramel apples and T-Shirts, gelato and genuine Northwest tribal art. That’s why the downtown is empty: there’s not a damn thing here anyone needs. Yeah, well, at least it’s quiet. With all of the tourists dead, this is a pretty good spot. And it was quiet, very quiet. He could hear the coo and rustle of pigeons in the marquee above him. The keening of gulls echoed down the stone and glass of the dead buildings. There was no other sound.
Clouds Before Rain Page 3