MZS- North East

by K. D. McAdams

  Tucker has not added anything to the conversation. He’s standing by the window, staring down at the street. It would be kind of an awesome surprise if he turned around with an amazing idea to save the day, but I don’t really see that happening.

  “So, you’ve never banged a cute chick you didn’t really like?” Terri quizzes Todd.

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Todd answers, defensive

  “It means we don’t have to like them to use them for what we need,” Terri says. She turns from her screen and studies the room. She’s shrewd, oddly likable and very assertive.

  When her eyes get to Patrick, they lock and the two exchange a look. If we have people keeping secrets, it will tear this group apart. Do I expose them now or wait and see if it turns out to be insignificant?

  “There’s a group in Mexico that has offered me sanctuary,” Terri finally says. “When I let them know I wasn’t alone, they said I could bring anyone I could vouch for.” Terri doesn’t stop looking at Patrick and his look has completely softened. “I would vouch for each of you without question,” she says.

  “Then why are we debating? We leave for Mexico in the morning,” Todd says, jumping in feet first, without thinking.

  My adrenaline is gone, my heart rate is finally normal again. Exhaustion hits me. I flop down into an insanely comfortable chair. No more debating, no more planning. I can see why these guys like to take things one step at a time. Getting people to agree is almost impossible and it takes so much energy.

  “The internet says we can be in Kentucky in less than twelve hours,” Terri continues. “That assumes no burned-out cars, zombie hordes or nuclear bombs. D.C. is not halfway, but there are survivors, and we could stop and rest and resupply. Then we leave D.C. at first light and we drive until there is an hour of daylight left. If we bump into a good group of survivors, we stay put.” She lays out her thinking, and it’s reasonable to me.

  God I hope Todd stops arguing and we can just go to sleep knowing we have a plan. The guys have to be at least as tired as I am. Terri could probably argue all night if she wanted to.

  Patrick comes over and sits on the floor in front of my chair. He leans back and I can see his shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. Today was my first full day of hell, but it was his second. I wonder how many days of this we can mentally survive before we just give up.

  “Screw that. We’re trying to avoid cities, remember?” Todd is not going to let me rest. “Use your internet to map out a route through, like, West Virginia or something. I’ve driven to Indiana enough times to know that once you leave any one of the east coast metropolitan areas, it’s farms and pasture almost the whole way.”

  Terri spins back to her computer. She didn’t argue with him immediately, so it may be a good idea. We should be able to scavenge enough supplies to make it two days. Even if we have to spend one night in the Humvee, it seems like small price to pay for getting to safety.

  She types and reads and types and reads. From the looks of things, everyone is crashing. Tucker has sunk to the floor in front of the window and Cupcake has gradually increased his sprawl on the chair at the table.

  Of course, Todd has to be contrary; he gets out of his seat. I watch him as he walks to the pillow bed where Jaden is asleep. If he wakes that little boy, I may snap and fucking kill him.

  Reminding me of the soft side I saw in the apartment across the street, Todd lays down beside Jaden and carefully gets close without touching or disturbing him. He’s argumentative and rough, but Todd has taken on this little boy and is willing to use his body to protect him from any harm that may come.

  If Terri doesn’t speak soon, we may all be asleep when she does.

  I startle a little when she starts talking: “Through the country was a good idea. We can do Morgantown, West Virginia, in about six hours, and then it’s less than eight to Nashville. But we have a new choice.” She lets this sink in before continuing.

  None of us have the energy to ask a question. Tucker is already asleep and Cupcake’s blinks are lasting minutes.

  “The Philly group is back online, and they have good news,” she says, finally sharing her messages. “They’ve secured most of the city. They are holding a survivor’s rally tomorrow at noon in Liberty Bell square. There’s no way the government nukes a survivor’s rally. I say we go and take advantage of strength in numbers.”

  Tucker does not react.

  “I could use a cheesesteak,” Patrick answers. I assume that means he agrees.

  “Maybe they would run helicopter evacuations if there are enough people and it’s secure. I agree on Philadelphia,” I say, trying to make my justification clear.

  Cupcake slowly raises his right hand and sticks his thumb up. His eyes never open.

  What do we do if Todd disagrees? Leave him?

  “Bad idea.” Todd looks at Jaden before he continues. “But Cupcake’s rig, Cupcake’s rules. I’m going with the Humvee.”

  I haven’t regained confidence in my ability to read people. Jason still pops into my head and teases me from time to time. Still, if I go by just the actions of this small group, they are the good guys.

  We can argue, debate and complain, but at the end of the day we come together and do the right thing. I’m lucky to be here, and lucky that they are letting me join them.

  “I guess we’re going to Philly,” Terri says, putting a cap on the discussion.

  “Viva,” Tucker mumbles from the window.

  “Viva,” we answer in unison.

  Parker Coady - Hotel Monaco, Philadelphia, PA

  Chapter 24

  “Come up to Philly, we’ll have a few laughs” they said. I didn’t want to have a few laughs a week after burying my wife. Escaping to the islands to think for a few days didn’t work though, so I had to try something. Home was never an option, so Philadelphia was next.

  I know what wasn’t funny—the flight here.

  Aruba to Toronto was a cakewalk. They were good flight attendants who understood that the only thing worse than a drunk passenger on their way home from paradise is an awake drunk passenger. The cocktails didn’t stop and I wondered why I was leaving the islands.

  Toronto to Philadelphia was hell with wings. I thought the short flight would be the easy one. Supposedly they are trying to put an end to passengers sitting on the tarmac; let me just say, they still have plenty of work to do. We sat there for almost two hours. I was able to use the grieving husband card to get a few tiny bottles of liquor but they barely kept me buzzed.

  Fortunately all these poor airlines are ready to make a buck any way they can. In-flight duty-free liquor saved me from sobering up and jumping off the plane somewhere around Niagara Falls.

  How I made it from that fortress they call an airport to my hotel is anyone’s guess. Whatever, at least it’s not a holding cell, like that time I went to Thailand.

  Speaking of cells, if I wanted to experience martial law again I would have vacationed in Cuba. Closing an entire city and requiring hotel guests to remain in their rooms or be shot sounds like an old Communist trick. It’s not a reception I expected in “The City of Brotherly Love.”

  Ahh, brothers. It’s that demon brother of mine who brought me here. “Park’s in Philadelphia, there is so much to see,” he tells me. How will he show me these wonderful things if he doesn’t even call me? Though my mobile doesn’t seem to be working.

  Aruba is barely a different country but it seems to have screwed up my phone completely. Before I left, I swore I wasn’t going to need the international calling features. I was in the islands to drown myself in tropical drinks, not talk on the phone. That lasted about six hours.

  Now that I’m in the North East my phone isn’t fixed and the tropical drinks are done. All I have to drink is in the minibar in my room and after the bottle of white wine is gone, I have nothing. I could watch a movie or read through the glossy magazines again. What I cannot do is sleep any more. Hell, I don’t even know if the seven-thirty-four
showing on the clock is morning or evening.

  I ought to slide open the curtains, figure out if we’re at the beginning of the day or the end and enjoy my grape juice while I think.

  Definitely morning. Somehow the damn sun seems brighter in Philadelphia.

  Maybe, if I think hard, I can piece together my journey.

  My flight was scheduled to arrive in the middle of the day Saturday. Let’s assume it did. I can also assume I was delivered to my hotel in a reasonable amount of time, so sometime Saturday. Naturally, I passed out upon entering the room.

  Waking at some time on Sunday, I found the note declaring martial law slid under my door. I have no idea when it arrived; there is no time or date on it. I checked the newscast—the world is awful—finished my duty-free vodka and drained the minibar. My stupid brick of phone does not work; hotel phone has no messages and does not connect to my brother.

  Go to sleep crying.

  Wake up wanting more vodka but discover only the white wine remains in my minibar. Settle for coffee from the machine in the room and pace, wondering what to do.

  That makes it Monday morning.

  I suppose those people walking on the grass are a good sign. They probably came here from California or some far-off state to see the Liberty Bell. The city protects this symbolic piece of iron with glass walls and high security. It’s like the Constitution except bigger and less fragile.

  Crrrraaaack!

  That was a gunshot; there may have been two.

  Two of the people walking toward the bell are now on the ground. The third one looks like a woman. Man or woman, doesn’t matter, they’re in shock.

  In time, her shrieks arrive at my ears. Surely in America this cannot happen? I should go provide aid, but I am in no position to help. Someone else will go help her.

  The men who eventually come jogging across the lawn do not look like the American military I have seen on television. They have bare arms and black vests over denim pants. There are no helmets and each appears to have a different weapon.

  I’ve seen Internet propaganda telling people that the American military is a joke. Out-of-context pictures are used to call our servicemen and women ill-equipped to fight the new threats to our country. It’s a small group of people that believe it, but I choose not to believe lies about the strength and ability of the U.S. military.

  The brutality with which these two men engage the woman is another indicator that they are not part of a disciplined force. This is not a rescue, it’s a capture. But what can I do?

  I’m not even sure where the nearest exit is or what I would do once outside. Surely if these men were prepared to kill the first two men in cold blood, they would not hesitate to shoot me.

  I can go to the front desk and tell them what I saw.

  Sitting on the bed to pull on my pants, I catch myself in the mirror. This is not my face, not my body. I am a young man. I have traveled internationally for pleasure and for business.

  I would never have accepted martial law in Kuala Lumpur last month, so why do I give my own country the right to impose it on me? The answer is not at the bottom of a bottle.

  The ring I still wear on my left hand says everything about me. Last month Susan was alive; I had something, someone, to live for. I would have battled a tank with my bare hands to get home to her.

  In the three weeks since her death, I have become a shadow of the man I was. Crawling into a bottle should have made things easier. Instead, not only do I miss her, but I feel l am letting her down.

  If she were here and I did not go out and stand up for that woman, she would have. Susan was a fighter who would have battled to the end of the world for what she believed in. I’ve become a drunk, cowering in a hotel room.

  As the last of the white wine drains down my throat, I decide that this is my final drink.

  From today forward, I will no longer hide behind alcohol. When there is injustice, I will speak up and fight. My actions will make Susan proud, and one day I will feel worthy enough to be reunited with her.

  Stopping in the bathroom to splash water on my face allows self-doubt to creep in. I am disconnected in a strange city; what can I do? Susan was always helping out locally but wondered if the needs she saw at home were the same in other places. Each time she asked this question she made herself answer it, even if the answer didn’t always lead to action.

  Move forward. Leave the room. Those are actions that can spur other action. When faced with a choice, I must decide, not hide.

  Gripping my keycard securely, I pull open the door and step out into the hallway. It is quiet. There are no room service trays on the floor or cleaning carts in the hall. The expected bustle of a hotel, even one in lockdown, is missing.

  The door to a flight of stairs appears before I get to the elevator. I am fit enough not to need the extra steps but perhaps it will improve my circulation—and my attitude.

  As I open the door, I’m greeted by a slightly unpleasant smell. It is unique; I can’t compare it to anything I have ever experienced before. My instincts tell me to turn and find another way. My intellect says that I cannot fear the unknown; push forward. “Let’s find out,” Susan whispers in my head.

  I take the first step, not sure how many flights I must go to reach the bottom. My room number is four-twenty-three, which likely indicates that I am on the fourth floor.

  Counting steps makes the flights go by faster.

  When I think I must be reaching the bottom, the smell intensifies. It’s pungent, somewhere between a sewer system and a compost pile. There are also a growing number of flies telling me that I must be close.

  Seeing the crumpled blue pile on the bottom floor slows my steps considerably. The shape is human but the position of its body is not normal. He or she must be dead; now would be a good time to stop walking.

  Another three steps pass before my brain registers with my body. I stop, closer than I want but far enough to feel respectful. This was a man, a police officer. His face and neck have open wounds that look like bite marks. His hands are covered in blood but none of those injuries appear to be fatal.

  Rising up on my toes, I look over to the other side of his head. It lies flat against the concrete floor. My only guess is that while he was fighting with whatever it was that bit him, he fell over the railing and landed head-first down here. The impact must have crushed his skull, damaging his brain and killing him instantly.

  The fight must have been a surprise. A gun and handcuffs remain securely stored in the officer’s belt. I can also see a spray can that likely contains pepper spray or mace for non-lethal action.

  Something surprised him and killed him, but it was not recent. The blood on the floor is congealed and the flies are so thick they must have been here for hours. How can a hotel leave a dead police officer in the stairwell for hours?

  A sudden wave of fear overcomes me. I turn and race back up the stairs. I’m breathing heavy after one flight, but soon get it under control.

  I used to be a runner. Before…

  When I get back to my room, I have a light sweat. For a moment I regret not bringing my running shoes and clothes but it passes.

  So far today, I have seen three dead bodies and an abduction. One of the bodies was a police officer and the kidnappers looked like a militant group. This is more than just martial law.

  The clock on the nightstand reads a little after eight. What would Susan do?

  Out my window, the sun is getting higher and brighter but it provides no answers. I step closer and search outside for activity that would indicate a civil response to the atrocity I witnessed.

  Instead I find that the captors and their victim are gone and there is a new group of people walking toward the Liberty Bell. This group is easier to identify: an older man and woman, accompanied by two teenage girls.

  Their arrival at the bodies of the previous victims triggers more gunshots. A puff of red appears at the man’s chest and he drops.

  The older woman is
not hit and neither are the two girls. All three run toward the glass wall of the Liberty Bell display.

  At the wall they pound helplessly until more shots ring out. The glass shatters and the young girls drop to the ground, covering their heads. The older woman staggers around on her feet and I can see patches of crimson darkening her white t-shirt.

  The young girls are not physically harmed. I remain motionless while I wait for the abductors to enter the square and seize their trophies.

  McLean Davis - on the road to Philadelphia

  Chapter 25

  Sleep would definitely help but I can’t imagine it will come soon. Last night was probably my final good chance and I blew it.

  After deciding that we were heading to Philadelphia, I should have just gone back to my apartment and crawled into my own bed. It would have let me pretend that everything is okay and ignorantly make my way to dreamland.

  The same things that kept me awake also kept me in Terri’s apartment. When I closed my eyes, I saw zombies and people turning into zombies. There was no time to sleep; I had to run. My body didn’t react but my mind wouldn’t stop.

  Even when my dreams weren’t filled with undead, they were filled with running, running across a street that kept growing wider. I was constantly close to safety but not there. I’d run a little faster and a little longer. In my dreams, I ran until I was so exhausted that you stop running, and then wake up in a cold sweat.

  I know that having those dreams means that I must have slept, but I definitely did not rest.

  The warm shower and clean clothes helped me power through the morning. There were also some good supplies in the Humvee. They helped a little, but the combination of sugar and granola led to an energy crash. The guys were a little heavy on the beer, but I didn’t dare suggest getting rid of it.