Arize (Book 1): Resurrection Page 8

  “And what if things never settle down?”

  Meg didn’t realize how much the volume of her voice had increased until Jacob’s door clicked open. He held the Wii U before him as if it were a talisman that would make everything normal again.

  “Mom?” Jacob said, plaintive and trying hard to suppress a sniffle.

  Meg wiped her eyes and shifted into “going-to-be-all-right” mothering mode. “Hey, honey. It’s about time for lunch. What would you like? Maybe some SpaghettiOs?”

  “I know you told me to stay off the computer—”

  Meg’s and Ian’s eyes met. Ian shook his head to keep Meg from saying anything. He turned to his son. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “They’re zombies, Dad. Why are we all pretending?”

  Because that’s what grownups do, Meg wanted to say. Children pretend for make-believe, and grownups pretend for real.

  “Honey, nobody knows what’s happening,” she said instead, moving toward him and opening her arms for an embrace.

  “Is Mona going to become a zombie?”

  Meg almost offered an automatic “no,” but then remembered what Ian had said. “She caught my cold, and I got better, didn’t I? She’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

  “The Internet said most people who catch it turn into zombies,” Jacob said, surrendering to her hug in a way he hadn’t in a long time.

  “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together, okay?” She kissed him on the top of his head. His hair was sandy brown like his father’s, and the clean smell of it made her heart ache.

  “Okay,” he muttered into her shirt.

  She ruffled his hair and let Ian take him. “I’m going to check on her now. You guys stay out here so you don’t catch it, okay?”

  If the infection was as virulent as it appeared, they were already exposed. Ian understood this, but there was no reason to upset Jacob. He was smart, though, and an advanced reader for his age. He’d probably browsed enough to become as knowledgeable as the people making decisions on how to address the pandemic.

  So far, government and health officials had avoided using the word “zombie,” despite the public adoption of the term. Meg wasn’t comfortable accepting it, either. Even though the virus behaved in ways never before observed, it was still a natural phenomenon and would eventually be explained. Whether or not humans could mount a defense was an entirely different question.

  The annual pursuit of a successful flu vaccine revealed just how elusive their enemy was. Each year, scientists projected which flu strains were the most likely to erupt and spread. They not only had to guess correctly, they had to hope the targeted viruses didn’t mutate before reaching the larger population. Such vaccines were developed through years of research and hard work. Meg couldn’t imagine how a treatment could be developed during such a widespread, unforeseen outbreak.

  Ramona looked much worse. She tossed in a fitful state of languor that wasn’t quite sleep. The flesh around her eyes feature mottled swatches of purple amid the red. Gelid sweat pocked her forehead and cheeks, even though her skin was cool to the touch. The blankets rose and fell with the uneven rhythm of her breaths.

  Ramona’s eyelids twitched and parted. Her eyes were rheumy and glazed. Her helplessness made her look far younger than her eight years but her expression was that of an exhausted centenarian.

  “How are you, honey?” Meg said, brushing sweat from Ramona’s cheeks and forehead.

  “Tired.” She gave a brave smile that she couldn’t maintain for long.

  “Here.” Meg gave her the glass of water sitting on the dresser.

  Ramona sat up and took a sip, choked and sputtered, and then pushed the glass away.

  “Does it hurt to swallow?” Meg asked and Ramona nodded in reply.

  Her own illness had passed within a day, but Ramona’s had already reached a lower nadir than Meg’s. Perhaps her immunity was lower because of her youth. Or else the virus could’ve already mutated into something worse over the course of hours.

  She checked Ramona’s temperature again, and it was only half a degree above normal. She could dispense more liquid Tylenol for the discomfort of a sore throat and sinus drainage, but no other remedies were possible. Antibiotics might ward off a secondary bacterial infection but wouldn’t touch a raging virus.

  “We might need to go to the doctor,” Meg said.

  “I don’t like doctors.”

  “But you want to feel better, don’t you?”

  Ramona nodded again, closing her eyes. Meg recalled how she’d been sensitive to light during her own illness. Even with the shades drawn, the sun worked its way across the stuffed animals, books, and crayons on Ramona’s floor. The shades also failed to keep out the distant gunfire and sirens that merged into a constant background cacophony.

  She gave Ramona’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Rest up, hon, and I’ll talk to Daddy about the doctor.”

  Meg found Ian in Jacob’s room, both of them reading from the computer screen on Jacob’s desk. Ian knelt beside their son, who sat on the edge of his chair, bouncing his heels up and down in anxiety. Meg saw an image of a North American map on the screen, dotted with red spots where the infection had been reported. No section of the country had been spared, although the heaviest outbreaks were in the Pacific Northwest, the Atlantic seaboard, and Florida.

  She wanted to let Ian know about Ramona’s condition without alarming Jacob but decided the boy was right—they couldn’t keep hiding him from the truth. “Hon, Ramona’s getting worse. I think we need to try for the hospital.”

  She expected him to argue but he gave a curt nod without looking at her. “WakeMed’s closest but that new urgent-care clinic might be a better bet. The traffic’s probably not as bad if we head west.”

  “I can take her,” Meg said. “I’ll be back as fast as we can.”

  “No.” Ian stood and put his hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “We stay together, no matter what.”

  “You can’t face all those zombies alone,” Jacob added. “You need somebody to watch your back.”

  “We’ll all watch each other’s backs, then,” Meg said, a little relieved.

  “You get Ramona ready,” Ian said. “I’ll check out the driveway and make sure the coast is clear.”

  “I’ll help you,” Jacob said.

  “Okay.” Meg could tell Ian was forcing himself to be even-keeled and casual despite the fear dancing in his eyes. “Let’s go downstairs and gather what we need.”

  Meg could only imagine what that might be. They owned no guns and the most dangerous weapon in the house was probably Jacob’s baseball bat. They’d had no reason to prepare for Doomsday—the world was orderly and life’s necessities were conveniently located in the neighborhood. She left them to their work and returned to Ramona’s room.

  She left Ramona in her pajamas but put on her red sneakers, then bundled her up with her favorite teddy bear Mister Grizz. Ramona mumbled and groaned but didn’t speak. When Meg lifted her daughter from the bed, wrapped in a thin blanket, she realized how much Ramona had grown while Meg had been busy with her career and research.

  But she’s still my baby.

  And I’m not going to let her turn into…one of those THINGS.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Holy fuck,” Grabowski said, with his typical level of insightful commentary. He joined Rocky at the balcony rail as the congressional representatives milled below them.

  Apparently the chamber doors were locked, probably because the politicians considered themselves safe from the diseases of the voting public if they remained in the legislative building. Rocky wasn’t up on his civics lessons, but he believed only about half the General Assembly was present. He wondered what kind of legislation they’d been drafting when the infection rolled through them all in an invisible wave.

  “These are the people we are supposed to be protecting,” Rocky said.

  “But we gotta take ‘em down, right?” Grabowski rocked back and forth, swin
ging his rifle barrel around the room. Rocky wondered if the man was amped up on adrenaline or something stronger and less legal.

  “Sarge told us to clear the building. But I don’t think he was expecting this.”

  The politicians were mostly white males, but two black men and three women milled among the crowd, all of them bumping into each other and their long desks and upended chairs. One tripped and fell, causing the others to react as if anticipating fresh prey. Their soft, guttural rasps seemed to vent their disappointment.

  “Look,” Grabowski said. “A couple of them are chewed all to hell.”

  In the sea of dark suits, a few of the men were drenched in red, raw hunks of meat removed from their faces. Some jackets were torn, and one of the women had lost much of her blouse. Her bra dangled limp on one side where a violent mastectomy had been performed by hungry jaws. Rocky guessed half a dozen of them hadn’t succumbed to infection but rather the teeth of the dead.

  The infection was apparently bipartisan, colorblind, and swung with both genders.

  The three recruits had glimpsed the horrifying tableau and held back at the landing to the stairs, unsure of how to respond. Rocky had to act with clear intention here or this situation would go south in a hurry. But you couldn’t go any farther south if you were already in hell.

  One of the living dead broke from its milling and lifted its head as if sniffing the air. Rocky wondered what kind of vestigial senses were at work inside that corrupted brain. During the debrief, Col. Hayes claimed the infected were in some kind of walking coma and retained their core humanity. But this animated corpse with a hunger for flesh seemed the opposite of human.

  Before Rocky could decide on a course of action, Grabowski lowered his weapon toward the legislative pit. Rocky pushed the barrel aside. “Not yet.”

  Grabowski shoved his way free and banged against the railing. His walkie-talkie tumbled off his belt and clattered to the carpeted floor below. Several of the deaders turned at the sound. The chamber grew hushed as the things waited as if not quite sure how to process this intrusion.

  “Up here, fuckers!” Grabowski shouted.

  The entire horde of deaders lifted their heads toward the balcony. Rocky’s gut clenched at the watery hunger in their eyes as their mouths fell open in unison. A rasping groan rose from deep inside their contaminated bodies as they stretched curling fingers upward.

  Then Grabowski released a full automatic burst that hammered Rocky’s ears and reverberated like thunder across the chamber. The wave of bullets ripped through the deaders, flinging a slurry of gore into the air.

  The cavernous space went silent as Grabowski’s magazine expelled its last round. A high-pitched whine pierced Rocky’s ears from the concussion. About half the zombies had fallen, but some twitched and pawed at the air despite the gaping wounds in their torsos. Those remaining stumbled toward the balcony and the origin of the noise.

  Thank God they haven’t figured out doors, Rocky thought.

  The only way to access the chamber from the balcony was to retreat down the stairs and go through the secured entrance. Rocky would’ve preferred to leave the walking dead where they were until the squad had finished its recon of the building. But Grabowski had forced his hand.

  “Get your asses in gear and move into position.” Rocky motioned to the three soldiers who had held back and now cowered at the edge of the steps. They reluctantly moved forward, faces grim and pale. Grabowski swapped in a fresh magazine while Rocky raised his own M-16. Instead of switching to full auto, he left the gun in semi-automatic mode and made each shot count. They’d each packed five magazines, and if the infection ratio of this group was any indication, they’d need every round.

  “Head shots,” he said to Grabowski, echoing the man’s earlier admonition.

  Grabowski nodded and knelt in position, using the railing to steady his aim. Rocky centered his sights on a balding, plump-cheeked man with blood on his chin who looked as if he’d been feasting on his co-workers. He squeezed off a round and grunted in satisfaction when the bullet pierced the man’s forehead and exploded the back of his skull.

  The three soldiers joined Grabowski at the railing, aiming carefully and firing intermittent shots. Rocky didn’t berate them. They were raw recruits and this was the closest thing to battle they’d ever experienced. It was easier to kill targets that didn’t shoot back, even if they’d never been trained for anything quite like this.

  “That’s…that’s a Republican,” one of the soldiers said. “The senator from my district.”

  “These damned deaders don’t know left from right,” Rocky said. “Just pretend he’s voting to raise your taxes.”

  Grabowski popped off a few bursts of rounds, burning through his ammo. He whooped with joy, as if he’d waited all his life for this moment. The squad’s combined firepower cut a swath through the remaining deaders and only a few of them still stood, oblivious to both their current condition and their imminent fate.

  Rocky aimed at a woman with a pillowy puff of white hair. She looked like the kind of person who would scold you in the grocery store for having one item too many in the speed lane. Well, that, plus she was mottled with infection. Despite the seriousness of the mission, Rocky couldn’t help but note how the mighty had fallen.

  He fired.

  Dead deader deadest.

  His aim was off. The bullet struck her neck and sheared off a clump of flesh. Purple blood oozed out of the wound. The zombie twisted in a little dance from the impact but didn’t fall.

  Rocky aimed again. He tried not to think of the human that might’ve once lived inside that casing of blotched skin. But she’d probably been someone who made his life worse. The fact that she was now an infectious threat was a bonus. He took his time and the next round burrowed into her forehead.

  The rest of the squad emptied their magazines, the cacophonous fusillade roaring under the domed ceiling and the bitter whang of gun smoke filling their lungs. The last remaining deaders dropped to the carpeted floor, although some of their limbs still twitched. One persistent old cuss was splayed across the top of a desk, arms flailing up at them despite the pink-and-gray canyon exposed in his abdomen. Grabowski unleashed a quick burst that put him down for the third and final time.

  The ensuing silence felt like it had weight, like water pressing around them. A high-pitched ringing filled Rocky’s ears in the wake of the noise. Then a few sounds filtered in: the rustle of a not-yet-deadest zombie below them, the clack of Grabowski swapping in a fresh magazine, and a distant, muted siren from the city outside. The rest of the squad looked at him expectantly, as if Rocky had any idea what the proper protocol was for such a situation.

  Grabowski tapped the knife sheathed on his belt. “Do we go in and finish them off?”

  Rocky knew the look on his comrade’s face. He’d seen it in Afghanistan. Blood lust. The expression of a killer who wanted permission.

  “They’re out of action,” Rocky said. “Our orders are to sweep the building.”

  “Nothing wrong with a clean sweep.”

  “We were told the building would be unoccupied. Might be dozens more hiding out in offices.”

  “Better call it in, then.”

  Rocky worked his radio, summoning Sgt. Jackson. White noise and static was the only response. He suspected Sarge had met resistance himself. Just like the G-3 to underestimate a threat.

  But he couldn’t let his squad know that. Grabowski was fine—more than fine; he was shiny-eyed with the fever of battle. The other three, though, looked like they were ready to vomit or go curl in a ball in the corner.

  Just before Rocky had to make a decision, one was made for him. Sgt. Jackson came on the air and ordered them to relocate to the capitol building two blocks away and retrieve the governor.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ian drove slowly through the neighborhood, with Meg navigating as best she could while keeping a worried eye on Ramona bundled in the back seat.

  A f
ew other cars drifted along with them, moving in both directions. According to Meg’s navigation app, the main thoroughfares were clogged but they’d be able to map a route skirting the worst of it. Reaching the hospital would be nearly impossible due to congestion, but the medical clinic was near the outskirts.

  The gridlock Ian had feared had not yet come to pass, at least on the residential streets. But aside from the motorists, few other people were outside. Judging from the unusually high numbers of cars in the driveways, even for a weekday holiday, most people had followed the government’s mandate to stay indoors.

  But the relative calm only heightened the contrast of the bodies sprawled on the pavement, sidewalks, and lawns. Some were torn to bloody bits, while others looked like they’d dropped off into a sudden state of sleep. The front door to the Wards’ house was wide open, as well as the garage, and Meg thought she saw a figure moving inside the shadows.

  “It’s a zombie,” Jacob said, following Meg’s gaze.

  “Don’t look,” Ian said.

  “That won’t make it go away.”

  “But it will help you sleep better. Assuming this nightmare ever ends.”

  “You’re going to upset Ramona,” Meg said.

  Ramona’s blonde head wriggled out from the blankets and pressed against the glass. “Am I going to turn into one of those things?”

  “No, honey,” Meg added, before Jacob could make a smart-alecky remark. “We’ll get you to the doctor and they’ll make sure you’re all better.”

  “And if I don’t get better?”

  Meg gave her best fake smile. “Mommy’s a doctor, remember? And I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  They turned onto Sanders Street, which led to Wade Avenue and downtown. A police cruiser blocked the exit, its light-bars churning in a wash of blue. A cluster of traffic was stacked up behind it. The officer was nowhere in sight and the cruiser was empty.