Infection: Alaskan Undead Apocalypse (12 page)

“I’m sorry. I just...”

Before anyone else could speak or for the mood of the room to change, Rachel attacked the quiet, “You’re right. And we all damned well know it. Sorry kids.”

Jules asked, “Why do you always say sorry after you swear? Wouldn’t it just be easier not to swear?”

“You’re probably right kid. So what about it Neil? What do we do?” She took another quick swig from the bottle. Her face was as red as a tomato, but her mood had thankfully settled quite a bit.

The group set about deciding how to best use the limited lumber and plywood supply. They had enough pieces of plywood to cover the only two downstairs windows. They decided to put the plywood on the outside of the windows and then use interior doors from the house to cover the inside of the windows. If they could keep the windows intact, the cooler nights might not be so cool inside. Of course the doors would have to be hung later. Their time outside was running out and they all knew it. They worked with the desperation of dike builders along the banks of a swelling river in the midst of a storm. The job was quick and dirty but it was solid. Inside, they worked in pairs to nail two by fours across doorframes. The garage door was of heavy construction and insulated. It appeared strong and resilient.

Danny, perched in the upstairs window, kept a vigilant watch through binoculars on the passing horde on the highway. He stood there watching quietly, never taking the glasses from his eyes. In the background, he could hear the television, which had begun to broadcast again. It was hard for him to watch the television because all the grownups on it seemed so afraid and they kept talking about places he had never heard of: Knik, Eagle River, Seward, Fort somewhere and something Air Force Base. None of the news seemed good. It was just easier for him to try and ignore the speaking and watch the road for any bad news coming their way.

It had been only a handful of hours since Martin Houser had been admitted to the Providence Emergency Room. Already though, the city was ready to come apart at the seams. The main roads were filling up with cars that sat bumper to bumper, hopelessly trapped in clogged pavement arteries.

A precious few jets and large commercial aircraft were still able to depart Anchorage from the international airport. Merrill Field, the state-of-the art small plane airport on the northern side of the city and just east of downtown, was already in ruins. There were wrecked planes, smoldering fuel and equipment trucks, burning control and office buildings, and throngs of staggering, broken souls shuffling across the tarmac. Small Cessnas and Pipers and a number of other single-engine aircraft were still coming in irregular waves and trying to land, the pilots obviously unaware of the bedlam unfolding below.

One plane, a single engine Cessna, wobbled down a runway. Out of control and hampered by the added weight of several extra bodies clinging to the wings and sides of the aircraft, the pilot wheeled his plane through a fence opening just wide enough for his exit. Of course, the narrow opening would not accommodate the wings of his plane, so they smashed into and partially through the high stonewall and light poles to either side of the throughway. Emerging like a magician through a flash of smoke and dazzling electrical sparks, the fuselage of the small plane burst into view. The pilot emerged onto traffic-choked Fifth Avenue, a major thoroughfare through downtown and a natural artery out of town. He steered the plane capably at first, but the teetering imbalance of moving the extra bodies was too much. The plane drove into the side of a shiny new Humvee, which was pushed into another large sport utility vehicle that ended up on its side. The result was that both inbound and outbound lanes were blocked and all the cars waiting to get out of town were suddenly trapped.

At first, there was a chorus of horns from farther back down the line of cars. This was soon followed by desperate, screaming voices as those closest to Merrill Field tried to flee from the wave of death that was spilling out onto the road. Men, women, and children abandoned their vehicles and started running. Most fled without direction, just trying to get away. Many were trampled beneath panicked feet. Others were caught and set upon by their assailants.

Some drivers tried to maneuver their automobiles through the maze to make their escape. This only served to tighten the traffic knot even further. There was no control and no restraint from anyone. The police were being victimized at an alarming rate as those men and women tried to protect the civilian population and found themselves overwhelmed time and time again. More and more gunshots rang out as ordinary citizens tried to stand their ground. Many innocent people were wounded or even killed as most of the shooting became random.

People fleeing on foot made their way to the bridge spanning Ship Creek and connecting Anchorage to Elmendorf Air Force Base. Mothers carrying children wrapped in blankets, fathers tugging older children by the hand, and individuals all swarmed across the bridge looking for safety.

A pair of Military Police Humvees met the mob approximately halfway across the bridge. The soldiers, armed with M4 automatic rifles, fired their weapons in the air to absolutely no effect. The crowd didn’t hesitate for even a moment. They couldn’t. There was only the smallest of divides between them and their attackers. If they paused, they would have been caught. The soldiers, twelve in all, let the civilians pass, as if there was any possibility of doing otherwise.

Shortly on the heels of the first group was a second group of people. At least, from a distance they looked like people, but Lieutenant Van Dorffman wasn’t entirely sure about that as he looked down his binoculars at them. They looked somehow different. It wasn’t just the torn clothing, bloodstains, or odd walking that they did that caught his attention. It was something more about the expressions on their faces that caught him off guard. Even from this distance and through binoculars, he could make out their faded, vacant, and empty expressions. There was not a single indication that any of them were anything more than upright corpses, except for something that boiled around and in their eyes.

As soon as the refugees had cleared their field of fire, the soldiers started shooting. The staccato crack of their gunshots was, at first, reassuring to the survivors now behind their line. Some even slowed their pace and turned to watch the professionals do their jobs. The first rank of pursuers, riddled with crimson patches, fell to their knees but most were quickly up and moving forward again. Even with automatic weapons, body armor, and military training, the soldiers were overwhelmed as quickly as any other force that sought to stand up to the onslaught. Lieutenant Dorffman tried to radio command that their line had been breached, but as he turned away from the utter carnage that was being reaped upon his men, he too was attacked. From his headset com-link that was still open, he broadcast nightmarish bubbling and gurgling as his tongue was ripped violently from his mouth. Death did not come quickly enough for the unfortunate young soldier.

There just seemed to be no stopping the infection from spreading. There were fires burning, most out of control, all across the city by now, the smoke adding a constricting pall that laid itself as comfortably over buildings as it did over bodies lying in the middle of streets and roads.

Anchorage was envisioned and created in the second decade of the Twentieth Century and it took nearly a hundred years for the city to become a thriving metropolis replete with modern business and retailers and nearly three hundred thousand residents. Several hours were all it took for this center of population for the state of Alaska to be brought to its proverbial knees. There was no order, as most of the police force had been victimized early on trying to stand their ground. There were already ghouls wearing police uniforms amongst the horde of undead, testament to the ultimate sacrifice many of the officers paid.

Several fire stations were identified as safe sites by the radio and, just as Jerry predicted, those stations became beacons for the ghouls. They flocked to the sites like sharks responding to the faint scent of blood in the water.

The Bear Valley Fire Station was the lone holdout, but it was no longer functioning as it was intended. Dozens of people had sought refuge there as promised by the radio. The station head, having lost contact with every other station as well as all other emergency personnel in the city, knew that something had to be done. They could wait and hope for relief or they could flee. He decided to split the difference and do both. As many civilians as possible were loaded onto their biggest engines to make a run for safety. Those unable or unwilling to leave did their best to seal themselves inside the station in hopes that help was on its way.

Dr. Caldwell knew that he was out of shape and not fit enough to really exert himself anymore. He hadn’t been athletically active in years and it showed. It was no great surprise then that he found himself out of breath before he had even cleared the first parking lot that was at the very end of a long and steep road leading out of the sports park. The thing that concerned the doctor even more than his own shabby performance was that no one else was even able to keep up with him.

He stood there, panting and out of breath, waiting for the others. He was glad that he had stopped smoking but wished he had done it long ago instead of just recently. He didn’t want to quit really, but he just got sick of hearing them complain and point out all of the obvious health threats. “I mean, really Dad, you’re a doctor. You above everyone else should know. And what about secondhand smoke?” And blah blah blah blah. It had worked though. He’d quit a little more than nine months ago and now the craving for a cigarette was the worst that it had been since having quit. It was no use though. He didn’t have any and couldn’t get any. He might as well just push on past the craving and deal with it.

His three companions, the only survivors to escape the massacre at Providence Hospital, were making their way as quickly as they were able across the parking lot. One of the women, Emma, was still wearing the extra helicopter crew helmet she put on just before crashing. She was struggling to run primarily due to her choice of footwear. She finally stopped and kicked off her high heeled shoes, opting instead to run with hose covered feet. Her pace increased substantially until she was standing next to the waiting doctor. The other two joined them and they continued on. This time the doctor chose to move with the group rather than on his own, knowing that they needed to stay together if they hoped to get out of this situation alive.

They speed-walked up the inclined road toward the main road. Coming from out of sight, but nearby, they could hear a sound that resembled a train but was not industrial. The sound was full and constant like an engine but was absent any of the typical trappings of a mechanical source. Luckily, it sounded as if the noise was still some distance away. It was, however, approaching.

Officer Ivanoff opined, “It sounds like a stampede.” Dr. Caldwell couldn’t have summed it up better. It
did
sound like a stampede; frightened, horrified animals fleeing for their lives. “D’ya think it’s headin’ this way?”

Dr. Caldwell was wondering the same thing but also wondered if it wouldn’t be better if they were just able to avoid the stampede altogether; knowing full well that the stampede was more than likely Anchorage citizens dashing for safety. There just didn’t seem to be any benefit in moving in large groups right now. Sure, there was safety in numbers, but the numbers had to be manageable. He didn’t want to be a virtual lemming being run off the cliff.

The doctor told them that he thought they should just find some temporary but safe shelter and wait this out for a while. Directly across from the park was a small neighborhood with two rows of houses facing one another and a single road separating them. That seemed to be their best option, so they headed down the road.

A small Subaru wagon with significant rust around the wheel wells sped toward them. The doctor stood out in the middle of the road to flag down the vehicle for help. He stood there until the last moment when he realized that the driver was neither slowing nor swerving to avoid him. He stepped out of the way of the oncoming vehicle at the last moment and watched it speed away from them without even looking back. At the stoplight, the car veered sharply to the right and then was out of sight. Further down the road, another vehicle, a smallish sport utility vehicle, screeched out of its driveway and started toward them as well. This vehicle too was screaming up the road at top speed. As it approached them though, the driver slowed slightly and lowered his passenger side window. He shouted, “The End is upon us! Repent!” and then continued away.

It was from the house that the second vehicle had driven away from that the group finally decided upon to stop. Entering through a back door, the four of them paused to catch their breath. Emma went upstairs and turned on a television, hoping for some news. The amazing thing she discovered was that most of the channels still had regular programming. Re-runs of
Days of Our Lives
still played out on the Soap Network. Hitler was still bombing Leningrad on the History Channel. Rachel Ray was still cooking up some concoction on The Food Network. It was as if life was still proceeding normally everywhere else.

Emma decided that was positive news, reasoning that these channels’ sources were outside of Alaska. That probably meant that the problem was localized to Alaska and possibly to Anchorage. That seemed like it was a good thing. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it seemed.