LZR-1143: Evolution (34 page)

“How do we look?” I asked, putting my hands on her shoulders and gently massaging as she finished making a final notation on a scrap of paper, then surrendered to the relief as I worked the tension out of her shoulders.

“So-so,” she said, grimacing as I dug my thumb into a particularly knotted tendon.

“We have plenty of shotgun rounds, and three shotguns. The MP5 has two more clips, and the Glock has one spare. The nine millimeter you picked up at the roadblock has a full clip and two extras.” She looked at Ky briefly and smiled. “And she has thirteen arrows left. She’s still complaining about the one she lost back in Delaware.”

I chuckled briefly.

“Well, hopefully we won’t have to use any of this stuff. In my dreams, we waltz through the subway corridor until we sink underground, make our way to the Pentagon underground, and pop up right where we need to be. I just hope we can help. If not, I don’t know where to turn. We have the whisper of a hope for vaccine in our blood, but if there’s no one left to use it ...”

I trailed off and she turned to me, hand holding mine.

Large, beautiful eyes looked up at me, and I smiled.

“We do what we can,” she said simply. “That’s all.”

“I guess so.” I said unconvincingly. She stood, squeezing my hand once more before turning toward our pallet of blankets.

“Let’s get some rest, huh? I think we’re gonna need it tomorrow.”

I nodded, eager to put my fears to bed.

Unfortunately, it was a short night, and one in which I got little sleep. I stared at the ceiling, mind churning at light speeds, conjuring in the dark the little troubles that the mind creates when left to its own devices. In my mind, contingencies turned to realities; realities turned to tragedies. And at the end of it all was a dying race.

I drifted off fitfully, hours after laying down.

I walk into an empty city, down vacant streets, and hand a large blue vial to a man in a white coat. He smiles, and snaps his fingers. Instantly, I am surrounded by healthy, happy people, going about their business. Walking. Talking. People. Not undead, but normal, real live people.

I walk into an empty city, down vacant streets. A man appears, his white coat covered in blood. Dead, empty eyes stare as I try to hand him the blue vial. He smiles, dead skin cracking over the bones of his face, rotten teeth bared. Around me, millions of zombies rise from the ground. They stare, and I stare back. The man asks, “Are you ready?”

I run down a dark hallway. Only one door leads to the outside. Behind me, millions of voices screaming in agony and pain; millions of people calling for me to save them. There is one voice for which I turn. It is her voice.

“You have moved on,” she says, dispassionately.

A single tear leaks from my eye as I take in her healthy body, and beautiful face. She stands before the door. The one door.

Behind me the voices are silent.

I know why.

“I haven’t moved on from loving you,” I say, and in my heart I know it to be true. “I simply love another. I will never forget you.”

She smiles. “I know this. And I know that with you rides the hope,” she gestures behind me and I turn, “the hope of all these people. More people than we have a right to believe survived. More people than I could ever have hoped to save. With you, not with anyone else, is their salvation.”

They are there, in the dark. Millions of voices. Real, human voices.

But there are also the undead. The armies of rotting bodies, decaying faces, absent souls. I hear them moan, as if they are responding. As if they are approaching.

I turn to her again, and she is aged. Older now, and sick. Her eyes are sinking in to her face. Her lips, her cheeks, losing color.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you,” I say.

She smiles one more time, and she falls, her legs crumbling to dust, rotten clothing dissipating to ashes in the dark.

I sob as I open the door into the intense white light.

I squinted as the sunlight lanced through the windshield, and sat up. Kate sat on the bench, sipping a cup of instant coffee—George had a huge reserve of the stuff, joking that his coffee might have been what made the dead rise to begin with—and rechecking the guns. Ky and Romeo weren’t inside, meaning that George had taken them out for Romeo’s business. I sat up, pouring a cup and running a hand through my hair.

“You finalizing your plan for world domination?” I asked as she sighted down the barrel of one of the shotguns.

“Yep. And you’re in my light. Better move before I cut you out of my future government.”

I smiled, rubbing my eyes and walking away.

We moved out twenty minutes later, meeting surprisingly few creatures. But for one large pack that we saw cross an Interstate overpass roughly twenty minutes outside Crofton, we didn’t see any, which meant one of two things: either there weren’t that many zombies in this area, which seemed about as likely as a virgin in a frat house, or there were millions of them, and they were all somewhere else. It was the somewhere else that gave me concern.

The New Carrollton station was situated directly inside the beltway, close to the intersection of Route 50 and Interstate 495. It was an area that was fairly built up and populated, so we plotted a course through several residential neighborhoods on the approach, veering from Annapolis Road approximately a mile away.

As we moved slowly through the beautiful tree-lined streets, lined with quaint two level homes with white gables and oak trees in the front lawns, I noted the disarray of a society in turmoil. Some houses sat open to the elements, doors wide open and material strewn about the lawns as families rushed to leave, taking with them what personal effects they could manage to fit in their cars. Many of those families may have perished on the road, or even at the roadblocks we saw the day before.

Several houses were buttoned up, windows and doors locked, blinds drawn, cars in the garages. Two homes adjacent to one another at the end of the street had the marks of fortification—wooden planks and plywood, shattered glass underneath window panes. Open windows on the second story and smears of blood on the grass below were marks of varying levels of success, but you had to respect the effort.

We passed a small green park, and a sign read “Meloy Field.” A line of trees was the backdrop in front of the long, cement line of Interstate 495, which sprawled behind the park. Buzzards circled the portion of the roadway invisible behind the tree-line.

We took a hard turn toward the Interstate, and I sat down next to Kate on the bench as George prepared for the riskiest maneuver yet.

The best place to enter the tracks was the turnaround area—New Carrollton was the last stop on the Orange line. This meant that all the trains turned around at that point, and the tracks were shaped like a giant cul-de-sac. It also meant that there was a maintenance entrance and a Metro line utility building there, and that we might be able to lock the gate behind us once we were in the tracks. This would prevent any packs of those things from following us in, and trapping us between a rock and a whole bunch of dead things.

But to access the area, and to avoid spending too much time on Route 50 and the I-495 interchange, which were bound to be locked with cars and impassable, we had decided to take a residential lane to the edge of 495 and simply move perpendicular across the highway. Unfortunately, this required the careful destruction of fencing along the Interstate and a clear pathway across eight lanes of traffic.

We approached the end of the road slowly, and passed the last of the homes in the wooded neighborhood. The paved street ended in a small wooden sign that simply read “Dead End.” I chuckled at the irony.

Behind the sign, a row of scraggly bushes stood between us and a six foot fence. The breeze sent fall leaves pinwheeling across the top of the fence as the bus came to an idle, large oversized tires crushing gravel on the small road as we stopped and stared toward the Interstate. Kate and I dropped to the ground and began cutting through the wire with bolt cutters, making quick work of the thin steel. Ky stood watch on top of the idling bus, ready to alert us to any movement.

The large section of fencing fell outward and I crossed into the side median of the Interstate quickly, dragging it away so as not to catch on the plow on the front of the bus. Behind me, the bus roared and began moving forward. I took the time to scan the road, and I sighed.

On the Interstate, the traffic was erratic. On the Northbound lane, the lane closest to us, there were large gaps in the vehicles—large enough to move the bus through. The median took a slight dip, but was shallow enough for the bus to make it through, especially on off-road tires. But the South-bound side was nasty. The cars and trucks were bumper to bumper, askew at odd angles as vehicles had collided and maneuvered for position in their haste to flee the cities.

I waived Kate over and we decided to start cutting the fencing while they made their way through the median and the Northbound lane. The bus crept forward as we weaved between cars carefully, looking in each window before getting within striking distance. Several vehicles up from where we began cutting, I saw the first creature.

He was strapped into the passenger seat of a large American SUV. His right arm was gone at the shoulder, and the right side of the face missing, exposing the now-yellowed skull to the air. The window next to him was shattered, and he had clearly been attacked while sitting in the car. A massive tear in the throat explained why he was still a prisoner in the car, and hadn’t run after being attacked
—
he had died from massive blood loss before he could unfasten his seatbelt.

I watched as he writhed and tried to grasp for us from fifty yards away with his one arm. I turned, shuddering at the horror. We started clipping quickly, and were inspired by the fact that we could see the Metro yard behind a row of bushes on the other side of the fence. We had finished three-quarters of the fence when Ky yelled and waved her arm, pointing toward where our friend sat struggling against his seatbelt and moaning loudly.

The bus was close, and had only to push uphill toward the line of cars from the center median. It was still blocked from the fence by three solid rows of bumper to bumper vehicles, but had passed the Northbound lane successfully.

I turned, and saw the hint of movement coming from the North. I couldn’t make it out completely, so I jumped to the hood of a small landscaping truck, then mounted the roof and stood.

I simply sighed and stared for several seconds.

There were thousands of them, and they were coming for us.

Kate gave me a questioning look as I jumped to the ground, grabbing for my bolt cutters and frantically cutting at the fence.

“Company,” I said curtly, and she understood. She started clipping furiously.

Ky yelled down to us, and George honked the horn once in warning.

We finished cutting and yanked the metal barrier down, pulling it to the side and running back to the bus. We needed to clear the vehicles, and we needed to do it fast.

I yelled up at Ky.

“Tell George I need the 10 gallon drum of diesel!” I shouted.

Her face was surprised but she disappeared into the bus quickly. Behind me, I heard Kate ask anxiously.

“How do you propose to ignite that diesel?” she asked, looking nervously Northward and no doubt suspecting me of something crazy and idiotic.

How well she knew me.

“I’m going to place it strategically there,” I said, pointing to a place where only three lanes of cars were blocked, and gesturing toward the gap between the second and third rows.

“I’ll put it on the inside, so it blows outward, and we only have to nudge the two cars on the inside with the plow. Hopefully, just pushing two cars won’t bust the plow,” I said doubtfully, jumping onto the closest car hood to check the zombies’ rate of approach.

They were slowed by the tightly packed cars, but were filtering through the cracks like slowly sifting sand in an hour glass. We had maybe five minutes, tops.

George appeared at the top of the roof, struggling with the ten gallon drum of diesel we had pilfered from the ferry. He looked North and cursed, disappearing back into the bus and reappearing with a rope, which he hastily tied to the large drum and used to lower it down to me. Kate and I wrestled it over to the gap I had identified, and we called back to George, who was watching from above.

“Back up as far as you can, maybe beyond the Northbound lanes,” I said. “Once this blows, you’ll want a good head of steam before coming through, and you don’t want to be too close!”

He nodded once, white beard flapping with the head movement as he disappeared below. Ky’s head popped up and she called out.

“How are you going to ignite it?” she called, and behind her I heard Romeo’s anxious barking. He surely could smell the massive horde by now.

Christ, I thought I could.

I held up my pistol, shrugging. I had never been a party to a massive explosion on a freeway before. Yes, I had managed one at a rural crossroads, and another one at a gas station, but ... okay, so maybe I was an old pro.

She looked at me funny, then held up her crossbow. An arrow with its tip wrapped in cloth was loaded into the weapon, and she looked at me and smiled, holding up a lighter with her other hand.

Behind me, Kate laughed openly and I smiled as we jogged back to the bus.

We climbed quickly, retracting and tying down the ladder; when we got to the top of the tall vehicle, the full extent of the approaching shit storm was clear. Thousands of creatures were moving through the traffic from the North, clambering over cars and through the assembled vehicles, flowing out onto the vacant medians, even climbing out of parked cars. On the South side of the bus, several creatures were filtering up from the opposite side, perhaps stragglers of another pack, perhaps only now finding the horde to which they were inexplicably drawn.

Below our feet, the bus started to reverse, and the absurd beeping was a measured cadence as it backed over the median, crushing one of the single interloping zombies beneath the rear plate and smearing it against the gravel and concrete. Ky moved to the front of the bus, and I followed, Kate close behind.