A New World: Untold Stories (10 page)

Mark slams into the front door, hitting it with his shoulder to stop his momentum. He frantically reaches down for the handle, his fingers groping and missing. Sam looks back over his shoulder and sees the dark outlines of figures rounding the cars and racing up the driveway. Turning, he reaches down and toggles the lever. The front door flies open and the three of them stumble inside.

Sam slams the door closed, pressing against it with his shoulder and turns the deadbolt. It clicks, assuring him that its set, just as a large body crashes into the door on the other side. The force of the impact jolts his shoulder, but the door holds.

“The patio door! Quick!” Sam shouts.

Mark races toward the kitchen as high-pitched screams penetrate from outside.

“Meg, the curtains,” Sam says, pointing to the living room.

Another bang against the door jars his shoulder even more. It holds and he runs through the house helping to draw all of the curtains closed.

“What now?” Meg asks as they meet in the kitchen.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, listening to the constant pounding at the door and faint shrieks. “I don’t even know what’s going on. I can’t believe James and the rest are gone. I mean, we just left them out there.”

“There was nothing we could do, man. Whatever these things are, they’re everywhere,” Mark states.

“Things? What do you mean by that? Those were people,” Sam declares.

“No. Whatever those were, they weren’t people. They ate that one guy in the car and tried to do the same to us. I mean, you saw them. Those fucking glowing eyes. That still gives me the creeps thinking about it,” Mark says.

“Kill the lights,” Sam says.

The house goes dark as the lights are extinguished. Huddled in the darkness, with the sounds continuing outside, terrifies Sam even more. The burning of his scratches fades to the background, hidden behind his fear. Sam creeps to his bedroom and returns with a revolver.

“Why didn’t you bring that to begin with?” Mark whispers, eyeing the piece in the dim light.

“I didn’t think I’d need to bring a gun to a car crash,” Sam quietly retorts.

“Do you know how to use it?”

“I’ve shot it a couple of times.”

“Good enough.”

A loud crash sounds from the deck. Terrified as they all are, they creep to the patio door, pulling the drapes back a notch. Outside, bathed in moonlight streaming down, two darkened figures are crouched near the overturned grill, devouring the burgers and steaks that were left uneaten. One of them turns to stare at the sky, his eyes glowing in the moonlight.

“Fuck me,” Mark says.

The figure turns abruptly toward the door, rises, and shrieks. A yelp escapes from Meg. Both figures outside streak for the glass door, the first hitting it solidly enough for the large pane to bow inward.

“Oh crap,” Sam states. “To the garage. We can get into the attic from there.”

They leave the door as the first body slams into it again. It’s dark with only a very little amount of radiant light from the moon penetrating through thin curtains. Handing Mark the revolver, Sam grabs Meg by the shoulders and guides her through the kitchen to the garage entrance, Mark right behind.

Entering the garage, they pass into an even darker place. One side is filled with boxes that neither James nor Sam bothered to unpack when they moved in a year ago. The other side is taken up by both of their motorcycles. All however, are lost in the inky void they’ve entered.

“How in the fuck are we going to get into the attic? I can’t see a fucking thing,” Mark says.

“Hang on. I’m searching for a flashlight,” Sam answers, groping along a workbench by the kitchen door. “Where the fuck is it?”

I hope James didn’t move it
.

The thought of James momentarily penetrates into his panicked mind. He knows he should feel something about his best friend laying on the pavement just a couple of blocks away, but there is nothing except the fear of not finding the flashlight. Deep down, he knows those emotions will return and he’ll grieve. Now, there is only the pounding of his heart and a sinking feeling in his gut.

Fuck. There, is that it?

Shrieks continue from the other side of the thin garage wall. Sam hears periodic slamming against the front door. Then, the crash of glass breaking.

“Come on. Hurry, man,” Mark says, panic rising.

Sam palms the cylindrical object in his hand, searching for the on button. It’s not the light, but part of the front forks he and James were rebuilding.

Damn
, Sam thinks, groping again.

Meg screams as something heavy pounds into the door leading to the kitchen. Sam jumps, knocking over a set of wrenches lying near the edge of the workbench. They clatter to the ground, ringing loudly as each bounces on the concrete. The screams from inside grow louder, and more intense.

There, this has to be it.

His fingers find a small button and a beam of light penetrates the darkness. He angles it toward the wall and focuses it on the ladder. Mark shoves the gun in his waist band and grabs the extension ladder. The ringing from the last of the fallen wrenches stops, replaced by the sound of the aluminum ladder being placed next to the covered attic entrance. A loud crash hammers the interior of the garage and Sam hears the crack of wood about to splinter.

“Mark, hurry,” Meg screeches.

“Yeah, man. That door’s about to cave in,” Sam says, worried they aren’t going to make it in time.

Mark hoists the extension up two rungs and anchors the end on the beams surrounding the entrance. Another heavy collision with the door and the unmistakable sound of the wood splintering invades the garage. Shining the light quickly toward the door, Sam sees that it’s still in place, but with a split down the middle.

Mark starts up the ladder, shoving the cover aside, and climbs inside. “Come on, Meg, hurry.”

Meg scurries up the rungs, the ladder bowing slightly with each step. Sam holds the light in one hand and begins climbing behind her. Normally, he’d take the time to admire the view, perhaps remarking on how he’s the luckiest man on the planet at this particular moment in time. However, the world has turned upside down and all he can think is for her to hurry.

Meg climbs into the attic with help from Mark. Sam, half way up, witnesses the door to the kitchen come apart. Split in half, the two sides blast inward; one half remaining with the hinges, the other shooting across the room to land on the floor. The shrieks, once muted by the closed door, now resound in the small interior.

“Sam, come on,” Meg yells.

Sam, not needing any further urging, scrambles upward without even feeling the rungs under his feet. He launches through the small opening and into the attic. Turning, he shines the light on the entrance. Mark is wrestling with the ladder and Sam doesn’t know if he’s trying to pull it up or push it down.

Mark stands, grabs the ladder, and pulls with all of this strength. In the thin beam of light, his muscles bulge underneath his shirt, his face contorted by the strain.

“They have a hold of the other end,” Mark says through clenched teeth.

Sam scrambles to his side and looks through the opening. Shining his light downward, he sees several pale faces staring upward. Some have their mouths opened wide and are screaming. His light catches the shine of their eyes, like the bright glow of a night animal. Terror forms a knot in his stomach and threatens to turn everything inside loose. Chills race up and down his spine. Two of the creatures have hold of the ladder and are trying to pull it out of Mark’s grasp.

Sam reaches to Mark’s waistband and draws the revolver. Pointing the light downward with one hand, he aims with the other. The report of the gunshot is deafening. The flash from the end of the barrel overpowers the light from his flashlight, strobing the garage once. One of the figures tumbles to the ground. Sam fires again and sees a bright splash of blood in the beam of the flashlight.

Mark, pulling with all of his might, is flung backward with part of the ladder coming through the opening. He lands on his back with a ‘whoof’ as air is expelled forcefully. Meg grabs one of the rungs and pulls.

“No, push it back down. We’ll never get it inside now,” Sam yells.

“No, they’ll use it to get up,” Mark yells, still on his back and with very little wind to give his voice impetus.

“We can hold this against them. Push, Meg,” Sam shouts.

Meg looks from Sam to Mark, and back. She grabs the ladder and pushes the end through the opening. It lands on the hard floor with a ring, barely audible above the shrieks. She then grabs the hatch cover and pushes it over the opening.

Shuffling back from the entrance, but remaining close enough to defend it if necessary, they huddle in the meager light of the flashlight.

This night has been one fucking roller-coaster of a ride
, Sam thinks, his arms and legs shaking from the intense adrenaline.

Against his leg, Sam feels Meg shivering. He puts his arm around her and pulls her close, her head resting on his shoulder. Mark looks once at the action, his face contorting through different emotions, and then nods.

The screams continue for a while and then, suddenly vanish. Periodically, they can hear faint shrieks, some closer and others farther away. The rest of the night is spent in a measure of disbelief. Conversations begin and stop in fits and starts. Their friends lay just a couple of blocks away, their blood flowing toward the storm gutters. None of them can come up with any explanation of what happened. The closest they can think of is it’s somehow associated with the flu virus, Sam, again iterating that it must be fever-induced. Mark mentions that he’s heard a few reports on various news feeds that this has happened elsewhere, but he took it to be the usual drama-based networks trying to drum up their ratings.

“What are we going to do?” Sam asks.

“Wait it out until daylight. The authorities will have it in hand by then,” Mark answers.

With all that’s happened, losing his friends, the fighting, the blood, the pain of being bitten, it feels good to have his arm around Meg and feel her close. It may be the stress of the night, and it may not last through the next day, but he’ll take what he can get. Mark may or may not rescind that nod of his, but for now, she is the only thing helping him keep a measure of sanity.

The next day, with the light of dawn filtering through the attic vents, they climb down. Two bodies lie on the garage floor with the ladder on top of them. Their blood has already dried to a dark red in the hot, arid air. After listening for a few moments, Mark takes the gun and hops down. Nothing happens. He catches Meg and assists Sam. The day outside is silent. There aren’t any sirens, no sound of cars driving commuters to work, no shrieks. Absolute, utter silence.

They wait in the kitchen. A slight breeze blows through the broken patio door, moving the drapes. Sam turns the knob of the radio through the frequencies without finding a single one on the air. Throughout the morning, not wanting to leave lest they encounter those they met the previous night, they begin gathering supplies, sleeping bags, food, water, the scant ammo Sam has in his nightstand, and stack them near the split door to the garage.

Mark and Sam move the motorcycles to the side, and, with a quick rush outside, they back Mark’s truck into the garage. The bed is quickly filled with their meager supplies, and they then sit back and wait. For what, none of them knows - perhaps a police car prowling the streets broadcasting that all is safe. By early afternoon, they’d take the sound of any car.

“I don’t about you, but I don’t think we’ll want to be here when it gets dark. I don’t know why, it’s just a feeling,” Sam says.

“I agree,” Mark states.

Without another word, they rise from the couch and make their way to his truck. Opening the garage, they drive out. Near the intersection of the main road, there are unmistakable lumps where they left their friends. Mark has to weave around their bodies in order to enter the main road. Tears begin rolling down Meg’s cheeks at the sight of their friends lying unmoving in the bright afternoon light. As they pass, Sam sees James lying face upward, his face pale from loss of blood, his open eyes staring at the blue sky above.

“I’m sorry, James. I’m so sorry,” Sam mutters, feeling his heart rend at the sight of his best friend.

“Where are we going?” Meg asks through her sniffles.

“Away from…this,” Mark replies.

# # #

Mark, Meg, and Sam made it into the low hills to the west of Pleasanton, setting up camp near a stream far away from any house. Their meager supplies were quickly eaten and they foraged in town during the day. From their vantage point, they were able to observe the town and, after a few close calls, slowly came to an understanding of what happened and how the world was. They ended up leaving and met another group who led a nomadic lifestyle across northern California. Mark noted changes come over him as he could see better in the dark and hear better.

Carlos pushes the mop slowly across the tiled, linoleum floor, moving it back and forth to the rhythm playing on his iPod mini. It’s one of the few luxuries that he’s allowed himself, but it helps pass the time. He’s been at the job for eighteen years, emptying the same garbage cans, carting their remains down the same maintenance elevator night after night, vacuuming the same floors, mopping and waxing the same hallways. However much others may shy away from the repetition, thinking it tedious, Carlos enjoys it and the stability it affords.

He came across the border over twenty years ago, paying dearly to make it past the border patrols and lose himself in the population. The first few years were hard. He woke early and arrived home late, spending all of the daylight hours working in the fields or orchards. On the weekends, he and his brother set off into the hills to gather plants for the pharmaceutical companies. It didn’t pay much, but every penny helped. Living frugally, he put all of his money away, saving it to get the rest of his family across.

Then, the first amnesty came. He obtained his green card and became a permanent citizen. That’s when things changed for him. He was able to get better jobs until landing this custodial one in the Transamerica Pyramid building. He started with floors forty through forty-eight and has maintained them ever since.

As a permanent citizen, he was able to bring his son and daughter across the border, their mom having died years ago. Working nights, the kids stayed with his brother during the week and came to stay with him on the weekends. Carlos preferred the night schedule. He was up when everyone else was asleep, their frantic energy sleeping with them. It led to a more peaceful existence even if he didn’t see his kids as often as he’d like. With everyone out of the building, he had all of the time to himself. And he slept through the hectic hours of the day.

Let the others run around frantically busy, too involved with getting ahead to allow anything else to intrude into their lives. Let them go around with their angry attitudes and stress-filled lives. That’s not for me
.

Humming softly, he rinses the mop and pushes it in another sweeping arc across the floor. Like the others working the levels above and below, he is given eight hours to completely clean eight floors. Every garbage canister has to be emptied nightly and the floors vacuumed and mopped. Every Friday evening, he strips and applies a coating of wax to the linoleum floors. He has it down to where he can do it in six hours, leaving him two hours just to himself. It isn’t that he is lazy, he just enjoys the few hours of peaceful contemplation. He has labored hard all of his life and takes pride in his work.

During those hours, when everything else is finished, he selects one of the offices and looks out over the city. Occasionally, he will take out a pair of binoculars he always brings and watches the night life of San Francisco happen. During these many years, he’s seen almost everything and has called in attacks on numerous occasions. Usually, he just observes and learns, only calling when someone’s life is actually in danger.

As much as he’d rather not admit it to himself, he’s used the binoculars to glass over the many hotels in the area, looking for open windows. Those were during his early years and he hasn’t peeked in for some time. Over the years, he’s learned that there’s a difference between observing people when they’re out and about, and peeking into their privacy. Exciting as it was, deep down, it just felt wrong.

He has a very content life and he’s not going to do anything to upset that. Two more years and he’ll be eligible for a retirement package. He’s not sure what he’ll do with his life if he doesn’t have the job to go to, but the mere subject is something he never thought he’d have the chance to contemplate. He feels very fortunate as many people like him work until they can’t, becoming too old and having to turn to the streets in order to survive. The one goal he has in life is to keep his kids off the streets and out of the gangs that roam them.

That’s one reason he chooses to live out of town, having found a small shack to rent beyond the city limits. It may make his commute much longer, but in his eyes, it’s worth it. His brother also lives nearby, which makes it easier. Besides, the commute isn’t that bad. At least he misses the rush hour traffic. Even if the mass exodus out of the cities stalls, he’s going the other way.

I’ll have to replace the old truck this year
, he thinks, mopping another portion of the floor.

Finishing the last of the duties, he stows his equipment and heads to one of the executive offices to enjoy the last hours of his shift. Sitting in the comfortable leather chair, he contemplates the times he’s been offered a supervisor position and wonders if he made the right decision turning it down each time. It would mean working days and his peaceful existence would change dramatically.

No, I’ll take this life over more pay any day
, he thinks, looking out over the city from within the darkened office.
Even if it means I would see the kids each night, things are working out well the way they are. No use rocking the boat
.

Staring through the tinted windows at the early morning life of San Francisco, Carlos notes an inordinately large number of flashing lights scattered throughout the city from emergency vehicles. Red and blue lights strobe off the sides of buildings, the vehicles racing through the night streets to one emergency or another. To Carlos, it seems like every emergency vehicle in the city must be out on the streets. With the flu virus in full swing, he’s used to seeing a vast amount of ambulances and rescue fire trucks rushing through the city, but now police cars have joined. Enclosed within the building, the sights aren’t accompanied by sound, but even if the windows were open, he wouldn’t hear anything through the ear pieces connected to his iPod.

That’s another reason he’s glad to have the job he does; he isn’t caught up in the mess happening below, whether a pandemic or not. He watches several vehicles as they speed along the streets, merely observing without too much thought.

Taking a sip of warm coffee from his dented thermos, he reaches into his small pack and pulls out his binoculars. Bringing them to his eyes, he begins roaming the city, stopping momentarily to follow people along the streets until they disappear from view around a corner or behind a building, finding the next one when he loses sight.

He spots a group of people running down the middle of the road, flashing under one street light after another. They’re dashing along a street leading away from him so he is able to track their progress. He shakes his head, glad that he doesn’t live in the city and that his kids aren’t involved with groups like that. As far as he’s concerned, there’s no good reason for a group like he’s watching to be running through the early morning streets.

They’re obviously up to no good
, he thinks, having witnessed similar things.

He shifts his view behind the group to see what they may be running from, fully expecting to see them being chased by one of the police cars with lights flashing. Nothing. He looks ahead and sees two people running a block and a half ahead of the group. This is another thing he’s seen before although, admittedly, not as often. Reaching into the pocket of his lightweight jacket, he pulls out his phone and sets it in his lap. Resuming his observation, it takes a moment until he can locate the group again.

They are several blocks from where he last saw them, the group behind gaining on the two ahead. He’s not one to interfere without knowing what’s going on, but if the two look to be in greater danger, he’ll make a call to the police. To Carlos, greater danger means that they are actually getting beaten.

Carlos leans forward as the distance between the two groups closes quickly. He’s amazed at how fast the ones behind appear to be moving. Of course, the two ahead keep looking over their shoulder, which slows them down. However, the quickness with which the latter group is moving through the streets, well, it just doesn’t seem natural.

He watches with interest, and a little fear, for the two running. In his magnified view, he sees the lead runner leap and slam into one of the people being chased. It’s hard to tell from his vantage point, but it looks like the attacker wrapped their arms around the person’s legs. Regardless of what happened, the one goes down hard, falling face first with the attacker scrambling on top.

The second person stops to look back at their companion and is immediately swarmed by numerous bodies. Carlos lowers the binoculars and picks up his phone. Dialing 911, he gets a recording that all circuits are busy. Thinking that odd, but remembering all of the lights flashing through the city, he tries again, only to get the same recording.

Even if the circuits are busy, I should be able to get through to nine one one
, he thinks, stabbing at the phone again.

This time the phone rings through, but all he gets are rings before a recording comes on telling him that, due to the high call volume, no one is able to take his call. Either hang up and try again, or stay on the line to leave the details of their emergency. Carlos hangs up, staring momentarily at the phone and then out over the city where blue and red lights flash in almost every quadrant that he can observe.

With a sense of morbidity mixed with dread about what he’ll see, Carlos gazes through the binoculars again. The two who were being chased are lost beneath a mound of bodies. With the darkness and distance, he is barely able to make out individual figures squatting or hunched over what he assumes are the two who were caught.

This is something I haven’t seen before
, he thinks, watching the scene.
Usually they are punching or kicking the unlucky people
.

As one, the entire group turns their heads to the side, looking down one of the side streets. They don’t move from their positions, but stare down the road. Shortly, red and blue lights begin flashing off the sides of one of the buildings near the group, strobing the entire area with their rapid pulses.

Good. Someone must have gotten through and called the police
, he thinks, feeling relieved.
Although it’s probably too late for those poor ones who were trying to escape
.

Carlos watches as a police car edges past the corner of one of the buildings along the side street and comes to a halt. None of the people have moved, but continue to gaze at the vehicle. Neither is anyone getting out of the car. Listening to the soft music playing in his ears, he can imagine the loudspeaker telling the group to get on the ground. If that’s the case, they aren’t complying and, if anything, are becoming more agitated.

Both the driver and passenger side doors open. Two officers step out using the doors as cover and point drawn weapons toward the group. The crowd rises, seemingly as a single entity, and rushes the two policemen.

Through his binoculars, Carlos sees small white flashes of light from where the police are standing. The strobe-like flashes seem like sparks compared to the red and blue lights flashing from the top of the car. Several in the group fall to the ground only to be trampled by those behind. The officers continue firing, but the crowd closes the distance quickly.

Carlos watches as the two officers, aware that they aren’t going to take down the entire group before becoming surrounded, hustle back into their car. They are too slow to close the doors as the mob, fewer now, encircles the car. A few hop onto the hood and start pounding on the windshield. Others rip the closing doors open. He watches helplessly as the officers are dragged from the vehicle and thrown to the ground. He can’t see the driver from his vantage point, but he sees the one riding in the passenger seat become engulfed.

Unable to help himself, he continues watching the horrible scene, thankful that the distance is as far as it is and he doesn’t have to watch the attack in close up, gory detail. The group of people rise after a while and race down a side street, disappearing from view. Carlos sees the unmoving forms of the original two lying in the circular beam of a streetlight. By the side of the police car lays the still form of the officer, the fast-moving red and blue lights flashing over the body.

With a sick feeling in his stomach having witnessed the terrible slaughter, he sighs and stows his binoculars. It’s not like he hasn’t witnessed a murder or two from his many years of watching the city, but this goes beyond anything he’s experienced before. Zipping his bag closed, he doubts at this particular moment that he’ll bring out his binoculars again anytime soon.

The lightening of the sky above the hills to the east signals two things. One, the most obvious, dawn is approaching, and two, his shift is about over. Rising from his comfortable perch, he stows his bag in the janitor’s closet. Grabbing the last load of garbage, he enters the maintenance elevator to deposit it in the large dumpster downstairs.

A short time later, he stows the cart and grabs his gear. With his shift over and with the sun about to crest the horizon, he heads back downstairs to his truck. One more day and he’ll have the weekend with the kids, something he’s looking forward to. He knows the things that he’s seen will haunt him from time to time but, at the moment, they are already fading from his thoughts.

Those are other people’s problems.
Even though his life is moderately settled, he still has his own to think of.

The battered Ford pickup cranks a few times before roaring to life. It’s actually more dents and wrinkles than anything else. The truck is rusted in spots but it gets him where he needs to go. Driving out of the parking garage, Carlos notes the nearly empty streets.