Here We Stand (Book 1): Infected (Surviving The Evacuation) (21 page)

“A cyber attack doesn’t make sense,” Tom said. “It would cut off communications, but doesn’t explain how orders were being given elsewhere.”

“Okay,” Nate said, not sounding as if he was listening. “Maybe we can talk about it tomorrow. You’ll be safe until then. Noon, right?”

“Probably. Yes, noon.”

“Great. I have to go.” He hung up.

Tom stared at the phone. Any relief at the prospect of escaping this hellish road-journey was tempered by the fact that the conspirators were clearly still at work. A cyber attack? North Korea? No. Perhaps they were desperately trying to hide their tracks now that their plans were in complete disarray. Perhaps. He hoped so. He’d find out tomorrow, but noon seemed a very long way off.

Chapter 23 - Rent

Clearfield County, Pennsylvania

He knocked for nearly a minute before Helena opened the door with the pistol in her hand.

“I was in the shower,” she said, though as she was wrapped in a sheet and her hair was damp, there was no need for explanation. She headed back to the bathroom. He followed her inside, propping the shotgun by the door.

“The water’s tepid, the soap’s foul, but I almost feel clean,” she said. “Did you speak to him?”

“I did,” he said. “They’re sending a helicopter. It’ll be here tomorrow at noon.”

“For you, or us?” she asked.

“Honestly? I didn’t mention you, but when they come, and if there’s an issue, I’ll say you’re an expert in virology who might have the cure for all this. By the time they know the truth you’ll be somewhere far safer than this.”

“Assuming I go with you. I still haven’t decided. What else did he say?”

“They think there was a cyber attack, and that the zombies and the downing of Air Force Two are all linked, but that North Korea is responsible.”

“But it’s not, right?”

“Unlikely. There might be some truth to some small part of it.” He crossed to a chair on the far side of the bed and sat down. “But I doubt it.”

“But they’re getting a handle on things?” she asked, stepping out of the bathroom.

“Yes. There’s going to be a broadcast tomorrow, and there’s some sort of plan in the works. He said something about zones and… and I didn’t get any more from him.”

“You’ll find out the rest tomorrow, so cheer up,” she said. “From the sound of it, the worst is over. I’m going to sleep for a bit. You should have a shower. And… maybe see if there are some clothes in the manager’s office you can steal. One of the piles in there looked like they’d been washed.”

Tom took the hint, forced himself to stand, and went back outside. A few minutes later, a random assortment of clothes in his hands, he was heading back up the stairs. He saw the curtains in the ground floor room move. Should he tell these people that a helicopter was coming? Would they mob it?

It was a problem to which he didn’t find the answer in the shower. He dressed, piling on the layers. The clothes smelled faintly of mildew, but they were cleaner than what he’d been wearing. He collapsed into the chair, and decided that if the other people in the motel wanted to be left alone, he was more than happy to acquiesce. He could only hope they would return the favor.

He was woken by a knock at the door.

“We’re sorry to bother you,” a man’s voice came through the thin plywood. Tom found himself smiling at the wave of relief that, for once, sleep had been interrupted by a human.

“We saw you come in,” the man continued. “We were… um…” There was a pause.

“We wanted to know where you came from,” a woman said. “What it was like there. We’re going to leave, but we don’t want to drive into danger.”

Helena was looking at him. She was dressed, wearing the overlong blazer, and with a bag in her hand. She looked like she’d been about to go out. “Shall I?” she mouthed.

Tom shrugged, and pushed himself up in the chair, looking around for a clock. Helena opened the door. To the left of the frame was a man, to the right a woman.

“Hi,” the man said. He gave a grin missing three teeth. His arm came up. In his hand was a revolver. He shoved it into Helena’s face. “Don’t try it,” he said to Tom, as Helena backed into the room. Tom didn’t move. The shotgun was by the door. There was no way he’d reach it.

Helena continued backing into the room until she stood against the wall. The woman came inside, closed the door, and picked up the shotgun.

“Got it,” she said.

“Good.” The man shifted aim, pointing the revolver at Tom as the woman aimed the shotgun at Helena.

“Sit on your hands,” the man said.

Tom shifted his legs and slid his hands underneath them. With his legs spread and covered by his thighs, the man couldn’t see him curl his fingers around the chair’s seat. He glanced at Helena. She seemed oddly relaxed. He looked back at the man.

“Why?” he asked. He didn’t think there was a need to ask anything more.

“This is our motel. You want to stay here, you have to pay.”

“How much?”

“Half of what you’ve got,” the man said. “Food, cash, ammo.”

“That’s robbery,” Helena said.

“Hell if I care what you call it,” the woman said. She grabbed the bag still in Helena’s hand, backed off a step, looked inside and dropped it. “It’s empty.” The shotgun came back up. “Where’s your food? Your ammo?”

“What do we get in return?” Tom asked.

“How about you get to live?” the man said.

Tom doubted it. He’d seen the man’s expression before; the eager, desperate nervousness that was part fear, part glee at a bad job half done. The man was so full of adrenaline and anxiety he’d be easy to disarm. The problem was the shotgun. He glanced at Helena. She met his eyes. They flicked toward the bed.

“If we work together,” Tom said, raising his voice, “we can make this motel safe. Keep the zombies away. Help one another stay alive.”

“Maybe. Maybe, but the rent’s due. Where’s your bags? We saw you come in with them.”

Tom made a point of leaning forward and looking around the room. On the table by the bed, he saw the shotgun shells lined up in a neat row. He looked back at the man, but didn’t lean back in his seat.

“It’s all in the bag. You can have half. No more. Agreed?” he said, nodding his head toward the side of the bed currently hidden from the man’s view. The man took a step forward, his eyes turning toward the floor. He was five feet away. Another step.

Pushing at the chair with his hands, and the floor with his feet, Tom launched himself forward. His head slammed into the man’s chest. The man staggered back. Tom swept his arms up. There was a gunshot as he grabbed the man’s wrist. His other hand jabbed at the man’s kidneys as he kept pushing with his head and twisting at his wrist. He slammed his forehead down on the thief’s nose. As the man stumbled, Tom changed his grip on the thief’s wrist, using the man’s own momentum against him. There was a snap as bone broke. The fingers went limp. The gun fell. Tom brought his hand back, jabbing it like a blade at the thief’s throat. The man went down, gasping for air. Tom scooped up the gun and turned to face the woman. She was on the ground. Blood pulsed from a wound in her chest. She was dead. Helena had the pistol, half raised in her hands, a look of disbelief in her eyes.

“You had to,” Tom said, taking her arm. He steered her away from the body, to the door, and outside.

“I… I…” she began.

“I know,” he said. Before he could say any more, he heard a curse from inside the room. The man was trying to draw a hunting knife with his broken hand. Tom swore, went back inside, and kicked the man’s hand clear. He pressed the revolver against the man’s head.

He wanted to kill the man yet he knew he shouldn’t. Self defense was one thing, murder another. Even now, especially now, there had to be laws. Justice had to be done. As to who would administer that was a problem to be resolved later. He forced his inner rage back into its box, ripped the curtain cord down from the wall, and roughly bound the man’s hands. He screamed. Tom said nothing as he pulled the man’s knife from his belt. The blade was covered in dried blood.

“Whose blood is this?” he asked, his voice low.

The man spat. It didn’t matter. Tom could guess. He backed away to the door.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Fine. I’m fine,” Helena said. She didn’t sound it.

“Can you watch him?”

“What? Why? Where are you going?”

He wished there was a way he could avoid telling her. There wasn’t. He held up the knife.

“That’s blood. That’s…” Her eyes widened in understanding.

“I need to check,” Tom said.

She raised the gun, pointing it through the open door at the man.

The set of master keys which he’d taken from the manager’s office was still in his pocket. Tom took them out. He started with the nearest room. It was empty. So was the next. He found the first body in the room second from the end on the upper floor.

The victim was an older man, at least sixty. On the table next to the TV, he’d placed a family portrait. Taken at least ten years before, he stood next to a man and woman, with four children in front. To his right, in the center of the picture, was a young woman wearing a graduation gown.

The man had been stabbed, and his throat had been cut. Tom assumed it was in that order. There was a bag in the room, and it had been opened. The contents were strewn about the floor. He closed the door and went to check the other rooms.

Downstairs in a slightly larger room at the end of the building with a clear view of the road, he found the killers’ stash. It was a meager haul, some canned food and a few packets, some loose shotgun shells but no gun to fire them, a half-empty bottle of bourbon and a half-full box of .357 rounds, a stack of bills that couldn’t amount to more than a few hundred dollars, and car keys. Those were lined up on the table. There were five sets. He guessed that one must belong to the victim upstairs, and one to the pair of killers. He was wrong.

He found four more rooms containing bodies. Couples, individuals, and one family. He looked inside long enough to confirm they were dead, and wished he hadn’t seen even that.

“What did you find?” Helena called from where she stood on the balcony above him.

“Bodies. Not zombies,” Tom said, and left it at that. He’d only checked one third of the motel. Opposite, he could see a man at a window, watching him. A curtain above and to the left twitched. Otherwise there was no movement. He’d have to deal with those people and check the other rooms. First, there was something else he had to do.

Wearily, he climbed back up the stairs.

“How many?” Helena asked.

“It doesn’t matter. You don’t want to know.”

“They killed them?”

He suspected the man had done worse to the pair of girls in one of the downstairs rooms. “Yes,” he said. “Swap.” He held out the revolver.

“Why?”

“I want a gun I know that works,” he said, and took the pistol from her.

He walked back into the room. He pushed the door closed. The man had rolled onto his back. He stared up as Tom raised the gun.

“It wasn’t me,” he said. “It was her. It was all—”

Tom fired. Once was enough.

Chapter 24 - Refuge

Clearfield County, Pennsylvania

“Why?” Helena asked. “Why did they do it?”

“I don’t know,” Tom said. He stood next to her on the balcony, looking down at the parking lot, and the other rooms. “Because it was easy. Because they were evil. Because they enjoyed it. Or, maybe they were people like you and me, but the horrors of the last week broke something inside them. I really don’t know. Sometimes there aren’t any answers. Sometimes the ones you get aren’t an explanation. It doesn’t matter. They’re dead. We’re alive.”

“That’s how it’s going to be now? Alone, fighting and killing one another?”

“For a while, maybe.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be. It doesn’t have to be.”

Tom didn’t reply. The man was gone from the window opposite. Tom was dreading checking the other rooms, but it had to be done. And then there were the rooms with their twitching curtains. He wouldn’t be able to sleep until he’d found out who the occupants were, and whether they were in league with the two murderers.

“Noon tomorrow seems like a long way off,” he said. “Why did you unload the shotgun?”

“To see if I could,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about…” She trailed off. “I thought I’d go and see if I could find…” She trailed off again. “I wanted a new life. It was more than that; I knew I needed one. A new town, new friends, a new job. I had to put the past behind me. And this is…” She trailed off again. The next time she spoke, weary frustration had been replaced with angry fear. “Tom. Look.”

On the road to the south, still three hundred yards away but heading toward them, came a lurching, shuffling figure.

Tom sighed. “Better save the ammo, I suppose.”

In front of the reception and office were two raised flower beds. Plastic sacks of soil had been dumped in one, and the other was half-full. Next to them, left out to rust, were a pair of shovels. It wasn’t a good weapon, far from it, but the long handle would keep some distance between him and his foe.

Resting the shovel over his shoulder, he walked toward the zombie. Male, he thought. Wearing a hat, a scarf, but only one glove. The other hand was missing two fingers. Was that how he’d become infected? It didn’t matter.

He gripped the shovel two-handed. When it was eight feet away, he swung, smashing the flat of the blade into its face. The force of the blow knocked it from its feet. He twisted the shovel and brought it down edge-first onto the zombie’s face. Skin broke, and red-brown fluid oozed out, but its arms still thrashed. He swung again, this time breaking through bone, the shovel biting deep into its brain. It was still. Leaving the shovel there, he went back to the motel.

Helena hadn’t moved from the balcony, but she wasn’t watching him. A man stood in the doorway of a room on the opposite side of the motel. He was around Tom’s age, though with a few less inches in height and a few extra in girth. In his hands was a rifle. Tom reached for the pistol he’d stuck in his belt, but forced his hand down by his side. Despite the weapon, there was something not immediately threatening about the man. Tom walked toward him, stopping thirty feet away, and two feet from the cover of a brand-new, high-end silver town car.

“Hi,” Tom said.

“We heard shooting,” the man replied.

Tom couldn’t see anyone else behind the man. “You saw the man and woman come to our room?” he asked. “They wanted to rob and kill us. That was their plan for everyone in the motel. It looks like they were halfway done. You can check those room if you want.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

The man didn’t turn to look. “You killed them?” he asked.

“The woman was killed in self-defense,” Tom said. “The man? That was justice.”

The man nodded, but Tom couldn’t tell if he disapproved or not.

“Where are you from?” Tom asked.

“Cleveland. You?”

“New York,” Tom said.

“You were there when this began?” the man asked.

“We got out of Manhattan before it was cut off.”

The man nodded again.

Tom had had enough. “So,” he said, “ how do you want to do this?”

The man blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You saw the zombie? More are going to come. If you want to leave, go. If you want to stay, you’ve got to help.”

“We’re out of gas,” the man said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t’ve stopped.”

“There’s probably some in these cars,” Tom said. “You can take what you want.”

“But you’re staying?”

“Until tomorrow,” Tom said. He was growing increasingly frustrated. There just wasn’t time for them to stand around trying to decide if they could trust one another.

He heard footsteps. It was Helena.

“Hi,” she said. “My name’s Helena. What’s yours?” She wasn’t speaking to the man, but to a child Tom hadn’t noticed standing just inside the room. The boy slid around the door and grabbed hold of the man’s jacket.

“I’m Lawrence,” the man finally said. “This is Noah.”

“Hi, Noah,” Helena said. “I teach boys who are about your age.”

Tom wondered how old that was. The child was about three feet tall, but Tom’s limited experience with children only narrowed that to somewhere between five and ten years old.

“I know you’re scared,” Helena continued. “I am too. But if we help one another, we’ll all be okay.” She looked at Lawrence.

“Help each other how?” Lawrence asked.

“There’s a—” Helena began. Guessing what she was going to say, Tom interrupted.

“Check all the ground-floor windows are closed,” he said. “Then block off the parking lot with the vehicles we don’t need.”

“And split the fuel in the tanks?” Lawrence asked.

“Sure. And the food. Then take turns to stand sentry through the night.”

“Agreed.”