Here We Stand (Book 1): Infected (Surviving The Evacuation) (7 page)

Chapter 6 - The Bridge

Manhattan, New York

The naval blockade and the police withdrawal had kicked Tom’s paranoia into overdrive. He wanted to check the tablet, dreading that he’d have his worst fears confirmed, but knowing that was better than traveling in ignorance. Yet he couldn’t, not while Helena was with him. He made a few attempts at conversation, but they were cut short by the sound of distant gunfire.

“That’s it,” Helena said as they turned a corner, pointing at an apartment building. “So, um, thanks, I guess. I’ll—”

“Wait,” Tom hissed. Outside the apartment door were a group of figures. Three? No, four. Their arms moved up, down, raising and falling, as if they were knocking at the closed door. He pulled Helena back into the shadows.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Didn’t you see?”

“I think that’s Mrs Kenton,” Helena said, taking a step forward. “She must have forgotten her key.”

“It’s not her,” Tom said. “Not anymore.”

“What? You mean…” She trailed off.

“Is that the building?” he asked.

“Mrs Kenton has the apartment below Tammy,” Helena said.

The figure at the back of the small group jerked around. It moved as if its limbs were on wires being pulled by an unseen hand. Arm and then leg, each movement was disjointed and unnatural as it staggered into the pool of light from a streetlamp. Its mouth slowly opened, letting out a low, breathy hiss.

“We need to go,” Tom said, pulling Helena’s arm. She was immobile a second longer, and that was long enough for the other two creatures to turn toward them.

“Now,” Tom said, dragging her back down the alley up which they’d just walked.

“But…” Helena began. “But…” She didn’t seem to have any other words to add to her protest at this sudden horror.

“They’re zombies. That’s what the news said,” Helena said when they were two blocks away.

“It’s as good a word as any,” Tom said, staring at the empty street.

“But it’s impossible,” Helena said.

“Whatever they really are, think of them as zombies for now. We don’t have the luxury of worrying about being accurate.” It was the road the detective and his gang of looters had been on, he was sure of it. The grocery store window was broken, but there was no sign of the group he’d passed on his way to the marina. Had the detective said where he lived? No, and no clue had been left to suggest where the group had gone.

“Who’s Tammy?” he asked, hoping he might be able to prompt her into remembering some other, nearby friend.

“What? Oh, she’s the deputy principal at the school.”

“You have kids?” Tom asked, suddenly horrified at the thought of who else might have been on the yacht.

“No. I’m a teacher,” Helena said. “Last semester, I was sick. Flu. Tammy came round to pick up some papers I’d been grading. She saw my apartment, heard my neighbors. Said I couldn’t stay there. She said I could stay in the boat. It was kind. Or mostly kind. She knew I was thinking of leaving. I’d mentioned it a few times. I like New York, but it—” She stopped, as if remembering Tom was a complete stranger. “What’s happening? What are these things?”

“Zombies is as good a word as any other,” Tom said. He started walking north.

“Yeah, but they’re not, are they? I mean, not really.”

“This isn’t the time to overthink it. Do you know anyone else?”

“In Manhattan? No. I mean, yes, of course, but not where they live. I should go to the police, I suppose. To report it, I mean. You know, that they stole the boat, and that they’re dead.”

“The police are gone,” he said. “The only authorities left are the ones who sunk your yacht.”

“Gone? You said something about that before. What did you mean?”

“They were overwhelmed, so they pulled back to the mainland. I don’t know on whose orders, but we’re on our own for now.”

They walked on in silence. Every rustle, every rattle, every little sound seemed to presage one of the undead.

“Where are we going?” Helena asked.

“I have an apartment about a mile from here. There isn’t much there, but it’ll be safe for you until dawn. Maybe by then…” And now it was his turn to trail off. He couldn’t bring himself to lie and say things were going to get better.

“And you?” she asked.

“The George Washington Bridge,” he said. “They were setting up checkpoints earlier, but it was clear of traffic. It might be a way out.” And if it wasn’t, he was running out of options.

“Why? I mean, if I’m going to be safe in this apartment, then wouldn’t you be?”

“Shh!”

There was a sound from nearby, and he couldn’t place where. It was getting closer, more distinct. A rasping, coughing wheeze. A figure staggered out of a doorway, collapsing to the ground twenty feet in front of them. Tom paused. Helena didn’t. She ran toward the figure. Tom tried to stop her, but she moved quickly, bending down, looking for a pulse. From his clothing, Tom guessed he was a vagrant. He raised the revolver, taking aim.

“There’s no pulse,” Helena said.

The tramp’s clothing was more stain than cloth, any one of which could have been blood.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Tom said.

Ignoring him, Helena pulled out her phone.

“No one’s going to come,” Tom said.

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try,” she said.

“That’s not—”

There was a loud bang of wood hitting stone. Tom managed to turn around just as a clawing, snarling figure tumbled out of the doorway. Its flailing arms knocked the revolver from his hand. He grabbed one arm, then the other, but the creature’s momentum pushed him to his knees. The mouth snapped. Its dark, gaping maw got closer and closer. He tried to turn and twist the creature away. He had a grip on each of its wrists, but it was flailing and shoving, and he didn’t have enough purchase to push it clear. Its mouth jutted forward, biting, nearer. Nearer. Tom let go of the arms, ducked his head forward, butting the creature in the stomach. He grabbed its legs, one at the thigh, and the other by the knee. He pulled, dragging the zombie from its feet. It tumbled down into the road.

The thing moved in a completely inhuman fashion. Trying to stand, it didn’t use its arms to push. They flailed, slapping and clawing at the road as it rolled to its side, and then its knees, all the time the teeth kept snapping up and down, up and down, up and—

There was a roar of a gun. The creature’s head disintegrated.

“Zombies,” Helena said. “Zombies.” Her voice shook, and so did her hands as Tom took the gun from her.

“They’re real,” she said. “Really real.”

“Yes,” Tom said. “Yes, they are.”

She took a sudden, terrified step back. “What about him,” she asked pointing at the vagrant. The man hadn’t moved.

“Heart attack, maybe?” Tom said. It was a guess, and as much of an explanation as either of them needed. Walking more quickly, jogging every time they heard a sound, they kept moving.

Outside his apartment building, blue and red lights danced across the puddles.

“Finally!” Helena said. “Normality.”

Tom quietly cursed. The clerk in the bodega must have called the police. Well, he’d done his duty, he’d found somewhere safe for Helena. He could retreat back into the shadows, and head to the bridge. No doubt she’d tell them whom she’d been with, and when he’d introduced himself, he’d said his name was Tom Clemens. That was a problem, but reports would have to be taken and processed, crosschecked and filed. That would all take time, and he’d be long gone before they were after him. Except the two cars were unmarked, black SUVs, and they were parked on the wrong side of the street. They were outside his apartment building. A figure stepped away from a vehicle. He had a hand holding a phone to his ear, but there was no mistaking the shock of pure white hair.

He grabbed Helena’s arm. “It’s not safe. Trust me.”

“What? Why? That’s the police.”

“Okay, the short version?” he said frantically searching for a believable lie. He could only come up with the plot of a book he’d read the previous week. “I was in the bodega. A group of crooked cops came in. They were running protection for a money-laundering outfit. They’d decided to seize the store and all its supplies. The clerk opened fire. I got out of there, and that’s why I went looking for a boat. I mean, if you can’t trust the police, what do you do? You get as far away as possible.”

Helena looked between Tom and the flashing lights. Her expression was a study in disbelief.

“Look,” Tom said. “How many other cops have you seen tonight? That lot are using this crisis to clear house. You can go over to them if you want, but they’re not going to offer you refuge. At best, they’ll drive away, leaving you here, alone. They probably won’t hurt you, but what will you do then?”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” she asked. There was genuine desperation in her voice as if it was finally sinking in that the world she’d known was never coming back.

“Get out of Manhattan,” Tom said. “While we still can.”

“If we still can,” Helena said, but she let him lead her away.

It was barely four miles to the George Washington Bridge, but traveling in a straight line was impossible. Shuffling zombies effectively blocked some roads. On other streets, snarling, captive creatures reached through the broken windows of cars abandoned fender to fender. They tried clambering over trunk, roof, and hood, but that set off a kicking, punching cacophony beneath their feet.

It was approaching one a.m. when Tom realized they were further from the bridge than the apartment. They stopped to rest on the stoop of a crumbling apartment building. Tom fished out the sat-phone and tablet.

“I thought you said there was no point trying to call anyone,” Helena said.

“I did. I want to access the traffic cameras,” he said. “Maybe there’s another way. The subway tunnels or—”

“Hey!” The yell came from above them. A moment later there was a gunshot. They ran, not stopping until they came to the edge of Central Park. There was barely enough time for Tom to reach into his bag for a bottle of water before the sound of shuffling, irregular feet had them moving again.

Tom was exhausted. There was no escaping the fact that he was approaching fifty. He’d tried to stay fit, but exercise had taken a backseat during the campaign, and the last month had been filled with junk food and little sleep. Whatever reserves of nervous energy he’d stored up were ebbing away. His eyes were heavy, his breathing the same. Helena didn’t look much better. Shock had carried her through the first hectic hours after they’d left the marina, and now the reality of all the death and horror was sinking in. She’d become silent, and Tom saw no reason to draw her out.

They almost walked straight into the band of looters. Unlike the group organized by the detective, these were far from friendly. Two gunshots had them running randomly again, though dark, ominous streets, but ten minutes later, they saw a sign pointing to the bridge.

A door slammed shut ahead of them. A man pushed a bicycle down the steps of a seven-floor apartment block, and out into the road. Tom raised his hand in what would have been a greeting if it hadn’t been holding the revolver. The man hurried away, half-pushing, half-dragging his bike.

“I guess he thought I was trying to rob him,” Tom said.

“A bike would be handy,” Helena muttered. She pulled out her phone. “Four a.m. Dawn will be here soon.” She tapped at the keypad as she’d done at least twice an hour since they’d left Tom’s apartment behind. “Still no signal.”

“Who are you trying to call?”

“My sister. She’s not close, but—” And again she stopped, as if remembering that Tom was an unknown, and armed, stranger.

He gestured at the sign pointing toward the upper deck of the double-decker bridge. There was no logic to the choice. Once they were on the bridge there would be no escape except forward or back, but after all he’d been through, he wanted the illusory comfort of being able to see the sky.

What, on the traffic cameras, he’d thought was a checkpoint had been a roadblock. A bus had crashed through it, and into the side of an armored personnel carrier. Other vehicles had tried to drive through the gap. It was impossible to know whether any had made it further onto the bridge, but the two cars wedged in the gap had their tires blown out and bullet holes in their engines. As to who had fired those shots, there was no sign. Beyond the APC were two yellow diggers.

“I saw those clearing the bridge,” Tom said as they walked past.

“You did?” Helena jumped up the steps of the nearest. “The keys are still in here.”

“Do you know how to drive it?” Tom asked, looking down the length of the bridge.

“No,” she said, jumping down.

“Pity.”

They crossed the bridge, no longer walking together, but not yet walking apart, though soon they would each go their own way. They were just two more refugees, like the others crossing the bridge with them. There were around thirty, and there was enough light to make out the silhouettes of a few dozen more ahead. The cyclist overtook them. Too many bags hung from the crossbar for him to ride it properly. Instead he had his left foot on the right-hand pedal and was pushing it along as if it were a scooter.