Last Man Standing (Book 1): Hunger (7 page)

We drive slowly south on Flatbush, Arnold feathering the gas just enough to keep us rolling without building up the revs. Even driving carefully the engine sounds worryingly loud in the otherwise silent streets.

"Where are all the people?" I ask, peering down the empty roads at each intersection. "How come we're not seeing many bodies? I've only seen a couple in the last five blocks."

Kate shrugs. "Saturday morning. I guess most of them were still in bed when it started. I know the coffee shop was pretty dead. And it was raining pretty bad this morning. Maybe they waited for the crowd to pass then headed for the park?"

"Maybe," I agree. "Maybe a lot of them got out of town before it all went bad. What time did it come on the news?"

Kate shrugs. "I don't know. We don't have a TV in the shop. First I heard of it was a couple of customers talking about a riot going on in Manhattan, then it all went to shit pretty quickly."

Arnold slows the car to maneuver around a mail van blocking our side of the road, and I turn to the townhouses at the sidewalk. "Wait a minute," I mumble. "You seeing this, guys?"

I point out the window to the houses. Almost every second door is wide open, and as we slowly coast by I can see the carnage within. Behind each door a long hallway stretches towards the back of the house, and in almost every one bodies lie, twisted and broken, like chocolates revealed from behind the windows of a macabre advent calendar.

"Jesus, they were all caught at home," mutters Kate, crossing herself as she spots the beaten body of a small boy in SpongeBob pajamas He's lying halfway across the threshold, as if he was trying to escape when he died. He'd look like he was sleeping if it wasn't for the fact that his left leg is broken and twisted forward at the knee, like an ostrich.

I shiver despite the warmth of the car. I can imagine it all too well. Waking up to the sound of a crowd running outside. Rushing down to the front door to check out the commotion, only discovering what was going on when it was too late. When they were already through the door. Already beating, tearing and biting. Who knows how many died in their nightgowns? How many were killed before they even awoke?

Thank fuck I live on a dead end street.

This must be why I didn't see anything on the way to the coffee shop. Our place is in an old, sketchy industrial neighborhood that used to be home to a few small factories and warehouses. It's in the process of being gentrified, but right now the buildings are mostly boarded up and gutted. If the infected are attracted to sound, or light, or... I don't know, the smell of humans there wasn't much to draw them to my little cul-de-sac. They must have flowed right by as I slept, drawn by the sound of the fireworks from the boats on the river.

"Heads up, kids." Arnold tears me back from my imagination. "We got action here." He points ahead, a little further down the arrow straight Flatbush to the intersection with 7th Avenue. A truck trailer has been pulled most of the way across the road, its rear pushed up against the front window of a Duane Reade, leaving a gap just large enough for a car to pass between the truck and the stores on the other side of the street. On top of the trailer a couple of soldiers - or, at least, guys who look like soldiers to my untrained eye - stand and watch us. One peers through a set of binoculars for a long moment then turns and speaks to his partner, who lifts a hand and waves us closer.

Arnold pulls the car forward at a little more than walking pace until we're just a few car lengths from the trailer, and one of the soldiers holds up a hand then waves it in a circle.
Roll down your window
.

"Do you have any injured?" he calls out.

Arnold pokes his head out the window and calls back. "What was that? Speak up, son."

The soldier leans forward and yells. "Any injured? Anyone bitten? No injured allowed."

Arnold turns to Kate with a questioning look. She looks at me for approval, then gives him a nod. "It's OK, we won't tell." Fuck that. I'm sure they're hurting for medical supplies in there, but we're not about to leave Arnold to fend for himself out here for the sake of a little bite. 

"Uh uh," he calls back. "Nobody here but us chickens. You got survivors in the park? I'm looking for my wife."

The soldier doesn't answer. He lifts a radio and speaks into it for a moment before turning back to us. "Turn right on 7th," he yells, his voice echoing across the street. "Then continue forward to 9th Street and add your car to the roadblock."

At that he waves us through with his gun. Arnold doesn't wait for anything else. He shifts the car into gear and drives quickly through the gap, his face glistening with sweat and his breathing heavy.

"Thank you," he says in a quiet, shaky voice. "I know you should have turned me in." He shifts in his seat and winces at the pain. The cream leather beneath him squeaks as he moves, and I see it's stained red. "Don't worry, Marcy'll know to have brought a first aid kit. No need to waste supplies patching up an old timer like me."

We slowly drive down 7th Avenue, and for the first time since the moment I flicked on the TV this morning I almost feel safe. At each intersection the street is blocked by cars and trucks, some of them piled on top of one another. They must have some kind of heavy plant nearby to shift the vehicles, I figure, or they've recruited the Hulk to help them build their roadblocks.

This continues all the way down to 9th Street, where a yellow JCB with an enormous scoop slowly levers an old cab up onto its hood until it finally falls, upside down, on top of a beautiful silver Porsche 911 ragtop. I can't help but wince as I watch the windshield cave in under the weight of the cab. It feels like such a waste. The street is thronged with old beaters. Couldn't they have spared the nice cars?

A young soldier flags us down, and Kate rolls down her window.

"OK, guys, you can just pull it into that gap right there." He points to a break in the cars by the Porsche. "Wedge it as best you can, understand?"

Arnold leans over Kate and berates the soldier. "Son, I've been driving this car fifteen years. She's like a
child
to me. Why don't you just use one of these other cars and leave her be?"

The soldier shoulders his rifle and leans in the window. He looks like a twelve year old pre-shaver, but he does his best to stick out his chin and act like a tough guy. "Because,
sir
, we don't have the keys to these cars. It takes ten minutes for this fucking earthmover to push each one onto the pile, and I need to get this street secured by sundown. Now shut up and wedge the damned car."

Arnold turns away from the soldier and puts the car in gear. "Sorry, Bessie," he sighs, pulling it slowly into the gap. "I guess this is where we part ways." He coasts it gently up to the Porsche and stops a couple of feet from the front bumper. "You were a good girl." He pats the wheel and cuts off the engine with a sigh.

The young soldier turns back from his work directing the JCB and calls out. "Pull it in closer, old timer. I want it wedged right up against that Porsche. No gaps."

Arnold reluctantly restarts the engine, shifts into gear and slowly, gently pulls the car a few more inches closer before putting it back into park. There's still a solid six inches of space between the vehicles.

"Jesus!" yells the kid. "We're making a roadblock here. Stop being so fucking precious about it. Pull. It.
Closer
."

Arnold shuts off the engine and calls out. "You know what, fuck you, kid. This is my damned car."

"Easy now, Arnold," I warn, resting my hand on his shoulder. "We don't want any trouble, OK? We have bigger things to worry about than a car."

My words have no effect. Arnold seems to have slipped into that recalcitrant state shared by crotchety old people and little kids who flat out refuse to eat their vegetables. I'm sure he knows deep down that he's acting irrationally. He knows it's crazy to try to protect a car when the world is collapsing around him, but he's been pushed too far by an uppity kid holding a gun, and now he won't move another inch. He crosses his arms and stares down the soldier.

"Oh, for the love of God," the kid sighs. He pulls his rifle down from his shoulder and holds it menacingly, pointed at the asphalt in front of the car. "I'll do it myself. Get out of the car, sir." Arnold stares straight ahead and tightens his arms. "Get out of the car
now
."

With the final word he lifts the muzzle of the gun and points it directly through the window at Arnold. Kate flinches in the front passenger seat and lets out a panicked cry. She grabs Arnold by the arm and shakes him. "Do what he says, for God's sake! Arnold, this is crazy!"

Kate's voice seems to get through to the old guy more effectively than the gun pointed at his head. He looks at her and sighs, slowly uncrossing his arms, and mumbles. "It's just..." I can't see his eyes from the back seat, but I can hear tears in his quivering voice. "Bessie belonged to my son." He places both hands on the wheel and holds it tight, like he's holding the hands that used to rest there. "He didn't leave much when he went to Iraq, but I promised him I'd take care of her until..." his breath catches in his throat, "until he came home to us. And I always did. Washed her every Sunday, rain or shine. Kept her running smooth." He looks up at Kate with tears in his eyes. "It's what James would have wanted, you know?"

Shit
.

The young soldier moves closer, the stock of his gun pressed up against his shoulder. He taps the barrel against the window. "Get out
now
," he orders. I can see the barrel shaking a little. This kid has probably never fired a shot in anger. There's fear in his voice. Panic. His finger twitches over the trigger. He's liable to do something stupid.

I slowly, carefully push open the back door, making sure not to startle the kid, but he still wheels around on me, the gun pointed right at my face. "
Woah, woah, unarmed!
Steady now, there's no problem. I'm stepping out of the car, OK? Please don't fire." I hold my hands palms forward above the door and slowly climb out, taking care not to make any sudden movements. When I'm finally on my feet I gently push the door closed and take two long steps back towards the trunk of the car, just to make sure the kid doesn't think I'll make a lunge for him.

"Please, sir, can you just give him a minute to say goodbye?" I plead. I realize how stupid this sounds, but I guess there's no other option. "Look, this was his son's car, and the kid died in the Gulf. He's not trying to be an asshole, it's just his last connection with his kid. You're a soldier, you must understand what it's like for the parents. Can you give him a break? Please?"

The kid's eyes dart from me to Arnold and back again. His finger is still on the trigger and the barrel is still shaking like crazy. I'm terrified that the the slightest breeze might make him twitch. I've never had a gun pointed in my face before. My adrenaline is spiking, and I can feel my heart thump in my chest. It takes all my strength to avoid ducking behind the car, but I know the slightest move might set him off.

Time passes. Who knows how long? Every second feels like an hour with that barrel pointing at my nose, but eventually I see the kid's trigger finger relax a little. The hyper, agitated look fades from his eyes, and he slowly lowers the gun. I can
feel
it running down my body as the barrel moves, tracing a line from my head to my feet. I don't dare take a breath until it's finally pointed at the ground.

"OK," the kid sighs, nodding. "I'll give him one minute."

I duck my head down and look into the car. Kate's comforting Arnold. His shoulders are shaking, and his head is pressed against the steering wheel.

"Thank you," I sigh, taking a long, shuddering breath. "I really appreciate it. I'm Tom." I hold out my hand, but pull it back when I see the kid take a tighter grip on his gun. "Umm... Can I offer you a cigarette?" I point to my pocket, and with slow, exaggerated movements reach in and pull out the pack.

"Karl," the soldier replies, still a little nervous. "I don't smoke."

"OK, well I do, and if I don't have one now I might have a coronary. You sure know how to make a guy shit himself." I let out a little chuckle, and start to relax when I see a shy, embarrassed smile appear on the kid's face.