Zocopalypse (12 page)

“
Please move to the center of the bridge and make room,”
the voice says.

For the most part people do as they are told, huddling closer together their hair and loose clothing whipping around them like they’re in a hurricane. That’s when I notice a few people move slowly or not at all. One person creeps off the opposite direction. Curious I watch him slink away from the others, but just before he steps out of view he lurches forward and falls. I look upward and see a raised gun and a soldier crouched on the edge of the helicopter. The crowd remains oblivious, due to the intense wind and noise.

“They shot someone,” I whisper. My mom moves closer and peers out the door opening. 

“Look,” she says, pointing under the bridge. Two figures wade into the water, swimming away. Again, they stumble, sinking below the surface like rocks.

The workers in hazmat suits push the final evacuees toward the center of the bridge and seemingly out of nowhere soldiers in black uniforms and face masks rush in with barricades.

“What the heck?”

“Maybe they’re blocking the area from Eaters?” Mom says, always the optimist.

“Maybe,” I agree, but the feeling in my stomach doesn’t. Something is wrong. I climb up the door to get a better look. What I see doesn’t make me feel better. The entire group looks like cattle ready for slaughter.

The helicopter loops around depositing snipers on rooftops, before vanishing as quickly as it arrived. The beating propeller disappearing into the sunrise. Two school buses pull up to the bridge and the tension in my stomach fades. Maybe this is on the up and up. The feeling subsides completely as the unmistakable cries of Eaters break the quiet morning and the snipers move—picking them off like a carnival game. We watch for an hour as each person is scanned, processed, and moved into two lines. One group goes on one bus, the others move to the other. From here I can see that the processing includes an injection.

“What do you think that is?” I ask.

“Maybe they’ve figured out an antidote? A vaccination?” We both know it’s possible. That men and women like my father have figured this out.

I spot a flash of red. “There’s Paul, he made it.” He goes through the intake and then dips in between the buses. From here it’s impossible to tell which one he boarded.

By the time the process is over the sun is creeping toward the sky. “Should we have gone?” Mom asks.

“No.” I shake my head but the low rumble of the bus is comforting. They probably have air conditioning. Food. Water.

I’m beyond ready for this to be over when the first bus pulls away from the bridge. The cab of the truck has started to bake as the heat of the day warms the roof. The cracked door only allows so much air and without the helicopter there isn’t much breeze. We can’t leave. And the longer we stay in the hot cab water becomes ever more precariously close to drying out. We wait, trapped, for the second bus to roll out but there’s some sort of delay.

“Maybe we should consider another route out of town,” Mom says, fanning herself with a pizza flyer from the floor of the truck.

“It’s too far,” I say. We’d analyzed the map. This was the fastest way out of town and in the right direction. “Once these guys leave it should be okay. They’ve even taken out most of the Eaters in the area. It should be pretty safe.”

“Then we wait,” she says.

The beat of helicopter blades slices through the air. Maybe they’re back to pick up the snipers. Whatever the reason I’m just thankful for the current of air pushing through the door.

“Oh, thank God,” I say. Sure enough they drop ropes over each building and the gunmen climb up and enter the helicopter.

The aircraft makes a sudden turn, swooping back over the bridge. I notice a convoy of military vehicles pass, the bright white hazmat suits visible through the open windows. I glance back at the bus, waiting for it to follow but it doesn’t. Shadows move inside the darkened windows, the people obviously getting restless.

Feeling similarly impatient, I push the door open to allow in more air. Once the sun hits the peak of the sky, Mom and I will have to move. It’s too hot in here. 

Over the sound of the returning helicopter, I turn to her and say, “You about ready—”

Kaboom! An explosion rocks the 18-wheeler, the pavement and even my teeth. The ground shifts beneath us, while dirt and debris rain down over the windshield and I grab the door, closing it tight.

Through the tiny patch at the bottom of the windshield I can see the ball of fire. “It’s the bus,” I say. “They hit the bus.”

“They?”

“They had to of, don’t you think?” Another explosion follows and I reach for my mother’s hand. We sit in silence waiting for the next wave.

“Why? What are they doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did they kill them all?”

“I don’t know.”

“Paul—” She starts, fighting back a sob. I cut her a look. I can’t. It’s too much.

“He was on the first bus. He’s okay.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, ready to rationalize. For once I’m in agreement.

“Of course. That second bus—they must have been infected. They must have been able to tell, right? That’s why they do the blood tests.”

She nods, wiping her eyes. “Yes. That has to be it.”

“Paul wasn’t infected.”

“No,” she agrees. “He wasn’t. We would know.”

I peer out the window, but there’s nothing to see but a cloud of thick, black smoke.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

~Now~

Cole spots them first, pointing in the direction of the main road. With a hand on my pack I run over to the others, each in various states of packing. I hear it, the low rumble of a large truck. I’m not surprised to find I’m holding my breath as the camouflaged canopy of the vehicle comes barreling in our direction.

Our group paralysis only lasts a second and we grab what we can. Cole stomps on the fire, kicking dirt over the still warm sticks. Wyatt shoves the tent under the truck, while Chloe and I take the packs filled with the most food. They’ll know we were here. We just have to hide out long enough for them to lose interest.

Cole leads us into the forest behind the campground, just as the huge tires churn over the gravel. What led them here? Right to us?

“Maybe they saw our fire,” Chloe says, reading my mind. She bends over to her knees trying to catch her breath.

The woods make me nervous. I can’t keep my bearings. Ever since we left the city I’ve tried to avoid them unless I can keep my eye on something solid, like a creek or a road.

“How far back should we go?” I ask, not wanting to go any further at all. They still sound too close and a hand wraps around mine dragging me deeper into the forest. We come to a swift stop behind an outcropping of shrubs and Cole releases me. Chloe and Wyatt are visible several dozen feet away. None of us move.

Doors slam, echoing off the trees. Low voices carry to where we are and I clamp my mouth shut. Glancing to my left I see Wyatt using a tree for cover. His gun waits by his side. My fingers hover over the shaft of my hatchet. Had it come to this? Would we kill people? Real live people?

No
, I assure myself. It hasn’t come to that yet. Not yet.

That realization does not take away the absolute fact I do not want to be discovered. After the bus, after Paul, I know going with these guys is a mistake. My father had been right. Do not go with the military.

The soldiers make a lot of noise, banging on the metal campers, feet stomping through the metal and fiberglass shells. Nothing in their movements implies they can see us. Birds chirp overhead and panic rises in my chest. Too much. It’s all too much.

“You’ve got this,” Cole says so quietly I think I may have made it up. I strain to hear his calm assurance but instead the soldier’s voices carry and from my frozen spot I hear a snatch of conversation.

“Gone?”

“Area appears abandoned.”

“What about the vehicle?”

“Possibly infected?”

I lean to the side and make out the shape of a male soldier. Older—my father’s age, maybe, but with a short, trim mustache. He circles the fire pit and lowers his hand over it. It’s not burning, but under the sand, the wood still smolders. He looks up and around. I swear right at me. I feel a tight clench at the base of my back and cease to breathe.

I risk a glance to the side and Wyatt’s jaw is tense and sharp, eyes narrow and focused. He’ll shoot first, I have no doubt. There’s a beat of silence, like we’re in a game of possum, but his eyes jump over me, skirt past…he fails to make contact. Of course he does. All he sees is green.

He stands and shouts, “Pack it up!” arm circling over his head.

The soldiers reverse their process moving quickly to get back in the vehicle, crushing rocks under the massive wheels and the undeniable sound of metal crashing into metal as it slams into the back of our truck on the way out of the campground.

I’m not sure how long we wait, but my exhale is matched by one directly behind me. The tightening at the small of my back releases, and I turn, my heart still pounding hard in my chest. Cole looks past me, blue eyes focused on the campground, like he isn’t sure they’re really gone. 

“Uh,” I say breaking the silence. Although looser, his hand is still clutching the back of my shirt. I lift an eyebrow. He releases fast.

“God, uh, sorry. I was so scared to move.”

“Same.”

Wyatt is the first one out of the woods a moment later, moving toward the campground. Chloe edges closer. No one speaks until we’re out of the forest, something that takes longer than necessary.

“What do you think that was about?” Chloe asks. The crack in her voice betrays her nerves.

“Routine stop,” Wyatt says pushing past us to investigate the truck. The side panel was bashed in and he felt along the wheel well. “We were definitely just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“You think?” Cole asks. It’s clear he’s not convinced. I’m not either.

“Since they may be watching the road, we can’t leave yet,” he says going through his bag. “I’m going to try my hand at finding some dinner—may as well hunt while we have the time. We can leave at dark. ”

“I’ll go with,” Chloe says with her hand on her crossbow. 

Wyatt’s eyes flick in my direction. “You okay with that?”

I nod, having no right to fight this. My nerves are shot but sitting around won’t help anything. Brushing the sweaty hair out of my eyes I say, “Be back before dark.”

They leave quickly and I retrieve the tent from beneath the truck.

“Help me fold this?” I sayto Cole. He faces me, his forehead tense.

“What? You worried about them? Wyatt has a good sense of direction.”

He shakes his head and starts to pace. “Look, Alex…I need to tell you something.”

“What? What’s going on?”

“They’ll be back in a minute—any second. You’ve got to hide that information from your dad.”

I blink, forcing my voice to remain level. “The what?”

“The data your father gave you—hide it. I won’t look to see where you put it. Just make sure they don’t get it.”

“You know they’re coming back?” I scramble for my pack. “We need to run!”

“We’ve both got trackers. They’ll find us.”

“Trackers?” Suddenly the zombie apocalypse shifts in an entirely different direction. That or Cole is batshit crazy. “You’re not making sense.”

“I inserted it here—the first week of the injections,” he says taking my arm and brushing a finger over the spot of my weekly injections. “You know, the ones you got pissed about and went to talk to your dad about.” I look at Cole, really look at him. Look at his eyes and hair and those two dark eyebrows. With both hands, I take the collar of his shirt and lift it, covering his lower face. Obscuring the beard, his cracked dry lips, his nose.

“Oh, my God,” I whisper.

LabGuy.

“Hide it, Alexandra. Now.”

“How…what? Are you fucking kidding me?” I shout. My mind is reeling. The worry lines are still on his face but I’m trying to work this out. “Why didn’t you—”

“I’m sorry—I promised your father…I’ll explain it all later but you’ve got to hide that pouch.”

“Fine,” I spat. “Turn around.”

The minute he turns I race around in a circle, my mind buzzing with information. LabGuy is Cole. Cole is LabGuy. How did I not know? And why? Can’t be a coincidence. Did my father send him? I climb the rickety steps of a camper and glance around at the mildewed cabinets and fabric. No. No. Not here.

I exit the trailer and spot the truck. The driver’s side door opens with a telltale creak. On my hands and knees I run a hand under the seat and find enough space for the pouch. Pulling it over my sweaty neck, I wind the cord around it three times and shove it in the tiny space.

“Alex,” I hear him call, I back out of the car. A small ting hits the window.

Cole is in the same spot but facing me, hand resting on his neck. A tuft of color sticks between his fingers. Narrowing my eyes I see it’s a syringe. My hand wraps around my hatchet. There’s another tuft of feathers on the ground by my feet.

What is that?
I bend over to pick it up.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice strained. I glance up.

Hatchet out, crouched position. “Cole?”

“Run,” he says, but I don’t. I can’t. He’s a piece of my past. The link to my father. Even though I’m angry and confused I’m not leaving him until I find out the truth.

Bodies rush toward him—the soldiers from before, covered head to toe in camouflage. Sleek black guns flash as he slumps forward. I lift my hatchet and take a jab at the one closest to me, cutting him on the shoulder. He goes for my wrists. Another levels the barrel of a rifle at my face. I step on the foot of the one holding me back, before kicking at the one with the gun. He grunts, dodging out of the way but a second weapon discharges, close to my ear and directly into my neck. I grab at the syringe but the hazy cloud cloaks my mind.

“What do you want?” I mumble, the words feeling like marbles in my mouth.

The man with the mustache comes into view, tranq gun in his hands. “We’ve been searching for you, Ms. Ramsey.”

“What?” My head floats.

“You’ve managed to avoid us for weeks now. Impressive for a girl your age.” He glances at Cole, lying in a heap on the ground. “Although it seems like you’ve had a little help.”

“What do you want from me?” I try to say but even I know the words don’t come out. The ground shifts beneath me and I slip into black.