Zocopalypse (6 page)

Chapter Twenty

~Before~

7 Weeks Earlier

My father arrives midway through our inventory of the medicine cabinet. Once we’re finished we’ll have to ration and figure out a schedule including the additional supplies. He hands over a bag of groceries, nothing much, mostly basics, sugar, flour…

“What the heck is this?” I ask holding up a red can.

“Canned milk.”

“Milk comes in a can? It’s all…warm.”

We add it to the table, knocking over half-full bottles of aspirin and allergy tablets. My mother’s eyes light up as much at the sight of the food as my dad.

His face is covered with a thick mask and he wears protective clothing from his fingers to his toes. His eyes narrow when he sees our organizing, but I know he must be pleased. He’s a planner—a trait he has tried desperately to instill in my mother. She all but runs into his arms once she really realizes he’s here and I’m overwhelmed by their connection. Suddenly, more than anything else, shit seems very, very real.

“Alex,” he says. “Come here.”

I give him a hug and look over his shoulder. I see we’ve got company. “Who’s that?” I ask, eyeing the men in a similar uniform. I feel underdressed. Exposed. What are they afraid of? Us?

“Some people from the lab—well, that one you know.” He pointed to one of the men. “I think you call him “LabGuy.””

He looks up and I catch sight of those killer blue eyes. “Oh, right, hey LabGuy, welcome to our lovely home. I’d offer you something to eat or drink but well, we don’t have enough.”

“Alex!” my mother cried.

“Too soon?” I smile weakly.

My father shook his head. “He’ll take your blood and give you the injection. I need to talk to your mother a bit.”

They disappear down the hall and LabGuy comes over with his weird looking lab kit/briefcase. The other guy waits by the door and I ask, “What’s his deal?”

“Security.”

“You and my dad got a security detail to visit the house?”

He nodded and pulled out his materials, arranging them on the table between us.

“Are you like apocalypse famous or something?” I wait for the crinkle by his eyes, the one that tells me he’s laughing at my jokes, but it never arrives. His normally bright, happy blue eyes are rimmed in red. He’s tired.

Per our routine I gave him my hand and let him swab it with alcohol, feeling the coolness before the sting of the puncture. “So tell me the truth, LabGuy, is this the last time I’m going to see you?”

“This is your last injection. That’s why it was important for us to come here today.”

“Am I the only one still getting these shots?”

His eyes tightened. “Classified, Alexandra, you know that.”

“I thought with the end of the world and all maybe you’d cave.”

He wrapped the Band-Aid around my finger and moved to give me the injection in the crook of my arm. “If it makes you feel better, if I could tell anyone, it would be you.”

“Aww, thanks, LabGuy, you know just how to warm a girl’s heart.”

I wince from the pressure of the injection, happy it’s the last one. This time I get a bandage with smiley faces on it. I watch as he packs up the equipment, feeling once again a heaviness in this moment. I lay my hand on his and meet his eyes. Quietly, I ask, “Things are bad, aren’t they.”

His eyes hold mine for a beat. He says nothing but we both know the truth. I watch as he latches the lab kit and stands, leaving me with a throbbing finger and a dozen questions. I ask the only one I think he’ll truly answer. “You never said, will we see each other again?”

LabGuy stares at me and all I see are his sad eyes. For some irrational reason it all comes down to this, like a game of chance or risk. Like he’s a Magic 8 Ball and my future depends on his reply.

“I really, really hope so, Alex.”

And with that he shuts the door.

Chapter Twenty-One

~Now~

Wyatt sleeps for hours. Eight to be exact. I watch him while he sleeps—trying to figure out his story. His looks fall somewhere between ROTC recruit and off-the-grid mountain man. He’s lean, but I see curves of hard muscles on his arms and shoulders. His bag lies at his feet and I can’t help but wonder what he carries in it. Something makes me doubt it’s family photos and his favorite book.

It’s the smell of food that finally rouses him. The kitchen has a gas stove and I’m able to heat a couple of cans of soup. It feels like a luxury.

The couch creaks and whines under his weight and I watch him as he rubs his face trying to acclimate himself. The top side of his hair is matted down, plastered to the side of his face and sleep lines from his sweatshirt zig-zag across his cheek.

“What time is it?”

“Around ten.” P.M. He’s slept half the night. This way I can sleep the other half. “Here, I made some soup.”

He lumbers over and grabs a bowl, gruffly saying, “Thanks.”

We eat in silence, the scrape of our spoons on the shallow bowls the only noise between us. I’ve been thinking the whole time he slept, wondering about this man and where he came from, how we would go forward together. Did it even make sense?

“You’ve got something on your mind,” he said.

“Just some questions.”

“About me?”

“Yeah.”

“Go ahead.”

“You said you checked out once the borders closed down. What do you know about the E-TR virus?” I ask.

“I know people started getting sick. Acting high and crazy. First they thought it was drugs, then a virus, but there are rumors it’s something else. Something that mutated and burns up the brain. Making them delusional and hallucinate. Major aggression. One minute they were beating the crap out of people—the next they were eating them.” He tipped his bowl to his mouth and drank the rest without a spoon. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, “Am I missing anything?”

“My mom was obsessed with the news. It was hard to narrow down on the right information since they talk just to hear themselves talking but one thing that came out is that it’s definitely not drugs. It’s a parasite and causes an infection in the brain.”

“A parasite?” he asked.

“Yeah, and then the person becomes a living, breathing parasite and latches on to the next thing he or she can find.”

“By eating them.”

“Yeah.” I stirred my spoon around the bowl, fishing out a stray noodle. “They aren’t dead—not like zombies in a book or movie. They’re just sort of…rabid is a good word.”

“And once they go rabid?”

“There’s no turning back.” At least without a miracle cure. “Once their eyes get black spidery veins it’s like their brain has melted for good. Those are the ones that can pass on the parasite—the infection, for sure.”

“And before then?” he asks.

“I don’t know. That’s sort of the big question, right? They aren’t dead, but they’re sick and do you want to risk it?”

He shook his head. “And there’s no cure or anything?”

I touch the pouch under my shirt. “Not that anyone knows about. I don’t know how long they can survive after they’re infected. Do they need food? Or will they just decompose on their own? Or God knows, maybe something worse.”

“So the “I don’t knows” are bigger than anything else.”

“Yeah, I guess so. I suppose the end of the world was never meant to be logical.”

Wyatt rubs his chin. It’s covered in several days scruff but not a full beard. He must have shaved at the house he’d been holed up in a couple of days ago. His nails rake against the scratchy whiskers, his eyes deep in thought. I’m about to fall over from exhaustion and I say, “I guess I’ll take the back room, if that’s okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” he replies absently.

I get my pack and carry it through the small living room, making sure to have my gun and hatchet with me. It’s not that I don’t trust Wyatt…I mean, I don’t but life has changed. We sleep with weapons. We scavenge for food. Thinking about it too much makes my head—and heart—hurt.

“Alex,” he says when I’m halfway through the bedroom door. “Thanks for making dinner.”

He gives me a smile—or something close to one. I nod in return, holding my hatchet close to my side, thankful for his smile—for that one, very human gesture. At least we still have that.

Chapter Twenty-Two

~Before~

Seven Weeks Earlier

My dad calls me to his office, the one down the hall from my bedroom. I pass my mom who can’t even pretend things are okay. That’s my first signal this isn’t going to go well. The next sign is the look on my father’s face when I enter the room. He’s pulled down his face mask, probably in direct violation of all policies, and held his arms out to me. I’m not the biggest daddy’s girl. I’m more of a can’t-wait-to-get-out-of-the-house kind of girl, but all of this is imploding. Like, the world is imploding and this may be the only chance I may get.

He hugs me tight and starts talking. And talking. We’re like this for minutes, his mouth close to my ear. He tells me everything he knows. That the infection is spreading, it’s an epidemic, and it will kill nearly everyone. Stay away from people. If they’re bitten, run. If you are around someone and their eyes turn black, run. That’s the final sign. That’s the part that means they’re contagious.

“What do we do?” I whisper.

He continues explaining that the military is fighting—building shelters, keeping people safe—but not to go there.

“Wait here for me,” he whispers.

“What if they make us go?” This has happened.  Some communities have already crumbled. People aren’t take the end of the world well.

“Even then. Don’t go. I’m close to solving this.”

“What happens then? When you solve it? Does everything go back to normal?”

“That depends on the military and the government and how quickly they act. How quickly they choose to act. If there’s more coming,” he rambled sounding increasingly distressed. “It has mutated fast and it’s unpredictable. You’ve got to stay with your mother. Wait for me here.”

“And what if you don’t come back?” There’s a reason I’m valedictorian.

“Give me two weeks. Then head south. Find your sister. It’s imperative.”

He pulls something from his pocket, a small rectangular pouch with a string attached to both ends. He loops it over my head and gestures for me to wear it under my shirt. “That is half of a greater whole. Your sister has the other half.”

“You saw her? How did you get it to her? Is she okay?”

“The last time I spoke to her she was okay. She’ll meet you outside Atlanta.” The address is in the pouch. We’re to go find her and wait.

I nod at my father but narrow my eyes, looking for signs of cracks. Is he making this up? Losing his mind? He’s been under pressure for weeks—if not months. He’s brilliant, a genius even, but right now I’m not sure. He’s talking crazy. He sounds like a conspiracy theorist.

He sounds a lot like me.

There’s nothing I can do but agree to his requests. “Two weeks,” I whisper, wondering who is listening. LabGuy? The security person? Do they care?

He hugs me tight and makes me promise one more time.

“I promise. We’ll get Jane. Don’t worry.”

“The military,” he says pausing at the door, hand clenched on my arm. “It’s complicated. They aren’t the bad guys, but they also aren’t the ones that will cure this. They’ll keep you from getting to Jane and that is the most important task right now.”

After that he rushes out of the house, hugging my mother once more. They get into a van—the only vehicle on the street and drive away.

“Two weeks?” I ask my mother, wondering if he told her the same thing.

She nods, wiping away her tears. “At least we have a deadline,” she says looking more confident than before. She needed a plan, something to focus on other than baking and inventorying supplies. My dad knows her better than anyone else and I guess he figured that out. I watch, stunned as she walks back to the kitchen and her list and making sure we have enough supplies until he returns. Or, at least, I hope he returns.

Chapter Twenty-Three

~Now~

I fall asleep and wake to the sound of scratching. I freeze, listening for the howls and screams but realize it’s just mice burrowing in the walls. Their activity is constant, as if they are as disturbed by me as I am by them. I’m too tired to care.

Rubbing my eyes I try to push aside the overwhelming exhaustion. I go to bed and wake up tired. There’s no change. Just pervasive exhaustion. I felt it before when I was with my mom but now it’s different. Now I carry the burden of her death as well.

What’s one more burden in the grand scheme of things? Like the one hanging like a rock against my chest. There are times I forget the pouch is there, it’s almost become part of my body, like the friendship bracelet Liza and I made for one another in the fourth grade. We wore them until the woven thread frayed and fell apart. It’s the final connection to my father—the link that keeps me pushing forward.

I remove the pouch, lifting the strings over my head. It’s made of vinyl, weatherproof. Black and flat, smaller than a wallet—about the size of a credit card. I never opened it before—it was just another piece of my father’s work I would never understand. Now that my mother was gone I felt some need to see what exactly she died for—why we took the risk.

The case is closed by a Ziploc type clasp. I open it carefully and peek inside and find two different square shaped cards tucked snugly inside. I pull them out and hold one eye level between two fingers. The white card has two separate sealed dots of watery red, suspended as though they’re on a lab slide—blood if I had to guess.  I try to bend the edges or peel it apart but nothing happens. If I had to guess I’d say the cards are made of some type of heavy plastic, the window a thick lamination.

The other card is identical in shape and size but this time instead of fluid, two square microchips float under the plastic. I flip the cards front to back. There’s no information other than what I see.

I sigh and carefully return them to the pouch. I’d expected no more. Secret data from a secretive man. I’m assuming my sister knows what to do with them once I find her.

After wrangling my hair into pigtails and washing my face with rusty well water I walk into the kitchen and find Wyatt cleaning his gun. He works methodically, rubbing each inch with a cloth. He’s got a wrinkled piece of paper on the table.

“What’s that?” I ask while opening the package of a half-smushed protein bar.

“It’s a map of the lake area. I found it in the kitchen drawer.”

Wyatt explains that he wants to leave the house soon to search for fuel. Apparently he likes the truck better than hiking. His plan is to leave me at the cabin—under the guise it would be easier for him to go alone and meet me back here.

“No. Let me get one thing clear right now,” I say, hands on my hips, rage boiling beneath the surface. “I’m not sitting around waiting for you to return. If you want to leave and go it alone, then do it. But if we’re sticking together, then we stick together. All the time.”

“That’s a little extreme don’t you think?” he asks. His face is blank other than the tick at the corner of his jaw. God, he can’t stand not being in control all the time.

“No, I don’t. I have no desire to wait around all day to see if you survived or not. Waiting around to get attacked or spending time looking for you if we separate.”

“Okay then,” he says rubbing the back of his neck. “We never separate.”

“Never separate. That’s rule number one.”

“Got it,” he agrees although I’m not entirely sure he agrees at all. “What’s rule number two?”

“I’ll let you know,” I say with a bright smile.

I follow him down the porch steps, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his gray t-shirt. He’s carrying a rusted gas can that he found out back near the carport. The bottom is covered in dirt and leaves.

“Maybe a boat?” I suggest, thinking of places to get gas. “I think there are more boats up here than cabins. We could hit up the marina.”

“How far is that?”

I unfold the paper map. “Maybe a half a mile that way?” I say pointing around the curve of the lake.

We stick to the tree line, following a rough trail around the lake. Wyatt is on alert—another thing that nags at my spidey-senses. He seems to be either on or off, the off button only activating when he’s asleep. Even then I’m not sure. He has to have some sort of military background.

“You said the Eaters aren’t dead, right?” he asks after a couple of minutes.

“That’s what they say.”

“So how do they exist otherwise? Do they hang out together? Watch TV? I don’t get it?”

“I don’t either, first of all because I’m not hanging out with them and second, because the stupid virus keeps mutating.” I sigh, annoyed with all the questions. “I think they go in sleep mode or just search for food. They’re parasites. They want to feed.” He looks skeptical and I snap. “Do I look like I would have the answers to all this? I’m eighteen for Christ’s sake.”

He turned and gave me the once over. “Eighteen?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

Those shoulders move up and down. “Just thought you seemed younger.”

“How old are you?”

‘Twenty–two.”

Seems about right since he doesn’t look like the boys from my high school but not quite like a man either. I’ve got nothing else to say on the subject, but it doesn’t matter because we’ve reached the marina. A couple dozen boats fill the slips, some definitely nicer than others. “Too bad we can’t sail to Georgia,” I joke, eyeing an extremely nice cabin cruiser.

We wait and watch but there’s no movement other than the slight rocking of the boats from the water. The waves lap against the sides, and we walk out in the open, down the dock between the slips. “We’ll search each one,” Wyatt says. “One searches—the other keeps watch. Look for anything useful but mostly extra fuel.”

We start the process, alternating jobs. I find an unplugged mini-fridge with sodas inside. I stash two in my bag. In another, Wyatt uncovers an emergency kit, complete with knife and flares. “Good find,” I say looking at the flare gun. It could come in handy.

We save the biggest boats for last, both huge boats, one with a slide off the top deck. Wyatt jimmies the lock using the knife we just found.

“Check it out,” he says stepping back on the deck.

I climb down the stairs and find myself in the most luxurious boat I’ve ever seen. It’s way nicer than my aunt’s cabin. Okay, way, way nicer. I make a quick search but don’t find anything useful. There’s a full bar over the sink, and an enormous bed. The seats are leather and I do find several packages of fancy crackers in a cabinet.

I hear a knock on the door and I race up the steps to find Wyatt standing on the deck with his back to me, rifle drawn.

“Dude, come see this place, you’ll never believ—”

I hear the Eaters before I see them, growling loud in unison. Five below and two climbing the ladder to get on board. Wyatt lunges, fighting one off and I reach for my hatchet. “I’ve got this,” he yells swinging his gun like a sword. The Eater’s head cracks down the side and blood spills from its ears and mouth. Wyatt flips the gun around and pulls the trigger, unloading into the now, very dead man.

“They’re still coming,” I say, the echo of the gunshot alerting others to our whereabouts. They file out of the small marina shop on the other side of the dock. I rush forward and attack the one at the top of the ladder, slicing into her throat. Blood gurgles and I recoil, vomit rising up the back of my own throat. She falls backwards taking the other Eater with her. They fall in a jumbled heap on the dock. Two more take their place, spastically climbing the ladder.

“Where are they all coming from?” I ask breathing heavy.

“I don’t know. It’s like they were hiding or something.”

Wyatt goes after the next one coming up the ladder and I glance over the edge. They’re scrambling to climb on one another’s shoulders. Organized. Intentional.

“Should we jump?” I ask looking at the water.

“We’d sink with the packs on.”

He’s right. I swing my hatchet cutting off the hands of an Eater climbing up the railing but there are too many, coming from all sides. Eyes black, drooling mouths, rage building in their chests. They’re so very angry—I can sense the hatred they have for me—for the living.

I swing at one climbing over the rail but he’s too big and my hatchet only swipes at the side of his arm. Another grabs me by the throat, screeching in my ear.

“Alex!” Wyatt yells, rushing toward me. He knocks the Eater off, bashing his head in with the butt of his rifle. “Let’s go!”

“What? No! We’ve got this!” I shout.

“Get in,” he grunts. He left the door open, and when I get close enough he shoves me in. I tumble down the stairs, landing hard on my side. The door shuts with a slam, as the Eater’s bang against it from the outside. I scramble to my feet, convinced they’ll get inside but I hear the bolts sliding across the door with a loud snap.

“What the hell?” I say. “We could have taken them.”

“That should keep them out,” Wyatt says. Sweat drips off his forehead and when he tosses his pack to the floor I see the front of his shirt is soaked too.

“Yeah,” I say. “But how do we get out of here? That’s the only exit.”

He shakes his head and says, “This gives us time to figure out a plan, I couldn’t hold them off.”

That’s when I notice how pale his face is and that the stain on the front of his shirt isn’t water but blood. “You’re hurt.” I stiffen—a familiar dread bubbles to the surface.

Wyatt lifts the hem of his shirt reveling a long cut. Blood drips down his side, soaking into the top of his cargo pants. “It’s not from them. I ran into something on the side of the boat.”

“Lie down,” I order and he complies, crawling on his hands and feet to the leather couch. He sprawls across the cushion with a groan.

“Can I look?”

He nods, jaw tight. I kneel next to him and look at the wound. It’s ugly—red and bleeding. I run to the small kitchen and find a towel hanging near the sink—grabbing a bottle of alcohol at the same time. Soaking the towel, I press it against the cut and watch his nose wrinkle in pain.

“Does it need stitches?” he asks.

“I have no idea.” I admit.

“Can I see that for a second?”

I hand him the bottle, filled halfway to the top with clear liquid. Wyatt lifts his body and takes two long pulls before dropping  on his back.

“Better?”

He laughs. “A little.”

The cries from outside have subsided a little bit. Maybe they’ll lose interest and go away. I don’t know. That’s the problem with this whole new world. Too many new rules and I don’t understand any of them.

I sit on the floor next to Wyatt, keeping pressure on his wound, careful not to lift it and stop the clotting. I guess we’ll know soon enough if he needs stitches, I just hope he doesn’t bleed out before then.

“Hey, Alex,” he says, his voice soft.

“What?”

“Guess you were right about that whole never separate thing.” He graces me with a smile, a real one, and it almost knocks me back. I blush at the compliment, which is dumb, but it makes me wonder is he flirting with me? Do I want him to flirt?

No. I don’t. I just want to get to Atlanta in one piece and this guy will help me get there.

I realize then that there’s something else I’m not prepared for. Dealing with men in the apocalypse.