Alaskan Undead Apocalypse (Book 3): Mitigation Book 3) (3 page)

Dr. Caldwell was sitting in the desolate parking lot of a ruined convenience store along an abandoned stretch of the Seward Highway which led south out of Anchorage, Alaska. The destruction, so complete, suggested that perhaps a tornado had ravaged the little highway pit stop. A large semi-trailer was on its side behind the devastated station building and its contents, like its entrails, were spilled across the pavement. There were cars too, most with doors open and some scorched and melted from long extinguished flames. There didn’t seem to be anything left. His world had unraveled, leaving in its wake only hopelessness and fear... and a very big mess.

He looked down at the swollen tissue on his hand. The skin around the still seeping wound was festering with infection, changing color and texture with each passing minute. His arm too, with its hardening and darkening veins, was starting to show signs of the mysterious malady’s spread. What was it that had taken so many lives and ended the civilization to which they had all grown so accustomed?

How many weeks had it been since that little boy was brought into the Providence Hospital Emergency Room by his terrified parents? His name was Martin and he had a similar bite on his hand, though the child’s wound was seemingly far less threatening; not much more than a scratch really.

His parents told the hospital staff that he’d been bitten by something in the woods. They insisted that it was some kind of a rabid animal, but the children who had been with little Martin reported that it had been something else. Martin’s sister, Jules, said that it was a caveman who’d bitten the boy. No one listened. They were all too busy fighting a losing battle to the mysterious infection.

Try as they might, the doctors and nurses were helpless in fighting the aggressive illness. After a brief battle, the boy was declared dead. If that had been all, then the boy’s tragic death would have been filed with eminent epidemiologists and studied. That wasn’t all though.

Death wasn’t the end for little Martin. He arose from his death slumber as a maniacal predator, killing and maiming all those around him. And those who fell due to his attacks rose as well, adding to the bedlam. The uncontrolled chaos spread throughout Providence and then across Anchorage. With each new victim, there arose a new monster. In a matter of hours, the chaos had reached every corner of Anchorage and rendered the city a wasteland.

Safe refuge was sought by those fortunate few who had not fallen victim to the undead plague in its opening stages. While legions of the walking dead roamed the otherwise deserted city streets, the terrified and confused survivors had hidden, hoped, and waited.

Dr. Caldwell had been amongst a group of souls brought together out of necessity. Partially by design and partially out of luck, they had managed to stay one step ahead of the undead curse.

By default as much as anything else, a younger man named Neil had assumed the mantle of leadership for their group. And for that, Dr. Caldwell was both thankful and perhaps a little resentful. Dr. Caldwell was older and more experienced than Neil, but the circumstances under which they had become a clan of sorts were well outside his realm of expertise.

Dr. Caldwell was, as his title suggested, a man of science...of hard practicality rooted in scientific principles. When he witnessed the dead reanimating in a homicidal rage and start to perform atrocities that defied imagination, the foundations on which he had based his many years were shaken to the core. The world was no longer the predictable, consistent place that it had once been. And while everyone else, Dr. Caldwell included, had nothing but doubts and fears, Neil seemed to have answers and ideas.

The rest of their group were as different from one another as the day was long. There was Jerry, who had been a nurse’s aide at Providence, and the two children, Jules and Danny, whom he had rescued and had been protecting ever since.

Jules and Danny were placed in Jerry’s care at Providence Hospital at the outset of the calamity. It had been Jules’ brother and Danny’s best friend Martin with whom the undead holocaust had originated. Their Alaskan family vacation became a living nightmare without end.

The three women in the group were Emma, Meghan, and Claire. Emma had been an administrative employee at Providence, and had been with Dr. Caldwell since their terrifying flight from the hospital. Over the months, Dr. Caldwell and Emma developed a relationship that had always flirted with romance but never went so far as to be romantic. Dr. Caldwell, out of a sense of fidelity to his likely dead wife, never allowed any sort of physical intimacy to arise between them, a fact he presently regretted.

Meghan was with Neil, Jerry, and a small group of survivors hiding out in a bunkered suburban home in South Anchorage. She was as strong as she was beautiful. She was pragmatic and thoughtful, typically listening more than speaking. She was young but she didn’t allow that to handicap her in any way. She was also perpetually at Neil’s side both physically and during discussions, supporting his ideas and strategies to keep them all safe.

Claire was younger still and acted like it. She had been a college student without any real direction and not much had changed. She was far from intellectually challenged but her impetuous youth oftentimes led her to speak without having heard all of a story. More and more, she and Jerry had become an inseparable pair, their mutual “twitterpation” encouraging smiles on everyone around them.

These souls and a few others who had come and gone became his “family of the apocalypse”. He loved them all. And, at present, he wished that he had their company again. In the short while since they’d left him, he was already missing them as if he hadn’t seen them in a lifetime.

Through the disorientation of his delirium, Dr. Caldwell detected a distinct sound standing out from all else around. At first, he doubted his own senses. He could have sworn that it was the sound of an automobile’s engine. It resembled the lower choke of a small diesel engine...a European car perhaps.

Gradually, the decidedly mechanical hum’s volume grew enough for him to suspect that it was indeed a car approaching him. Was it a hallucination? Could this be the buzzing that the younger members of the party were able to hear whenever the undead were near?

If it was the horde of zombies, or zekes as they decided to call them, he only hoped that he would be dead before they reached him. Dying was bad enough; he didn’t need to be dismembered and devoured in the process.

And then he wondered if he would be on the menu at all. Would his infected flesh not attract the undeads’ attention? It likely wouldn’t matter anyway. He’d probably succumb before then. An immense sadness followed his last thought.

He thought of his wife, Val, who had died just as alone as he was destined to do. When his thoughts turned to his children, Laura and Jacob, both hopefully safe in the “lower forty-eight” states, he felt regret and concern. He couldn’t begin to guess what fates awaited them and everyone else...everywhere. What would become of all of them and the world in which they lived? Would they be able to outlast this tragedy?

And finally he thought about another woman with whom he’d fallen in love. Emma’s face was burned indelibly into his memory. He was concerned for her future as well. He wanted her and everyone else in their family of survivors to continue to see tomorrows for as long as they were able. He dreaded the possibility that, assuming he did reanimate as a monster, he would hunt them.

He had neither the strength nor the coordination to run, so whatever was coming would catch him. There was no denying that. He looked around quickly, trying to find anywhere that he might hide. The simple motion of looking about was enough to invite more dizziness and nausea.

He closed his eyes and found himself doing something that hadn’t crossed his mind in years. He prayed. He solicited the Lord Almighty’s help in his time of need. He didn’t pray for salvation or for deliverance. No, he prayed for a quick death. He prayed that he would be spared the violent end that so many others had endured, including his wife. He prayed that perhaps he would draw his final breath before the cold, gray claws of the undead could lay themselves upon his flesh.

And when he opened his eyes, he was surprised to see a small car heading south down the Seward Highway. He squinted his eyes against the fading light of the day, inviting his headache to further tighten its hold on his senses.

Despite the distance and the discomfort, Dr. Caldwell was able to see that it was a small black sedan. The little car moved along at a good pace, ignoring the posted warning signs declaring that section of highway had been designated a safety corridor. Patrolling State Troopers would likely have taken exception to the utter disregard for the signs or the laws. If, of course, there were still State Troopers around to enforce such rules.

He thought for a moment that he recognized the little black car. Perhaps it was just an illusion created by the unfortunate cooperation between the infection killing him and the emerging evening light.

As it neared him, however, he was convinced that he did know that car. It looked like a black Volkswagen Passat. And if it was that car, he already knew who was at the wheel.

For the first time since his friends had left him, he regretted not having a gun. Several weeks before, when the calamity that had laid low Anchorage and its population was still in its early stages, they had run across another survivor.

Her name was Maggie. On the surface, she appeared to be an eccentric but relatively harmless older woman. With a trunk full of Bibles and not a single weapon with which to defend herself, she seemed the least threatening person in the city. That assumption had cost them dearly.

Although they were never able to determine for certain, they all suspected that she was a sociopath bent on helping people toward holy salvation by turning them into hot meals for the undead.

She recited the Lord’s words from the Bible, but tended to share only those words about vengeance and redemption through death. They should have been more on their guard with her, but who would have guessed that someone with a car full of Bibles could be so...sick?

Nevertheless, sick she definitely was. She hadn’t actually led them to their deaths at the hands of the walking dead, but she had tried. When they ran across Maggie and her little black car, they had the advantage of traveling in the comfort and relative safety of a minivan. They could keep on the go and haul around with them more supplies than they would have been able to carry otherwise. It was their deluxe life raft in the flood and she took all of that away from them with a single, malicious stroke.

Maggie had sabotaged the van’s engine in the middle of the night and then fled, but not before she took most of their stores of food. She also propped open the doors of their temporary sanctuary and all but invited in any zombies who might have happened by them. She rang the proverbial dinner bell and then left. Dr. Caldwell suspected that she was likely just searching the area for some of the abominations to lead back to them, but he couldn’t be certain. Luckily, it didn’t come to that.

As a result of her rendering their transportation useless, she forced them back onto their feet, making their search for safety both longer and more dangerous. Several people were lost due to those circumstances, Dr. Caldwell himself merely being the most recent.

Despite the fog of his infection, he struggled to think of any options. Perhaps he could throw something in the road or force her to crash somehow. Looking around though, he couldn’t find anything that he would be able to lift and throw that could possibly bring such a wish to fruition.

His focus on the task helped him to find a little clarity in his thoughts and a small reserve of strength in his limbs. She was getting closer and still nothing presented itself to him. Desperate, he did the only thing he could.

Behind the wheel of the black Passat, Maggie was humming a hymn to herself and enjoying the relatively clear weather. The rain had stopped and the road was open. It had been a good several days and the Lord was smiling on her.

After leaving those blaspheming fools stranded and hopeless with their damaged minivan, she’d wandered Anchorage for more than a week without seeing any other souls to save. She was beginning to think that her work was done. Maybe all of God’s children had been delivered to His Kingdom.

She wasn’t quite sure what her next step should be. Was she to give herself over to the Lord’s instrument of salvation so that she too could be delivered?

And then in East Anchorage, she found a thriving community of survivors who had found refuge in a Costco. The giant store’s walls were strong with very few windows and its shelves and storeroom were filled to overflowing with food stuffs and other necessities. The conditions couldn’t be more ideal for a long wait.

Many of those survivors had started that first morning of the catastrophe at the Bear Valley Fire Station in South Anchorage. With no hope of help arriving any time soon, those willing had loaded onto one of the large fire engines and tried to make their escape. Before too long, it became apparent that their diesel-powered ark would not be able to get them through the snarling tangles of traffic on Anchorage’s roads. They decided instead to find another refuge and settled on the East Anchorage Costco by virtue of the fact that they were close to it and it promised both supplies and safety; maybe enough of both to help them subsist until help did finally arrive.