All Our Tomorrows (24 page)

A bird flutters overhead, resting high on a light pole, and Zee is distracted. His head droops and he staggers to one side. As his head bobs, I see Doyle standing right behind him with his gun raised, just inches from the zombie’s head.

“We’re good,” Elizabeth says, and Doyle lowers his gun.

Looking at the reflection in Doyle’s helmet, I see a fisheye view of my own suit and the distorted, seemingly gold plated world around us.

Doyle doesn’t say anything. I suspect he’s not impressed with babysitting duties. To be fair, he probably could have done this without me and in half the time.

“Stay close,” Elizabeth says, and I stagger off after Doyle, struggling under the weight of my pack.

“It’s really hot in here,” I say, feeling a trickle of sweat running down the side of my cheek.

“Just keep moving,” Elizabeth says, although I can hear some muffled talking in the background. Ajeet says something but I can’t make out the meaning.

As I approach the car, Doyle detaches a thick, black cable, resting it on a hook mounted on the cinderblock wall.

“Hop in the passenger’s side,” Elizabeth says. “Use the rear door.”

There are no doors, so her comment confuses me for a second.

The Tesla is a sports car, but it looks like it’s been in a demolition derby. The hood is covered in dents, while the doors have been removed. Whether that’s deliberate or not, I don’t know. The inside of the car has been gutted. There are no seats, only a fraction of the original plastic trim is in place. Rough scraps of carpet have been laid on the floor to protect our suits from the bare metal. The steering wheel looks oversized, as though it’s come from a truck or a bus.

Doyle climbs in the back of the Tesla, working his way forward past the side beam so he can get in front of the steering wheel. His suit is so bulky and his helmet is so cumbersome and clumsy that this the only way to get in. Even with the front door missing, the opening isn’t big enough to get in and out easily.

I follow his lead, getting in the back of the car. It’s surreal to watch an astronaut adjusting a rearview mirror with gloves that should be in the dark, cold void of space, but I see what he’s doing. He’s adjusting the mirror so he can see me without turning his head. It’s eerie seeing only a white helmet and a reflective gold visor. I can see why it fools Zee. No eyes. No nose or mouth. No hair. The lack of facial features is unsettling, making it impossible to read any emotion into Doyle’s movements. That Doyle doesn’t say anything to me reinforces that inhuman notion.

I wonder if Zee sees the suits the same way. He probably sees us like trees swaying in the breeze.

The peripheral vision in these suits isn’t as bad as I expected, but I find I have to turn from my waist if I want to look around. If I simply turn my head, I end up looking at the lining inside the helmet. Doyle uses the rear view mirror to compensate for that.

It feels good to rest my backpack against the frame of the car and take the load off my legs. And I breathe easy for the first time. I can feel my heart rate dropping.

Doyle is sullenly quiet. I’m about to ask him to say something when Elizabeth says, “We’re having problems with the comms unit in Doyle’s suit. Should have the link back up in a few minutes. For now, make sure you’re anchored firmly in the Tesla.”

I hold onto the edge of the open frame with my gloved hands. The car accelerates smoothly and with barely a whisper of sound. It’s no wonder the scientists opted for a car like this over a big, bulky SUV.

“Top speed is twenty miles per hour. Battery life is about six hours. It’s a far cry from what she used to be able to do, but it beats walking.”

“I bet,” I say as we pull slowly out of the parking lot.

It’s relaxing to watch the various office buildings, the now defunct street lights, and empty houses glide idly by. Weeds grow out of the cracks in the sidewalk. Occasionally, Doyle guides the Tesla around the overturned, burned out frame of a car used as a barricade in the early days.

I’ve never stopped to notice how green the apocalypse has become. I mean, I live in the countryside. It’s always lush and overgrown, but here in the city, it seems nature has won, not Zee. Some of the homes are almost completely hidden from view by the long grass and lush bushes that have sprung up in their front yards.

We drive pass a magnificent proud oak. It’s leaves break in hues of scarlet and gold, heralding the coming of winter. Roots slowly lift the footpath, pushing concrete slabs to one side as though they were made of paper mâché. This is the first tree I’ve seen fully embracing the fall.

I’m so hot inside my spacesuit that I’m sweating. It’s hard to realize winter is upon us. We don’t get snow this far south, but there’s plenty of dreary days and freezing cold rain. Sleet is the worst. For me, that lonely oak is one last burst of color before the grey of winter sets in.

“Okay,” Elizabeth says. “Doyle is back online. Patching you through.”

Strange how we can be so close and yet mute to each other. I was quite enjoying the solitude of the drive.

Oxygen hisses softly in my helmet. The spacesuits are antiquated. Wispy bits of loose thread have come away from the outer lining on my right arm, but the fabric is thick.

“Crossing Washington. Two blocks out,” Doyle says as I drop into the tail end of his conversation. We could have yelled at each other if we really needed to, I guess, but it’s nice to hear him speak in soft, clipped tones. His professionalism is reassuring.

“Charge is holding. Feed is good at 87%. Engine is cool, stable at two-twenty. Continuing on.”

“Copy that,” Ajeet replies, taking over from Elizabeth. All this technical jargon has me feeling as though we’re about to land on the moon.

Zombies shuffle down the street. They look up at the car, but they don’t get excited. Ferguson was right about smell, sound, and sight. Without any of that raw, human stimulus, Zee is curious but not hostile. Dark eyes watch our progress but quickly lose interest in us. We’re a scrap of paper caught in a breeze, tumbling down the street.

Doyle slows as he weaves his way around a pack of zombies feeding on the carcass of a wild dog. We’re so close I could reach out and touch them as we roll silently past. Our tires crunch softly on the gravel strewn over the road. The engine is quiet, not more than a hum, and Zee doesn’t pay any attention to the car.

I shift my weight, trying to get comfortable and several zombies look up at me, turning from their kill. Blood drips from their chins. They’re looking to see if I pose any threat. It’s as though they’re guarding their kill, and I’m reminded of Johnson’s comments about zombies having behaviors akin to our distant ancestors millions of years ago. These aren’t mindless monsters. There are motivations, things they value. I’ve never seen Zee like this before.

“Coming up on the intersection,” Doyle says, and I peer out of the car, looking down the road. Beyond the intersection lies the hill with the car dealership. It’s strange to approach such a familiar spot from a different direction.

The car slows. I recognize the truck we rolled down the hill. It’s collected a lamppost. Dead zombies hang from its grill. Blood has splattered across its windows and along the wheel arches. Intestines hang from the running board. At first glance, the blood looks like mud, but I know better. I saw that truck before it rolled down here.

Doyle performs a U-turn before bringing the car to a halt. He’s thinking about a quick getaway. Smart.

“Okay,” he says. “Moderate zombie count. Low interest. We are good for excursion.”

“Copy that,” Ajeet replies. I’m surprised by the formalities. Although disciplines like this are probably what’s kept them alive for so long out here in the heart of the city. Take chances with Zee and you’re gambling with your life.

I grab hold of the edge of the open door frame, grunting as I get to my feet. It’s a shame we couldn’t have parked closer. If it wasn’t for the carnage in the street, we could have driven right up to the warehouse at the rear of the vet clinic.

“Hazel, are you okay?” Ajeet asks.

“Yes,” I reply as Doyle comes around the front of the car. He’s moving freely, accustomed to the weight of his suit. “Just feeling a little warm cooped up in here.”

“It’s an old suit,” Ajeet replies. “Try to keep your motion to a minimum. Keep your arms by your side.”

“Stay close,” Doyle says, lacking any of the empathy shown by Ajeet. He turns and walks along the pavement.

Here we are—two astronauts walking quietly through the desolate ruins of a zombie infested city. Crows take flight as we approach the bloody remains of hundreds of zombies crushed in the intersection.

A couple of fresh zombies crouch beside the lights feeding on a severed leg. They glance at us, but there’s no recognition. They appear to stare right through us.

“There’s a—There’s a loading dock around the side,” I say between breaths. “We don’t have to go through the clinic.”

“Good to know,” Doyle replies, crossing the road. There’s a bounce to his step. I waddle on, hunched under the weight of my pack. What seemed so simple back at the base now feels as though I’m assaulting Mt Everest.

“We have you on the external mall camera,” Ajeet says. “You’re also visible on traffic R153.”

“What’s the weather forecast?” Doyle asks.

“Light smattering of zombies to the north. You should be good for fifteen to twenty, but don’t risk any longer than that.”

“Roger,” he replies.

Suddenly, a sharp pain cuts into the muscles of my back and I cry out in agony, falling to my knees on the concrete. A burning sensation tears at my shoulder. I can’t help but scream. I know I’m not supposed to, but the intensity is overwhelming. It’s as though a knife has been thrust between my shoulder blades.

“What the hell is going on?” Doyle asks.

“Hazel is down,” Ajeet says, somehow remaining calm and detached as my mind fires off like a rocket. “No attack. Repeat, there’s been no attack.”

I clench my teeth, trying to hold back the pain and avoid screaming again. Grabbing at my shoulder, I try to shift my life-support pack to one side, wanting to relieve the pain in my back.

“Talk to me, Hazel.”

I can’t respond. It’s all I can do not to yell in agony. Doyle turns to face me, but he doesn’t come back to help.

“No one on her,” he says. “Mild interest from the corner, but she’s clear.”

“Confirm,” Ajeet says. “Hazel, what happened?”

“Fire,” I manage. “On fire.”

Something’s burning through my thermal insulation. I fall forward on one hand, turning to one side, trying to move my back away from the searing heat.

“Your climate controls,” Elizabeth cries over the microphone, taking it from Ajeet. “Switch off your coolant circulation. Blue button. Top right on your wrist control.”

I’m barely able to finger the controls on my wrist with my clumsy gloved hands. Tears well up in my eyes, making it difficult to see, but I punch at the buttons and the searing pain stops. I’m still in agony, with a nasty burn on my back, but it’s a throbbing ache rather than a knife cutting through my skin. The smell of burnt flesh sears my nostrils.

“On fire,” I repeat, feeling helpless, alone, hurt, and afraid.

“Running diagnostics,” Elizabeth says. “Telemetry is showing a wiring short in the thermal regulator. You’re going to need to keep that shut down.”

Gritting my teeth and closing my eyes for a moment, I search for the strength to go on. I have to get up. I have no choice. If I don’t, I die.

The weight of the backpack threatens to crush me against the concrete. Just a moment’s hesitation, a fleeting thought of surrender, and I’ll collapse. My knees sting as much as my back, having been driven into the concrete by the weight of the life-support unit. I’m sure they’re bleeding, I only hope I haven’t ruptured the suit.

All I can see is my thick, gloved hands holding me up on the rough road. The muscles in my forearms tremble as I muster the will to fight my way to my feet. Gravel, a faded plastic wrapper, and dead weeds—that’s all there is in front of me. There’s nothing to help me up. White boots appear on the edge of my vision, slightly distorted by the shading around the rim of my visor. A gloved hand reaches down for me. Sweat drips from my brow as I take Doyle’s hand.

“You need to get her out of there,” Elizabeth says.

“Not yet,” Doyle replies, pulling me to my feet.

“Abort,” Elizabeth cries, ordering us to pull out. “We need to fix that suit. We can try again tomorrow.”

“I can see the loading dock,” Doyle says. “We’re no more than fifty yards away.”

“Goddamn it, Doyle. Abort!” Elizabeth repeats. She’s exasperated with him.

“I’ll be fine,” I say, lying. I’m ready to collapse, but I understand the importance of those tablets. Having seen our fleeting supply back at the commune consumed with fire, I too desperately want to grab more of them. It’s irrational, perhaps they’re a security blanket. They represent a chance to undermine Zee. I want to go on.

“Just a little further,” Doyle says, turning and walking around the side of the clinic.

Zombies shuffle past, ignoring us.

“Go back to the Tesla,” Elizabeth says, but I can’t. This is too important.

I struggle to keep up with Doyle. I’m breathing hard inside my suit. Sweat pours off my forehead. Salt stings my eyes.

“I’m okay,” I mumble to myself as though it’s a mantra. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

“There are a lot of bodies in here,” Doyle says, but I can’t see him. He’s rounded the corner and gone into the warehouse. “The shelving has been knocked over. Did you do this?”

I don’t know what he’s talking about. Pushing off the brick wall, I stagger along the alley leading to the loading dock. My gloved hand feels its way along the wall, keeping me steady.

I can barely see. Blinking, I try to shake the sweat from my eyes. I reach out, leaning against the corner of the building and looking in through the open roller doors. Boxes lie scattered across the ground. Chew toys, colorful cardboard boxes with pictures of cats and dogs, play balls, pet collars, bird cages and packets of kitty litter have been ripped from the shelves. The steel frames have collapsed. Whether they were pushed over or torn down, I don’t know.