Plagued: The Midamerica Zombie Half-Breed Experiment (Plagued States of America) (4 page)

As much as Tom was glad they were leveling the place, he could only watch, amazed by the horrific scene. The destruction was beautiful, captivating, and numbing. He couldn’t fathom celebrating at a time like this, nor ever. Another fireball rose and the thunder of it echoed out into the channel.

“There’s another,” one of the men standing at the rail said, pointing toward the water.

“Throw out the boat,” Peske ordered. “We can’t take anymore,” he said as way of explanation when the man turned toward him with a shocked expression. Tom crawled to the rail and looked out. There was a man swimming toward them, begging for rescue. He would surely die in the icy water, and Biter’s Hill was no refuge for anyone. “We can’t keep taking them on. Main float’s broken. We’re already sinking,” Peske said with a defeated ire.

He was right. The water lapped up to the deck easily now. Six more people were laying in blanketed heaps, shivering all along the deck. Peske returned to the controls and the engine rumbled a little louder as the boat began a slow turn.

“We’re too full,” the man at the rail yelled while he and two others slid a row boat off the roof rack and into the water. “We’ll tow you to safety!” They affixed a rope and put the last of their blankets into it and one of them pushed the boat toward the flailing survivor. There were others in the water, and Peske drove toward them once they had retrieved the first man. As Tom’s strength came back, he helped the other survivors, dragging a woman over to the warmth of the engine, then another man, and then a third, all the while watching the water creep higher.

“Goddamned ferryman!” another man was telling Peske as they came about and started moving toward the open water of the channel. The way Peske nodded, Tom figured this other man was of some importance, or at least he knew what he was talking about. Tom figured him to be a slaver.

There were four men in the rowboat now with no more coming or to be found. The hill burned in places, a fiery pitch had been released at the top of the hill, some kind of automatic self-destruct system, and it looked like lava flowing down to the sea, consuming hundreds of moaning beasts still feasting on the corpses of men and women slaughtered in the sudden chaos.

“Ferry should have held its ground, plucked out survivors,” said the other slaver. “Fuck orders.”

“And risk bringing infection across?” Peske replied. “Salvage crews will be here in a few hours,” he went on, not waiting for an argument. “We’ve got to make land before we sink.”

“What the hell happened?” Tom asked Peske and the other slaver. He had been standing nearby to avoid the wind picking up as they drove into the channel. The water was lapping up over the prow of the boat-like truck and it gave Tom worry to think that they might end up in the icy water again.

“Something happened at the prison,” the other slaver answered for Peske. “There was a delivery from outside. I saw them coming in through the gates. Before I knew it, there were a hundred biters coming at us and then the towers started opening fire. Killed half of my men! We were trying to capture them and those goddamn police started firing into us.”

“As soon as I heard the horns I took my girl and jumped in the duck,” Peske added.

“Where are we going?” Tom asked with chattering teeth as the duck rounded the jetty wall and began fighting the choppy surf and wind of the channel. It was freezing.

“We’re going to drift a few miles down current and pull up on land,” Peske replied, pointing ahead.
“If we can.”

“But what about the zombies?” Tom couldn’t help but ask.

“Let them get their own boat,” Peske said grimly and the other slaver chuckled. Tom didn’t think it very funny, but given the circumstances he felt it better just to go try to stay warm by the engine. With the water splashing over the deck he could do no better than huddle down low like everyone else, and wait.

The half-breed was doing the same, sitting on her bottom bunk, curled into a ball, holding her pillow to her chest. They had taken her blanket to give to one of the survivors. Tom went around to the side of the cage nearest where she sat and started feeding his blanket through the bars. She looked at him in disbelief but took the blanket anyway, yanking it fiercely, pulling it from his hands. In a moment she had herself wrapped in it and he leaned down low with his back against her cage.

“Just don’t bite me or try to eat me,” Tom said over his shoulder wearily. In all the commotion he had forgotten he was still wearing his survival kit, which was digging into his shoulder now that he leaned against it. But he didn’t take it off. At least it was keeping his back warm. He closed his eyes, hopeful that everything was just a horrible nightmare. He felt twelve years old all over again. Alone and frightened, then and now. The only difference was that Larissa was already gone.

At least Gary had escaped.

Just like when Tom was twelve. Gary had saved his own skin then too.

Fuck Gary, Tom thought.

“Your name is Penelope,” Tom said over his shoulder. The half-breed lifted her head slightly, peering out through the blanket. “Penelope Hope,” he added. “You were a college student before the breakout.”

She had a queer look to her eyes as though she didn’t quite understand what he had said.

“Your human name,” Tom told her, looking around to make sure no one was close enough to hear him over the wind and the groaning engine. Her eyes narrowed with spite. “I have your file, your picture. I know you like pictures. I’d give it to you if my fingers weren’t so fucking numb,” he added. Her eyes softened a little. “I’ll tell your parents about you if I ever get out of here. In the meantime,” Tom said, more to himself that to her, “just remember your name is Penelope Hope, and hope is a good thing.”

Nine

Tom thought about many things over the course of the next fifteen minutes as the boat was easily jostled by the choppy waves, pushed ever downstream by the winds more than the slow current. Water was overtaking the leaking old vessel as they came up on a beach head and drove into the tree line for shelter. Once there, several hunters that had been among them broke out defensive weapons and put on thick leather clothing before climbing over the side to range around.

“Where are they going?” one nervous buyer asked of Peske.

“Make sure we’re alone,” Peske replied as he approached Penelope. “Hello Kitten,” he said softly. “Got a little startled, did you? I’ll see what grub I can scrounge up for you, OK? Are you hungry?”

Penelope nodded, but didn’t look toward him.

“And you,” Peske said to Tom. “Don’t go stirring her up any or I’ll throw you off the boat. You got me? That goes for all of you!” he said loudly. “Leave my half-breed alone if you know what’s good for you.”

The hunters returned to satisfy everyone that there were no signs of zombies in the area. While some took it on faith, those suffering the greatest fear made the mistake of questioning them and were put in their place with an angry “go and look for yourself!” There were two camps aboard; residents and visitors. Tom didn’t want to be in either, but with the irrational worries of the visitors, he preferred associating with Peske and the hunters, those that were considered residents. The other slaver, a man named Hank, acted more the part of leader even though it was Peske’s truck. He and Peske doled out assurances that help was coming. Then, as the nervous buyer again bemoaned their situation, claiming they were abandoned, demanding to know what Peske and Hank were going to do about it, the sound reached them. Helicopters could be heard before they were seen. Everyone strained to look in the distance. A line of about twenty helicopters were coming in low across the channel.

“There you go, see?” Peske grumbled at everyone. He hurried to the front of the truck with Hank on his heels. Peske changed stations on the radio over and over. Hank kept telling him to switch to other channels and they argued about it more than they listened to the static coming through.

“What the hell channel are they on?” Hank glowered.

“None so far,” Peske grumbled, switching through the channels one more time.

The speed with which the choppers arrived was startling
ly fast, taking everyone by surprise. And they weren’t the fat, colorful rescue choppers everyone thought they should be.

“What the hell?” one of the hunters by Tom said. “Hank!” he called out with alarm. Everyone stared curiously toward the oncoming wave of Apaches.

“Gunships?” Hank said, perplexed. Peske turned off the radio and pushed his way to the back of the boat to get a better view, pushing past Tom roughly. Tom felt the bars of the cage against his back. He stood behind everyone else, watching the scene unfold with that same feeling of abandon he had inside the gift store. Just in case bullets began flying again, he wanted to stay behind everyone. He felt a hand touch his shoulder and was startled to find it was the half-breed’s. Penelope. She was cowering behind him, her eyes barely higher than the hand on his shoulder as if wanting him to shield her from their sight.

“It’s alright,” Tom tried to reassure her, but he didn’t believe it himself. He put a hand on hers. Her fingers were cold as ice, but they were unquestionably human. She was just cold, he tried to tell himself.

Then the rockets began firing. Hundreds upon hundreds of them all spilling from wings and bellies and the noses of all those gunships. The fireballs rose above the trees and the echoes of the explosions rocked the duck. Tom covered his ears. He felt Penelope’s hand retreat and heard her scream. He looked back to see her huddled in the far corner, clutching her pillow over her head, rocking pathetically. She must have had no idea what was going on, Tom thought, and he felt sorry for her.

The gunships didn’t relent until they had spilled every single rocket onto the hill. There was a stunned silence as the gunships began to turn away, to head back over the channel.

“They’re leaving!” one of the frightened survivors said. It was the same man who had been most vocal earlier, the complainer of the bunch. “We have to call them.”

“Are you nuts?!” Peske shouted. “Were your eyes closed just now? Are you deaf!?”

“But they’re leaving us!”

“Good,” Hank put in. “If they knew we were here, they’d have blown us up too.”

“Why?”

“Why!?” Hank asked incredulously. “Who saved this idiot?” Hank looked around at the others, expecting an answer. “Shut the hell up or you’re walking to Biter’s Island.”

Biter’s Island! Tom knew that was one of the other two cities along the channel where zombie slave trading was sanctioned and legally practiced. It was just like Biter’s Hill, but it was three hundred or so miles to the north. Past St. Louis.

“Biter’s Island?” one of the other hunters asked.

“You got any better ideas?” Hank asked, staring down everyone, even Peske. “We can make it in two or three days. How much juice you got in this rig?”

“Not enough,” Peske replied. “We’ll need to siphon along the way. Maybe twice. I know a place a little north.”

“What the hell kind of mileage does this wreck get?” Hank demanded.

“It’s a boat,” Peske replied irritably. “I only ever take her up to Midamerica and back.”

“Midamerica!” Tom blurted, his mind working faster than his mouth.

Hank and Peske looked at him queer.

“Midamerica,” Tom said to them as if they were the ones making no sense. “I mean why not?” Tom went on, looking at all the other bewildered stares from the other survivors. Damn there were a lot of them. “We could go there,”
and get Larissa
, he thought. “And send for help!”

“He’s lost it,” Hank told Peske, looking at Tom with concern.

“No, no,” Tom said, smiling with that satisfaction that only came when figuring out some grand puzzle. That muddled idea he had been carrying around all day suddenly made sense. He must have been drunk on adrenalin. “How far is it to Midamerica?”

“What does that matter?” Peske said reproachfully.

“How far?” Tom asked again.

“About a day’s drive,” Hank said dismissively. “But who cares about going there?”

“Because I can get us out.”

Ten

“What do you mean, out?” Peske asked suspiciously. Two of the hunters were now closely paying attention, as were some of the other survivors. When Tom looked around, pretty much everyone on the duck was staring at him, expectantly waiting for his explanation. Even Penelope.

“It’s an airbase, right?” Tom asked.

“There aren’t any planes there anymore,” Hank told him, again with a dismissive and now aggressively belligerent tone. “So it doesn’t matter if you can fly.”

“I can’t fly,” Tom said. “But I can use a radio. I just need to make a call and my father will send a plane.”

“Your father?” Peske asked. “Who the hell are you, boy?”

“I’m from the Denver District,” Tom replied. He didn’t want to give out too much information. Just saying he lived inside the Districts was as much as declaring he was some kind of royalty. “My father is a Senator. I can get a plane.”

“Then get on the radio right now, boy,” Peske replied.

“What? And call back the gunships? Oh, no. We need a radio with some juice. Something that can reach the Districts directly.”

“They ain’t got power at the airstrip,” Peske told him. “It’s abandoned.”

“You’ve got portable generators,” Tom argued. “We can do this. And if I’m wrong, it’s only an extra day.”

“Call them now,” Hank said.

“No,” Tom replied adamantly, crossing his arms. “You saw what those gunships did.”

“Yeah,” the frightened buyer agreed. “They’ll kill us.”

“Shut up, you idiot,” Hank said with a fierce glare at the frightened buyer.

“The boy’s right,” Peske put in begrudgingly. One of the hunters also agreed. Tom didn’t like lying to all of them like this. He probably could have picked up the radio and convinced the gunships not to kill them all before making a few calls, but he wasn’t willing to stake his life on it. Not after what he’d seen today. Besides, he had other plans. The first thing he had to do was get Peske on his side. Everything he was planning revolved around the old slave trader.

“I’ll get us all out. And if I don’t, it’s on the way to Biter’s Island, right?”

“Dying ain’t worth the stop,” Hank grumbled.

“Alr
ight,” Tom said. “How about money. I’ll make sure everyone gets ten thousand each. Just, at least, let’s try.”

“How do we know you’re good for any of it?” Peske asked.

Tom reached a hand into his pants to his hidden money belt. Gary had insisted on having that, at least. Cash, he had said, is the only thing that’s worth anything in the Rurals. Tom withdrew the first set of bills, holding them out to Peske. “Consider it your down payment.”

Peske counted out three thousand loud enough for everyone to hear.

Tom let the chaos around him grow. Hank didn’t want any part of the plan. He had some chip on his shoulder and he said it was a waste of two days; that it would get people killed. Peske contended that it was only an extra day and that they had to take the inland highways regardless. There were more fuel and salvage opportunities along the way. The hunters who knew the northern regions agreed. They said Hank only ever did round-ups to the east, saying he didn’t know the northern terrain. This worked in Tom’s favor and soon even those who knew nothing about the Plague States were in agreement that Midamerica was their best option.

But they all wanted the ten thousand regardless. Tom didn’t care about the money. Even counting the sixteen other survivors, his father would gladly pay that much to finally have Larissa back.

“Not a one of you knows what the hell you’re talking about,” Hank finally said and went to the front of the duck to sit and brood.

“Alright,” Peske said. “It’s settled. Let’s get some miles in before nightfall.”