Stage 3: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (27 page)

"Oh well, if you absolutely need music, babygirl, I guess I can listen to country if I have to," he fake-grumbled, "but once they start up about their pickup and their gal and their old hound dog, I might just have to yodel along. And believe me,
nobody
needs that!"

This time, Mackenzie laughed aloud. It was a genuine laugh that made Mason almost forget the old wilder hobbling after them and the swarm reassembling in their wake. As they drove, more creepers appeared from unseen crannies along both sides, but these new arrivals quickly fell behind even at the slow crawl Mason had set for the truck. By now, there may have been fifty or more in the swarm at their backs, and Mason couldn't help but watch his mirrors in fascination. As he'd already seen, the individuals might be clumsy and slow, but the swarm itself moved with surprising alacrity. New members were absorbed into the body of the swarm as seamlessly as the runoff from a field might trickle into a river, and the whole surged on. It diverted around obstacles and gushed through bottlenecks, then it poured together again, and on it flowed in a relentless torrent.

Mason took a moment to send a dubious glance heavenward, almost daring the occupant to laugh, then he returned his eyes to his mirror.

The old wilder was still coming, clawing and shoving and barging her way through the swarm at a swift hobble. Some creepers fell away under the onslaught, but they either staggered back to their feet quickly or were trampled to dust and replaced by another with no loss of momentum in the main body. And then a second wilder entered the fray from some unseen quarter and fought its way downstream, soon overtaking the hobbled one and assuming the lead.

Even with the creatures right on their tail, Mason suddenly stomped hard on the brakes and brought the truck to a halt with a jerk.

Shit!

The street was blocked ahead. Apparently, everyone who'd tried to escape during the panic had made for the highway. Perhaps not the worst of plans under ordinary circumstances, but ridiculous in the extreme when everyone else had the same idea. Once committed, all it would have taken was one; one idiot running out of gas or one dumb punk trying to bully his way through. In this case, it looked to have been the latter, for in the middle of the intersection, an ambulance had been t-boned by a muscle car and shoved onto its side. The accident was no big thing in itself, but a few hundred frightened drivers had obviously tried to force their way around the obstruction,  and they'd turned what should have been a minor hindrance into a first-class clusterfuck.

In the midst of the confusion, a young female creeper was stumbling around in a little space between several abandoned vehicles, idly bumping from one to another like a fly trapped under a bell jar. That little patch of ground would always belong to her, but she wasn't the only one who'd never leave this place. A young male in a shiny new Toyota was howling and wildly flailing its arms through an open window, held in place by a seat belt it would never be able to comprehend. Beyond the Toyota was an old couple in a Cadillac, both pawing listlessly at closed windows and gaping blindly at the rumbling, idling truck. Closer to this side of the logjam was a van wedged firmly between two cars. Inside the van, a pint-sized wilder rampaged from the front of the vehicle to the rear and back again like an insane monkey, alternatively clawing at the windows and clambering over the things that used to be its family. One tiny girl still occupied her mother's lap in the front seat, but when she finally turned toward the sound of Mason's truck, it was with empty eye sockets, a face stripped almost entirely of flesh, and one bloody, skeletal hand pawing uselessly at the air.

Mason choked back the taste of vomit and looked to Mackenzie. He couldn't help but acknowledge the most fleeting image of his greatest fear, but the girl happened to turn his way just then, and the sight of those big green eyes and that perfect, angelic face gave him solace. He leaned across and touched her gently on the elbow, and whether she sensed a need in him or was seeing to one of her own, she immediately reached out to take his hand.

"Why did we stop, Mace?"

There was a
thump!
from behind, and Mason checked his mirror. The bigger, stronger wilder had caught up and was presently clawing its way up the side of the truck toward Mason's door. The other one was twenty yards back, leading the rest of the swarm like an aged, bedraggled Pied Piper.

"The road's blocked," he told Mackenzie calmly.

"Can we turn around?"

Mason wondered how many creepers he'd have to drive over on a return trip, and imagined with crystal clarity the sights and sounds that would accompany such a journey.

"I'd rather not," he said honestly, "Besides, I'm not sure we'd be able to get around the trailer I dumped in the road. But I think I can make a hole this way."

Mackenzie followed the noise of the wilder banging along the side of the truck, then she bent an ear to the shuffling of a hundred feet rising up out of the background. She gave a little shudder, but she kept her fears to herself and nodded warily.

"Okay then."

Mason ignored the creature clawing at his window and sat there for a long moment, analyzing the clusterfuck and doing the math. His first instinct was to back away and come at it with speed to try to ram his way through, but that would be a fool's errand. There were times to pound with a sledgehammer and times to tickle with a feather.

Two cars were lodged tight against the building on the southwest corner; a Nissan and a boxy Volvo station wagon; both stuck in place by an old Ford pickup. Obviously, the driver of the pickup had tried to barrel his way through, but he'd woefully overestimated his vehicle's power and his own limitations. All he'd done was shove one car into the other, pile them up and over the sidewalk, and wedge them into the building. But where the pickup had failed, Mason saw opportunity. He was able to look down upon the scene with a clarity no one at ground level would have had. The Nissan was at a bit of an angle with its wheels turned into the road, and where the front bumper of the Volvo had impacted the corner of the structure, stucco cladding had been knocked loose to expose brittle old bricks beneath.

"I think I see a way through, Mack," he said guardedly, giving her hand a quick squeeze before releasing it, "It might get bumpy, so you'd better hang on."

Mackenzie cinched up her seat belt and grabbed hold of it in her tight little hands, then something banged against her side of the truck, and her back stiffened. At last, she turned to Mason, nodded once and told him calmly, "Okay, Mace."

The leading edge of the swarm finally arrived and began to flow around them like a boulder in a river bed. Mason crawled the truck forward, crumpling two creepers under his wheels, then he swung hard over to get behind the pickup, and two more creepers disappeared. He paused only long enough to pull himself up and peer over the hood to make certain of his positioning, but the old gray-haired wilder used precisely those briefest of moments to stumble around the side of the truck and step out in front. Mason pulled forward again, fully expecting her to vanish like the others, but instead she clawed furiously at the metal behemoth and began to clamber up and over the front bumper. Her bloody face appeared over the level of the hood, snarling and spitting fury, then she slipped and smacked her head sharply on the hood. She slumped back and threatened to fall, but she'd somehow managed to get a leg caught between bumper and grill, and there she remained, clinging to the front of the truck like a grisly hood ornament and howling like a banshee.

Mason ignored the flailing creature and crept forward until he was right behind the pickup. When the bumpers finally met, there was a horrible
crunch!
  and the old woman let out one last feral howl before dropping out of sight, then Mason threaded the gas pedal until the pickup started to shift on its axles. A little more gas, and the pickup's tires chipped and skidded across the pavement, then it bumped into the back of the Nissan and shoved it into the Volvo. All three vehicles gave a violent shudder, and Mason floored the accelerator. There was the chirping of tires and the squealing of metal on metal, but with a thousand horses under the big rig's hood, the outcome was inevitable. All at once, transmissions failed and brake cables snapped, and all three vehicles began to move. The Nissan rolled out into the street, the pickup rammed into the back of the Volvo, and fresh bits of crumbling brick cascaded onto the vehicle's hood. Mason backed away a few feet and felt his tires slip on something wet and slushy, and he called out a caution Mackenzie.

"Hold on tight," he said, and saw her redouble her grip on the seatbelt.

He threw one last glance of the big wilder clawing up at his window, then he put the truck back into gear and floored the gas pedal. The vehicle didn't have time to build up much speed, but the sheer mass of the truck delivered such a tremendous amount of force that the pickup crumpled into the Volvo and launched both of them forward. The corner of the wall shattered to dust as the Volvo broke through and shot into the road, then Mason shoved the pickup after it as he bounced the big rig up and over the sidewalk. The big metal bumper took an even bigger bite out of the wall, and dust swirled and broken fragments of brick pattered off of the hood, then the truck bumped back down to the roadway and into the tangle of wrecked vehicles. Mason deftly skirted around the ambulance and shoved aside the shiny new Toyota with the young wilder still flailing through the window, then he shouldered his way between two smaller hatchbacks, bounced up and over the sidewalk on the far side, and left the roadblock receding in his mirrors.

Once the truck found smooth pavement and ceased rocking, Mackenzie gave a resounding cheer and pumped her tiny fists in the air.

"Yes, yes,
yes!
I
knew
you'd do it!" She hooted through a wide grin.

A rotund little wilder staggered out from nowhere, dragging a broken foot behind, but Mason steered deftly around it.

"Was there ever any doubt?" Mason fake-boasted.

There was no falsehood as Mackenzie shook her head and smiled sweetly.

"Never, Mace. Never
ever!
….."

"Really?" he asked, honestly now, "I wish I had
your
confidence in
my
abilities."

The girl giggled warmly, "I
trust
you, Mace. I know you'll do anything to keep me safe."

"You know it, Mack," he told her, and tried his best to ignore the way the tape binding the failsafe to his ankle pulled at his skin as he worked the pedals. "You know I'll do anything at all."

CHAPTER XXX

After they passed the gothic facade of the San Francisco Chronicle building, Mason wheeled south and looked to the sun arcing low in the western sky. Less than an hour of daylight left, but no matter. According to the map in Mason's head, it was only a mile and a bit to Mission Bay. It was less likely to be a finish line than the completion of a single lap in a marathon, but at least they were almost there, so Mason's promise was nearly fulfilled.

But once they got to the meeting place, what then? If Sarah was there, standing in the middle of the park, waving her arms and holding up a big neon sign, all well and good. But what if she hadn't made it out of the hospital? Or what if she made it out but hadn't seen the message scrawled on the wall? Worse yet, what if she'd somehow accomplished both and got herself killed on the way to the park? If she wasn't waiting there with a neon sign, obviously Mackenzie would insist they wait for her, but for how long? Mason knew that the odds of Sarah still being alive were remote at best, but what would it take for Mackenzie to give up hope? Days? Weeks? Would she
ever
give up hope?

His mood darkened by degrees as he contemplated all possible futures, and it wasn't hard for him to understand why. Every thought of Mackenzie's future was always soured by a ponderous heaviness in his heart. The fact was, they wouldn't have to wait for weeks. Even thinking in
days
was being far too optimistic.

As Mackenzie sat cross-legged beside him, munching on an orange, Mason reached into the bag and helped himself to one of the few bottles of Corona he'd managed to rescue from the restaurant. He popped the cap, downed half of it in a single draught, and set the bottle in a cup holder built into the console.

Mackenzie sniffed the air. "Is that beer?"

"It is," he told her unapologetically.

Her face screwed up into a scowl, and she glared at him.

"That does it. I'm calling the cops," she said, then made a display of rummaging through her pockets for a non-existent cell phone.

Mason fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. At least for a second or two. Then the silliness of it appeared in a broad smile across the girl's lips, and despite the melancholy darkening his thoughts, he threw his head back and roared with laughter. Mackenzie giggled coyly, hands over her mouth and her cheeks in a blush, but the pretense quickly disappeared and she erupted in a genuine, uncontrollable fit of laughter.

It wasn't to last, though. An audible hiss rose up behind the laughter, and before Mason could begin to understand the significance, a woman's voice spoke up and brought the gaiety to a grinding halt.

"Tom?"

That was it. One word. The voice was nonthreatening, benign even, but it came so unexpected out of the blue that it made both of them jump. Mackenzie uttered a gasp and shrunk back into her seat, and Mason stomped on the brakes to bring the truck to a jerking halt. He whipped out his pistol and swung bodily around toward the sleeper berth, every nerve in a tingle, but there was no one there. Was it possible that someone could be hiding back there? A secret compartment under the bed, maybe? No. Impossible. The berth was small, barely big enough for a single mattress. He craned his neck to see every square inch of the space, and was quickly satisfied that they were alone. So where..…?

Then he heard it again. A click, a hiss, and a woman's voice repeating that single word.

"Tom?"

He gave a self-deprecating click of his cheek and tucked the pistol away.

"It's okay, Mack. It's just the radio."

The girl heaved a sigh and relaxed in her seat, and Mason made a move to turn up the volume. If someone was still on the air, maybe things weren't.....But wait. The radio was off. He'd turned it off himself. So, how could…..

"Tom, are you there?"

Only then did awareness sink in, and he chided himself once again. Yes, he'd turned off the radio, but this was a truck. Trucks had CB radios. He quickly located the unit built into the dashboard and turned it up.

"It's the CB, Mack. It's like a walkie-talkie."

"I know what a CB is," Mackenzie snorted, then her tone grew wistful, "She sounds scared."

Mason couldn't disagree. "I wouldn't be surprised."

"Tom, please come in….."

The voice was shaky. Like Becks' when she'd left that last message. The woman was scared, sure, but more than that. She was crying. Barely holding it together.

"Are you going to answer?" Mackenzie asked.

Mason shrugged, "She's not calling
us."

"Maybe you should answer anyway."

"What would be the point?" Mason asked, trying his best to sound indifferent.

"She's scared, Mace."

He shrugged again. "And what could I possibly say that would make her any less scared?"

"Dunno. ……Maybe just hearing someone else's voice would help. "

He regarded the girl and saw her sitting bolt-upright, her eyes wide, expectant, maybe even hopeful. She may have been talking about the faceless voice on the radio, but she was projecting herself into the equation. And not surprisingly, he had to admit. Even a man as pragmatic as Mason had to acknowledge a certain…..
comfort
in knowing that the two of them weren't utterly alone in the world. 

He looked out and saw half a dozen creepers ambling their way, then he grudgingly reached for the microphone slung under the dash. After a prolonged pause, he thumbed the key and uttered an almost timid, "Hello?"

Immediately, the radio hissed, and the voice returned, but now it sounded relieved and excited.

"Tom? Tom, is that you?"

This is what he was afraid of. Suddenly, he wished he hadn't bothered at all.

He reluctantly keyed the microphone and told her, "No, this isn't Tom," then he added with genuine regret, "I'm sorry."

There was a long pause, then a hiss, then the woman's voice, shaky again.

"Is he okay?" the woman asked warily, "Is he….." then her words dissolved into a prolonged hiss, and the radio went dead.

Mason keyed the microphone and spoke gently, "I'm sorry. I don't know who Tom is. We just found a truck and it had keys in it, so….."

Another pause. Like Becks, the woman was crying, and trying hard not to sound like it. Twenty seconds later, the radio hissed again.

"A Kenworth?" the woman managed weakly, like someone not wanting to hear the answer, "White over red?"

"No!" Mason said eagerly, glad to finally have good news for the woman, "It's blue! And I think it's a Peterbilt."

He keyed off the mike and waited anxiously. Then, after another pregnant pause, he began to wonder if he'd said something wrong after all. He certainly hadn't expected cheers of joy from the woman, but neither had he expected silence. In fact, the radio stayed quiet for so long that he wondered if she was going to answer at all. Was she gone? Was she so in tears that she couldn't respond? Suddenly, he understood that what Mackenzie said about hearing another person's voice was right on the money. Whether he was willing to admit it or not, he wanted nothing more right then and there than for that unknown, faceless woman to say something, anything.

Even as he pondered what he could possibly say to make her respond, or if he should bother saying anything at all, he felt Mackenzie's hand on his. She took the microphone gently away from him, then she leaned into it and keyed the button.

"Hello?" She said softly, "Hello? Are you still there?"

Several long seconds passed, then there came a click and a prolonged hiss. Finally, when the voice returned, it was weak and quivering, but the tone was tender, like that of a loving mother.

"Yes, I'm still here…..," There was a sniffle and a barely disguised clearing of a throat. "Who is this?"

"My name's Mackenzie. What's yours?"

It was as if the girl was speaking to an old friend, and Mason could only sit back in awe. From anyone else, the tone might have come across as sounding disingenuous. From Mackenzie, it sounded as genuine as a hug.

"That's a pretty name," the woman at the other end must have agreed, for her voice was steady now, and so soft and gentle that Mason could almost hear her smiling. "My name's Christine. How old are you, Mackenzie?"

"I'm ten," the girl chirped excitedly, "Almost ten and a half!"

"Wow, ten and a
half!
  No wonder you sound so grown up.…."

Mackenzie giggled into the mike and asked casually, "Do you have kids my age?"

Now, the pause was so prolonged that Mason truly thought that the conversation was at an end. His heart went out to this faceless woman mired in grief, and to the sweet little girl who was just trying to reach out. He looked out at the dead things stutter-stepping toward them and let loose a heavy sigh. Silently then, he cursed the creepers, cursed the world, and cursed whatever malicious god it was that would throw such sweet, gentle souls into such a nightmare world.

Just as he'd made up his mind that the woman was gone for good, there was a crackle of static, and a tenuous voice barely above a whisper.

"No, sweetie. …….I don't have children……"

There was a click, and Mason knew that she'd cut herself off.

Anymore….. she almost said it, but didn't...…
Anymore
…..Bless you for not saying it, Christine.……

"Oh," Mackenzie said disappointedly, then she dismissed her chagrin entirely and was back to being her chirpy self, "My aunt Sarah says she never wanted kids, but she can't imagine what her life would be like without me. Then she gives me '
the look'
and says, ‘Well I can imagine
sometimes
!’"

Mason laughed in spite of himself, and the woman keyed her mike so Mackenzie could catch her last few strained chuckles.

"Aunt Sarah sounds great," she said with a well-feigned enthusiasm.

The mike stayed open, but nothing came through save a hiss. Mackenzie looked confused by the silence, but Mason understood immediately. The woman wasn't thinking of what to say next, she was thinking of what
not
to say. Someone else might have blundered on with
Is Aunt Sarah with you?
or
I'd like to meet Aunt Sarah one day
, or the worst thing imaginable,
What about your mother?

At last, the woman apparently saw the way ahead too fraught with pitfalls, for she took an alternate path.

"Mackenzie? Are you somewhere safe? Is someone looking out for you?"

The girl's grin broadened. "Oh, I'm safe, alright. …..I'm with Mace!"

Mason took the girl's hand in his and smiled warmly. Mackenzie smiled back and gave his hand a little squeeze.

"I'm glad to hear it, sweetie. And Mace is taking good care of you?"

Again, the careful selection of words. Clearly this 'Mace' wasn't her father, but it wasn't '
Uncle
Mace', either. It was just '
Mace'
. If Mackenzie was in any kind of trouble, this woman wanted to know, and Mason had no doubt that she'd move heaven and earth to find this 'Mace' guy and kick his ass from here to Timbuktu.

Good for you, Christine
,
…
…he thought, doffing an imaginary cap to this unknown woman caring about a child she'd never met and would never live to know.
Good for you…..

Mackenzie looked at the floor, and her cheeks blushed adorably, "I trust Mace. He's not my dad, but he kind of is."

Mason felt a tear forming in the corner of his eye and turned back to the side window. The sight of the dead things closing in on the truck took his mind off of his melting heart, but it didn't last long. Mackenzie gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and he forgot all about the swarm.

The radio crackled again. "Where
are
you, Mackenzie?"

The girl looked to Mason for an answer, and he hesitated. Should he lie? He didn't mind this unknown woman knowing their location, but anyone else with a working radio would know it too. But
was
there anyone else? And perhaps more importantly, if he lied to keep their location a secret, would it count as lying to Mackenzie? Ultimately, he coached the girl word by word so she could explain it all clearly.

Mackenzie echoed his whispered prompts, "We're in….what, Mace? Oh….. SoMa….heading, uh, south to……uh, Mission Creek." Then she added her own words with genuine excitement, "We're going to meet Sarah!"

"That's good to hear, sweetie," the voice said, then it started to quiver, "I hope you find her, and I hope you can all get away from here, safe and sound."

The radio keyed off abruptly. The woman was crying again, but she didn't want this anonymous child to hear it, and all Mason could think was,
God bless you, Christine. ……I wish I'd known you…..

"Where are
you?"
Mackenzie asked into the mike, "Are you close by? Maybe we could come there after we meet Sarah. We have oranges!"