S.W. Tanpepper's GAMELAND: Season Two Omnibus (Episodes 9-11) (99 page)

He found Ramon collapsed halfway up the steps of the house, the side of his face glistening with fresh blood from a gash on his scalp and his clothes torn and burned. Another figure lay in the shadows behind the porch railing, but Drew could tell from the smaller build that it wasn't Marion. The big man was nowhere to be seen.

“Ramon!” he whispered hoarsely, grabbing him by the collar and shaking him out of his stupor. “What happened?”

Ramon's eyes opened and he tried to focus them on Drew's face. He mumbled something about the car exploding.

Damn military
, Drew thought, envisioning a rocket blast.

“Where's Marion?”

Ramon coughed. The motion seemed to cause him a tremendous amount of pain. He clutched his head and groaned.

Drew stood up and went over to the stranger. It was an infected man, but his infection was like Cassie's. By the angle of the man's head relative to his body, Drew ascertained that his neck had been violently snapped. The skin was stretched so taut that it had actually torn. Tiny droplets of a thin yellowish liquid oozed out. An old bandage on his hand, now filthy, fell easily away. The wound underneath was small, twin jagged arcs covered in pustules. The bite was the size of the one on Cassie's arm.

Drew went back over to Ramon and tried to lift him. The old man tied to the mailbox was gone, but there were other infected on the street now, and they were beginning to take notice of the movement on the porch. His own protection from them would do Ramon no good.

“Let's get you inside.”

But the front door of the house was locked. He cursed and jiggled the knob, then knocked and waited while keeping his eyes on the approaching figures. His thoughts went to Marion. What had happened to his friend?

Ramon groaned again and stirred.

“Keys,” Drew whispered urgently. “Ramon, where are your keys?

Ramon lifted his hand drunkenly to his face and mumbled something. His eyes opened. “Where arrrreeee?” he asked.

“Your house,” Drew hissed in reply. “Get up! Where are your house keys?”

He ended up searching through Ramon's pockets himself, but finally found the keys clutched in Ramon's other hand.

A quick glance back. The dead were now on the lawn, four of them. More were coming.

“Marion's dead,” Ramon slurred, as he tried to get to his feet. He seemed to sense the urgency of the moment.

Drew fumbled the keys, forcing each one into the lock and twisting.

“He was shot, bitten.”

Drew forced another key in. It jammed and wouldn't come out. The key twisted and bent. “Damn it!” he shouted, banging on the door, no longer heedful of the noise. “Boy! Open up!” With a cry of anger, he yanked on the ring and finally managed to extract the stuck key. He tried another. And then another, until he found the one that fit.

“Open the door,” Ramon said, falling against Drew. He was more aware now, and there was a keen, desperate edge in his voice.

The first of the dead had reached the bottom of the steps. It stumbled and fell face first and began to crawl.

Drew turned the key and felt the deadbolt slide out of the jamb. With a vicious twist of the knob, he threw his shoulder into the door. And the two men tumbled into the house.

 

“The final stage isn't acceptance, folks. It's deception.”

—
WDQR shock jock Jeremy “Jay Bird” Burt

* * *

—cornered! This is it, folks! Listen, they're here. They've found me, people. If anyone's still out there listening, keep spreading the truth!

[muffled sounds, sharp blasts]

They've got the roads blocked off now. Tanks at every exit, corralling me in. This is it, people. This is the end.

Come on, you assholes! Come and get me! What are you waiting for!

Spread the tru—

[static]

 

“Lyssa, stop!” Ramon shouted. He shoved the boy aside and tried to open the sliding door, but his fingers fumbled with the latch. “No!” But she acted as if she didn't hear him.

With a wretched cry of anguish, Lyssa shoved the zombie girl's face into their daughter's leg, and there was nothing for the thing to do but bite. The mouth opened.

Ramon weakly slammed his shoulder into the glass. It shuddered beneath his weight but didn't break. The latch released, but the door was stuck. He couldn't open it. “Lyssa!” He slapped futilely at the glass and tried the handle again.

But then he saw that he was too late. There was blood now, bright red and dripping down Cassie's leg into the grass. Blood filling the sick, dead girl's mouth, slipping down her chin. Blood mixing with the infection.

“Oh no!” Ramon cried. His knees gave out and he slid down the door. “No, no! Oh no, please God, no!” he wailed.

Lyssa stood back, a look of shock on her face. She raised her hands to her face, then turned toward the house. She took a step away, stumbled, and collapsed into a dead faint on the grass.

The little zombie girl pushed away from Cassie's leg. She didn't feed. She was clearly not interested. Instead, she turned. It took her a moment to notice Lyssa.

Ramon curled into a ball at the base of the door, only dimly aware of the struggle occurring at the front of the house, where Drew was pushing back the dead trying to get inside. His vision blurred, then refocused on the metal track at the base of the door, at the wooden dowel which had been wedged into it to keep it from being opened. He reached forward with numb fingers and pulled it free.

Who put this here?

He lunged to his knees and pulled the door open just as the dead girl began to bend over Lyssa, opening her mouth.

“Stop!” he cried out, hurtling down the steps into the yard. “Get away from her, you bitch!”

He reached the girl just as she fell upon Lyssa, and he shoved her to the side, sending her rolling into the garden.

“Ramon?” Lyssa said, her voice weak. “I'm so sorry.”

The girl climbed to her feet and began to toddle back, a blank stare on her face and a low hiss seeping from her throat. She opened her mouth again and the sight of Cassie's blood inside it enraged Ramon. He charged the girl again, knocking her back, sending her flying deeper into the garden. But she still got back to her feet and came forward again.

With a cry of despair, Ramon lifted her up by the hair and one leg and heaved the child over his head. He could feel her scratching at him, trying to twist her head around, and for a moment he thought her neck would dislocate with the effort. He hurled the dead girl over the six-foot wooden fence into the neighbor's yard. She landed with a heavy thump; almost immediately she began to scratch at the planks to get back inside.

“Daddy?”

He stumbled over and dropped to his knees by his daughter's side. The weight of the sky had fallen upon his shoulders. He lifted his face just as the heavy clouds shifted, letting in some of the pre-dawn gray. And then the world began to cry, and its tears could not comfort him. They stole his own tears from his eyes and washed them into the earth.

Blackness turned to gray as he held his daughter and she begged him not to let her die. And even when Lyssa came to them and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, it was their pain to share, their pain and guilt, and these things were so unspeakably immense that the agony fused them into one entity for one final moment. Mother and father and daughter held on.

Then, with a final soft release of air from her lungs, Cassie slipped away.

* * *

Standing in the opening of the sliding glass door, the infected dead once more banished from the house, the boy watched the two parents in silence. And this time he really could feel the smile spreading across his lips.

He hadn't counted on the father coming back in time, but he was glad he had. Now there were two faces of agony when he'd only been expecting one.

 

“I can't leave her.”

There was another thump from the far side of the house as Cassie scratched at the bathroom door and moaned to be let out.

“She needs me.”

Two full days had passed since the girl had died. Outside, the late morning sun shone down on the still-kempt lawns, and the greenness of the grass seemed to brighten the very air. The past couple of days had been filled with the sounds of gunfire and distant explosions, but the new day had dawned with an ominous sense of tranquility. The street out front was completely deserted.

In many ways, the view from the window was the picture of normalcy. A few trashcans still stood at the curbs, waiting for their owners to retrieve them. Cars remained parked in the driveways of a couple houses. The overnight showers had given the street a fresh new look.

Drew checked out the window and sighed. In a few weeks, the first obvious signs of neglect would become evident.

“I think it'd be best if we all left as soon as we can,” he said, turning to face the others. “This lull may be the only chance we'll get. And I fear what's to come next.”

He went over to the radio and stood in front of it for a moment listening to the prepared message being played. It'd been two days since he'd heard his friend's voice, two days since the airwaves had been completely taken over. Across the dial, the same official statement played, the same lies Jeremy had warned them would be told:

The epidemic which has swept over Long Island has now been contained. The worst of it was centered in the eastern half and the first attempts to cleanse and reclaim the western cities are now in operation. For those residents still trapped and who wish to leave, bridge authorities are reopening lanes. There is no ferry or air service. Tunnels remain inaccessible. Anyone wishing to leave must undergo a screening process at one of the authorized exit points to prevent further spread of this unfortunate disease. A small device will also be surgically implanted to assist authorities in monitoring the virus spread. At this time, there is no entry onto the island.

Health authorities have now confirmed that the deadly outbreak began in a testing lab in the famous Brookhaven National Laboratories and was due to an accidental exposure of a laboratory worker to a new virus sent there from the controversial animal research facility located at Laroda Island. This small, remote laboratory has been the subject of several investigations in the past, for health code violations as well as suspicion of conducting illegal experiments. The founders, Doctors Ramon and Lyssa Stemple are believed to be among the first victims of the disease they willfully and maliciously created.

The exact costs of the outbreak will not be known for several months, as health officials and scientists work to assess the damage. They are continuing to uncover new and previously unforeseen consequences. For example, the spread of the virus has been especially aggressive among the military's Omegaman Forces, forcing officials to consider that the virus was created as a terrorist act specifically aimed at decimating these elite soldiers. FBI and NSA agents are gathering evidence linking the act to at least two governors of the Southern States Coalition. If not for the swift response of government scientists on the Omega project team, the entire Marine division might have been decimated. However, in an ironic twist of fate, the infected Omega individuals were found to retain all of their previous capabilities but are now, in fact, much easier to control and maintain using the neural implants already in place.

However, until the virus is completely eradicated, the threat to the civilian population remains high. Consequently, the government is strongly recommending that all citizens consider receiving a neural prosthetic which will help restrict the spread of any future outbreak. The devices will remain inactive and will only be activated if infection is detected.

With a sound of disgust, Drew flicked the radio off. He hoped Jeremy was still alive, that he'd managed to get out safe and that he was holed up somewhere for the time being. But after two days with no word, he feared the worst.

He'd finally found Marion late the previous evening a couple blocks away. Half the man's scalp had been torn away. Drew made no mention of the sighting to either Ramon or Lyssa. They already had too much to deal with to add their guilt.

“We're almost out of food.”

The boy stood in the kitchen doorway looking uncertain. Drew turned to him and frowned.

“What? I'm just saying we can't stay here forever. Sheesh.”

“Give us a few minutes, son,” he said. “Please.”

The boy left without another word, but he was clearly displeased with the brush-off.

“You heard what they're saying,” Drew said, pushing the Stemples. They'd been almost insensate with grief, but they couldn't stay here. Each day that passed made them all the more vulnerable. “They think you two are dead, and that'll buy you a little time. But as soon as they've regained control of the island and have some spare manpower, they will come looking for you to verify their suspicions.”

And me.

“You need to leave now while there's still a chance of getting you out.”

Lyssa slumped in her seat at the table and lowered her head into her arms.

“How?” Ramon asked hollowly. The question felt more to Drew like a reflex than anything else.

He turned to Ramon and was struck once more with the emptiness in the man's eyes. He'd aged twenty years in two days. Shock was etched on his face, shock and disbelief. It weighed on him, pulling every visible and invisible part of him down. Only when his gaze encountered Lyssa did something awaken within him.
Horror
, Drew thought. Horror, dismay, betrayal. Abhorrence, even.

And, somehow, incredibly, pity.

He couldn't blame the man for the way he felt. Their son's death had knocked them to their knees, but at least then there'd been hope of them getting back up again again. But this . . . .