The Great Wreck (45 page)

None
of those figures could be James. He wasn’t immune from the dead. They chased
after him as fast as they did me. James wasn’t out there. That was all that
mattered. I quickly walked over to the door and poked my head inside. The dead
had mostly cleared out and the few figures I could see moving around in the
gloom far below me were not giving off any heat signatures. I closed and sealed
the door back up and made my way back to my camp,

Fucking
creepy, I thought as I crawled into my sleeping bag and tried to block out the
sight of the girl holding the dead person’s hand. I fell asleep, finally, and
was happy to not dream of the dead, the strange dead, the immune children, or
sprinters.

I
was jolted out of my sleep just before the sun rose the next day by the subtle
vibration passing through the roof of the hanger, through my sleeping bag, and
into my bones. Another quake? I wondered as I rolled over to go back to sleep.
Why get up? The dead would still be everywhere so I might as well sleep the day
away as much as I could.

But
the dead had other plans and began screaming at the top of their lungs. I
sprung up out of my sleeping back grabbing my pistols and raced to the edge of
the roof. Looking down, I could see the dead were all running and screaming for
all they were worth northward again. I slid down with my back against the wall
breathing heavily and waiting for my heart to slow down. It looked like it
would be another long day of listening to the dead as they moved on by.

*
     
*
     
*

It
was exactly that: another long bake on top of the hanger as the sun cranked up
the heat and the dead moved north. I busied myself setting out my solar charger
and hooking up all my electronic gear to it. I listened to Sandia warn others
to take shelter, and scanned the horizon expecting James, against all odds to
be out there, walking among the dead like those freaky kids, without a care in
the world.

It
was like that the next day as well.

And
the next.

And
the next.

And
the one after that.

And
the one after that I began losing my mind.

After
a week of sitting up on that roof, I thought I might just jump in and head
north with the dead. The pain would be excruciating but it would be over in a
few minutes tops whereas the boredom of sitting up here day in and day out was
driving me insane and showed no signs of letting up.

I
started to see James everywhere. First, just in my dreams but at least then I’d
wake up with a start and he’d be gone. Then I started seeing him when I was
awake, scanning the crowds of dead on I-25. I see him walking along in his
cowboy boots and he wave at me. The shock would jolt me out of my reverie and
I’d see that it was just some dead guy who vaguely looked like James.

Then
I’d see him again a few hours later. Sometime heading over the northern
horizon, sometimes just standing at the edge of the airport. I’d close my eyes
and when I opened them, he’d be gone. Or I’d see him at night boogying towards
Albuquerque just as happy as a pig in shit. It would take all of my control not
to scream at him, tell him to get the fuck out of here, take a hike, piss off,
and leave me alone. That would just attract the dead and they’d get all worked
up for an hour or so until they forgot again that I was there.

The
last time I thought I saw him, he was trekking along with a pack on and
everything. I swear it looked just like him: same hat, same boots, same cloths,
and same pack. I watched him come up over the southern horizon. I watched him
all day as he walked along with the dead. Every time I saw him, I’d rub my eyes
but when I opened them this time, I could still see him. Eventually he moved on
north and passed out of site.

I
had to keep telling myself that it wasn’t James, just some corpse that looked
like him. Had it been James, then he was well and truly dead. Otherwise the walkers
would have been on him in a flash.

The
next day the wave broke. I awoke and looked to the south and saw only a few
stragglers. I waited all that day and saw the last few pass the airport and watched
them until they passed over the horizon. A few hours later I turned on my radio
and heard Sandia state that survivors could begin heading towards the Sandia
access gate at the I-25 Exit 234 or, if they had a medical emergency, arrange
for retrieval. They cautioned however that more dead were gathering outside of
Las Cruces, Grant, and Santa Rosa and could begin migrating again at any
time.
 

I
got moving.

I
packed up my gear in no time and made my way down the stairs. When I reached
the portion that I had blown off a week before, I dropped my gear down then
tied a rope onto a strut and lowered myself down after. I packed up my bike and
rolled out onto the tarmac, past the airport’s fence, and onto the highway,
happy to be free at last of the hanger rooftop.

I
made it to the edge of Las Lunas just outside of Albuquerque late that day and
spotted a large group of water tanks to hide on top of. I was thinking I was
home free, that I would be in an Albuquerque safe house the next night. In just
a day or two I’d be at Sandia. My journey was nearing its end. But The Shit,
ever present and always willing to hit the fan, got rolling again the very next
day.

Albuquerque
I could see was another Phoenix, another Los Angeles but on a smaller scale.
The clouds of rot blew down on me as I entered the town of Las Lunas. I climbed
to the top of the water tank and began setting up for the night. I scanned
south along the I-25 freeway looking for any sign of James and like every
night, saw nothing.

That
didn’t stop me from setting up my camouflage netting around me. The tank was a
beige color so I pulled out my desert colored netting, moved to the far side of
the tank away from the highway, away from anyone who might be passing by and
see me, and set up my little nest.

After
I was done, I climbed down the tank and hiked back a mile south down the
highway carefully dodging the dead that had begun to increase in numbers
again.
 
I walked up a small ridge on the
west side of the highway and scanned my hiding spot and could see nothing. I
scanned south again looking for the telltale black figure on the horizon
watching for him waiting for him to show up and say “Well hodeee do,
motherfucker! Didn’t get very far before I found you, did you?” Then he’d start
to beat the shit out of me again, and then we’d have to kill each other.

But
the horizon was clear and satisfied, I moved back to my shelter for the night.

When it was
dark, I’d pull out my night goggles and looked again to see if he was sneaking
up on my while I slept. I had become far more afraid of James than of the dead.
The dead were predictable, James was not.

I
plugged in one ear bud of my radio and listed to Sandia Station warning
survivors of more waves of dead heading towards the Albuquerque area. Nothing
new there. I pulled out my now tattered and used map for the thousandth time to
locate the safe house I was aiming for. It was something called a B52, whatever
that was (maybe a building?), at a museum that the people at Sandia had sealed
up, ran power to from a small solar array, and stocked with food, ammunition,
weapons, and radio tuned to call Sandia. The safe house was located next to an
open field where they could come and retrieve the survivors. I would be there
tomorrow. I put my map away and scanned the horizon to the south one last time
before calling it a night.

As
usual, nothing living moved along the stretch of I-25. Maybe it would have
helped if I had looked north towards the city. Probably not. And what
difference would it have made?

In
the morning I scanned the horizon and surrounding area again for a whole hour,
looking back and forth first to the south to see if anyone was coming, then to
the north to map out my path through the Minor Wreck of Albuquerque.

I
looked at the map of the city and saw there was no belt route, no alternate
path around the downtown area. I sighed and began breaking down my shelter and
packing my gear.
 
That meant I was going
to have to make may way through the thick of the dead. I would have to take
I-25 north past the Albuquerque International airport before I could get off
the main highway and onto the side streets. But once I was past the airport, it
was only a few miles to the safe house.

Before I climbed
down the tower, I switched on my radio and listened to the Sandia update one
last time. I listened to Sandia issue another alert to all travelers. The dead
were moving in again from every direction except north and would be entering
the area late this afternoon.

I
had a just over thirty miles to go to get to the safe house. It was now six
o’clock and the sun was just coming over the mountains so I could be there by
nine or ten, at the latest. Enough time to get into the safe house, seal up,
and let Sandia know where I was.

I
checked that all of my gear was secured to my bike and trailer and looked
around me at the burnt out and ruined Wreck. I straddled the seat of my bike
hoping this was the last ride I’d have to make for a long time. I was right,
but not in the way I imagined.

I
pushed off and got rolling, cruising out of Las Lunas and along an open, empty
stretch of I-25 passing over the Rio again, then finally approaching the
Albuquerque airport turnoff. I stopped there, checked my map, and drank water
while listening to the radio. The dead were moving quickly into the area and
would now be here before noon. I looked at my watch: nine o’clock. I had move
slower than I had thought but still had plenty of time to reach the safe house.
I pushed on.

A
few miles later I exited I-25 onto Central Avenue and headed directly east passing
along the edge of a wrecked military airbase before finally hitting Eubank
Avenue. I stopped at the intersection of Central and Eubank looking south. I
could see the sign for the museum just a few blocks away. The radio broadcasts
had been becoming more and more urgent until the announcer was frantically
telling people to stay inside or to seek shelter immediately.

I
sprinted the last few blocks and rolled up the cast iron fence of the museum. I
found a reinforced gate with a keypad lock on it. The sign next to the gate
said the code was “1945” and the safe house was located inside the B52. I
punched in the code, the gate beeped, and I pushed open the gate. I rolled by
bike in and slammed the gate shut and looked around for a building marked
“B52.” There was nothing but a bunch of old planes, missiles, and trucks
scattered around the wide open yard. There was even the top half of a submarine
sticking up out of the dirt. Where the fuck was the safe house?

A
few blocks to the south, I could hear the dead screaming and coming this way. I
didn’t know what do. The museum itself had collapsed in and surely was not the
safe house. I could climb up on top of the roof if I had to, but the dead could
easily follow me if I was spotted. I looked south and could see the hordes
pouring around the buildings and into the streets. They would be here in
minutes. They would see me standing in the middle of the yard, pour over the
fence, and that would be it.
 

I
stood there, just a few yards for safety, and the dead would finally have me.
Maybe the safe house had been destroyed or maybe I was in the wrong place? It
didn’t matter. I didn’t have time to figure out where it might be and would
only have a few more minutes to decide what to do.

I
began pushing my bike towards the wreck of the museum building. It would have
to do. I glance south and saw the dead were just over a quarter mile away. I’d
have to scale the rubble and move to the other side of the roof and hope they
couldn’t see me.

As
I glance back I looked at the two massive airplanes sitting in the middle of
the museum yard. Too bad they weren’t open. Either one would have made a great
hiding spot. All metal, thick, small windows, doors that locked from the
inside…

And
then I saw the sign on the bigger of the two airplanes: B52.

The
airplane was the safe house. I dropped my bike and sprinted towards the
airplane as the dead approached the museum. I reached the door and undid the
bolts yanking the door open and jumping inside just as the dead hit the south
fence. They smashed up against the steel fence as I slammed the door shut,
locking it in place. I scrambled to the front of the aircraft to see if the
dead were pouring over the fence, but they had split apart and ran around the
outside.

There
were so many of them! I watched for ten minutes to make sure none of them had
spotted me as they poured past the museum. Finally I moved out of the cockpit
of the airplane and towards the back.

The
plane was gigantic. The Sandia people had torn out all the insides and set up
bunk beds, shelves of food and water, a small shower and bathroom, a rack of
weapons, and plenty of ammunition. All the way in the back, I found a small
desk with a radio set perched on top of it. I would wait until later to call
Sandi figuring they had enough on their hands right now than to listen to one
sole survivor in a safe house ask to come and pick him up.

I
looked out the north window of the airplane. My gear sat a few hundred feet away
but there was no way I was going out to get it. The dead would spot me in an
instant and swarm over the fence. I could get to the plane before they could
get to me but then they would know I was here and that would make it much
harder for the rescue people to come and get me. I had plenty of food and water
and even weapons here so I’d just wait until rescue came, then get what I
wanted from my old stuff when I left here. With that thought, I ate, drank
water, and rested from my morning’s ride. Afterwards I’d take a nice, long
shower!