36 Hours (14 page)

We froze, sucking in our breaths. My eyes fogged as I scanned the area. Desolate. Thunder.

The cop knelt down, and felt the ground. Then he stood, and gazed down the road. His ears perked, and I chuckled to myself, despite the madness, because he reminded me of a puppy from the Towne Mall. I followed his gaze and peered into the first tendrils of a snaking neighborhood. Quiet. The houses seemed to loom out at us like ghosts, spirits. And then my ears tickled, and I heard it, too. Bryon swallowed. “It’s a car.”

“It’s coming towards us,” I muttered.

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The cop said, “I don’t see it. Where is it?” The noise grew louder.

“It’s not on the-“

The trees to our right, spindly and young, bent over and the wheels of a Ford Bronco spun over them, shredding leaves and spitting soil. The Bronco lurched forward, sliding down the hill and ramped the curb of the road. The bulky driver within yanked the wheel around and barreled right at us. The grill rose at my face and somehow my legs jerked me to the side; the brakes squealed and the Bronco half-fishtailed, the motor roaring. Exhaust fumes gushed from the pipe; it smelt acrid and distasteful. I found myself lying on the ground, dirt caking the side of my face. And my back ached. The driver’s side window rolled down, and the driver glared at us. Heavy jowls, deep yet pearl eyes, a sonnet of a voice.

He looked over us, at the cop, kept on the cop. “Officer Jamison. Didn’t expect to see you out here.” The cop launched to his feet, jaws dropping. The man laughed. “Not gonna give me another citation for reckless driving are-“

“You fool!” Jamison roared. “Turn off the engine!”

“It’s okay. I refilled it before all this came-“

“No! No! The noise! They’re attracted-“

Bryon hit me in the shoulder and pointed to the trees. The flattened brush had been righting up, but was flattened as infected swarmed after us, a skeleton crew. They seemed amazingly fast and yet surprisingly slow. My muscles zipped into shock and adrenaline pumped. My legs carried me up off the ground. The driver peered through his rear-view mirror. “I thought I lost them.”

Bryon choked, “All of Spring Falls is overrun! You can’t lose them!”

“Jump in the back!” the driver exclaimed. “Jump in the back!”

What else were we to do? They were attracted to the sound, God knew. But
what else to do?

Where to hide?

Jamison jumped into the back. Bryon hurled himself in. I jumped up, clambered over, but slipped and fell. Clumsy. My muscles weren’t-Bryon roared, “What are you
doing! Austin! They’re right there!”

I didn’t falter the second time; legs dangling upwards over the edge of the bed, the truck screamed away; I feared I would fall out, but Bryon wrenched me into the back. I thudded around several barrels of insecticide and fertilizer. One had opened and purplish-gray crystals spilled out everywhere; Jamison bumped his arm into the fertilizer, reeled backwards. “It burns!” His feet slipped over the Anthony Barnhart

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bed and he tripped backwards, hitting the edge of the bed and tumbling overboard. The truck jumped; “He fell! He fel !” I banged my hands on the rearview window of the cab.

But it was too late. Jamison’s arm had been crushed under the tires; he withdrew his pistol and fired several rounds into the beasts, shattering their skulls and tearing through chests. The futile humans fell, but his magazine emptied; he screamed for help as they overcame him, ripping at his flesh and biting at his veins. We saw the red of blood before the mutants completely engulfed him, a swarming, sickening mass.

My hands weakened and I slumped down, abandoned banging on the window. Too late.

We were nearing the intersection. Bryon turned around. “At least he took some down with-“

My mind doesn’t recall what happens next. I guess it is like all accidents. In the movies they happen in slow-motion, and can take up to minutes to end. But in real life, the truth is much quicker. I estimate it all happened in about two seconds, maybe three—at the most. I was watching the mass of infected over the body of the cop—was he to become one of them?—when the death-throes of metal, the shredding of rubber and the bursting frenzy of squelching air filled my ears. Then my vision tilted, and my stomach leapt into my throat. The barrels rushed at me and hit me head-on, ramming into my chest; I flipped over and one bashed my hand pretty bad. Grunting in agony, I saw the foreboding storm clouds replaced by bright green, and suddenly the dirt erupted all around me in a storm, and I heard nothing but roaring and screeching metal. Pitch darkness. Then the darkness lit up with an incredible brightness, and I saw the sky again, and my chest heaved as I lay on the grass, next to a tree. I heard the crunching of metal and tires and then complete silence. Birds fluttered out of the tree.

Disoriented, confused, I climbed to my senses, found I was on a slope. Deep tire marks gouged the earth, and pockets of dirt had been torn up. I loped up the hill, all too aware of the pain I was in, the bruises and brakes of my body mending a web of pain in my mind. I grabbed the tree for support and reached the flat lawn. The police department to our left, library to the right. And the wrecked hulk of the Bronco right in front of me, flames gushing from the cab, where the engine had caught fire and exploded.

“Bryon!” I called and raced towards the wreck.

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A figure crawled up from the shadow of the disaster. Bryon’s scrawny figure. I felt the heat of the flames, and knew we could be engulfed in a firebal any minute. “Bryon…” I knelt down next to him and grabbed his hand. Memories of George flashed through my mind, but I shoved them away. Not this time. His hand was warm. Hadn’t George’s been cold? I ripped him towards me, and he cursed under his breath. But he stumbled with me, away from the wreck. He fell against a tree and stood, breathing hard. A large gash ran the length of his triceps, leaking blood in torrents. He tore off part of his shirt and wrapped it up.

“What about the driver?” he asked.

The flames. “I don’t think so.”

“Geez. No mercy.”

“What?”

“They’re coming.”

The infected ran across the street towards us, leaving the cop’s location. The cop was gone.

Bryon muttered something under his breath. “I can’t run… I can hardly walk…”

“The Station. Come on.” I grabbed him by the arm, brushing tender flesh. He slapped my hand away. “Whatever. Just
come on
.” We jostled over the lawn, onto the hard concrete lot of the police station, over the sidewalk. The infected ran after us from the entrance to the Station. We wheeled around the corner and a police-man rushed at us, swinging a club. We both ducked, and the cop looked startled, then yelled, “Inside! Inside!”

We hopped through broken glass and into a lobby. Potted plants had fallen over. The desk was empty.

The cop came in after us. “To the back. The back!”

“Where!”

Bryon led the way. He’d been here enough. We reached a barred, iron, padlocked door. The cop drew a key and unlocked it. It took several tries. He was shaking so bad. The infected jumped through the glass, some falling over
clumsy
and they bashed down the front door. The cop pushed us in and shut the iron door, locking it tight. We backed up from the bars just as the infected hit it like a hammer. The door shuddered, but held. They drooled from the lips, wild eyes rolling in the sunken sockets. Blood covered their hands and mouths. We stood behind the cop, watching. The cop drew a pistol, aimed, fired. The infected clawing at the door was thrown backwards as the slug tore through his Anthony Barnhart

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forehead and exploded through the back in a spray of blood and brains. The other infected snarled and raced the door. We flinched. The gunshot echoed. Another fell, and he fired again as they fell back. The victim fell against the desk, groping at anything as blood covered the shirt on her back. The others raced back out the door and window, hollering in inhuman wails. Bryon and I shivered, the fright taking over. It was dark in here, and cold.

“It scares them off,” the cop said, unmoving. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s their buddies falling dead. Or the sound of the gun blast. I don’t know. But whatever it is, it scares them away.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Thank you. Really.”

“Don’t mention it.” He turned, sliding the gun into a holster. We all shook hands. He said, “Welcome to our little fort. We’ve got good ammunition and good fortification. We have withstood all attacks. Can’t leave, though. They’re like hornets out there. Before long, all of Spring Falls—the world—will fall. But I am happy to see two fine young boys alive. How are things?”

The question rang in my ears.
How are things?
“How do you think they’re going?”

“Badly. Very badly. Tell me. Are you hungry? No? Thirsty? Ah. Yes. We have water. And lots of it.” He led us down a corridor to an open room. Several desks filled the room, some covered with papers and lamps and computers. The walls were drenched with
Wanted
posters and maps and a bulletin board—
Staff
Donuts and Coffee Tuesdays and Thursdays
. A coffee pot dripped stale coffee, forming a pool of crust over the bottom of the pot. The cop swung open a storage door and revealed a deep room lined with stocked goods—everything from food to water, to radios and weapons. Cheap weapons, but weapons. He lugged out a five-gallon water bucket and thumped it on the desk. “We don’t have cups, so… Think of it as an upside-down water-fountain.”

I went first. The water gushed into my parched mouth, swollen tongue—a river-dance of life.

Bryon said, “Radios. Why don’t you call for help.”

“We tried. But no one answers. No one’s out-putting signals anymore.”

“Nowhere?”

He shook his head. “I said, we tried.”

“We?”

The cop nodded. “The captain. And two others. They’re in the back.”

“I thought
this
was the back.”

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“Back back.”

Bryon was silent. I wondered if he knew something we didn’t. I stopped drinking, handed it over to him. Bryon was wary, and drank with an eye constantly on the cop. I didn’t have such quarrels. I collapsed into a cheap couch against a wall. “So what’s the plan, man?”

“Plan?” the cop returned with a smile. “Our only plan is to survive. To live. Is there anything else now?”

No. I guess there wasn’t. Darwin would’ve been happy. Survival of the fittest. The cop headed for a door labeled
Staff Only
. “Don’t you guys wander off. I’l be back. With some food. Calm down. You’ll get hungry.” He went through the door and it swung shut. An audible lock, and it was bolted tight. Bryon stopped drinking, stood. “This isn’t right, man.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something’s wrong. He’s hiding something.”

“Hiding something? He just saved our life.”

“Keep an eye open. That’s all I’m saying.”

Frustration. “You’re paranoid.”

“Paranoid or not, it’s obvious. Something’s up.”

“You have no reason to-“

“Why was he outside? Why not in here? Where it’s safe?”

I shrugged. “Maybe he heard the crash?”

“No. That wouldn’t drag him out. It wouldn’t drag anyone out.”

“Bryon, who cares? We’re alive because of him. Show a shred of gratitude, man.”

Bryon shook his head. The door opened back up.

“Sorry,” the man said. “Here.” He dropped some canned tuna onto a desk.

“Good protein.”

“Got a can opener?” I asked.

He miraculously fished one from his pocket and dropped it into my hands.

“We used to have a cat run around the Station. Fed it tuna. No, it’s not cat food. Don’t worry. We’ve been eating it. That and candy leftovers from the ‘Police Officer Appreciation’ festival a week back. So.” He took a seat on the couch; Bryon watched him warily, and I popped open a can of tuna, peeling back the lid, and wrenching chunks out, chewing the bitter meat. “What’re you guys doing out here?”

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Bryon gave me a glare. I ignored it. “I was trying to get home. I’ve been halfway across town. We were doing just fine until some guy came down the subdivision, engine so loud. See, I think they’re attracted to the noises. They hear something, and go after it.”

“Like hunting,” the officer ventured.

Pause. Contemplation. “Yeah. Hunting.” A chill ran up my spine. Hunting

Continuing, “So this guy comes at us, and those people—the sick people—are right behind him, and they’re swarming like those cicadas coming this spring, and since we couldn’t outrun them—don’t they ever get tired?—we jumped in the back of the truck. One of us slipped and fell, and was killed. I don’t know how it happened, but I guess the truck flipped over, carrying us with it, and me and Bryon, we escaped without too much bashing and bruising, but the cab went up in flames, and the driver—probably—didn’t make it out. So we just ran the other direction, and that was around the police station—
this
police station—and that’s when you ran into us.” I took a moment to swallow down some fish.

“Where’d you come from?”

“The grocery store down the street. There’s about twenty people holed up in there now.” And I’m afraid I’ll never see them again. Then, “So your plan is to just sit tight?”

He laughed. “What do you think? What can we do?”

“You’re just hanging out?”

“We’re not going on suicide missions. Look. Just lay low. We have enough food.”

“Enough food? For how long? You’re going to starve to-“

He silenced me, cutting the air with his hand. “You were at a grocery store, right? Did you see any of these monsters eat?”

Monsters. People. People degraded into monsters. Wasn’t it the truth, though?

“Yes.”

“What did they eat?”

Morosely, “Each other.”

“Did the ones who got eaten, did they get back up?”

“No.”

“Right. And did you see them grabbing food off the aisles?”