36 Hours (43 page)

We abandoned the cots and sifted through the crowd, discovered a rickety stairwell leading to the roof. A soldier guarded it. I approached him. “Can we go up there?”

“For what?”

“It’s stuffy down here,” I said. Pointing to Hannah, “She’s nauseous. The cramped conditions are murdering her, wearing her down psychologically.”

“Never heard of that before.”

“Never heard of claustrophobia?”

Hannah panted, “I just want some… openness.”

The man shrugged. “I guess. Don’t go anywhere, though. It’s not safe.”

It’s not safe.

“Don’t worry. We’ve had enough… excitement.”

He allowed us to pass and we climbed onto the roof. The man we’d met was already there, and part of me wanted to go back down the steps. But the man saw us and waved us over. From the roof we could see across the airfields, the airports landing, taxiing, the trucks ferrying people back and forth, the bloodied and thankfully sparse executions. Beyond barbed-wire fencing were the suburbs. Smoke rose in columns, blood red in the morning sun, and between houses, some burning, there were flashes of movement, running, soldiers, trucks, gunfire. Much of the distance was clouded in faint smoke.

“It’s moved several miles,” the man said. He pointed off to the right. A sideroad revealed Army trucks driving towards the dense suburbs. “The neighborhoods stretch for miles, all the way to the mountains. Millions of homes, millions of alleys and backyards and streets. Each infected finds new ways to come towards us. They can smell us. Every now and then one slips past the defenses. I saw one or two reach the fences this morning, but soldiers shot them in the head and they fell into the grass.”

Helicopters flew overhead. Dozens of them. Blackhawks with soldiers hanging out the open doors, gripping M16s; the soldiers on the miniguns opened up on the streets below, blazing between the houses. Huey gunships rocketed over us, the front ends lighting up like fireworks, drenching streets and homes and backyards in molten lead. We sat on the roof for about ten minutes, just Anthony Barnhart

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watching it all, seeing what we could. It was mayhem. We could barely see it, but from all the constant gunfire, the distant yells and screams, the explosions –

things weren’t going well. A turn in my stomach – maybe the man wasn’t so crazy. Or he could be senile.

A car wreck serves as a barricade. Soldiers lean on the smoldering ruins, firing clips, throwing grenades. The infected fall like flies, but more appear from the courtyards and alleyways. The captain yells, “Retreat!” but it’s too late – the infected crawl over the wreckage and assault the soldiers. A soldier is hit by bursts of gunfire, crippled, falls, is beaten and ripped apart by the monsters. Those trying to run are cut off and overtaken, bitten, screaming, as they are clawed up and eaten alive. The survivors jump into a truck and drive away, the infected clinging to the sides.

A Huey gunship roars over a main street, blazing the lanes between the cars. Infected thrust about, torn and riddled by bullets, dismembered and gut-ridden. Blood gushes onto the cement. Unless hit in the head, they do not die – and so they pick themselves up and continue, crawl along the earth with missing limbs. Closer and closer.

A truck crashes into another car; the engine is damaged. Those within are trapped on all sides by the infected. The infected crawl onto the roof. Soldiers in the back fire into the infected crowds, dropping piles at the back of the truck. They run out of ammunition and the infected scramble inside; the truck shakes as the soldiers are eaten alive. The driver’s-side window is shattered and a head lurches inside, biting a chunk out of his arm; he leans to the side, screaming, and with a 9mm blasts away the skull of the biter. Blood gushes all over the leather seats; his world grows faint and quiet. He shoots lazily out the window, and his world goes black. The gun sinks from his grip. He falls over in the seat. Blood continues to gush as his eyes open, he leans forward, and he shrieks.

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A Humvee is pinned on all sides; the .50 caliber roars, the gunner swinging around in the turret, spraying everything that comes close. The gunners alongside the Humvee scream for a medivac. Someone is bitten. They are refused the order. They shoot the fellow soldier in the head, try again. The Blackhawk flies low, hovers, releases rope. They begin to climb. The .50 caliber gunner goes first, and the infected charge, realizing the gunfire has ended. They assault the Humvee, and begin to climb the ropes. The Blackhawk pilot begins to lift away with soldiers still climbing; one of the soldiers is bitten in the leg, his calf ripped to shreds. He loses strength and falls. The other soldier is almost there as the infected reach him; his friend turns his head, prays for forgiveness, and releases the rope latch. The soldier screams as he and the zombie fall through the air; his body smashes in a car, shearing metal and breaking the windshield. The zombie, beaten and bloodied, stands again.

A Blackhawk roars overhead, releasing tons of napalm. The fire stretches down a main rode, igniting trees and grass, fences and buildings. An entire section of neighborhood crackles and tears in the flames. The infected twist about, burning alive, slowly burnt to a crisp, brains fried. They writhe about in the fire and slowly stop. Inside a home, a hiding mother and two babies burn alive as the house is engulfed in fire.

“Can you hear it?” the man asked. “It’s getting louder.”

Infected appeared from the woods beside the airport, dozens of them. They ran up against the barbed wire and began to climb. A truck roared from beside the building, the soldiers loading guns. The infected dropped onto the airfield and began to spread out. Another truck sped towards the invasion. Gunfire lacerated the airfield, lead spitting in every direction. The infected fell. Any security was a sham as hundreds of infected appeared from the trees, rushing the fence, and climbing in mass. The soldiers in the truck shot into the fence; infected landed on the other side and rushed the truck, climbing all over it; the truck took a wild turn and collapsed, soldiers spilling from the rear. They used Anthony Barnhart

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their rifles to butt the infected but were overcome. They stood, bloody and bitten, ignoring their rifles, blending in.

The man snarled, “I hate being right.”

The… animals… swarmed the airfields. Those disbanding the airplanes were rushed into trucks and the trucks sped towards the main buildings. The man said, “There could be bitten in those trucks. See how they didn’t check? It’s all working out like it did in Salt Lake. The infected in the trucks blend with the crowds, get sick, die… and they rise again, and the virus or bacteria, or whatever, it spreads, and more people die – and they get up again. So this thing, this airborne virus, toxic plague, bioterrorism, space-borne microorganism, whatever it is… It reaches through the city. More people die. More people rise. Ratios change. It’s not like real war. You lose one to the enemy, the enemy doesn’t gain one. Here, each one you lose, is one they gain. Add up the numbers, and it doesn’t work.”

The infected were coming towards the buildings. Hannah was leaning forward. Shelley looked about.

“What are we doing here, then?” Shelley lurched.

“Waiting for death,” the man said. “What else is there to do?”

Hannah swallowed. “Run? Again?”

“I’m tired of running,” the man said. “I’m just going to stay here.”

“And die?”

“I won’t be dead. Dead
ish
.”

The infected reached the airfield closest to us.

I turned and ran across the roof. Hannah followed. Shelley grabbed the man by the shoulder: “Come with us.”

“No thank you. Look at me. Eighty years old. I’m too old to run! Besides, doesn’t it fascinate you? What is it
like
to be them? That’s what I keep thinking about. It’s almost romantic. Some people say these things are dead. Just like corpses, up, walking around. I don't know WHAT they are, but I know that's bullcrap. These things, they’re driven. I’ve seen them up close. Such a simple life. It isn’t complex. Eat, walk, eat, survive. It’s romantic, in a Walden kind of way. I am… jealous of them.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Who’re the zombies? I think
we’re
the zombies. Consumers of everything society thinks is appealing. We don’t think for ourselves anymore. We dedicate our lives to the wills of others. It’s sickening. We are the zombies. Is this Anthony Barnhart

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religious? Scientific? Are we to believe in God more? Not believe in God at al ?

How do you make sense of this when your family is trying to kill you? I don’t know all of that, but I believe it is salvation. A baptism of sorts. I’m ready. I’m prepared.”

The infected attacked a group of refugees outside the doors, beating them down and spilling blood.

Baptism.

Shelley reeled away and ran to join us. The infected rounded the edge of the building and overcame the gate guards. The guards fired away but fell under the beatings and the savage snarls. The infected ran through the refugee camp. Men and women and children screamed, pressed tight, shoulder-to-shoulder. The food distributors fled as the infected smashed through the tables, knocked over the soup and bread, the drinks. People fell under the infected, only to stand again and lashed out. The Jews praying didn’t move; the infected beat the prayer and assaulted the others. The only exit, too small for the multitudes, bulged at the edges as people flooded into the building. Innocents were trampled under the panic and screams. I looked down from the rooftop and saw all of this. Tents were shredded, torn down, trapping people underneath, only to be crushed underfoot. The soldier at the foot of the steps fired blindly into the crowd; and infected crawled all over him, and another monster joined. They rushed the staircase to the roof, snarling at us.

The man raised his arms. “Thank God!”

The infected turned, saw him sitting cross-legged, raising his hands towards Heaven. He yelled at us, “Run, fools! Run!” We bolted. Hannah looked back and later told me that he screamed, “Into thy hands I commit my spirit!” as the infected ripped into him, biting him in the neck. He screamed joyous rapture as blood ran down his cheeks and nose, his eyes, and as he died he clapped his hands and praised, “Redemption is in the blood!”

As we climbed a ladder to the roof of another building and entered through a door, I looked behind me and saw the man stand, swivel, arms drooping, looking back and forth. He spied us and ran towards us. We shut the door and locked it tight, suspended in the darkness of a utility corridor. The door reverberated with bangs and hisses.

Salvation.

Shelley pushed us forward in the darkness, blindly running his hand over the walls. We passed grunting machinery. Shouts and screams and gunshots echoed Anthony Barnhart

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in the back of our minds. He found a door at the end of the corridor and shoved it open. Administrative offices with fogged windows lined the wall. A door opened and a man exited. He saw us standing in the hallway and asked, “What’s happening?”

Remembering the words of the man, I said, “It’s the Alamo.”

“Overrun?”

“Just like the other cities.”

“How is that possible? The Army…”

“Failed,” Hannah said. “Is there any quick way out of here?”

“Only through the lobby! That’s the only exit!”

Shelley breathed, “We’d better hurry. Show us the way?”

The man paused. “No. No, I’m staying here.”

“What? It’s being overrun, you can’t-“

He opened the door wide. His wife and children huddled inside. He said,

“We’re just going to… stay together.”

Shelley nodded. “Okay. God’s blessings go with you.”

“And with you,” the man said. He shut the door.

I knocked on the door. He opened it. I asked, “Which way?”

“Left,” he said. “You’ll come to an intersection, go right, first left is the stairs. Hurry. I can hear them.”

He shut the door and we bolted. We followed his direction and reached the stairwell. Below was a door. Shelley busted it open and we stepped out onto a landing. Below us were the baggage claims, the service desks. It wasn’t quiet and empty like Missouri. People were everywhere, flooding out the lobby doors, screaming and crying, holding onto family. Soldiers entered through the lobby, shouted orders. They were pushing people out the doors. Soldiers opened fire on the glass windows, shattering them, so people could escape faster. People fell under the panic and were trampled.

Shelley discovered the stairs down. “Guys!” We raced down to another level, turned, took a stairwell down to behind the service desk. We blended into the crowd, holding tight to each other, lost in a sea of strangers bound for an unknown destination. The shouts and screams of the infected, guttural and inhuman, rang through the cavernous lobby. I looked back to see them coming down the moving escalators, torn and ragged, jumping on the stragglers. A bloodied man rushed past us, gripping his arm. He’d been bitten bad. A soldier spotted him, wrenched him to the side, and delivered a shot to his head. The Anthony Barnhart

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man’s brains splattered over the soldier’s boot. He dropped him and yelled,

“Out! Out! Out!”

The crowd pulsated forward, barely moving. Everyone tripped over everyone. I stepped on something mushy, looked down, and saw a little child’s hand, bruised dark purple. Her head and limbs had been smashed into the marble. A mother wailed.
Where is my child?

Pushed on by the crowd, left her forever. An infected came up behind us; Shelley punched him away. More were on all our sides. People fell, shrieking.

“Stay together!” Shelley yelled. “Stay together!” I felt like a sardine, squashed on all sides, and slowly those around us were becoming infected, dying, and reanimating. The numbers of survivors dribbled. Infected lashed out after us. We stepped over some muddied couches and crept through a shattered window, landing on the sidewalk.