Brian Keene (10 page)

"Thank you," Baker nodded, smiling gently.

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"Ellkohm!"

Welcome, perhaps?

Baker turned away to lay the rag on the sink, asking "My name is Professor Baker. What's yours?"

82 The boy made no reply. Baker looked back over his shoulder. The boy peered up at him curiously.

"Ellkohm!" he cheered again.

"What's your name, my friend?" Baker asked. The boy stared at his lips, brow knitted in concentration. He shook his head in frustration, and continued staring, waiting for Baker to repeat himself. He's reading my lips! He's deaf!

Baker knelt before him on the floor, forming his words carefully.

"My name is Baker," he pointed to his chest. "What is your name?" Understanding flickered in the boy's eyes and he clapped.

"Wohrm!" he chirped, poking a thumb at himself.

"Worm?" Baker queried. The boy nodded gleefully, and then pointed at Baker.

"Baykhar?"

"Yes, Baker." He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed. "It is very nice to meet you, Worm."

"Nyyyz to eeet oo!" Worm agreed.

Baker laughed, his tears and guilt forgotten for a moment. Baker shared his vending machine spoils with his new companion. Conversation was nonexistent, save for Worm's delighted grunts as he devoured the candy bars. He whistled and hooted in enjoyment, and Baker grinned.

How had he survived, alone and without guidance? Baker had no way of knowing.

He tapped Worm on the shoulder. The boy looked at him expectantly.

"Where are your parents?"

Worm's glance fell to his lap, a shadow passing

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83 beneath his soulful brown eyes.

"Mmm-myss," he stammered. "Myss eeght Mawmee."

"I don't understand," Baker told him, moving his lips carefully. Worm reared backward, holding his hands before him like claws. His lips wrinkled back into a sneer, and he squinted his eyes and began to squeak.

"Myss," he said again, crawling around the room on all fours. Then he looked at Baker for understanding.

"Mice?"

Worm nodded excitedly, then stopped, sadness washing over him again.

"Myss eeght Mawmee."

"Mice eight-?"

Worm made hungry sounds and gnashed his teeth.

Suddenly, Baker understood.

?Ate," he whispered, turning away. "Mice ate his mother. And I bet they weren't alive when they did it." Baker's guilt came flooding back, and he grew quiet.

After finishing his dinner, Worm produced a small, brightly colored rubber ball from his pocket, and began to bounce it on the floor, catching it in his palm each time. Baker watched until, finally exhausted, the scientist fell into a deep and troubled sleep. The nightmares followed him.

The thunderstorms arrived just before dawn, and the two of them awoke to a world that was as dark as when they had fallen asleep. Worm stared at the lightning in fascination, unable to hear the thunder that boomed across the valley with it.

Baker stepped into the parking lot and was drenched within seconds. Fat, cold raindrops splatted against the blacktop like bugs against a windshield. Resigned to staying put until the storm passed, Baker

84 took the opportunity to explore the Rest Area. Worm followed eagerly along behind him.

They raided a vending machine that dispensed bottled water, along with the rest of the snack machines. Baker paused at a newspaper box; frozen
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headlines from a not so distant but bygone era staring back at him. The President of Palestine warned that his country's economic problems could destabilize the entire Middle East, while the Israeli army was blocking aide shipments into the state because of terrorism concerns from the newly reactive Hezbollah. Phenyalamime, a popular food additive, had been found to cause cancer. The popular boardwalk at Ocean City, Maryland had washed away due to beach erosion and global warming effects. The President was assuring Americans that the Pentagon had not authorized human cloning, despite what sources were claiming. And then there was the RHIC, and Baker saw his name in print, along with Harding's and Powell's.

He moved on.

The restrooms yielded nothing useful, save for some extra rolls of toilet paper. The lobby sported dozens of tourist attraction fliers and not much else. A full-color road map hung on one wall, and Baker stopped to study it. Worm bounced his rubber ball behind him, singing softly. Baker refused to believe that it was all over. Surely, somebody out there was still alive, and working on regaining control; reversing the catastrophe. It was folly to consider mankind extinct.

So where could he find them?

From where he stood, he was close to many East Coast hubs. Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Baltimore, New York City, and the nation's capitol were all within five or six hours driving distance. But these major metropolitan areas had such high population areas, that they would be virtual death traps.

Baker ran a dirty finger down the map, frowning. It

85 seemed best to continue south into Pennsylvania, possibly crossing over into Maryland or Virginia. He traced the blue highway line. Harrisburg, while small, had a large urban population and would present the same problems. York and Hanover might be feasible. Although they had dense populations, both were surrounded by miles of rural communities and uninhabited farmlands and forests. The local governments in these areas could have kept up a fight, possibly barricading themselves against the enemy.

Farther south, just beyond Hanover, his finger stopped on Gettysburg. More than just a Civil War memorial, Gettysburg was near Camp David, and was rumored to be the location of something called "the underground Pentagon." Baker had earned himself friends in both congress and the military over the years, and his own security clearance was quite substantial. He knew things-things the public didn't know. Things like the fact that in the case of a war or a crippling terrorist
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attack, several of the country's leaders would be shuttled to a location in Gettysburg, where they'd be safeguarded while they did what was necessary to get the country operational again.

If there was any semblance of order left, the closest place to find it would be Gettysburg. They could take the turnpike southward, skirting only the outskirts of Harrisburg, then on to York, where they could lose themselves in the countryside and travel through the less populated back roads to Gettysburg.

He nodded to himself, convinced it was a good plan.

Of course, they could be killed at any time along the way. He considered transportation. Under normal conditions, Gettysburg was an approximate three-hour drive from where he stood. What the drive-and the roads-would be like now was anybody's guess.

Should they even drive, he wondered, or would a moving vehicle just attract more attention? He thought

86 about the young couple that he'd seen hunted by the zombies. The creatures could operate vehicles and use firearms. Their dexterity was slower, but they were still cunning-and lethal. Wouldn't a speeding vehicle, or even a slow-moving one, provide a much more apparent target for them than if he and Worm were to just stick to the fields and woods, and go on foot?

He sighed in exasperation. Walking was just as deadly; perhaps more so. That left them vulnerable not only to the human zombies, but to the rest of the living dead bestiary. Distance was also a factor. On foot, a three-hour drive became a one hundred and twenty-mile hike. Baker was by no means in bad shape. He'd taken advantage of Havenbrook's extensive physical fitness center every other day. Nevertheless, at fifty-five, he was no longer a young man, and two hours on an exercise bike three days a week were no comparison to a grueling journey on foot, especially one where danger was so prevalent.

Adding to his frustration was Worm. He couldn't just abandon him. The boy seemed to have survived on his own quite well so far, but now that Baker had discovered him (or was it the other way around, he wondered), he felt responsible for his new ward. Perhaps, Baker realized, he was making amends; trying to get back in God's good graces for the mess he'd helped to cause down here.

Driving it would have to be. That decided, he turned his mind to the task of finding transportation. There had been a few cars and trucks scattered among the rest area's parking lot, so that seemed a logical first choice.

He got Worm's attention, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
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"Stay here," Baker commanded. "I have to go out."

"Shugh Baykhar!" the boy smiled, giving him an okay sign with his fingers. Verifying the pistol had a fully loaded clip; he stepped out into the rain. Doubt gnawed at him. What was he

87 doing? He was a scientist, not a car-jacker. He hadn't the faintest idea how to hot wire a car, or even how to break into one without smashing the window or setting off one of those annoying car alarms that would alert every zombie in the tri-state area as to their location. The first three vehicles; a Saturn, Dodge truck, and a Honda, were locked. The fourth, a rusting "K" car, was unlocked, but missing it's keys. Baker rummaged halfheartedly through the glove compartment and under the seats before giving up and moving on.

The fifth car, a gray, compact Hyundai, was not only locked, but occupied. The keys lay on the ground, just beyond the driver's side door, still clutched in a severed hand. The rest of the body was missing; eaten or walking around Baker couldn't be sure, and all that remained was a dried reddish-brown spot on the blacktop.

The child in the backseat had probably been five or six years old. It glared at Baker through the window, baring its teeth in undisguised savagery and loathing. The child had been oriental; Chinese, Baker was sure. After a moment of fright, he paused, realizing that the zombie was trapped inside. He studied the situation, weighing the evidence. Obviously, he surmised after careful observance, the parent and this child had been set upon by the creatures. The parent had made certain the child was safely in the car first, but there was no time for themselves. Somehow, either through the parent's doing or the child's mistake, the child-safety locks had been engaged. After the death of the child (starvation, previous wound, shock-Baker ran off a litany of possible causes), the entity that took over its body was unable to work the safety locks because the child itself had no former memory of how to work them. It lacked the physical strength of an adult host, so attempting to smash through the window, as Baker had seen Ob do at Havenbrook, was fruitless.

How long had it sat there, trapped in this cage of

88 Detroit steel and Japanese engineering?

It looked very hungry. Ravenous in fact.

Baker tapped the glass with his finger, and the creature snarled; its rage muffled by the glass and the rain.

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Stooping, he snatched the keys from the dead hand.

The zombie tensed.

Baker placed the key in the lock and turned. The zombie sprang over the console and into the front seat.

With a speed that surprised even himself, Baker whipped the driver's side door open and aimed the pistol. Eyeing it, the zombie froze. A bulbous, gray tongue licked the split and cracked lips. It spoke to him in Chinese. When Baker didn't respond, it switched to the form of Sumerian that Baker had heard Ob use as well.

"You don't speak English," he observed in calm detachment, "because your host didn't know English."

The thing spat, its mottled fingers clutching at the seat tightly.

"But you know what this is, don't you?" Baker gave the pistol a slight shake. "That's sad. The child learned about guns before he learned to speak the language of his adopted home country."

The creature launched itself at him, but Baker was quicker. Thunder crashed overhead, and was answered by his pistol. The inside of the dead child's head splattered across the dashboard.

Baker made sure it was destroyed, then grabbed the corpse by its skinny ankles and dropped it unceremoniously onto the pavement. His stomach fluttered.

They aren't human, he reminded himself. This is the only way to survive.

"I'm sorry." he whispered to the grisly pile of flesh and bone. Then he fished the key from the door, slid behind the wheel, said a Hail Mary (something he hadn't done since

89 college), and turned the ignition.

The engine turning over was the sweetest sound Baker had ever known, and he cheered.

He checked the gauges, and was delighted to find that the car had a full tank of gas. Everything else looked okay as well.

He ran back to the shelter and burst through the door, rainwater pooling on the rug in the lobby. He found Worm, dejectedly bouncing the ball against a stall in the women's bathroom.

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"We're leaving," Baker mouthed, trying to convey his excitement. "Let's get your things!" He had to make several attempts before his meaning was clear, at which point Worm cringed, backing farther into the restroom.

"Don't you want to leave?" Baker asked "Don't you want to find other people?"

Shaking his head back and forth, Worm whimpered and dropped his eyes.

"Eeeet uss," he protested. "Peepol trhi to eet Wurhm!" The boy refused to look up. Baker cupped his chin and forced him to meet his stare. Tears streamed from the frightened boy's eyes.

"Worm!" Baker insisted. "Nobody is going to eat you. I promise. I'm going to take care of you now."

"Nooomyss? Noo dahd peepol?"

"No, Worm," Baker assured him gently, cradling the boy to his chest. Worm trembled, and then clung to him. Though he knew Worm couldn't see his lips, he continued talking in soothing tones.

"I'm not going to let anything harm you." Baker promised, and in doing so, realized he had taken his first step on the path to self-atonement.

"I'm going to make up for it."

They gathered their belongings and with a last, perfunctory check of the building, they walked outside to the car.

The rain had stopped.

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Raindrops fell like tears from a black tar god-or drops of rancid milk from a dead mother's breast. The industrial residue that Baltimore's recently defunct factories had spewed into the sky for decades was now falling back down to be claimed by the earth.