DEAD RAIN: A Tale of the Zombie Apocalypse (9 page)

21

Ryan scanned the road carefully as he drove. The nor’easter had arrived earlier than predicted and thick drops of rain were hammering down by the bucketload, flooding the Chevy’s windshield and taxing the little car’s wipers. The windows didn’t quite seal properly—ice cold droplets flicked in through the top of the frame, tapping Ryan’s neck like tiny phantom fingers.

The few homes and businesses he passed looked completely deserted. Not so much as a flickering candle inside. Ryan remembered the call to evacuate the area. Most of the residents on this side of Route 9 would have fled. No one took storms for granted anymore, not since the devasta
tion of Superstorm Sandy. Only families like Ryan’s, who lived outside the coastal flood plain, felt secure enough to stay. And of course the hardcore kooks in the beach towns.

He fumbled with the car radio and found a station. Intermittent static cut into the broadcast.

“State police… port abnormally large… of criminal activ… Cape May and… berland Counties… tributed to the heavy fog… vestigation is underway… urge all residents… haven’t already evacuated… homes… lock themselves in unti... has been alerted but… there is no reason to sus… terrorist activit… state police are handling… Again… urged to stay off the… lock all doors… pending furth... tuned to this statio—”

The broadcast died in a hiss of loudening static.

Ryan switched off the annoying noise, breathing a bit easier as he spotted the sign marking the entrance to the Parkway. He slowed to a halt at the entrance then turned up the on-ramp. But as he rounded the winding bend he found the ramp ahead blocked by a chain of crashed vehicles.

He opened his door and leaned out to assess what was happening. Dozens of emergency blinkers flashed in the darkness. Headlight beams pierced the rainy night at oblique angles, fading up into the bleak atmosphere or down into the marshy fields on either side of the road. Angry voices echoed through the darkness.

Hopping back into the car he threw it into reverse, praying he’d make it back down the ramp before another arrival blocked him in. He could barely make out the guide rails of the ramp through the teeming rain but he could see the gleam of deep puddles forming in the marshy fields on either side, the first hint of the flooding that was sure to come.

His nerves were on edge until he made it back to the street. He sat for a minute reconsidering his options, then drove forward onto the long arching structure that crossed the salt-water channel separating the tiny coastal island of Wildwood from the mainland. He stopped the little Chevy on Beach Creek Bridge, the final section of the overpass. Feeling safe for the moment, he pulled over to regroup his senses and formulate a new game plan.

Checking the Chevy’s fuel gauge he had a sinking feeling. The needle was on empty. The owner of the car had apparently been attacked before he had a chance to start the pump. Ryan flashed back to the sight of the twitching legs behind the car and remembered his little brother meeting the same fate on his mother’s bed. He knew he had to choose his next move wisely or he wouldn’t survive the night.

Just a hundred yards ahead was Wildwood, the largest town in the area. Even in the dead of winter there were thousands of residents. Most would have obeyed the evacuation order, but a stubborn few would have
stayed to ride out the storm.

There were only a few roads leading in and out of the island. They might be defensible. But according to news broadcasts related to the storm, only a handful of police and emergency workers would remain on duty throughout it. And even if there were no zombies on the island yet, they woul
d probably show up fairly soon.

He wondered if there were enough people on the island to man the defenses. Would they even be willing to try?
And if he could find the local police, could he convince them of the impending danger or would they think he was crazy? If not he would likely be trapped. If he ran out of gas, and the roads were overwhelmed by invading zombies…

He considered his other options. There was no thought about heading south; he would only be heading deeper down the peninsula, bo
xed in by the spreading plague. And the Parkway was obviously out. The only other road running north was Route 9 but it was narrow and somewhat winding, with only one lane in either direction. And based on the fiery accident he’d witnessed earlier, it would be a very risky drive all the way. He’d have to detour down side streets to loop around road-blocking accidents and might run out of gas in a very bad spot.

That left the western routes. He wouldn’t get far on Route 47 without gassing up the Chevy... if he made it as far as 47 in the first place. To get there meant backtracking through the heavily infested areas he’d just crossed. The roads were already flooding and hordes of the hungry corpses clogged the streets. If he ran out of gas there, he’d be toast.

Only one other option remained—Route 147, the back road to the Pine Barrens. Since the zombies had been drawn toward the lights and noise of Route 9 before the power went out, they would probably be less active in the sticks, fewer and far between. The further he got from the populous beach towns the better his chances were. If he could cross Route 9 and make it a few more blocks before running out of gas, he’d stand a fighting chance of survival.

He glanced at the dusty little St. Christopher statue on the dashboard and managed a nervous smile.

“I know you were demoted but I hope you’re still on duty, Chris. You were always my favorite saint. So get me the hell out of here, please. Preferably in one piece.”

22

Cat Silverman suppressed a yawn as she pulled into the parking lot of the State Police barracks in Port Norris
,
a sleepy little town that was an hour’s drive north of Wildwood under the best of driving condition
s.
Troop A was responsible for patrolling Region One, which encompassed everything south of their headquarters—a vast triangular peninsula flanked by the Delaware Bay on the west side and the Atlantic Ocean on the east.

Pulling up her col
lar she hurried into the building. The rain was still hours away to the south, but the fog was thick as soup.

The station was a beehive of activity. Officers were suited up in SWAT-style BDUs, apparently preparing for some kind of special operation. Cat assumed they’d been called in for a big drug raid.
Catch the perps unaware, stuck at home in the middle of the night in a major storm.

Hurrying to the locker room she changed into charcoal fatigues, then hurried to the briefing room where her boyishly handsome, jar-headed partner was already seated. Trooper Nick Bronski was tall and athletically fit, but no matter how hard he worked out he never ballooned into a human gorilla.

“Hey, Nick. What’s up? Did you find out why we were dragged in at this time of night in such ungodly weather?”

“I know as much as you do, partner.” Nick
stole an admiring glance at her flawless posterior as she slipped a shoulder holster over her tight gray muscle shirt. The dark fatigues flattered her slender figure. She looked like a sportsman’s wet dream.

“You guys know what’s going on?” asked Otis Henderson as he plopped wearily into the seat next to Bronski. “Smitty says they’re sending us out on a secret mission to confiscate citizens’ guns.”

“Smitty,” Cat sighed. “Smitty’s a paranoid idiot. If the Feds were after guns they’d send in the ATF, it’s their jurisdiction, not ours.”

Bronski nodded. “Every time we’re called in for special duty Smitty thinks they’re revoking another amendment.”

“I dunno,” said Henderson warily. “They were talking about it on C-Span today. Said the Founding Fathers never imagined assault rifles when they wrote the Second Amendment.”

“Yeah,” Cat said, “And they never imagined kids learning how to make bombs on the internet when they wrote the First one. So maybe it’s time to throw out the whole Bill of
Rights and start from scratch.”

“I thought all you nice Jewish girls were liberal,” teased Henderson.

“Who said I’m nice?” Racking the slide of her Sig she slipped it into her shoulder holster.

“They obviously called us in here because of the storm,” said Bronski dismissively. “And who the hell watches C-Span anyway? Every time I tune in there’s some douchebag congressman reading some candy-ass resolution in honor of some car salesman who contributed to his campaign.”

Otis laughed. He was about to reply when Sergeant Billy Williams banged his baton on the podium, getting their attention. “Okay, people, listen up. We have a timely situation, which is why you were called in.”

“Told you,” Bronski whispered. “The storm.”

“TEAMS has been deployed to the Woodbine station,” Williams continued, “Which has been out of contact for over an hour. In fact, all lines of communication are down throughout most of Region One. Widespread power outages have severely disrupted communications. We’ve gotten sporadic reports but haven’t been able to maintain contact long enough to get a clear picture of what’s going on down there. Everything from radio to G4 networks appear to be down. We need boots on the ground for a general evaluation of the area. You’re to gather information on your assigned routes and report back asap.”

“What about the troopers who are down there?” asked Bronski. “What are they reporting?”

“We haven’t heard anything from them for more than an hour. Prior to that we received reports indicating an abnormal rise in traffic incidents and possible criminal activity. But it may be misinformation… simple confusion due to the extreme weather conditions. We’ve confirmed a number of pile-ups south of Atlantic City that are blocking the coastal Parkway, but other than that we’re pretty much in the dark.”

“Could it be a terrorist attack?” asked Cat. “I mean, the disruption in communications?”

Some of the troopers laughed. The Sergeant did not. “At this time we’re not ruling out any possibility,” he replied stonily. “But we’re guardedly optimistic that it’s simply storm related. The nor’easter has made landfall on the coast, with plenty of electricity in the atmosphere, and coming on the heels of the fog it has to be one big ball of you-know-what down there. For those of you going down, don’t make any assumptions and don’t take any unnecessary chances. Just follow your assigned routes and report back as soon as possible. Any questions?”

“You mentioned criminal activity,” said Bronski. “Do you know if it’s organized? Maybe gang related? Taking advantage of the storm?”

Williams shuffled some paperwork on his podium. “There very well may be some opportunistic activity taking place but at this time we believe it’s random. All we have to go on are some calls and emails from Cape May Courthouse and other small towns in the area. But like I said we lost touch with local law enforcement before we could follow up. So as of now that’s all we know.”

The statement was something of a lie. More than one caller had used the word “zombies” but they were written off as obviously hysterical and their reports were dismissed as fanciful exaggerations or outright pranks. It was curious that they came in from a number of diverse localities, but with social media it would have been easy to orchestrate such a hoax.

“I know some of you have applied to TEAMS,” the Sergeant continued, referring to the State Police elite paramilitary unit. “Consider this a chance to prove yourselves worthy.”

Cat shot a sidelong smile at Bronski. They had both applied to the highly selective TEAMS unit in the past, eager for the excitement and the macho glamour.

Williams concluded the briefing. “Pick up your orders from Sergeant Donnelly and report promptly to the armorer. I want you on the road in ten minutes, no exceptions.”

“Oh boy, special ops,” Cat chirped perkily. “Maybe we’ll actually get to shoot somebody.”

“Jesus Cat, really?” asked Bronski. He found Cat’s macho posturing generally amusing, but sometimes it made him wonder. “Were you dropped on your head as a baby? Sometimes I think you’re serious.”

“What makes you think I’m not?” she grinned. She loved jerking his chain.

23

Ryan considered his options long and hard, then decided to
make a run for the Pine Barrens. If he could at least reach the back road out of town before the Chevy ran out of gas he’d have a running chance. As he made the necessary U-turn on the Wildwood side of the bridge, a cop car materialized out of nowhere, its siren blipping, disco lights flashing red and blue.

Ryan pulled over, cutting the engine to save
precious gas but letting the wipers run. The rain was still falling but had eased to a steady drizzle, a temporary lull in the storm. The main body still hung over the ocean, gathering energy for its coming fury.

“Thank you Jesus,” Ryan
whispered as he saw the police lights in his mirror. But it dawned on him as the officer emerged from his cruiser and approached the Chevy that with all the evening’s insanity, it might not be wise to let a cop find him holding a loaded gun. He discreetly dropped the Colt to the floor and kicked it back under his seat.

He started to open his door but the officer pushed it closed.

“Nobody told you to get out of the car.”

“Officer, thank God you’re here. You don’t know how happy I am to see you.” The statement was true, but somehow the presence of the officer was as unsettling as it was comforting, allowing Ryan’s defenses to relax and the emotional pain he’d been suppressing to bubble to the surface. Suddenly he had to fight back tears and his hands started trembling
, with thoughts of his mother and his brother firing up inside him.

The policeman mistook his distress for a sign of guilt.
“I’ll bet you are.” His reply was casually sarcastic, the mark of a jaded cop. In his raincoat and plastic hood, he resembled a frog-faced nun. His nose was a red potato, nourished by years of sipping hi-balls and guzzling beer by the case. Cranky after waking from a mid-shift nap in his cruiser, he shot a sour look at Ryan and blinded him with his flashlight. “Have you been drinking tonight, son? Or maybe doing something a wee bit stronger?”

“What? No. Those things got my mother,” Ryan blurted, his voice quavering, his taut nerves starting to discharge their coiled tension. “I’ve been trying to get help all night.”

“Really?” The cop’s reply was skeptical. “That was an illegal U-turn you made back there. You know how dangerous that is on a night like this?”

“What?” Ryan was shocked by the policeman’s apparent ignorance about what was happening just a mile beyond his jurisdiction.
“Don’t you know what’s happening?”

“
The storm is no excuse. And if you’re trying to evacuate you’re late,” the officer scowled. “The roads will be flooded before you’re halfway out of the county. Let me see your license and registration.”

“Huh? Officer, are you kidding? Why are you wasting time on me when whatever the hell it is that’s happening is happening out there? You should be calling in the army.”

The cop leaned down and flashed his light into the car, scanning it more carefully. “Please step out of the vehicle, sir.”

“What? Officer, you
really don’t know what’s going on, do you?” Ryan asked incredulously.

“I said, step out of the vehicle
, sir. I’m not going to tell you again.”

Ryan hesitated. Then looking through the windshield he saw a slow-moving figure lope into view over the crest of the overpass. “Look. There’s one now. Right there.”

The policeman looked over and was confounded to see someone staggering dizzily across the bridge, in the middle of the street on the wrong side of the road. He trained his flashlight on the man, dressed in a soaking wet suit and tie and seemingly oblivious to the rain.

“Jesus. You wait right here,
and don’t get any ideas,” the cop said sternly to Ryan, “I’ve got to get that drunk off the road before he gets himself killed.”

“Officer, wait!” Ryan cried. But his warning was too late. He opened the door to get out but the cop whirled on him.

“Stay in the goddamned car! I won’t tell you again!” Hand planted on his baton, he strode cockily towards the wobbling jaywalker.

***

Ryan watched anxiously as the ticked off cop strode up to make an easy collar—and was taken by surprise when the unliving thing suddenly pounced.

Faster and stronger but hampered by his raincoat, the officer managed to wrestle his attacker into a clumsy bear
hug, but the zombie didn’t give up.

Ryan watched as they struggled, slipping and twisting in a drunken dance. He fumbled under his seat for the Colt, frantically weighing his odds of helping the officer without getting bitten or shot for his trouble. He
finally found the gun and leaped from the Chevy, but as he ran to the rescue the policeman slipped on the rain-slicked road and landed on his back, with the hungry cadaver on top of him.

The cop went limp as his head hit the asphalt and the zombie lunged for his throat. Ryan slid to the ground beside them. Holding the muzzle of the Colt an inch from the zombie’s head he pulled the trigger, blowing him off the downed lawman.

The policeman tried to sit up but fell back, feeling faint and in shock. Ryan eyed the nasty wound on his neck, and the blood streaming over his raincoat, washing away in the rain. He knew there was nothing he could do for him.

“Sorry,” Ryan said
quietly. “I tried to warn you.”

The officer winced in pain and dropped back in a stupor, his feet twitching spastically.

Ryan thought for a moment then unsnapped the officer’s holster and took his Glock. The cop reached out to stop him, but Ryan was too quick and the policeman’s strength was almost gone. “I need this more than you do. If I can I’ll send help.” He looked at the Glock in wonder, then racked the slide like he’d seen in movies. A bullet popped out and clattered at his feet. “Shit.” He leaned down to pick it up. As he did another figure appeared behind him, shuffling slowly towards him.

Ryan found the bullet and slipped it into his pocket. He started to rise but froze as he saw the zombie looming over him. He aimed the Glock uncertainly and fired. His first shot hit its shoulder, spinning it halfway around… but it kept coming.

He fired again and got lucky. The zombie’s eye imploded in a bloody pit and it collapsed in a heap.

The cop grabbed Ryan’s leg
but the boy jerked free.

“I’ll send help,”
Ryan said, but he knew it was pointless. He ran to the police car. The door was unlocked but when he jumped in and reached for the ignition the keys were gone.

“
Shit.” He got out and started running back to the fallen officer to fetch the keys—but a handful of wandering corpses appeared over the crest of the bridge, lumbering mechanically towards the dying lawman, drawn to his spilled blood like bears to honey.

Ryan stopped in his tracks, considering his odds of outracing them. He decided not to push his luck. Even if he beat them to the officer’s body they’d probably get there while he was searching the man’s pockets for the keys.
Or the cop himself might turn.

Hopping back into the
little Chevy he drove away, passing the zombies as they sank to their knees and started their gory feast. He sped across the bridge and down the extended overpass, swerving around more corpses who were straggling up from the streets.