Evacuation (18 page)

We were in a row. I was behind Palmeri and Dave was behind me. I just kept my eyes on Palmeri’s feet.

At the door, Palmeri escaped, and then I did.

I turned around. My eyes tearing from the smoke and heat. I coughed and coughed, trying to clear my lungs.

“Dave!” I said.

“Right here, brother,” he said.

I think I’ve officially quit smoking. Not just because I didn’t have a single cigarette, but also because my lungs felt black as fucking charcoal right now.

“You guys okay?” Allison said.

“Yeah.
Yes,” I said. My shoulder hurt. “How’s Crystal?”

“Ah, dead,” Erway said. “But that’s not our biggest concern right now.”

I pushed up onto an elbow. The fire was consuming the entire cabin. All the food and luxuries. The shampoo and soap. “It’s not? Why?”

“Because they are!”

I looked where Erway pointed.

Charlene had one of the machetes I’d retrieved and was running at a small horde of zombies emerging from the woods.

Sues kissed Dave on the forehead, grabbed another machete and ran after my daughter.

I almost yelled for them to stop.

They couldn’t stop, because it’s what needed to be done. I stood up and broke into a sprint.

Dave and I came upon the zombies a split second after Charlene and Sues engaged them.

The machetes were sharp. In two swift swipes, I sliced off an arm and a head.

With both hands on the handle, Dave raised the blade over his head and brought it down in an arcing swing, cutting through a zombie’s skull as if clearing weeds in a jungle.

Charlene took out the legs on a fast zombie. Just dropped low and swung. The thing went down, face first. She came up behind it and chopped at its head three times.

It was kind of like cracking a coconut, just a little easier with these blades…

Chapter Thirty

We had the clothing on our back, some guns, some machetes, swords and knives, but nothing else. Well, that wasn’t true, not exactly. We had each other. It sounded cheesy as all get out, but it was true, so I couldn’t deny it.

I had my girls.
Allison and Charlene.

Dave was with Sues, and there was Erway and Palmeri.

The seven of us.

“Now what?”
Charlene said.

The log cabin burned behind us. We’d ventured into the woods. We hadn’t left, just found a place to hide, away from the fire. Zombies might hate water, but they loved fire.

“Those brothers must have a vehicle somewhere,” Dave said. “How’d they get back and forth? They didn’t hike everywhere, did they?”

“I didn’t see any other buildings,” Sues said. “No barn, no garage.”

“Me either,” Dave said.

“In the morning, maybe we should go back to the internment camp and see if there’s anything in there we can salvage. Military had vehicles bringing people in and out, so there must be something down there,” Palmeri said.

I nodded. “I like it. Makes sense.”

“Where are we supposed to sleep?” Charlene said.

“Out here under the stars.” Sues looked up at the sky.

“We’re going to freeze,” she said. “It’s not like we can start a fire.”

My daughter was right. We couldn’t have a fire. We just might freeze. “We’re going to need to find shelter somewhere.”

I waited for ideas.
Any suggestion at all. No one had one. I didn’t want to be the one to say it. “We could go back to the camp now and clear one of those apartments.”

“You want to go back there now?” Dave said.

I knew he hated that place. I hated it, too. It had been horrible. A dark maze that I felt for sure we were going to die inside of. “You have a better idea?”

He shook his head. “Wish I did, but I don’t, though.”

“Anyone?”

No one said a word.

We took a moment to get the weapons on in a way we liked. My daughter copied my look exactly. The sword, knife on the hip and machete over the back.

In a line, we walked toward the camp, past the river where the Coast Guard had once been docked and had once seemed like our
saviours. Daylight was gone. The mountain and trees were to our west. For us, it seemed the sun had set hours ago.

The fence surrounding the camp was just like how I remembered it, foreboding. The coiled razor wire running along the top just added to the overall eeriness of the situation.

“This is where we were going to stay?” Charlene said.

“Ah, yep.”

“Not,” she said.

“It’s where we’re going to stay now,” I said.

“There has to be something better,” she said.

I would have loved to agree, but I doubted it.

Palmeri had point. We moved a little faster than the first time out to the camp. Palmeri wasn’t messing around. She wanted to get us somewhere safe and she wanted it done in a hurry. I was good with that.

We stopped when we reached the closed gate entrance. It was closed, but I looked at the ground. The belt I had secured the fence with was unbuckled.
The  belt was on the wet, cold ground. I looked through the links, and shook my head.

“What?” Charlene said.

The zombies we’d killed last time were still dead. That was a little bit of peace of mind that I had no trouble clinging onto, but the belt . . . that was something else altogether. “Nothing,” I said.

“We go in?” Allison said.

“Wait,” Palmeri said. “We know there’s another opening in this fence. Let’s just stay outside the chain link for now. Circle around and see exactly what we’re dealing with. I’m not all that excited about locking myself in there without knowing where all the openings are.”

“Okay, let’s walk the outside of the fence,” Dave said.

Again, we followed Palmeri.

I kept looking through the fence at the compound, and toward the surrounding woods. Military did pick an excellent, out of the way spot for the camp. It looked like the land had been cleared specifically for the government, which if I thought about that is exactly what they must have done.
Cleared it with plans for the camp. Good ol’ US of A.

“What’s that?” Sues said. I thought she’d spoken a little too loudly. I was many people behind everyone and I heard her as if she’d just whispered in my ear.

Palmeri stopped.

“It’s not a parking lot,” Sues said. “Is it a parking lot?”

It did in fact look like a parking lot. A sizeable one, at that.

“We’re not going to have to dig through dead people’s clothing for keys, are we?”

“Won’t have to,” Palmeri said. “Military vehicles. There are no keys. Can you imagine in the middle of a war -- not too unlike this -- and our troops need to get out and get away fast? You want to all be standing around, everyone patting their pockets looking for who had the keys last?”

That was an excellent point. One I had never thought of.

It just sounded way too good to be true, and when something sounded way too good to be true, it usually was.

We made our way from the fence, across grass and weeds to the parking lot. We all stayed low.

I stood, leaned my back on a Humvee grille and scanned the woods. Moon was out. Sky was clear.

I saw nothing coming at us.

“We’re good, so far,” I said.

Palmeri opened the Humvee door. I circled around the vehicle. Could not believe how quiet the night was. Were all the zombies at the house fire? Were they inside the encampment?

“Climb in, everyone,” Palmeri said.

“Son of a bitch,” Dave said. “Can you believe it?”

Everyone had opened a door to the Humvee when I heard it. A moan.

“Dad!”

Palmeri pushed a button, starting the engine. “Get in.”

I saw him.
A fast shadow.

He came at me, right at me.

I raised my machete, holding it like a baseball player at home plate.

It was Marfione.
Marf.

His face had bites ripped out of it, his eyes…milky and lifeless.  He was covered in mud and tattered clothing, I could smell him before I could reach him with my blade.

I stepped into the swing. The machete cut with ease. I severed the head and right arm at the shoulder, causing his body to flop onto the loose gravel. “Sorry about that, Marf. I am. I’m sorry about that.”

“Get in, Daddy, get in.”

Felt a little like deja vu. Palmeri and Erway sat up front.

Dave and Sues sat across from me.

Allison and Charlene sat on either side of me.

Only thing missing was Cash.

“Everything is going to be fine,” I said.

And the Academy Award goes to…

THE END…

Don’t missing the thrilling conclusion to the VACCINATION Trilogy in

Phillip Tomasso’s

PRESERVATION

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June 26, Chiquibul, Belize –

Roger Curry clambered up the rugged rocky slope, little knowing that each step brought him closer to death. Even if he had known, he would not have retreated. Roger was no adventurer, but his friends were missing and it had fallen on him to find them. The oppressive heat and humidity of the Belize jungle didn’t help matters. Roger, used to milder Tennessee summers, stopped frequently to wipe the beads of sweat from his face before they rolled stinging into his eyes with his already soaking wet handkerchief. His shirt was plastered to his clammy skin, and his damp underwear chafed his crotch. He resisted the urge to reach down his pants and scratch his scrotum. He moved with slightly less agility than did his guide, Chiri Hutapec. The young, diminutive Yucatec Mayan scampered over the loose boulders and sharp limestone scree with the agility of a New World monkey.

Juan Saldo, his interpreter, smiled down at him from his boulder perch, as he pointed ahead. “The entrance is on the other side of this ridge.”

Saldo was at home in the jungle, naming almost every bird and creature they had encountered on their long trek through the wilderness. Roger envied Saldo and his composure in the withering heat. Saldo looked as if he were walking home from a tavern after a few cold
cervezas, while on the other hand, Roger was ready to collapse.

“I hope you’re right,” Roger replied.

The Chiquibul Cavern system lay deep in the heart of the Chiquibul National Park on the western slopes of the Maya Mountain Massif region of western Belize and eastern Guatemala. It was inaccessible in the rainy season and difficult to reach at any time of the year. This was Roger’s first trip to Chiquibul, or to anywhere outside the U.S. for that matter. The Tennessee Conservancy, in a joint venture with the Belize government, was performing a thorough study of the 540,000-square foot cavern system to determine the number of visitors the cavern could safely accommodate without damaging its fragile ecosystem. More administrator than spelunker, his journey was to determine the fate of the last expedition, now over two weeks past due. No word had reached any settlement since the expedition had first entered the jungle two months earlier.

The expedition’s leader, Michael Harris, was a thirty-two-year-old-veteran caver with spelunking credits from twenty-five caverns around the world. It was unlike him to remain out of communication for so long. The area’s native Indian tribes – the Garifuna, the Kekchi, and the Yucatec Maya – had heard nothing of the missing team. Roger had hoped to question natives in San Antonio, a small city upriver from Punta Corda where they had arrived by boat from Belize City, but Saldo inexplicably had suggested bypassing the city. “Trouble,” was all he replied when questioned, leaving Roger to ponder what kind of trouble – drug smugglers, or an uprising of the indigenous population over newly imposed strict hunting and fishing laws.

Standing atop a fallen tree, Hutapec waved Roger to stop. The diminutive guide shaded his eyes as he scanned the terrain around them, and then pointed higher up the slope.

“Il Xiib,” he called in Mayan. 

Roger turned to Saldo who had waited for him to reach his position. “What did he say?”

“He said he sees men,” Saldo replied.

Roger’s pulse quickened. Had they found Harris? “What men? How many men?” Roger asked eagerly.

Hutapec held up five fingers and yelled, “Ho.”

“Five men,” Saldo translated.

Roger pushed past Saldo, but Saldo reached out and grabbed his arm as Hutapec said something more. “Wait,” Saldo warned.

“Wait for what?”

Saldo shook his head. A look crossed his face that Roger recognized as fear. “Hutapec said ‘Hook’ol’, leave.”

Roger was livid. “Leave,” he snapped, “after coming all this way? If he sees men, it must be some of Harris’ group.”

“Something is wrong, senor. They do not move. They stand as still as statues.”

“I must see.” He shook free of Saldo’s grip and climbed higher up the slope. He quickly spotted the five men standing in a group at the edge of a cliff. “Harris,” he yelled. His voice echoed across the valley, but none of the men moved. Were they deliberately ignoring him? Then he noticed vines growing around them, up their legs and across their faces, as if binding them to the cliff. “What the fu ...” he moaned.

Saldo joined him.

“Are they dead?” Roger asked, knowing no other reason men would stand silently as vines encircled them.

“Hutapec says they are.” He pointed to vultures circling overhead. “He questions why the buitres do not land.”

“I must go to them.”

Saldo sighed, clearly against the idea. “Let Hutapec go first to see if it is safe. Then we follow.”

Roger chaffed at waiting, but after arguing briefly, couldn’t persuade Saldo to change his mind. “Oh, very well,” he finally conceded.

He sat on the ground and waited as Hutapec climbed the slope, disappearing into the trees for fifteen minutes before reappearing beside the motionless men. He waved Roger and Saldo forward. Roger’s heart pounded both from the exertion of the climb and from a sense of dread that mounted with each step that he took. It soon became apparent that Harris and the others were indeed dead. The stench of decay surrounded them, along with another odor, reminiscent of overripe bananas.

As he climbed over the last boulder and got his first close glimpse of Harris, the manner of the men’s deaths became apparent, but still unbelievable. What he had first mistaken as vines anchoring them to the ground, was a network of finger-thick mycelia from a strange fungus growth covering the men’s bodies, almost completely enveloping them. Their desiccated flesh sprouted tendrils with dark purple bulbous tips that swayed ominously in the breeze. Similar bulbs emerged from their ears, eyes, nose, and cracks in their skull, as if their brain had exploded from within. As he watched in horror, one dark bulb burst open, spewing tiny spores that drifted with the wind toward him. The smell of rotten bananas increased. Hutapec, who had remained cautiously upwind of the men, scampered higher up the slope away from the scene of death.

“What … what is this?” he asked Saldo.

Saldo shrugged. “A fungus, maybe, but I’ve never seen it before.” He spoke to Hutapec, who barked out a one-word reply. “He calls it Black Death,” Saldo said. He shrugged again. “I don’t know what he means. He is afraid to speak more of it.”

Roger was puzzled. “Why did they just stand here and let the fungus grow on them?”

“Quien sabe. Who knows?” Hutapec pointed to a nearby ravine and spoke. “Hutapec says six others, all native guides, are also dead, mauled, as if by a jaguar, but he thinks these men did it. Look at their hands.”

Roger saw that three of the dead men’s hands were crusted with dried blood. He refused to believe civilized men could do such a thing. “They wouldn’t kill anyone. They’re scientists for Christ’s sake.” He glanced down at the Chiquibul River flowing westward into Guatemala after emerging from the caverns. The late afternoon sun glinted off its surface like a ribbon of glass stretching through the jungle. “Where are the caves from here?”

Saldo pointed below and to the east. “There, but Hutapec will not go, nor will I. The natives think the caverns are the entrance to hell.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“Hutapec does, and he will not go,” Saldo replied, as if it were explanation enough. He glanced at the bodies and made the sign of the cross. “After seeing this, I will not go either.”

“We have to bury them and call the authorities.”

“We must go back. It will be night soon. Hutapec believes the moon, Uh, will be an evil one. Bad things are happening in the land.”

At this, Roger turned on him. “Why did we avoid San Antonio?”

Saldo paused as if reluctant to speak. Finally, he said, “There were mobs of men, violent men who killed like animals.” He glanced with revulsion at the ravine where the dead natives lay. “Like them.”   

Roger was appalled. “You can’t be serious. Men killing like animals.”

“It is so,” Saldo insisted. He pointed to the river below them. “The river flows through San Amelia in Guatemala. There are rumors of much violence there as well.” He crossed himself. “It is a time of much evil.”

Looking at the erect corpses of his colleagues, sent a shudder running through Roger’s body.
“We have to bury them,” he insisted.

Saldo nodded. “I will help you, but Hutapec will not touch the dead.”

Two hours later, Roger and Saldo had managed to scrape five shallow graves in the hard earth of the slope and cover the bodies with rocks. Neither Saldo nor Hutapec offered to bury the natives, so Roger ignored them. The jungle would quickly reclaim their bodies. Roger started at the five cairns of stone and the small pile of personal effects he had removed from the bodies. One item was Harris’ journal, slightly moldy and smelling of death. He was loathe to touch it, but hoped some clue to the men’s bizarre deaths lay within its crumbling pages.

After they had interred the bodies and he had intoned a few words of parting over his friends, Roger was eager to read the diary, but Hutapec refused to linger in the area. The guide set a quick pace back down the mountain toward Punta Corda where a boat waited on the coast to transport Roger back to Belize City. From there, he would alert the authorities about the deaths. The authorities, he assumed, would exhume the bodies so they could have a proper burial in the States.

The jungle, normally thriving with wildlife and filled with the sounds of predators hunting prey and with raucous territorial calls, was eerily silent. Hutapec remained silent as well, refusing to speak even to Saldo. As they hacked their way through the jungle, Saldo kept his eyes on the surrounding trees. He, too, was strangely reticent, speaking only when Roger initiated conversation, and even then, he answered succinctly, ignoring any of Roger’s attempts to draw him into any discussion pertaining to what they had seen. His nervousness fed Roger’s growing apprehension.

At dusk, they made camp in a small clearing beside a quiet stream. Neither Hutapec nor Saldo laid out their bedrolls for the night, choosing instead to remain awake and watchful through the night. Saldo kept the campfire banked low, as if afraid of attracting unwanted visitors. He kept his rifle across his knees. After a hurried meal, Roger opened Harris’ diary and began reading by flashlight. He skipped the first part concerning the journey and began at the point where Harris had reached the cavern.

* * *

June 6 – Chiquibul

“The caverns are spectacular, true wonders of the world! I have delved the depths of many systems in my lifetime but none as beautiful as these. They remind me of Cumberland Caverns in Tennessee. I hope we will find unplumbed depths.”

June 8 –

“Mapped out a great deal of the cavern.
We discovered a new grotto deep within the caverns hidden behind an ancient rock fall. It proved a dead end, but inside, Louis Masters found a strange fungus growth which he claims should not survive in total darkness. Since his field is biology, I don’t doubt his word. He has taken samples for further analysis.” 

June10 –

“I am feeling feverish and exhausted, but perhaps it is due to the rapid pace I have set for our expedition. There is much to be done and little time in which to accomplish all our goals. Masters is
complaining of chills, and Doug Seals is coughing incessantly. Perhaps my fatigue is related. I issued aspirin and Chloroquine for all of us, just to be safe. I hope we will not have to cut our survey short.”

June 11 –

“Seals has gone insane. I can think of no other word for his state. We awoke to find him missing from camp. We later spotted him rushing through the caverns in complete darkness, screaming like a wild man. He attacked us when we attempted to subdue him. We finally managed to sedate him. The chase weakened me severely. I must rest.