Swarm (Dead Ends) (17 page)

Adversity, it seems, has a way of winding its way through our neural pathways, snatching at every regret or bad decision we’ve ever made and focusing a blinding spotlight on them all at once. They become the only thing we see and if we’re not careful, they begin to define us. Or worse, they begin to dictate our actions to the point where we no longer focus on getting better because we’re too worried about not screwing up. But if there were ever a time to let all that go, to wipe the slate clean and redefine who we are? Shit, this would be it.

The inside of the tower was sparsely decorated but it did have a telescope, CB radio, a cot, and a large trunk filled with emergency rations and first-aid. It looked to me like no one had been here for quite some time. If there were only some way to raise the steps or block them in somehow I think I just might stay here. But the last thing I need is a couple more of those undead track stars creating a choke point on the stairs and forcing me to rappel down the side with the rope I spotted in the corner, which looked like it would be better suited to be used as fire kindling rather than being the main component in an ill-fated escape plan. In an attempt to delay the inevitable, I rooted through the trunk some more, looking for anything that may be of use but figured I’d leave the stuff for anyone else who might need it more than I currently do. I kept glancing at the radio out of the corner of my eye, almost afraid to look at it head on. As if it were some fiery light that would singe my retinas if I got too close, if I looked too intently. I’d never felt so mocked by an inanimate object in my life. The prospect of what could pass through those wires once I pressed the “on” button almost rendered me powerless.

I’d still never answered the question of whether I really, truly wanted to know what was going on. It seems so simple. Turn on the radio, listen for any news and maybe call for help if you were feeling lucky. Then all would be right in the world. Or at least as right as could be expected given the circumstances. It’s just that I’ve never been much of an optimist. Saying things like “everything is going to be ok” or “we’ll get through this” always seemed like a lie even before this whole zombie business got started. I’m sure most of those “glass is half full” jack-offs are knee-deep in undead shit by now anyway. Trying to convince yourself that things will get better, that there’s some rainbow around the bend even though you currently find yourself in a torrential downpour is just the sign of a weak mind. True strength, the kind that might allow you to survive a no-win situation just like this, comes from admitting that things can only get worse from here. It’s about submitting to the uncomfortable fact that your life means very little in the grand scheme of things and at the same time making the decision that you don’t care about all of that. That you’re going to make it no matter what. Even if you are only on the 3
^rd
level of Hell and the final four levels are mocking you and drawing you closer with each passing minute. It’s no longer about delaying the inevitable. It’s about ignoring it altogether.

All that being said I still didn’t want to turn on that goddamn radio. Even as I walked over to it my hands clung defiantly to my sides, begging my brain to just let it go. To just walk away and hold on to what little sanity I still had left. Curiosity killed the cat after all. And the cat didn’t have to worry about other cats going feral all at once and trying to eat it. On the other hand, I’d probably regret it if I walked away without at least giving it a try. The “Not Knowing” part I could handle but the knowledge that I
could’ve
known? Well that might end up being a tough pill to swallow if I end up walking straight into the epicenter of this human butcher shop. If only there were a way to simply know which direction to head, without having to be reminded of the death, suffering, and slim to no chance of survival aspect. What I needed was a mall kiosk that told me where I was (Deep Shit) and how I could get to where I wanted (slightly less Deep Shit) as quickly and safely as possible. And while I’m reminiscing about things I’ll never experience again, I’ll take a steak sub and a freshly squeezed lemonade. If it’s not too much trouble.

***

With a heavy dose of reluctance, I turned the power on and began scanning stations. Each one I tried was filled with static and garbled noise. Admittedly I had no idea how to use the damn thing but even dumb luck should’ve landed me on a few channels. I pulled open a drawer on the desk to find the instruction booklet which told me to turn to channel 9 for any emergency updates that may be available. I tuned it in and almost fell out of the chair when a voice blared through the speaker. It sounded as if it were in the middle of a recorded message telling the public just how fucked we all were:

“… over the skies of Los Angeles, Chicago, Seattle, Atlanta, and Oklahoma City. Other major cities have yet to report as of this recording. The payload of these bombs is not nuclear but rather contains what is being classified as an unidentified biological weapon of unknown origin. What do we do know is that the contagion was initially airborne but is now being transmitted primarily through bodily fluids. The symptoms are varied but severe and include but are not limited to…”

I strained to listen to the rest of the broadcast as a sudden and violent rumbling overtook the inside of this somewhat precarious dwelling. The windows rattled as a low baritone hum seemed to blanket the landscape. I rushed outside, hoping the sound wasn’t what I thought it was. Peering out along the valley I saw a throng of military helicopters, cargo helicopters from the look of it, heading in the direction of the coast. The sky almost seemed blotted out for miles with what I assume was every helicopter available at the nearby Joint Base Lewis-McChord. They all seemed to be heading in the general direction of the coast, assumedly running from the horrors of the city with their tails between their legs, making sure anyone with high security clearance was out of harm’s way. I would count this among the multitude of things I had already designated as “not a good sign.” Several minutes passed as I watched the unending mass of military steel safely escort the people that mattered away from the panic and terror, leaving the rest of us on the fringes of Hell, fighting the good fight until we were unavoidably swallowed up by the nightmarish reality of the dead roaming the earth.

When the rumbling finally stopped, I expected the quiet to return, to soothe my mind for a few short minutes before the panic set in. Instead, I heard it again, the chilling call of the dead. That inexorable hum that seemed to vibrate through my body, to the very core of what made me human and made me wish I was anything but. I scanned the valley, squinting my eyes until I managed to see it: a blackish mass, its edges ebbing and flowing like the waves of the Puget Sound, uncompromising in their purpose but in no real hurry to fulfill it. At least that’s what it looked like to the naked eye. Back inside, peering through the telescope, a much more ominous picture manifested itself. A boundless swarm of snarling, angry freak shows in the midst of some undead death march, bulldozing the landscape as they pursued their hunger with a singular, trance-like purpose. They scratched, clawed, and trampled one another as they struggled to stay ahead of the pack, to be the first to draw blood if any prey that hadn’t already gotten the message had the misfortune of being in their way.

Just when I had decided I could watch no more, I heard the sound of helicopters once again. Dozens of them – attack helicopters this time – descended on the valley, sending small missiles and heavy machine gun fire in the direction of the swarm. I leaned into the glass of the telescope once more to witness the carnage, hoping to mark a small check in the win column for those of us who still had a pulse. The munitions didn’t take long to hit home. Multitudes of the undead exploded into clouds of viscera and bone, a minefield of rancid meat geysers spurting into the air. But as those clouds dissipated, the next wave came bounding through the mist, unperturbed by the thinning of their ranks. Oblivious to the fire and brimstone that threatened to encompass them. The pilots continued their onslaught, taking turns until their missile bays were empty and their machine guns whirred in the wind, waiting to be fed more rounds that didn’t exist. And then one by one, they retreated back towards the direction of the base, hopefully to refuel and reload. All the while, the mass continued on, unencumbered by fear or exhaustion. Resolute in purpose, they just kept coming.

Chapter 17

The CB radio and the desk it was sitting on flailed into the air and came crashing to the floor as I erupted into an angry, panicked frenzy. I screamed and yelled obscenities, using up every one in the book multiple times. I even made up a few. Stringing together existing expletives and creating compound obscenities like some kind of X-rated beat poet. And still, they continued on. There was nothing I could do that would stop them. I was completely powerless. And that fact, combined with an increasing bit of light-headedness, ended my hissy fit just as quickly as it had began. Knowing, without hesitancy, that I can’t win brought on a surprising wave of peace and calm. If there was no way to win, then there was nothing to stress out about. I could play it fast and loose, like an aging boxer who gladly plays the role of the tomato can as long as the check clears. Admittedly I’d already been shooting from the hip for the most part but that was due mostly to the steady stream of chemicals sprinting through my veins. At some point, the well was going to run dry. But having the knowledge that my chances of survival would decrease exponentially with each passing day, no matter what I did? Well, that kind of seemed like a free pass to no longer give a shit. I could either get depressed and lament my unavoidable fate or I could make the most of the time I had left. It’s an easy decision as far as I’m concerned. Survival was no longer some eternal thing to strive for; the holy grail of existence. It was a game, plain and simple. And I’d play that game to the best of my ability until the time ticked down to nothing but zeros. Limited options make for easier decisions, I suppose.

After seeing that swarm of hungry meat-grinders covering ground as if a wildfire were at their backs, I knew it was time to leave this place if I wanted this little game to continue. I made one last trip back to the bunker to retrieve any last supplies I might need and say a final goodbye to my friends. I hadn’t known them long, but their memories would be with me always. I wish I could do more for them in death but logically I know there is nothing I can do. It’s the thought that counts. At least that’s what I tell myself. As I stuffed the last of a small box of candy bars I had found hidden under the bed into the backpack, I glanced at the notebook that I had seen Jane writing in on several occasions. I hesitated in picking it up but curiosity got the better of me. Jane had always seemed as if she were in her own world when that notebook was open. I desperately wanted to know what it was that kept her attention so completely, even as the world fell apart around her.

Beautifully drawn exotic flowers in full bloom adorned the first page, their stems writhing and winding around the paper, lazily swallowing the sea of white like ivy. Beautiful in its simplicity. The next few pages were sketched portraits of people I didn’t recognize. Jane had a real talent for drawing. Then I came to the pages that made me choke up slightly. A portrait of Zoe, Ricky, and me all perfectly rendered. She drew us to look strong, confident even. The versions of us that didn’t yet know just how bad things were going to get. It had only been a few days and already those people seemed so foreign to me. I looked at my portrait, a version of myself I would never see again, and shook my head as I ran my fingers across the page. Maybe I didn’t exactly like who I was, what I had allowed myself to become over the last few years, but I sure would’ve loved a chance to change that. I continued to flip through the pages. The portraits gave way to disturbingly realistic drawings of some of the zombies we had seen and others that perhaps she had seen before we’d met at the Sportsman’s Paradise. But they were different in little ways. Some featured snarling zombies with gigantic gag sunglasses on. Another featured zombies in a field with puffy white clouds and rainbows behind them. Another one showed a zombie holding hands with a living person. In her own way, it was like she was trying to humanize these things. They were human after all, at some point anyway. But to me all traces of that humanity had left them once the madness took hold. I guess Jane just had a different, more positive take on the whole thing.

There is no more polarizing a force in the world than disaster. The same event can look so different depending on the eyes and minds of those viewing it, and even more so among those unlucky souls tasked with living through it. Some see destruction, a loss of hope. Others see the opportunity for renewal. I’d like to think I fall somewhere in the middle. But the truth was that I could feel the doom and gloom getting closer with each passing day, lurking in the shadows like hungry mosquitoes, patiently waiting until I let my guard down.

One of the more detailed drawings was a re-creation of the famous “Nighthawks” painting by Edward Hopper. I remember it from an art class I mostly slept through in community college. People sitting in a diner in Anytown, USA, framed by a large glass window. Only this one featured several undead bodies peering through that large window, the hungry people inside seemingly unaware of the horror and irony of it all;
dinner, waiting for dinner
. There were many more. The pages were filled with pictures from beginning to end, each drawing stamped with the same signature in the bottom right corner: Plain Jane. The name actually made me giggle. Jane was anything but plain and with these drawings her sense of humor would carry on, even in death. I decided I’d keep them or maybe even post them up as I continue my journey, however long or short it may be. Those of us who had the lucky misfortune of still being alive could use a little humor in our lives, what with all the death and destruction we had quickly become numbed to in the past few days. I carefully placed the notebook inside the large front pocket of the backpack and headed for the Jeep, slightly more at peace than I had been a few minutes earlier. I tried to enjoy the quiet for as long as I could because I knew the second a twig snapped in the distance or a scream echoed from nowhere in particular, it was right back to pounding hearts and puckered buttholes.