Quarantine: A Pandora Novel Page 9

  8

  The early morning sun climbed over the city that was as different from twenty-four hours earlier as day was from night. Rising smoke from several fires drifted up from the ravaged streets and buildings. The numerous fire companies located throughout the city were still manned (albeit with seriously reduced crews) and answered the calls to the various burning cars or buildings. But the streets were crammed full of vehicles. Most were abandoned as their owners fled on foot or had let themselves out when they became too sick and tried to seek help before collapsing and then turning. With the fire trucks’ sirens blaring and the lights spinning brightly, they became immediate targets for the increasing numbers of zombies roaming the city streets. As they themselves became stuck in the clogged traffic jams, the encroaching zombies would soon swarm the trucks, yanking the ax wielding firefighters from their perches.

  The various quarantine centers set up throughout Manhattan proved to be as extremely unenforceable in practice as they seemed perfect on paper. As with any plan that included masses of unpredictable population, the inclusion of chaos theory always seemed to alter the best laid plans. The large quarantine site at the Jacob Javits Center at first ran seemingly smooth and as predicted. But as more people turned, the protecting security forces couldn’t keep up with the amount of infected. At first, they were placed in beds and removed as they died. This was done purely as a cosmetic feature to appease the waiting infected. But when a scuffle broke out as a Pandora victim died and reanimated before she could be removed, a National Guard soldier shot her as she left her bed. This unfortunately happened right in front of where most of the people were waiting. Cries of “Oh my God, they’re shooting us,” and “They’re killing the sick,” rebounded throughout the vast crowd and around the center. People scattered in panic as conspiracy theories ran rampant in a frightened populace. This brought all of the terminally ill Pandora victims back out and into the streets, where one by one they succumbed to the mutated virus; then collapsed on sidewalks and streets, died and reanimated as single-minded, flesh eating zombie solely intent on killing and spreading this macabre, alien pandemic.

  Other centers experienced other types of problems as well. The hospitals were completely unequipped and understaffed for such a pandemic. They had to deal with this crush of infected on top of their usual influx of everyday injuries and sickness. When the first round of Pandora virus overwhelmed the intaking hospitals, they had patients lining the halls and corridors in makeshift beds. But then, they were just dealing with a bout of flulike symptoms over the course of one or two weeks.

  These now relapsing victims were all becoming reinfected within twenty-four hours of each other. And, they were dying within several hours of the start of the new symptoms. Dying, then within fifteen minutes coming back to life is homicidal zombies. No type of medical facility could deal with the speed of this mutation and the sheer amount of infected involved.

  The bridges and tunnels to the outer boroughs were open and escaping residents sped from one place to another looking for a nonexistent sanctuary from the onslaught. There were no major riots in New York City despite the number and diversity of its citizens. The only local trouble came from the runs on supermarkets, bodegas, greengrocers and the sparse number of gun shops there. The run on food and groceries often turned ugly and violent. Some of the smaller bodegas closed and rolled their metal gates down early. One such owner on 198th St. was shot while attempting to do just that.

  The real nightmare occurred at the correctional facility on Rikers Island. With the attrition of guards caused by the virus, the prisoners were kept locked in the respective cell blocks. There simply weren’t enough correctional officers left to man the various details. The one third percentage of the Pandora infection rate affected the inmates the same as it did the rest of the world’s population. And when they turned, they also turned on each other. The surviving correctional officers found themselves guarding the undead and soon, leaving the facility locked down, fled to their own homes to try and save their families.

  So as the Sunday morning sky turned bright, the once vibrant metropolis hunkered down for a long vigil of desperate survival. The government buildings and schools that were closed would stay so. Medical facilities and other essential businesses struggled to remain open. These included some grocery and hardware stores where the owners, because of humanity or community service, manned valiantly, though armed and ready for trouble. Some other stores had foolishly opened also, whether out of rapacious or through sheer hubris. These price gouging opportunists soon paid a high price for their folly by discovering that an open door during an apocalypse made them a mark for looting or a destination for the hungry zombies.

  For the rest of the native Manhattanites, they tried to lock themselves safely inside and wait out the catastrophe. After all, this was the United States and not some Third World backwater country. How long could it take to maintain order? Those that eventually had to venture out into this hellish world, whether to restock pantries or replenish empty prescription drug bottles, quickly discovered a very unforgiving environment. Out there, a single error led to calamity and a simple mistake resulted in death. They, the roaming undead, didn’t care if you were momentarily distracted, or if you had a family waiting for you to return. No. You were prey. It was as simple and explicit as that.

  9

  Rick carried his mug of hot coffee over to the bay windows. He stood next to Amy as she was sipping her drink in the morning light.

  After noticing him, she mentioned, “We’re going to need some more food.”

  “Don’t worry,” Rick said, abashed, “we’re going to be getting out of your--”

  “No, no,” Amy interrupted. She knew where he was going. “It’s not you guys. We just need more stuff for the house.” Smiling over the rim of her mug she said, “If nothing else, I’m going to need another can or two of coffee.”

  Watching two disheveled zombies stalking up the street, Rick said, “How are you going to do that?”

  “There’s a grocer on the corner of 41st Street and 9th. I figured I’d sneak over there and get what I could.”

  “Are they open?” he asked.

  Now looking unsure of herself, she said, “I hope so.”

  Gritting his teeth and pursing his lips, Rick flatly said, “I can’t let you go there alone.”

  Turning her head to him, she said surprised, “Whoa there, big boy. I can handle myself. I don’t need a babysitter.”

  Rick looked at her slightly taken aback, “Take it easy. I didn’t say that. One person needs to watch the other’s back, is all. While you’re sorting through groceries you’ll need somebody making sure that some zombie doesn’t come sneaking up on you while you’re busy.”

  Taking a quick sip of her coffee to hide her embarrassment, Amy said, “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. I just didn’t want any kind of a macho thing going on.”

  Laughing, Rick said, “Macho thing? Believe me lady; I’m going to be shitting bricks out there.”

  They spoke a little more than separated. Rick went to tell Eileen and the rest what was going on and Amy went to inform Nemeeka and grab a jacket and large tote bag.

  To say that Eileen was not happy about the decision was an understatement. She understood the need, but was very unhappy to have Rick leaving. Finally Amy came over and looked at her watch.

  “It’s 9:30,” she stated, “I guess now is as good a time as any.” Looking at Rick’s uneasy expression, she said, “Don’t worry Rick, I brought a friend.”

  Reaching into her jacket pocket she pulled out a Sig Sauer P250 Carry handgun. It was the more concealable version of the famous Sig Sauer P220. It was chambered for 9 mm with the 15+1 capacity.

  “Holy crap!” exclaimed Rick.

  “That’s yours?” Mora gasped.

  Smiling evilly, Amy replied, “Hey, we’re in New York City. Can’t be too safe.”

  Nemeeka started laughing, “It’s my hardass, zombie hunting bitch.”
<
br />   Emboldened now, the two reluctant warriors exited the apartment. Cracking the front door of the building, they peeked out and then hurriedly descended the front stoop.

  Pausing, Amy turned right and started to walk, when Rick said quietly, “Wait a minute. I have an idea.”

  As Rick turned left, Amy grabbed his arm and whispered, “You’re going the wrong way.”

  “I know,” he said, “I would just rather have a set of wheels.”

  They trotted over to an outdoor parking lot where Rick walked over and tried the attendant’s booth door. It swung open and he routed around the keys hanging up inside. Finding what he wanted he said, “Aha” and came back out. Motioning Amy to follow, Rick dangled the silver and yellow emblem keychain and walked over to a tiny white and orange Smartcar sitting off to the side by itself.

  “You’re kidding, right?” groaned Amy, stopping short.

  “Absolutely not,” grinned Rick proudly. “Just the thing for zipping around between wrecked cars and up onto sidewalks.”

  “But there’s no protection,” she protested.

  “We’re not dodging oncoming trucks here,” he said, “We’re basically running a maze. We need something small to get through tight places.”

  “Okay,” she admitted, “I can go along with that.”

  He unlocked the doors and they entered the mini vehicle.

  “I think I’m claustrophobic,” Amy chuckled and they both laughed.

  The car started up right away and they edged out of the lot. Threading their way through the silent cars, they approached an opening near the corner. Rick hit the gas hard and they shot into the opening. As they rushed out into the intersection, a zombie stepped out from in front of a smashed FedEx truck and into the path of the car. It was the same female zombie that Rick saw in the middle of the street last night, rise up from the dead. If anything, she looked much worse now. As her hands came up Rick let out a cry and spun the wheel to the left. The spry little car sped around her as she belatedly tried to swipe at it with clawed fingers.

  Narrowly missing the twisting zombie, Rick and Amy barreled into the wide intersection heading directly for a large group of zombies coming their way. Now spinning the steering wheel the other way, the little car swerved. Before they could get enough traction to speed off, they ran over the prostrate form of a dead body in the road. The left side wheels left the road and the car briefly traveled forward on two wheels until it hit a large truck and keeled over to the side. The roof edge hit the bottom portion of the trailer and the Smartcar became wedged against the trailer body at a forty-five degree angle. Rick kept on jerking the wheel and throwing his body weight to the opposite side trying to right the trapped car, but it was wedged in too tightly.

  He finally realized the futility of his efforts when the pack of zombies caught up to them and started pounding on the driver side door and hood. Rick spun his head to the window and came face-to-face with the snarling creatures attempting to hammer their way in. The growing number of zombies was gradually shifting the car lower and lower. If they continued to sit inside there the tiny Smartcar would eventually fall onto its side.

  Amy was frantic and opened her door with a creak. She lifted her right leg up and stomped on the bent doorframe until it opened enough to crawl out.

  “Come on,” she yelled, “we have to get out of here.”

  The petite girl fell out of the door and onto the street. Looking around she quickly crawled beneath the underside of the trailer. Rick undid his seatbelt and climbed over the console. He pushed himself out of the door until his hands hit him the pavement. Kicking his feet and pulling himself along, he was having a difficult time freeing himself. His body was much bigger than the petite girl and he had to contort himself to squeeze through the half open door. As his lower half finally dropped to the pavement a grinding noise came from the roof and the Smartcar dropped another two feet lower. Scrambling fearfully beneath the body of the truck Rick pulled his feet under just as the car fell, screeching and groaning, the rest of the way to the pavement with the window shattering crash.

  They both crawled away from the mob of undead now clamoring around the upended vehicle. Looking out to make sure they weren’t seen, Amy and Rick pulled themselves out from beneath the trailer body and ran toward the other end of the city block. As they reached the opposite corner they looked back in terror when the moans of the zombie mob turned into loud snarls. The zombies on the periphery of the crowd had seen them escaping and gave chase. That drew the rest of the mob’s attention and they too joined the pursuit. Rick and Amy barreled headlong into the next cross street.

  Seeing an open door leading inside a brownstone, Rick called to Amy and they both veered toward the inviting portal. Bounding up the concrete and slate stairs, they scrabbled through the ajar door and ran inside. There was a stairway down the hall and off to the right. As they ran toward the staircase, Rick turned the corner and skidded to a halt. Amy, following right behind, collided into him. They paused there wide-eyed as the dozen or so zombies standing on the stairway turned to face them. A collective growl started and Rick and Amy turned and ran back the way they had come as footfalls thundered down the stairs after them.

  Desperate, the two fleeing survivors ran through the door and flew down the front stoop steps. As they reached the sidewalk the first of the pursuing creatures from the intersection turned the corner after them. Petrified and stammering “Oh my God, oh my God,” they fled down the street. They neared the far corner having to periodically swerve to avoid the suddenly appearing zombies from doorways or around vehicles. A moaning from the intersection they were approaching meant that they were cut off to any safety from their pursuers.

  In despair, Rick lunged for the double doors of a small vinyl record shop right before the corner to his left. To his utter amazement he was able to push them partway open. A chain was wrapped around the interior handles but not enough to stop the two struggling and hunted people from squeezing their way in. No sooner had they entered and looked to see if they were alone, then the forefront of the pursuing undead hit the storefront’s double doors. The chain held but Rick and Amy threw themselves against the doors to stop them from pushing their way in. As both sides pressed against the constantly shifting doors, the advantage tilted toward the increasing number of zombies on the outside. Rick reached over and grabbed a long bin of records which he pulled toward the doorway. Amy ran to join him and they succeeded in shoving the wooden table up against the doors. They couldn’t get them fully closed, but were able to wedge the table so that the doors would only open about a foot. They knew it wouldn’t hold forever, but it would buy them time to figure out what to do next.

  Amy and Rick ran into the back room of the shop. Seated in the back office area was the body of the apparent owner. A diehard hippie, the gray-haired man had a long ponytail hanging down his back and a bushy mustache sprouting off his upper lip. He was seated in an old, threadbare chair with his head hanging back and his hands resting on a dented, metal desk. Piles of dusty records and papers were stacked around him. A Vietnam era Remington made model 1911 .45 caliber pistol was lying on the desk in his dead hand. A very thin trickle of dried blood ran from the side of his mouth. The top of his balding head was plastered on the wall behind him. Down on his other arm not holding the gun was a nasty looking bite mark.

  Any put her hands over her mouth. “Oh no, that’s Gus,” she choked. “I used to see him in the coffee shop. He was nice.”

  Feeling very queasy, Rick pried the pistol from his cold hand. Under a sheaf of papers he found the box of shells Gus had used to load his weapon. He stuck the gun in his waistband and shoved the shells into his pockets.

  The snarling, moaning mob at the front entrance was ceaselessly throwing themselves against the doors. Rick could hear the heavy table being pushed farther and farther into the room. The chain was strained and pulled tightly between the handles. It wouldn’t hold for long and was only a matter of time before either the
lock or the handles gave way.

  Amy squeezed her way through the hoarder-like clutter of the back office and found a back door. The keys were conveniently hanging from a tarnished hook below an old and faded Grateful Dead poster. Unlocking the door the two of them entered into a small overgrown patio in back of the building. Rick climbed onto a rancid dumpster and looked over into a narrow, dark alley. Helping Amy up, they jumped over the fence and into the quiet alleyway. The alley ran in back of several tenement buildings and they stealthily pried at all of the doors in the row. More noise was coming from inside the record shop now. Evidently the mass of undead finally broke through the flimsy lock and were flooding the store searching for their suddenly elusive prey.

  Amy found one door that was unlocked and motioned for Rick to come over. As he neared her, the sudden and thunderous sound of heavy gunfire started. They had continually heard occasional shots fired all night and into today, but this sounded like a war had broken out. They heard the roar of vehicles crashing through the stranded automobiles and commercial vehicles. As they seemed to draw nearer, individual voices could be discerned shouting to one another.

  Amy and Rick looked at each other stunned by the barrage of multiple weaponry.

  “What the hell is going on?” Amy wondered aloud.

  An increasingly loud, thumping sound turned deafening as several military helicopters flew overhead close to the buildings. They seemed to hover a couple of blocks away. Immediately, heavy machine gun fire burst from the sides of the maneuvering aircraft. The vocalizations of the zombies increased with the military presence. The combined noise was a roaring, booming assault on the ears. Wincing, Amy opened the unlocked door and grabbed Rick as he stared upwards. She yanked him through the door and slammed it closed.