Authors: Craig Buckhout
“You’re sick, Chief, everyone here can see that. That means all those with you have been exposed, too. You need to get to the hospital.”
“I’m as healthy as you. Got a little cold is all. Been working too many hours. And as far as the hospital goes, I’m not going anywhere near that place. You die in the hospital. That’s where the real infected people are.”
“Okay, tell yourself whatever you want. Don’t go to the hospital. But you’re still sick with the virus, you’re still passing it on to others, and you’re still not coming in.” And then in a lower voice he added, “Chief, you’re a good man, but if I let you in here, you’ll end up killing all the people you sent me here to protect.”
As Max said that, he saw Billowy drop his hand to his pistol and rest it there. Max brought his carbine up a couple of inches. At the same time, Steve stepped up next to him with his carbine at the low ready, while Louis stepped over to the rock barrier with his own carbine.
Some of the non-uniformed people standing behind the Chief must have sensed the tensions ramp up because they started to move away. One however, a pretty young woman with light brown hair, stepped closer, put her fingers through the wire mesh and said, “Please, you have to let us in. We don’t want to die any more than you do. We’ll do whatever you want us to, but just let us in.” Tears rolled down her face.
Max thought he heard someone behind him cry as well. Someone else mumbled something about it not being right.
“I’m sorry,” Max said. “I can’t do that.”
She started screaming then, calling him all kinds of names, telling him she hoped he caught the virus and “died a miserable fucking death.” It wasn’t until she dropped to her knees that an older woman in the crowd moved forward, eyes of hate locked on Max, and helped the young woman to her feet, escorting her away from the gate.
“You’re an asshole, Calloway, and I promise you, you’ll get yours,” Billowy said.
Though Max didn’t show it, couldn’t show it, he hated himself for what he was doing. Billowy is right, I am an asshole, he thought. The Chief is a decent man. Some of these people I know, a few I’ve even worked with once or twice. They don’t deserve this happening to them. But he still didn’t change his mind.
The stare-down continued for several seconds or so before the Chief blinked several times as if clearing his vision, took three steps back from the gate, blinked rapidly several more times, looked up at the sky above and behind Max, tilting his head slightly up, drew his pistol, put it under his chin, and pulled the trigger.
There was a moment of confusion on everyone’s part. Nobody moved. A single scream echoed off the buildings, breaking the otherwise dead, still silence.
Maybe those standing behind the Chief couldn’t see what happened and thought Max had shot him. Or possibly they were just pissed off about not being let in and figured what the hell, they were dead anyway. Whether one of those possibilities was the reason, or it was an entirely different explanation altogether, it didn’t really matter. Reasons in no way made a bit of difference as to what happened next.
Marvin (Pearl) Billowy drew and fired. His first bullet hit the metal frame of the gate and ricocheted off. His second bullet, though, struck Jack Keeble, who was standing behind and to the left of Max, hitting him center of mass, punching straight through his heart, killing him almost instantly. Billowy never got off a third shot. Max and Steve both brought their carbines up and fired, stitching the other cop from hip to head, killing him as well.
There was more gunfire from outside the fence while Max, along with everyone else, moved toward cover. He felt something burn his left leg, the same one injured in the mall bombing, just before he made it behind the sand truck. Twenty, thirty, forty more shots were fired from both sides of the fence before everything went to near silence. For what seemed like the longest time, the only sounds he heard was someone behind him moaning and one or two others crying; their side or his side, he couldn’t tell.
Max came out from behind the sand truck to see Linh Briggs down on the ground, bloody, suffering a gunshot just above her right hipbone. On the other side of the fence, two more uniformed officers were dead, and a wounded civilian was being helped off by another.
Myra hustled over to Jack Keeble, knelt beside him, put a gloved hand over his wound, opened his airway, and began checking for both breathing and a pulse. At the same time, Doc Patel went to Linh and worked to control her bleeding.
Max stood there for a few seconds, ears ringing, heart pounding, the smell of gunpowder trapped in his sinuses. People moved past him like the 2:00 AM bar crowd; shuffling, staggering, disoriented, as they approached the fence. There, they stood dumbfounded.
Max finally stepped up next to Steve.
Steve turned his head away, spit out a gob of tobacco juice, and asked, “What’d we do here?” not really looking for an answer.
“It’s all fucked up,” Max said. “They were our friends. We worked with them. They left us no choice.” Or was I the one who left
them
no choice.
They fell to silence. A couple at the fence finally turned and walked back toward the substation, avoiding eye contact.
Steve pointed to those remaining near the gate. “I’ll tell you what; if any of these jamokes had any doubts about how seriously messed-up things are, I think they damn sure got the picture now.”
“You see the pox?”
Steve nodded. “It’s happening just like the doc said.”
Max started to ask Steve if he thought he, Max, was doing the right thing by not letting anyone in, but changed his mind. He’d already made the decision, people had died, why give anyone the impression he didn’t know what he was doing …even Steve. They needed to have confidence in him, even if he doubted himself.
Max felt a tug on his shoulder and turned to see Myra.
“Hold still,” she said, kneeling down next to his left leg.
This caused Steve to look. “Again?”
“Cheap trick, buster,” Myra said.
“Cheap trick?”
“Yeah, you getting yourself shot just so I wouldn’t leave. Cheap trick.”
“You’re on to me,” he replied.
He slung his carbine, but the movement made Myra grab hold of his leg and smack him on the ass.
“Hey, take it easy, will you.”
“Well then hold still.”
Back to normal …kinda.
Several yards away, he saw Frank and Louis setting up a folding cot to use as a stretcher to carry Linh to the infirmary. Her husband Walt was at her side, holding her hand.
Will approached, “I got an idea on how to deal with the bodies. It won’t be long before they start smelling.”
Somehow watching Myra, Will, Louis, Frank, Doc Patel, all of them, doing the hard things, dealing with problems, gave him confidence they just might make it after all.
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
September 14
th
The sun hung in the east, two fingers above Mt. Hamilton, slowly, slowly beating back the early morning chill. Its rise accompanied a slight western breeze that washed across the yard and those gathered there, carrying along the ever-present stink of decomposing flesh. Hardly anyone present noticed, though. They’d gotten used to it, just like they’d gotten used to twice brewed coffee grounds, three hours of electricity in twenty-four, ninety minutes of training each morning, six days a week, quick cold showers, and lately, little more than eighteen hundred calories a day.
Eight vehicles were lined up inside the gate; two convoys of four, sixteen men and women per, all armed, briefed, and ready to go. Each team had its assignment; a shopping list and a primary destination.
One team would go to the city and county maintenance yards looking for fuel, both diesel and gas, tanker trucks to carry it in, as well as water trucks. Once that had been accomplished, they were to move on to pharmacies and clinics in search of medical supplies. They decided to stay away from hospitals, considering them to be too contagious …for now anyway. After that, it was on to the police department for guns, ammunition, radios, and anything else useful they could find. And if time permitted, they’d look for food, any and all they could find, from anywhere they could find it. Frank had made their supplies last for over two months but soon there’d be little more than a few bags of rice and beans.
The other team would be looking for food, bottled water, batteries, toilet paper, soap, bulk clothing, bleach, matches and lighters, tanks of propane, vegetable seeds, and fertilizers. Of course, if they came across gasoline, diesel, or medicine, they would take that, too. Their initial destination would be Costco, Walmart, Home Depot, and every grocery store in-between.
Both teams would look for survivors and try to get a feel for how many and what condition they were in. Were they organized in groups or surviving on their own? More importantly, was the virus still active or had it burned out as it killed off its hosts? According to Doctor Patel, viruses usually needed a host to survive, and by the smell of things there weren’t many hosts left.
Plain and simple, they anticipated trouble. It was out there. Bad things were still happening. They could still hear occasional gunshots and even an explosion now and then. In fact, a half-hour ago, from the roof, they spotted a considerable amount of smoke to the northeast.
If all went well, they planned to be back home before dark. There would be a lot of hungry people waiting for them. Amazingly, they had only lost thirteen to the disease; the last burned and covered over more than three weeks prior. Another nine succumbed to illnesses of other types, mostly because they ran out of the medicine controlling whatever it was they were suffering from.
Max, wearing his San Jose P.D. uniform shirt and badge, tucked into navy cargo pants, sat on the tailgate of Frank’s pickup with Myra standing between his legs, facing out, leaning back. She would be acting as the medic on the team searching out pharmacies and clinics. He would be leading the other team. They were just sharing a few quiet moments together before they left on their respective missions.
The others, standing nearby in groups of three or four, were talking quietly. For several, this was the first time they might have to shoot at something other than a paper target, and it showed. Some were unusually quiet. Some were overly gregarious. Others made it appear like it was no big thing.
A man near the back of the second vehicle, Chet something, suddenly started coughing, causing every single head within a fifty yard radius to swivel his direction. All conversation stopped. A single thought occurred;
virus
! Those closest took a step back. Some unconsciously fingered the mask hanging from their belts or around their necks.
Chet looked up after he got it halfway under control, lifted his coffee cup for everyone to see, and said, “Sorry, went down the wrong pipe.” He then went back to coughing again.
Some of those standing near Chet returned to their conversations, apparently satisfied with the explanation, a few others kept shooting glances at him, and one person threw an empty water bottle in his direction, earning a couple of chuckles in return.
Max looked at his watch, 0730 hours. He couldn’t justify stalling any longer, so shouted, “Okay everyone, let’s get loaded up. We have a long day ahead of us.”
At that, Myra leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and puckered her lips.
Max kissed her.
“See you tonight,” she said, pushing off with her hips, picking up her medical bag in stride, and starting toward her assigned vehicle.
Max hopped down from the tailgate, grabbed his carbine, and started toward the lead vehicle. He wanted to do a buddy check; pairs making sure each other had their weapons on safe or holstered. They’d all been trained, but he wanted to make sure there were no accidents. After that, they loaded up and took off.
CHAPTER TWO
Max and Steve, who was also wearing a uniform shirt, were in the lead vehicle, with Raha in the backseat. She was their designated medic, having spent the last two months with Doc Patel and Myra learning the job. The fourth seat was occupied by Heidi Leary, who had shown a surprising proficiency with a Glock 19 pistol and a Remington 1100, twenty gauge, semi-automatic shotgun. She took them in hand when the radios went down, along with just about everything else; electricity, internet, cell phones, …the world, thus putting her out of a job. The ham radio was still working though …off and on.
Max’s four-vehicle convoy, two marked police vehicles and two pickup trucks, took the surface streets instead of the freeways to enable them to gather intelligence on the condition of the city. It was their first time outside the gate in two months, and he had no idea what to expect. They planned to travel Santa Teresa Boulevard, to Blossom Hill Road, to Almaden Expressway, the location of Costco, their first stop.
There wasn’t much to see in the first few blocks because it was almost exclusively commercial. When they hit Santa Teresa, though, they started detouring, a block or two at a time, off the main road, into residential neighborhoods, occasionally switching on the siren to see if they could get anyone’s attention. If there were survivors hidden in this wasteland, nobody showed themselves.
However, there were bodies, bunches of them, all in near similar stages of decomposition, on almost every street. The smell of rotting flesh hung so thick in the air it clung like skillet grease to everything around, penetrating the vehicle’s doors and windows, overpowering the pine-scented air freshener hanging from the dashboard. Max and the others pulled their facemasks into place in an effort to keep the odor away, but by then it was too late. It was already trapped deep in their sinuses where it would remain for hours.
It looked as if many of the dead had been dragged to the curb and laid out, just as you might wheel your garbage can to the street on pick-up day. Most had been wrapped in a sheet or blanket, but many of the bodies were now exposed to view, suggesting animals had gotten to them. Here and there, Max saw a bouquet of dried flowers, a pinned note with photo, or a small makeshift cross on display nearby. His overall take on all this was, at least in the beginning, the government had a system in-place for picking up the dead …until it became just too overwhelming.
Max also noticed that many of the homes had the word
Pox
written on the front door. A few, though, had
Reaper
spray-painted out front, usually on the garage door, sometimes even on the driveway. This caused Max to recall the conversation he had with Loren, the ham radio operator, squeezed into that tiny little room at the substation, who reported the Brits were calling the virus Reaper.
When they reached the intersection with Cottle Road, there was a small strip mall on their left. From the street, he could see what looked like a body lying outside a McDonald’s. Max told the three vehicles behind them to wait in the street while he checked things out. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already seen enough bodies, it was just that this one appeared more recently deceased than the others. It might give him a clue as to if the virus was still actively killing people.
As they got close, Max could see by the shape of the hips, it was a female. He stopped the SUV, and both he and Steve got out, although Steve remained near the front of the vehicle, scanning the area around them for threats while Max made the approach.
Max estimated she had been dead no more than one or two days. She was in her twenties, early twenties, with light brown hair chopped off short, perhaps in an attempt to make her look like a male. She was wearing dirty pink tennis shoes, blue jeans, a long-sleeved sweatshirt with SJSU in big bold letters on the front, and there was a dark blue baseball cap on the cement walkway next to her. She had no apparent signs of infection, meaning no dark lesions, but a pool of dried blood surrounded her head and shoulders, causing Max to conclude she had most likely been murdered. On the one hand, she offered the hope there indeed were survivors. On the other, it stood as a warning that though the disease may be on the wane, perhaps even gone, survival still wasn’t guaranteed.
As Max peeked around the end of the building, he caught movement. His hand swept down, snatching his Glock from its holster, only to lower it when his brain caught up with his eyes. It was a dog, a mutt, running from the back of the shopping center out to the street and away, down the sidewalk. When he turned back around toward the others, he saw Steve smiling at him. Steve’s expression changed at the same time Max heard another noise behind him. He spun, brought his pistol back up, and saw a boy of maybe nine or ten, dressed in dirty jeans and an Oakland Raiders jacket that looked two sizes too large for him, run from the same back alley as the dog had, pretty much along the same path. In his left hand the kid was carrying an aluminum baseball bat.
“Hey,” Max yelled, “Hold on! We want to talk to you!”
The kid didn’t even slow down.
“Want us to chase him down?” Steve called out.
Max started toward the street. “Nah, maybe we’ll give it a try on the way back.” To himself, he wondered why the boy didn’t stop. Baseball bat. Was he the one who killed the girl?
Max and the rest of his team continued west on Santa Teresa. Where homes faced the street, more bodies could be seen positioned at the curb, as before, wrapped or covered in whatever had been handy at the time, except for the several laid bare by animals. Where the road swept north, on the left, was Santa Teresa High School. The gates to the chain link fence surrounding the parking lot stood wide open. Inside were a dozen trucks haphazardly parked. There also was a forklift modified with a platform instead of the usual fork configuration. On the ground were stacked what must have been hundreds and hundreds of bodies with more piled six, eight high on the forklift.
Not a word was said by the occupants in Max’s vehicle, these images evoking somber thoughts of ghostly companions with faces of family and friends.
When they reached Costco, Max was surprised to find the big roll-up doors still secured.
Steve commented, “That’s weird. We must be the first.”
“Yeah, well, maybe the fear of getting infected was greater than the fear of starving to death,” Max replied.
Max left the other three vehicles in front and circled the building with their car, looking for a way in.
On the backside was the loading dock where two large trucks with Costco emblazoned on their sides were parked. The receiving doors opposite them were down and looked to be undisturbed, but next to them was a solid, single-wide, swing door that offered some promise.
Max stopped the SUV and said, “Let’s check it out. Maybe we can get in this side.”
As expected, he found the swing door dead bolted tight. Upon inspection, the door lock appeared to be a standard, commercial grade mechanism that should be easily defeated with the six foot, hardened steel pry bar they brought with them.
“Let’s make entry here,” Max said. “Heidi, you hang with me and watch my back while I try to pop the door, and you guys,” meaning Steve and Raha, “bring the others around.” Before Steve hopped into the driver’s seat and took off, Max walked to the back of the SUV and removed the pry bar along with a small sledge hammer.
With the door open, the place smelled like a garbage dump during a summer heatwave.
“Let’s hope that’s just rotten food,” Steve said, putting his mask in place.
“Okay, this is how we’ll play it,” Max said, turning to one in the group. “Chet, you were a truck driver, right?”
He nodded.
“Perfect. You, Jeff, Heidi, Raha, and Justin have outside security. The rest of us will go inside. While we’re in there, I want you, Chet, to see if either of the trucks is operational. If you can get one of them to crank over, we’ll use it to haul away any food we find inside.
He turned his eyes on the others. “It’s going to be dark in there, so everybody take your flashlights. We’ll use channel two. If you’re radio isn’t already on it, make the switch and verify it’s working.”
There was a momentary pause while everyone checked their radios.
“Okay, now the last time we were here, all the canned and packaged food was along the left side as we enter from this end of the building, so that’s where we’ll move to first. Once we’re inside, Steve will take point and let the rest of us know where he wants us. I want a round chambered, ready to go, but safeties on, fingers off the trigger, and watch you’re crossfire if there is any shooting. Remember your training. You know what to do. If we do run into trouble, we’ll pull back in an orderly fashion and come up with another plan. Any questions?”
There were no questions, so Max nodded to Steve to lead off.
The smell got worse once they were actually inside. There had to be thousands of pounds of fish, meat, and produce just sitting there, rotting away. The surgical masks they wore did little to filter out the odors.
It took almost an hour to thoroughly and safely search the building to make sure they were alone. That done, they started hauling things out to the Costco truck Chet managed to get running; anything and everything edible first, followed by paper goods, pharmaceuticals, cleaning solutions, plastic bags, pet food, and clothing. They even grabbed a couple of portable generators and a load of DVDs and books. After some debate, they added six dozen cases of booze to the truck. Max was hesitant about the last, not wanting to deal with the problems it might cause. But Steve talked him into it, arguing if anyone deserved to get skull-numbing drunk, it surly was them, adding they could ration some of it out if he was worried. The rest they could keep for trade should they find other groups of survivors.
It was nearly noon when they re-secured the door and moved a short distance down the road to the Walmart, their second objective. There, out front, they found a mud-splattered, blue Dodge pickup truck parked near one of the two entrances. One of the window panels was broken out, with the glass scattered on the floor inside. Also on the floor was a gray cement building block.
Over the radio, Max said, “Okay everyone, heads-up. There may be someone inside.”
Steve exited their vehicle to check on the pickup, while Max and Heidi stayed behind the SUV’s doors to protect him should something go wrong.
“Engine’s warm,” Steve said walking back.
Once again, Max radioed, “We’re going to hit the siren a couple of times and use the PA system to call them out. Make sure somebody is watching the parking lot and street in case there are others.”
He sounded out two good blasts of the siren followed by, “San Jose Police. We just want to speak with you. Come on out. If you have weapons, keep them holstered or slung.”
They gave them a little time to think about it before repeating everything, once again.
Another two minutes passed before someone from inside the store said, “How do we know you’re telling the truth?”
The voice sounded young, maybe late teens or very early twenties, and male.
Max dispensed with the PA system. “Good point! I guess you don’t! Tell you what, I’ll show myself and you show yourself! After that, if you agree, we’ll meet near the doors!”
“What the hell, Max,” Steve said. “Bad plan, dude.”
“Yeah, well, our other choices are making entry, which might force a shootout instead of avoiding one, or just driving away. Don’t like those plans either.”
“Still don’t like it.”
“So what do you think?” Max shouted.
After another couple of minutes, “There’s six of us in here and we’re all armed! If you shoot me, they’ll take you out!”
Bullshit, Max thought. He’s by himself or maybe with one other person. “Nobody’s going to shoot anyone! We just want to talk! I’ll even go first!”
Max set his carbine on the seat and stepped in front of the SUV. “Now you!” he shouted.
After a couple of seconds, a skinny white kid, maybe eighteen years old, wearing a black hoodie, camo cargo pants, and bright blue tennis shoes, stepped into view. “You better not shoot.”
Max held his arms out so the kid could see he wasn’t carrying a weapon and took several steps toward him. “I told you, nobody is going to shoot. We’re here to get supplies just like you. We also want to find out what’s going on in the city.”
“Everybody’s dead, that’s what’s going on.”
“We’re not dead. You’re not dead. Sometimes we hear gunfire. So there must be others.”
“A few. We’ve seen ‘em, but keep away.”
“Tell you what; rather than standing here shouting at one another, we’ll sling our weapons, you and your friends sling yours, and we’ll all share what we know. We’ll even help you load your truck if that’s what you want.”
“I don’t know. How do I know you aren’t infected?”
“I think it’s over with. Look at the bodies. They’ve been dead for weeks. Have you seen any fresh ones; anyone infected but not dead? We haven’t. If it makes you feel better, we’ll keep our distance. One thing’s for sure, if we don’t come to an understanding, neither of us will be getting any supplies, right?”