By Alexander Osias
I REACH UP and punch the garage door control duct-taped to the ceiling of my Mustang 5.0. The door slides upward with the rattle and hum of a well-maintained mechanism. My left foot smoothly mashes down on the clutch, as I shift into reverse. Then I rev the engine slightly, let out the clutch slowly, and back out into the driveway.
Danny and Debbie are waiting for me on the sidewalk. I roll down the window to hear what they’re saying.
“You’re really going ahead with it, Tony?”
“It’s family, Deb,” I say as nonchalantly as I can. “Besides, it’s not so bad this time of year.”
“Going with the trucking surge is smart, Tony,” drawls Danny. “But it ain’t no guarantee. Get someone like Lisa or Roderick to ride shotgun, at least.”
“No, I’ll be fine. I did it once, same time last year. Didn’t even see a single shambler.”
Debbie lets go of her husband’s hand and takes a step closer. “Be careful, you. And say hi to Chestica. I know you’re going to visit her to get gas,” she says.
I nod, she steps back, and I do my best not to peel out as I leave.
I’M ALWAYS ON the verge of telling her, even with Danny there. But it’s only been a seventeen months since the first outbreak, and eleven since the Los Angeles burnout. There’s always a bit of panic lurking underneath our reclaimed semblance of civilization, and I don’t want to become a victim of it.
While everyone relies on the government’s troops, support, and relief goods, nobody trusts their official statements anymore— especially since science still can’t tell us why some folks who are bitten die, while others turn into shamblers, while even others turn into runners, while a lucky few are immune to the bite.
Instead, it’s a constant struggle to judge how reliable the latest reports are, from professional journalists and foolhardy amateurs venturing out into the wildlands with the patrols.
As for me, and a few others like me, I volunteered and joined a Plague Response Team.
I figured that if there was any bad news, we’d be the first to know.
I EASE THE ’Stang into the Russino gas station at the T-intersection of Polhemus Road and De Anza Boulevard. It gets a lot of traffic from the Safeway and strip mall just up the road.
Russino’s used to be a Chevron station, until the plague hit; now it’s under new management—a mother and daughter with strong ties to the county and the federal government. This Sunday, it’s Jessica—the daughter—overseeing operations.
“Ms. Russino,” I say courteously, bowing to the curvaceous figure in the tinted cashier’s tower in the center island of the gas station. “I’ll be loading up on a full tank.”
“Tony,” yells Jessie, sliding open the tower, so her voice can be heard better. “Good to see you! I’ll put it on your tab.”
“I’m paying up front and settling accounts today, Jessie.”
Jessie’s cornflower-blue eyes widen, and she leans out of the cashier’s tower to get a closer look at the Mustang. She takes in the brand new tires, the NewSlick frictionless coating on my roof and hood, and the reinforced bumper, then trains her gaze on me.
“You leaving me, Tonio?”
I shake my head, smiling at her use of my old nickname—only family and childhood friends call me that these days. “Just going down to L.A. for a few days. I’ll be back.”
Without another word, she slides the tower shut. There’s a rattling of keys, as she opens the reinforced door to the tower and she steps out in a jeans-and-leather ensemble meant to keep lonely customers coming back. In one hand, a Glock; in the other, a once-illegal sawed-off shotgun, now considered an indispensable part of a neighborhood defense system.
She hands the Glock to me, which I refuse on principle.
“That’s Lou’s—”
“Stop being such a gentleman, Tonio. Last I saw him, the idiot said he was going to ‘check out Tahoe for a few days’, and he never made it back because he didn’t take this with him. Now, help yourself to some gas, while I find the rest of the bullets.”
I nod and step to the nearest working gas pump, and try to sneak a glance at Jessie’s silhouette and memorize it for the trip ahead. She catches me looking, and raises an eyebrow.
“When are you going to stop window shopping, Tonio? The door’s always open for you,” she says, before she struts off to the supply room with an extra wiggle in her walk.
SHE HAS A right to be worried, of course. Her mother works for the Federal Government; her father flies to the Center for Disease Control every month to update them on the outbreaks of the plague. I’m sure they tell her things even I don’t get to hear about.
What I know, I get from monthly briefings from Jessica’s dad—who I still call Mr. Russino despite his admonitions to call him by his first name—when he’s in town, and from the weekly poker nights of the Plague Response Team: what roads have been reclaimed, what areas we can’t hold onto, what foodstuffs are running low, what utilities and luxuries have been restored and stabilized.
But it’s all about the United Bay Area Counties, and nothing much about what lies south. Once I’m past the checkpoints down by Milpitas and out onto I-5, there’s no telling what I’ll run into until I get to the big Harris Ranch compound and the expanded perimeter they’ve set up down there—a shambler herd, a lone runner, or a whole lot of nothing.
I’m hoping for the latter; doesn’t everyone? Of course, it never works out that way.
At least, not for me.
I COAX THE Mustang southbound onto the 280 freeway and enjoy the sight of the fog-covered Santa Cruz Mountains to my right. They still call it the World’s Most Beautiful Freeway, but most of the residents of the Bay Area look to it these days as one of their most secure sources of food and fresh water.
When the outbreak first hit, some folks ran from the cities to the mountains and found that shamblers and runners shied away from uneven ground, unless they caught sight of food. This made it easy for the mobs and militias to sweep the streets and highways clean of plague victims, which made reconnecting with the other cities and counties faster.
These days, the Highway and Road Patrol sweep the roads daily, looking for plague victims.
Fifteen minutes into my drive down 280, I again consider trading in the stickshift ’Stang for an automatic. Automatics are great for these long drives—you can set the cars on cruise control and they’ll maintain the speed you set it at. But there are things that you can do with sticks that you can’t with automatics—downshift to lose velocity, disengaging the gears on inclines, and, of course, roll-starting your car. Faced with the potential loss of control, I once again reaffirm my decision to keep the car.
At the thirty-minute mark, I shut off the iTunes player and select the pre-memorized AM channel for Patrol bulletins. First I listen to the official announcements: the schedules for patrol sweeps along major roadways and verified plague victim sightings from the past twenty-four hours. Next, a list of anonymous sightings for verification by the local community patrols. Finally, the weather forecast: fog in the afternoon. Last, but certainly not least: the time the sun sets—when you can’t see, even a shambler can get up close without you knowing.
Coming up on the Page Mill Road in Palo Alto, I slow down.
There’s a car on the freeway shoulder—a vintage Camaro—with its hood raised. Once the state-wide sign that you were having car troubles, it does double duty now; anyone capable of popping the hood and raising it isn’t a shambler or a runner.
I roll and park the ’Stang a respectful distance ahead of the Camaro, and approach with my hands to my sides. An old man leans out of the driver’s side and says they’ve called the Patrol. I nod, ask if they need any help, then head back behind the wheel when they politely refuse.
I decide to call it in to the Patrol again anyway, before peeling out onto 280 once more and merging into the almost non-existent traffic.
On a whim, I decide to leave 280 and take the 85 exit. It should steer me clear of the high-security roadblocks and checkpoints that plague Santa Clara these days. As one of the hubs of statewide telecommunications networks and personal electronics production in the wake of the outbreak, it’s become a target for destabilization attacks by renegade militiamen.
The sight of unfamiliar roads jars me for a few seconds, and I find myself thinking of Jessie. I decide to phone in a request to Jessica’s favorite radio station. I almost ask for her favorite song—‘Hotel California’—but the lyrics would seem ominous, given the situation. So I dedicate Bob Seger’s ‘Hollywood Nights’ to her instead.
Then I lose myself in classic rock for a while, as I follow State Route 85 all the way to Southern San Jose.
I’M IN THE middle of a double shot of AC/DC—‘Big Balls’ and ‘Highway to Hell’—when my cellphone buzzes.
It’s Mr. Russino. Apparently Jessica has asked him to check why I’m headed south. I tell him that it’s because I have family in Los Angeles, an aunt who’s ill but not with the plague. Before I can elaborate further on my fabricated story, he stops me short with a short phrase: “Possible shambler on I-5.”
I ask where, how big? He asks where are you. I tell him I just got onto 101 from 85, near the Ames Research Center. He tells me he’ll get word to me, when he finds out more.
THERE’S A BITE survivor reunion at Harris Ranch in Coalinga. It takes place every three months, and is sponsored by the government—an opportunity for them to monitor our health, extract new blood samples for possible bite inoculations and, just maybe, permanent cures for the infected. There are only around three hundred of us in California, and we’re very close. None of us has ever missed a reunion yet.
But Harris Ranch is on I-5, which makes the news troubling. It’s made even more troubling by the fact that the freeway is bracketed by flatlands and low hills, making it possible for almost anyone on the road to see shambler herds coming from miles away. And believe me, everyone keeps looking around when venturing out of the safe zones.
So where did this shambler sighting come from?
It could be a mistake, a kneejerk report from a jumpy, sleepless trucker. Or it could be smugglers.
There have been rumors of underground traffic in plague victim smugglers. Someone gets infected, their friends and family get desperate and try to bring them to any number of thieves and quacks that promise a cure for a small fortune.
Sometimes, someone fucks up—a badly-locked door, a split-second distraction, an unforeseen accident, and you have a small outbreak that needs to be quashed, and fast.
Sometimes, you hear of something even crazier—like that Trampier guy up in Sacramento, who suddenly decided he could cure plague victims by faith alone. He ended up attracting hundreds of desperate souls who smuggled their infected loved ones to his ranch. When the government sorted out that mess—and thank God they did—it did not end well.
I DECIDE TO enjoy a pitstop along 101, to grab an early lunch and a quick bathroom break, hoping Mr. Russino can get more news to me before the long push down I-5.
I roll the ’Stang into a Sizzler’s parking lot, hoping to grab some shrimp and steak and a tall, cool glass of lemonade.
When I sit at my table, I find that the waitresses don’t seem to be particularly talkative today—news of the shambler sightings up in San Franciso and in the East Bay has made them edgy. So I keep to myself, slather the butter sauce onto the shrimp, and down them in rapid succession before turning my attention to the steak.
I slice off a piece, and it’s tender and slightly pink at the center—just the way I like it.
Not so long ago, I always ordered my meat well done, to the consternation of chefs everywhere. Unlike everyone else, it wasn’t because I was concerned that I’d gotten a batch of infected beef; it was because I was afraid that the taste of blood might trigger something.
But then even the infection thing turned out to be just mad rumor-mongering—the plague never made the jump to other mammals. Apparently even the hungriest runner will ignore thousands of heads of cattle and go straight for the nearest human.
I hate runners. Not only can they run, they can climb stairs, use tools, even throw a punch or two that will lay you out if you don’t know they’re there. Fortunately they can’t talk and don’t bother with hygiene, so it’s usually easy to stop a shotgun mob from killing you by just making sure you dress up that day or learn to shout or whistle loud enough for everyone to hear.
Whistling loudly also helps catch the attention of busy waitresses, when you’re trying to ask for your bill.
BACK IN THE ’Stang, I roar onto 101 and slide into the fast lane. The laws against speeding are rarely enforced anymore—they just keep track of you with all the cameras and sensors wired up and down the freeways until you get to your destination. Then they either ticket you or arrest you.
Since I don’t want either, I keep my speed at 90 mph until I get stuck behind some car or SUV slavishly following the outdated 70 mph limit.
City streets give way to barely green hills and farmland, once I shift from 101 South to the I-5 South. From here on, I-5 is a two-lane freeway going south. I look left, across the gap to check out the vehicles on I-5 North.
There are some, but not as many as on our side. My foot eases off on the accelerator, and I check the shortwave bands for chatter. There’s a roadblock up ahead, and cars and trucks are being routed through a relatively even patch of dirt between I-5 South and I-5 North. You can hear the fear and the speculation running through the voices of the truckers and travelers. Outbreak, it has to be.
I check the I-5 information band on the AM frequencies, but all I get is static.
I try one final time to get through to Mr. Russino, but there’s no connection despite a strong signal. So I change tactics—I thumb through my phone’s contact list for the Harris Ranch reservation desk and make a call, but get an answering service.
The ’Stang rumbles onto the freeway shoulder, and I floor it. I don’t have my lights—didn’t think I’d need them—but I turn on my hazards and high beams and hope they’ll be enough, under the noonday sun, to warn other drivers about my ill-advised approach.
AT THE FRONT of the line, right where the vehicles start making their dusty U-turn onto I-5 North, there are two big rigs blocking the road. I pull alongside one, turn off the engine, holster the Glock, and approach the driver.
“You’re not a HARPer,” he says, when I get close enough to shout at. He points the barrel of his shotgun away from my general direction and squints through the glare to get a better look at me.
“No, and you’re lucky because they don’t like being called that.” I flash my PRT badge. “What’s going on here?”
He points down the road to the three-car pileup and a lone figure walking in a slow circle around the damaged cars. “Fucked if I know,” he says, a slight edge to his voice. “Is this an outbreak?”
I shrug. “I haven’t been told anything. I guess I’d better find out. You got a radio?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” I say, pulling out the Glock and racking the slide. “I’m going to check this out—lock your doors and hop on the Marconi. Let all the people back there know what’s going on.”
“Aren’t we supposed to wait for—?”
“Yeah, remember the last time we all waited for someone to do something?”
His eyes narrow, and he takes another glance at the wreckage down the road. He revs his engine once, then nods to me to go. “Good luck,” he says.
A HUNDRED FEET away from the cars, and I can see the walking figure more clearly: Caucasian, late forties, bleeding from the head, dazed look in his eyes. He looks right at me a couple of times as he wanders aimlessly near the vehicles.
One of the vehicles is still idling, but I can’t tell which one. There seem to be people inside, but I can’t see clearly enough in the early afternoon glare.
At fifty feet, I stop in my tracks and raise my gun to line up the Glock’s iron sights with the wandering man’s head before I call out.
“Hey, mister!” I yell. “Are you okay?”
The man’s face hardens into a scowl, as his head swivels toward me. His gaze locks onto my face, and he charges right at me.
I squeeze off two shots. Both miss. I grit my teeth, aim right between his eyes, and wait until he’s only five feet away to pull the trigger. The bullet punctures his forehead, tunnels through his brain, and exits the back of his skull in an explosion of black blood and cranial matter. The runner topples into a heap at my feet, and I shuffle backward quickly to get some distance, quietly berating myself on my lack of skill.
Then I hear the sound of doors being wrenched open—a black woman, an Asian man, and a handful of others force themselves out of the wreckage. All have the same cast to their features; all have the same wild look in their eyes; all have locked their gazes on me.
Too many. And chances are, they’re all runners.
In the span of a second, I safety the Glock, holster it, and begin running back to my car.
LESS THAN TWO hundred feet back to my car, I hear the engines of the semis roar to life. They lurch forward and begin to bear down on me. I start to veer away, but a quick glance out of the corner of my eye shows me that my undead admirers are following my lead.
I swerve back to the center of the road, cursing my lack of foresight. Squinting, I see the truck drivers frantically waving me to the side as they continue their resolute approach toward me and my grisly entourage.
Without thinking, I go for broke, aiming for the scant space between the 18-wheelers. Neither swerves, and at the last second I dive face down between them.
Sounds: the roar of engines, the rumble of tires, the wet crunch of metal meeting fragile flesh, the keening cry of brakes.
I roll onto my back, and bring my gun up—but no runners were fast enough to dodge the trucks.
Scrambling to my feet, I shakily make my way to the trucks—and then to the wreckage—to make sure that all the shamblers and runners are put out of their misery.
TWO HOURS LATER, I’m southbound on I-5.
According to the HARP officers that finally showed up, some renegade militia group apparently sabotaged the communications along the freeway and left the three carloads of runners on the road. Apparently, they’d done this nasty little trick up and down the state. Fortunately, all of them were contained.
The trucks were impounded for decontamination, but the drivers were cited for their bravery. They tried to bring me in on it, but I played up the reckless fool angle so I could get back on track. Thankfully, both truckers swore right and left that I was never bitten—I’d have to call in some pretty high favors, if a sharp-eyed Patrol officer discovered the bite scar on my shoulder.
“TONY! YOU MADE it!”
I smile at Olivia, my dance partner the last time I was at Harris Ranch. “Wouldn’t miss it, ma’am.”
Like me, she found out she was immune last year in Los Angeles. We’d been able to book passage through the Grapevine, but bite marks on our bodies were discovered on the road, and we were left to die on that cold, twisting ridge to Northern California.
Thankfully, her father—a state senator—was able to find her by tracking her cell phone. When they caught up to us, she insisted that I be rescued as well.
Her father has been repeatedly praised for his visionary stance in protecting our rights and advancing the cause of research into the plague, but that admiration might dry up, if his daughter’s secret is ever revealed. So officially, she’s here to represent him, and the rest are here to represent the hope of humanity.
And me? I’m here hoping for good news.
Maybe they’ll announce that they’ve isolated whatever it is that makes us immune, or that they’ve found a way to inoculate people without killing them, or that they’ve found a cure. Maybe they’ll confirm once and for all that we’re not secretly carriers who can pass on the infection with a bite, or a kiss, or a night of reckless abandon. Maybe they’ll confirm that our kids will be immune, and that future generations will not have to deal with the fear of former humans slavering for living flesh.
Maybe tonight, it’ll all happen at last.