During the weeks that followed the initial outbreak, each of the Alameda survivors had encountered and observed the behaviors of the walking dead, and formed opinions about what they could and could not do. Father Xavier Church was convinced that they could not see long distances but had good hearing. He was wrong on the first count and underestimated them on the second. The dead had exceptional hearing. As to their vision, it was not only as acute as a man’s, it was even better at night.
Angie West did not fully appreciate their herd mentality. Often, when one started moving for whatever reason, others within visual distance would do the same, perhaps instinctively believing that food was in the area. Angie was correct in the assumption that they could become distracted and confused, but this was not an absolute. Many of the dead, once they started walking, simply kept heading in that direction until they encountered an obstacle and were forced to move around it. Corpses behind them would follow, and the corpses behind
them
would do the same.
So it was in Alameda, California, that the undead—drawn by engine noise and distant gunfire—began moving west through the city, toward the old naval air station. Like cattle, block by block those behind followed those in front, ever backward, across the bridges into Oakland like a long, moving chain. The dead in that city slowly noticed the movement and soon over a million corpses joined the herd, shuffling toward the bridges. Flowing down the I-80 corridor and across the Bay Bridge from San Francisco, millions more steadily joined the slow-moving but unstopping horde.
To the south, the undead mass from Los Angeles marched north through central California like a swath of ravenous locusts. Nothing survived their passage; vehicles were shoved to the side or tipped over, fences were trampled flat, crops obliterated as fields were packed down to hard dirt by millions of shuffling feet. Scattered refugees were forced from their hiding places, cornered and devoured in fields, rooted out of basements and pulled screaming from cars. The crowd of L.A. refugees that Vladimir had flown over eventually fell to the relentless, pursuing dead, pulled down by the thousands, rising minutes later to join the host.
Along a lonely stretch of road that passed through a thousand acres of farmland, several families of migrant farmworkers hid in a drainage culvert, praying for the horde to pass. They were torn from each other’s arms and eaten alive. Soon the L.A. horde would reach the overrun Naval Air Station Lemoore but would find it empty. That horde had already moved north.
At 5:58 that morning, just as Angie was beginning to awaken in her van and Brother Peter was tossing in a fitful sleep, every walking corpse within two hundred miles of western Oakland slowed and stopped. They stood motionless, breezes ruffling hair and torn clothing and flaps of hanging skin. Heads lifted slightly. They did not moan or growl, remaining still, silent.
At 6:01
A.M.
, the Pacific and North American plates of the Hayward Fault, which ran through Oakland, Berkeley, and Richmond, released a small amount of stress in the earth’s crust. The few monitors left in California, sitting in vacant rooms but still drawing power, registered a magnitude of 1.7. The event lasted only four seconds and was hardly noticeable.
As soon as it ceased, the dead began moving again.
At dawn, Angie and Brother Peter arrived at the hangar. There was a sad reunion with the firehouse group as they spoke of Bud’s death, and how they had been forced to leave their shelter. As for her uncle’s killer, Angie quietly told them that Maxie had paid for his treachery and said nothing more on the subject.
Angie was dismayed not only at the lack of fuel for the helicopter but at all of the new mouths to feed. That the hangar was poorly secured and would be difficult to defend made matters worse. She was pleased, however, to see that a medic had joined the group and quickly paired her up with the medical supplies she had scavenged and carried in the Excursion.
Peter was a perfect gentleman: subdued, well spoken, and apologetic for his filthy condition. He washed as best he could with baby wipes, shaved, and gratefully accepted a change of clothes offered by one of the firehouse group. His visitation from the Lord felt more and more like a dream with each passing hour, but the advice—to act like a normal person—was sound. There were sheep here, unsuspecting and desperate, easily hurt. And Peter Dunleavy had decided that he liked to hurt the sheep. He transferred his beloved box cutter to the pocket of a new pair of jeans.
Outside the hangar, more and more of the dead drifted through the parking lot. Everyone was careful to stay quiet, and the quilted blankets used as bedding the previous night were now hung over the windows to prevent notice from the drifters. It made an already darkened space gloomier, but there were no complaints.
Margaret returned to the back office to check on the infected girl. As she entered, Skye sat up and growled behind her gag, one milky blue eye glaring at her.
“Angie!” Margaret racked a shell into her shotgun. The sound of running feet came from behind her as she watched the girl thrash against her bonds, trying to stand. Angie appeared in the doorway, pistol in hand, as Margaret leveled the shotgun.
Rosa crowded in beside the reality show star and Skye’s head snapped to the door. She growled again, still fighting her restraints. Rosa saw the milky eye, but then noticed that the other one was clear.
“Wait!”
Margaret let the pressure off the trigger just one foot-pound before it went off. The medic pushed past and went to the girl, crouched, and pulled off the gag.
“Doc, don’t!” yelled Margaret.
“Let me go!” screamed Skye. “Take these off me!”
More figures appeared in the doorway, straining to look as Rosa pulled the scissors from her belt pouch. “Relax,” she said, “don’t fight me.” Skye made a gagging sound, and Rosa called for water. “I’m a medic, I’m here to help you.”
The young woman shook her head like a wet dog. “Why can’t I see? What’s wrong with my eye? Take these off!” Her voice was like gravel, and Rosa helped her drink, going slow so she wouldn’t choke.
“I’m going to cut these straps off you, and I want you to lie back and be still for a minute, okay?”
Skye’s body was trembling as she looked at her, and she managed to nod. Rosa cut the zip ties, and Skye let herself be gently pushed back to the floor, rubbing at her wrists. “Where’s my sister?”
“I don’t know, honey,” said Rosa, fitting her stethoscope to her ears and checking the girl’s pulse. Elevated, but not dangerously so, and not like before. Her skin was cool and dry.
“They’re in the church! Where’s my rifle? We can’t stay here, we have to relocate.”
“Shhh, we will, honey, we will. What’s your name?”
It took a few seconds. “Skye Dennison.”
The medic smiled. “Nice to meet you. I’m Rosa.”
“What’s wrong with my eye?” Skye was touching it, her breathing moving toward hyperventilation. Rosa kept shushing her, speaking softly. Margaret handed off her shotgun and left the room, hands shaking. Sophia was waiting in the hangar and quickly held her friend as Margaret began to cry.
Rosa told Skye that she had been sick, had been exposed to infected fluid and down with a fever for almost twenty-four hours. She had already heard the story about the church rescue and repeated it to the girl.
“You went through what we call the slow burn. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Skye’s voice was a whisper. “My sister is dead.”
Rosa went past it. “The fever must have done some damage to your eye. You can’t see out of it at all?”
Skye closed her right eye, leaving the milky blue one open. “No, just light.” She winced. “It hurts. Is it going to get better?”
Rosa frowned. “We’ll have to see, honey. Tell me what hurts, exactly.”
“My head.” Skye closed both eyes and rubbed her temples. “Headache. A bad one.”
Rosa handed her the water bottle and dug some ibuprofen out of her kit, then finished examining the young woman. She was thin almost to the point of gaunt, but that was likely dehydration from the fever. Her nutritional intake must not have been sufficient, though it was clear she had been taking care of herself as best she could and kept fit. Was she military? Her heartbeat was settling and her vitals looked good—Skye allowed Rosa to put a blood pressure cuff on her—and other than skinned knees and knuckles and raw skin where the zip ties had cut into her wrists, she appeared healthy.
Carney poked his head in, a look of wonder on his face. “Is she going to be okay?”
Rosa looked at Skye. “I think so. I want her to take it easy, though.”
The inmate hesitated in the doorway for a moment, looking at a young woman who had come back from the brink, then nodded and left.
“Who was that?”
Rosa smiled. “He’s the one who saved you from that church.”
Skye thought for a moment. “I don’t remember him. I was in the tower. I remember shooting—” She stiffened. “Where’s my rifle? I need it!” Her hand went to an empty shoulder holster and then to an equally empty boot knife sheath. “I need my weapons.”
Rosa didn’t want her to panic and shushed her again, telling her that she was safe and would get her weapons back, that she needed to rest. She made her swallow a couple of strong antibiotics and drink an entire bottle of water, and then hit her with a shot of Demerol. Skye didn’t protest but avoided looking at the people who were crowding into the doorway to stare at her. She was careful to keep her damaged left eye turned away.
“Oh my God, I stink. And my clothes . . .” They were stiff with the dried fluids of the corpse she had killed with her machete and reeked of her own waste.
“I’ll take care of that too,” said Rosa. “We’re about the same size, as long as you don’t mind Navy camo. You’re Army, right? Special Forces?”
Skye blinked and shook her head. “I go to college, or I was going. UC Berkeley.”
Rosa nodded, not sure what to make of it, and stayed close to her until the Demerol hit and Skye drifted off. Then she retrieved her sea bag and chased everyone out of the room. Margaret returned more composed, and together the two women stripped and washed Skye, then dressed her in a set of Rosa’s blue camouflage.
Margaret was silent through it all, but then a tear rolled down her cheek. “My God, I almost . . .”
Rosa hugged her. “But you didn’t, and she’s going to be fine.”
Margaret nodded and managed a small smile.
• • •
T
here were no such happy moments in the adjacent office. Dane was no longer sitting against the wall but had slumped to the floor on his side. His face was flushed and beaded with sweat as the fever came on, his body trembling. Calvin sat cross-legged beside him, wiping his brother’s face with a bar towel. Maya stood a ways back, covering her mouth with her hands and crying softly. She had not permitted Evan to come into the room. This was family business.
“Remember the way she danced?” Dane said, looking up at his brother. “Nothing but life and light.”
“I remember,” Calvin said softly, smiling.
“I loved her too. I loved that she was with you. A better person than both of us, man. I couldn’t . . . I didn’t . . .”
Calvin stroked the man’s forehead. “I know. It’s okay.”
“It isn’t.” Dane shook his head. “It happened so fast, and I was trying to save her. Then I got bit.” He let out a sob. “I’m so sorry.”
Calvin rested his forehead against his brother’s. “It was already too late for her. She’d been bitten, hurt badly. It wouldn’t have mattered.” Dane tried to protest, but Calvin squeezed his hand. “She would have turned. She’s at peace now. You did that for her.”
Dane began to cry, and it was difficult to tell where the sweat ended and the tears began. “I’m sick, Cal. I feel so bad. It’s going to happen to me, isn’t it?”
“No. I promise it won’t.” Tears formed in his eyes now too.
Dane looked past his brother and raised a shaking hand to blow Maya a kiss. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he mouthed. Maya nodded and cried harder.
Calvin rested his hand on his brother’s hot forehead for a moment, then told him he would be back and left the room. He found Angie, told her what he wanted, and she retrieved it for him without a word. When he came back in, Calvin was screwing a silencer onto the end of one of Angie’s automatics. Maya fled to find Evan, and Calvin closed the door behind her.
Dane struggled to sit up, fighting the urge to vomit, forcing himself to look at the man he had idolized since childhood. “You get those kids to a safe place, you hear me?”
A nod. “I will. I love you, brother.”
Out in the hangar, it came as a metallic cough. Then there was only the muffled sound of a man weeping.
• • •
T
he balance of the day was quiet, people resting and taking stock of their meager supplies, grateful not to be running or in constant fear of attack. Carney gathered some men and made several trips back and forth to the Bearcat, emptying it during moves carefully planned to avoid being spotted by the dead. He assembled the weapons and riot gear on the stage, and asked Margaret and Sophia to oversee the distribution of the foodstuffs. TC didn’t put up a fight. He was sleeping off the tequila.
Around midday, Xavier asked Evan, Angie, and Carney to come to the back of the hangar. “I want to show you something I noticed when Rosa was bringing us in on the boat.”
Angie and Carney went with the priest toward a metal ladder, and after checking to see that Maya was occupied with her younger brothers and sisters, Evan followed. The ladder led to a series of catwalks and then another ladder, set high on one wall of the hangar. At the top, Xavier took them up through a hatch and out onto the vast, arching roof of the building.
When they reached the apex, they got down on their stomachs and crawled to the edge. It would probably be difficult for a living man to spot them up here, much less the dead, but there was no sense in taking chances. All of them had seen the results of underestimating their opponents.
The airfield stretched out before them, the water of the bay beyond. Several dozen corpses, looking tiny from their vantage point, wandered the fields and runways without obvious purpose. A few were standing near Vladimir’s Black Hawk while one was on all fours, face pressed to the spot where Calvin’s wife had died.
“What are we looking at?” asked Carney.
Xavier handed him a pair of binoculars and pointed out beyond the airfield. “That aircraft carrier out there. I figure it’s less than a mile offshore.”
The inmate looked at it through the binoculars. “I see movement on the deck, people, but I don’t think they’re sailors.”
“Not anymore,” said Angie.
“It’s hard to see in the daytime,” said Xavier, “but yesterday afternoon when we were crossing the bay and getting close to Alameda, I saw lights on board, running lights, and on its bridge too. I’m surprised you didn’t see it.”
Evan took the binoculars. “I was busy trying not to tip over a barge. I can see lights; they’re faint, though. What’s the point?” He handed the glasses to Angie.
“Lights mean there’s power,” Xavier said. Then he told them what he was thinking.
His companions looked at him as if he had gone mad.