Justin nodded as if in agreement. “Ye-ah, get this, FEMA had organized shelters and Vaccination Stations at the major stadiums across the country, but the military ordered them to be disbanded, threatening military action. This left millions of people with no place to go for help. Many people were left stranded on the highways. Like dude, people actually ran out of gas on the highway. Like even the gas stations were out of gas. Ye-ah, freakin’ amazing, the gas stations—out of gas?” Justin said wide-eyed in apparent disbelief.
It reminded Dean of the 70s. “That happened in the 70s, the gas stations running out of gas. You could only buy gas on the even or odd days determined by the last number on your license plate. They called it ‘odd-even rationing.’ Back then, the scuttlebutt was that the oil companies were in cahoots with the government, testing the manipulation of the oil market,” Dean offered, remembering back.
“Really, that’s cray cray,” Justin continued. “Even the grocery stores ran out of food, water, and the basic supplies. And, then there were the looters. The news media hashtagged it ‘The Biggest Day After Thanksgiving Sale—
Ever
.’ I watched tons of YouTube clips of people running out of stores like Walmart and Best Buy with overloaded shopping carts. Ye-ah, people just took what they wanted.”
“I don’t understand, why didn’t our government stop this shit before it got out of hand?” LuLu ranted.
“Cause they didn’t realize what the heck was going on until it was too late. Think of it this way,” and Justin continued, “Say you’re sick with the flu. Your family takes you to the nearest Vaccination Station, but you die before you actually get the vaccine. Then you turn all zombie-like and kill your family, and now they’re infected too. I saw an absolutely insane YouTube video. It was an aerial clip. Think it was somewhere in L.A. Miles and miles of stalled traffic—people trying to get to the shelters and Vaccination Stations. Imagine miles of cars stuck in a massive traffic jam with infected people roving the highways. Pretty soon the freakin’ freeways were like all-you-can-eat buffets . . .”
LuLu gasped in disbelief, “That’s messed up! But, how hard is it to quarantine a small area, like Northern California, Southern California or the Central Valley. They must have things under control by now?”
Justin looked around the table and nearly whispered, “It’s not just California, it’s the entire freakin’ U.S. It could even be . . . global?”
Dean stared at Justin in disbelief. They all stared at Justin, then at each other, and then down at their empty plates. That wasn’t the news Dean had hoped to hear. Perhaps the kid’s opinions were somewhat distorted; after all, Justin had been using the internet as his source of information. Everyone knew the internet couldn’t be trusted. Hell, anybody could put any bullcrap on the internet and call it legit.
“Anything else we need to know son?” Dean asked soberly.
“There were all kinds of cray cray conspiracy theories floating around in cyberspace. Some debated that there
never
was a vaccine in the first place because it would’ve been impossible to mass produce it so quickly. The GMO theory was a pretty big thing too. Something to do with the fact that 80-90% of all produce grown in the US is genetically modified. Which, if you think about it, really means the food has been altered. It could have whack-out our DNA, or it could’ve created some new super-bug. Really, think about it.”
“Now son, you know that’s just crazy talk,” Dean retorted.
Then again,
this whole Super-Summer flu is pretty damn near unbelievable
, Dean thought.
“And there were other conspiracy theories like HAARP, CERN, Chemtrails . . . and, and Crop Circles—” Justin stopped at Dean’s disapproving nod.
“You gotta be shittin’ me?” LuLu let out a nervous laugh.
Justin shook his head, “Some said, that uh,” Justin gulped and then looked at them intensely and whispered: “I found this uber-cool whistleblower site. This one blog said that the flu outbreak purposively coincided with the most massive Jade Helm exercise ever. It was like the military
knew
the flu outbreak was going to happen, and they
knew
the virus couldn’t be contained. The blog said the military considered the situation—totally FUBAR, and all the Vaccination Stations and Evac Shelters were—incinerated—to contain the worldwide pandemic.”
Both LuLu and Ella gasped.
Justin continued, “Ancient astronaut theorist blamed it on this new race of aliens—”
“All righty then,” Dean interrupted when he saw the fear in Ella’s eyes.
“Uh, then the internet went dark. Ye-ah, they probably flipped the kill-switch and shut it down. Then, the power went out a few days later.” Justin looked down at his plate as if afraid to say anything more.
“I think that’s about enough excitement for one day. LuLu, how’s about you show our new resident to his room.” From the looks of everyone, Justin had them all feeling a little spooked.
***
Dean retreated to his luxury suite on the third floor and poured himself a generous highball of his favorite, Crown Royal. Yes, he had his vices as well. Some of Justin’s explanations seemed to ring true, although most of his talk sounded outlandish, like something right out of the
X-Files
. How in the hell could the whole United States fall into ruins over a simple flu bug?
He sat on the edge of his bed deep in thought. Justin’s talk brought him back to the harsh reality of it all. His little side trip to Vacaville to stock up on supplies and find out the news had taken him on a much longer journey than he had bargained for. All he wanted to do was get back to his cabin in Winters and weather out this storm. But, he was responsible for Ella and LuLu and now the Asian kid, to boot.
That night LuLu joined him as she sometimes did. He knew it was because she didn’t want to be alone, not after Justin’s news. Who was he to judge her; he was lonely and scared shitless as well. After a night of passionate (loveless) sex, he worried the rest of the night away contemplating the future.
***
A banging at the door caused Justin to jolt straight-up in the king-size bed. Thinking it must have been one of his bad dreams, he nestled back under the covers. Another bang at the door interrupted him.
What time is it!
Justin glanced at his watch.
Dude, it’s only 4:45 a.m.
He had been used to sleeping to noon-ish these past few weeks.
“Justin, downstairs in ten. We’ve got work to do,” Dean ordered from the other side of the door to his suite.
“What the—are you cray cray?” Justin rolled over onto his stomach and grabbed a pillow, smashing it over his head to drown out the world.
“Son, you alive in there?”
Shit,
Dean sounded pissed. “OK, OK, I’m coming, I’m coming,” Justin said with a vocal yawn.
“Ella made breakfast . . . hot pancakes,” Dean coaxed.
On that note, Justin sprang into action. The thought of seeing Ella made him sort of jittery and excited.
I actually have a crush on her.
Mom had always told him it would happen someday; some guys were just late bloomers she had explained.
I miss you—mom and dad
.
Justin made his way to the dining room half-pissed at Dean’s rude awakening and half-excited to see Ella.
“Justin, need you for a mission. We need to loot the rest of the food and supplies from the Costco truck,” Dean said while checking the chambers of his gun.
“What about Paxton and Nate?” Justin asked.
“Chances are they’ll be sleeping-it-off most the day.”
“Ye-ah, OK, sure,” Justin said with a mouth full of syrupy-drenched pancakes. “When?”
“Like as soon as you’re finished stuffing that pie hole of yours,” Dean mocked.
“What, you mean
now
? Dude, it’s like five in the freakin’ morning,” Justin exclaimed.
“My point exactly,” Dean pronounced. “It’s been my experience that the dead-heads are the least dangerous around dawn.”
“Ye-ah, like me too.” Now both Ella and Justin were laughing. “And another thing,” Justin spouted off in frustration. “Stop calling them dead-heads. Like, everyone knows they’re freakin’ ZOMBIES!”
“Zombies?” Dean enunciated slowly as if it was the first time he’d ever said that word.
“Ye-ah, I mean, I think you’re way cool for an old guy and all. But for the record:
Dead
people that eat
living
people are called
ZOMBIES
.”
“Who’s a zombie?” LuLu asked as she strolled into the dining room.
“Well folks, it’s official, from here on out we’re calling
them
: Z-O-M-B-I-E-S . . . Dean eerily whispered while fluttering his hands in the air.
They all laughed.
Dean grabbed the blue Igloo cooler (something of his before the pandemic) and temporarily checked-out of the Sweet Suites hotel, cooler in hand, rifle slung over his shoulder, a 9mm holstered on his hip, and a backpack supplied with ammo, water, energy bars, and a first aid kit. Dean liked to arrive at his secret lookout post by dawn: the safe time.
He started up the Fiat 500 he’d recently acquired courtesy of the nearby Chevron; it was time for stealth mode. Although, he had discovered that “no time” was ever completely safe. Last month he had disturbed a mob of sleepy dead-heads when driving by in the Ram truck. The Fiat was the better vehicle for his secret morning trips, nearly silent when traveling at low speeds and also compact enough to maneuver around most of the car-riddled roads.
When Dean turned onto the Nut Tree Road overpass, a flood of memories revisited him. How Mary enjoyed Sunday brunches at the Nut Tree Restaurant. As he recalled, she always had to order the pineapple appetizer served with a delicious marshmallow sauce. Brunch was usually followed with an afternoon of browsing the fancy specialty shops. A smile tempted the corners of his mouth; Kyle loved to ride the train; he’d always tried to hug the engine. And Kyle was always so damn persistent on getting a lollipop. Dean let out a chuckle.
Those lollipops were almost as big as Kyle.
But alas, his Mary was gone, Kyle was God knows where, and the Nut Tree was now just another mess of chain stores. He tried to push those cherished memories to the back of his mind while he searched the roads for dead-heads; still, his thoughts kept going back to Mary: The pre-cancer days.
He couldn’t complain; they’d had a blessed twenty-two-year marriage until she had succumbed to the big C. Carefully, he chose to focus on the good times. “Thank God she didn’t live to see this—this hell on earth,” he uttered. He backed the Fiat so that it faced towards Orange Drive, turned the motor off, leaving the key in the ignition (one of his rules) and parked it two car-lengths from his lookout post, always ready for a fast getaway, which had been needed on several occasions.
The lookout spot was actually a jackknifed big rig with a bright, green cab. Dean had chosen it because it provided the perfect observation point, perched over Interstate 80; he could scout both the east and westbound lanes for passersby. The cab was also equipped with a deluxe sleeper, something he’d found to be quite comfortable and convenient as well.
Last month he’d been forced to stay the entire night in the sleeper when a mob of dead-heads (
I’ve got to call them zombies.
) had found their way onto the overpass and had dawdled around the truck all day as if they had known he was there. It had been an unnerving situation, one of his frequent nightmares that had manifested into reality. But, he had remained fairly calm with the help of his loyal pal, Mr. Crown Royal. Luckily for him, he had previously stashed a bottle in the sleeper. He had managed to sneak out the next morning at dawn. No, he could never underestimate the dead-heads.
Today’s a new day full of possibilities,
he promised himself.
He reclined the cab’s bucket seat a notch, ready to watch the sun poke-up over the horizon, but it was a gloomy-grey morning: no breathtaking sunrise would be greeting him today. Dean needed a daily routine, some type of normality to maintain an orderly life in this new world of chaos, so every dawn he drove to his lookout post (his sanctuary) and searched the horizon.
Dean grabbed his binoculars and began scouting the apocalyptic-interstate of deserted, wrecked, and burnt-out vehicles. Winter would be here soon. Too soon he frowned, disappointed that he hadn’t been able to start on his expedition yet. He was planning a trip to the nearest military bases in search of the rest of society. He knew there were other people out there. He just had to find them.
However, before he could leave the hotel, he needed to add another person to the group. He needed a strong man with backbone to travel with, someone to watch his back. The way he figured it, a man attempting a journey on his own would be certain suicide. He was considering Justin; then, realized that Justin was the perfect equalizer.
Justin somehow had the ability to keep everyone calm with his quirky sense of humor, and that combined with the kid’s intelligence, ought to keep things stabilized while Dean went searching for people, help, and answers.
He needed Justin to keep the Stockton Boys in line, not that the boy could physically stop them, but just the kid’s mere presence seemed to keep things calmer. Then there was the issue of keeping the women safe. Although LuLu could roll with the punches; hell, she liked it rough on occasion. It was Ella that constantly worried him. And the fact was, if it wasn’t for her, hell—he’d be back in Winters fishing his life away on the
Twinkle Me Mary
, waiting for this mess to sort itself out,
without
his help.
***
Soon after dawn, Justin enjoyed a homemade breakfast, like he had done every morning the past few weeks. Ella sat across from him, and they both ate in silence. He had
never-ever
been a morning person, but Dean had been super-right. The zombies entered a sort of sleeping-state in the early mornings.
Heck, I would have known that if I wasn’t always sleeping in.
Every morning Justin watched from his suite’s window, waiting for Dean to leave, always careful that Dean hadn’t seen him, for he was pretty sure Dean would expect him to tag along to where ever Dean went every morning.
Justin was always super-jazzed to spend his mornings with Ella (which greatly helped with the waking up before God part). She never actually spoke to him; he
so
wished she would.
Soon, when she’s ready.
And when Ella was ready to talk, he had a whole bunch of things ready to ask her. He didn’t dare say what he really wanted to say.
No, not just yet.
He was afraid she might run away, and there was also the fact that he was too freaking scared and nervous. Justin had never really talked to girls unless it was about geek stuff. So for now, he guessed he was OK that they didn’t talk—just yet.
After his early morning breakfast with Ella, Justin took off on his own secret mission. He hopped onto the cool Schwinn bike he had liberated and left the safe-zone of the hotel. For over a week now, he had been scouring the nearby streets and parking lots for—of all things: cell phones. He had this awesome idea that just might work, but he didn’t want to tell anyone about it yet. He knew everyone (except for Ella) would probably think he was super cray cray.
Justin was usually only gone an hour or two, depending on the traffic: zombie traffic. And, he always returned to the hotel before LuLu, Nate, and Paxton got up since they were usually late sleepers like he
used
to be. Only Ella knew he left the hotel, alone. Dean had forbidden everyone from leaving the hotel on their own, or for that matter without his approval; although, it was evident that Paxton and Nate did whatever the heck they wanted as long as they scavenged enough fuel to keep the generators going. Dean didn’t seem to hassle them, but Dean was always nagging him about something: Justin, I need you to do this and that . . .
So, Justin scavenged the streets, alone, every morning around dawn; he wasn’t too worried about being out here alone. After all, he was the “Zombie Expert,” with all those gaming hours of zombie games like
State of Decay
.
Hey, as long as I don’t do anything too stupid . . .
In the beginning, he was super-surprised to find so many cell phones left in cars, forgotten in purses, and even littering the streets, casually discarded like cigarette butts. Then again, once a person became zombified,
it
didn’t have any use for a phone. The iconic cell phone, the status symbol of the 21st century, once considered a person’s most valuable and guarded asset, now left on the road as a piece of junk. How quickly society had changed. He decided that once he had a thousand cell phones, he’d start his sorta random project. And, if he was lucky, he’d be able to start his project next week. Justin couldn’t wait. He was super-jazzed.
This morning Justin decided to cruise the Home Depot parking lot; it wouldn’t take him long to get there on the bike. He found that he usually had the most luck in parking lots, and he felt safer in the big open spaces, because it gave him plenty of time to scram if things got dicey.
Once, he had tried scrounging for phones on an Interstate 80 exit ramp. A line of vehicles had been back up all the way to Orange Drive. What a bad idea that had been. It was as if the half-asleep zombies hid behind the vehicles, waiting to ambush him, giving him no reaction time and no place to go—except run hella-fast out of there. Ye-ah, there had been tons of phones, but way too many zombies.
No freakin’ way
, he decided to stick to big open spaces.
As Justin rode down Orange Drive, he noticed the change in the weather. Fall was finally here, and that meant rain. And that reminded him of Thanksgiving, and that reminded him of mom. He so missed her. Sure, she had babied him at times, but wasn’t that what moms did? Dad had always been so super-serious, always pushing him, determined that Justin would be an attorney, making it the third generation of attorneys in the family.
Last year Justin had changed his career path to major in IT; he had a special affinity for all things computer-like. A super-geek! Dad had been super-pissed, so he and his dad hadn’t spoken much since last Thanksgiving. The autumn-like weather felt like a heavy weight on his shoulders as he thought of all the things he wished he had said to his parents before the world had gone cray cray.
Justin clicked the bike into a lower gear and veered into the Home Depot parking lot. Cars, SUVs, trucks, and lots of trash littered the lot. Methodically, he started his search, starting with the outermost aisle. He scanned the area for Zs and spotted a few by the store’s entrance, sitting with their back’s against the store, heads down, still in zombie-slumberland. No problemo. He’d be hella out of here before they could even get near him.
He tried the door handle to a black Toyota: locked.
Next
, he didn’t waste time breaking in, no need to, not when there were hundreds of other unlocked vehicles. The next vehicle he came to was an awesome racecar-green Mustang. “Nice,” he whispered. The driver’s side door was open, the new norm. It appeared that so many people had left their vehicles in a panic—never to return to their cars.
Well, not as humans
, he mused, sliding across the chilly leather seat.
I should take this back to the hotel. It can be my
Getaway
car—like
Steve McQueen’s.
Then he remembered the dual exhaust pipes: too loud. No zombie-sneaking with this car, the Zs could hear it half a mile away.
Too bad
, he sighed. Justin reached for the brownish Coach purse he spotted on the backseat.
Awesome
. He snatched the blinged-out cell phone case.
Justin continued his search down the row of haphazardly parked vehicles and noticed the sun was up but hidden behind grey clouds, creating a gloomy atmosphere. The Zs sitting against the storefront were now dazedly looking about and sniffing the air.
Do they smell me already?
Just a few more cars, he thought.
With his zombie-slasher knife sheathed and strapped to his right leg, he was ready for battle, but he hated the smell of zombie guts, and he nearly always puked when he had to clean the guts off the knife. So he had found it was way better just to avoid
them
than it was to de-activate
them
.
That all too familiar rank odor drifted in the early morning breeze.
Those things hella stink
. He opened the driver’s side door of a wrecked Scion.
It
lurched on him the very split second he opened the door. Justin had never seen a zombie move that fast before.
Justin didn’t panic. He had practiced this move countless times (in real-time and video game time). He snatched his knife and in one swish—swiftly swung the knife into the Z’s flesh-rotting neck. Justin looked into its protruding jet-black eyeballs, saw its eyes roll back, watched in disgust as its deteriorating flesh seemingly melted off its face in gobs of goo, and watched as it stumbled backward. Completely grossed-out, Justin watched as the Z juddered uncontrollably like a shorted-out cyborg left in the microwave ten minutes too long. “Dude, you’re spoiling my breakfast,” Justin almost gagged, and he headed back to the hotel. The safe-zone . . .
***
“Hey LuLu, I was looking for you,” Justin greeted as he entered the dining room.
“Hey, hon.” LuLu winked.
Wow, did she actually wink at me
, or does she have something in her eye? “I was wondering, anyone using the conference room by the elevators?” he asked.
“Nope, we only use the larger room for storage. Why, do you ask?”
“No reason,” Justin responded, trying to act nonchalant.
“Whatcha up too?” LuLu asked in that tone a parent uses when you’re up to something.
“You know—stuff.”
“Justin,” her tone deepened, “did anyone ever tell you that you’re a pathetic liar?” LuLu scolded.
“Uh, it’s nothing really. I need the room for my project. It’s sort of a surprise. Cause, it probably won’t even work. And—”