Lauren made a small choking sound and ran for the bathroom. I looked over at my father, a cold feeling spreading through my hands and face, and said, “Dad, what the hell are those things? They can’t be people.”
The old man said nothing for a long time. Finally, he stood up and walked over to the window. “I heard rumors from other operators, but I didn’t think they were true.”
“What rumors? What are you talking about?”
He put his hands on his hips and looked down. “About some kind of disease that turns people into … those things you saw. Other operators, guys who did missions in North Korea and China talked about it-” Dad looked up suddenly, realizing what he was saying. He never talked about his time in Delta Force, not even to Lauren and me.
“Caleb, son, we might be in trouble here.”
“What do you know, Joseph?”
Dad and I turned to see Lauren standing in the hallway. We hadn’t realized she was standing there. Her arm trembled as she pointed at the television. “Joseph Hicks, if you know something about what’s going on in Atlanta, you tell us right now.”
Dad shook his head. “Lauren, you know I can’t talk about that stuff. I signed a con-”
“I don’t give a shit about your confidentiality agreement!” Lauren advanced on Dad, hands balled into fists, veins standing out on her forearms. “If you know something, you tell us now!”
“Okay, okay,” Dad said, hands upraised. “Calm down, honey. Listen, just sit down, all right? Come on.” Moving slowly, he put a gentle hand on her arm and carefully guided her back to the couch.
It wasn’t the first time since the attack that she had blown up under stress. Dad and I knew the best way to handle it was to give her time to calm down, but I didn’t think it would work in this case. She practically hummed with tension.
When we were all seated, Dad kept his voice low. “Look, all I know is rumors. Okay? Stuff I heard in bars over too many drinks. The first time I heard about it, this guy I knew from another unit and I were talking, and he got drunk, and he told me the North Korean’s had some kind of virus or something that turns people into cannibals. Said it … messes up their brains somehow. They can’t move very fast, but they don’t feel pain either. The only way to drop them is to shoot them in the head. He said …” Dad stopped and put a hand over his mouth.
“What, Joe?” Lauren asked. “What did he say?”
“This is going to sound crazy.”
Lauren’s voice rose. “What did he say, Joe?”
“He said they’re dead.” Dad looked Lauren in the eye. “He said they’re walking dead people.”
If not for the television and the low drone of household appliances, you could have heard a pin drop.
“Joe,” Lauren said, “that’s not possible.”
Dad held out his hands. “Look, I didn’t believe him either. Later on, I heard the same thing from other people and I still didn’t believe it. I passed it off as superstition, or people seeing something that wasn’t there. There had to be some other explanation. Those guys were soldiers, after all, not scientists. But after what I’ve seen today ...”
“Is it contagious?” I asked.
He turned to look at me. “From what I’ve heard, yeah.”
“Oh God, is it airborne?” Lauren asked.
Dad held out his hands. “Look, at this point, you know as much as I do. For now, let’s just stay calm and keep an eye on things. I’m sure the government will get it all sorted out.”
It comforted me, then, to hear him say that. But in retrospect, we should have followed our instincts.
We should have run for our lives.
Instead, for the next few days, we huddled together around the television and watched the end of the world unfold.
*****
Hope is a powerful force.
The best thing about hope is it is tenacious. It does not die easily. And like every emotion, it has it’s dark counterpart. To love, hate. To joy, sorrow. To confidence, fear.
To hope, despair.
The bad thing about hope is it can get in the way of another, more important emotion: acceptance. And acceptance, important and helpful at it is, also has its counterpoint.
Denial.
We held out hope in those early days. Hope that the government would find a cure, that the military would find a way to defeat the undead (and by then we knew that was what they were). We kept faith that someone, somewhere, would figure out a solution. But by the time the Outbreak crossed the Mississippi River, it was no longer hope.
We were in full-blown denial.
Eleven days after the Outbreak started, I woke up to an angry orange sky out my bedroom window. Not the soft yellow of a spring morning, or the gray of a rainy day, or even the clear blue of a cloudless sky.
No.
Orange. Dark orange, like some great torch had suffused the surface of the sky. I got out of bed, dressed quickly, and went to wake up my father.
“Hey Dad, you need to see this,” I said, shaking his shoulder. He awoke in an instant, the glaze of sleep clearing rapidly from his eyes.
“What is it, son?” he asked. Beside him, Lauren stirred and began to sit up.
I pointed. “Look out the window.”
His eyes shifted and grew wide. “Mother of God.”
Lauren’s hand went to her mouth. “What …”
Dad threw off the covers, shrugged into a shirt, and started toward the front door with me and Lauren following close behind. I kept my hand on his shoulder as he opened the door like we were about to execute a room entry. Dad hesitated for a moment and looked back at me.
“Caleb, take a deep breath, son.”
I did, and let my hand drop.
“Stay calm.” His eyes tracked back and forth between Lauren and me. “Whatever is happening, we’ll handle it together, okay?”
I nodded. “Okay.”
Behind me, Lauren was silent, but I could feel her fingers gripping the back of my shirt.
I was a head taller than my father by then, so I could see over his shoulder as he opened the door. According to the clock in the living room, it was just after eight in the morning. But judging from the darkness outside, I would have thought the hour no earlier than five or six. A malignant haze hung over the neighborhood, painting houses in shades of amber and black. Everywhere I looked something drifted down like snow, covering lawns, streets, and cars with a thin sheen of gray.
“Is that … ash?” I asked.
Dad said nothing. He pushed out the door and strode into the front yard, one palm turned upward. He stared at it for a few moments, then rubbed his fingers together. Looking around, I could see a few of our neighbors standing in their yards doing the same thing, faces locked in dumbfounded fear.
“It’s ash.” Dad said. “Come on.”
I followed him to the end of the street and around the corner. Our house faced south, away from nearby Houston. There was a hill at the end of the street where we could see the city’s skyline to the east. The three of us climbed it, Dad leading the way. When we reached the summit, we stopped cold.
At the edge of the horizon, Houston was in flames.
Great black pillars of smoke streaked upward, staining the clouds above. The city skyline was invisible, obscured by the choking haze. Undulating silvery streaks extended along the highways where people were fleeing the city. The sounds of explosions and gunfire popped and echoed across the distance. I stood transfixed, unable to speak or even think, Lauren’s hand clutched in my own.
My father chose that moment to utter the most profound understatement in human history. “This is bad.”
I couldn’t help it. I let out a bark of hysterical laughter. “Oh, really? You think?”
Dad turned and glared at me. It was on his lips to say something harsh, but whatever he saw on my face stopped him. His dark eyes softened and he laid a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, son. Let’s go home. We have things to do.”