Omega Days (Book 3): Drifters Read online

  Dean went into the lobby, no longer worried about the pistol in his hand, where he met Miss Pottermeyer, the center’s director. She held up her hands. “She’s fine. Leah’s with Miss Pam, playing with a few other kids. We haven’t been able to reach all the parents yet. I’ll go get her.”

  While the woman was gone, Dean looked out at the still-snarled parking lot. There were fewer honking horns now. Then he looked at the two women he had killed.

  Infection? Biological attack? Zombies?

  He ejected the partially used magazine from the Glock and pulled his spare clip from its slot next to the holster, looking at his hands. They were steady. Thank God for that. He loaded the full magazine and looked at the bodies again. No hyperventilation, no racing heart. Again, good. He’d worry about how he felt about them later; he needed his game face right now. And they weren’t his first, were they? Or the first women.

  Miss Pottermeyer returned with Leah, blond, blue-eyed, and two (two and a half, he corrected himself), wearing little white shorts and a powder-blue top with a kitten on it. Her sneakers had kittens on them as well.

  “Daddy!” She ran to Dean, and he swept her up in his left arm, holstering the Glock with the other hand.

  “Outside . . . I . . .” He looked at the center’s director and shook his head.

  The woman held up a hand. “Dean, you did what needed doing. No one could leave while she was out there. And I can’t even think of her as Miss Daniels after what she—she was a monster, and that’s all.”

  Dean shook his head. “But the other ones.” He remembered the dead girl’s name was Kayla but realized he had never met her mom, except to say “hi” in passing. “How did they . . . ?” He trailed off again.

  “They come back,” Miss Pottermeyer simply said. “They’re not people anymore.” Her voice was flat, her face without expression, as if a hard shell had closed over her emotions. It was a survival technique, and used especially by those with responsibility for others. He had seen it many times and had done it himself, in a place of sand and high temperatures.

  Miss Pottermeyer took a step toward him and lowered her voice. “Monsters, Dean. Don’t you forget that, and don’t you hesitate. You’ve seen what they do, and they don’t differentiate between adults and children.”

  They were the words of a combat leader, and the fact that they were delivered by a preschool administrator made it all the more surreal. Still he nodded.

  “Is Angie okay?” Pottermeyer asked.

  “I don’t know. I can’t get in touch with her.”

  The woman reached out and ran her fingers up Leah’s back, making the little girl giggle. “You need to get her far away from here,” she said, her voice still low.

  Dean nodded. “The family has a crisis plan. We’re going north, to the ranch. Angie will know to meet us there. What about you?”

  The woman gave him a sad smile. “There are still four little ones here waiting for their parents and 911 just goes to a recording. I can’t leave while they’re here.”

  “Then we’ll put everyone in the Suburban—” Dean started.

  Pottermeyer cut him off. “Their parents might be on the way now. I can’t take them anywhere.” She squeezed Dean’s arm and forced a smile. “I called my husband when the phones were still working. He’s coming with the Explorer, and I told him to bring his pistol. If the parents haven’t arrived by the time he gets here, maybe Miss Pam and I will put the kids in the truck and we’ll all leave together.”

  “Where’s Mama?” Leah asked, squirming in Dean’s arms.

  “She’s working, sweetie.”

  “Why is she working?”

  Dean smiled at their old routine. “Why do Mommy and Daddy go to work?”

  “To make that money,” Leah said.

  Miss Pottermeyer reached out and took Leah from Dean’s arms, surprising him. She turned so that the little girl was facing the other direction. “The door,” the woman said.

  Dean turned to see Kayla, the little girl who had been torn apart on the sidewalk, standing and bumping against the glass, smearing it red. Her eyes were milky and dead. It was an impossible sight, the little corpse pressing her face against the glass, biting at it. The damage to her body was extreme. She shouldn’t be standing, shouldn’t be moving.

  Watch out for that one, the fleeing parent had said.

  Dean didn’t think he could shoot a little girl, no matter what she had become. Miss Pottermeyer saved him from the decision. “Come with me to the fire exit,” she said, crossing the room. Dean followed her down a hallway with brightly colored doors and bulletin boards covered in construction-paper creations and panda faces made from paper plates. They passed a classroom with a viewing window, where he saw a young black woman on her knees singing a song with four preschoolers. Miss Pam looked up and smiled.

  Dean stopped in the hallway. “I’m staying with you until your husband gets here.”

  “No,” Pottermeyer said.

  “I have a shotgun in the truck. Let me—”

  “No,” she repeated, this time in her teacher’s no-nonsense, now-hear-this voice. “Richard is on his way. We’ll stay locked inside until he gets here. We both have kids to watch out for; go get yours to a safe place.” She gave Leah a kiss on the ear, getting a giggle in return, then stood on her toes and kissed Dean on the cheek. “God bless.”

  A moment later the fire door was clicking shut behind him, and Dean was trotting across the grass toward the Suburban, the Glock once more in his hand. A few of the cars seemed to have managed their way out of the lot, but most remained where they had been. There was no more honking, in fact no more movement. A few of the open car doors were now streaked red, and there was broken glass strewn across the asphalt. Low growling came from within the jam of cars.

  Dean quickly buckled Leah into her seat, handing her a stuffed Cookie Monster with a rattle inside to keep her busy. She let it drop to the floor at once, declaring it a baby toy. Then the big SUV’s tires were carving furrows in the lawn as Dean backed up, turned toward the main road, and headed for home.

  • • •

  First there had been no traffic, and then suddenly he was sitting still, cars and trucks backed up from the intersection ahead, horns unable to drown out the unmistakable rattle of automatic weapons. Dean saw a squad of infantrymen in full combat gear running along the sidewalk to his right, toward the gunfire.

  He felt a tremble at the corner of his eye, his mouth going dry.

  Not now.

  People had begun to get out of their cars to see what the holdup was, despite the shooting. Idiots, Dean thought, and threw the Suburban into reverse, crunching into the grille of a BMW and hurling it backward. With this new space he was able to wheel out in a hard U-turn, ignoring the shouted curses and horns, scraping the front fender across the brick face of a pizza joint and then shooting back the way he had come, away from the intersection.

  “Daddy, you crashed,” said the voice from the backseat.

  “Just a little, honey.”

  “Did you hurt the car?”

  “Nope, we’re fine.”

  “Juice!” Leah yelled.

  “When we get home, honey.”

  “Juice! Juice!”

  He was driving up a tree-lined road and had to swerve right and stop on the shoulder to get out of the way of an oncoming line of vehicles, all moving at high speed. Three desert camo Humvees roared past him in the other direction, followed by a sheriff’s deputy with flashing lights. All three military vehicles had men in the turrets, two behind mounted fifty-calibers, the third behind an automatic grenade launcher. Overhead, pacing their movements, a Black Hawk in desert colors flew so low it made the trees shake.

  Without warning, the beat of the rotor blades suddenly hurled Dean into his past. He felt the desert heat, and heard the cries of men who now only existed as ghosts.

  King-Six, King-Six, we are fully engaged.

  Call in the goddamn fire mission!

&nbs
p; Get third squad moving on the right flank—

  Requesting medevac, coordinates to follow.

  Dennis is hit! Oh, Christ . . .

  Negative, King-Six, we cannot—

  Dean? My legs, man . . . I can’t find them. . . .

  The convoy and helicopter were gone, and Dean blinked, shaking off the ghosts. Not real, not anymore. He pulled back into the street and put his foot down, urging the big SUV on. It was bullshit, he didn’t have it. Eight years in, three combat tours completed, and all of it was almost five years behind him now. Lots of guys had come home with it, but not him. It wasn’t creeping up on him now, despite the . . . moments . . . he had experienced over the last six months. Post-traumatic stress was something other guys had to deal with. Dean had coped just fine with what he’d seen. It had been horrible, yes, and there were bad memories, of course. But that was all they were.

  “Mama!” came a shout from the backseat.

  “We’ll see Mama soon, sweetie.”

  The Suburban turned into Sierra Oaks Vista, Sacramento’s most upscale residential neighborhood, a sleepy place of large, estatelike homes with lush landscaping and meandering roads. It was tough to buy here because houses rarely came on the market, and before even being able to schedule a showing, potential buyers had to prove they could qualify for the million-dollar-plus loans. He and Angie had been fortunate not only with the timing but to have found a place they fell in love with and could also afford. The schools were first-rate and the neighborhood was safe. He made a series of turns to reach the house.

  Over five thousand square feet, the sprawling two-story sat well back from the street across manicured lawns shaded by mature trees. A four-foot stone wall ringed the property, more for aesthetics than security (it was only four feet, after all), and a pair of iron gates closed the paver-stone driveway off from the street. Dean pressed one of six buttons on a remote clipped to his sun visor, and the gates swung in.

  The Suburban shot up the curved drive as Dean depressed another button, opening one of the five-car garage’s roll-up doors. He turned to back in and saw a woman walk through the driveway gates before they could close.

  She was walking with sort of a stiff-legged lurch.

  Bobby and Angel Levine had the house next door. They were a couple close to his and Angie’s age, with a little boy about six months older than Leah. They were nice people and there had been playdates, barbecues, and drinks by the pool. Pulled into the shadows of the garage now, Dean shut off the engine and watched Angel shuffle up his driveway. She had always been an attractive woman, with long black hair, longer legs, who jogged and was religious about yoga, committed to maintaining her figure, much like his own wife.

  Angel was dead now. She had to be. No one could live with their torso ripped open like that, internal organs dangling and bouncing against their thighs. It was a sight Dean knew he’d see later in dreams.

  “Potty, Daddy!” Leah called. “Gotta go!”

  Dean shut the garage door. He was fairly certain the rest of the house was locked; it usually was before he went to work, so Angel Levine would have to wait. He got Leah inside and to her potty chair in time, then carried her to the family room and turned on Nick Jr. He wanted the news, but he had priorities, and keeping his toddler amused so he could carry out his tasks was at the top of the list. Leah clapped when she saw Dora. Dean was just happy there was still a cable signal.

  “Daddy will be right back.” Dean touched his daughter’s head and then looked out the windows, searching for Angel. He didn’t see her, but it wasn’t the best angle. She could be near the garage door, or moving around back. He made a quick tour of the doors and windows on this floor, making sure they were locked and looking constantly for his neighbor. There was no sign of Angel. As he took the stairs two at a time he tried Angie again but had no signal.

  In one of the hall closets, filling most of the space at the bottom, was the family go-bag. It was made of bright orange nylon and packed with clothes, first-aid supplies, a little food and water, flashlights, spare cell phone batteries, and a wad of cash. The bag was a discipline he and his wife had adopted in the face of the many natural disasters and terror attacks that had plagued the world in recent years, one that made sense. They had basic supplies they could take in a hurry and a plan for where they would go, even if they were separated and out of contact. It was simple, but he knew most people didn’t even have that.

  However, as he pulled out the bag he realized it hadn’t been updated since Leah was younger. It held diapers, wipes, powdered formula, and onesies she hadn’t fit into in over a year. Leah had given up the bottle twelve months ago and was now potty trained. Almost. He cursed the reality show for making their lives so busy they neglected the details, then shook his head. Blame yourself, buddy, he thought. The History channel’s not responsible for your family.

  Dean dumped the baby items and grabbed clothes from Leah’s room, remembering to snatch Wawas off her bed. The much-gnawed, soft little walrus was the center of Leah’s world, and failing to bring along the stuffed animal would launch its own sort of apocalypse.

  He left the go-bag in the upstairs hall and went into his walk-in closet, tapping in the code for one of two gun safes. From a shelf above the hanging clothes he retrieved a heavy black nylon bag with PREMIER ARMS printed on the side. His selections went into the bag.

  A Smith & Wesson .45 automatic with shoulder holster.

  One box of rounds.

  A clip-fed, twelve-gauge auto shotgun—like the one in the truck—with fold-out stock.

  Four boxes of shells.

  An AR-15, illegally converted to full-auto capability.

  Ten magazines, loaded, in a nylon bandolier.

  A Browning .380 auto with ankle holster.

  Two boxes of shells for his Glock.

  An Ingram MAC-10 machine pistol with suppressor in a custom leather shoulder rig.

  Eight loaded thirty-round magazines.

  Two boxes of forty-five-caliber rounds for the Ingram.

  When the world ends with zombies, it doesn’t suck to own a gun store. It sounded like one of those snarky greeting cards people posted on Facebook. The black gun bag weighed a ton as he heaved it and the orange go-bag downstairs and through the house to the garage. He glanced at Leah as he went by. She was sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the floor. Dean could hear Miss Pottermeyer’s voice admonish him, “We don’t say Indian-style anymore, Mr. West.” On the TV, Dora and Boots were trying to find their way to the snowy mountain.

  Both bags went into the back of the Suburban, along with a five-gallon container of fuel he kept for the riding mower, and a propane camp stove. He raided the kitchen pantry, sweeping canned goods into a pair of canvas totes, then added them, along with a three-quarters-full case of bottled water, to the rear of the SUV. He looked around the garage, grabbing an axe, a short-handled shovel, and a blue plastic tarp. He hadn’t used any of his lawn or house tools since the show went nuclear and he could afford a landscaping service.

  Dean was intensely aware of the time, felt it pressing down on him as minutes slipped away. He knew a few things about crisis in an urban setting, and one of the first things he had been taught was that those who didn’t get out immediately usually never got out at all. He had seen it and lived it overseas, and had taught it, along with other skills, during his days at Fort Lewis. Specifically at the fort’s Urban Warfare School, where soldiers were introduced to a close-combat, high-stress environment, one in which death waited at every doorway, window, and corner. They were lessons the school’s graduates dared not forget.

  “Sweetie, time to go,” he called, walking quickly back through the house.

  Leah wasn’t in front of the TV.

  Dean’s heart tried to crawl up his throat for a full second before he saw her. She was standing at one of the windows.

  “Miss Angel,” Leah said, pressing her nose to the glass and waving.

  Dean felt like he was moving in slow motion as
he went for Leah, knowing what would happen, seeing the dead arms crash through the glass and drag his little girl to her death. But they didn’t. He reached her and saw that Angel Levine was indeed outside the window, but held back by three feet of tight, trimmed hedge, grasping hands reaching but falling short. Mercifully, the bloody damage to her torso was out of sight beneath the top of the hedge.

  “We’ll talk to her later,” he said, forcing his voice not to waver.

  Leah laughed and waved. “She’s funny.”

  “We need to go for a ride, baby.”

  “Not a baby.”

  “No, a big girl. We’ll get a juice box for the car, okay?”

  “Want Dora.” She huffed and crossed her little arms. Dear Lord, she looked like her mother. Dean pulled the stuffed walrus from his back pocket and wiggled it. “Look who I have.”

  Leah squealed, “Wawas!” and grabbed for the animal. Dean held it low but out of reach, walking fast through the house, making it a game as Leah laughed and chased him to the garage. There he swept her up, snapped her into the car seat, and handed her Wawas.

  “Shit,” he said as he slammed the door, and went back into the house, every second ticking like rumbles of thunder. How long had he been here? It felt like hours. He returned with the potty seat they kept in the downstairs bathroom, along with a box of wipes and a half-full package of juice boxes. He made one more trip inside, scrawling a note to Angie and pinning it to the front of the fridge with a magnet. Gone to the ranch.

  Behind the wheel at last, Dean stared at the closed garage door. Was Angel Levine on the other side? Was she dangerous? Maybe to the first, of course to the second. He wasn’t going to shoot a neighbor in the head in front of his daughter. What would he do . . . run her over?

  He opened the garage, then clicked open the gates at the end of the drive.

  Nothing moved.

  He gassed it, going too fast down the drive, catching a peripheral glimpse of a figure staggering toward them across the lawn before he reached the street. Other than the absence of joggers, people getting their papers, and cars pulling out for the drive to work, Sierra Oaks Vista was as quiet as any other weekday morning. Only now, Dean wondered at what was moving behind those stately walls and curtained windows.