Omega Days (Volume 1)

TWENTY-EIGHT



Oakland



Christmas. Dad lighting a fire while mom warmed up cider. Crystal as a little girl, excited and chattering nonstop, asking endless questions about Santa. Dad in a doorway, sweeping mom into his arms and kissing her under mistletoe.

No.

On a date with Brandon Johnson, laughing at his jokes, making out in his car after the movie. Hours of texting with Kate that night to tell her all about it. Liking the way he made her feel, wondering if she should let him go all the way.

Stop.

Mom teaching her how to make lasagna. Dad running beside her bike after he took off the training wheels. Crystal announcing she wanted to be a veterinarian. The next day announcing she wanted to be an airline pilot.

Stop it.

Hugs. Fights. Quiet times. Trips to the mall. Falling asleep in a lawn chair on a sunny day. Taking Crystal to get her ears pierced. Concerts. School.

Stop it! STOP IT!

Skye growled and gritted her teeth, crunching hard, fingers laced across her stomach and feet hooked under a couch. Up, down, up, down, her abdominal muscles burning. She forced in the vision of her father being taken down, of her dead mother lurching towards her at the head of a murderous pack. She made herself see Crystal, flesh torn and teeth snapping.

A miss is a miss.

Anything other than a head shot is a miss.

A miss is a wasted bullet that won’t kill one of them.

That is unacceptable.

That is unforgiveable.

You will hit.

You will kill them.

She saw her mother being savaged on the campus lawn, saw the look of terror on her sister’s face, felt her hand in her own as they ran for safety. Saw her being killed anyway. Skye screamed and flipped over, punishing herself with fast diamond pushups.

Your family is gone.

Your friends are gone.

No one misses you.

No one cares about you.

They took the world away from you.

You will hit.

You will kill them.

All of them.

Skye cried out again and started doing mountain climbers, her thighs and buttocks aching, faster and faster.

All of them. All of them.

“All of them,” she said through clenched teeth.

She collapsed, burying her face in the carpet and heaving with what might have been exertion or might have been sobs, and then forced herself to stand. Wearing black cargo pants tucked into hiking boots and a sweat-darkened tank top, she took her rifle and headed down to the basement of the house she had taken over for the night. There was a small in-home gym down here, a Coleman lantern already glowing, sitting on a weightlifting bench where earlier sweat had yet to dry. Near it was a boxing dummy, a rubberized torso and head on a spring-mounted post, secured to a weighted base. Skye pulled on her pack and rifle for extra weight, and began practicing with the machete.

The first trick was to pull it from where it hung on the pack over her left shoulder, without slicing her ear off. She practiced this single move for over an hour, pulling and replacing and pulling again, slowly at first, and then steadily faster until she knew how to keep her head out of the way and still get it out quickly.

She went to work on the dummy.

Skye trained until she could barely lift her right arm, working on the singular skill of pulling the blade and landing a clean, powerful head shot in one motion. Two hours later, the dummy was a mass of shredded rubber, and the head was gone.

When she was done she washed with unscented baby wipes and toweled off. She knew she still smelled bad, and the scalp under her chopped hair was itchy and sour, but she didn’t care. She didn’t put on deodorant, in case they could smell it.

A meal – canned ham, canned corn and some peaches she found preserved in Mason jars in a closet – was followed by some time studying her map. She was south of the Macarthur Freeway now, in Clawson, a part of Oakland, and heading south into the city itself. The neighborhood was a mix of businesses, industrial buildings and old, clapboard row houses with sagging porches. The dead were more numerous here, and she hadn’t been able to travel through back yards as effectively as before; too much barbed wire, too many flimsy corrugated tin fences that made a lot of noise or threatened to collapse under her weight, too many yards overgrown with high weeds where a freak could be waiting unseen. Instead she jogged down alleys and sidewalks, sometimes down the street itself, rifle held ready, stopping only to shoot.

She didn’t keep count of her kills.

How high did you have to count before you got to all?

Several hours of sleep in an upstairs bedroom was followed by late night sniping with the M24, and instead of her normal five rounds she shot eight. Then she was empty, and she had already balanced the odds of finding more .300 ammo against carrying the added weight of a worthless rifle. She zippered it back into its case, gave it a pat and leaned it in a corner of the bedroom before finishing her night’s sleep.

When morning arrived it was raining, and a freak had found its way into the backyard.

Skye spotted it as soon as she stepped out the kitchen door, fully loaded for the day’s travel. It was a heavyset black lady in a loose, purple house dress, what her mother called a mumu. The two of them used to cover their laughter with their hands when they saw someone wearing one in Wal-Mart. The black lady was barefoot, her skin losing its pigment and her hair falling out in patches, and she groaned as she waddled forward.

Skye strode towards the freak, pulling the machete and swinging, splitting its head in half. She jerked the blade free as it fell, and then realized her forehead and right cheek were wet. She wiped a sleeve at it, seeing that she had caught a few drops of dark blood.

It was something which hadn’t occurred to her. Could she get infected that way? She wiped the blade on the mumu and reseated it in its sheath, then used a baby wipe to clean her face. The weapon would be for emergencies only.

Later that morning she came upon an intersection where a pair of brown, camouflaged Humvees sat parked end to end, just like the kind Taylor and Sgt. Postman had been in when they rescued her, seemingly years ago. The nearest freaks were half a block away, and the intersection looked clear. Still, she approached with her rifle to her shoulder.

Thousands of empty shell casings were scattered across the pavement, rattling under her boots she moved forward, finding both vehicles empty. There were no dead soldiers, but neither were there any dropped rifles or bandoliers. That made sense. Others were alive out here, and they would have immediately taken any weapons they found. She eyed the heavy machinegun mounted in the vehicle turret only briefly before discarding the idea. It was heavy and cumbersome, and even Postman’s soldiers had said it was worthless for this type of combat. The thought of driving the Humvee wasn’t even a consideration.

A search of the vehicle did turn up some useful things, however; a Maglite with fresh batteries was swapped out for her old one; a couple of rifle cleaning kits provided fresh patches and gun oil; a plastic-wrapped energy bar provided a snack while she searched. In the rear seat she discovered a pair of hard plastic, cushioned knee pads, and put them on at once. They would make it more comfortable to hold kneeling shooting positions.

She left the MREs she found, since she hadn’t used her own yet, and suspected they would remain edible for years. Skye was about to move on when she spotted a dark green metal can with a narrow, hinged lid. It was sitting on the rear cargo deck, and stenciled on the side it read, 5.56mm TRACER-DAY 500 ct. Inside, the heavy can was filled with loose ammunition for the M4, each bullet tipped in phosphorescent green. Once again her exposure to movies and video games paid a dividend; she knew what tracer rounds were.

Skye picked it up by the handle and tested the weight. It was heavy, but not as much as it would have been prior to weeks of punishing exercise, and she could always drop it and run if necessary. She would load her magazines later. Now it was time to move.

Three blocks away her little side street intersected with the wider 32 Street. A liquor store with bars on the windows was on her left, to her right was a little convenience and grocery store with window advertisements all in Spanish, and on the diagonal across the street sat a row house which had been taken by fire long before the plague. The dead were thick on 32, and she watched from a crouch behind a rusty car sitting on tireless rims. The air smelled of rot and oil smoke, and it was quiet except for the drumming of the rain on the roof of the derelict car. She watched the street. If she wanted to head further south she would have to cross, and there were so many corpses drifting up and down it that crossing without being seen would be impossible.

Watching the dead shuffle past made her ache to pull the trigger.

Directly across the street, sitting on the corner, was a white board building with a steeply peaked roof. Narrow, arched windows of stained glass marched down the side, and from here it looked like the property was surrounded by a six foot, wrought iron fence with sharp tips on each vertical bar. Even more intriguing was the high bell tower at one corner, rising above the main building and capped with its own, peaked roof, tipped with a cross. Shuttered windows looked out from all sides of the steeple.

Skye rested a hand on the ammo can beside her, fingers drumming on it like the rain. She looked at the high steeple, at its windows, thought about the view it would command. She gripped the can’s handle and bolted to her feet, sprinting across 32 St., weaving in and out of turning bodies and reaching arms, going through the wrought iron gate and slamming it behind her. An open padlock hung on the bars beside the gate, and she quickly threaded it through the latch hole and snapped it shut.

The dead came to the fence, reaching through the gate.

“I’ll be right with you,” she said.

Holding it one-handed by the pistol grip, Skye braced the M4 against her shoulder, and carrying the ammo can in her other hand, let the rifle muzzle lead the way through the double front doors of the First Baptist Church of Clawson. There were three freaks in here, two heavy black ladies in the pews and a black man in a janitor’s uniform near the pulpit. All three let out a moan upon seeing her, and shuffled forward. Skye took them down quickly. A check of the rest of the church – basement filled with tables and chairs and cardboard boxes, back rooms and closets, a tiny kitchen with a rear door – showed that she was alone.

The door to the bell tower opened to a high shaft, with steep plank stairs climbing the walls in a tight square, an open space rising through the center. It had a musty smell, and the flutter of pigeons came from high above.

Skye pounded up the stairs two at a time.



Emeryville was behind them. They kept to the surface streets now, avoiding the concrete spaghetti bowl where the freeways met at the head of the Bay Bridge, all of them packed with dead vehicles and dead Californians. The Bearcat rumbled south on Hollis Street, the raised stretch of the Nimitz Freeway off to the right, sections of which had collapsed during the earthquake of ’89 and crushed people inside their cars on the lower deck.

The riot vehicle weaved in and out of abandoned cars and overrun roadblocks, crunching over the walking dead while others pounded fists against the armored sides. There were definitely more of them now, mostly black and Hispanic as the truck rolled through a poor Oakland section of shabby houses, decaying apartment buildings and businesses with steel roll down gates and bars on the windows. Trash, graffiti, stripped cars and skinny, dangerous-looking stray dogs colored a neighborhood of auto body shops, liquor outlets and corner bars, pawn shops, check cashing spots and small stores selling cheap clothing.

The wipers beat steadily at the constant rain, the sky gray and puddles forming in the street. Carney looked out at the neighborhood and wondered if it looked much different than it had before the plague. Oakland, despite improvements over the past decades, was still a city known for its poverty, violent crime and double digit unemployment. Many of his former prison mates had come from here, and the streets were still filled with people wandering without purpose, and dangerous killers. No, not terribly different, he decided.

In the passenger seat, TC had his boots up on the dashboard, drinking a Red Bull as he watched a movie. Carney had found a small, portable DVD player with a folding screen, and an AC adaptor for the Bearcat. TC was watching a Quentin Tarantino movie, clearly having trouble keeping up with the director’s style of jumping back and forth through time and locations, but howling laughter at the over-the-top violence.

It was important to keep him occupied. For TC, boredom was a trigger for violence.

The Bearcat reached an intersection where Peralta crossed at an angle, a much wider boulevard of businesses and chain restaurants. Carney let the vehicle sit and idle.

TC looked up from his movie. “What’s up?”

“Just thinking.” So far their search for a suitable boat had been a bust. Carney consulted his map. He could angle south for a bit and then cut back west, towards Oakland’s waterfront. Maybe they would have more luck.

TC went back to his movie. “Yeah! Kill that motherf*cker!”

Carney stared out past the thumping windshield wipers and listened as one of Tarantino’s characters beat someone to death. TC didn’t use the ear buds for the player, and the crunch of bones and a man screaming filled the riot vehicle. Tarantino got the sound right, the impact anyway. But the screaming wasn’t realistic. In life there were only two or three grunts, and then nothing more.

1996, and Bill Carney was doing okay. His parole officer was happy that he was working, keeping out of the bars and coming up clean on his piss tests. Out after only three years on a burglary charge, Carney didn’t plan on blowing his second chance. Cindy was working part time and just over two years clean and sober. Little Rhea was eighteen months, a blue-eyed heartbreaker crawling at high speed and starting to do a little furniture walking. She had her daddy wrapped up tight; in his eyes she could do no wrong. Carney was thinking about going to the community college in Sacramento, so that maybe someday he would be supervising auto mechanics instead of being the guy with the greasy hands and torn knuckles.

He came home from work early. Rhea, wearing yellow jammies with a pink bunny on the tummy, was napping on a blanket on the living room floor. Only she wasn’t napping. Her face was blue, her skin cold as Carney picked her up. She had choked to death on a tiny, blue Bic lighter. Strewn across the coffee table was a fix kit; spoon, stretch of rubber tubing, syringe, small square of crumpled foil with some white powder in it, all next to a cluster of empty beer cans.

Carney found them in the bedroom, naked and sleeping, Cindy entwined with some bearded guy he didn’t know. F*cking and sleeping off a high while Rhea died in the next room. He found what he needed in the closet.

At sentencing, the judge used words like “heinous” and “depraved,” stating that the use of a baseball bat on two sleeping people made Carney a monster, and if the prosecution could have stretched their case to show premeditation, His Honor would have happily supported the death penalty. The judge hadn’t been interested in a dead eighteen-month-old with blue eyes.

Carney stared at the rivulets of rain sliding down the windshield. They looked like tears. He took a deep breath and started to turn right onto Peralta, but then hit the brakes. Across the intersection, the street they had been traveling angled deeper into the neighborhood, and a block in that street was filled with the walking dead, more than he had seen so far in Oakland. They were all moving away from him, and seemed to be converging on a small white church.

Some were falling down in the street. Quite a few, actually.

He put the truck in park and grabbed the binoculars off the center console, taking a closer look. Yes, falling down. Because they were being shot in the head. He scanned the area, looking for the shooter, and it didn’t take long to figure the church steeple for the perfect sniper’s nest. As he watched he saw a figure with a rifle moving between the open windows on all four sides, firing steadily. Even at this distance and with her lack of hair, he could tell she was female, and young.

She had some skill, and the bodies were piling up in the street. More of the dead were coming, however, drawn from all angles, emerging from houses and side streets and overgrown yards, too many of them. They were beginning to pile up around the fence, and it wouldn’t take long before they forced their way over or through it.

“How long before you run out of ammo?” he murmured. TC didn’t hear him. It looked like the firing was only coming from the bell tower, and he didn’t see anyone else up there with her. Was she alone? Did she realize how much attention she was drawing? Did she care?

TC looked up from his movie as Carney gunned the Bearcat across the intersection. He saw the dead, saw the girl. “What’s going on, bro?”

“Get your shit and mount up in that top hatch. You’re going to get to kill stuff.” Carney slammed the grill into a zombie, splattering it over the hood and sending the body flying as he accelerated.

“F*cking-A about time!” Then TC’s face went sober and he gripped his cellmate’s arm. “But why now, bro? Why her?”

Carney’s eyes were hard. “Sometimes, brother, people just need saving.”