Omega Days (Volume 1)

FOUR



Alameda



Filming went long, starting before the sun rose and not wrapping until late morning. Cell phones had been switched off, and everyone was so involved in the process that no one really noticed the pillars of smoke across the bay, or the increased helicopter traffic. The frequent sound of sirens was distant, but considering their proximity to Oakland, not unusual.

The Naval Air Station at Alameda had been closed for twenty years, and was now perfect for the segment they had just filmed. This was in part due to it being a military backdrop and a rich source of history, but more for the deserted, wide open spaces of its long runways. Alameda Island sat on the western edge of Oakland, the small city filling the southern half and the north end occupied by the abandoned (except for a couple of museums and the USS Hornet, itself a museum now) military base. All of San Francisco Bay spread out before it, with the city itself a glittering jewel across the water.

Their guide had waved goodbye and locked the main gate behind them, driving off in his jeep. Bud Franks, a fifty-year-old, former deputy sheriff, drove the black van through the Alameda streets, bound for the bridge which would take them off the island, onto I-880 and then home to Sacramento. The truck carrying the film crew was behind them.

In the passenger seat sat the star of the History Channel reality show, Angie West. Twenty-seven, with hard good looks and incredibly fit, she had often been compared to Linda Hamilton’s character in Terminator-2. She was wearing a tight black T-shirt with the History Channel logo over the left breast, jeans tucked into high boots, and expensive aviator sunglasses. She liked the whole Linda Hamilton image, respected the hard work the actress had put in to carve and shape her body, and so she herself worked hard in the gym to stay fit. Her producers loved it, and the fans ate it up. Right now, however, she was staring out the windshield wearing a frown, unconcerned with her physique or TV image. Her cell phone kept giving her an “unable to connect” message.

“It’s a bunch of BS, Ang,” said her uncle, slowing as the traffic thickened near the bridge. “Some kind of hoax, and people are buying it. Probably more of that flash mob nonsense, only this time those jackasses are getting themselves shot.”

Angie nodded and redialed. As soon as they got in the van they heard the special news reports. It was surreal. The living dead? Really? No one seemed to be joking, and regularly updated reports of death tolls were rising. According to the news, it was everywhere.

And that included Sacramento, where Angie’s husband Dean and their two-year-old Leah would be waiting for her.

Nothing but brake lights ahead, a river of stopped cars which traveled well beyond the flashing lights of a police car. Her Uncle Bud cut the wheel to the right, bounced over a sidewalk corner and headed down a side street. The GPS announced, “Recalculating.” The truck with the film crew followed. They cut down to Buena Vista and headed south to where the GPS showed them Lincoln Avenue would curve into the second of four bridges off the island. More brake lights waited, cars and SUVs, bumper to bumper.

Bud turned again, driving deeper into Alameda, the inbound lane mostly clear but the outbound packed with traffic. He reached Central Avenue and turned south, the film crew still following as he zigzagged through the streets. The GPS indicated it would be a while before they reached the next bridge approach. While they were stopped at a light, an orange and white Coast Guard helicopter roared low overhead, making them both jump.

Angie still couldn’t get through, and each time she tried to text she got a “network unavailable” signal. The last text she had gotten from Dean was time stamped 7:12am, and simply said, “R U OK?” It was an unusual question, he knew she was working and where she was. There had been nothing since. Her uncle’s cell phone was similarly out of service. She looked out the window and chewed at a thumbnail, watching a neighborhood slide by where people were hustling to vehicles carrying luggage and coolers and pets.

“Dean’s smart,” she said, and her uncle didn’t wonder who she was trying to convince. “If there’s real trouble, he’ll gear up and get Leah out in the Suburban.”

“That’s right,” said Bud. “He’ll take good care of her, no question.”

Angie looked at her uncle. “This can’t be real, right? It’s a flash mob thing, like you said. Maybe some sort of chemical spill, hell even aliens. But zombies? No way.”

The High Street Bridge was not going to be an option. Traffic for the approach was backed up a dozen blocks, so Bud muscled the van through the clog, ignoring shouted curses and angry horns, and continued south, the film crew truck so close it rubbed their bumper a couple of times. They would reach Fernside and curve along the southern tip of the island, towards the Bay Farm Island Bridge, the last route off Alameda and the path to Oakland International. They had already decided that if driving out wasn’t going to happen, they’d leave the van in long term parking (a huge liability and highly illegal, considering what was inside, but f*ck anyone who complained) and fly out, going private charter if necessary. They pulled onto Fernside Boulevard, the airport visible across the water, and quickly found two lanes of stopped traffic.

On the radio, the news reported the FAA grounding of all nonmilitary flights, and Bud and Angie looked at each other. Soon after, the long tone of the Emergency Broadcast System blared from the speakers, followed by a monotone voice which announced that the federal government had declared martial law, and all citizens were ordered to get off the streets, with more information to follow.

The message hadn’t even finished before the fireball climbed over the distant runway.

They stared at the rising cloud as people in the cars ahead of them got out to look and point, many holding up phones to capture video. Bud saw the cameraman jump out of the truck behind them and walk over the low concrete median, pointing his camera at the explosion.

“We’re not getting off Alameda,” Angie said quietly.

“Not today, anyway,” said Bud.

Something rapped hard against Angie’s window, and she turned to see her producer Bruce standing outside, a pudgy guy her age in a stocking cap, trying to grow a beard. She rolled down the window.

“Are you hearing this stuff on the news?”

Angie nodded. Ahead of them, the cameraman was walking forward slowly, panning across the lines of stopped cars and gatherings of people looking towards the airport. Over the producer’s shoulder she saw a teenage boy with long hair hanging in his eyes and wearing a backpack, walking sluggishly out from between a pair of houses, moving towards the road. A moment later several more people emerged from the same place, a mixture of men and women, different races and ages. They all moved with the same, shuffling gait, and all in the same direction. It didn’t look right.

“We’re not going anywhere, so we’re going to leave the van here.” He looked back at it. “We’ll go ahead on foot.” He didn’t notice that Angie wasn’t looking at him. “We just can’t pass on an opportunity like this. There’s going to be great footage.”

The kid with the long hair and backpack stumbled off the curb and lurched towards the lanes of unmoving cars, the mix of people following. Closer now, Angie could see the kid was injured, his shirt soaked red and his face badly torn, one ear completely ripped away, as if he had gone down on a motorcycle at high speed and the asphalt had skinned off one side of his head. The others were bloody too, and they moved as if in a daze, bumping into one another, arms limp at their sides, like accident victims in shock.

“Bruce…” she started.

The producer turned and stared. The long-haired kid turned towards him and shuffled faster, letting out a whining noise.

“Hey, kid, you’re really hurt!”

A woman’s scream split the air from farther up the line, and Bud saw the cameraman jog out of sight in that direction.

“Get in the van, Bruce,” Angie said, opening the door. The producer stood there as the kid got closer. “Get in the goddamn van, Bruce!”

The kid’s skin was ashy, his eyes a milky white, and now that he was closer she could see that huge chunks of flesh had been torn from both his arms, revealing white bone in places. They were the kinds of wounds you just didn’t walk around with.

“Bruce!”

The producer jumped as if startled awake, but by then the kid was lunging, catching him by his shirt and hauling him in close. Bruce screamed as the kid bit him in the face, pulling him away from the door, their bodies thumping along the side of the van. The mix of people staggered into the road, among the cars, reaching through open windows or going after those who had left their vehicles to watch the fire.

Angie slammed the door shut and locked it, buzzing up the window. Uncle Bud, who in twenty years as a deputy had learned to leave half a car’s length distance in stopped traffic so there was room to maneuver in an emergency, cranked the wheel left and gunned the van up and over the concrete median in a tight U-turn.

Angie saw the people in the road being pulled down by the dead.

“Ang…” Her uncle’s voice was tight. She was already out of her seat and moving into the back, steadying herself as the vehicle swayed and her uncle accelerated.

Their time slot was between a show about storage container auctions and another about pawn shops, but hers was by far the most popular. It (and the other programs) was much more scripted than most people suspected, especially the staged arguments and special guests who conveniently just happened to be available for the show (booked upwards of six months in advance.) A lot of it was pretty corny, but the audience loved it, the contracts paid them all ridiculous amounts, and she got to do what she loved.

Both sides on the exterior of the black van featured the promo shot for the show, a photo of her standing in front of her husband, uncle and father, all of them dressed in black with their arms folded, wearing serious expressions. The History Channel logo was down in one corner, and above it all in big letters was, Angie’s Armory. Family = Firepower.

The van owned by the family of professional weapon smiths was customized, filled with shelves, tool drawers and locking cases, bolted-down grinders and re-loaders. Rows of assault weapons, shotguns and hunting rifles were mounted in racks along both walls. Angie selected an evil-looking, black automatic shotgun with a collapsible stock. She opened a locker and pulled out a canvas bag of heavy magazines, slamming one into the weapon as she moved back to the front. She had to climb over a long, black, hard plastic case strapped to the floor, the Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle which they had been demonstrating during the morning’s filming.

Bud swung the van down a side street and planted his foot on the accelerator. “Not a hoax,” he said. “We put down anything that’s a threat.”

Angie planted the weapon between her knees and nodded, already anticipating the familiar recoil. Her thoughts were a scatter of questions, disbelief, and her daughter’s face.