Lance peered over the tables, through the front window.
The morning brought blood. The sidewalks ran red with it.
Dozens of the newly infected roamed the street, muttering to themselves. Others, more advanced in the stages of madness, stared out of sightless, shriveled eyes.
Only a few normal people dared to run past the window. Those who did drew attention to themselves, chased by the blind, insane hunger of the Xavier virus.
Desperation washed over Lance as he observed the destruction of Pittsburgh.
The unwinding of civilization.
Soon, the infected would outnumber the survivors. When that happened, it was over.
The end of it all.
Lance ran his hands through his sweaty hair, wondering if the end had already come and he just wasn’t willing to accept it.
He quietly stacked more tables atop the others by the door and windows, blocking the rest of the view to the outside.
By the bar, he spotted a television mounted above a long mirror. He switched it on and then rummaged through the built-in refrigerator under the granite bar top. Oranges and limes, bagged and sealed, were on the top shelf above bottled beer and Red Bull. Bags of pretzels rested beside the fridge.
Lance grabbed handfuls of the food and moved to the other side of the bar, sitting on a stool. His back was still tight from sleeping on the hard floor of the freezer. The tablecloths softened his bedding a bit, but it was a far cry from a mattress or even a couch.
Warnings scrolled across a static background on the television.
Most of the channels had similar programmed images. He finally found a local station that broadcasted a live feed. WTAE was on the air, a fair-haired woman standing in front of the camera, speaking from printed papers.
Lance peeled an orange and sipped on a Red Bull.
“…spreading at an alarming rate. Most of our crew is gone. Only Jim, an intern here at WTAE, and I remain. We’ve locked ourselves in the studio and we’re going to continue broadcasting as long as possible. Internet access is still up, so we’re pulling reports from the BBC and Al-Jazeera as best we can.”
Their bravery impressed Lance. He tipped his high-octane drink at the screen.
“The death toll is off the charts. In the United States alone, it’s expected to be in the millions. The hundreds of millions. Satellite feeds of New York and Los Angeles show hundreds of thousands of infected loitering in the streets and filling the highways. The military has been overrun in most areas. They’ve managed to retreat in only a few others. President Adams flew to Paris overnight…”
Lance glowered at the television. “Must be nice to have a private escort of Marines flying you around when the shit hits the fan. Fucking coward.”
“Our studio here isn’t actually in the city of Pittsburgh, but adjacent to it. We can tell you with full confidence that the Xavier virus has spread well beyond the city limits. Wilkinsburg, where we’re located, is decimated. The city itself is in ruins. Large towers of smoke are rising above the skyline. It looks like there are at least a dozen fires burning, maybe more. We haven’t gotten word from anyone about the military’s containment plans around the city, so we don’t know if they’re still there or not. If anyone watching has information they can share, please call us now.”
A phone number appeared on the screen a few minutes later, clumsily fixed over the broadcaster’s face.
“I guess Jim the intern doesn’t have the hang of the switchboard yet,” Lance said. He devoured two oranges in rapid succession. Leaning over the bar, he pulled another Red Bull from the fridge. Several nights of restless sleep left him exhausted, the caffeine giving him a much needed perk.
Something hit the front window. Lance flinched, spilling his drink on his shirt.
He sat on his stool, silent, jaw clenched, angry with himself for not bringing the shotgun from the freezer.
After thirty seconds, he slid from the seat and quickly retrieved his weapon, leaning it against the bar beside him.
Turning his attention back to the television, Lance tore open a bag of pretzels and watched.
The woman on screen stared off to her left, nodding her head and jotting a few notes. She turned back to the camera.
“We’re getting phone calls from viewers now. Most of the checkpoints outside of the city have been overrun. We just received word that the main hub at Heinz Field is still operational, though they’re overflowing with people trying to flee the city. If you can get there, it might be your best hope. Several callers have reported seeing helicopters throughout the night and several convoys of troops engaging the infected.”
Jim shouted something unintelligible from off screen.
“Jim, that’s ridiculous. I—” She paused, shaking her head as he continued to speak. “We’re being told that a roving group of some sort of militia is executing people in the streets. Anyone they suspect is infected with the Xavier virus is being shot onsite. God help us all.”
Lance finished his breakfast and cleared the bar, if for no other reason than to keep his new home moderately clean. He went back to the window and inched one of the tables aside.
Fewer of the crazies roamed about, but there were enough that he didn’t feel safe wandering around out there.
“Shit.”
If being out at night meant certain death, and the day was now populated by those on the brink of insanity, what options did that leave him?
If Heinz Field still had a military presence, perhaps that might be the best place for him. He didn’t like the idea of being around that many people, making noise and drawing attention, though he wasn’t sure if that would be any worse than sleeping in a freezer.
Even if he wanted to go there, he couldn’t visualize how he could travel that far of a distance. It was several miles away, through blocked streets and waves of Xavier victims.
“…BBC is reporting that the Xavier virus has been detected in Africa and Asia.”
Lance returned the table to its proper spot by the window and leaned against the wall, staring at his shoes.
If the disease had spread to Asia and Africa, it would only be a matter of time before everyone had it.
They were witnessing an extinction event.
No place would be safe.
No escape.
The restaurant wasn’t a bad place to be. He had some food and water. Booze if he wanted to get shitfaced and walk outside, putting the kobosh on his problems.
A metal freezer that, while not the most secure of places, would keep him relatively safe. Or so he hoped. Lance peered around the dining area by the bar.
“This could work.”
As long as he stayed tucked away, not giving up his position, he could stay there for a while. He would have to venture out for food at some point, but he would cross that bridge when he got there. The one thing he refused to do was ration his food to the point where he would become weak and sluggish.
Going out to loot a grocery store when he could barely walk was a death sentence waiting to be carried out. No, he would eat as much as his body needed and figure the rest out.
The occasional gunshot rang out as Lance straightened the faucet head in the kitchen and ran hot water from the tap. He took his clothes off and scrubbed at his body with dish soap, running individual limbs under the water to rinse. Fresh underwear and socks from his pack went on, along with a clean shirt he found in the waiter’s station. Neosporin and a new bandage covered the wound on his foot.
The woman and Jim disappeared from the television, replaced by a scrolling warning to stay inside. Lance hoped they were only napping.
Rummaging through the place as the morning went on, Lance found some eggs and bacon inside the fridge in the kitchen. His mouth watered at the thought of throwing it in a skillet, but hearing the mumbles and wails outside kept him from doing so. He remembered the Xavier victim in the hospital sniffing the air, as if it smelled him approaching.
Under the cash register, he found
a hidden box of Butterfingers that he tossed in his pack.
As noon rolled into the later parts of the day, Lance’s eyes continually wandered back to the exposed front of the restaurant. How long until those things burst through? He figured the freezer could withstand one, maybe two, of those things beating on its door. If a group of them came through, however, he’d be finished.
The bread in the window came down, replaced by wireframe shelving that Lance wrapped in tablecloths. He taped it to the wall with a large roll of duct tape he found in a closet by the bathroom.
He stepped back and inspected his work. “Better than bread.”
Two shots of Jack Daniels at the bar, and Lance turned in for the night.
With the door locked, he lit his candles and settled in his hard bed. He flipped through a Glamour magazine he’d found rolled up in a waitress’ apron.
He threw it into the corner ten seconds later. No matter how limited his reading choices were, he just couldn’t get into that kind of stuff.
That night proved the loudest yet.
The concussive blows of heavy ordinance shook the building, waking Lance every few minutes. Barrages of machine gun fire erupted occasionally, strafing by as if it belonged to a helicopter.
Around midnight, a massive earth-shaking explosion rocked the freezer, knocking over one of the racks.
The banshee-like wails never ceased.
Lance rolled over and covered his head with a tablecloth.
Morning came too soon and Lance staggered to the bar, exhausted from the night’s festivities.
“Red Bull and pretzels again. Yay.”
The young newscaster had returned, this time sitting in a chair, her blouse buttoned incorrectly, hair disheveled. She nodded to Jimmy, who must have stood behind the camera.
“Are we on? We are? OK. Hello again, Pittsburgh. It was a long night for all of us, and Jim and I are still getting our bearings under us. As you probably noticed, the military pushed into the city last night. Helicopters cut down hundreds of those infected by the Xavier virus. Artillery rained from the sky.” She cleared her throat. “They’ve destroyed at least two hundred bridges in the city. We’re still getting calls about other detonations, but that’s what we know so far. If you were planning on using any of the major bridges to escape, you’ll need to come up with a different route.”
Lance held his head in his hands, the fatigue not going away no matter how much caffeine and sugar he pumped into his body.
“We’ve also been told that the military forces on the ground were completely overrun. There are thousands upon thousands of infected roaming the city. The BBC is reporting on its website that the Xavier virus has landed in Western Europe. Coupled with several military defeats in U.S. cities, it’s likely that we’re on our own now. Help will not be coming.”
The large window on the front of the building smashed inward. Tables toppled over. Men shouted.
Lance spun from the stool, scooping the shotgun up and jamming the butt of the stock into his shoulder.
Three men, clad in camouflage, climbed through the window, scrambling over the tables. Each held a rifle, one that was bolt action.
“Stop,” Lance shouted, sighting the nearest man.
They hesitated, eyes round circles of shock.
Shrieks came from behind them.
“They’re coming!” The man on the left, broad-shouldered and bearded, stepped forward. “They’re right around the corner!”
“I don’t give a shit.” Lance swung the barrel toward him. “Not my problem.”
The foremost man, white-haired and older than the rest, held his free hand up. “Unless you’re going to kill us and them, then you better let us inside.”
Lance looked over all three of them, his options running through his mind. As far as he could tell, he didn’t have a whole hell of a lot.
“How many are chasing you?”
“Half a dozen,” White Hair said.
“Shit.” Lance lowered his shotgun and stepped forward. “Help me get these back up.”
They watched him as he grabbed the leg of a toppled table.
“Hurry up!”
The men dropped their guns to the floor and stacked the tables in front of the window, wordlessly working to hide themselves.
Lance grabbed the remote from the bar and muted the television, turning his attention back to the front of the restaurant. The men stepped backward, lifting their guns again.
A shriek came then, shrill and close.
Too close.
Footsteps slapped at the pavement on the sidewalk. They stopped directly in front of the window. Lance heard panting, barely above a whisper, rasping on the other side of the tables.
His ears pulsed as his blood pressure spiked.
Another cry from the infected startled them, making Lance wince at its shrillness.
The footsteps continued on, the sound dying out as the infected moved away.
Lance blew out a long sigh, realizing he’d held his breath the entire time.
“Thanks, mister,” the youngest of the group said. His straight black hair touched his eyebrows. His baby-smooth face and lack of stubble betrayed his youth.
“You have seriously fucked my hiding spot.” Lance lowered the shotgun, but kept his finger by the trigger. “Why are you guys wearing camouflage? You aren’t military.”
The oldest man, obviously the leader by the way the others deferred to him, moved to the bar and grabbed shot glasses. “We were part of a militia.”
As he poured four shots of vodka, Lance moved between them and the back of the restaurant, not wanting anyone going near his pack. “They talked about you on the news. You’re running around executing people.”
The man offered him a full shot glass.
Lance shook his head.
All three of them threw back the liquor. The youngest coughed, grimacing at the aftertaste.
“We only shoot the infected. Why wait around until they fully mutate and then come for us?” The leader poured another round. “We were controlling the plague better than the goddamn government was, that’s for sure.”
“Were?” Lance asked as he watched them pound booze.
“Yeah,” the old man said, slamming his shot glass down. “They hit us last night like a freight train. We had seventy-five men at sundown last night. We’re all that are left, I think.”
The teenager stood in front of the TV, watching the silent newscast.
“They came from everywhere.” The broad-shouldered man plopped into Lance’s stool. “Out of sewer grates, from buildings, hell they even jumped from the back of a tractor trailer.”
White Hair nodded at the teen. “That’s Mike. The big fella is Tony, and I’m Ralph.”
“Lance.”
“You own this place, Lance?”
“I do now.”
Ralph smiled. “I hear that. Owners are probably dead or infected. You all alone in here?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for not shooting us,” teenager Mike said.
Lance stayed quiet, still assessing the men. He understood their logic for shooting the infected, but he still had to consider them dangerous. They were shooting people in cold blood, sick or not.
“You seem tense, Lance.” Ralph placed his rifle on the bar. “We didn’t even know you were here when we broke through the window. We’ve been fighting or running for most of the night and we needed a place to hole up and hope they didn’t catch us.”
“I understand that, but it doesn’t mean I have to like the fact that you just broke down one of the things between me and them.”
“Fair enough.”
“What happened with the military last night?” Lance took a tentative seat on a stool at the far end of the bar. “I heard the bombing and shooting, but I didn’t look outside.”
“They got their asses kicked, same as us. We watched a whole goddamn battalion get taken out.” Ralph looked at the vodka bottle again, his head cocked at angle
as if contemplating another drink.
Lance hoped he wouldn’t have to take the booze away. He didn’t need a confrontation. “It sounded like they were hitting the city with artillery.”
“They were.”
Lance stayed quiet for a bit, trying to think of a way to get them out of the restaurant. They seemed nice enough, but that didn’t mean much. Lance had never been the best judge of character. He married Liz after all.
“You said that you think you’re all that’s left of your group. You didn’t see the rest die?”
“We saw a lot of ‘em die, but not all.” Ralph scratched his chin. “They caught us so off guard that our group split in two. Everyone in our half got taken out.”
“How did you manage to survive the night with all of those things out there?”
“When the military showed up and started raising hell, we used the distraction to climb in the back of a burned-out bus. They didn’t find us until twenty minutes ago, when some numb nuts had to take a leak.” He glared at the boy. “We’ve been running from them since. Don’t have enough ammo to shoot ‘em all, so we ran.”
Mumbling came from outside as another infected shambled by the restaurant. The men waited for it to pass.
Tony whispered, “Nice place you have here; ‘cept for the smashed window anyway.”
Lance stared at him. “How long are you boys planning on hanging around?”
“Easy now,” Ralph said. “We’re just hiding for a bit. The day at the most. There’s a rendezvous point that our group is supposed to meet at if we get split up. That’s tonight, so we’re out of here by then.”
All three of them turned and looked at him, waiting for him to acknowledge their continued presence. Lance didn’t see too many outcomes that didn’t end with him shooting them, or vice versa. Unless they were telling the truth, and just wanted a place to squat in for the day.
“Fine. Don’t know how much longer I can stay here anyway. Most of the food was gone when I got here. We should move to the back of the restaurant. There’s less of a chance of them overhearing us back in the kitchen.”
“Lead the way.” Ralph picked up his rifle and laid it against his shoulder. “You’re the boss.”
Lance turned and headed to the kitchen, wondering if he was making a mistake.
Pain exploded in the back of his head.
He fell to his knees, shotgun clattering across the floor.
The world went black.
Chapter 14