Timothy Long: Beyond the Barriers

“Hi.” Her voice sounded so far away, hollow, and I could hear wind rushing past like she was on the move.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, some craziness, huh? I’m getting out of town and heading to my folks down in Eugene. I hope to be there by dark.”

“Good luck.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Erik, listen. I never had a chance to say I was sorry and I regret it.”

“Not saying sorry, or fucking that guy? Which do you regret, Allison?”

“Both.” Her voice came in small, and I was pretty sure I heard genuine regret.

“I’m heading out too. Call me when you get there and let me know you’re okay.” Then I clicked off the phone and pocketed it. Why did I bother with that last line? I shouldn’t have cared how she was or where she was going. What did she expect me to do? Drop everything and go rescue her the way I rescued her the first time?

That was a fine mess. Her boyfriend was a real piece of work. A sociopath who got off on locking her up all day, and didn’t let her go out unless he was at her side. She met him in college. They moved in together, and he started to display his real side. I never asked if he hurt her. I didn’t have to. When I came through the door, she practically rushed to hide behind me.

He got in my face and tried the tough guy act. I kicked him in the shin, and then threw my fist into his gut so fast that all he could do was grunt and fall. He screamed profanities, wanted to know where I was going with his property. But when I looked down at him, looked into his eyes, he decided to shut the hell up and let us go without a hassle.

I locked all the doors and checked the windows one more time. I set the house alarm, knowing it wouldn’t do much good. If the police were too busy with the virus, or whatever it was, there was no way they would respond to my piddly house alarm, no matter how much I paid.

I slid into the little Honda and fired it up. I’d had the car for a few years, and she was as reliable as anything I had ever owned. Plus the car had a four-wheel drive setting, which would come in handy.

The sky grew dark as big puffy clouds slid into view. I backed out of the driveway, forgetting my sunglasses for now. Edwards was still dead and lying in his front yard. I had trouble looking at his body as I backed out. His not-so-lovely wife was still banging away at the window, smearing blood all over it with her hands.

I drove past ghastly faces that rose up in curtained windows, past Devon’s, where I didn’t see a light or a trace of him or his wife. I stopped at the end of the street and looked both ways. The road was zombie free, for now, and I hoped it would stay that way.

I suspected that it would not.

When I got back to highway 322, I hit traffic. On the worst day, it could take ten or fifteen minutes to get through the city. Today, I didn’t think I would be able to make it in an hour. I pulled out of the turn lane after waiting for what seemed like an eternity, and then stopped again. A few cars had pulled over to the shoulder lane, so that was not an option. A few brave souls tried weaving into the opposite lane, but they met traffic, and had to either jump back into the correct lane or drive off the road and look miserably at the line of traffic that wasn’t going to let them back in.

It took ten minutes at one light, and then ten more at the next. I drove past the Walmart I visited earlier in the day, and the place was in full panic. I watched as a few of the dead walked toward shoppers. After the news reports all day, it was apparent that others had caught on to what to do. People didn’t stand around dumbly. Some fought back, but most ran. I saw a man pulled down by three of the things; he screamed over and over at the top of his lungs for help. My hand was on the shotgun before I knew it.

A horn honked loudly behind me, and I realized the light had changed, so I accelerated to the next light and waited there as well.

They were everywhere, a small army of them interspersed with the cars. Men, women, and even children walking around with blank stares, most covered in blood, some missing limbs.

Some were missing throats, and some staggered with broken bones. One walked right up to my window and snarled at me. He had a screwdriver driven into his chest, just to the left of center. It should have punctured his heart and made him drop to the ground, dead. Only he was dead already, or undead.

I gave him the finger, and the light changed. As I accelerated, I popped my door open quickly, which knocked him to the ground. A car tried to avoid him, but the one after swerved to the right a bit and drove right over him. Score one for the good guys.

I didn’t slow down to see if it smashed in his head.

The next light was just about as bad, but a side street called to me—one I knew well from my years of living in the little city. I shot down it into a residential neighborhood that led me to another side street. I ran parallel to the main drag for a while, but jetted down yet another street before emerging onto a lightly traveled road. It took a long time to get back to highway 322, but once I reached it, I was only on it for a few minutes before jumping onto a tiny, two-lane road. Home free at last.

I was on the outskirts of the Vesper Lake when something reassuring came into view.

A half mile ahead, I saw a row of military vehicles pulled into an orderly line along the side of the road. A group of men were piling out of a Humvee, while a pair rolled pylons across the street.

After the day I had, it put a smile on my face to see some response from the military. It didn’t matter if they were National Guard or the Marines. They could have landed a platoon for all I cared. They were here, offering some sort of protection.

I slowed down as I neared the men. I laid the shotgun in the front seat next to me, so that if anyone looked in, they would know I was armed but not an immediate threat. I considered putting it in the back, on the floor where it was less likely to be seen, but what was the point after the day I was having, and I was pretty sure others were in the same boat.

Two men dressed in camouflaged gear were in the process of maneuvering a heavy, concrete-filled barrel into place on the side of the road. A man dressed in jeans and a t-shirt jumped down from the back of a military transport. Others milled around a guy that gestured around the location. From the back, all I caught was grey hair shaved close to the skull.

As I rolled to a stop, I waited for someone to come out and challenge me. No one did, so I pulled forward until I was level with the guys moving the barrel.

“What’s the word?” I called after rolling down my window.

“Fucked. That’s a word I would choose.” One man said without looking up at me.

The other smiled and ignored me.

“So you guys army?”

“Something like that. We’re all they could call up on short notice. Some of us didn’t even have time to get our shit together, like Timmons over there—in the comfortable clothes.” He gestured to the guy in the t-shirt.

I caught the eye of the older man as he came over. He moved with a sure step and didn’t take his eyes of me. He wore a pair of snake skin boots that gleamed in the sun. I felt like getting out and saluting, maybe reporting for duty. Some men are just made for the job he obviously had. The job of being in charge and making sure stuff gets done.

He nodded, so I nodded back as he came around the front of the car.

“Heading out of town?” he inquired in a baritone that probably boomed when the need called for it.

“I was thinking about it. Depends on what’s out there.”

“I’ll tell you what is behind you. A whole world of hurt.” He grimaced.