Omega Days (Volume 1) - By John L. Campbell Page 0,100
right, smashing into what was left by the taxis, and a cement mixer somehow ended up on top of them all. The rear wheel of a motorcycle, folded nearly in half, poked out from the bottom of the pile. The whole mess was blackened by fire, and a charred corpse dangled from the rear window of one of the taxis.
Two figures crouched behind the armored truck, the bigger one peering around the side at what lay beyond. Xavier helped Alden limp up behind them, and Tricia began crying when she saw the teacher. Alden sat on the pavement and leaned back against the truck, eyes closed and breathing hard, hands pressed to his heart as if it might jump right out of his chest.
Xavier crouched beside Pulaski, who glanced at him and curled his lip. “Thought you were dead.”
“We almost were.”
“Still plenty of time left in the day,” the pipe fitter said. His shotgun was gone, and he was holding the remaining automatic.
“Why didn’t you just keep going?” Xavier asked.
“We would have.” He gestured with the pistol. “But that’s UCSF over there.”
The priest looked out at a vast college campus studded with buildings, open greens and trees. Just like U.C. Berkeley weeks ago, UCSF had been in its final days before class started, the grounds crowded with students and their families. One end of the campus was occupied by a large hospital, and now the place crawled with not only dead students and their parents, but corpses in hospital gowns and scrubs as well. There were thousands.
“If they spot us we’re fucked.”
Alden’s voice, soft and shaking, came from behind them. “Fucked…anyway.”
Pulaski and Xavier turned as the school teacher pulled aside his windbreaker and lifted his shirt, wincing at the movement as he exposed the flesh just above his hip.
He had been bitten.
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