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 fuck 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