Existence Page 7

  Natalie had pulled the Mercedes to the sidewalk ahead and lowered the passenger window. “Owen, hurry up, there’s more coming.”

  Owen quickly moved to the man in the flannel, helped him to his feet, and motioned back over his shoulder. “Let’s go, we’re getting out of here.”

  The man looked Owen up and down, began walking backward, and then nodded. “Okay, I owe you one.”

  Owen dipped under the man’s right arm, pulled him in, and started back toward the sidewalk. “Let’s go.”

  Away from the thrashing crowd and helping the man in through the rear passenger door, Owen now spotted the group Natalie was warning about. They’d come in off Pico Avenue and if he was guessing, numbered somewhere close to a hundred.

  Owen slammed his door and turned to his wife. “That was our way out.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “I know.”

  From the back row, the dark-haired man cleared his throat, sat forward, and leaned in between the seats. “Might be another way.”

  Owen turned in his seat. “Flower’s pretty much closed off too.”

  The man nodded, rubbed at his face. “My truck is off Washington and Maple, no real crowds on that side of the freeway. If you don’t mind dropping me off, we can probably get there from 17th, but you might want to go now.”

  Owen narrowed his eyes. “Isn’t 17th a one way?”

  The man chuckled. “Does it matter?”

  Natalie gripped the wheel, her knuckles a bright shade of white. “Owen, can we take that back to Normandie?”

  Owen thought for a moment, looked out toward the approaching crowd. “Yeah, it’s not a straight shot, but it’ll get us where we want to go.”

  Natalie shifted back into drive and pulled away from the curb. She watched the mirror as the crowd faded, buckled her seatbelt, and offered a weak smile.

  Owen leaned into the backseat, extended his hand. “Owen Mercer, and this is my wife Natalie.”

  The big man with the dirty flannel gripped Owen’s hand, had the kind of power you see in a weightlifter or ironworker. He regarded his hosts with a wide grin and kind eyes. “Name’s Kevin Rodgers, I can’t thank you enough for comin’ back for me.”

  13

  Slow through the wrong way section of 17th and then a quick left on Grand Avenue, everything had changed. Spot fires, motionless bodies face down on the sidewalks, overturned trash dumpsters, too much to take in all at once. Beyond the freeway, the crowds swelled as the parade of abandoned vehicles clogged the already overwhelmed city streets. Packs of six and eight from only minutes ago now became massive hordes numbering in the dozens.

  Owen massaged his wife’s shoulder, pointing her to a clearing just beyond Washington, then turned and eyed the friendly stranger stretched out in the backseat. “So, how’d you end up downtown, so far from your truck?”

  The man who only minutes before introduced himself as Kevin Rodgers let out a breath and again smiled. “Lunch.”

  Owen could see that the man was trying to lighten the mood, but with everything going on, he wasn’t amused; he could sense that there was more to the story. “Okay, so you walked three miles through the middle of Los Angeles with all of this going on today just to get some lunch? I gotta say, I wanna party with you.”

  Kevin rolled his shoulders, looked past Owen, into the street. “Nah, met a few buddies. It was our day off and we always get burgers downtown. Didn’t really know how bad it was before we were in it.”

  Natalie slowed, dodged a mail truck, kept her eyes forward as she passed. “Which way on Washington, hopefully—”

  Before she could finish, Kevin said, “Left, about four or five blocks up. Big black truck, can’t miss it.”

  Owen didn’t want to ask, but felt odd not at least showing a measure of concern. “Your friends, uh … they make it out?”

  Kevin dropped his head, looked at the floorboards. “Don’t know, I mean I think so. Came out of the men’s room and the place looked like World War III—they were gone, had to fight my way out.”

  He should have known better. If the man knew where his friends were, he would have been with them, not running around downtown trying to avoid being eaten. Owen turned back to the street and noticed another large group a hundred yards out. “Feels like a bad dream, I mean this doesn’t seem real. There’s no rational explanation for why those things—”

  Kevin leaned away from his seat and chuckled as he spoke the word. “Feeders.”

  At nearly the same time, Owen and Natalie said, “What?”

  “Feeders, that’s what they’re calling them. Those people, those monsters, whatever the hell they are. Dumbest thing I’ve heard in quite some time. But leave it to the media to turn this whole mess into a three-ring circus.”

  “Yeah,” Owen said, “seems like for once they undersold something. Not an ounce of hype around all this—really makes you wonder why. I mean it came out of nowhere, now it’s taken over the city.”

  Kevin shook his head. “Not just here.”

  “I think they also had reports from Des Moines and where else … uh … Philly I think?”

  “That was yesterday, maybe last week, but not anymore. Now this thing is everywhere.”

  “Everywhere as in …”

  Kevin pointed beyond the coming intersection. “Everywhere as in, everywhere.”

  Owen spotted the massive black pickup truck only a second before Natalie began to pull to the right side of the street. He now avoided eye contact with the man over his left shoulder and straightened in his seat. There was something off about the stranger. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it was there. “You got somewhere to go? Uh, family?”

  “Yeah, the wife is on her way home. Gonna meet up, maybe head out to our cabin in Big Bear, get somewhere with a few less people.” Kevin paused, laid his hand on Owen’s shoulder. “How about you two, where ya gonna ride this out?”

  Natalie pulled even with the black Ford F-250, noticed the decal on the driver’s door, and had to ask. “BXF Technologies?”

  Kevin grinned, quickly checked the street, and then looked at her through the rearview mirror, seeming agitated. “You’ve heard of BXF?”

  “Had a meeting with some of your people this morning, was supposed to have a follow-up this afternoon, didn’t end up happening.”

  “Because of all this?”

  Natalie looked away, began to nod.

  There was a long moment of silence as they sat at the side of the street. When no one spoke, Kevin finally slid to the passenger door and reached for the handle. “Can’t thank you two enough.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a card, and handed it over the seat to Owen. “Once this thing blows over, give me a call. I’d like to make it up to you somehow.”

  Owen looked at the card, turned awkwardly in his seat, and shook Kevin’s hand. “Will do, take care of yourself.”

  The large man with the dusty flannel again checked the street, quickly stepped out, and disappeared behind the door of the F-250. When he was gone, Owen again looked over the business card, then handed it to Natalie. “BXF Technologies,” she said. “Head of Security … Team Sierra?”

  Owen grinned, held back a laugh. “What does that even mean?”

  Natalie waited as the black Ford F-250 pulled away. She made a quick U-turn, punched the gas, and handed Owen her phone. “Can you check to see if Ava responded?”

  Owen knew without looking; he’d had the same problem even as they exited Natalie’s building more than an hour before. He powered up her phone, checked the upper left corner, and then reached for his own phone and did the same. “Nothing.”

  “She was supposed to—”

  “It’s not Ava. It’s the phones, we don’t have a signal.”

  They drove back the way he’d come. Washington to Western to Wilshire and finally a few of the less crowded side streets to get beyond Santa Monica Boulevard. Not much in the way of traffic, however they also hadn’t seen another human for the last few minutes. That was
good and bad.

  “How are we on gas?”

  Natalie dipped her head to the left, checked her mirror, and then the fuel gauge. “Little over half a tank, why?”

  “I’m thinking we may want to head out of town as well, get to somewhere a little more open.”

  “Don’t you think we may just want to stay put for now, wait and see what they say on the news. I mean this thing can’t go on forever.”

  “I’m not so sure; it doesn’t look like it’s slowing down.”

  The color from Natalie’s face began to fade. She blinked rapidly and licked her lips. “I just, I mean I can’t …” She paused, took a breath. “I can’t go back out there. I just want to go home and lock the doors.”

  As Natalie’s voice trailed off and the inside of the vehicle fell into silence, her phone chimed from the center console.

  Owen quickly snatched it up, read the text, and typed out a six words response. Turning to Natalie he dropped the phone into his lap and said, “It’s Ava, she said someone broke down the side door to the garage.”

  “Are they okay?”

  Owen hadn’t seen this side of her since Noah was a baby. He knew it was there, just hidden behind the hardened exterior she’d built in the months and years defending some of the worst society had to offer. He liked this version much better.

  “I don’t know,” Owen said, “I tried to respond, but it’s still not going through.”

  14

  Night had come and Natalie had gone quiet. She watched the road ahead, but now leaned into the steering wheel and peered into the distance, her eyes wide and hands shaking. Looking toward the left side of the street, she breathed in quickly. “Owen.”

  He’d seen it only a second before her and was already reaching for the Glock when it came into full view. The massive wrought iron and redwood gates leading into Shadow Hills looked like they had been bulldozed. No longer recognizable as a barrier to entry, it sat in a twisted heap beside the abandoned guard house.

  Owen unbuckled his seatbelt and unlocked his door. He turned to Natalie and lowered his window. “Just get us close, I’ll run in if I have to.”

  Taking a wide right around the destroyed gates, Natalie shot back in her seat and braked hard. “Wait, wait, wait.”

  Out of the darkened community, a silver Tesla Model S rocketed past the left side of the guard house. It was followed closely by a white Porsche Cayenne and finally a black BMW X6, the last of which Owen only saw as it dipped into the street and turned right.

  Under his breath and looking away from Natalie, he said, “What the hell?”

  “Owen.”

  “Hold on a minute.” Owen opened his door, started to step out.

  “Our kids,” Natalie pointed into their community, to where the gates stood not more than a few hours before. “They’re in there, we have to go—”

  Owen held his index finger over his mouth, whispered, “Just a minute.” He stepped out onto the damp grass that sat parallel to the sidewalk and ran the twenty yards to the street leading into his neighborhood.

  Near the corner, he stayed hidden in the waning shadows, under a stand of sixty-foot spruce, waiting and watching. People on foot and in vehicles, no one acknowledging anyone else. They ran from their homes carrying boxes and bags, tossing them into the open hatches of SUVs and the trunks of cars. Other than the distant patting of soles against the pavement, not another sound existed.

  Owen slowly turned and ran the short distance back to the Mercedes. He moved to the driver’s door and motioned for Natalie to switch places. He climbed in behind the wheel, leaned to the right, and kissed her on the head. “It’s gonna be fine.”

  Natalie stared down into her lap. Her hands still shook, but now they were wrapped tightly around her phone. She ran her finger over the screen and stopped at the home button. Looking up at Owen, tears began to form as she fought the inescapable urge to cry.

  He felt it too, but knew better than to head down that road. Natalie could turn it off if necessary, could shut down the emotional faucet. She could become the person she needed to be in the moment, leave everything else behind. However, Owen didn’t have that luxury; he no longer possessed that skill. That tool hadn’t been sharpened in years, and right now his attention was needed elsewhere.

  Owen locked the doors, took a deep breath, and buckled his seatbelt, asking Natalie to do the same. He quickly shifted into drive and with his head on a swivel turned into their community and stayed along the center of the street.

  Natalie looked out through her window, braced her left hand against the dash. “What are they doing? Where are they going?”

  Owen kept his eyes on the street, his peripheral vision focused on the vehicles in the driveways, watching for reverse lights. “I’m not sure, I just don’t—”

  Two chimes in quick succession, one from his phone and one from Natalie’s. She turned away from the window, looked down at her phone, and held her hand to her mouth.

  “Owen, they’re trying to break down the garage door.”

  “What?”

  “The door in the garage, the one into the house.”

  He couldn’t think. His mind was a mess of gruesome images and horrifying scenarios. They were less than thirty seconds from their children, but if felt like a million miles. Owen mashed the gas pedal to the floor and narrowed his sights.

  A quick right, the Mercedes fighting to stay on four wheels, and then a straight four hundred yards to their driveway, he pushed the Mercedes to sixty miles per hour. Within two hundred feet, he slammed the brakes and slid sideways into the curb just one house from his own.

  Reaching for the Glock, he keyed the garage door opener, stepped out, and started into a dead sprint. He rounded the mailbox, nearly lost his footing on the polished concrete path, and leveled the weapon as Natalie shouted from the passenger seat.

  “OWEN, THEY’RE IN THE HOUSE.”

  Away from the front of the home and cutting across the driveway, he had a full view of the inside of the garage and the destroyed door leading into the house and to his children. Owen pushed away the what-ifs and kept running. There wasn’t time for anything but action.

  He reached the door and without another thought, turned left. Banging—rapid punctuated blows—and incoherent shouting came from the area behind the kitchen. He kept the Glock at eye level and moved quickly into the living room. His heart now threatening to burst from his chest, Owen jogged toward the kitchen as the screams of his daughter and the voice of his nine-year-old son filled the home.

  “NO, GO AWAY!”

  Owen moved through the kitchen, two quick lefts, and then darted into the hall, his index finger now steady over the trigger. He was shouting before he stopped and planted his feet, although as he sighted the disheveled man, he quickly realized how this was going to end.

  “HEY, GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR!”

  The man abruptly stopped his assault on the door to Owen’s office, although he didn’t initially turn. He continued to stare at the door for a beat and then slowly dipped his chin, sniffed at the air. He rounded his shoulders and turned his head first, then his body.

  Blue dress shirt, saturated in a thick smattering of blood from neck to belly, untucked and ripped near the breast pocket. The man’s charcoal grey slacks had numerous holes up and down both legs, his right torn off just below the knee. Without shoes or socks, the man’s bloodied feet also looked like they’d been badly burned, skin hanging in sheets near his right ankle.

  “Sir, I need you to step away from the door.”

  The man didn’t respond, he only turned up his nose and showed his teeth.

  “Sir—”

  Owen looked into the man’s eyes. They were obscured by the same milky white haze he’d observed from the attackers in the city. The unrelenting anger welling in his gut began to fade. He knew what was coming and needed to feel the fear, if only so he could save his children.

  “AVA, NOAH. DO NOT OPEN THAT DOOR, NO MATTER WHAT!” />
  The man took a step forward, then slowly looked back toward the door, appearing to be at a crossroads.

  “HEY, I’M RIGHT HERE.”

  As the house fell into silence, he could hear the soft whimpering of his daughter only ten feet away, his son trying to comfort his sister.

  The man took another step forward and again smelled the air, again looked into Owen’s eyes.

  Owen moved into the kitchen and then the living room, maintaining eye contact with the deranged man. “Good, keeping coming. That’s right, let’s go.”

  In the hall leading to the garage, Owen sidestepped the shattered door and waited at the threshold, the Glock now trained on the man’s midsection. Only eight feet separated the two as the sound of a vehicle speeding past caused the man to lunge forward.

  Two steps back and Owen was in the garage, just to the right of the doorway. He followed the man with his weapon and continued to urge him forward. “Come on, just a few more steps, let’s go.”

  Although he knew what was likely to come and would probably be left with no choice, the thought of actually pulling the trigger made him sick. He always bragged about doing whatever it would take to protect his family, but at the moment, the only thing he could think about was how he’d be able live with himself once he crossed that line.

  Backing down the driveway, the distraught man began to increase his pace. Owen moved his right hand from the Glock and held it out. “Sir, I don’t want to hurt you, but you need to—”

  The man in the bloodied dress shirt snarled as he again lunged forward, his arms flailing wildly as he drew to within five feet. Owen took three steps back and reflexively fired a shot that entered the man’s chest two inches below his left clavicle.

  Owen’s first reaction as the man was thrown backward and to the concrete was to apologize. He didn’t want it to come to this, but he also didn’t see it ending any other way. Remorse was automatic, an emotion hardwired into most every human being from an early age. And although circumstances dictated his actions, he still didn’t like the way it felt.