Killer Z (7 page)
F
red
and Kyle walk carefully down the center of Constitution Avenue. They work their way around torn asphalt, burst fire hydrants, and
panicked, disorientated people. An evacuation route sign disappears as a
building topples over. A sea of survivors pushes them to the gates of the White
House.
Military personnel keep the crowd
off of the presidential grounds. Soldiers looking like mercenaries man the
front gates with local cops. The broad lawns surrounding the Washington Monument and White House are submerged in water. The tip of the Washington Monument topples.
“The great dildo in the sky lost
its head,” Kyle says.
Fred feels disgust for his son’s
lack of respect. The crowd’s movement stops near the gates of the White House.
The black cast iron fence leading to the main drive sits at an odd angle.
Majority of the lamps adorning the gate are missing. Even at a distance the
damage to the White House looks severe. Its regal veranda sits at an angle with
several of the timeless columns missing.
“Never thought I’d see the
day…”Fred muses and takes out a cigarette. He never thought much of government
but does have a patriot’s heart.
The crowd mumbles the president is
dead. A few ask the soldiers and police officers for information. Others
outright demand it. Kyle grips the strap of the backpack tightly. A limousine
with presidential flags idles near the front entrance of the White House and on
the front the lawn are several helicopters. Staff workers and officials rush
from a side entrance.
Fred needs to know if the leader
of the free world is still at the helm. The longer the soldiers remain silent
the more restless the crowd becomes.
Amongst those rushing from the
White House are the president’s wife and daughter. The first lady’s head is
bowed. She’s flanked by two smartly dressed men. The scene is repeated with the
president’s daughter. Behind them four soldiers carry a black body bag. As the
body bag passes, both soldiers and officials stand sharply and salute. The
president’s family disappears into a helicopter and the crowd goes crazy.
A senator runs out of the White
House and enters the idling limousine. The luxurious car pauses as the front
gate starts to open. Hundreds rush to the opening gates but are stopped when
another deep tremor shakes the ground. Erupting asphalt lifts the front of the
limousine into the air. The rear tires spin without gripping the road.
Soldiers push back the mob
surrounding the limo. The senator is pulled from the sun roof and the car
abandoned.
An amplified voice blares through
the cacophony, “Repent before it’s too late. The president is dead! God is
coming to reclaim what is rightfully his!”
Fred sees a man in ragged clothes
shouting into the bullhorn. A chunk of concrete sails through the air and hits
the doomsayer on the temple. The bullhorn doesn’t reach the street before
someone else snatches it.
“DING DONG THE WITCH IS DEAD!”
The mob turns on the announcer
like a pack of wild dogs. The speaker disappears in a storm of punches and
kicks.
A young woman with dirty blond
dreadlocks shouts into the bullhorn, “Stop this insanity! We need order!”
A military man booms, “Cease and
disperse! This is an executive order. Proceed to the nearest evacuation
center and await further information. I repeat. Cease and disperse.”
“Where is the vice president?” the
woman with the bullhorn shrills.
The crowd is deafening as the
soldier answers, “Cease and disperse immediately. You must evacuate the
city.”
“No,” the woman shouts. “We have
rights and demand information!”
“Marshall Law has been declared.
Cease and disperse or we will open fire.”
“You’re supposed to help us!” the
woman yells.
Rubber bullets rain into the
crowd. A rubber bullet smacks into Fred’s left shoulder. His breath is knocked
out as searing hot pain shoots down his arm.
“Jesus, please stop this madness,”
Fred prays.
The bullhorn lands at his feet.
Fred picks it up and says the only
thing coming to mind, “Thus saith the Lord, Let not the wide man glory in his
wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might, let not the rich man
glory in his riches. But let him that glorieth in this, that he
understandeth and knoweth me, that I am the Lord which exercises
loving-kindness, judgment, and righteousness, in the earth: for in these things
I delight, saith the LORD.”
Kyle snorts as the mob goes quiet.
Everyone stands dumfounded and looking at Fred.
“Cease fire!” a soldier orders.
The soldiers stop firing but
remain ready. Everyone looks at Fred.
“I’m scared,” he says into the
bullhorn. “We’re all scared. Let’s stop fighting, ok?”
The soldiers lower their guns,
looking toward their commander.
“Look folks, the man is right. You
need to stop fighting and go to the evacuation centers. There will be help for
you there.”
Grumblings and murmurs drift
through the crowd as people slowly start to gather themselves and walk away.
Kyle lays a hand on his dad’s
shoulder and says, “Let’s go, Dad.”
Fred drops the bullhorn with
shaking hands and takes out a cigarette.
“Kyle, I’ve had enough of this
city. Where’s the hospital?”
The pain in his shoulder has
lessened to a throb. It takes him a few attempts to light the cigarette.
“Screw the hospital. A tsunami is
coming. We need to leave the city.”
“Not without my grandson.”
L
arry’s head swims with disorientation and booze.
The tile under his cheek feels cool. He doesn’t remember passing out. The last
thing he recalls is breaking into a liquor store and having a drink. Someone
sings the hook of an old R.E.M song about the end of the world. His right hand
throbs and is wrapped in a bandage. Pixel sits obediently near him.
“You’ll need stitches,” a
disembodied voice says.
Larry struggles into a sitting
position, favoring his injured hand. His senses start to clear. There’s a heavy
smell of alcohol. All around him are tilted and fallen liquor shelves.
“How did I hurt my hand?”
An older gentleman wearing a
polished grey suit sits on the floor next to a clerk in a worn out band
t-shirt. A body guard kneels next to the older man and uses medical tape to
bind an injured leg.
“I was twenty-one when I met my
wife,” the older man says, his attention on the boy. “We met at a wedding in
July…”
“I met my girlfriend at night
school while getting my G.E.D.”
“What’s her name?” the older man
asks.
Larry stares at the man. The face
looks familiar. Finally it hits him. His name is O’Neil, some big-wig senator
from Texas. O’Neil is always on the news with one controversial opinion or
another. The clerk pulls out a wallet on a chain and flips it open.
“Her name is Emily,” the young man
says with a smile and flashes a photo of a pretty Goth girl.
Senator O’Neil gives a warm laugh.
“She looks like a firecracker!”
“What happened to me?” Larry
interrupts.
“We’re in what’s left of the best
liquor store in D.C.,” the senator answers and takes a drink from a high end
bottle of scotch. “As for what happened, you passed out after an aftershock
shook the store.”
“What happened to my hand?”
“You went straight for the Chateau
Lafite wine case,” the younger man volunteers. “The case broke with your hand
in it.”
Larry glances at the wine case.
The bodyguard is making the senator a splint.
“You dropped the wine. Take this
as a conciliation prize,” the clerk says.
Larry accepts a bottle of whiskey
and braces it between his thighs.
“Those bastards wanted to do their
drug trials in Dallas, but I said no,” the senator says while tipping his
bottle. “Boys, I’m higher than a Georgia pine.”
“Um, who sir?” the clerk asks.
“What are you talking about?”
Larry interrupts.
“Zurvan said they were curing
diseases of the brain like Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s but they lied. Have you
ever heard of a drug called Killer Z?” the senator asks.
The clerk says, “Yeah, but I’m not
into synthetic shit.”
“Good for you,” the senator’s
voice is laced with bitter humor. “We’re all screwed, even those who never
touched that synthetic shit. No way to contain the spread, not with hundreds of
drug fiends infected.”
“What do you mean, sir?” the clerk
asks.
The senator’s tone makes Larry
nervous, more nervous than the earthquake and possible tsunami.
“Your leg is ready, sir. We need
to go before the Zs find us,” the bodyguard says.
“Better get on the stick,” the
senator drawls.
“I’m a cop, what do you mean by
fiends and Zs, sir?”
“I mean the CDC and executive
branch messed up big time son. Get out of the city while you still can.”
Two bodyguards in dark suits
materialize from the shadows and flank the senator. The politician wobbles out
of the liquor store between them.
“What do you think he meant?” the
clerk asks.
“I don’t know, kid. Politicians
are full of shit.”
Larry shuffles to the counter and
starts stuffing his pockets with small liquor bottles.
“Is this really the end of the
world, man?”
“You should clear out and find
your girlfriend.”
Larry heads for the door with
Pixel.
“Hey, wait! Where do I go?”
“You heard the senator. Get out of
the city.”
On the side walk two scruffy
dressed men rush by carrying a 42 inch flat screen TV. To his left a restaurant
owner brandishes a shotgun and warily watches the thieves. Larry turns a corner
and finds an overturned ambulance. Its red lights flash across flattened
buildings. The back doors hang half open. He pauses to search for painkillers
and antibiotics.
Peeking inside he sees a bloody
mess. Two emergency workers have been mauled to death. His stomach heaves and
booze and bile cover his shoes as he vomits. Pixel whines and tugs his pant leg
with her teeth. Half delirious, he stumbles back towards Burger Baron.
O
utside Burger Baron those rescued disperse in shock as the National
Guard withdraws. The injured that can walk are directed to the Red Cross
emergency facility next to the White House.
Abandoned by Larry, Chuang is grateful to find a
Chinese speaking college student and leaves. The bodies of Dawn, Rodger, Sara,
and Jack are zipped into black body bags and loaded into a separate truck.
“You need to follow the train tracks out of the
city,” Marks says to Michael.
“What are we waiting for?” Michael asks.
“The infected? Infected with what?” Susan tries to
drill a soldier. “Can someone please comment?”
Barry stands nearby with his camera held low as
she’s brushed aside.
“But you don’t understand. The dead are supposed to
stay dead,” Harry says to a stone faced soldier.
The soldier points to the evacuation route sign and
says, “Yeah, we know. Try to spend less time talking and more time running.”
A gruff commander barks out orders to move on and
the block empties quickly. The group is terrified as the soldiers abandon them.
Mark is drawn to Susan’s conservation with Barry.
Susan grabs Barry by the arm and asks, “Did he
really say a plague is spreading?”
“A plague?” Barry stammers.
“What’s happening?” Mark interrupts as a group of
survivor’s stream by in a blur.
Susan’s blue eyes gloss in fear as her voice
trembles, “The commander said something about an infectious disease running
rampant.”
“What do you mean? Where are the cops and military
going?” Mark asks.
“They said we lost the east coast,” Susan says.
“I told you. The dead are coming back,” Harry says.
“I seriously doubt you heard him right,” Mark
replies and gives Harry a disgusted look. “Sir, I understand today’s been a
traumatic day, but please don’t dramatize.”
Juliet stomps and yells, “The creep in the
restaurant called them zombies. Oh shit turds. I need to find my dad.”
Mark anxiously says, “I need to go home.”
“You’re not coming with us?” Michael asks.
“I need to make sure my parents are safe. I have to
go home.”
“I understand. We’re going to try to get out of the
city. Sam is all alone in Michigan, we need to let him know we’re alright,”
Michael says.
Mark offers his right hand.
“Say hello to your dad for me,” Michael says
accepting the handshake.
“Take care, Mark,” Rebecca says.
“Goodbye Michael and Rebecca.”
Mark turns to the Navy Yard and worries about his
parents with each step. Thoughts center on his father. His mother is the strong
one. An easy going, hands on kind of guy, Mark’s dad had been a firefighter.
During 9-11 he helped clean up the World Trade Center and got a lung infection.
The damage to the lungs was severe and created internal scar tissue making even
the simplest task a challenge.
Mark heads south and then east through torn up
blocks. He remembers telling his father how Irina made him feel complete last
week while showing him the engagement ring. His mind goes cold remembering how
she died. Guilt weighs down each step. He can’t stand the feeling of defeat and
picks up his pace. The walk becomes a jog, the jog a run. He sidesteps fallen
chunks of concrete and leaps over broken asphalt.
Ahead, Michael Jackson directs foot traffic. An
impersonator stands in the middle of the intersection dressed in the classic
red Thriller jacket, sequined white glove, sun glasses, white socks and black
shoes. In the man’s ungloved hand is a bottle of rum. He flashes Mark a
yellowed, gap-toothed smile.
“Hold on, bro. Traffic you know?” the impersonator
says.
“Sure, whatever you want.”
The drunk does the moon walk and flashes a bow.
“The light is now green, man.”
“Uh, thanks.”
Marks lips twitch with a smile. Irina would have
thought the man was a street performer instead of the average American nutcase.
Down the block a group of grubby men watch him with predatory eyes. A man
standing in front of the broken window of a grocery store holds a bat and
points at him. Mark bolts like a rabbit and dashes down a few blocks before
coming to a skidding halt.
Asphalt falls away into a gaping hole as wide as
the street. The fissure sucks in the sidewalk and buildings alike. It’s too
wide to leap across. A utility van hangs at an angle into the hole, its driver
long gone. Without thinking he jumps on the vehicle and crawls onto the hood
and over the windshield. As he clears the van’s roof the vehicle shifts. He
tries leaping across the gaping hole and misses the broken asphalt. Screaming
like a frightened girl, he tumbles into the abyss. With oomph he lands on solid
earth only a few feet down.
Mark feels stupid and laughs at himself. The hole
isn’t too deep. The van creaks forward, startling him as dirt falls on his
shoulders. He scrambles up the opposite side and sprints away from the almost
grave.
Around a corner cars and trucks lay abandoned along
the street, their doors hanging open. He slows, thinking things don’t look
right for an evacuation. Holes riddle the cars. Blood is spattered across
broken windshields. He moves on quickly, nervous once more.
A block over is a row of brown apartment buildings.
On the lawn people are relaxing around a delicious smelling barbeque. The
heavenly odor of grilled chicken overcomes the smell of the ruined city. A
large black man behind a grill shovels food onto plastic plates.
An older woman in a fuchsia mumu approaches Mark
and says, “You look starved, honey. Have something to eat. We got plenty.”
Mark dumbly follows her to a table full of food.
The woman nudges the cook and smiles. “The end of
the world is at hand and our food is going bad. The good Lord says feed thy
neighbor.”
“You’re with the church?”
“We’re Catholics,” the cook replies.
Mark succumbs to eating a hamburger.
“Liz, give the man a soda!” the cook says.
Mark accepts a warm soda and downs it in one gulp.
“But why aren’t you evacuating?”
The cook makes eye contact and asks, “You see the
cars with the bullet holes?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Those men and woman tried evacuating.”
“We were a block away when the shooting started. It
wasn’t gang bangers, or thugs. It was our own soldiers. They gunned everyone
down,” Liz says.
“Why would our soldiers do that?”
“Tell him about the people in the cars,” Liz
mutters.
“Everyone started acting crazy. Fathers turned on
sons, and daughters on mothers,” the cook says.
“I didn’t see any corpses. You must be mistaken,”
Mark gasps, stunned and skeptical.
“Everyone became zombies and ran north,” Liz cries.
“There’s no point in trying to leave. Jesus will
protect us,” the cook adds.
“Thank you for the food,” Mark says.
The cook nods and says, “God be with you, son.”
Mark sets off in a jog. His apartment is a block
away. He instinctively reaches for his keys but remembers they’re in the
office. In utter frustration he reaches the door and knocks.
“Somebody open the door!” Mark yells.
“Everyone evacuated half an hour ago,” the door man
says opening the door.
“Is my Dad here?”
“Huh?” the guard says and taps a hearing aid.
“You gotta talk louder, I’m deaf.”
“Is my Dad here?”
“Yes, I think so. The power is out, though. No
elevator.”
Mark jams a finger on the up button of the
elevator.
“I said the power doesn’t work.”
“That sucks.”
“Here, take my flashlight.”
Mark accepts the flashlight and says, “Thanks.”
“No problem,” the guard says.
Mark sprints up the steps. Red
exit signs give a soft, eerie glow. There’s yelling on the third floor but he
ignores it. Chest heaving, he makes it to the ninth floor and bursts into the
hallway. Pausing, hands on knees, he catches his breath. The hallway is
littered with clothing and other personal possessions dropped as people fled.
His apartment door hangs wide open.
“Dad? Mom?”