Riding The Apocalypse (2 page)
Maybe?
While still aboveground, I observed them standing still for hours on end, seemingly waiting for some sort of stimuli to reanimate. Maybe they conserve energy like that? I don’t know, but it looks creepy as hell to see a bunch of monsters in various states of trauma just standing there; heads cocked to the side, waiting for an incentive to move. I know full well their motivation revolves around consuming raw flesh, human or otherwise, and it creeps me the hell out. It is more disturbing than I can accurately describe and I really try not to dwell on it. I do wonder how many are still above my head, in the stockroom, it must be more than just the ones banging. Too bad because I could use a little peace and quiet.
But at any rate, I am done writing for the night or whatever time it actually is. I’m tired and I don’t need daylight or the lack of it to tell me when to rest—although a goddamn window would be nice. Even though the damn footsteps and pounding never seem to cease, I am at the point I get to every couple of days give or take; the point when fatigue usurps all variables, and I sleep. This writing exercise has helped my morale today. It helped pass the time and jarred thoughts and memories I had suppressed, intentionally or otherwise. Now I am eager to write
our
story, ready to put it all down on paper. But first I need some rest so I can organize my thoughts.
Tomorrow, or whenever the hell I wake up, I’m going to start from the beginning.
It was probably about three weeks ago, I was paying my bills and watching TV and wondering whether or not to have a shot of whiskey. In other words, it was a typical day when the story broke. It was right in the middle of game three of the World Series. Sure, I knew the Braves weren’t going to pull it off but I was still annoyed when they cut away from the game to go to some snore-fest press conference held by the World Health Organization. The W.H.O. had teamed up with the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) out of Atlanta, and some chick in a blue power suit was reporting a deadly virus spreading through some South American country. Along with the virus were reports of widespread panic, looting, casualties, the usual. They returned to the game but kept running one of those update banners across the bottom and eventually broke in again to report rabid behavior and violence were linked to the epidemic. Par for the course in one of those places.
It started in that long skinny country below Peru. Not too sure of the name, but I am going to guess Chile, I’d have paid more attention if I’d realized how soon the virus would be up here in the first world. If I am wrong, sue me, I have nothing left from my previous life anyway. Since the outbreak of the virus I have lost my business, my home, and maybe all my friends.
My ex-girlfriend works in the healthcare field, or at least she did before
The Outbreak
(they actually started officially calling it that once it hit the States) and had caught wind of this before it went viral (pardon the pun). Even before the shit hit the fan, the ex told me rumors were swirling about the seriousness of this virus. W.H.O. officials were interviewing doctors from hospitals and practices all over the United States for input and they even sent a few volunteers down there to help out. I was concerned, but life went on as usual for me for the next couple of weeks. Business was good, and in between TiVoed episodes of
Mad Men
and
Dexter,
I tried to keep up with the story. The ex also filled in a few blanks here and there but I was only marginally interested. I should have been paying closer attention. We
all
should have. I am not pointing fingers or lecturing, I am one of those self-absorbed assholes who turns off the news to watch
The Soup
. I think it is ironic the more we are informed through new technologies like drones and satellites, the less people give a shit about the rest of the world.
That changed in a Goddamned hurry.
It took one overzealous congressman from California to make this our business, forever. Interrupting yet another evening’s TV, he strode to the podium emblazoned with the State of California’s emblematic grizzly bear and stood poised, hair coiffed and expression concerned. His voice was rich and deep.
“The United States has an obligation to provide resources and support to our neighbors to the south. Medical assistance and further research into this virus is urgently needed, before it spreads any further. Since the Monroe Doctrine, the United States has been a world protector, in times of strife other nations look to us and we must respond. This virus must be quashed before it becomes a pandemic. Patients must be quarantined and borders sealed. This virus is a serious threat to not only South America but the entire world. Urgent and decisive action is called for. We must stop this virus now.
To this end, some of our finest doctors and medical staff will be deployed to Ground Zero of this epidemic. Our doctors are the finest in the world, we can, and must, help.”
He went on for a while, talking about the virus and the need for everyone to get flu shots or some such. I must confess, once I heard the virus would be contained, I let my mind wander. Lest you judge, I wasn’t the only one to have this reaction. Senator Riley had not formerly declared his desire to be the Democratic Party’s presidential nominee, but the primaries were getting closer and he seemed to be on TV more and more, urging action for this and that, concerned about everyone’s welfare.
But even though Senator Riley was a bit of a publicity hound, his rhetoric (and Democratic support in the federal government) rustled up hundreds of doctors and medical staff from the most elite hospitals in the United States and they were shipped down to Ground Zero post-haste. Problem solved, crisis averted, I went ahead and had that whiskey.
Except two days later half of the medical staff and all of the doctors were on their way back. Apparently, the virus was much more widespread than first believed so the medical personnel were hastily transported back to the United States and quarantined at military bases for twenty-four hours. No one seemed ill.
Just six hours after quarantine ended, one of the medical personnel began to show signs of infection, twelve hours later he died right here in the United States, at Stanford Hospital. Let’s call him Patient Zero, I can’t remember his name from the newscast.
The Outbreak snowballed from there. I was drinking a Diet Coke and hoping my ex would call when the White House Press Secretary interrupted my afternoon’s television viewing. Apparently less than an hour after his death, while the patient lay motionless on his gurney in the hospital morgue, a mortician named Morty (I did not make that up, though would love to claim I did) was preparing the corpse for autopsy when an unprecedented chain of events occurred. Patient Zero’s body temperature began rising. Morty continued preparing for the postmortem examination of the supposedly deceased when suddenly the body twitched, jolted violently, then defecated on the gurney. This is very strange but not out of the realm of possibility as a dead body does sometimes discharge postmortem. As the undertaker feverishly dictated notes, the corpse suddenly opened its black eyes, saw Morty, and attacked. His screams were also duly recorded.
The security guard happened to be glancing at the morgue’s monitor when he caught the action. He dropped his sandwich and immediately reported the unbelievable occurrence to the head of security. It gets chaotic from there, as conflicting details and patchy reports poured in, or so it was spun by the press secretary. This much is certain: after Patient Zero reanimated and partially consumed Morty, he limped out of the morgue and proceeded to try to bite anyone in sight. The news station was showing security camera footage of the newly awoken corpse roaming the hallways and attacking random passersby. The scene smacked of a bad horror movie.
“Jesus,” I said aloud, reaching for my Diet Coke. Some security guard's head is gonna roll for that one I thought. Realizing the pun, I felt bad and proud of my joke at the same time.
Then my phone rang, and I smiled when I saw the familiar number.
“Remy, what’s up for tonight?” my ex-girlfriend asked. “You got a hot date?”
“Nope, all the good programming has been bumped by this
virus shit and my TiVo is empty,” I answered dryly. “You?”
“I am heading over to an ex’s house for a booty call, assuming he is free for about twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”
“I hate that phrase, booty ca—”
“I know, Rem, that’s why I said it.”
“Hey, are you watching this virus thingy coverage?” I asked, distracted by the TV in spite of myself.
“Rem, can we just have a good time tonight? Work has been hell, all I’ve done for two weeks is deal with this thing. I’m in the field, remember? Tonight I just want to relax, watch a movie, and, you know, have consensual sex with someone who won’t send me flowers the next day. Can you do that for me, Rem?”
“Sure, I think so, but does the thirty-six hours include dinner and foreplay, ’cause—”
“See ya in a bit, Rem, shake me a Martini, dirty, extra olives. I will be there by five-thirty or so.”
“You got it, bye,” I said as I headed to the pantry to see how much gin I had left. On the way I glanced at the TV.
I watched bits and pieces as I jumped in the shower and performed my pre-mating ablutions. My ex was coming over, and I needed to be presentable. After the shower and pre-coital ritual, I walked into the living room, buttoning up my shirt while catching more of the broadcast.
I reached for my second Diet Coke and turned on the stereo. “I think Sam Cooke will do nicely,” I said to myself as I scrolled through the MP3 catalog display. Then I grabbed the remote and turned off the television. “Enough of this.”
“I have no idea what the hell to do right now.”
I forced my heavy eyelids open, and looked at the alarm clock, 11:47 a.m.
Mustering a tired smile, I briefly recalled last night’s activities, and understood why I slept so late. I rubbed the remaining sleep from my eyes, rolled to my right, and peered at my ex sleeping next to me. Once again, she was above the covers. She runs hot, and covers are only useful for her on cooler than average nights. Since we live in California, she sleeps above the covers almost all year round. I always found that to be sexy. Whatever she was wearing when she fell asleep would be on display for the rest of the night. It made a bathroom run in the middle of the night worth the effort, a relieved bladder plus the visual always put a smile on my face. This morning’s outfit consisted of a pair of white lace panties, and well, nothing else. I took a moment to take it in, kissed her matted hair, and headed to the kitchen for coffee.
As I picked my way through the random pieces of clothing littering the house, I heard a siren outside that seemed fairly close, but soon grew faint, so I ignored it and made coffee. I headed back to my bedroom with two cups of coffee and a handful of biscotti in tow, then placed her cup on the nightstand by her side, walked around the bed to my side, put my coffee on the other nightstand, and laid down. Out of habit, I grabbed the remote, took a peek at my ex’s well sculpted backside, and flipped on the television.
“Thanks for the coffee and stuff,” she said sleepily as she rolled over onto her back. “Hey, that’s the Surgeon Gener—”
“Wait, listen,” I said as I turned up the volume.
The Surgeon General’s press conference was just about to start and regular network programming was nowhere to be seen. Dr. Susan Higgins, known for her tough exterior, looked flustered and tired. With her blond hair and tiny frame she was quite attractive for an older woman, or any woman for that matter. But her composure and attractiveness soon faded as she began trying to explain the virus, symptoms, and the way it possibly spread. Soon she looked scared as hell, and that was disconcerting. I moved closer to my ex.
“By most accounts the virus is spread through the bite of an infected individual. There seems to be a large concentration of contagions in the saliva of the infected and they seem driven to seek out the uninfected.” Higgins sounded as if she did not quite believe what she was saying.
“Once a person has been bitten and infected, most patients usually expire within an hour, though some cases have been reported of death occurring after twenty-four hours or even longer, depending on treatment and other variables. However, none of the infected have recovered as of yet. They have all expired and there is no known cure,” Higgins said solemnly, pausing to take a deep breath. “Subsequent to what appears to be clinical death, it takes the body of the infected a matter of minutes to reanimate and aggressively begin seeking and trying to bite the uninfected. At this time, we are not sure if skin contact with blood, body fluids, or wounds of the infected would also result in infection.”
We sipped our coffee and listened as she advised against any contact with the sick, and warned that anyone who does not disclose contact may potentially spread this virus. Those with reason to suspect their own infection were encouraged to seek out the nearest law enforcement representative who would escort them to quarantine facilities where medical aid would be provided. She urged cooperation and repeatedly stressed the urgency of the situation, any delay in seeking treatment could endanger countless others. Higgins closed by repeating the need for citizens to take immediate action if bitten or coming into direct contact with the infected. Dr. Higgins even hinted that failure to comply would be a criminal act, but did not give specifics.
The Surgeon General then somewhat reluctantly opened the floor to questions, of which there were many. Higgins was being grilled about reports the virus was rapidly spreading throughout the United States when the TV crawler began to scroll.
“There are some reports of people being infected in places where there were no patients from South America. Can you explain this?” one reporter asked.
She clearly could not but bravely tried anyway. “Maybe someone was scratched during handling of the medical personnel brought back to the United States, perhaps ground personnel,” she theorized. She threw out a few more implausible scenarios before changing tacks. “Whatever the cause, people are now crossing borders to get away from the infection but they are likely only spreading it.” She indicated a map which showed the greatest concentration of cases in southwestern border states and at the five quarantine locations for the personnel returning from South America. But it was definitely not isolated to these regions.
Higgins illustrated her point by citing other examples, including the anecdote of a teenage Candy Striper who had been bitten on the wrist in the immediate aftermath of the escape by Patient Zero. She subsequently vanished from the hospital, presumably returning home to Palo Alto. It is speculated she succumbed to the virus after leaving work, and later reanimated to spread the disease north and inland.