by Keith Soares
The awful noise grew, a gnawing, grinding din that soon absorbed all other sound, turning more and more heads, until finally everyone, all of us, people of The Oasis and the people from Atlanta, seemed to be stopped, staring, waiting. And finally, there it was. Emerging from the back of the line, clawing through it, crashing into cars, trucks, people, came a tractor-trailer dragging a huge tanker of gasoline. In a perfect world, or just a better one, this would have been a blessing — fuel for countless uses. Here, it was the worst of all possible scenarios. The huge truck drove through the smaller vehicles like a bowling ball through pins: everything was crushed, shoved aside, flattened.
Rosa, hearing the commotion, raced to the lab and grabbed as many eggs as she could in an effort to protect her work. Then she and I were dodging through the chaos, racing for some kind of safety. Without thought, we made for the only shelter we’d known since we left DC: the RV. But the roar of the incoming semi stopped us. As the truck approached, lights from the lodge buildings clearly illuminated the driver. His face was snarling, eyes wild. He made manic gestures, blood streaked across his cheek. He had the disease, and somewhere on the road from Atlanta, he must have turned. Now, our worst fear was smashing through the gates of The Oasis.
The truck slammed into one of the buildings on the north side of the lodge, flipped, exploded. The tanker of gas disappeared in a fireball beyond belief. Rosa and I were blown backward by the blast, blinded for a time. The entire building and anyone near it were torn to shreds, then burned on top of that. The zombie driving was incinerated. If only he’d known he was steps away from a cure, would that have done anything to change his actions? At that stage of the disease, I doubted it.
Through the smoke and flames, I saw Harvey standing in front of the ruined lodge, shouting orders, but I couldn’t hear what he said. My ears rang. A group of young men confronted him, and he tried to block their path. One of them impaled him on a long, sharpened stick, and left him on the lawn to die, gurgling blood. Rosa shouted Harvey’s name. We both sobbed. It was pointless. He was dying or already dead. Only escape would matter now.
Ironically, the same semi that destroyed the lodge had plowed an open path through the crowded road out, pushing aside all the vehicles that had been clogging the way. Rosa and I saw our only chance. We got into the RV and started moving. Confusion was our advantage; before anyone else could fill in the gaps, we shot toward the gate, now a ragged, gaping maw.
About halfway there, a handful of cars and trucks started to move again, swerving back toward the road, right into our path. Rosa rolled down her window and shouted, trying to make people turn their attention in different directions, away from us. Whatever it was that she yelled, it made people move. Again, Rosa’s mind saved us.
With new vehicles continuing to pour in from the south, the road was rapidly becoming jammed again. We cut off into the woods, where the RV took a terrible beating. We drove slowly, both to preserve the vehicle and to avoid detection. Eventually, we met up with a state road running north. It was eerily quiet. We stopped for a moment and listened. Back in the direction of the camp, there were muted explosions, screams, sounds of pandemonium. Rosa reached for me and hugged me, tight, still crying.
From out of the woods on our right, a figure lurched, illuminated by the moonlight. A zombie, spasming and angry, stepped onto the road. He was maybe 25, strongly built, filthy hair that might once have been blond. He looked brutal enough to tear the door off the RV and rip us apart. Rosa gasped, gripping me even more tightly, but the zombie walked right past the front of the RV and didn’t look at us. He was clearly drawn toward the light and noise from The Oasis. Then we looked down the road. There were two more zombies, then four, following in the broken footsteps of the first. With new urgency, I hit the gas and we started back north, leaving heaven on Earth dying behind us.
23
The next morning dawned, and we were still driving. We had turned east, then back north, once again traveling on the big highway, Interstate 95. It was mostly a random decision. I was in a daze behind the wheel. Rosa sat motionless in the passenger seat, the carton of eggs in her lap.
After a long time, she said, “We have to try to tell them in DC.”
I was silent. In Richmond, they’d shot at us. In Atlanta and even Augusta, things just fell apart. Two people and a carton of eggs were now supposed to drive into DC and save the world? I scoffed. “What?” Rosa asked.
“I think it’s impossible,” I said. “We’ll be tossed out. Or killed before we ever get in.”
She turned in her seat. “Look at me.” While driving, I spared a sideways glance. “I’ve never said it, but I love you. You mean almost everything to me. But the one trump card there is, is this.” She gestured to the egg carton. “This is what I — no, what everyone has been looking for, for 10 years. If we don’t do everything we can to get this to the people that can use it, we’re less human than the zombies.” She paused. “If I don’t do everything I can to get this in the right hands, I won’t be able to live another second of this life.” She waited for my answer. Rosa was like that. She made passionate arguments, then sat back and let you digest them.
I thought about what she’d said. But I already knew my answer. I gave her another glance, looking into her eyes as long as I could. “Anything in my power to do to help you, I’ll do. And I love you, too.”
We had to stop to scavenge gas four times, but still made it to DC in under 12 hours.
24
If Richmond had enough defenses to nearly blow us to bits, we knew DC would be risky beyond belief. We approached the outskirts slowly. Unlike Richmond, DC had a big river guarding its southern flank. That helped us. As we drove up 395, we curved into view of the Potomac and of the classic Washington, DC, landmarks — the Washington Monument, the Capitol in the distance, the Pentagon right next to us. We stopped. I had no idea what to do next. Rosa led us off the highway. She said she wasn’t quite ready. We found a small hotel and chose a room. It was a mess, but we could rest and think there.
Rosa told me she needed a few specific items, and the next morning we started looking. In a boating store in Alexandria, we found a flare gun, and in an abandoned police car, we found a bullhorn. The boating store had enough flares that Rosa took a few, assuming at least one would be good. But finding a battery for the bullhorn was another story. We spent more than an hour rummaging through convenience stores and gas stations to gather a handful of batteries, all of which had an expiration date years in the past. Back in our hotel room, she tried each battery until she found a combination that offered enough power to bring the bullhorn to life. “It only has to work once,” she said, winking at me. Then she sat and gathered her thoughts. We both assumed this was a one-chance deal. Finally, we returned to the highway overlooking DC.
Rosa held the bullhorn and flare gun. I had the egg carton. We both hoped we were out of range of any cannon or gun the people on the wall might have, but knowing the government’s penchant for military expansion, that seemed unlikely. We took the chance anyway, because there didn’t seem to be any other options. And it seemed unlikely the guards would waste a lot of ammunition on two people who weren’t even approaching.
Rosa looked at me. She smirked. It was the same smirk from so long ago, back at Eastern Market, on the other side of the river we now stood beside. I nodded. She raised the flare gun and fired. The fact that it worked startled even us. There was a blast, then a slow, fizzling, reddish ember burned and descended through the sky. Across the river, we could see people — just everyday people — who had noticed it. Thankfully, the world outside the cities was a relatively silent place these days. When Rosa lifted the bullhorn to her lips and spoke, I was pretty sure the people on the other side of the river heard her words.
“Government of Washington, DC, and the United States,” she began. “We have come bearing no ill will whatsoever. In fact, we bear a cure for the disease. This is not a joke. My name is Rosalinda Menendez, and I worked f
or the NIH branch lab on Capitol Hill until I escaped the city a few months ago. I worked for the government every day for nearly 10 years to find a cure. What I found, outside the city walls, was that we were looking in the wrong direction. We were trying to eradicate all disease, to cleanse the body, when really we needed to realize that the body is part of a complex ecosystem and must have some infections, some bacteria, some viruses, to remain an effective organism.
“My companion and I traveled to South Carolina and found The Oasis. It really did exist, but it’s been destroyed now that Atlanta has fallen. I’m sure you can verify that via your own methods. At The Oasis, they learned that patients who were infected with a strain of influenza — possibly avian — became cured of the zombie disease, even if they were in the process of turning. I spent some time researching this, and discovered that the particular strain of flu The Oasis used is a virus with bacteria add-ons that are vital to the overall cure. RL2013, the disease that has come so close to wiping out humanity, is part rabies and part leprosy. Rabies is a viral disease. Leprosy is a bacterial infection. The similar tandem of virus and bacteria in this flu strain seems to eliminate the virus and bacteria in RL2013. It even gives what seems to be permanent resistance to future infection.”
She paused, looked at me, smiled. We couldn’t see the faces of the people on the opposite shore, but I imagined them staring, some looking incredulous. A single spark can start a fire. Rosa was igniting new sparks with every word.
“We have here a carton of simple chicken eggs. Any of my former coworkers at NIH can tell you that eggs are effective for carrying vaccines. Each egg contains the flu strain needed to cure the zombie disease. From these few eggs, we can make hundreds, thousands, even millions of additional copies, to send around the globe and end this disease for all time and for all people!” Her words echoed across the Potomac, crashing into DC like waves of hope. In that millisecond, I could not have been more proud, more in love.
Her temple exploded before I even heard the shot. She fell. I didn’t even think, just dove for her. The eggs flew out of their carton and broke onto the unforgiving gray pavement of the highway. Rosa, blind in one eye, looked up at me with the other, pleading. She couldn’t speak.
I clutched her with force enough to drive the life back into her. Held her in my arms, my multi-colored bracelet touching hers, and willed her to live, with every word of conviction I knew. She was the savior of the world, come back to the city, the place that tried to take her away once before, come back to rescue them from their deepest fears. My tears ran with her blood. She died there, on that strip of roadway, in minutes. No idyllic resting place, just the hard tarmac of the street below her. I looked at the splattered eggs, the last hope for humanity. I thought, momentarily, about salvaging some of the fluid. Then a shot tore through my pants leg and ripped a chunk out of my calf. I turned my head toward the city. As I did, another shot missed my cheek by millimeters. I ducked.
In what seemed like hours, I looked at Rosa and said goodbye. I pulled away my hands and eased her down onto the roadway. Another shot. I rolled away, behind the RV. There was a general commotion in the city now, and it didn’t seem to be coming from the wall defenses alone. After a beat, I ran and tumbled over the guardrail. I stumbled back to the side streets and found the hotel.
25
I’m back at the hotel room. I came here in a complete daze, no idea what to do. Now I know. There’s no point in saving the world if it doesn’t want to be saved — or at least if the people with the power don’t want to give up that power so that others may live free. All I care about right now is Rosa. She doesn’t deserve to spend her last moments as a human — alive or dead — sprawled on a highway, outside the city that killed her. Through my tears, I have decided to retrieve her body, and to take her somewhere else and bury her properly. Maybe The Oasis is calm again. Maybe she could go there? I don’t care, I just can’t leave her there.
These people. These civilized people. She told you what she had. And you killed her. What have you done? Damn you.
I’m going to get her body now.
THE END
The story continues with
The Hopeless Pastures — The Oasis of Filth — Part 2
and concludes with
From Blood Reborn — The Oasis of Filth — Part 3
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Thank you so much for reading my book! Here’s a little bit about me, Keith Soares. I live in Alexandria, Virginia, with my wife and two daughters. By day, my wife and I run a web, mobile and app development studio, which means that writing is my second job. Creativity has always been a huge focus for me, whether making music, coding video games, drawing or writing. The Oasis of Filth is my first published novel.
As an independent author, reviews are about the only means I have to get new people to take a chance on my book. If you enjoyed the book, I hope you’ll take a moment to post a review where your purchased it.
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