by Dan Yaeger
But first, they focused on the cure, unaware of what their actions would bring. Angela and her assistant wasted no time. She had seen his potential and proceeded to explain things, medical procedure and the cure, beyond his perceived intellect and capabilities. For the first time he listened to her and understood, truly believed, Angela was a great woman. He was in awe at her intelligence and concluded that such a person could bring the cure by her own hands. The proof was there; she had. He believed it and would be her instrument, acting on her guidance and in complete faith. Just a few weeks before, he and his mate Price had been making dirty comments about her. The world was already changing.
Siro’s actions over the next few hours spoke volumes about his change and commitment to a cure. He could taste freedom and goodness and he wanted more.
Angela wanted to give freedom to all but just needed a few moments more. Sirocco’s help had sped up what would have taken a day’s work if she had been on her own. They worked like a team, Angela issuing orders and Siro remembering the names of things and following a routine Angela supervised carefully. Time passed.
Then, all of a sudden, they were done; an anticlimax. Angela had 20 syringes, full of a sublime and fabled substance: the cure. The cure was a marvel to behold; for everyone and forever more.
For over a week, with little food, water, sunlight or recognition, she had done it: Angela had delivered a cure.
“That’s it? Yo’ ready? The cure?” Siro asked in disbelief. Angela nodded. They looked at each other for a few moments, both paralysed at the prospect. Raj was more than ready; “Go, on, let’s not delay any further,”
Raj’s comments woke them up; breaking a spell. “Can I cure you?” she gently guided him to sit down on the bed Jesse had occupied. Sirocco Silva had a flashback. He was a boy again. The dark hair, the pretty face; he saw his mother. Before a shooting tragedy in one of the favelas, Sirocco remembered such a scene when being cared for by his mother. She was shot dead and never came home from getting the groceries one day. But before that, she had struggled and fought to overcome their circumstances and gave him a mother’s love. Whatever chance Sirocco had of being happy and centred was killed-off with his mother. He glimpse of that innocence and care for a moment.
He recalled being sick and his mother giving him medicine. Just like Angela was. Siro nodded and closed his eyes at the sweet face offering him a cure, salvation: care. The Sirocco Silva that was the strongman of the Rock was no more. He had this religious experience and blessed the Virgin Mary, kissing a cross at his chest. His eyes flickered open and he saw a halo of light, nothing more than the light from a fluorescent tube behind Angela, but it was his experience and the revelation that was profound. The syringe plunged into his arm and he could feel the fluid spread through his veins; the miracle he had waited two years for. “Agradecer à virgem maria,” he said to Angela as she swabbed his arm and gently taped it with cotton. A tear rolled from his eye, the first since he cried, alone and sick in his bed, in Sao Paolo over two decades before.
That moment of clarity, a religious experience, would change his life forever. He was still Sirocco the fighter but for a greater good and for others’ glory. He would now fight for the curer, the cure and those to be cured in the Rock. Once that debt was repaid, he would resolve to return to his own motivations; even and with absolution.
His calm turned to a tough resolve and Angela noticed his face change. His blood boiled the more he thought about Penfould and the Rock and his role in it. Penfould was holding out on them all, and now they had the survivor’s blood, it was a simple process to be cured. “Fuck him and goddamn him!” Sirocco felt betrayed, his mate Price was betrayed. He blamed Penfould, not Jesse like he had before.
It was the last straw. Instead of losing his temper, he was in a state of calm and control. He would make it, it was over. Sirocco had played a part in making it right; he felt right and would be OK.
Sirocco would do something for someone else for the first time in his life. He was better than that orphaned street kid. He would be good like his mother, good like the Virgin Mary, good for god, good for Dimi and good for Judgement Day. Normally, he would have taken all he could have and split. Instead, he looked to Angela and said, determinedly: “Angela, we gotta cure the ladies.”
She nodded, turning her attention to curing Raj. His moment had come; no change in him. The good scientist had a clear conscience. Raj could feel the hot pulse of the injection and his skin, almost magically, change from covered in s spttering of black, broken capillaries to clear skin once more. They looked at each other, those important three and were spurred into action. Angela slipped a storage device into her pocket, then stowed her electronic equipment in a duffel bag. With a good pass, Siro caught the bag. She knew that the knowledge she had acquired was to save mankind, not just the people of the Rock. Raj took as much sensitive equipment and packed it into a storage cae as he could. They had a feeling, an unsaid sixth-sense, that they were on limited time. After quickly packing up, they nodded to each other. There were no words: just actions to be taken.
They ran towards the Pen with spirit.
As they ran, Sirocco reflected on his moment of revelation. He wanted the simple life, he wanted everyone cured and he wanted to be done being an enforcer for someone who was plain wrong. The Survivor had taught him a lesson, many lessons including how much friendship and people mattered to him. The loss of Price and his relationship with Dimi reminded him of that value. The courage of the survivor and his purpose to fight the tyranny of the Doc inspired and shamed him to change. For a long time, he thought he was invincible. Jesse had almost killed him; a wake-up call. The Survivor was who should be leading the people to freedom and safety; not the Doc. Sirocco only hoped he could help do his part and would not stand in his way any longer.
While the Doc was being broken on the other side of the Rock, Siro the henchman was unchained. It was time to end everyone’s captivity, poverty and inequity. Siro could save his favela.
They ran together, on a mission of the greatest importance. Raj was feeling a bit nauseous and lagged a bit; Siro running to him to help as he threw up in the corridor. Siro was feeling a little dizzy and had an ache in the head. The cure was clearly doing something to that awful virus that had nearly wiped-out humanity. Angela had no ill effects from the cure and was feeling well. In fact, she had noticed that some black veins that had been developing on her legs had cleared completely. Those zombie affectations, and a few other small skin imperfections were clearing up. She was well; cured.
Those same cured legs were running with god-speed, trying to outrun and outpace the Doc’s tyranny. They hoping that someone would not get in their way. Jesse’s work in killing the army of wretches in the squads had seen to that. Angela acknowledged this in her racing thoughts as they passed the stale halls of the Rock. She realised the power Penfould held over them was an effect of conditioning; they had all allowed it. As they ran free, Sirocco, Raj and Angela felt liberated and a yoke lift from their necks. Sirocco yelled “Liberdade!”
They burst into the room, unsure of what they would find. The Pen for the last time. No sooner had they entered, all flushed and sweating from the run and carrying loads of gear, the women of the Pen knew what was meant.
There was hushed whispers and then jubilation when Sirocco held up a satchel and yelled “Angela’s cure!” Dimi came running and embraced Sirocco with passion and kisses. What they had before had been more raw, just physical, with a hint of love and caring. In that moment he felt more, true love, the love of a woman that cared for him. He had a reason to live in his arms.
“We have a cure; I have a cure for you!” Angela gushed with tears of joy and the infectious hope those words brought to the people in the room. There was a joyous cheer and tears and embraces. “Hey, Dimi first!” Siro smiled at Angela like he would have his mother on her birthday. Everyone in the Pen was surprised at him. With a big smile, without veil, barrier or abandon he was showing the w
orld he was a changed man. It was a smile he had not had since he was a boy, looking at his mother.
But like that boy, he innocently wanted to kiss goodbye his role in the captivity of these women and their subjugation. It was symbolic; a cure for their ills and a cure for him in every sense. He wanted out of there and never to see that place again. But they were in for a rough night.
Ironically, the Divine Virus cure was virulent and fast-acting, just like the virus itself. As the Divine virus was killed by Jesse’s antibodies in the vaccine, an unforeseen side-effect had been brought with it. The smell of the infected, no matter how faint on those people in the Rock was gone. Immune human body odours began to secrete and the flow of air around the building and into the outside world was not thought about. No-one could have realised the storm that was brewing.
It was a cool evening with a wind that began to pick up. The air-conditioning had been turned on by Leon to routinely circulate the air and bring the temperature up a little. The jubilant people in the Pen had no idea what the noise of the air conditioning meant. It was humming, like a beacon, pumping out exhaust gasses into the area. Some nearby zombies turned; a new smell in that place. It grabbed their attention and drew them in.
Over the following period of time, a jubilant and victorious mood created even stronger scents. Some 4,000 undead sniffed the smell of fresh meat; human flesh in numbers. It was faint at first but grew stronger until there was a large-scale movement of zombies. They were like moths to a flame. Human flesh meant hosts for the Divine Virus. They would find it at all costs.
The zombies clicked and howled and groaned and called each other together into a massive column to investigate. The true battle for Cooleman was about to begin.
But another battle had already been fought and won. The Doc had largely been beaten in battle but he was refusing to concede the war. He was a mess from Jesse but stuck to his game. Sam was shackled up against some ornate antique furniture and looked down at the ugly man she had been forced to serve and sleep with, all in the hope of a cure. There was no subservience or airs and graces; cold, hard hate could not be hidden any longer. She refused his gestures and a pitiful request for help; “Sam, if you please, my concubine?”
He had already stumbled to his feet and into a chair where he groaned and moaned like a child. “Shut up you filthy toad.” Sam said coldly. “Now, now, Sam,” he said wincing as he used a clean white serviette to wipe and sop the blood from his face. He spat out some teeth and swilled his mouth out with the bottle of port. With a swill and spit, his charade ended and all the airs and graces of a self-appointed regal gentleman were gone.
“Come to me and clean me up you bitch!” he spat with venom. Despite the whole persona of the imperial Dr Penfould being shattered, he still retained the fake, over dramatised voice. When she stared coolly at him and shook her head slowly and confidently, he pulled his handgun. The fine firearm glistened with nickel and gold. It was a nice-looking weapon that had never been tested by him and yet, on that day, Mr All-Show No-Go, Dr Kian Penfould, and his show-pistol would be tested to the end.
The pistol had once been the sidearm of a US Military official on posting in Canberra. That man had been a good man, far better than Penfould. He had become infected and died in Canberra. A young rap-artist wannabe had taken it and fled with a group to Cooleman. Squad 1 had killed that boy for the pistol. The Doc had given orders to bring him fine weapons, at any cost. Even human life. The pistol was a symbol of power to the Doc. But like many symbols; gryphons, unicorns and dragons, they may look powerful but are in truth, nothing: fake.
Like a curse tied to that weapon, Penfould owed a price on that pistol; to pay penance and return it into the hands of the good. He was religious, deep down, and he believed he would have to pay such a price one day for all of his actions and indiscretions. “Enjoy the chaos because normal life would be boring, hell would be worse.” He had told himself. He regarded that pistol, almost marvelling at it and then looked to Sam who did not sparkle back. Her glare continued and Penfould snickered pitifully, and then cried a little as he felt the shame of what he was and what he had done. “What has happened?” he asked, not seeking an answer.
Sam shook her head. Dr Kian Penfould looked at the pistol for a moment and looked at the inscription which said “For inspirational leadership and the pursuit of freedom”. Penfould was utterly undeserving and felt a jealousy at what had been given to the former owner. The pistol could have been a lump of rock; he craved the ovation and words to be ascribed to him. He wiped his bleeding face with his sleeve and tasted his own mortality as he continued to leek blood like a sieve.
The military official who had once owned the firearm that was in Penfould’s hand would have turned in his grave to know a tyrant, rapist and murderer would try to use his sidearm to oppress others. Penfould could never have deserved such an icon. But like Sam and anything else, he felt it was his God-given right to take what he wanted. He wanted Sam to do his bidding and he would get her to buckle to his wishes, even if it meant killing her. The tears stopped and he had a second wind. “Sam, I am your master and commander. Obey me or suffer the consequences!” He waved the gun at her feebly.
Chapter 12: Ultimate Defiance
“Cut the crap and stop putting on that voice,” Sam was done playing and she held nothing back. “There was no cure, never was, and never would be. Isn’t that right Kian?” Sam addressed him as just another person.
A lone truth, shrouded in emotion emerged from Dr Kian Penfould’s swollen, bloody lips: “Sam, I always wanted you to love me.” His Asian-Australian accent came through, unaltered and real. “You never did, did you?” He asked like a hurt child.
She paused and regarded him. The reaction was a shudder; hate and repulsion. “Never, you repulse me,” she said, honestly, openly and frankly. “I need you Sam, I won’t let you go. If I can’t have you, no-one will,” he said as he had tears joining the blood pouring out his eyes and down his moon-face. “No,” she said in response. “I am going. We are done.” It was over.
She hated that pig of a man, someone who looked worse than ever in her eyes. He was powerless but merciless, vulnerable but dangerous and horrifying but pathetic. As far as Sam was concerned the whole fiasco was over, with or without a cure, dead or alive. She would not play at things any longer.
Sam opened the cupboard and grabbed a butter knife from the table, staying clear of Penfould. She quickly used the knife to undo two screws that attached the handle to the cupboard and her to her bonds. He could not believe she ignored him, watching on in disbelief for a moment. But the devil returned in him.
The air cracked with a surprising sound and force. Sam was stunned for a moment not knowing what had happened. Her ears rung and Penfould looked at her intently. Sam realised he had shot at her. He looked on in disbelief with the realisation that he had missed. All show, no go: just like his pistols.
Sam stopped doing what she was doing and turned slowly to see an evil smile and a smoking gun. “No, you aren’t going anywhere.” Penfould was stone-cold again. Sam looked him in the eye, with a look she had never given him before, true defiance without care of the cost. She knew he would eventually hit her so it was time to act.
He kept the gun trained on her and said “You were nothing but a sick bitch when I found you. I told you about the milk and you survived as my woman. But you will go back where you came from and die my bitch, here and now, or as an old cow after many years serving me. Either way, I will be fine and live a long, prosperous, lucky life.” The small sticky balls of saliva formed at the sides of his mouth, once more. This time they were pink.
He coughed and blood formed at his lips. He knew his wounds were bad and it was unlikely he would survive without being administered some intensive care. Despite all that, Dr Kian Penfould got up, and stumbled toward his unrequited love. He was like a wretched zombie and she turned and recoiled, frantic, as she tried to get the handle off the cupboard. The recoil and fear and bei
ng grossed-out suddenly turned to serenity and the Doc took this as a capitulation. But the reaction was far from it. He smiled a sinister smile and tried to make eye contact but she turned to him, with her eyes closed. With his pistol just a meter from her forehead, she had never looked so peaceful and relaxed or more beautiful to him. What he saw was the spectre of his death. She was a woman who chose to see nothing rather than see him, in what could be her final moments. Her thoughts were of a lost love, a trip to an island paradise and warm summer sun and sea breezes. She would think of these things over him and there. She could take no more; an end was needed. Penfould could not understand what was going on.
Sam slowly reached into the cardigan, the Doc kept lurching toward her. He could not believe what she pulled from that pocket. She revealed the grenade she had kept as insurance, that little device meant so much. She was smarter than him and just plain better in every way. The clumsy, fat, unskilled hands of the Doc were again a representation of his own opinion of himself. He thought he was fast enough to either get to her or pull the trigger. But he fumbled and his chance to play was forfeit. Sam looked out on the sunset; facing reality through the window and out into the world she had once loved and in a moment she remembered all the good times and closed her eyes. A mother’s love, a good dad, being a junior volleyball champ, her first kiss, her first love, University, her marriage, her career; life as it should have been. Immersion in those thoughts one last time was what she took with her into the next place or the void. She closed her eyes and did not dignify him with one last glance.
