Escape From the Planet of the Dead

by Thomas S. Flowers

  “Greg!” Phillip called down. He was already on the next floor landing. His voice croaked as he peered over the railing.

  Shivering, Greg slammed the staircase door.

  ***

  Greg watched attentively—his gaze never leaving the swollen bite mark on the outer edge of Phillip’s hand, just below the pinky.

  Phillip finished wrapping his wounded hand with gauze. He glanced up at Greg, “What?”

  Pointing at the mess, Greg said, “He bit you.” His tone was cold, matter of fact. He’d seen on the news what happened to people who were bitten. That was how the virus spread, wasn’t it?

  “So?” Phillip gave his hand a final once-over and stood from the kitchen chair. Using one hand he collected the bandage wrappings and bloodied rag and tossed them into the trash.

  “So? You know what happens—god—god, I thought you said everyone had left the building? Now what? I can’t do this alone, Phil—I can’t!” Greg was on the verge of tears. He could feel his eyes itching, burning with the overwhelming desire to breakdown the dam of emotions that had been clotting for months.

  Sighing, Phillip looked at his injured hand. “Maybe I’ll be fine.”

  “But on the news—”

  “Don’t believe everything you see on TV.”

  “But—”

  “We don’t know what will happen. Lets just play it by ear, okay?”

  Greg chuckled. He couldn’t help it. The dam was beginning to crack. A manic, desperate bubble fizzled to the surface, bringing with it the absurdity of everything—this world they now resided in—being stuck in a high-rise condominium to slow death of dehydration or starvation or worse. Never planning ahead. Never thinking about tomorrow; only the right now; what got them by.

  Phillip looked at him sideways. “What’s so funny?”

  Greg was in an uproar. His laughter shaking his entire body.

  “Greg—seriously? What’s the matter with you?”

  Stifling the last residual snickers, Greg looked up at his boyfriend, tears streaking down his face. “What you said, ‘play it by ear,’ that’s the story of our life, isn’t it? We always play it by ear, and look at us now, huh? You signed a lease for a condo that was technically beyond our budget on a whim without telling me. And when the world went nuts and dead people started walking around attacking people, you decided to stay put—even when the opportunity to leave was offered; you refused without so much as asking what I thought. You didn’t ask me. Because if you did, I would have said yes—yes Phil, we need to leave. Well—don’t you get it? Let’s just wing it...the story of our lives.”

  Phillip looked away. Staring at the floor, he said, “Then go—leave me. I’ll be fine.”

  Greg shook his head. Rolling his eyes, he said, “Shut up, Phil. I’m not leaving you. I just wanted to let you know that I told you so—that I was right.”

  Phil smiled weakly. “Yeah—you’re always right.”

  “Damn straight.”

  ***

  He stood outside on the balcony, letting the frigid wind whip at his face. Taking another drag of a Pall-Mall he had found squirreled away in the kitchen cupboard, Greg exhaled and watched the smoke swirl away into the grey sky. He hadn’t smoked in years. He never wanted the habit, but it was kind of hard when everyone around you is doing the same thing. It had started with the raves on Fourth Street in Austin. And then the Stallion Club in Houston. Countless nights of dancing, drinking, smoking and fucking. The days of his youth blurred by a disco ball.

  He could hear Phillip moaning from the bedroom. He had a fever now. His hand looked like a cartoon—like Mickey Mouse’s hand, all white and puffed up like a balloon. He knew Phil was dying. He’d known the news was right all along. But there had been a sliver of hope. A seed of denial was planted when Phillip told him, “Don’t believe everything you see on TV.” But that soon withered and died along with any hope he had for a fairytale end to their life together.

  Greg recalled when they had first met.

  It wasn’t at a club.

  Nor at a rave.

  They had met at the grocery store of all places.

  God—I looked hideous; Greg remembered. It had been on the morning after a weekend excursion to Austin. He was hungover and dressed in sweatpants and a tank top. He had been thinking about what to eat for dinner—a quiet, no-boys-allowed night to himself before returning to work the next day. By accident, he bumped into Phillip in the bread and peanut butter isle.

  He was so handsome.

  Dressed in a pair of tight-fitting slacks and a polo that showed off his muscular form. He’d apologized. And Phillip just smiled. Which made Greg smile. And then for no apparent reason whatsoever, other than accidentally bumping into each other, they started talking. Eventually they exchanged numbers, parting for the time being.

  C'est la vie.

  “Greg?” Phillip moaned from inside.

  Greg exhaled and flicked his Pall-mall over the banister. Peering over the side, he watched it disappear as it dropped twenty or so floors to the ground. Inside, he walked to their bedroom door. Phillip had tossed the flannel sheets to the side. He looked soaked with sweat. His t-shirt clung to his skin. His usually combed hair matted against his skull. His face, with those strong cheek bones he had fallen so madly in love with, looked ashen. He was struggling to keep his eyes open.

  Standing by the bed, Greg reached down, carefully inspecting Phillip’s hand. It wasn’t good.

  “Greg?” Phillip asked through dry cracked lips.

  Taking a bottle of water, Greg scooped behind Phillips head with one hand and with the other he helped him drink. “I’m here,” he said.

  Phillip smacked his lips. He closed his eyes, satisfied with the taste of something wet on his parched tongue. “Thank you,” he said. “Listen...I think I—” he stopped and coughed. “...I think I heard something. At the door.”

  Greg frowned and peered over his shoulder, listening. He turned back to Phillip. “I don’t hear anything. Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”

  Shaking his head, Phillip said, “I don’t know...I don’t...” He started coughing again.

  “Just relax. You have to get better.”

  Greg forced him back down on the bed. Fluffed his pillow. Pulled his sheets back up—the ones they’d bought at Bed Bath & Beyond earlier in the year. The set that Phil thought was too expensive, but he had demanded them. If they were going to be living together in some fancy, high-rise condo, then they were going to get fancy sheets for the bed. He could still see Phillip’s healthy, handsome face beaming at him, waving him off in mock surrender.

  “You win. You win,” he had said.

  Phillip coughed again—this time blood came up.

  Greg snatched at a nearby towel and cleaned him. Tears were brimming his eyes. His lower lip began to tremble.

  “I’m...sorry,” Phillip said, his voice low and weak.

  Greg sniffed, looking away as he fought to hold it all in.

  Phillip touched his hand.

  Greg couldn’t bring himself to look at his lover.

  “I...love—”

  Phillip’s hand slipped away.

  “Phil? Baby?” Greg gasped. He gazed at him. Phillip’s head had slouched to the other side. The slow, methodical rise and fall of his chest had stopped. He was motionless. Silent. The heat from the fever quickly going cold.

  He shook him. “Phil? Baby—wake up!”

  Nothing.

  “Phil?”

  Unable to breathe, Greg stood and started out of the room, gulping air. His head felt heavy, as if he’d just been struck. Nothing made sense. How did they get here? How did things go so wrong, so quickly? They had survived for a long time—together. And now...he was alone.

  Something thumped against the door to the condo.

  Greg jerked.

  Again, something large thumped against the wood.

  And there was a sound...something like moaning on the other side. A tired, loathsome no
ise muffled by the door.

  On trembling legs, Greg walked toward the door.

  Again, the thump.

  He peered through the spyhole.

  Gasping, Greg held his mouth with his hand. It was the dead man from the floor below. It had somehow followed them up here. It had somehow opened the stairwell door. But how did it know they were inside? Could it smell them like some wild animal? Hear them, perhaps?

  Greg moved away from the door. He was starting to sweat. He combed a hand through his hair, looking around, thinking. But what could he do? They didn’t have any weapons—no guns or anything of the sort. Not that he thought he could ever use them. That wasn’t him, no matter how horrible things had got in the world. He couldn’t hurt someone—dead or alive.

  Something growled behind him.

  Greg spun around.

  “Phil?”

  Phillip stood at the bedroom door. His stance was awkward, as if he wasn’t sure how to hold his own weight on two feet. His head was bent to the side. Skin pale. And his eyes—there wasn’t anything there. Just two milky white orbs glaring at him from across the span of the living room.

  “Phillip—are you...” Greg started to ask, but he knew deep down it wasn’t his boyfriend anymore. Instinct. Feral knowledge. Gut feeling. Whatever. The thing that stood in Phillip’s sweat soaked t-shirt and gym shorts was no longer Phillip. It was something else. A monster, perhaps. Yet still very human in a way. Always consuming. Always wanting more. Maybe the virus—whatever this plague was—wasn’t really any of that; maybe it was just God’s way of removing the glamour of humanity and showing us what we’ve all allowed ourselves to become.

  The dead groaned and started toward him. Hands outstretched, almost pleading.

  Greg stepped back against the condo door.

  The dead man outside thudded the door again, harder now—knowing, sensing, smelling the feast separated by mere inches of wood.

  “Damn you,” Greg cried. His body trembled as he watched his dead lover slowly approach. He moved so slow. He could get by him easily. But where? Where could he go? He was trapped.

  A bird cawed angerly from outside.

  Greg snapped awake.

  He ran from the condo door, dodging his dead boyfriend, and bounded for the balcony. Opening the sliding door, he went outside and slammed it behind him.

  Panting, his breath fogged in front of him.

  The sun was starting to set.

  It would be below freezing soon.

  Sliding down against the banister wall, he watched as Phillip stumbled to the glass door, thumping on it weakly. Dark blood smeared from the wound on his hand.

  Feeling in his pockets, Greg pulled out his pack of Pall-Mall’s. He gazed at Phillip as he lit one. Exhaling smoke, he wondered how long he would last out here in the cold. No food. No warmth. No water. Nothing more he could do but wait and die a slow horrible death. And then what? Come back as one of them? The undead? Forever separated from his lover.

  No.

  He didn’t want that.

  A bird cawed again.

  Greg looked up and watched as a flock of seagulls soared overhead.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Exhaling smoke from his cigarette, he stood and peered over the banister. It was a long way down. Heights had never bothered him before. But now—with his thoughts—it was jarring to look down.

  Phillip banged again on the glass door, moaning.

  Greg stepped up on the banister. The sensation made him dizzy. Dark grey sky above. Grey earth below. Cold winds whipping at his face, his hands. His eyes watered.

  He peered over his shoulder, gazing at his dead lover’s formerly handsome face, remembering in a blink of a moment all the good times and bad, recalling again how they had met and how they had fallen in love—realizing then as his gut knotted in his stomach how badly he wanted to spend a life with this man, to grow old together and all that cliché shit that makes life worth living. Knowing he could never live without him, not truly.

  “Goodbye, baby,” Greg said.

  And went over the side.

  Private Nick Seegar

  NASA

  Webster, TX

  “Holy shit!”

  “What now?”

  “Did you see that?”

  “See what?”

  Nick pointed across the parking lot, at a tall building on the horizon. “Someone just took a nosedive off that building, man!”

  Corporal Maberry squinted in the direction Seegar was pointing. Shrugging, he said, “None of our concern—stay sharp. This area isn’t clear, got it?”

  Nick couldn’t take his eyes away. Whistling in amazement, he turned and followed Maberry. “Fucking horrible way to go, don’t you think?”

  Maberry signaled for Nick to take the right flank as they came up on a guard post. Together they scanned with the M4 rifles.

  Nothing.

  Just a rotting corpse of what used to be a security guard. But after months of exposure and frigid temps, there wasn’t much left of him to distinguish how he died. Birds had eaten his eyes. Probably the tongue too. Flesh bloated and waxy looking but the rigors of rigor mortis, a “Johnson Space Center” patch was still visible on the chest pocket of his uniform.

  With the all clear, Nick resumed his inquiry. “I would never jump off no building—fuck that.”

  Maberry inspected the guard. Reaching inside, he snatched the keyring and security card. “Maybe they didn’t have a choice, if you know what I mean. I bet there’s all kinds of nasties in that place just waiting to be let out.”

  Nick glanced over his shoulder at the tall hotel-looking building. “Personally, I’d rather eat a bullet if it came down to that.”

  “Duly noted.” Maberry led the way to the main entrance of Johnson Space Center. He tested the door and found it locked.

  “Think anyone’s inside?” Nick asked, keeping his rifle at the ready.

  Finding the right key, Maberry unlatched the lock. “We’re about to find out. Ready?”

  Nick nodded. “Born ready.”

  Maberry rolled his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot. Let’s get inside, look around—like the General asked. If there are survivors, we’ll deal with them.”

  Nick was practically dancing in his boots. “We doing this, or what?”

  “On three, sweep and clear the main floor—got it?”

  “Come on already.”

  Maberry shook his head and opened the door. Private Seegar rushed forward with his M4 aimed in front. The lobby area was dark and empty, all but for unturned chairs and random papers scattered across the floor, covering the large NASA insignia. Emergency lights glowed orange in the hallways. The air was stale and musky, reeking of age.

  “All clear,” Maberry called from the other side of the lobby, keeping his voice low.

  “Yeah. Same,” Nick reported. He looked around. He’d never been to NASA before, never in all his short career, stationed at Ft. Hood. Plenty of trips off base to strip clubs. Even down to Sixth Street in Austin. But never any further south. And then when the epidemic—when the dead started to walk the earth, well...

  “Okay,” Maberry started, breaking the cold silence of the lobby and jarring Nick from his thoughts. “Let’s get moving. I’d like to be back on the road, heading north before dark. Remember—Houston is a hot zone. Stay frosty.”

  Nick nodded, keeping his rifle at the ready. “I’m surprised they didn’t nuke this place.”

  Taking the lead, Maberry said, “We’re lucky they didn’t. Fallout would have reached Hood. Radiation would have killed us all.”

  Nick paused. He hadn’t thought of that.

  “Come on,” Maberry prodded.

  “Where to?”

  “Command offices should be this way.”

  Nick followed Maberry into the depths of NASA. The learning center, where countless tourists had come and gleamed the history and science of space exploration were now dark and void of life. Models lay spilled over. Glass cases c
ontaining relics of a bygone era coated in inches of dust. Further along they passed the inner sections where even guided tours were not allowed to go. Most of the office doors were closed. A few were ajar but silent and motionless.

  Finally, Maberry stopped at a door.

  Nick shined his flashlight on the plaque. “Administrator Jim Bridenstine,” he read. “So, what’s this guy got that the General wants?”

  Maberry reached for the doorknob. “NASA does more than fly people to the moon. They had oversight over all air and space technology—including satellites.”

  “Satellites?”

  “You ready? I think I hear someone inside.”

  Nick shook away the thought. He hoisted his rifle, aiming in front. He nodded.

  Maberry opened the office door.

  Inside, standing by the window was a man in a suit. He looked disheveled and swayed as if he were drunk. As Nick and Maberry entered the room, the man turned and growled upon the realization of fresh flesh coming towards him.

  “I got him,” Nick said, aiming his rifle.

  “Wait—” Maberry started to say.

  Nick squeezed the trigger, thundering the room with the gun report. The man, Administrator Bridenstine, he assumed, fell, his head snapping back. Dark red misted the wall behind him as he slumped to the floor.

  “Dammit, if there are more of those things, they’ll have heard that gun shot,” Maberry exhaled. He rushed to the Administrator’s desk and started rummaging through the drawers.

  Nick stood transfixed, staring down at the permanently, dead former NASA Administrator.

  “You going to help me or what?” Maberry barked from behind the desk.

  “I don’t even know what we’re looking for!” Nick threw up his hands. The worst thing about the Army, it wasn’t the early morning PT or random barracks inspections. Hell, he didn’t even mind field training or the seemingly never-ending process of drawing weapons from the armory for range day—no, what he hated was the constant lack of knowing, never being told what was really going on. Orders were never detailed. They never explained the why. Only the do. As in, you—Private, go do this, go do that without once considering adding in a therefore you’re doing this and doing that because...