The Pilot says. “Relax, he’s not going anywhere. Shoot some warning shots to slow him down.”
The forest is thickening up in the distance. Phillip takes out his gun. I lost too much over the years to lose the rest today. He fires and misses the first few shots. The dirt bike jerks to the side over the wet earth and Phillip has to squeeze the grips to steady it, nails in palms, before he flips over the handlebars. His shoulders are quivering and tensing to the brink of exhaustion. He sees a green blur to his right and a bright yellow blob to his left. He quick turns his head intermittently like a man about to cross a dangerous intersection.
One hand on the throttle and the other aiming at the chopper, Phillip squeezes the trigger. His left goggle is blacked out with gnats and wet sand. He shoots by twisting his torso and aiming backwards. He finally hits the chopper’s windshield. The Pilot pulls up and away from Phillip with a loud whooshing shriek. Phillip knocks off the goggles with his gun arm bicep as he mentally counts his bullets and his options.
David’s returning from the river and hears a sound and runs for higher ground in its direction. The camouflage scent is still in his pack and some limbs bounce out when he jumps up, crawling his way up the side of the hill.
The Pilot says. “I’m going to go around him and then rush him by going as low as I can to the ground. Before we lose him in the brush.”
The Biker is swaying back-and-forth. “Don’t kill him.”
The Pilot says about the Biker. “Shut him up.”
The Bodyguard switches guns and waits for his shot. The Biker is fidgeting with his seatbelt off.
The Pilot shouts. “If you don’t hit him, I’m going to cut him in half. It won’t be my fault he escaped.” The Bodyguard remains silent leaning outside the side of the chopper with one foot on the rail and his arm looped in a seatbelt. The roaring wind in his face is shutting his eyes.
Phillip hits a bump and flies in the air like a man off a ramp; he glances forward at the curving chopper swooping in. Realizing the impasse before he lands, he brings the gun up in front of him, holds it like a spear, and punches it, gaining speed, playing chicken with the chopper. Either, I get to the forest or they kill me. Phillip is reposed and calm.
David mounts up the hill, takes off his pack, and lies flat on his belly with the binoculars in hand. “Phillip, you crazy fucker, turn.”
The sordid gunman hangs out the side of the chopper, holding his breath, closing his eyes and blindly aiming for Phillip.
The Biker pokes his head out the door. “NOW.”
Phillip fires the remainder of his gun magazine, the bullets ricochet off the chopper’s blades. The Bodyguard opens his eyes and fires one shot, the force bumps him back into the Biker, the bullet hits Phillip square in the chest, whacking him off the bike. Phillip flies backwards, his elbows break his fall like landing gear being shredded of their skin. His head bounces in the mud. He feels none of this.
The dirt bike is spinning on the ground as the chopper flies overhead in a helter-skelter manner. The sound of the chopper disappears for a second when it rises and dips in the clouds like a shrieking bald eagle.
The Pilot hovers over Phillip, the Bodyguard jumps out and the chopper sways to the side and lands. The gushing wind is pushing the motorcycle farther and farther away from Phillip, who is on his side, not moving.
David stands with a foot on the edge.
Phillip inhales, gripping at his chest. He was hit with a sandbag with the force of a shotgun. The man standing over him points a gun in his face. Phillip ignores him, still surprised he’s alive. The two men from the chopper run and surround Phillip as he gets up. The Pilot says. “Put your hands on your head.”
Phillip looks at the tree line of the woods, notices a flashing light from the binoculars. David. The Bodyguard cuffs Phillip with zip-ties then puts a black hood over his face.
The Biker walks up to Phillip like he did it all himself. “I caught you.” He points his gun to his chest and says it again. Phillip headbutts the man in the nose. Then gets hit in the back of the head with the butt of the Biker’s gun. “This is for all that damn chasing, you made me do.”
The Pilot says. “You finished?”
They drag Phillip back to the chopper, his knees skid on the dirt.
David peers at the whole scene squeezing the binoculars and follows the chopper until it disappears into the horizon then slams the binoculars into the dirt. “Fuck.”
8
It took David several hours to find his motorcycle in the forest. The concussion ate at his memories.
No fauna or flora for acres. David gets a few miles with the dirt bike left behind, but has to hide it and continue on foot when it runs out of solar power. The sun is going down through the placid orange sky. The miles are adding up, buildings and cities remain zero in the vast desert.
David stumbles upon Phillip’s dirt bike with the walkie tucked under the seat. A dead zombie on the ground scares David back, he kicks it to be sure. He picks up the dirt bike, kickstands it, and reads the side: The Apollo. “Just like the other one, piece of shit.”
David turns on the walkie. “It’s David can you hear me, I’m heading home. Jude.” David is about the toss the walkie into the dark, but better judgment prevails and he leaves it on. On top of the bike he has to try to kickstart it multiple times before it comes alive, creating a scene of scared critters in the dark.
He can barely keep his dozing off eyes open. With no regards for his safety, David is going as fast as he can on the bike through the darkness in his way. I have to get home before my weary hands give out. Is the gnawing thought in the foreground of his consciousness. The ringing in his ears from earlier is drowned out by the bike’s motor.
The ground begins to glow and move like a lava lamp, he closes his eyes and drives straight through the fluorescent teal earth expecting to fall through and awake from his dream. He looks back, seeing thousands of glowing scorpions flooding over the land under the pale moonlight. A river in the desert.
David suddenly stops his bike fearing he’ll past the underground bunker. He keeps the bike running, but decides to walk it instead. The one beam of light points straight ahead like a light tower.
He has to walk a few more steps and he’s home. The dozens of dead bodies near the bunker was an earned and fortunate happenstance. David goes to knock on the door, the door is ajar and it opens up further when he slightly taps on it. The lights are off and there is no sound. The calmness inside startles David and he closes his eyes as he goes through his pockets. “Ava? Maria? Anybody, what’s going on?” His little lighter is flickering on and off and he can hardly see anything. A few more steps, David falls to his knees choking on the arid air. His metal lighter slides out of sight, the bunker is hazy with waves of smoke. On the ground, a smell hits him, sparking his memory, and he brusquely runs for the door to get his torch from his pack on the bike.
He walks in again. “NO. NO.” David runs through the underground building, calling out names. However, he only discovers silent burnt corpses that litter the grounds. Dead men and women are in every room, unrecognizable to him. Mostly bone. He sees by touching his way to the small kitchen. Tiny skeletons and small black hand prints climb up the walls. He can’t go in.
The dense aroma of burnt flesh is palpable and irritates David’s eyes and throat. He spins the torch in countless doorways, searching every room and arrives lastly to his room. The torch rolls on the ground in despair, he falls to his knees with his face down and his shadow dances on the walls like ancient cave paintings while he meditates. Who is puppet master and what is real?
Situated like a man in Plato’s cave, David turns into the light and reaches for his small safe in the corner by a few metal lockers. To retrieve his journal and a snub nose revolver. He shoves the journal behind the front jean button strapped over his stomach, opens wide, and sticks the gun in his mouth. Gunpowder sprinkles the inside of his cheeks. In a world without meaning, suicide is not right or wr
ong, but is solely an act without meaning like life.
David squeezes the trigger hard. “CLICK.” The sound opens his eyes wide. Poise comes back; he then checks the gun for bullets and spins the chamber to get it right for the last time. He hesitates, looking around and tears start to well in his eyes. Is it the smoke or the smoking people? Is it anger for his home being violated? Is it relief?
“It’s over, I tried. It’s all gone, I’m sorry.”
David lifts the gun to his temple and begins to squeeze the trigger hard again. His pinkie twitches. The chamber rotates gradually, but in that instant, his walkie makes a low crackling sound that triggers David to stop. He drops the revolver, breathes in hard, and instantly brings the walkie to his ear. A girl’s voice is on the walkie for a second then silence.
“Ava? Maria? It’s David, pick up, it’s David, please pick up.”
He is on his toes with his forehead against the wall waiting, but nothing happens for a long time. The radio static was enough to imbue him with enough willpower to want to keep on going.
Next, David wraps a bandanna around his mouth and spends the rest of the night dragging the copious bodies of his friends to one room to learn how many of his group may be left. He also tries to keep himself busy before he can leave by checking around for salvageable supplies. He makes another stop at his locker then the safe again and pulls out a thick folded paper.
At the crack of dawn, David’s staunch spirit returns in a tired body. He exits the bunker; thinking I’ll never come back to this tomb again. He looks at the black hole that consumed his world. David spins the bike around and heads for the backup rendezvous.
On a hill overlooking the bunker, a group of Native Americans watch David ride away then begin to track him on horseback.
Chapter Three
1
A minuscule twilight between dusk and full dawn is in the compaction neighborhood where all the houses look alike with their manicure lawns and family friendly vehicles parked in their upsloping driveways. The morning light is a shade of dark blue before the effulgence sun truly comes out.
A young man in form fitting exercise attire sits on the curb breathing in heavily with two fingers on his neck, eyes focusing on his face changing watch. The cool air fills his lungs; he inhales through his open mouth as he re-straps the kinesiology tape around his ankle. “That should do it.”
Salty sweat increasingly leaks from his forehead; he gains speed, transitioning into a brisk jog on the pristine pavement it’s as white as the poodle being walked. The wind against the cold tip of his nose gives him the chills and helps him stay awake. A little girl on a bike rides on the grass on his right, avoiding him with the finesse of a unicycle rider still on training wheels, going from a few yards to a wide berth in no time. His pocket vibrates making him stop and hold onto his hips. The refulgent sunrise is a welcome change. It warms his chest. He reluctantly answers his phone knowing she will never let him hang up.
His voice is terse. “What? I’m busy.”
Sora, his mother says. “Get home. Now.”
“Huh. Why-”
Sora persists over him. “Because I said so. Don’t get near anyone. Junior are you ok?”
“Stop being so dramatic. On my way. Stop stressing.” He moves the phone away from his ear in anticipation.
“WHAT?”
“Nothing.” He hangs up and ignores her phone calls.
Junior traipses by a few houses looking at his peacock colored running shoes until a middle-aged woman’s voice awakens him for a daydream. She accosts him onto the grass, “where’s my daughter?” At first, he thinks it’s his mother yelling, he wouldn’t be the least surprised. The bereft woman squeezes his shoulders. “She’s young with blonde hair. Yea tall.” He’s quiet, frozen in confusion, then raises and points his hand down the street, hoping the woman believes him so she will get out of his face. “On a bike.” The intensity of the woman’s eyes made his hands clammy. He digs in his pockets for energy chewables.
Three trapezoidal body police armored vehicles as big as buildings, designed to take down crack-houses/terrorist cells, zoom passed the woman running with elephantine determination. Expansive horns are modern day battle bugles and the pedestrians can feel it in their chests. The huffing and creaking of engines appear and disappear into the ether just as quickly as an ambulance siren.
Around the corner, a dozen men in riot gear jump from the trio of vehicles, mustering into a straight line, pointing their weapons to one side of the gated community. Only a steep hill behind a gate is in their crosshairs. They stand ready like Olympic sprinters waiting to react at the first shot.
Junior runs and first spots a pink bicycle twisted like shriveled bacon in the middle of street with a trail of blood leading away. Down the right angle of the last stretch of the residential area, all front doors are open; splinter groups of people are loitering on the grass and sidewalk with fuzzy slippers and crust in their eyes. Yesterday evening carousing spouses and self-absorbed teenagers join the party last.
An officer harrumphs only to be able to spit out irritating phlegm; he smacks his lips then talks through a horn. “Ladies and gentlemen return to your homes. For your safety. Now.”
The mother, who scared Junior, holds her daughter close to her chest and in exasperation runs towards the man in charge. “Help her.”
He blankly stares off into the distance, “I’m helping everyone, step aside ma’am,” and waves a hand up without acknowledging her.
Across the ways, a loon man with thick bifocals and a scraggy beard says. “It’s my American right to be kept abreast of current matters. I’m a veteran, damnit.” His wife tugs on his arm. “Get inside you fool before you get hurt in your bathrobe, like last time.” He grudgingly obeys with a few choice words.
At the cop’s back, the mother panics and says in hitching gasps. “She’s not breathing.”
He finally turns and shows her one side of his face, says in a matter-of-fact manner into the turned up microphone. “For your safety, ladies and gentlemen return to your homes now.”
Junior’s phone has not stopped vibrating for the last ten minutes; he does not want to worry his mother any further. He walks slowly as if he is about to commit a crime, to the man with the horn and hears his radio. “Use lethal force only if necessary. The department can’t afford other scandal.”
The crying mother goes for the officer’s gun. “Give me the keys.” He raises his forearm to her chest and drives it into her, knocking her on her behind. He lifts his clear visor on his black helmet and shows her his palm. “Stop. Get back. You will do it with a fucking smile on your face before…”
Teenagers raise their camera phones to their faces and record the officer. He smirks and has a paroxysm of anger. “None of this is going to matter, just listen for once, I’m here to help you, you entitled fuckers.”
A pugnacious elderly woman with droopy cheeks around her faded lips shuffles onto her grass barefooted in a colorful muumuu dress. “What’s going on kid?” Talking to Junior like an old friend. “Did the police beat another colored boy to death?" Junior ignores her, viewing the police lining up with their plastic shields held high, looking like toy soldiers with never before used gear.
The old woman adamantly continues. “I miss the good ol’ days. This country has gone down the toilet and it knows it, I’ll tell you what it needs, a-a good kick in the ass, that’s what.” A dad covers his son’s ears and heads farther away. She rubs her head. “What time is it? I need to take my pills to help me remember to take the pills I really need later.” She grabs and pulls her muumuu to one side and walks over her lawn in wide steps. Phishing for a response from anyone, she says over a bark. “Keep the damn noise down, I’m trying to watch my stories on the tube, you low class bastards.” Junior’s in a navy blue hoodie, he turns to face the old woman for the first time, she shrieks back because he’s a stranger, but more importantly because he’s Native American. She scurries into her house. “Oh Jesus
.”
All the dogs start barking, a Greek chorus foretelling the neighbors what is to come. Junior suddenly feels cold and flexes his jowls, grinding his teeth. The sinister unknown is breathing on his neck giving him goosebumps all over. He sees a cop’s knees shake uncontrollably, he turns around, and the woman with the bleeding girl is running down the sidewalk around the corner. Whatever this is, the cops can handle it, right? We’re all safe near a lot of guns.
There is a marathon crowd consisting of animus zombies sprinting in the space beyond the crest of the hill. The barking of purebreds and mutts transforms into howling and matches the passion of the dynamo drifters. At the precipice of the hill, the beings look like a gang of harmless shadows from where Junior is standing. The symphony of barking dogs drowns out all human life. Junior is unconsciously stepping backwards through the gathering onlookers. Hive mentality of the decease is attracted to the human mob mentality like star-crossed lovers.
A different mother and her young daughter are running while holding hands into the assembly of police officers in SWAT gear. They lean their rifles upwards and motion the woman to move to the side. The little girl lets go of her mom’s wet hand and spins on the street, burning her shins. She tries to stand. “Mama my ankle.”
The little girl kneels in the middle of the street, praying in a low and comforting voice: Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
Her mother looks at the impending zombies then her daughter, abandons the little girl escaping past Junior’s shoulder as he runs towards the little girl. The rapt neighbors are oohing and aahing, but not moving a muscle. Junior looks to the left at the aspirant cop commander who lowers his assault rifle and nods his drawn face, indicating get her now.
Genesis Virus Page 5
