Missions from the Extinction Cycle (Volume 1)

by Mark Tufo

Through squinted eyes, Blake looked at the backlit screen. Three little words. How ya doin’? But it was more than that. The Coach knew the answer to that, so did the trainers, the team doctors, his teammates, and especially the owner, Thomas LeClair. The man worth nearly fifteen billion dollars knew exactly how he was doing. They just needed him to confirm what they all believed…that he was done with football forever.

  Returning the text message, Blake Chambers lied, well mostly.

  Blake typed out a quick response. Getting better every day. See you in a few weeks. This wasn’t going to satisfy Coach and definitely wouldn’t go over with the team doctors. They’d need to see him. They’d already given him more than enough opportunities to come in on his own; however, Blake already knew what awaited him once he entered that building.

  Another text. This time a group message that included a few of his teammates. They were also his friends. The Coach must be desperate. Blake didn’t blame him.

  Blake, you know we need to see you. If you’re not here at some point today, I’m sending Tucker and the boys to bring you here.

  Perfect, now he really did have a problem. This was the off-season and with little besides hitting the weight room to occupy his friends, he knew they’d jump at the chance to harass him. It was what they lived for. The six-month gap between the final game of the season and the first day of training camp was usually a time to heal the bumps and bruises of the previous six months. And it was also a time when Blake’s position as their leader on the field took a backseat to just being one on the boys. However, this year was going to be different and not in a way he’d enjoy.

  Sliding to the edge of the oversized white leather sofa, Blake clenched his jaw, gripped the arm, and pushed into a standing position. Most times his size was an advantage. At six foot six and two-hundred fifty-five pounds, he was the largest quarterback in the league and quite nearly the quickest as well. But today his massive frame was proving to be his Achilles heel. With each agonizing step toward the kitchen, he envied those of normal size and stature.

  Stepping into his sun-drenched dining room, Blake leaned over two of the high-backed chairs and paused as another wave of nausea enveloped him. Attempting to recall the physician’s exact words, he closed his eyes and cupped the sides of his head.

  This is your fourth concussion in five seasons. I have no choice but to report this to the head office and Mr. LeClair. However, my personal recommendation would be for you to hang up your cleats. There’s no reason to kill yourself; you’ve had a great career.

  Hang up his cleats? Blake Chambers wasn’t ready to hang up anything. He’d broken the single season rushing record for his position two years before, but had also taken more helmet to helmet contact than in any other year, which most directly added to his current condition. Gifted with the ability to run the ball as a quarterback had brought about financial wealth beyond his wildest dreams; however, it wasn’t until the previous eight months that he’d wished he had a better throwing arm.

  As the bile rose from the back of his throat, Blake hurried to the kitchen sink, leaned over the stainless steel bowl, and emptied the contents of his stomach. As his back arched and his stomach convulsed, he gripped the edges of the counter and hoped it would pass quickly. Without having eaten much the previous two days, the foul smelling projectile quickly passed and the final few convulsions were nothing but dry heaves.

  Using his elbow to turn on the faucet, he stared down at the mess as it slowly washed down into the drain, spitting what remained in his mouth into the swirling water. Rinsing his hands, Blake cupped them together, ran them over his face, and brushed his fingers through his thick black hair.

  Shaking his hands over the sink, his cell phone began to ring from the living room. Blake instantly felt a chill run up his spine and for the moment he was clear. The massive headache that had crippled him for the last several days disappeared in the blink of an eye. His stomach righted itself and a sense of calm started to wash over him.

  Turning away from the sink, he stepped guardedly into the dining room, unsure when the debilitating symptoms would return. As he continued, he moved more quickly with each step, and striding into the living room, he grabbed his phone from the sofa and stared at the screen.

  “Here we go.”

  Taking in a deep breath, Blake answered the call and hit the speaker icon.

  “Coach, hey I got your—”

  “Blake…where are you?”

  “Home, I was just getting ready to—”

  “You’re not going anywhere Chambers, except straight to Miller’s office.”

  “Coach, I’m good. Things are getting better. I’ll head over there tomorrow morning, I promise.”

  “Yes, you will. I’m sending Tucker by to make sure you get your ass out of bed. And I don’t mean at three in the afternoon. You know LeClair has been by here three times today, and I’m running out of excuses.”

  “Sorry Coach, just real busy.”

  “With what?”

  Coach Mays was right. There wasn’t anything that Blake needed to do. Not today and not since the season ended. He was single, had no real family to speak of, and every last one of his friends were either on the team or the coaching staff. Football was his world and had become his life. Now, he just hoped it wasn’t also the thing that took it as well.

  “Nothing Coach, I’ll be ready to go first thing. Just have Tucker use the code to come through the front gate…same as last time.”

  Coach May’s voice softened. “Listen kid, we all only want what’s best for you. Doc says we need to get out ahead of this thing, get it taken care of before it gets any worse. You know as well as anyone that isn’t something to play with. Let’s get you in and get this wrapped up. I want you back in that locker room.”

  The man who’d coached him for the last six seasons sounded genuine, but there was no way to tell. Coach Mays spent the better part of his career getting grown men motivated to do things they weren’t even aware that they were capable of doing, all for the benefit of the men in suits writing the big checks. Although at this point, Coach Mays’ sincerity didn’t much matter; Blake would just tell him what he wanted to hear.

  “I’ll be ready Coach, I’m just…”

  Blake’s words trailed off as another surge of nausea began to rise in his gut. He knew what was coming and what was to follow. Ending the call, he tossed his phone into the front pocket of his sweatpants and staggered out of the living room and into the hall.

  Keeping himself upright, the skull-splitting headache from earlier returned with a vengeance. He gripped the side of his head with this left hand and guided himself along the wall with his right.

  Moving through the sparsely furnished ten-thousand square foot home, Blake closed one eye as the searing pain intensified. He moved quickly through his bedroom, closed the shades, turned off the lights, and dropped face-first onto the white down comforter draped lazily across his custom sized mattress.

  Gritting his teeth and smashing his face into the pillow, Blake prayed that sleep would take him quickly. He was no longer sure that death was something to fear. And at that particular moment, he was thinking that it may just come as a relief.

  — 2 —

  His bedroom was darker than he remembered, but it wasn’t exactly night. The previous seventy-two hours had moved by in a blurry haze of false memories and only partially coherent daydreams. His head was also still controlled by the dull ache that radiated from the base of his spine, but didn’t appear to be any worse than normal, at least for the moment.

  Slowly rolling up onto his right elbow and pulling his head away from the pillow, Blake scanned the room. Squinting through the shadows, he paused as a wave of disorientation gradually began to settle in. Staring at the chest of drawers positioned along the far wall, indistinct visions of the previous two days flashed through his mind.

  An overturned box of cereal had its contents spilled throughout a minefield of what looked to be four empty prescript
ion bottles. Further on, toward the right edge of the antique stained dresser, a mound of what he figured were the clothes he’d changed in and out of over the last several days. The small pile appeared to have outgrown its current home, and dropping to the dense Persian area rug below, traveled away from the room and out of sight.

  Tracing the path of the forgotten garments, Blake pushed himself up to a seated position and now rested with his shoulders against the padded headboard. Testing the pain at the back of his head, he slowly pulled back the comforter and slipped his legs over the side of the bed.

  Sliding to the edge of the bed, he closed his eyes and began to stand. With the muscles in his back, neck, and shoulders tensed, he quickly opened them again and took two steps toward the master bath.

  “Okay, I can live with that.”

  Knowing that even the slightest bit of overconfidence could be his undoing, he quickly took another two steps and reached out for the wall. He paused for a beat, took a deep breath, and keeping his left hand squarely placed against the wall, stepped cautiously from the rug to the aggressively cold Italian marble flooring.

  With a few more guarded steps, Blake now stood in the archway at the entrance to the master bath. Continuing to put together the events of the last few days, he presumed he hadn’t made his way to the opposite end of the sprawling single level home more than once or twice over the last two days. And although the air around him continued to chill the skin along his bare back and chest, something was different.

  A small pile of towels sat just below the sink. They appeared—from where he stood—to be wet. Not like they had been used to absorb what remained after a shower and then tossed to the ground. This was something altogether different, and as he proceeded out onto the cold tile, a hint of color fading in from the right caught his eye.

  There was no mistaking what it was, however the discovery stopped him dead in his tracks. Blake initially figured what he was seeing was the result of his inability to fully function as a human being over the last several days, coupled with his failing memory, but this definitely wasn’t that.

  Although he was unable to recall exactly what had taken place eight feet from where he stood, the thin trail of blood traveling away from the shower forced him to slowly take a step in the opposite direction.

  He quickly looked himself over, and although his head still pounded and his mouth tasted like he’d gargled expired milk, he could see the blood wasn’t his. Another step back and once again standing in the archway, he squinted through his bedroom, into the failing daylight.

  Nothing was out of place; however, running his eyes back over the tan Berber carpeting to the French doors at the opposite end of the bedroom, he swallowed hard. Caked on the handle and running down over the threshold, another ominous red trail could be seen glowing black from his vantage.

  Backing toward the walk-in closet, Blake tried to remember when he’d last fired the Ruger SP101 he’d purchased five years ago. He always told himself he’d find a local firing range and become comfortable with the revolver, even though he’d never fired one. Days turned to weeks and weeks to months and years, and now he couldn’t even remember which pair of sneakers he’d buried it behind.

  Turning on the light, he moved into the fifteen by twelve foot closet and quickly scanned the floor. He was now having trouble even remembering which side of the closet he’d hidden the weapon. He looked right and then left, studying the double row of expensive footwear for a sign, anything to trip his memory. But nothing did.

  As his heart continued to pound against the inside of his chest, he turned from the floor, pulled down a hooded sweatshirt, and slipped it down over his head. Contrary to the moment, he let out a short laugh and shook his head at the fact that he was possibly living the last few moments of his life, and his only response was an attempt at fending off the cool interior temperatures.

  “Ridiculous, but what—”

  His attention pulled back to the master bath, a weakened voice broke the silence.

  “Blake.”

  It was familiar. Somewhat slower and a bit off tone, but familiar. Attempting to place the voice, he walked out of the closet and moved to the left side of the archway. Leaning into the wall, Blake craned his neck forward and attempted to get a better view of what he’d heard.

  Squinting with one eye and preparing to run, he said, “Hello?”

  Again—exactly as it had twenty seconds earlier—the voice came through weak and broken, and sounded as if the person was weeping. “Blake?”

  He knew. It couldn’t have been any clearer. Entering the oversized bathroom and sidestepping the pile of soaked towels, Blake stood at the entrance to the massive eight-foot shower. Gripping the leading edge, he moved to a squatting position and stared back at his friend.

  The intermittent slivers of light filtering in from the adjoining room swept across the large man’s face. They colored his tears with an ominous glow and reflected against the shallow crevices in his ebony skin. He stared up at Blake and as fat drops of thick blood dripped from his hands, he began to shake.

  Blake looked into his friend’s eyes. “Dwight…what the hell is going on?”

  The giant of a man backed into the corner. “Blake, I can’t… I just…”

  “Dwight, look at me.” He waited as his friend attempted to focus. “What happened…are you in trouble?”

  The large man wiped at his face and began to nod. “Yeah…it’s not—.” He paused, searching for the words. “It’s not me, I didn’t do this. It was them, the others, they’re monsters.”

  Blake forced a weak smile, but couldn’t hide his confusion. “I don’t understand, what are you—”

  Interrupting, Dwight slouched back against the wet tile and let out of heavy breath. “They’re gone. All of them…they’re all dead.”

  — 3 —

  Late afternoon had slipped into night as the two men moved from the rear of the home and now sat across from one another in the living room. Blake had helped his friend get cleaned up and was even able to find the larger man some clothes that actually fit. They sank into the oversized white leather sofa and stared back at the television as it began to power up.

  Blake motioned toward the window at the front of the home as Dwight had finally began to regain his composure. This was a man he’d spent the better part of the last seven years with and not once had he seen him like this. There wasn’t a single question he could think of that would rightfully explain why his three-hundred-pound friend appeared in his home, covered in blood and babbling about monsters.

  As the sixty-inch flat-panel LCD television blazed to life, Blake turned to Dwight. Still confused, he repeated his friend’s last few statements. “Uh…so, you’re saying that coach and the others are all gone?”

  Dwight continued to stare straight ahead and only nodded.

  “And you came here from Tucker’s house?”

  Again the large man simply nodded.

  This had to be a practical joke. He and his teammates would go after one another relentlessly once the season started, but were typically less aggressive during the few months they had off each year. It was a time they used to decompress from the never-ending abuse their bodies took the previous six months. But the look plastered across his friend’s face and the very realistic scene that had played out in his master bath told him otherwise.

  Massaging his temples, Blake slid to the edge of the couch, and leaned in toward his friend. “Okay, I need you to run it back for me. What the hell has been happening the last few days?”

  Turning from the television, Dwight spoke quietly—almost in a whisper. “We’ve all been trying to call you for the last three days.”

  “Yeah, I guess my phone died.”

  Dwight shook his head. “That’s why I came here. No one could find you…no one had heard from you.”

  “And?”

  “And what, Blake? Haven’t you been watching the news? Seen what’s happening out there?”

 
Blake could see that his friend truly had little understanding of his condition, and not wanting to go into detail, gave an answer that he’d hoped would suffice. “I’ve been sick, haven’t left the house in like four or five days.”

  “What about the news, the internet? You really have no idea what’s going on out there? It’s like World War Three; those things are everywhere, destroying everything. It doesn’t even seem real. I just can’t believe—”

  As if adding an exclamation to his statement, a thunderous pair of explosions echoed somewhere in the distance. The first rattled the windows as Blake leapt from the sofa and the second, much closer, sounded as if it lifted the home from its foundation.

  Back to his friend, Blake’s eyes were wide. And momentarily forgetting about the pain radiating from the back of his head, he reached for the television remote. “What the hell was that?”

  “That’s it,” Dwight said. “We need to go.”

  Flipping from one channel to the next, Blake quickly landed on one of the many stations attempting to answer the same questions he was now asking his friend. The pair of CNN reporters appeared to be just as confused—one even alluding to the mass hysteria as a Zombie Apocalypse.

  “They’re kidding, right? The Zombie Apocalypse?” Turning from the television back to the front window, Blake watched as miles away the sky lit up in a bright fireball. “Dwight, what is this? What’s really going on out there?”

  “Blake, I don’t know. I just don’t know. There are these things—I don’t even know how to describe them. They’re…they’re something I’ve never seen. Something that’s not real, couldn’t be.”

  “I’m not sure I understand, how have you—”

  The reporter’s even tone coming from the television suddenly changed and both Blake and Dwight turned to look. She stared blankly into the camera and said, “We have footage from upstate New York of what appears to be a bewildered man who is attacking another…oh my God.”