THE SAGA OF THE DEAD SILENCER Book 1: Bleeding Kansas: A Novel Of The Zombie Apocalypse

by L. ROY AIKEN

  THE SAGA OF THE DEAD SILENCER

  BOOK 1

  BLEEDING KANSAS

  L.ROY AIKEN

  COPYRIGHT 2014 L.ROY AIKEN

  ONE

  Mayday

  1

  This is it, the day we’ve been looking forward to for so long, and it’s not starting well. Claire wakes up feverish and phlegmy, too sick to drive me to the airport. There’s not much to say but sorry, hope you feel better, before she crawls back into bed.

  The next thing I know I’m loading my luggage into the trunk of the cab because it turns out the cab driver should have called in sick himself. “Hey, sorry, man, you know how it goes!” he says. “Ya don’t work, ya don’t get paid!”

  “Tell me about it,” I say, settling into my seat.

  “Airport, huh?” The cabbie sneezes wetly, brings his hand up after the fact. “Where ya headed?”

  “Kansas City.”

  “Kansas City! Kansas City, here I—!” God help me, he’s trying to sing that old song but a burst of coughing cuts him short. I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and cover my nose and mouth.

  He composes himself, sniffs loudly. “So what’s out there?”

  “Job interview.”

  “Yeah? All the way out there? I hope they’re paying for it!”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Must be nice! Wish I could get a gig like that!”

  “Me, too.”

  “Ha! I hear ya! So whatcha been doin’ all this time?”

  “Unemployed.”

  “Oh. Nowhere?”

  I have to wait for him to finish his latest coughing fit before I can answer. “Pretty much.”

  “You don’t seem all that enthusiastic about this.”

  “Lot on my mind.”

  “Oh.” A short, barking cough, followed by a long, gurgling wheeze. “Yeah. It’s tough out there.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So how long you been outta work?”

  “Long enough.”

  “Me, I got to work, know what I’m sayin’? I’d go crazy stayin’ at—!” The driver explodes into another round of coughing, his body bucking and convulsing behind the wheel. It’s all he can do to keep his eyes open to see the road.

  After a terrifying stretch of seconds in which I wonder if he’s going to run the red light we screech to a halt, the taxi’s rear swerving with the force— “Here, you want a piece of none-of-your business to chew on?” I say. “If I don’t make this flight my house goes into foreclosure and my family is homeless as of next month! If you can’t make it to the airport, I need someone who can!”

  “Whoa, man, it’s okay, it’s okay! I got this!”

  “Can you do it without interrogating me like some nosy old biddy? Can you keep quiet?”

  “Hey, I’m just making conversation!”

  “Just get me to the airport! I’m running late as it is!”

  “Jeez, mister, I said okay!”

  The light changes and we roll. I take some satisfaction that the cabbie is keeping quiet, which in turn has eased his coughing. Still, I keep the handkerchief pressed to my face until he pulls up to the white zone at the airport. He pops the trunk and I step out into the blessedly germ-free air to grab my luggage.

  I include a tip for the driver with my fare. I can’t have any bad vibes tainting my luck, not today. “We good?” I ask the driver.

  “Look, good luck,” he says. “I know you must be nervous.”

  “Yeah. Try and get well. Don’t kill yourself out there.”

  “I hear ya, brother! Take care.”

  I’d like to think that’s the end of my exposure to whatever’s going around. Inside the terminal, though, I’m running a gauntlet of sneezing, coughing people all the way to the fat lady at the ticket counter. She got a red Hitler mustache of raw skin under her nose from wiping at it with her third wad of tissue.

  For God’s sake, I can’t afford to get sick, not for the best chance for gainful employment I’ve had in years! It’s probably a matter of time, though. Turning away from the counter every other person I see is suffering from some degree of the “Mayday Malaise.”

  That’s how the logo reads behind cable news queen Stefani Dunham on TVs all over the airport. “Now this is a different kind of cold bug,” she says. “Aside from the fact that one out of three people come down with it, you can actually sort of function through it! Of course, some are saying it’s because Americans with jobs are afraid to miss work for any reason, given the economic situation.” Our head cheerleader-cum-broadcast journalist makes a face to let us know what she thinks of some people.

  “Whatever the case, doctors say it’s an aerosol virus, which means it’s all up in your air!” The shot cuts to a gray-haired eminence mumbling authoritatively in a plush office. Back to Stefani: “And we’re not immune here!” She coughs theatrically into a handkerchief. “All this and a runny nose! A big shout-out to my make-up people here in the News Center for keeping me presentable! Hey, we carry on, what can you do?”

  With my luck, that’s the strain I won’t be getting. Claire struggled to make it to the bathroom. The cabbie I rode in with was barely functional.

  I call my contact in Kansas City. “Mr. Grace!” says Giselle. “Aren’t you still in Colorado Springs? You’re at the airport, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m right here at the gate. I just wanted to make sure the interview was still on.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “That cold that’s going around. Everybody’s sick!”

  Giselle laughs. “Oh, that! We’ve had a few people call in, but that’s not enough to stop us. You’re not sick, are you?”

  “Oh, no, no! I’m fine! I was…concerned.”

  “Well, give me a call when you make it to KC.”

  “Will do. Thanks, Giselle.”

  “Don’t get sick!”

  Right. If my wife didn’t give it to me, if the cab driver didn’t give it to me, if the lady at the counter didn’t give it to me, if half the people at the airport didn’t give it to me—now I’m ducking into a narrow aluminum tube, settling in to breathe recycled air people have been coughing and sneezing into since last week.

  We’re getting fresh germs all the time, too. Barely half the seats on the plane are filled but half of those people are sick. The flight attendants sit at their seats along the fore and aft bulkheads and scowl at us over their surgical masks.

  If I can stay well for 24 more hours. Twenty-four hours. Lord, that’s all I ask.

  It’s a mercifully short flight. Eventually, I find myself in another TB ward of an airport, squinting through clouds of aerosolized phlegm to get to my luggage. I call Giselle. “Welcome to KC!” she says. “You know how to find us, right?” she says.

  “Oh yeah. See you soon!”

  At the rental car kiosk I check my pockets for the directions I’d printed from the Internet. “Uh, hey,” I ask the guy behind the counter. “Can I get some directions printed up here? I left mine at home.”

  “What do you need those for?”

  “To find my way to my job interview.”

  He’s looking at me vaguely horrified, like I just pissed myself.

  “Your vehicle has GPS.”

  “Oh.”

  “Man, really?”

  Walking out to my vehicle, I have to work the keychain remote several times just to be sure this magnificent black luxury SUV is really mine. The new car smell is intoxicating. Nothing is slammed; the rear hatch closes with the touch of a butt
on. I walk around to climb into the cab. Can’t slam this door, either. It’s like burping a Tupperware lid.

  I turn the key and the air conditioning blows on full. The radio plays symphonic music in full-immersive surround sound and none of this seems a strain on anything. I turn down the music and give myself a minute to familiarize myself with the GPS. Not that I need a whole minute. It works on voice command.

  The traffic is light on the way into downtown, allowing me the luxury of taking in some of the sights of the city as I drive. I park in the visitors’ area of the adjacent garage and take the elevator to my floor. The doors open to a wide, sumptuous lobby. I’ve never met Giselle but I know her on sight: a meticulously groomed young beauty working the Hot Librarian look in her horn-rimmed glasses and a navy blue power suit worth two or more of my mortgage payments.

  She blesses me with a cinematically white, straight-toothed smile: “Thank God, something’s going right today!”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” I say, smiling.

  “First, I need to apologize. I thought Rob was going to be here today, but—guess what!”

  “Not a clue.”

  “In the four hours since we spoke this morning we’ve had people going home right and left. Rob sometimes doesn’t get here until ten so I imagined he’d at least be here to welcome you to the city. He ended up calling in.”

  “Given how I left my wife this morning, I can tell you, if you’re sick, you’re really sick. And I know what I saw in both airports on my way here.”

  “Yes, sir, and I do apologize! I honestly didn’t see this coming! We’ve got so many people here working through their sniffles just fine. Anyway, it seems there may be some…consequence to this.”

  “Yes?”

  “Assuming Rob’s among the group of the Really Sick we’ll have to postpone the interview.”

  “How long are you willing to put me up here?”

  “How long are you willing to stay?”

  “I came to talk to Rob. If it’s not too much of a problem, I’ll wait.”

  “Even with your wife sick back home?”

  “My teenage children can take care of her.”

  Giselle puts an envelope on the counter. “There’s a voucher in there for a really good steakhouse in the Power and Light District. Should be enough in there for breakfast and lunch tomorrow at any number of places close to your hotel. Call me in the morning before checkout. Either I’ll have another envelope or a plane ticket.”

  “It’s a date,” I say, slipping the envelope into my inside jacket pocket.

  “I hope you don’t mind eating out so much!”

  “Not at all. Thanks, Giselle.”

  “Okay. We’ll talk to you tomorrow, then.”

  “You bet.” I turn and walk out of the lobby. I manage to make it inside the blessedly empty elevator car before letting out a sigh of relief to blow the doors in.

  2

  The next day I call my son after breakfast. Jack tells me his mother’s been bedridden since I left yesterday. She’s not coughing so much today, so she should finally get some rest.

  There’s talk of closing the schools until this blows over. He’s staying home, regardless: “We did nothing yesterday, Dad. Nothing. It was a total waste.”

  “Same here,” I say. “What can I tell you? Just look in on your Mom from time to time. Try not to get sick.”

  “Dad, come on! If we were going to get sick don’t you think we would have by now? I took a regular snot-shower from all the people sneezing and coughing yesterday! I’m not going back until this crap’s over with!” He pauses. “Sorry, Dad. It just…I don’t even wanna think about it. It’s weird.”

  “To say the least. What’s Sibyl up to?”

  “She’s going into work today. Thanks for reminding me. I need to tell her to pick up some stuff on the way home.”

  I tell him to do what he has to do, keep me posted, etc., and hang up.

  “You’re lucky you’ve got your kids to take care of your wife,” Giselle tells me later at the office. “I’m all my mother has, and I have to come into work.”

  “I’d be home too if I could help it,” I say. “So how’s Rob doing?”

  “I don’t think he has the bad kind. You don’t feel like talking on the phone if you’re really sick. He’s sure he’ll have it kicked by Friday. In the meantime, he says enjoy the city on us. How are you liking it so far?”

  “I’m ready to start looking at houses.”

  “Great! I’ve got some fliers and business cards for some realtors if you want to take the time to do that.”

  I do. Hell, I’ve got today and tomorrow to fill until Friday—assuming Rob really does get better by then.

  Meanwhile, note to self: Don’t get sick. Wouldn’t it my luck that Rob gets better, then I’m the one too sick to interview?

  Yeah. Right. No matter how badly I feel this interview is going to happen.

  Meanwhile, I notice there are very few people out. At least they seem more or less okay. Maybe Jack was right—if we’re not sick by now, we never will be.

  In the evening I return to the steakhouse in the Power and Light District. There’s so few people there the manager comes out and talks to the customers. He hands out coupons for free desserts the sick people back home can use when they get better. Based on the conversations I’m overhearing, most people are here because it’s a break from listening to their significant others coughing and sniffling, and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

  Looking at the couples scattered about the restaurant I think of the old joke: they’re married, but not to each other. I’m not judging. After the last four years of waking to the terror of the same day it’s not just a new city I want. Hell, I’ll save the company a bunch of money and they can just keep me here. I’ll find a house and buy my furniture a piece at a time, paycheck by paycheck. Sibyl’s eighteen; Jack will likely move out here with me, so I won’t have to sweat child support.

  It’s not that I hate Claire or that I’m going middle-age stupid for young women or anything like that. Our you-and-me-against-the-world groove has run its course. That’s all. After bumping past each other in the house nearly every day since I got laid off, we’re done. After 22 years I expect she’ll be grateful to see me gone, too. She just doesn’t know it yet.

  I put away a few more tall drafts than I should. Driving back to the hotel is like driving through a deserted city. Not even a cop. Of course, it’s a Wednesday night, on top of everyone being sick.

  I’m riding the elevator to my room when she calls.

  “You’re sounding better,” I say.

  “It’s like being in the eye of a hurricane,” Claire says. “I’ve got a feeling I don’t have long.”

  My wife, the drama queen. “You need me to come home?”

  “No, no! We need this job! What’s going on? Have you interviewed yet?”

  “No. It turns out the boss is sick, too.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “He wasn’t as bad off as you were, from what I heard. Maybe he’ll have his ‘eye of the hurricane’ episode. Frankly, I think you’re just depressed and freaked out from being sick. Drink lots of water, get something to eat. For all you know you’ve beaten this thing already.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right. Just take it easy. We’ll get through this.”

  “I know. We always have.” A pause. “I love you, honey.”

  “I love you, Claire.”

  And so the scales of the evening are balanced, and I settle into my room feeling like the asshole I really am.

  “Honestly, sir, I’m not sure what to do with you,” Giselle says the next day. “I tried booking you a flight out but nothing’s going to Colorado Springs.”

  “So how about Denver?”

  “First thing I thought of when I couldn’t get the Springs. The earliest flight I can get into Denver is Monday. Even that’s not guaranteed. A lot of people are either sick or tak
ing off to look after their sick. No telling what it’ll look like then.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll take it.”

  “Oh, no worries, I’ve got you booked! I’m just saying there are no guarantees. Rob sounded really bad over the phone. I know my mother is suffering. How long has your wife been sick?”

  “Since Tuesday,” I say. “She woke up with it.”

  “Just like my mother yesterday. God, it’s like she’s at death’s door! And they say the hospitals are already strained past capacity, what with their own people sick!”

  “I could get back to Colorado Springs in the rental car.”

  “My God, that’s an all-day drive!”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “I’ll need to check if I can get away with letting you do that. I’m sorry. Most people here are out, too. I’ll give you a call by five, all right?”

  I tell her to do what she has to do, keep me posted, etc. There’s not much to do after heading out, though. The Kansas City Museum is closed. I spend the day driving around, listening to local commercial radio stations. According to the DJs, everybody’s sick. Drink plenty of fluids, sleep it off! Here’s a little “Peace of Mind” by Boston….

  I end up eating at the bar at the steakhouse. Everyone is pleasant and chatty but I’m the only customer they have and they no doubt feel obliged. I get a growler of draft to go. I’m walking out the door when I realize Giselle was supposed to call me. I check my phone. No messages. No missed calls.

  Shit.

  I call Claire. It rings for a while before kicking over to voicemail so I know her phone is charged. I leave a message telling her I love her, I’ll be home soon.

  3

  I’m not supposed to hear anything outside the windows of this state-of-the-art executive suite, and I’m sure that’s what wakes me up. At 6:30 on a Friday morning in early May not one school bus chuffs down the street. Not one street sweeper, not one garbage truck hissing and banging along the curb. No commuters on their way to their 7 a.m. shift start. No cabs. No downtown joggers or dog-walkers.