Population: Katie

by Connor, Penelope

  We found the book after the Doc bit the big one. Dale made it his personal mission to read and decipher the book. He was certain that it held important clues that would help us solve... everything. He spent his evenings reading and writing notes on the back pages, trying to sort through the codes that made the most sensitive information in the journal useless to the average reader.

  I pick up the Book of Lies and toss it, along with my journal, into the messenger bag that sits on Ted’s old desk. Filled with momentary courage, I sling the bag over my shoulder and begin to climb up the ladder that leads to the hatch and the roof.

  The hatch fights my attempts to open it, which makes me even more resolute to go up there. I fling it open and climb out into the sunshine. The first thing I notice is that it’s nicer out than I would have guessed. Despite the perma-chill in the store itself, the air is mild, the sun warm and pleasant.

  I take off the shoulder bag and place it on the ground carefully, resolving to spend the rest of my day – or until I get too hungry – working on it. But first, I walk over to the edge of the building. Placing my hands on the thick ledge that surrounds the perimeter of the roof, I slowly look down into the parking lot in front of the store.

  I hadn’t expected them to be gone, but I had hoped there would be fewer of them. No such luck, I guess.

  They move around in an aimless sort of fashion, some with their mouths hanging open, others with their limbs dragging or swinging behind them as they shuffle forward. Most of them move as though the balance of weight in their body is off, resulting in limps that favor one side or the other as they go. There’s a restlessness to the group as a whole that I find very concerning. The size of the group is even more concerning.

  If they aren’t zombies, they sure look the part.

  Strewn about the parking lot, lying on the asphalt, and unmoving, there is a small scattering of bodies. The zombies don’t seem to notice their fallen comrades; they simply move around them as though they aren’t even there. I want to imagine that they are more zombies, simply resting, but I know better. Those ones aren’t getting up.

  I walk back over to my shoulder bag, sit down beside it, and dump the contents out in front of me. The pen tries to roll away, but I scoop it up quickly and stick it behind my ear for safekeeping. I reach for the Book of Lies, set it on my lap, then lean back against the ledge and stare down at the journal, willing myself to flip it open to the first page.

  Chapter 2 – Passive/Aggressor

  The journal is well worn, its cover made from a dark brown hide that looks like real leather. It’s secured shut with thick strips of the same material, the pieces so long that they wind around and around the journal several times. The leather’s soft and worn. Touching it is almost comforting in an odd sort of way. The journal looks like the kind of piece that my grandfather would have owned; stacked high on a bookshelf with the many literary collectables I used to gaze up at in his study while doing homework.

  I briefly wonder if the item was an heirloom of some sort. My mind starts to wander off to ponder what kind of family could have produced a man like Dr. Ashmore. Had they meant to raise such a vile monster, or was it an accident? Were they the kind that hugged too much, or not enough? Perhaps the whole clan was a bunch of homicidal misanthropes... or maybe he was adopted. Of course, depending on your particular beliefs on the whole nature versus nurture topic, one could theorize that he was a product of his circumstances. Maybe the Gov made him that way, hardened a once good and decent person into the man that I met here in the store. Or maybe-

  It occurs to me suddenly that I’m procrastinating again.

  I shake my head to disrupt the wandering thoughts, returning my focus to the journal. There are little paper tabs sticking out of various pages, but without knowing what they represent, they’re of little use. So I start at the beginning. The first page is mostly blank, the Doctor’s signature scrawled in the bottom corner. A carefully folded piece of paper sits there, secured in place by the edge of the leather cover. I unfold the paper to find that it is a letter addressed to ‘Danny’ and signed simply, ‘Mom.’ I refold it, and return the letter to its place at the front of the journal, unread. The less I know about Dr. Ashmore’s family, the better, although I am satisfied to see that my heirloom theory might have been on the mark. After that, the next few pages are just normal journal entries detailing the events of Dr. Ashmore’s day in ridiculous detail. The monotony is eventually broken up when I find a page that turns out to be a list of university credit requirements and a course schedule; not exactly a treasure trove of interest. Next are more pages of gratuitous detail about ‘Danny’s’ school days.

  I grumble and flip quickly through the next few pages, finding nothing more interesting than a hand drawn map of what I assume is a college campus, and details about the cafeteria’s apparently shady culinary offerings.

  I snap the journal shut and lean back against the roof’s tall ledge. I’m fairly certain that if I were to listen very closely at that moment, I would hear my brain snoring quietly inside my head. I contemplate trading the journal for one of the vampire novels in the book aisle downstairs, but while escape into the romantic antics of the supernatural sounds a lot more interesting than stalking the doctor through his early adult years, I can’t stand giving up so easily.

  I decide once again to turn to Dale for guidance. I flip to the back of the journal, where Dale started writing his own notes, and immediately find them more useful than the doctor’s.

  The first page in Dale’s section consists of a handwritten index for the paper tabs that he added to the journal. Everything is color coded, and for the millionth time, I’m thankful for Dale’s meticulous attention to detail.

  The green tabs represent periods of time. The first tab is simply entitled ‘Uni’ and is dated sometime in the past. Dale must have found this section as boring as I did as there are no further notes, just a time frame. The second section is entitled ‘Res,’ followed by a few notes, but nothing that I find particularly interesting. The next few sections follow similarly with titles like ‘Intern,’ ‘Recruit,’ ‘S’Angeles,’ and finally, ‘Gov HQ.’

  ‘Uni’ obviously refers to the doctor’s time in university. After that is Res... Residence? That made sense. Then Internship, then Recruit... Maybe being recruited into the Gov?

  “It’s a career trajectory!” I realize aloud. I look around, as though someone might congratulate me on my clever deduction, but seeing as no one is there, my ego goes unstroked. I grumble again and look back at the journal, content to talk to myself for the time being.

  “Okay, so each green tab represents when Dr. Ashmore took a step forward in his career. And with each new step, he grew closer and closer to the Gov and their secrets.” Dale confirms this theory, as his notes for each section begin to contain more detail. The ‘Recruitment’ section is when things start to get interesting. The doctor was definitely getting closer to something. Something big. But at that point, all of the journal entries were still extremely speculative.

  The big changes seemed to happen after he was offered a position at the Center for Disease Control and Research, as detailed in the ‘S’Angeles’ section. San Angeles is the vast metropolitan area that covers the bottom third of California. That’s where the CDCR and Military Headquarters are located, so it’s not hard to see how Dr. Ashmore got his next promotion.

  I read through Dale’s notes on the ‘Gov HQ’ section of the journal with genuine interest:

  Deciphering the Gov HQ section has become problematic. Notes rely heavily on diagrams, mathematical equations and scientific formulas. Without context or an understanding of these elements, there’s little that can be done with the information.

  Notes are making less and less sense... there seems to be some sort of code in place. Possibly related to the equations??

  Need an expert opinion.

  From there, Dale had made a list of people he knew who might be able to help. The list began with
his father, Colonel Bennett.

  This was, of course, all part of his plan to travel back to the big city where he and his father had been stationed before Lockdown Day. And by ‘big city,’ I mean Middleton. Although with a population that once peaked at 50,000, it wasn’t exactly a bustling metropolis.

  Whenever we debated leaving the store - how to travel, if I would go with him, if he would go at all, amongst a host of other concerns - we had never once mentioned aloud what we might find when we got there. Would there be a government? Would his father be there? Would there be anything left at all? By skirting the topic entirely, and blindly assuming that the answer on all accounts would be a resounding yes, we had avoided addressing the very real possibility that Dale, like myself, had no family to return to.

  But that was in the past. And as it stands, there are only two possible courses of action for me to consider now. Stay here indefinitely, in the safety and isolation of this store, or travel to Middleton in Dale’s place. And at this point, I have no idea which plan I want to act on.

  So I sit, paging through the journal, hoping that it will somehow offer me a solution, the concrete yes or no sort of answer that I was used to receiving in my days working at the MegaMart. Yes, you can apply for those vacation days. No, you cannot transfer back to Middleton. That sort of thing.

  But no such luck. I flip back to the index in Dale’s notebook to investigate the next set of colored tabs. Beneath the description of the green timeline tabs are blue ones. Each seems to simply mark an interesting piece of information. The first one is marked ‘Rat Studies.’ As I have absolutely no interest in rats or the study of rats, I decide to move on. The second tab reads ‘Vaccine.’

  Now that does interest me, so I flip to the second blue tab. The top of the page simple reads ‘V1-HT1.’ I assume that the ‘V’ stands for vaccine, and that the ‘1’ could have meant that he was referring to the first version of said vaccine. Doctor Ashmore had been working with a number of experimental vaccines. But what’s ‘HT1’ supposed to mean? Dale’s notes offer no concrete answers on the topic.

  Other than its name, the page offers very little information about the vaccine that it refers to. I flip to the next page to find another of the doctor’s frequent doodles, this time depicting a very familiar looking glass syringe. I subconsciously reach my right arm across my body and rub the back of my left shoulder.

  The next tab is marked ‘Infection.’ I close the book and set it on the ground beside me, looking up at the sky as though it might offer solace. Not even the sunny day can change the course of my deteriorating mood.

  I push myself up to my feet, bracing my weight against the ledge and tap my fingers. I need to relax. A silly bark of laughter escapes me. I need a lot of things really. I need answers. I need hope. I also need a real shower, and a hamburger, and human contact. I shake my head. For now, answers will have to do. And maybe the hamburger too, I decide, making a mental note to check the freezer when I return to the inside of the store.

  I sit back down and pull the journal back into my lap, flipping back to the third blue tab, which, according to Dale’s notes, will tell me about the infection.

  The top of that page, which is located well into the ‘Gov HQ’ section of the journal, is simply marked ‘Infection.’ The first page is written in plain English - no need to translate or scribe notes, which is probably why Dale simply bookmarked the page. I take a deep breath and start to read:

  Finally gained access to the HT Infection Project. Classification upgraded this morning. The first day in the lab was... brilliant. I’ve never worked with such fascinating, or dangerous, material. I’ve been assigned to the vaccine team, and will be reporting directly to the top, to the General himself.

  The General? That sounds ominous enough. So the General is at the top on this project... That’s good to know, I guess. I flip back to Dale’s notes and find an entire section dedicated to this General person. There is very little actual information on the page, as though Dale had hoped to add more details, but never had the chance.

  I flip back through the journal, skimming over the rest of the page wherein Dr. Ashmore prattles on about his new project with all the enthusiasm of a prepubescent girl talking about a cute boy. The second page reignites my interest as my eyes lazily scan over the words ‘symptoms include.’ I rewind back to the beginning of the paragraph:

  Test Group B remains the same. Meanwhile, Test Group A is exhibiting the same problems, symptoms include: lethargy, lack of memory, and limited motor control. However, they are better able to respond to stimuli, indicating at least marginal success for V3-HT1 and none for V3-HT2.

  There was that title again... although while the first reference to a vaccine is labeled ‘V1,’ this particular test seems to refer to a third attempt, hence the ‘V3.’ Or at least, that seems to make sense enough. But what was the ‘HT’ part referring to? This whole afternoon seems to be a lesson in futility. I have embarrassingly limited knowledge in the field of science, and know even less about the Gov. I might as well be reading a submarine manual.

  I roll my eyes and toss the journal a few feet away from me. Standing up again, I rest my forearms on the ledge so that I can look out over the parking lot. I watch the zombies amble about aimlessly. I pick one at random, a woman in a blue dress who I vaguely recognize from around town, and watch her for a few minutes. A small black purse is still strung across her shoulder, flapping against her hip with each lazy step. I wonder absently how long it has been there, and if it will remain tethered to her side forever.

  The woman in blue paces forward casually, one arm swinging lightly at her side, while the other hangs limply. Judging from the awkward angle at which it hangs, I assumed that it is dislocated from her shoulder. She doesn’t seem to mind as she continues on her aimless journey.

  I turn and walk over to where I threw my reading material, flipping back to Dale’s notes in the back. After the page that he had set aside for the General, there are only a few more pages of notes. It seems that he had not been able to finish reading the entire journal. That was probably my fault, seeing as I was the only person distracting him with requests for entertainment and companionship.

  I skip past Dale’s notes and flip down the corner of a fresh page, marking where my notes will begin.

  Pressing the pen onto the paper, I write across the top of both pages, in my usual messy scrawl: ‘Stupid Stuff They Do.’ It’s obvious that I’m no scientist. I place the journal down on the ledge and look out into the parking lot again. Soon, I have formed a short list of everything I can observe them doing in a relatively neat column along the left half of the page.

  * Slow and lethargic.

  * They shuffle when they walk.

  * Some drool, but most don’t.

  * Move and act without purpose most of the time.

  I spot the woman in the blue dress again and watch her for a moment. She is still traveling in the same direction, still just as slow, still swinging her one good arm. She pauses when one of the few shopping carts that are scattered in front of the store blocks her path. She regards it for a moment, head cocked to the side – a position that it seems to be stuck in – with her mouth open slightly. She reaches her good arm up to the cart’s handle and grips it tightly in her hand. I watch curiously as she takes another step, awkwardly pushing the cart forward with her. She takes a few more steps, as though satisfied to continue her trek with the cart in tow. However, the cart has other plans. With only one arm pushing it along, the cart begins to veer to the left until the woman’s arm is strained across her body as she attempts to continue on her chosen path while the cart, not so subtly, suggests another. She turns her head slowly to look at the cart, staring at it for a long moment, then releases her grip on its handle and continues forward without it.

  That was weird. Why did she try to take the cart with her? Why not just move around it... or push it out of the way? My brow furrows as I glance from the woman down to my list. I begin to won
der just how aware of their surroundings the infected people are.

  Looking up from the page, I shout loudly, watching as they all look around suddenly. Some continue forward while others change direction. Only one looks up to where I stand, high above them on the rooftop. I shout again for good measure, achieving similar results, then continue to write. I look over the last line I had written, ‘Move and act without purpose most of the time.’ I cross out the last four words and add below them ‘until provoked.’ Satisfied with my addendum, I add a few more points.

  * Attracted to noise.

  * Terrible sense of direction.

  * Relatively passive.

  I review that last bullet point, and then reconsider. I think about the ones that attacked Dale and me so long ago. They were anything but passive. They had come at us like sharks drawn to fresh blood... all teeth and speed. Like some perfect killing beast. Actually, I would rather have faced a shark that day. They don’t actually like to eat people.

  Well... I consider thoughtfully, tapping the pen against my chin, I can’t really be sure that the zombies like to eat people any more than a shark does. I’ve only ever seen them in action a few times, and each time, they were more just... attacking, as opposed to eating. I think it’s probably my fixation with labeling them as zombies that has me hung up on the whole ‘eating people’ thing. But still... the ones that attacked us were different than the ones that I see here. Even the times that I’ve seen these passive ones in action, they were still slow and lethargic, shuffling, and kinda drooly. They were the same then as they are now, only they all converged towards the thing that they wanted to attack, as opposed to wandering in seemingly aimless and random directions. It’s like... like they have no purpose now. Like they really are just waiting to be provoked. And once they are, the whole ganging up shtick seems to be all that they have going for them. I mean, they’re too slow and stupid to catch up with anything alone. It was the overwhelming numbers that seem to do people in. And, of course, the fact that they never stop or rest.