I walk to the corner of ninety-sixth where a broken water main floods the street.
Suddenly, the door to a building across the street from me bursts open. A redheaded woman wearing a pink robe runs toward me. She’s sneezing up so much mucus she can’t speak. She collides with me. Her eyes are blood shot, and her skin looks blue. The woman holds on to my arms. Her grip tightens and as she slumps to the sidewalk she pulls me with her. Bubbles form on her lips as she tries to speak. Then her eyes cloud over and she dies in my arms. She was waiting for someone, anyone, to hold on to. She wanted help. Help I couldn’t give her.
I feel dizzy. At first I think that seeing her die is making me feel ill, then I cough. Blood has splattered in my palm. I’m sick! I switch into full flight mode. I run to my building, remembering the red syringe Zilla had given me. I fly up all twelve flights. My adrenaline smashes through my nervous system. I whip my door open. The red box is still on the coffee table. I open the box and take out the syringe. Underneath is a drawing of an arm with a dot. Below the drawing it says:
‘Just so you know, your true contribution, all those cameras and listening devices you set up at the police stations, the National Guard, the defense contractors and the satellite control facility were filled with a deadly virus. They released the virus in an aerosol micro-spray. The virus is unstoppable, and so is our progress. The syringe is a vaccine. We believe in rewarding our soldiers. Thank you for your service.
~Zilla’
Without waiting another moment, I plunge the needle into my shoulder.
My head hangs and I feel like I’m going to cry, but there are no tears left in me. I knew it. My gut told me something was wrong. I didn’t listen. Why didn’t I fucking listen!
I hear a deep thud. Is it a bomb? Or an explosion? There’s another one. The windows rattle. Out the window, I see a Bradley fighting vehicle rolling over cars, smashing them into twisted piles of junk. The tank hits the sidewalk. Its tracks kick up debris. It’s alone with no support troops anywhere. I see a man in a tank top emerge from the top hatch. He’s got long hair, and he’s smoking a fat cigar. With dizzy realization I turn to face my empty condo. The walls seem to shrink. They push in on me. What do I do? At that instant I can hear Zilla’s voice in my head spitting out those conspiracy theories. I grind my teeth. I have to kill Zilla. That is the only thing I have left to do on this Earth.
Chapter 1.8
Ben
I don’t have a Ferrari to drive anymore. Sucks. I think about walking home but change my mind. I must be having a moment of clarity because I realize that the guard can identify me. I will be popped for this stunt. Maybe the judge will be lenient on me and only give me twenty years for poisoning millions of people, not life.
I decide to turn myself in instead of running. Get it over with. Three squares a day doesn’t sound too bad. I’ve still got some booze left, so I go back inside the treatment plant and wait for the cops to come get me.
I stumble past the offices and run my badge to access the mixing room. As I descend down the stairs I start to sing at the top of my lungs. Two steps down the metal stairs, I slip. I fall hard, all the way to the bottom, and blink out like someone pulled my plug.
I wake up lying next to the tap-water circulation tank with a headache the size of the Chrysler Building. Blood had saturated my hair and dried. What the fuck time is it? I check my watch. I’ve been passed out for, like, eighteen hours. It’s midnight the next fuckin’ day! I’m kinda surprised the cops haven’t found me here. What about the workers? Something weird is going on.
I decide to go home. They can pick me up there. As I leave, I open the closet and snip off the plastic tie that I’d used to cuff the sedated security officer. Oddly enough, he is still out. Now when he wakes he’ll be able to go home. He was cool to me, so it was the least I could do. Hell, I did him a favor. He won’t get sick.
The city is so dark I can’t see a thing. Oh, but there are stars out. The city that never sleeps is sure taking a snoozer. The summer air is so fucking hot. I must have descended into hell.
I walk to Broadway and turn south. My eyes adjust to the darkness only to see more hell. There are car wrecks all over the place and dead people in the shadows. I start running. I live on the edge of East Harlem, which is seven blocks away. I run one block before I am out of breath. A fire rages in the upper floors of an apartment building. There are people up there. I think for a moment about seeing who they are, and if they need help, but I decide against it. They are probably fucked. I am not about to get killed helping some strangers.
Further down One Twenty Sixth Street I feel panic rising. It occurs to me that this might be my handiwork. Did the bacteria Zilla gave me kill everyone? How is that even possible? It was supposed to get everyone sick. No one was supposed to die. I race all the way home. I need a few hits from my bong and a few shots of tequila.
My building’s front door is wide open. A scrawny dude is sprawled out in the doorway. I step over his motionless body. He must have been a neighbor, but I’ve never met him. Sucks to be you, dude. The hallway is so dark I can’t see my own hands. Someone upstairs screams. I just want to get to my apartment, to crawl into my bed and wake from this. It seems like a dream, a really bad dream.
I stumble to the stairway and start to climb. I feel like one of the Ghostbusters climbing to the top of Central Park West. I keep my hand on the railing while trying to keep my feet from missing a step. Three flights up I have to step over another body.
I pull my shirt collar over my nose, trying to cover a rank smell that fills the stairwell. That fails because all I smell is piss. I forgot I pissed myself. I find my apartment and lock myself inside.
The morning comes. I leave my apartment only because I need food. I drank and ate everything in my house and smoked all of my weed. I’m hungry, and getting hungrier by the second. Doritos just don’t fill the stomach like a fat burrito does. I’m also going stir crazy. My DVD player don’t work, and there’s no TV, running water, or lights.
Outside my door there’s a package I hadn’t noticed in the pitch black. It has a bright red label on the front and the words ‘URGENT’ stamped all over the box. I rip the tape off and open it. Inside is a red syringe suspended in a plastic package. High tech lookin’, straight from the corporate machine. I pick up a note tucked beside the syringe. It says:
‘Inject into your arm or die with the rest of them.
~Zilla.’
I plunge the syringe into my arm. So it was me that dropped the ultimate bomb on this city. I didn’t just make people sick, I killed them all. Shit. I kinda freeze for a minute, then I chuck the empty syringe down the stairwell. I watch it fly down the first flight, careen off the railing, and shatter on the opposite wall. It’s oddly beautiful. It holds me in its echo for a moment. I’m safe, right? That was my get-out-of-death-free card, right? I continue down the stairs, light on my feet.
Outside the air is sweltering. It’s frickin’ Hades out here. There are dark clouds overhead. Smoke fills the sky, staining the clouds yellow. Cars and bodies litter the streets and sidewalks. Trash and debris are everywhere. It’s like the aftermath of a big outdoor concert — except for the dead bodies.
After looking around I decide to go somewhere familiar. I walk up town a handful of blocks to Francisco’s Big Bellies, my favorite breakfast burrito place. If they’re deserted like everywhere else, I might find some leftovers. I round the corner. I can see Francisco’s front windows. Big brightly painted letters advertise the Big Red Chick Pig Burro. I like that one. Lots of eggs and red sauce and sausage. The front door opens easily. A bell chimes. Rick ain’t here. Neither is Juanita. She’s a cutie, well, was a cutie. Maybe she survived. Maybe she and I. . . never mind.
I walk past my favorite seat and go behind the counter. Chairs are knocked over. Half-filled cups of coffee still sit on the tables along with half-eaten burritos and empanadas. The muffins behind the glass display still look good. I grab one and cram it down my thr
oat and stick one in my pocket for later.
“You guys take an IOU?!” I yell with my mouth full. I find a cooler in the back with precooked food still lookin’ good. The power has only been out for, what, two days max? There are no eggs, but I find a tub of potatoes and a package of precooked bacon. I wrap them up in Francisco’s famous huge tortillas. I return to my favorite seat at the far end of the counter. I clear the counter with a wide swipe of my arm. I look at my cold breakfast burrito. My head feels heavy for a minute, so I just stare at it. This will be the last time I eat here. When the feeling passes, I hold the burrito into the air, “Frankie should have gotten a red syringe!” I shout. Then I tear into the burrito. So good.
After breakfast I decide to look around outside. I suddenly get a rush of energy. It’s like I am at that Bed Bath & Everything all by myself again, but this time the empty store is now an empty world. I feel like I’m a kid, too. I pass an old man, dead as roadkill, on the corner of Morningside Avenue, and take his cane. I walk around, swinging the cane over my head and around my finger. I run up to a car and smash the cane into the side window. The glass shatters and the cane cracks. I throw it aside and turn toward Central Park.
I wish I had that Nerf gun. Scratch that, a real gun. An R.B.F.G. A really big fuckin’ gun. I turn the corner and my desire is realized. There’s a sandbag wall sheltering a military Humvee.
Of course it doesn’t start. I check the dead soldiers for weapons. They have been stripped already, but I don’t give up. These guys always have backups. With my awesome good luck, I find a small revolver in the boot of one of the dead soldiers. It’s loaded. I look for more ammunition, but find none. Well, I have six shots, anyway. I move on, continuing toward the park. I want to use one of the bullets badly, but decide to wait until I get to the park. Maybe I’ll try shooting a duck or something.
When I get to Central Park I try to ignore the corpses. During their last moments it seems like they started hangin’ on each other. I see groups of bodies all heaped on each other like somethin’ out of Dante’s Inferno without all the fire. It makes my chest tighten so I look away. I go to the lake, looking for a duck. I don’t see one, or any other kind of bird for that matter. There are some dead birds along the waterfront and a ton of stillness everywhere else. It’s like I’m in the eye of a hurricane. There are dark clouds thickening and swirling around me.
I go back to the street and take aim at a traffic light. I breathe easy and slowly squeeze off one round. Boom! The traffic light bursts into shards. It feels good, but it doesn’t get rid of this dark feeling growing in me. The feeling is kinda like when I take too big a hit off my bong. I just gotta ignore it, but it’s there, in my veins, thumping and swimming through my body like death trying to crash my party.
“Hey!” yells some guy from across the road. He walks up to me. He has jet-black curly hair that’s clipped right above his shoulder. He has a dark black beard and, as he gets closer, jet blue eyes. He has a huge hiking backpack, water bottles clipped to his shoulder straps, a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck, and a pistol in one hand.
“Have you seen the military?” he asks. “Anyone, for that matter?”
He looks like a regular enough dude, so I’m not freaked. “Nah. No one left but dead bodies.” After I say the words, I want to barf. The feeling passes. “Where you headed? Looks like you’re gonna hike a mountain,” I say, trying to sound as pleasant as I can. Little does this guy know, I’m the killer, the mass murderer, even though I didn’t quite know what I was doing at the time.
“I’m getting out of the city. Everyone’s dead.” He looks me up and down as if he’s trying to decide if I’m real. “It’s gonna start stinking here in the next day or so.”
“Yeah, no shit.” I look around. “I guess I’m gonna do the same.” I actually feel better now that I ain’t alone, which is weird.
“My name’s Ian.”
“What’s up? I’m Ben.”
Chapter 1.9
Tanis:
It’s dark in this vent. Too dark. I yell for my Dad and scream for my Ma. I cuss every word I’m not allowed to say. I kick and scream some more. I black out for a while and wake up, hoping I’m just dreaming. Of course, this isn’t a dream. It’s so hard to breathe. There are so many other places I’d rather be. This is like the time when I was forced to go to the opera with my class and my Ma tagged along. That would be better than this. Or that time I was forced to ride a stinky, dirty horse. Or when I was forced to go to church. I’d rather be in jail, pinned under a Sumo wrestler, or on the sinking Titanic! The walls get tight. It’s like some creature is crushing my rib cage. I need to expand! To stretch out! I’m dying!
I pass out again. I don’t know how long. When I wake I check my cell. It’s dead. I finish the water I have in my bag. Luckily I have a candy bar in there too. It’s melted, but good.
Time seems frozen. I have no idea what to do.
I hear someone. “Heeeeelp meeeee!” I yell.
Someone bangs on the wall. I scream as loud as I can. Light breaks into the vent. It’s so bright. Someone’s hacking into the vent with an axe. They slam the vent again, widening a crack in the ceiling of the vent, right above my head. Dust from the broken drywall filters through the crack. It makes me choke and cough. A voice on the other side speaks up, “Do you have anything to help me pry this vent open?”
I take out my pocketknife. The blade won’t cut the metal so I fold out the can opener. That seems to work. I slowly work open the metal and squeeze out. A wave of relief floods my lungs. The wall has been hacked to pieces. I step through the wall and into someone’s office. I want to hug whoever saved me, but my rescuer is gone. There’s the axe leaning against the wall and next to it is a box with a red label. The label reads:
‘To the brave soldier that stood on the front line. Stab it into your arm. Otherwise, you die.
~ Zilla’
I open the box and find a red syringe. I hate shots, almost as much as that vent. I look at the vent. Nah, I hate that vent more than anything -- including shots, clowns, or that bimbo jockin’ my dad. I drop the needle into my arm and press the plunger. Heat travels through my shoulder and up my neck. I put my head in between my knees and fight a wave of the pukes. When it goes away I bolt toward the door. The entire floor is quiet. I run to my dad’s office. The door is still locked. I run through the cubicles. No one is around. Then I see a frosted window at the end of the cubicles. I see a hand pressed up to the glass. I take the axe to the door. The hand twitches. I try to peer into the room, but the frosted glass blurs everything.
“Stand back!” I yell. I hack at the doorknob until it flies off. The door doesn’t open all the way. A dead and bloated woman blocks it. A putrid smell hits me. I cover my nose and mouth with my shirt then peek into the room. All dead. I see my dad at one end. He’s lying on some strange lady. His eyes and nose are covered by thick, dark brown, gooey stuff. His mouth is wide open. I take a step back. Tremors roll inside me. No. Dad.
I run down the stairwell leaping two steps at a time until I get to the lobby. The big glass doors are locked. I swing the axe. The glass shatters but doesn’t fall. It hangs on the doorframe in wicked spider-cracks. I hack and hack with the axe until my arms ache and my shoulders give up. I carefully squeeze through the hole in the glass and step outside.
I stumble to the street, weak and tired. Very tired. The streets are packed with cars but the drivers have long ditched them or are dead at the wheel. There are bodies everywhere. Some are lying on each other like they were in my dad’s office. I take a step closer. Everyone is fuckin’ dead! I spin around. New tears come to my eyes.
I hear a neigh. I spin and see a horse coming at me! I jump but the horse follows me. It’s a cop horse and it’s got serious goo leaking from its nose and eyes. One eye is filled with so much puss it looks like someone landed a baseball in its skull. I run and the thing slams into the building. It falls to its knees making seriously strange sounds.
&nb
sp; I run so hard tears fly behind me. Some guy on the sidewalk spits up phlegm and chokes on it. I can’t help him. I can’t help anyone. I run while wiping snot off my face and onto my sleeve. I need my Ma. The smell of smoke and ash surrounds me, follows me, and burns my nose. I run across the street to a pay phone, but it doesn’t work. I turn around and around. Home. Which way to my home?
I walk for a half hour. I’m more relaxed now, but I still feel like something rotten is growing inside me. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. Is it? My stomach pinches me. It’s like knives are in my guts making sushi. It finally makes some awful growling noise. Bile bubbles up in my throat. I think I’m starving, but I don’t feel hungry. I feel sick and sad and confused. Among dead and bloated corpses, the last thing I thought I’d be looking for is a cheeseburger. First, I have to find something to eat, and then I can go home. I pass by a digital camera store, then a hotel. Finally, I see a small market. I round a burned out box truck and jump over a dead person. The door is locked, but I can see food in there. I pick up a trashcan and throw it at the front window. The glass shatters. Inside, the shelves are loaded. I grab soup, beans, and all the chocolate and gum I can carry. I leave with my mouth full of those little powdered donuts.
There’s a dead body sticking out of the cooler. It’s an old guy. He has a white apron and a photo in his hand. It’s a pretty girl. She’s around my age. I run out of the store as fast as I can. I want to scream some more. I want to hit something. I stand in the middle of the desolate street and cry like a baby. I sob hard, so hard it hurts my entire body.
6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 Page 8
