Awake

by Edward J. McFadden III

  Conrad stood in the shadows, watching. He looked like a demon as he crouched next to a tree; eyes red and his skin swollen and tight.

  “Tim, you need help,” Wendy said. As she went to help, Raul thrust out his arm and stopped her. He was eyeing Tim, who minutes before was crazed, but who now appeared to be himself again.

  “His wife is a nurse,” Raul said. “She can handle it.”

  Blood seeped from the leg wound, and Tim clamped his hand over it to slow the bleeding. The bite on his shoulder bled through his shirt, but didn’t appear as bad. Every few moments, he would look up at Maureen, fear and anguish filling his face. He was Tim again, but like the night he’d hit her, the landscape had dramatically changed. Whatever disease Conrad had, he’d given it to Tim when he bit him.

  Maureen handed the rifle to Raul, and went to her husband. She no longer loved him, but couldn’t leave him. As that thought floated through her mind, she knew that’s exactly what she needed to do. Lilly and Sheryl were either transformed, or had become food for someone who had. But how? There was no disease, no malady that turned people into monsters.

  The ride.

  It was 6:47PM. Not much daylight left, and they had a long way to go. With Wendy helping, Maureen dressed Tim’s wounds and stuffed some aspirin down his throat. He claimed he felt fine, but he didn’t look fine. The deep white lines on his face and body were the most worrisome. They were signs of the infection, and she’d seen similar scars on Conrad’s face when he’d reappeared at camp the first time. He’d already mutated once, but had woken somehow.

  “We need to wake Conrad before we go,” Maureen said.

  “Are you crazy?” Wendy asked. “Just leave him be. The police will be here tomorrow and a doctor can decide what’s best.”

  “But what’s keeping him from hurting himself? Or trying to attack an animal and getting himself killed. I say we wake him, and at least give him a chance to control his own actions. If he transforms back, what has been lost? It’s not like he’s coming with us,” Maureen said.

  None of them had anything to say to that. Maureen thought about how Conrad had sat against the tree, his weariness overtaking him. “I think all he needs to do is stay awake,” Maureen said, and behind her Conrad wailed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Miami is a sprawling metropolis. Neighborhoods bleed into industrial areas, and major interstates cut through the city like veins, with no regard for what’s around them. As Don left the relative quiet of West Miami, he saw that the crisis had escalated while he’d been fighting for his life in the burbs. The side streets leading out to County Road 953 were clogged. Cars and people packed the street. The poisoned air lie worked only if residents stayed in their houses, but all it took was one brave soul to start an avalanche of humanity.

  Some wore gas masks, others had clothes tied about their noses and mouths, but most didn’t even attempt to filter their air. Don sighed in frustration. As he’d expected, the day had worn on with no real news, and people became restless. The hourly information provided by the emergency broadcast system wasn’t nearly enough, and it took less than a day for the citizens of Miami to realize the true nature of the quarantine.

  Whatever they had on hand would have to last for the near future, and possibly longer. Everything above Alligator Alley was shut off, and that meant money was worthless for the near term. Goods were now currency, and though the military would arrive in force soon, no soldiers patrolled the streets, and only a few cops. This wasn’t surprising. Wars and military actions took days to ramp up. Deployments took time. The early responders were in the sky, and most likely among the people he watched, but it would take time to get large numbers of soldiers into place along with all the support necessities that came along with them. In addition, the president would never authorize putting large numbers of troops into potentially infected areas without them having the appropriate protection from the disease.

  Don stopped the car. “Stay here,” he said. Lester said nothing, and Tank made no sound. Don saw no one carrying guns, so he left the guns in the car. He threaded through the crowd to the corner, and looked up and down 953. The road was totally blocked going north, and the southbound lane was impassable, as people had given up trying to go north, and turned around and headed south. Many of the cars were abandoned, and it looked as though Southern Florida was hours, if not minutes, away from total anarchy.

  Babies needed formula, kids needed candy, and adults needed liquor. Lines of people trailed from all the stores along the road, and gas stations were packed with people on foot, filling all kinds of containers. Without power, water would soon become limited as the massive pumps used to move drinking water through the city and its suburbs failed to provide the lifeline that human beings can only live without for three days. All fuels would soon be gone, or stockpiled, as would medicine, food, and all the other necessities that precipitated daily life.

  The crowd flowed around him, forever moving like a mass of algae on the surface of a pond. These were people used to having the things they needed, and in the days ahead, they would be forced to create a new reality, one designed around survival, not comfort.

  Don went back to the car. He sat there several minutes, staring out the windshield at the people aimlessly going about their business. He felt Lester and Tank’s eyes on him, and shared their angst. The truck rumbled to life, and Don turned the car around. “Lester, do you know how to get over by Chicken Key via the back roads?”

  “Not really, but I’ll try. Turn there,” Lester said, and Don made a sharp left and headed south. “The good news is we don’t need to cross any bridges.” Tank looked on from the back seat, peering through the windshield as if amazed at what he was seeing.

  Soon backup generators would run out of fuel, and refrigeration and life support systems would fail. The information super highway would be reduced to Route 6 on Cape Cod during holiday traffic. Hospitals, sanitation, and most other government services would cease to function, and some already had. The military would provide provisions and aid, but that would take time, and many people would initially see the government and military as the enemy. Rumors upon rumors mixed with toxic bullshit would leave no agency free from criticism. As the quarantine dragged on and things become scarcer, and the rule of law receded into the past, survival would pit man against man in a way Don didn’t want to think about. As the population of sleepwalkers increased, the uninfected would find themselves alone amidst a sea of mindless enemies who saw them as threat, and as nourishment.

  He’d done this. He’d made the call that morning, and been so very sure of himself. As he thought about the chaos and deprivation he’d inflicted, he felt anything but sure. With an information void, folk’s imaginations were left to run wild, and that never turned out well. People would see enemies where there weren’t any. The citizens of Miami were now outcasts, and even now, there were newscasters relaying to the rest of the world what was happening, and he could imagine what they were saying. There would be YouTube videos, and public suicides. Parents would murder children using God and Heaven as their justification. The elderly would take too many of their pills, and cops would put guns in their mouths as they watched their loved ones become sleepwalkers. All this would play out via a bloodthirsty media looking to cover the apocalypse live at five.

  As if on cue, a white line inched across the sky. Since southern Florida’s airspace was restricted, Don surmised it was a recognizance plane. They were taking pictures, evaluating the situation. If Don was in charge, he’d want boots on the ground by nightfall, but that was a tall order. Putting in too few troops invited confrontations from citizens and walkers. Don estimated he’d need 10,000 troops to do the job right, but could deploy with as little as a 1,000. He’d create a command post in the city. Take the tallest building and some surrounding territory to start, and work outward from there. But he wasn’t in charge. He wasn’t anything anymore. The thought of going up to a cop, or soldier, and telling him or her he wa
s a high-ranking federal agent, but he couldn’t prove it, was comical. As would be any attempt to gain access to local police installations and military fortifications. He looked and smelled like a bum, and no talk of ID codes and threats of weather stations in Antarctica would work this time.

  Don still had his universal ID number etched in his brain, and he knew a way he could contact his people, but what would he tell them? He still didn’t have a sample of the chimera—if that was the cause—and he didn’t understand how it was being transmitted, so there was no sense taking the risks necessary to contact his people until he had something to tell them. In the end, that would be his only way out. Time was his enemy now. The more time they wasted, the worse things would become, and by dawn, the uninfected would be the minority.

  Every clue so far brought him back to the drug chain, so he’d continue on this line of investigation until he found a better path, and Dempsey, the biggest local ride dealer, was his strongest lead. He also had to consider the possibility that all the ride might not be tainted, and perhaps the release of the virus had been targeted, and only certain ride was poisoned. There also may be carriers with no symptoms infecting others.

  He also had no way of knowing what the researchers were up to. They might already be well on the way toward a remedy. That would make things easier. Don doubted it, however. He’d been as close to patient zero as possible, and he was on the case only fourteen hours.

  The plan had been to slip from West Miami and head to the coast down by Coral Gables, but they had to detour far out of their way. Every time they would get going in the right direction, they’d have to backtrack or turn down a side street. Several communities had already taken it upon themselves to seal off their roads and limit access to their communities. This was probably a good idea, except when night fell, people would go to sleep.

  This posed a unique problem. Since the disease was reversible, that meant all the infected could potentially be saved. So what would the world think when they found out the US was gunning down its own diseased citizens?

  They hit an industrial area that Lester recognized. He guided Don through a series of parking lots that moved them further southeast, and they came out in another neighborhood. Several small groups of people loitered on porches and in garages, and they watched them as they passed. The faces that appraised them were haggard with fear and worry. Don could almost smell the change in the air as the scent went from shit to rose-scented money. The houses had more stone than a medieval castle, and the foyer windows were taller than a cathedral’s. Not all the roads were blocked or fortified, but individual houses were. Vehicles were used as walls, and men brazenly displayed their weapons through the front windows of their living rooms. He didn’t blame them.

  “We’re not far now,” Lester said. Sweat dripped down his face and rolled off his arms.

  Don turned to him like he had just realized Lester was there. “Thank you for everything. I’m afraid your help is needed again.”

  Tank barked, and Don and Lester looked at each another. “You too, buddy,” Don said. “When we get to this place, we will infiltrate the house and take this guy Dempsey so I can question him.”

  Don had turned his attention to Lester, and for a few moments, he hadn’t been concentrating on the road. When he focused on the lane before them, two cars blocked his way. He stood on the brake, and brought the car to a screeching halt. He glanced in the rearview mirror, and two cars blocked the road behind them.

  “Shit,” he said. They were in a well-off area, so these folks must be desperate. Three of the cars blocking the road were SUVs, with the fourth being a large sedan. Don thought perhaps he could go around them, but the cars could simply adjust their positions and block him.

  He had two options. Ram them, or get out and try to reason with them, and possibly help them. The second option would have normally been Don’s choice, but given the current situation, he felt pressing forward would be the safest and best option.

  He dropped the Pathfinder into reverse and put the pedal to the floor. Tires hissed and squealed as the truck jumped backward. “Buckle up, bitches,” Don yelled. Lester pulled on his seatbelt, and Tank wedged himself behind Don’s seat. The two cars behind him had little time to adjust their positions. The Pathfinder crashed into both vehicles, and the SUV and sedan were pushed aside with a thunderous crunch of metal, and the wailing and ripping of rubber and plastic.

  As the Pathfinder broke through the blockade, the front wheels jerked to the left and the truck’s momentum almost flipped it. Don compensated, and pulled the SUV back on track. The rear of the Pathfinder was smashed, but somehow, the gas tank hadn’t exploded. The hatch was gone, and pieces of broken plastic fell to the road as he braked hard and came to a stop. He opened the window, and looked back up the street. Lester handed him the M16, and Don sighted it up the road, awaiting pursuit.

  There was none.

  The cars didn’t move, and Don thought perhaps they were unable. No one exited the vehicles. Don gave the M16 back to Lester, turned the truck around, and continued on their way. Don hadn’t been alert enough, and he’d almost put himself in an atrocious position. He could assume nothing any longer. Just because people owned expensive houses, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t panic. He would have expected that type of attack in the poorer sections of the city, where things were most likely already frantic. This neighborhood had generators, and basement freezers stocked with filet mignon and fresh fish. The people who lived here could sustain themselves for weeks if they were mindful of rationing, but Don doubted they would be. With the proliferation of apocalyptic fictions and end-of-the-world nutballs, there was no shortage of survival products. The US government even recommended its citizens create an emergency kit, and Don knew that at that very moment, many people were cursing themselves for not having done so. Americans are a spoiled breed, and these folks were most likely aggravated with the inconveniences they’d already experienced, and were certain things would be back to normal soon. This delusion was the greatest threat to their survival.

  Don knew this because he hadn’t grown up rich. His parents worked hard, but they wanted for nothing essential, and even had a bit left over for luxuries like off-base housing, cheap vacations, and cars. His father had once told him it wasn’t the size of your car that mattered, but the size of your dash. When he was very young, he accepted the phrase, not having a clue what his father was talking about. When he was twelve, and his father had returned after a long deployment, he asked what he meant by “the size of your dash.” His father had explained the dash was a metaphor for life. On your tombstone, your date of birth is listed, with a dash, then your date of death. It was the dash that mattered.

  “There,” Lester said, and Don was stirred from his reverie. “Turn there. That will take us to the circle.”

  Don followed instructions, and soon they were passing even bigger, gaudier houses. They repulsed him. Don saw every angle of his country as he travelled from town to town. This was extreme excess, and Don felt a surge of anger rise in him. These people would most likely shun him and look down their noses at him. He was a civil servant, after all.

  They hit a traffic circle, and took the outlet that led over a small land bridge that turned into Paloma Street. Don pulled the car off the road next to a large patch of mangrove trees and killed the engine.

  It was 6:54PM.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Waking Conrad turned out to be more complicated than expected. Like approaching a cornered animal, getting close to the sleepwalker was difficult. Maureen said shooting him was a last resort, though she thought they were close to that point. Urgency gnawed at her, but she couldn’t just run away like a coward. She worried for Tim, but not in the way she should. Maureen was concerned he would fall asleep or get knocked out and transform again. She should be worried about losing her husband, the person she loved. More than once, she’d almost suggested that Tim try to wake Conrad, since he was infected.

  �
�Just graze his leg, Bridget Jones,” Raul said. “You want me to do it?”

  “What if we throw a rock at him?” Wendy said.

  Maureen shook her head. She knew a rock wouldn’t work, but she didn’t think putting a bullet in the man was right. There was no way she was giving up the gun for any reason, so she’d have to pull the trigger. Conrad hid behind a tree, staring as the group discussed his fate. His hands shook as he gripped the thin tree, and his mouth hung open, but Maureen didn’t doubt he would attack at the first sign of a threat. She thought he understood them on some level, because transformed Conrad appeared to react to certain suggestions, or if Lilly was mentioned.

  “What if I punched him real hard?” Raul said.

  “You think you can get close enough? Without him hurting you?” Conrad was a big man, and he wasn’t himself. If he got hold of Raul, Conrad would injure him, or worse. There was the rifle, but for all she knew, Conrad would take a bullet and just keep on coming.

  “For certain? I can’t say, but we need to do something. We’re losing daylight,” Raul said.

  As the minutes ticked by, Maureen’s angst grew. Already the sun was starting its descent to the horizon, and soon it would be dark. She wanted to be off the island by then, even if it meant they only paddled a mile or two before they hunkered down for the night. “We can try waking him with a long stick?” Maureen said. She hated the idea and thought it was cruel and evil. It wasn’t Conrad’s fault he’d caught whatever disease was ravaging his body. She didn’t see how they could poke the man with a stick like he was a rabid animal, but she couldn’t think of another way.

  Raul didn’t wait for the group’s approval. He retrieved a long, relatively straight branch from a nearby tree, and stripped it of all leaves and smaller branches. When he was done, he had a pole of about fifteen feet, which was an inch around. “Now what?”