by T. W. Brown
Yes! Shaw thought as he stood. I will have my retribution!
“While the subjects continued to show no signs of a more advanced decay, there are signs of a hibernation-like dormancy that is currently been observed to last for more than one hundred seventy-six hours, eleven minutes, and eighteen seconds,” Reginald dictated into a microphone extended above his head. “They do not process what they eat, as displayed by Subject Two who has had his entire digestive system removed. An EEG reveals no response, nor has any other monitoring systems…see readouts in notebook labeled “five” for more details.”
Reginald pressed the handheld remote and stopped the recording to take a bite of his apple. Glancing over at the containment chambers, he noticed that the one in the salt water had moved to the front and was pawing at the glass feebly with one hand.
He walked over to take a closer look. The subject’s head turned his direction. None of the others seemed to notice or care. He walked up to the thick safety glass and stared up at the dead, filmed over eyes. It seemed to consider him as well, its one hand pausing for a moment from its exercise in futility.
“Do you have any comprehension?” Dr. Reginald Cox asked…then chuckled.
Of course it didn’t. They classified that hypothesis as a scientific fact back when there were still three scientists in this bunker.
The creature began to pound on the glass. Well, as much as it could. It had no concept of drag, so, in a forced slow motion, it continued about its futile attempts against the smooth surface. Reginald reached up and placed his hand against the glass. The zombie leaned forward, trying in vain to bite him.
“Amazing,” Reginald said and shook his head. He returned to the subject strapped down to the table.
With a scalpel, he went through the process of removing the esophagus. When he was finished, he wheeled the subject into the safe room—a ten-by-ten room of stainless steel. These were the times he missed his co-workers. This was supposed to be a two-man evolution.
He unlocked the leg bindings first. The subject immediately began the slow churning of its limbs; almost like it was riding a bicycle. He unstrapped the head, then the arms. In one quick motion, he dumped the gurney sending the body tumbling gracelessly to the floor. He pulled the gurney as he backed out of the room, then slammed the door shut.
When he returned to the observation window, it was barely making it to his feet. Still, he always had the feeling in the back of his mind that these things would play possum one of these times, and in an uncharacteristic display of speed, hop to its feet and tackle him.
Reginald went the large box and peered inside. “And how is Missy today?” he asked, reaching down and gently stroking the female calico curled up, five kittens nursing at her belly. “I’m just taking one.”
He picked an orange kitten that looked like a miniature Morris. Its immediate mewling and frightened cries began. Missy yowled, rising up, heedless of the four remaining kittens which tumbled into a heap.
“I know, Missy,” Reginald said with a sigh. “But we all must make sacrifices.”
He went back to the chamber. His former colleague, Dr. Fox, stood at the window. Reginald turned the handle and opened what looked like a giant deposit box. He placed the kitten inside and closed the door. Then, operating a series of switches, he effectively opened a second odor inside the chamber and dumped the contents of the box.
He watched the subject’s head jerk to the right. Its body followed, albeit slowly, and began moving. The kitten’s eyes had not yet opened and it provided an easy target. Reginald watched, clipboard in hand, as it was scooped up. It vanished in five bites. Reginald observed furry, bloody clumps fall from the hole in the subject’s throat.
“Fascinating,” he whispered, then remotely activated the recorder.
“Subject, designated “F” consumes in the same manner as before. Removing the esophagus has no effect. Reminder: Subject F has no digestive system. Everything it consumes can be visibly seen falling from either opening. Conclusion: subject receives no nutrients, nor any other discernable benefit from consuming its supposed food.
“Excellent work today, Dr. Fox,” Reginald said after switching off the recorder. “I’ll come back and clean up you and the mess you made a little later. I’ve got a new batch of wine…and Lucy is waiting.”
Removing his gloves and tossing them in the disposal, he washed up and grabbed the one hundred twenty-eight ounce beaker of dark red liquid and headed towards the door turning off the banks of lights when he went.
Entering the decontamination sally-port, he allowed himself to savor the giddy excitement over the possibilities of the upcoming evening. The last two times he’d produced his wine, she’d been a different person. The last couple of days she’d returned to the detached, distant, ill-tempered—and on one occasion violent—woman that seemed to be her normal nature. That had been the night she’d asked if he could manufacturesomething a little stronger than wine. When he suggested the possibility of brandy, Lucy had gone into one of her fits. She wanted meth. He’d refused of course. They hadn’t spoken since. Well…more accurately, shehadn’t spoken to him. This beaker was his peace offering. He was certain that after a few glasses, all would be right in the world again.
Well, at least in the world they had left.
Mackenzie closed the door quietly and padded over to the bed. She looked down at the man who lay sleeping and checked his bandages. Not even a little spotting today, she observed. He was through the worst. It was time to start cutting back on his pain medications. She opened the brown bottle and shook one pill onto her palm. Dropping it into a small cup, she crushed it and added lukewarm water. She stirred the mixture for a while, then cradled the man’s head in one arm, raising it and slowly rousing him just enough so he would reflexively swallow.
After ensuring that his bedding hadn’t been soiled, she headed for the door. Before opening it, Mackenzie paused and looked over her shoulder. “We have some things to talk about, Keith Thomas…so you hurry up and get better.” Then she left.
“How’s that dude?” Juan asked as Mackenzie strolled into the kitchen.
“He should be fine.” Mackenzie grabbed a honeydew melon from the shelf and cut it in half. “I expect him to regain consciousness any day now.”
“So, I imagine you’ll want to stay around the house for the next couple of days.” Juan shook his head when Mackenzie offered the other half of the melon.
“No.” She leaned on the counter directly across from the large man. There was something weird in his voice. And for some strange reason, he wasn’t making eye contact. Instead, he was staring at the floor. “Why would you think that?”
Juan mumbled something indecipherable and resumed sliding his Crocodile Dundee-looking knife across the whetstone. Mackenzie watched him for a moment waiting for an actual answer.
“Juan?” Mackenzie reached over and placed one hand on his…the one holding the knife. “Is something wrong?”
The big man stopped sharpening, but still wouldn’t look up. She felt a slight tremor in his hand. This was as un-Juanlike as she could imagine. Why was he acting like a—
“Seriously?” she said fighting back a laugh. She knew well enough that laughing at this exact moment was precisely the wrong thing to do. “Is this about Keith?”
“What?” Juan’s head popped up and she didn’t need him to answer the question. She saw it all in his big, sad, puppy dog eyes.
Mackenzie sat down the spoon and the melon half that she had only taken two bites of. She walked around the counter and directly up to Juan who had dropped his head again, but hadn’t resumed sharpening. She stepped right up to him, her body pressed against his side. She could feel each breath he took.
Gently, she reached up with both hands and took his face, turning his head towards her. Reluctantly, Juan turned to face her. He still looked at the floor, but at least he let go of his knife, sitting it on the counter beside his stone
. His arms dangled at his side swaying slightly like a pair of heavy pendulums.
“Juan,” Mackenzie whispered, stepping into him and looking up into his eyes, “are you jealous?”
Slumped shoulders raised and lowered slightly as he muttered something. His eyes darted left and right as he looked like he was searching for somewhere to run and hide.
“You are!” She smiled, leaning just a little closer so that the entire length of their bodies were touching. Lifting up on her toes, she laid a soft kiss on his lips.
Juan’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He looked down at Mack-enzie with what she thought was the most adorable look of confusion that she had ever seen. Reaching up, she pulled his head down close and kissed him again. This time much deeper. It took a few seconds, but eventually, with all the awkwardness of a schoolboy, his arms wrapped around her. It was exactly like she imagined it to be. His strong arms circled her in a ring of protection that gave both a distinct sensation of incredible power, yet amazing gentleness.
“Ummm…” Juan reluctantly allowed their lips to separate. He could taste the sweetness of the honeydew melon from her tongue in his mouth and knew that forever, that taste would remind him of this moment. “What’s with all of this?”
Catching his chin for a second with a playful nip, Mackenzie smiled. This time she allowed the laughter to come through in her voice as she spoke. “I’m in love with you, Juan Hoya,” she said looking into his eyes. “You big dummy! Now come on, sunrise is at least an hour away.”
“Tight,” Juan said as a smile spread wide across his face. “Tight like a tigah.”
Together, with Mackenzie leading Juan by the hand, the two went up the stairs to Mackenzie’s room. Margaret stood in the shadows just inside her bedroom as they passed. She remained still, not wanting the pair to know that she was awake. Once she heard the click of her daughter’s door closing, she allowed herself to breathe. She slipped silently down the hall and made her way down the stairs to the empty kitchen.
Thank God, she thought, picking up Mackenzie’s melon half and spoon. Now, if something does happen to me…at least she’ll be watched over.For the first time since all of this madness had begun, Margaret Simms felt at peace.
Chad Meyers raised his right hand, fist clenched, signaling the group to halt. They’d cut through an almond tree orchard and had reached the edge. A long, dirt road ran the length. Across that was a deep irrigation ditch. The fence was a simple three-strand barbed wire one that nobody would have any problem ducking through. That wasn’t the problem, or the reason, that Chad had signaled a halt.
The four-lane road on the other side of the fence was a bit of a concern. A military blockade had been in place here. The vehicles still remained…mostly. Something had gone terribly wrong. A fire had left everything blackened. In fact, looking closer, he could see where the pavement looked rippled in places. Charred husks littered the area. Whether they had been soldiers, civilians, or zombies were impossible to tell. Across the road, a tan, stone fence marked off a residential area.
Everybody gathered in close, many craning their necks to peek at the wreckage beyond. Chad noticed Ronni edge close to him. It was strange how she seemed to keep her distance as they travelled, but whenever they stopped, it was as if she were iron and he a magnet.
“I think that the group should wait here and a few of us should check the road. We need to get a look at how things are on the other side of that fence,” Chad said.
“I’ll come.” Scott Colson raised a hand. Scott had stepped in the other day when Sheriff Glenn Kollars had arrived in the midst of their group. Chad being a convicted felon of the most unsavory type created an instant and nasty tension. He was surprised when this total stranger had taken his side in the little standoff. But since then, the two hadn’t really spoken.
“I’m in, too,” Brett Simmons, his old high school buddy said as he stepped forward.
“Okay, everyone else stay put,” Chad said. “We won’t be long. If it looks safe we’ll hurry back and gather everybody.”
“What’ll we do if you three don’t come back?” Sandy Miller, a woman whose peroxide-blonde days were over whether she liked it or not, and who had been much heavier if his memory of the woman had served him correctly, stepped forward and asked.
“Keep heading up to the hills and away from the populated areas,” Chad replied. He glanced at his daughter. Ronni was leaning on a tree, her backpack already unslung and on the ground beside her. She seemed to be intentionally not looking his way.
“Let’s go, Chad.” Scott nudged his arm.
The three men had reduced their load significantly. Chad carried a hand axe with a .357 in a holster at his hip. One pocket bulged with a handful of bullets. Scott held an aluminum baseball bat stained from use, and a Glock. Brett gripped a katanathat Chad didn’t remember seeing before. He wore a shoulder holster with a Glock as well.
Crossing the dirt road was easy, as was the ditch, and even climbing through the fence. However, once they were out on the wide expanse of road, things seemed suddenly much more… frightening was the word that came to Chad’s mind. He looked both ways. Occasional shadows of movements could be seen, but nothing close.
They skirted the edge of the cluster of burned out vehicles. The smell of cooked flesh still hung in the air despite the fact that this wreckage had cooled long ago. Upon closer inspection, Chad noticed that many of the bodies had been picked clean.
“Birds,” Chad whispered.
“What?” Brett glanced over.
“I don’t see any,” Chad replied. “But those bodies were picked almost clean and I am guessing it was by birds.
“So?” Brett raised an eyebrow.
“If those birds ate people who were infected, or worse, those who were already zombies, then maybe those birds are—”
“Zombies?” Scott finished the thought.
“You think they can still fly?” Brett began glancing nervously skyward.
“I doubt it,” Scott said. “I mean, people who turn can barely walk. It wouldn’t seem likely that some sort of zombie bird would be flying.”
“Sorta like it wouldn’t seem likely that some people who die wouldn’t get up and start eating the living?” Brett quipped.
“It’s a matter of physics—” Scott shot back.
“Later,” Chad interrupted. “We can argue all of this stuff around the campfire tonight. For now, let’s just get to that wall and see if we can cut through here.”
The three men moved in silence. Each of them, including Scott, cast a wary eye to the sky more than once. After they gained the far side of the road, the trio took a good look around. The brush and tall grass on this side could easily hide one of those things that might be missing its lower half. Also, a few figures had stumbled out of the shadows and were moving their direction.
Chad looked back at the almond tree grove where his daughter and the others were waiting somewhere out of site. It suddenly seemed like a thousand miles away. He didn’t like leaving Ronni behind. Despite the others that were with them, they were all each other had. He wasn’t going to make it a habit of taking on all of the scouting missions.
“Give me a boost,” Scott said, snapping him out of it. Lacing his fingers, Chad gave Scott a purchase to step into. As he gripped the top of the wall and pulled himself up. Brett stood a few feet away, katanadrawn, scanning the area and trying to determine which of the approaching figures might reach them first.
“Christ on a cracker,” Scott breathed, and lowered himself, stepping out of Chad’s hands and dropping to the ground.
“What?” Chad asked.
Scott didn’t say a word. He simply laced his own fingers and indicated with a nod that Chad take a look for himself. He stepped into Scott’s hands and pulled himself up. The hellish nightmare that unscrolled before him took his breath away. Since early on, he, Donna and Ronni had been in one of the few FEMA rescue stations; Modesto High School.
The st
reets of the neighborhoods were littered with garbage, body parts, corpses swarming with flies, and wrecked vehicles. Singles and groups of the undead wandered about aimlessly. Houses were burned down, some swarming with clusters of zombies clawing at the walls, windows and doors. Others had been busted into, and all the glass on the ground floor shattered, doorways turned in to gaping holes of darkness. Some houses had sheets fluttering from second floor windows with messages like: “HELP!”, “FIVE INSIDE”, or “SOS” painted on them. It didn’t look like there were any survivors. Also, they wouldn’t be cutting through here.
“Well?” Brett asked, edging towards the nearest of the zombies that were closing in on them from all directions.
“We keep moving,” Chad said, dusting his hands off on the seat of his pants. “Further up, there’s an overpass if I recall. It’s worth a look.”
“Sounds like as good of a plan as any,” Scott agreed.
Brett stepped forward, swinging with both hands. The razor-sharp blade sliced nearly two-thirds of the way through just below the temple. With a push, he forced the body to slide from the blade. After wiping it off on the tattered remnants of the thing’s shirt, he took after Scott and Chad who were already hurrying back across the four-lane road.
Kimberly Gant stared up at the canopy of branches. She couldn’t see a single cloud in the blue sky above. Focusing on those branches, she looked for shapes, designs or patterns in the leaves. Anything to occupy her mind while Duane Bowers huffed and puffed in time with his rhythmic thrusting. She was vaguely aware that he’d increased tempo. With a muffled groan, he shuddered and stopped.
