10:37

by Jacqueline Druga

  Blood.

  It was blood in her eyes. It had to be from her head.

  Morgan tired breathing, when she did, she felt it in her ribs. They ached horribly.

  Something was broken, but what.

  There were no sirens, nothing. With her other hand she reached for the door, but couldn’t even grip the handle. She was too weak.

  Another inhale, and Morgan drew in enough breath to squeak out a barely audible. “Help.”

  That wasn’t going to work, no one would hear her.

  She tried again, this time louder. “Help.” Her shoulders bounced with emotions and after one more attempt to scream out, Morgan gave up.

  The pain was too much and she started to cry.

  Just as she lowered her head back down to the steering wheel, her driver’s door flung open.

  “You’re alive,” he said.

  Morgan whimpered and only had enough strength to turn her head. “Yes,” she peeped out.

  “I got you,” he said. “Hold on. It might hurt when I get you out. You’re alive. Thank God.”

  He leaned into her. She didn’t see much of this man, only a brief glimpse of his darker skin and the blue of his shirt as he reached his arms to her.

  When he lifted her, it hurt, but she was grateful. A brief glimpse of the police badge on his chest, and Morgan collapsed against his chest.

  She was saved.

  Everything would be all right.

  <><><><>

  It wasn’t Judd’s first disaster rodeo, that was the reason he was able to keep his calm.

  He blamed himself. Ever since he was a kid it was like he was a magnet for trouble, but it was worse as he grew older.

  There was the one and only earthquake to cause massive damage in Kansas City, he was supposed to play that night. He stumbled out of the rubble of his hotel to massive casualties everywhere. He rolled up his sleeves and helped.

  The F-5 that struck outside of Oklahoma City … he was playing. He was whisked from the stage moments before the stage … was whisked away.

  There were many others. Judd just happened to be there.

  For a while the press had a field day with his reputation and people created memes.

  ‘Tsunami warning? If Judd Bryant is in town, you should leave.’

  He had seen a lot, been through a lot, but never anything like what he was now experiencing.

  Everyone was dead.

  The electricity was still going yet he opted not to take the service elevator. His very first thought was a terror attack, some sort of mega chemical weapon was unleashed on Akron, Ohio. Although he couldn’t figure out who would want to hurt Akron.

  It was the only thing that made sense though.

  An attack. Smoke rose to the sky and there were fires everywhere.

  Judd knew he had to find a way to get out of the city. A place he didn’t know, he was there for a concert. The music video was a last minute thing, decided on when they were in Lexington just one week earlier.

  He didn’t have any knowledge of Akron, just that he was in a construction site not far from a suburb. He took the stairs from the ninth floor, paused by Ben’s body to pay respects, then lifted his phone. He expected choppers or planes to fly over, but they didn’t.

  Obviously the area was quarantined, especially if it was a weapon.

  He had a signal and instinctively called 911. There was no answer and he went on the internet. The news site didn’t mention anything and he immediately logged onto social media.

  Again, nothing there.

  There was no way, in his mind, that the attack went further than Akron.

  So he began to walk the neighborhood.

  Not far from the site, was a main roadway. It was a mess, cars were smashed into each other, people slumped over the steering wheels, others had collapsed on the sidewalk.

  “Keep it together,” he told himself. Judd had a freak out moment when he watched Ben fall, then the others. He lost it. Then reality hit him that there was nothing he could do, but be what he was … a survivor.

  He called out as he walked, asking for anyone to answer, no one did.

  Two blocks into his journey, the main road crossed through a residential area. He walked through the parking lot of a convenience store gas station. Cars were at the pumps, people lay by their vehicles, some held the nozzles, as if they grabbed them in their final moments of life, pulling on the handles, toppling. Another car was pressed against a pump, the driver against the wheel, the vehicle hit the pump with enough force to spring a leak. A stream of gasoline flowed into the street.

  Seeing the button for the emergency shutoff, Judd ran over and pushed it. He couldn’t do anything about the gas already spilled but he felt like he had done something.

  There was a bar next to the gas station and a lone pick-up truck was parked there. He knew it was early, but the bar was his best chance for a television.

  He approached the single oak door with the lunch special notice and opened it.

  “Hello!” He hollered as he stepped in. “Anyone here?”

  There wasn't anyone that he could see, at least at the tables, the bar, or on the floor. The lights were low, but a case of beer was on top of the bar and next to that, the register drawer.

  Someone was getting ready to open it.

  The television was in the corner up high and Judd walked behind the bar to look for a remote.

  Behind the bar was a body. Judd deducted that was probably the bartender. Trying not to look, Judd searched around the register and found the remote in a basket with pens. He lifted it and aimed it at the television, turning it on.

  Some old movie played and Judd switched the channels until he hit a news station. At that instant, he froze. There was no ticker tape rolling across the bottom telling of breaking news.

  It was a single image. The camera angle was skewed some and everything was off center. Clearly it was a newsroom, the backdrop wall of televisions played static, while the anchorman slumped lifeless over the desk.

  Right there and then, Judd knew. He was ready to learn about the attack, ready to know how bad it was, at least he thought he was until he saw that. It wasn’t just Akron, it was everywhere. For that revelation, Judd was not prepared.

  THREE – POOR THING

  Dawson was so overcome with emotions, both fear and sadness that he passed out on the sidewalk in front of the school. Before he did, he kept thinking that his parents were at work and would hear about the school and come get him. He didn’t want to leave or go running off somewhere, then they wouldn’t find him.

  Like many boys his age, he had an imagination, but Dawson always took his imagination one step further. He was controlled by it at times, his extensive day dreams and trips to his fantasy imaginations were often the cause of many parent teacher conferences.

  “Save it for after school,” his teacher would tell him.

  Dawson couldn’t control it.

  If he saw a bird, suddenly his mind went elsewhere.

  He had day dreams about being a hero, fighting Professor Fry, the evil bad guy who tried to destroy the world. In his mind, Professor Fry was always the one and only man cafeteria worker. He was scary, the perfect bad guy to defeat.

  Even in all his wildest fantasy scenarios never did Dawson envision one like he just witnessed.

  He wished this time was one of those times he was told that he ‘lived in a made up world’, then he could shake his head, focus and make it go away.

  It wasn’t.

  All his friends and teachers were dead.

  Professor Fry didn’t do it. Someone did.

  He didn’t dream when he fell asleep, but he woke up to a loud whistle. A whirling sound that grew louder and louder.

  Dawson jumped, grabbing his ears. The sound was so loud it hurt. He looked up to see a plane shooting like a missile above his head. It flew low and on its side, so close Dawson swore he could touch it. It wasn’t the engines that made a noise, it was the plane cutting t
hrough the air.

  A few seconds later, not only was it gone, it crashed somewhere. The ground shook violently and a huge fireball erupted in the sky.

  He screamed and turned to run back into the school, when he saw smoke billowing up from the far end by the gym. He didn’t see any flames, but he knew there had to be a fire.

  Knowing he couldn’t stay there, Dawson had one option, which was to go home. He had never walked to school. His father always drove him and his mother picked him up. He knew where he lived, he just had to remember how to get there. That would probably be the second place his parents would go.

  He wanted to go back in and get his book bag, but he was smart enough not to run into a building that was on fire.

  After looking both ways, Dawson crossed the street and headed in the direction of his home.

  It was a blessing and a curse that Dawson loved horror films, more so that his parents let him watch scary things. Scary things within reason. Then again, they didn’t know half the stuff he watched because he would use his tablet and watch videos on line. After his father yelled at him once for watching ‘inappropriate’ videos, he just used his mother’s account. No one checked that.

  The videos made him brave and smart and also caused his imagination to take off.

  He walked fast, looking for landmarks, and when he passed by and saw the tobacco store, the one his father said didn’t really sell tobacco, he knew he had taken the long way home, but he also knew where to go.

  Dawson hadn’t seen a person at all, nor did he hear a dog or bird. He tried not to look at anything, the car crashes, or bodies on the street. He focused ahead, watching the black smoke from the plane crash as it darkened the sky.

  He stayed low and out of sight, keeping a keen eye out. He remembered the videos and movies and wasn’t ruling out that all those bodies on the sidewalk would stand up, walk and want to eat him.

  Aim for the head.

  That would be easy if Dawson was taller, but he wasn’t. He was pretty short for his age, the smallest kid in his class. His best defense against the walking dead was to run and hide.

  He hoped it was just a bad man or bad people that made it happen.

  Finally, Dawson made it to his street and he ran all the way home. Neither parent’s car was in the driveway. He didn’t expect that. They were working.

  He knew to go to the basement door near the garage, a key was there. It took him awhile fumbling and he figured out which way to turn it. It was when he opened the door that he finally noticed it. The sound of a lawn mower. Hearing a mower was such a common thing it didn’t register, until he thought about it.

  Someone was mowing the lawn.

  Someone was alive.

  He pulled the door closed and stepped out into the driveway, listening.

  It came from his left and his eyes widened.

  Mr. Westerman, a grandfatherly man who didn’t work anymore. He was always mowing his lawn. Pushing the old mower back and forth, up the small hill, even if the yard didn’t need cut. He lived two doors away and Dawson took off in that direction.

  “Mr. Westerman!” Dawson shouted as he ran. “Mr. Westerman.”

  The lawn mower kept going. A steady buzz.

  Sure enough, it was coming from behind Mr. Westerman’s house and Dawson sprinted back to his house.

  Once inside, he locked the door. In fact, he locked all the doors. He had to remember to be quiet. Just in case. If the dead got up, they’d hear him cry and scream, and then find him.

  They didn’t have a house phone and Dawson wasn’t old enough for a cell, so he couldn’t call his mom or dad, or even call for help. He thought about going to the neighbors, but didn’t want to see if they were dead.

  On the way through the basement family room, he paused and looked at the family picture above the fireplace. The one where they tried fishing, when none of them knew how to fish. His mom loved that picture and she looked pretty in it. Her hair was the same color as his, everyone always said that. Lighter when the sun hit it, but he looked like his dad, built like him, too. Not real tall, pretty thin everywhere but in the middle. They used to jiggle their bellies at the same time to music. It was fun. When he saw that picture, Dawson got sad again.

  He hoped his mom and dad were safe. He needed his parents to be alright. Something inside of him feared they weren’t.

  He couldn’t think that way. He rushed up the stairs and called out, just in case they walked home like him. There was no answer and Dawson was afraid to look around.

  In fact, he was scared of his own home and he knew what he had to do.

  He opened the fridge, grabbed drink boxes, the bag of string cheese, two of those lunch things, and chips. Arms loaded, he retreated to his room and locked the door and window.

  He moved the toy box in front of the door, grabbed his tablet, plugged it in and laid on his bed.

  There he would stay until his parents got him. He’d watch videos, all day and all night if he had to. It would keep him busy, take his mind away and keep him from crying and getting too scared.

  Dawson did that, losing track of time, far into the night until he fell fast asleep.

  FOUR – WHO ARE YOU

  The woman was hurt, pretty badly too. Ross Howard wasn’t at a loss on how to help the woman he pulled from the car, he just didn’t know where to start. Although he never thought about leaving her hair stuck to her face. It acted like a coagulant and the moment he pulled it aside to clean her wounds, the gash on her head bled profusely. It didn’t want to stop.

  He didn’t think anything was broken, though he couldn’t be sure. He had to wait until she regained consciousness, if she ever did, to find out where it hurt. Until then, he did what he could. He had to, he needed her to survive

  She was alive and he intended to keep her that way.

  Ross was pretty sure there weren’t any doctors or medical personnel, at least not close by.

  He was a realist.

  Something happened, something big happened and his mind spun with trying to figure out exactly what it was.

  In his sixteen years on the police force, Ross swore he had seen it all. Obviously, he hadn’t.

  It was a pretty uneventful day up until ten minutes before everything just died. An unusual occurrence for the Pittsburgh area. Ross was happy about that, he had issued three traffic citations and a warning, he planned to go out to dinner with his wife for their anniversary, even though it was still three days away. He stopped by Station Square to make a reservation and was on his way down the Boulevard when he and his partner received the call about a robbery in progress at a news shop. There wasn’t any money to be gained there, everyone knew that. Small time, it had to be some kids trying to get drug money.

  They pulled over with sirens blaring and hadn’t even had time to draw their weapons when the first shot sailed through the glass door, killing his partner instantly.

  “Officer down,” Ross called out. “Need …”

  Both gunman came from the store, one used an older woman as a human shield. His arm around her neck and a gun to her head.

  “Back up or I’ll shoot her,” the young man said. “I mean it.”

  Ross knew he did, but he didn’t have time to react.

  It happened. Ross saw it first.

  For a second everything rippled before his eyes. Like when heat rises off a barbecue, distorting everything with a wavy effect. Ross thought it was his blood pressure, after all his heart was racing out of control. Then his throat and nose burned out of control, which happened a moment before he lost his ability to take in air.

  He tried, nothing would enter his lungs. It wasn’t just him. The two assailants, the older woman were worse off. They turned blue before his eyes, dropping their guns, grabbing their throats before finally taking a lifeless nose dive to the pavement.

  Was it because he was bigger? Ross didn’t know, but he fought through it, and was grateful he did, had he lost consciousness he would have been killed when
a car, full speed ahead, jumped the curb, ran over the two assailants then crashed through the window of the news shop.

  He gasped as he was finally able to breathe, he did so in enough time to dive out of the way of another car.

  Ross realized those on the street weren’t the only ones keeling over, people in their cars were, too.

  The Boulevard was a busy street and those who dropped on the sidewalk looked like roadkill when cars from the road just smashed over them.

  He was, from what he could tell, the only person standing and he raced into the bank, nearly tripping over the bodies on the floor as he made his way to the far back wall near the vault.

  He felt safe there from any wayward vehicles. At least he would see them coming.

  It only took a minute for it all to stop.

  When it did, Ross waited a few more minutes before heading outside.

  Continuous car horns rang out along with hissing sounds from smashed cars. Vehicles were toppled over each other. So much was a mangled mess.

  He walked to the street, placed his hands to his head and turned around. The wreckage was everywhere.

  It was a chemical attack. It had to be. Something new, something he hadn’t heard of. That’s why he saw the ripple and felt the burn, that was the only thing that made sense. How did he survive it? He looked at the bodies on the ground, those in the cars, they were all blue. Asphyxiated blue.

  Ross grabbed the radio and pressed the button. He made his call to the station, waited, hearing nothing.

  “Come on,” Ross beckoned, then tried again. Still nothing. “Anyone!” he shouted out. “Can anyone hear me?”

  He heard the squeak of a car door and he looked up. Across the street, he watched a young man of maybe twenty stumble from a car.

  “Thank God.” Ross rushed over to him. “Son, hold on. You may be injured.”

  The young man turned around, a metal object protruded from his chest. His eyes met with Ross. “Help me.” He pleaded.

  Ross reached for him, but the young man fell to the ground. Immediately he lowered himself to the man and felt for a pulse, but the young man had died. It was something different for Ross to think about though as he didn’t die from whatever happened.