by Alex Myers
Henry thought it had to be Dick Haloran, Nattie's brother. He was supposed to ride to work with him the morning of the attack.
"Here it is—Dick Haloran, your brother‑in‑law," she said. She flipped more pages of the huge chart. The chart was much larger than an ordinary one. All the Apoc patients had a similar one. It contained: police reports, eyewitnesses if any, the location of the attack, everything from allergies to lifestyles. This chart wasn't an ordinary one, even for a MDR‑V6 patient, though. Henry Pigott had survived the MDR‑V6 infection and had not made the 'turn'.
"Here it is . . .." the perky nurse said. " Mr. Haloran was the one that found you. He is also the one, I believe, that reported your wife missing. We got most of your information from him."
"Did they check in house for Nattie?" His voice was starting to come back.
"Check the house? Oh yes, Mr. Pigott, they did. Your house, the garage everything, from what I understand it was quite through. They even checked the automobiles."
Even though Henry was lying on his back he slumped further into the bed.
"Mr. Pigott, you really are a lucky man. You were attacked by an Apoc. A very serious attack, indeed. The kind of attack . . . how should I say this? The kind of attack people usually don't recover from."
She thought as she looked at his chart. “You're the only person we've had here so far that didn't die once infected, or change‑over. You were almost completely drained of blood. You've been in the hospital about a day and a half. You have had a fever and have been delirious. But it looks like you've made the turn."
Henry knew she was trying to help, but he disliked her anyway.
"Mr. Pigott you really are quite extraordinary. There will be a scientist in later this afternoon. A Dr Porter, just to ask you a few questions . . . that is, to start. Anyway, the orderly will be bringing you some broth in about a half hour. Got to build that strength up, you know."
"Nurse?" he said. His voice cracking badly. She gave him another drink of water from the styrofoam cup. His lips were blistered from the fever, and when he drank the water it was like a sudden rainstorm in the desert. A river of wet ran down one side of his parched throat. He took another sip.
"Ah, that's better, how bad am I hurt?"
"Actually Mr. Pigott, a side effect of the virus transmitted by the Apocs is accelerated healing. Your shoulder wound has already healed."
"Then why all the bandages?"
"It's really more a brace than a bandage. The way you were thrashing around we thought we would give the ligaments a chance to reattach and recuperate. We were afraid you would pull a muscle."
"How long before I can leave?"
"I'm not really sure what kind of tests the doctors have planned. And I'm sure Dr. Porter has some tests planned also. The only thing keeping you here medically is getting you back on solid foods.”
The nurse left and Henry was lost in a state of fugue until his food arrived. He ate it slowly at first, then with such gusto he had another serving and a half.
The doctors came and Henry was surprised to find that he had been sleeping. He remembered what the nurse has said about the hospital being shorthanded on staff and was surprised to be examined by four doctors. They poked and prodded with an occasional 'oh' of surprise. They removed the IV and neck bandages. In addition to the four doctors, six other people were in the room asking questions. They studiously recorded the answers in notebooks and completely ignored Henry. He endured the perusal being only mildly grumpy. The nurse earlier had said that he was special and he was starting to believe it.
Henry thought the examination was over until the oldest of the four doctors was handed a the biggest needle Henry had ever seen. After hard pressing with his fingers into Henry's abdomen, he swabbed a spot and inserted the needle, drawing out a brackish fluid. Henry felt like passing out from the pain, then from the sight of the procedure. The entourage left without saying a word.
Henry was amiss. He wished he would have had a chance to asked them a few questions. He had already decided that he wasn't going to help the scientist if it meant staying in the hospital longer than was necessary.
In another hour Henry was feeling even better. His insatiable thirst surprised him. He drank a pitcher and a half of water, two glasses of juice and a carton of milk, and now they were making his back teeth float. He decided to get out of bed and venture to the bathroom to make water—bedpans could be so demeaning.
A long, steady stream poured out of him and he knew the true meaning of relief. He had two hands on the sink as he waited for the endless torrent to subside. He saw his reflection in the mirror. He saw a long pink scar reaching up to his neck from underneath the gown.
He looked up from his reflection and caught the eyes of a young, beautiful, well‑dressed, woman.
She was smiling and Henry realized the back of his gown was open exposing his hairy butt‑cheeks. "Listen, I'm too old and have too much on my mind to be embarrassed. Are you another doctor?" he asked.
"Yes I am," she said realizing she was blushing. "I'm Doctor Porter, Dr. Ava Porter from the Department of Defense. Did anyone mention that I was coming?"
"So you're the scientist, huh," he said climbing back into bed, "for some reason I thought you'd be a man. Listen I've been thinking about this and‑‑" She cut him off before he could finish. "Mr., Pigott how much did they tell you about my visit?"
"Nothing really. Except that you'd probably want to do some tests on me. I'm real sorry but I'm afraid I won't be able to oblige. You see I've got to get out of here, I've got things that need tending to."
"Why are you in such a hurry?"
He told her about the Apoc and about Nattie. By the time he had finished tears were in his eyes. The young doctor listened and really seemed to care. Henry had been so engrossed in telling his story or he might have noticed the smile cross her lips when he had mentioned the name Abaddon.
"Mr. Pigott," she said.
"Henry."
"What?"
"Henry. Call me Henry."
"Okay Henry," she said. She picked her words carefully, “You don't necessarily have to stay in the hospital in order for me to do this test." Was that a glimmer of hope she could see in his eyes?
"I'm real sorry, Dr. Porter‑‑"
"Ava."
"What?"
"Ava. Call me Ava."
"Oh," he cleared his throat. "I'm real sorry Ava. I'm going to be pretty busy once I get out of here." He stared at his hands, his eyes cast downward.
"Henry, what if I told you where you could find this Apoc named Abaddon?"
"What do you mean by that?" His eyes shot up with surprise.
"Oh nothing, never mind. I was just thinking out loud. Hey listen, I'm sorry for taking up so much of your time Mr. Pigott. I realize what a busy man you are." She looked like she was leaving. "I know you must have a ton of things to do."
"Now just hold your horses young lady! I'm not that busy. I'm mean, I'm not too busy to jaw‑bone a bit with a pretty lady. Even at my age."
"Mr. Pigott—Henry, I might be able to work something out if that's what you're trying to say. I'll lay it all on the line. I need to find out how your immune system was able to ward off the MDR‑V6 virus, but more importantly, I need to capture this Apoc, Abaddon—alive. The results from your liver analysis have come back negative. That means you are clear of any infection from the virus. They were going to keep you for a couple of days of observation, but I’ll make you a deal. If you're willing to help me I might be able to get you released by tonight. Unless you have an objection, I'll get the paperwork in order and have you released. Would six o'clock this evening be too early?"
"That'd be wonderful." His smile was nearly ear-to-ear. "But before you go I'd like to ask you a question."
"Sure."
"If we do find this Abaddon character if Nattie’s there, if she is sick . . . you know has the virus, is there anything we can do?"
"Yes, there might be, but it all depend
s on how quick we can get to her. You try to get some rest now. I'll be waiting for you with a car about six‑thirty out front. I'm going to send some of my people over to run a few tests on you in the meantime. Okay?"
"Not with that big horse needle again!"
"No not with the big needle, but they might draw some blood, though. Possibly scrape a few skin cells, but no horse needles I promise."
Ava Porter glanced at her watch; it was ten‑thirty in the morning. She'd have to be back here in eight hours. That hardly gives me enough time, she thought. The person she had to convince now wouldn't be as easy as Mr. Pigott. Oh well, off to the beach, I can use a little sun anyway, she thought. As the elevator doors shut behind her, she knew convincing Ethan Bell wouldn’t be as easy as Henry Pigott.
CHAPTER 13
LIVING CONDITIONS
The place had a different look than the other abandoned buildings on Oceanview Avenue. It was four stories, massive and gray with ornamental gun turrets high atop the four corners. The building inspired wonder from passers by. The morose, cracked and peeling building’s windows were boarded up from the inside If you looked closely you could see the old faded sign that declared it to be the King Henry Ice Company.
The large cracks in the parking lot concrete had waist‑high weeds growing out of them. Broken bottles; an old mattress; and a nineteen‑ninety-four Honda Accord sitting on its rusted frame, stood like sentries amidst the unwanted vegetation guarding the deposed king's palace.
Old‑timers in the neighborhood could have told you about the King Henry Ice Company. How back in the days before refrigeration, they used to cut ice from frozen lakes in Northern Virginia and West Virginia. They would ship the massive slabs of ice to the area on the Chesapeake and Ohio railroad. The area had an inexhaustible need for ice because of the booming fishing industry.
The entrance to the building was enormous. Two large drawbridge-style doors added to the English motif. The three‑foot-thick concrete walls kept the building cool even in the summer, much to the delight of the building's new residents. The amount of light entering the vast, central room was minimal, practically nonexistent. The main room was surrounded by six tiers of balconies. The floor of the room was sunk two stories below street level. The balconies‑-or storage areas, completely encircled the building on the inside. They once held items in cold storage, the more perishable items like seafood and meat near the bottom, and more durable goods‑‑like vegetables near the top. The ice slabs were stored in the middle under layers of straw. The walls of the building still had the layer of cork that was used for insulation, covering them, making the structure virtually sound‑-proof. The tiers let the hotter air rise to the roof where it was removed with a giant exhaust fan.
It was on these mezzanines that the Apocs now slept.
Sleep was a friend to the Apocs. Changing the internal workings of an organism was hard, tiring work. After a good rest the changes could be visibly noticed‑‑especially if they fed first.
Witnessing how they slept during the day one would think they had lost all sense of their humanity, when in fact, most of them had. What were once troubled and unsatisfying lives, now were filled with a sense of perverted purpose. To be an Apoc, was to belong. The first wave of people with the virus had been the homeless, the indigents, and the people that no one would miss. People in their old neighborhoods did notice the difference; quite frankly, they were glad they were gone. These were the people that had slept in doorways, abandoned cars, and in cardboard boxes. Yet the way they resided now was even more insufferable.
They slept three abreast, ten in a row. There was space for one hundred Apoc per tier, and all six tiers were filled to capacity.
Their comings and goings were at first accomplished through a system of storm drains, to which tunnels had been dug. There were six separate entrances to the building including the two main doors. There was no longer a need to be secretive in their comings and goings. There wasn't a neighbor left in a three-mile radius.
Most all the Apocs in Abaddon's throng stayed at the 'temple', as he called it. They ran out of space a week ago. They now also occupied the one hundred-room Oceanview Convalescent Home across the street, and the new twelve-story Beachcomber Hotel a quarter mile down the road.
The Apoc who called himself Abaddon, from the Hebrew word for destruction, lived in the posh penthouse of the Beachcomber. There was quite a contrast in the way the self‑proclaimed leader and his followers spent their rejuvenation time during the day. While his faithful spent their slumber in a David Copperfield-ish hellhole, his six-room suite was a tribute to excess.
Lavish, velveteen, red curtains draped the king sized bed in which he slept. The windows that once had a picturesque view of the Chesapeake Bay now were painted black. The walls boasted pictures ranging from the priceless originals stolen from the Chrysler museum, to the paint by numbers of Elvis on black felt. They covered every inch of available wall space. Half- burnt candles with dried pools of colored wax covered nearly every flat surface.
Objects they had looted from the new‑age stores: a statue of Suwanee the Devil dog , crystals in elaborate cisterns, enigmatic daggers with inlaid rhinestone handles, and books of magic and witchcraft fought for table space. Pornographic books and sexual paraphernalia were scattered amongst the mess.
The almost nonexistent amount of light entering the place gave the suite a cavernous effect. Abaddon lay asleep‑‑with a naked girl of eighteen two days into the 'turn'—on the large canopy bed. He had issued orders not to be awakened except for an emergency.
But to understand the one who called himself Abaddon, to feel his icy rage, to see the world through his hate‑filled vengeful eyes, you'd have to travel back through time twenty years to Reading, Pennsylvania, to when it first started. Back when his name wasn't Abaddon, but Brian Speakes.
CHAPTER 14
YOUNG ABADDON
Abaddon was at one time Brian Speakes, not a popular kid. Shunned in school by not only the 'in' crowd, because they thought he was nerdy, but also by the nerds, because they thought he was just simply a pain in the ass. He just wasn’t very likable.
He was always short and smart, having skipped two grades this made him even shorter compared to his peers. In the eleventh grade‑‑when most boys were turning 17 and already experienced their growth spurt, Brian was still on the wrong side of puberty. He was 14 and five-foot-one.
Brian also had been overweight through most of his teenage years. He wasn't what they referred to in the clothing stores as husky. Brian was fat. Big‑boned, large-framed, heavyset were some kind ways he had heard himself described. More often, though, it was pudgy, chubby, pig, fatso or lard‑ass. Someone once called him a Weeble, after an egg-shaped family of pre‑school toys that's slogan used to be: ‘Weebles wobble but they don't fall down’. The name just kind of stuck passed down from one cruel kid to another until eventually even Russ Wiltse, high school football coach and gym teacher started call him it too.
He had mousy brown hair that was always cut wrong, his mother always cut it, saying, "Why spend money on a barber when I've got a good pair of scissors?" His eyes were an ineffectual brown behind half-closed lids. His face was round and his features plain. If you did take notice of his face at all, you would notice the constant greasy shine it always had. About the only aspect of Brian out of the ordinary was his continual too‑loud voice, which made him appear overbearing and pontifical.
Brian's home‑life was where his real problems had their beginnings. His father had abandoned his mother and Brian when he was four. He went out to get a six‑pack of beer in his pickup and simply never came back. Brian's mother had blamed Brian for his father's farewell. This was not something he had to wonder about; his mother had literally told him so
every chance he could remember. His mother had a problem with alcohol, and promiscuity.
She blamed him for tying her down, saying it was little wonder why his father had to get away from him. Who could b
lame him? She also had to work a lot. She had dropped out of high school and didn't have a skill, so she drifted from one waitress job to another. His mother changed jobs almost as much as Brain changed schools. They drifted from one town to the next. So to make matters worse, Brian was not always the new kid, he was the new fat kid.
He often wondered if he came home one day and had found his mother dead, would he feel grief or release? Many of the men she brought home would beat him and sometimes her. Most were truckers passing through and eating at the greasy-spoons where she waitressed. The ones that beat her gave him secret pleasure.
In the small two-story house they rented, Brian's bedroom was on the second floor. The house had never really meant to be two stories; the top floor was nothing more than an attic with a small square of plywood haphazardly laid over ceiling jousts. Exposed rolls of asbestos filled the gaps between the wooden beams that were his floor and the downstairs' ceiling. To gain access to the attic bedroom he climbed the drop-down attic stairs accessible through his mother’s bedroom. It was stifling hot.
One night lying in the dark, Brian couldn't sleep. A myriad of noises percolated through the floor from his mother's room below. He noticed a light in his otherwise pitch-black room. Crawling on the itchy asbestos he came to a bare spot. He could see through a crack, light coming from his mother's bedroom.
He peered into the crevice and could see his mother on her bare mattress bed. She was flat on her back and drunk. She had a bottle of Thunderbird wine—what's the price? Forty‑four twice—that she would swig from in her right hand. Her left hand was exploring. Her arm passed over her globular abdomen, marred by stretch‑marks, an appendix incision, and rolls. Brian thought it made her look like a kangaroo with a pouch.
