Dark Humanity

by Gwynn White

His parents stopped paying for his monthly cell phone service as punishment for one of his exploits—he couldn't remember which—and they wouldn't even turn it back on as he left for Grandma's. Talk about cruel and unusual. But once there, his grandma insisted his phone be turned back on so she could communicate with him using her standard telephone. He had to grudgingly thank her for helping him regain such an important piece of his technological repertoire. It linked him with Grandma, but more importantly, it linked him back up with his friends.

  When they weren't discussing their games, he and his friends were constantly talking about horror movies, TV series about zombies and similar supernatural thrillers. They all read the same kind of books too. He was interested in lots of genres of horror but capitalized most of his non-game time by reading the classics on the end of the world: The Stand, Earth Abides, Alas Babylon, and countless zombie stories. Of course, he and his friends visualized themselves as the heroes who saved the world. They even played video games where they could be those heroes. When they talked theoretically about what would happen if the world did end, most of his friends believed they would meet the fall of civilization standing up, facing the harsh new realm with a cool and detached form of heroism. They would be the guys taking out the zeds, zacks, or whatever. Chasing away the corrupt government. Exterminating the barbarian cannibals. And they'd naturally be coveted by buxom women.

  He was filled with bravado in front of his friends but privately wasn't so sure he was ever destined to be more than an extra when the movie version of the demise of society was filmed. Most books packed-in characters who defied all the odds to survive. Some had quirky skills that just happened to be what was needed at that particular moment—sort of like the old gardener who had used a spade for fifty years and could miraculously detach zombies from their heads with it. He knew that just didn't happen.

  He accepted he would probably be an infected loser when the end came. Books only show the heroes. Everyone else gets sketched into the background as mindless extras, though each one has a story as rich and detailed as the hero. As humans succumb to infection, either by malfeasance, poor clothing choices, or just dumb luck, they instantly transferred from the “important” column to the “afterthought” column in book after book.

  The guy who thinks he can shoot a crowd of infected at point-blank range.

  The girl who tries to run away only to stereotypically trip and fall.

  The unsupervised child who innocently lets the undead into the house. Those guys.

  I don't want to be those guys!

  At that moment, he heard gunshots from somewhere to his right. He yanked off his ear buds. He knew the sound from his time at the gun range with his mom and dad. You can't mistake the sound of someone banging out round after round from a gun. Then a second and third chain of rat-tat-tats started to hammer. Like it was a bank robbery or something.

  At least I'd recognize the zombie uprising before some librarian.

  Then a tornado siren began to howl—coming from the direction of home. He could also hear another one starting up somewhere behind him. Clear skies were overhead. The morning kept getting weirder.

  Unperturbed, he decided to drop into the little corner market for his daily infusion of whatever energy drink was on sale. It helped him survive the tedium of living at Grandma's. He'd need an extra or three if he'd have to hole up until tomorrow.

  Walking in, he could see a few patrons up near the checkout counter. They were all huddled around a small radio. He immediately recognized the grating voice of the President of the United States.

  “—you must stay in your homes to survive this crisis. I have authorized all governors to deploy the National Guard to their home states for the duration of this event. Local officials will follow this broadcast with instructions specific to your area...”

  He wasn't entirely listening. He tended to ignore politics and political “stuff,” such as messages from the president. His takeaway was that some disaster was happening somewhere and that those people should be doing something.

  He walked to the refrigerated section to grab the drinks he needed. The lights were off—all power was off in the store—but the large front windows helped him see well enough. As he was staring at the selection of beverages in the darkened coolers, he heard two people arguing in the next aisle, a man and a woman.

  “I told you the president was going to ruin this country! But did you listen? Noooooo.”

  In response, the woman made a sound with her mouth very much like she was throwing up. She then said, “You never did like him. Everyone hates the Socialists; that's why he can't get anything done for this country. You'd probably like to see this country in ruins if it meant he got the blame for it.”

  He heard the words, amused at the couple's tone, but had no interest otherwise. More political nonsense he didn't need to absorb. Of more importance at the moment—what flavor energy drinks to grab. He pulled out what he needed, and headed for the register.

  The attendant would not peel herself away from the radio. He held up a five to cover the two cans in his other hand and slapped it on the counter, then walked away. It wasn't something he'd do any other time, but he was getting frustrated at people acting so abnormal this morning.

  I don't have time for all this BS.

  When he returned to the light of the day, he stood near the front door as his eyes adjusted. He could see a man sitting in the passenger seat of a car parked almost in front of the store, drinking out of some kind of hard liquor bottle. He turned and looked at Liam with sleep-filled half-closed eyes, then faced forward again as if he were on a long drive. He felt embarrassed for the dreamer but had no desire to engage or even acknowledge him. He began walking toward home.

  He hadn't gone a hundred feet when he heard, and then saw, an orange sports car—a Barracuda he guessed—roaring down the narrow two-lane street from behind him as if it were on the open highway. The vehicle thundered by with enough force he was buffeted by the strong turbulence.

  What the hell?

  It was going the same direction he was walking, so he jumped into the street to see where it went. Several blocks down it hit its breaks hard, squealing maniacally, then banked left down a side street out of sight.

  As he stood there, he felt the hair begin standing up on the back of his neck. He had a strange feeling the car was running from something evil, and the “something” was close behind him that very second...

  He turned around expecting to see something horrific but was pleasantly surprised to see nothing out of the ordinary, not even other moving cars—as long as he ignored the tornado sirens. And the drunk man in the front seat of the car at ten-something in the morning. His momentary feeling of panic faded, but he quickened his step as he made for home. He downed one of his drinks almost without taking a breath and considered going back to the shop and getting one to replace it, but he had a sudden desire to get back to Grandma’s. Something was different this morning.

  3

  The Long Way

  During his twenty-minute walk to the block where Grandma lived several other cars passed him, though none were going as fast as that orange one. Several times, he saw people running out of their houses to jump in cars or load junk into vehicles parked on the street. Clearly, something big was going on, but was it a tornado—thus the sirens—or what. He'd get it all sorted at Grandma's. Sure, she didn't have the internet or even a cell phone, but she seemed pretty well-informed most of the time. He imagined her sitting in her sewing chair listening to a radio right now, probably with Angie close by.

  In fact, he had this image so firmly in his mind's eye it took him several moments to digest what was going on when he finally saw his grandma's house. There on the front porch was Grandma Marty. She didn't have her cane or anything—just looked like she was dragging herself along the wall near the front doors.

  First, she fiddled around with her door and then slowly moved to Angie's.

  He stood on the sidewalk
a couple of houses away, on the opposite side of the tree-lined avenue. Several cars were parked along the curb, making it difficult to get an unobstructed view. He began moving with haste—not quite a run yet as he wasn't sure what was happening—but, he was going to help if she needed it.

  Grandma stood at Angie's door, leaning her head against the wood. Was she trying to get into the wrong residence? He had never known her to have even an ounce of dementia, but this certainly seemed like a start.

  He almost called out to her when he saw Angie—or someone who looked like Angie—groping her way out from between the two houses. She had a rope or something trailing behind her, and she screamed demonically when she rounded the corner and saw Grandma.

  Then things happened so fast it forced him to stop in his tracks. Grandma looked over, saw her pursuit, and then threw herself hard against that door. Somehow it opened for her, and she seemed to tumble out of view. Angie lunged for her, but inertia took her wide of her target. The door slammed.

  He stopped and pulled up behind one of the large trees.

  OK. This is Twilight Zone material.

  He leaned out to look at Angie, making a positive identification. She was slamming her fists on the heavy wooden door, making no attempt to use her keys to get in or use the door's handle. What the hell was she doing in her bathrobe? He'd never seen her come down from her apartment less than fully dressed, with makeup to boot.

  The tornado sirens made it difficult to hear distinct sounds, but he knew Angie was not throwing out words. She wasn't cussing or yelling insults; she was merely pumping out a guttural scream, something horrible and inhuman.

  In a flash, she seemed to tone it down. Instead of beating the door, she appeared to sniff the air and move sideways along the front of the house—heading back the way she'd come. It looked like she was trying to peer inside, but the drapes were drawn over the windows. In a few minutes, she went back around the side of the house out of his view.

  He was armed with one empty and one full beverage can, a laptop, and a cell phone. He tried to call Grandma to find out what just happened, but the number he dialed rang and rang, then the tone changed to a raw squeak. Either the network was down again, or she couldn't get to her phone. Or both. He'd have to go in to find out.

  He wasn't a weakling, despite being just fifteen years old, but he knew he could never subdue such an apoplectic person as the crazy nurse who had pursued his grandma. Up and down the street he could see people running, walking, or scrambling into cars to speed away, and the truth hit him: the president had been describing this disaster, not one far away. For once in his life, he wished he'd paid attention to the news.

  The librarian—she mentioned Ebola. Did Ebola make people go crazy?

  He took stock in his surroundings, trying to put things together. Gunshots had been a curious anomaly twenty minutes ago but were now constant as they mixed with the blare of the sirens. The specific threat wasn't clear, but he knew he needed to hunker down. Like Grandma minutes before, he had to figure out how to get into her house.

  He was fairly confident he could outrun the nurse in a foot race, but he ruled out going right to the front door. Angie could be on the side of the house waiting to pounce, and he suspected both doors were now firmly locked. He wasn't sure why, but he felt an almost primal fear of Angie, based on her erratic behavior. She was ill, that much was clear, and he wasn't going to get anywhere near her and risk getting infected. He needed to find another way in that didn't involve Grandma opening those heavy doors again. He didn't want her infected by Angie either.

  On the backside of her house, there was a small cellar door that led to the lower level, his living area. If he could reach the backyard, evade Angie, and have enough time to use his cellar key, he could get in and help Grandma do...whatever it is she's doing.

  He had just stepped into the street when another car approached at high speed. He didn't know the make or model, but it was a modern-looking and sleek reddish sports car going much too fast for the small street. The driver spotted him but made no effort to slow down. He veered dangerously close as Liam lunged between two parked cars. Without thinking, he raised his middle finger, an act of defiance he knew the driver witnessed.

  That's for trying to kill me!

  The car sped down the street, broke hard, and turned crisply to the left at the first cross street.

  He spent several long seconds checking both directions to ensure no more moving cars were heading his way. It was becoming deadly to spend any time at all out on the roads. He moved across and down the street, using the parked cars as cover to shield him from Angie. It was only a minute or so before he heard squealing tires once more. Another car was coming from behind him.

  No, the same car. It was the same red sports car making another pass.

  He panicked. He knew why the driver had come back.

  He threw himself between two parked cars, though he figured he'd already been spotted. He had about ten seconds to think up a plan. Hiding was the best he could do; he moved off the pavement, so he was shielded from the street side. He wanted some steel between himself and the road-raging driver.

  The rumbling vehicle approached and decelerated with the telltale sound of disc brakes grinding and tire rubber grabbing the asphalt.

  “Where you at, boy? I've got something to show you.”

  The tone was obviously malicious. He felt he had to know how near the car had stopped in case anyone got out.

  He popped up slowly and tried to look through the lightly-tinted window of a four-door foreign car. He knew right away he'd made another mistake. It would have made more sense to look underneath the car. Too late. He was spotted. The car was directly on the other side. And the passenger-side door was opening.

  He went instantly from squatting fright to explosive flight. He ran on the grass up the row of cars, behind the stalking red menace.

  The passenger door slammed shut, and the car squealed as it backed up the street. There were at least two men inside, both cackling like hyenas.

  “You can't run, boy!”

  Gunshots followed. The passenger shot a handgun in his direction, sometimes hitting and breaking glass on nearby cars. Laughter followed each shot.

  He ran as fast as he could, but couldn't outrun a car. He was unwilling to run toward any houses, or he'd become an easy target out in the open front yards. Instead, he let the car reverse on by, and then crossed the street in front of it.

  The maneuver had the intended effect of surprising the driver and shooter. The car had to stop before it could move forward again. The angry driver popped the transmission into drive, the wheels spinning forward even as the car continued moving backward. It gave him enough time to cross the street and run in the other direction. This put the shooter on the wrong side … as long as he didn't move to the back seat.

  The car readjusted, moved forward again, and caught up to him in seconds. However, the driver merely yelled obscenities at him and then accelerated down the street. The passenger continued to fire his gun randomly out his window. They'd evidently gotten bored of the game. A relief, too, as he had sprinted himself to exhaustion.

  I could have been killed. On my own street!

  He waited there for a few moments, recovering his wits. He peeked out from behind a small truck to see if more vehicles were coming, or if the two lunatics were coming back. All looked safe. He moved fast to the far side of the street, watching for Angie, but she must have gone into the back again. She was not in the narrow corridor between the two buildings. He ran farther down the street, his brain in overdrive, processing the broken pieces of his day.

  Internet shutting down was unfortunate, but probably not unheard of. Library shutting down in the early morning was definitely abnormal, though. President giving a speech wasn't weird, or even interesting, but taken together with everything else his speech was clearly a piece of it. Finally, his boring old street had gone bonkers with speeding cars, dangerous gunmen, and a nurse in
a nightgown trying to claw at Grandma. And what was the deal with those sirens?

  The tornado sirens were on a tall pole at the end of his block. He would have to walk practically underneath them to go around the corner and then back up the alleyway to the rear of Grandma's flat. He could cut between one of the many houses and save himself the longer trip around them all, but he wasn't sure if they each held hidden hazards. Now was not the time to anger a neighbor. He was freaking himself out just thinking about the possibilities. He paused by one of the large trees and took a look around.

  He could see through the windows of several homes on the other side of the street. People were moving around in some of them. Those people didn't appear to be sick or crazy like Angie, but he really couldn't say with certainty.

  One of the big brick flats did have someone that wasn't right. The front screen door was closed, but the inner door was open. A small woman, with a pale face, cropped hair, and a light blue t-shirt was standing in the doorway behind the thin screen. From his vantage point, he couldn't hear her over the sirens, but she appeared to be howling or yelling or something of that nature.

  He had to take his chance in the open and keep moving.

  As soon as he stepped from behind the tree, the woman animated and began clawing and banging at the screen door. He stopped again, his mind screaming, “Go! Go!” but he couldn't look away. The woman viciously tore away the screen and pummeled her way through the wooden frame as the door’s tiny latch tore off. In moments, she cleared the debris and was walking quickly, directly at him. A small grassy yard and twenty-four feet of roadway separated them His brain was still screaming for him to run, but he felt like he had detached himself from his body and could only watch.

  The woman, barefoot and with black stretch pants—had she just come from a yoga class?—entered the street. No cars blew through to run her over.

  That would have been nice.

  Her shirt was sweat-drenched and stained with large blotches of red. Blood had exploded all over one side of her head and shoulders from an ugly wound on her neck. And yet she was up and moving.