by Schafer, Jon
***
Enid, Oklahoma:
Anton Washburn liked to drink. He liked nothing better than to go to his local tavern and down a few shots while he rolled dice with the bartender to see who would pay for them.
Although he drank nightly, and to excess, Anton considered himself to be a responsible drinker. He never drove his car, not if he'd had even one beer, and he preferred to frequent a local bar where he could have his shooters and when it was time to go home, walk the three hundred fifty paces to his own front door. Additionally, he never missed a chance to lecture his friends and neighbors on this and the many other civic duties that a man needed to be responsible for. Because of this earnest regard for the wellbeing of the human race, he was looked up to by those in his community, co-workers and drinking buddies alike.
It was once he passed through the front door of his house that Anton became a different person. Gone was the 'Hail fellow well met' camaraderie that he showed those around him. Gone was the kind, considerate gentleman who would spend hours listening to other’s woes and work with them to solve their problems. Gone was the compassionate persona he displayed at work, the five-time winner of employee of the month. He won these awards because his fellow workers said he was the most amicable man they ever met. This disappeared like a fart in a dust storm.
He was replaced by Anton Washburn, wife beater and dictator.
When Anton walked through the door of his house, he became king of his world, but his wife was by no means the queen. Oh no, that would never do for Anton. His wife was simply there to cook, clean and take care of his sexual needs. And God help her if she failed in any of those categories. Anton's word was law, and if his wife broke that law, she was punished.
End of story, Amen.
On this particular night, Anton was at his favorite tavern, drinking and telling jokes with his cronies, when the bartender came over to weigh in.
"What do you tell a woman with two black eyes?" He asked. When no one answered he said, "Nothing, you've already told her twice."
Everyone within hearing roared with laughter at this except Anton, who just smiled tightly. To his way of thinking, the barman had blown the punch line. The proper response should have been, 'Nothing, then you bruise her ribs and sprain her wrist.'
While he planned on staying at the bar until later, the joke kept bouncing around in his head, causing him to consider his wife and the list of chores he’d told her to finish before he returned from the bar. Although she had been her usual complacent self when he came home from his job at the foundry, and had even said, 'yes dear’ in a subservient way when he laid out each of her duties for the evening, for some reason Anton had felt uneasy around her. It was nothing he could put his finger on, just that she acted oddly during dinner. A few times he thought he caught her looking at him out of the corner of her eye in a sly way, but when he looked directly at her, she only smiled reassuringly at him. Normally, this might be enough to set him off but he couldn't quite be sure that she was being disrespectful, so he decided not to discipline her for it. Instead, he would wait and watch. Although Anton couldn't believe that she would openly defy him, he had the feeling she was up to something.
Checking his watch, Anton saw that it was eight o'clock. His normal routine was to stay at the bar until at least ten, but tonight he considered going home early to see what his beloved spouse might be up to. It wouldn't do for her to be resting on her laurels, watching television and eating ice cream when she had duties to attend to. Downing his drink and standing, he decided that he would go home and check up on things. If they were even slightly off, the little woman would get some motivation at the toe of his boot.
After explaining that he was tired and was going to turn in early, Anton exchanged goodnights with the regulars. A few of them called out to be careful of any crazed killers on the streets. As he walked out the door, Anton considered the warnings and immediately dismissed them. He wasn’t concerned with being attacked by anyone infected with this HWNW virus. While the virus seemed to spread fast, and at first they had quite a few incidents in the city with people going crazy and trying to eat each other, the Governor of Oklahoma was one of the first to call out the National Guard to keep order. With the Guard's help, the good people of Enid, Oklahoma had set up checkpoints on all the routes into town and effectively quarantined themselves from the disease. Those cases that did rear their ugly heads in town were put down as soon as they popped up. The rule was: if someone became infected with the disease, it was your civic duty to see that they didn't spread it.
Permanently see that they didn't spread it.
In this way, the streets were kept safe and sound for the citizens of Enid.
Anton felt anger build in him before even entering his house. Turning the key in the dead bolt of the front door, he realized immediately that it was unlocked. He had told that damn woman time and time again that she needed to lock the door after he went out.
"Strike one." Anton said quietly as he wondered what else the little woman had neglected to do. This became apparent as soon as he entered the kitchen. The dinner dishes sat unwashed in the sink where they had been when he'd left for the bar. A flash of anger shot through him as he looked at the dried mustard and ketchup stains on the plates. Vowing that he would make her lick them clean, and in Anton's case this wasn't an idle threat but a real one, he called out, "Strike two," before moving to the laundry room to hang up his coat.
Standing in the doorway to the small back room that held the washer and dryer, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Strewn across the floor was at least a weeks worth of dirty laundry. This mess hadn't been there when he left for the bar, which made him curious as to where she had been hiding the soiled clothing. It was almost like she had planned this as an open act of defiance.
Instead of being overcome by an insane rage at this sight, Anton felt a calm come over him. He hadn't had to discipline his wife for such an outrageous display of disobedience in a long time, but he knew exactly what to do. He never went after her swinging wildly, instead preferring to give out a slow steady beating that would be remembered for some time.
He reached over the dryer and took down a sawed off baseball bat from a shelf before turning and calling out loudly, "Strike three, honey, you're out."
Anton took the stairs two at a time up to the master bedroom, then paused at the door and hefted his weapon. He considered taking a practice swing at the wall but quickly dismissed this idea. Anton and the ball bat were well acquainted from previous punishment sessions, and he felt it would be a waste of energy best saved for the upcoming festivities.
Seeing the door to the bedroom ajar, he used the end of the bat to push it all the way open. Taking four quick steps into the room, he started to say, "Honey, we really need to talk about a few things," but the words died in his mouth. On the other side of the bed was a sight that caused the saliva in his mouth to dry up and leave him speechless.
Anton's wife had his very own shotgun pointed directly at his head.
He was at a loss for words at this new development, so Lois Washburn filled him in. With a voice completely void of emotion, she said, "For seven years I've let you abuse me and degrade me and I'm not gonna let that happen no more. I've thought about doing this a million times but I was worried what would happen to our two children with you killed and me in prison for doing it."
Shifting the barrel of the shotgun slightly to point at the television on the dresser behind Anton, she said, "Now I got me an out. You came home crazed and tried to bite me. I'll tell them you must have gotten bit walking back from the bar, and then you tried to attack me. I made it up here and grabbed the first thing I could find to defend myself. I didn't want to do it but I had to. Anyone with the disease needs to be put down. It's been all over the news and I heard you say it yourself."
Anton felt his bladder void down his leg as he started to say the words, "We can work this out, honey," but they were lost in the roar of the shotgun.
&n
bsp; Shaking, Lois Washburn walked over to her husband and looked down at his corpse. Leaning over, she spit in the place where his head would normally have been and said, "Thank you, Lord, for delivering me from evil, Amen."
***
Denver, Colorado:
Mile High Stadium was known for its sellout crowds when the Broncos played. Tickets were sold out well in advance, and on the day of the game, scalpers could be found peddling these passes on the streets leading to the stadium for three and four times their face value.
Tim Darcy was one of those sellers, but on this night he felt like he was the one getting scalped. Knowing that on a normal game night he could get rid of as many tickets as he could afford to buy, the previous day he had purchased twenty tickets for tonight's game at twice their value, hoping to sell them at a tidy profit. He looked with disgust at the remaining passes in his hand as he realized that, from the way things were going, this was not to be. So far, he had only been able to get rid of one pair of tickets and the game was set to start in twenty minutes.
Traffic in front of him came to a halt as the light turned red so Tim stepped out into the street, walking between the rows of cars with his tickets held up for all to see. Reaching the end of the line, he turned around to see with disbelief that the light was still red. Usually he ran out of time before he ran out of cars and had to dodge traffic as he ran back to the safety of the sidewalk.
Where in the hell was everyone? Even his regular customers were no shows tonight.
Looking down and shaking his head in wonder, he started walking back to his corner to await the next red light. He felt his skin prickle as he looked up, wondering what the hell was going on now. Ahead of him, he could see one of the other scalpers, a black guy who usually worked the other side of the street and who was now standing in his spot waiting for him. This was a clear violation of the unwritten rules that governed scalpers around the stadium. No one tried to take another man’s spot. Tim had fought hard to carve out this territory, just blocks from the stadium, and would fight twice as hard to keep it.
Readying himself for a confrontation, Tim wrapped his hand around the switchblade he carried in his pocket for just such a situation.
The other scalper, who he knew as Ry-Low, held up his hands when he saw the look on Tim's face. "Peace, brother. I only come to talk."
Tim stopped in front of Ry-Low and gave him his hardest stare. "So talk."
"Just wondering if you was having a bad night too?" He asked. "I been out here four hours and I ain't sold shit."
Tim relaxed slightly. So it wasn't only him. "Yeah, I'm getting screwed too" he replied. "Everyone's scared about this munchin' madness thing,"
Ry-Low said with disappointment, "They must hear about it on the tube and they think it's like airborne aids or something. Guy who came by earlier told me that the stadium's only half full and most of the bars are deserted."
Tim noticed the light turning yellow so he said quickly, "I'd like to hang out and kick the shit but I've got to try and sell some of these things." Pointing to the light, he said, "Time to go do my thing."
"Yeah, I gave up already." Ry-Low replied. "Getting too cold out here anyway, so I'm gonna bail. Next week's an away game so I'll see you when I see you."
Tim waved goodbye as he stepped out into the street and started working the cars. He managed to sell another pair of tickets but even with that small profit knew he was still in the hole. Returning to his corner, he stomped his feet to try and warm them as he looked around. The traffic coming his way had now slowed to a trickle. Shit, it's getting even worse, he thought. The light turned red again so he prepared to step out after the lead car stopped.
Curiously, he watched as a Honda Civic slowed, but when it came even with the intersection it suddenly sped up and shot through the red light, narrowly missing a pickup truck coming from its right. Two more cars followed the Honda, slowing and then running the red light. The first made it through, but the second one clipped a Dodge van. The damage was so minor that the wreck should have been easily cleared, but when the driver of the Honda jumped out and started running toward the stadium as fast as his legs could go, it caused what Tim referred to as, 'A cluster-fuck of epic proportions.'
Grand theft auto, Tim decided as he watched the traffic back up in all four directions from the crash. Those guys were stealing those rides and the last guy screwed up.
Looking down the street to see if the cops would come racing after the fleeing felons, he was surprised to see the boulevard completely devoid of cars. The only thing visible was a group of about twenty people heading toward him from a block away.
Rubberneckers, he thought with disgust.
Turning his back on them, he surveyed the chaos of the intersection. Drivers, and quite a few passengers, had gotten out of their vehicles and were now yelling instructions back and forth on how to best untangle the mess. A police car stopped in the opposite lane, and after a minute the officer got out and sauntered up to the two wrecked cars.
Now that the cops had shown up, Tim decided that the show was over. They'd get the mess sorted out and traffic flowing again. By then it would be too late for him to try and sell the rest of his tickets though. He looked over his shoulder to check the progress of the gawkers coming up behind him and suddenly had an idea. He would try and unload his remaining inventory on them. He was even ready to let the tickets go at cost just so he wouldn't lose his ass on the whole deal.
Holding up a fan of passes in his left hand, he started to call out loudly, "Tickets, tickets here," but the words died in his throat as his eyes focused on what was approaching. Ten feet away, moving in a loping shuffle toward him, was a nightmare come-to-life.
Oblivious to the cold, the thing approaching him wore only boxer shorts and a t-shirt, both covered with blood. More blood covered its bluish-gray face, except for a circular spot around its mouth where it had been licked clean. One arm dangled uselessly, the muscles on its shoulder having been ripped away and causing the appendage to flop forward in a boneless movement each time the thing took a step. It didn't inhale or exhale, as its respiration had ceased when it died, but it still managed to make a high pitched, keening whine as it reached forward with its good arm toward Tim.
It had been dead for three hours, and while it had recently fed on its former girlfriend, it was hungry.
Having been in more than one fight in his life, Tim reacted instinctively by pulling his switchblade and pressing the stud on its handle. Seven inches of carbon steel flicked out and glinted in the streetlight. He swung the knife in an arc, gratified to see the blade sink to its hilt in the side of his attacker's neck. Black fluid oozed from the wound and a rotten smell filled the air as the dead man swung sideways, pulling the handle from Tim's grasp and leaving the knife stuck where it had been thrust. Stepping backward, Tim expected to see boxer shorts drop to the ground, telling himself that no one lived through a wound like that.
Seeing that the stab wound had little effect on boxer shorts, Tim shouted out, "I cut you long, hard and deep, motherfucker," then turned to run. It suddenly dawned on him what the drivers had been fleeing. Time to haul ass, his mind screamed.
In his hurry to get away, Tim's upper body moved before his legs did and his feet tangled, dumping him face first onto the ground. Recovering quickly, he pushed up onto his hands and knees as he tried to scramble away, but the delay caused by the fall proved fatal. He screamed when he felt himself pulled upright by the hood of his jacket. He twisted his body to try and get away but the grip holding him was like steel. Turning enough to confront his attacker, his shocked mind registered that his knife was still sticking out of boxer shorts’ neck.
Not having any other weapon nearby, he reached for the handle.
His hand fell on the hilt just as boxer shorts leaned forward and bit down on Tim's nose, ripping it off in a shower of blood and mucus. Tim howled in agony as he pulled his knife free and then plunged it over and over into the thing’s back as he blew blo
od and snot out of the hole in his face. Boxer shorts ignored the knife thrusts and swallowed the cartilage and flesh in its mouth, then clamped down on Tim's neck and ripped out a chunk of his flesh.
The rest of the undead by-passed the one bent over its meal on the sidewalk. If food was scarce they would fight over it, but tonight that wouldn't be a problem. Ahead of them was an intersection filled with meat, and beyond that, looking like a giant serving bowl, was the stadium from which a roaring sound now came.
It was kickoff time.
***
Des Moines, Iowa:
Jackie Dupree received orders to report immediately for extended duty with her National Guard unit at five in the afternoon. She arrived at the Armory just before six-thirty, and by seven o'clock found herself behind the wheel of a Humvee carrying her commanding officer south on Interstate 35.
Jackie was surprised, and frightened, by how fast her unit deployed and the manner in which they deployed.
When she reported in earlier that evening she had been met by a blank faced, regular army Sergeant who checked his clipboard and then pointed to the vehicle she now drove. He explained that she had fifteen minutes to stow her gear and use the facilities. He further specified that this was an order, not a request, and then explained the legal consequences of missing a troop movement.
That was the surprising part. Jackie had served with the Iowa Guard for six years and found it usually took two hours or more just to decide who would drive what. Although they were one of the most efficient Guard units in the area, they weren't so efficient that they were ready to roll in fifteen minutes. Something strange was definitely going on.
The frightening part was when Jackie noticed the loaded .50 caliber heavy machine gun mounted on the roof of the Humvee she was to drive. The situation became more eerie as she watched the rest of her unit, all armed and carrying live ammunition, load up into three transport trucks. Jackie's commanding officer, Captain Kramer, approached as she stood uneasily next to her vehicle. He handed her a web belt with a holstered 9mm Berretta attached to it, along with two magazine pouches. He gave her a smile and said, "It’s loaded so be careful, Jackie."
