by D C P Fox
“There’s no law enforcement anymore,” Vin explained as he raised his shotgun and pointed at the bathroom door. “People are capable of just about anything now.”
“Including you,” the Asian muttered softly.
“I heard that, and I don’t blame you. I have the gun. You’ll have to trust me. You have no other choice.” He paused. “You can come out now,” he announced, projecting his voice toward the restroom. “Slowly, quietly, with your hands up.”
The door opened slowly, and a blonde-haired man dressed in “business casual” emerged. He held open the door before putting his palms up. He looked exhausted, almost ready to pass out, and appeared to be telling the truth about being unarmed. His clothes were dirty and disheveled.
“You.” Vin gestured his shotgun at the Asian. “What’s your name?”
“Jize.”
“Okay, Jize. you frisk him.”
“How come you didn’t frisk me?” Jize asked.
Vin scowled and lowered his gun. He realized he didn’t want to start on the wrong foot with these guys. “Fine. I guess we’ll have to trust each other.” He sighed. “I’m Vin Scoggins, by the way. I’m an engineer from Ella. And this little girl over there is Emily. She’s been through . . . well, a lot.” He let that sink in for a few seconds.
“So what’s your last name?” he asked Jize.
“I’m Jize Chen.”
“Hey, I know you,” bathroom-guy said. “You’re the pianist, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You two know each other?” Vin asked.
“No, I just know of him. He’s kind of famous in certain circles.”
Certain circles? Who does he think I am?
“And who are you?” Vin asked.
“I’m Alexander Williams. I’m a Professor of Microbiology at CalTech.”
Oh. An elite college-type. Lovely. “Microbiology? Do you want to explain what’s going on here?”
“Some kind of pathogen, I think. You all need to be careful not to let any of the infected blood get into any cut or scrape you may have. There was a woman who was ill before she became . . . well, like them. She’s the only one I saw who turned without having their brain eaten.”
“Is that what happened to my parents?” Emily asked. She was no longer clinging to the woman. There was an awkward silence before Vin spoke up. “Way to go, Alexander. Want to frighten any more children?”
Alexander looked like he wanted to crawl away and hide. Good.
“I’m sorry,” Alexander managed to say.
“I want my Mommy and Daddy,” Emily said. “Charming, will you take me to them? I want to go home.”
The woman let go of her hand and knelt down before the girl. “Emily, I’m Ms. Fernley. We’re going to play a game. The game is called, ‘What Happened to Our Parents?’ Can you play that game?”
“I guess so,” Emily whimpered.
“Okay. My parents are in Heaven. They are very happy there. Do you know what Heaven is?”
Emily nodded. “It’s where people go after they die.”
“Yes, you’re right. Now, I need you to be brave for me. When was the last time you saw your parents?”
Emily, in tears, ran over to Vin and grabbed his legs again. He felt awkward.
“She was running when I found her. A young boy had attacked her.” He turned his head downward. “Emily, did you know that boy?”
Emily nodded, her face buried in his thigh. “He’s my brother,” she said in a muffled voice. “I thought he died, but he didn’t.”
“Emily,” Vin said. Careful. “Were you running from home?”
“Yes.”
“Why were you running from home?”
“Because my Daddy told me to before that bad woman bit him.”
Shit. She’d watched her brother and her father die.
“And what about your mother? Was she there? When the bad woman bit your father?”
She nodded.
“I want to go home now.”
Chapter Eleven
Day Six
Jocelyn was kneeling on the stone floor of her Inner Temple, Saint Michael towering over her. They looked into each other’s eyes, his fury daunting. Skunk shivered on her left shoulder.
“How could you do such a horrible thing?” his voice boomed.
“I was off my meds.” She shook her head and raised her voice. “I was off my meds! I’m sorry, but I was off my meds!”
“And whose fault is that?”
The meditation was giving her clarity. “I got sick. I’ve always been a productive member of society—as long as I take my meds. But I’ve never been truly violent even when off my meds. I must have snapped from the stress of the situation and being off my meds.” Her speech began to falter, choking off a sob. “You can’t hold that against me. I’ve done everything I could to be a productive member of society. It’s just I’m ill—”
“You should have had more medication to spare . . . but I understand your vigil, your requirement to be alone for an entire month. The strain that put on you, too . . . Ah, I see now.” He closed his eyes as if he were watching a drama unfold on TV. “You were infected and fought off the disease . . . “ He looked back down at her, and his gaze softened. “I do not know what to do with you. We cannot have you taking innocent lives . . . but since you are immune to the disease—”
“What disease?” she interjected, unable to restrain herself. The roar of her waterfall behind Saint Michael was a little too loud—she Willed its flow to abate.
“A dreaded disease has taken over earth. It turns people into animalistic creatures who eat their victims’ brains and infect others, propagating the spread exponentially. Though still alive, ‘zombie’ is what people in general are calling them. I, however, call them ‘draugar.’”
“Draugar? You mean what is written on my sword?”
“Yours is no ordinary sword,” he said. “It is time for you to know the true nature of the sword.”
“And that is?”
“The sword is over a thousand years old.”
“That can’t possibly be true,” she said.
“But it is. You know I cannot lie to you.”
“That’s what my grandfather said.”
“This sword was forged in the late tenth century for your Irish Viking ancestor, Olaf,” he said. “I have blessed it with the magical power to be effective in defeating draugar in combat. Be careful with it because the blade is super-sharp, and when you swing with it, it appears to give you extra strength. Your ancestor was a shamanic warrior. A later ancestor converted to Catholicism. But the sword-bearer always retains his . . . er, or her . . . shamanistic ways. Furthermore, the sword bearer must be of Olaf’s blood, as he is tied to the magic of the sword.”
Despite the incredulity of it all, things started to make sense. “That’s why we practice magic, even though we’re Catholic, because of our Viking ancestry?”
“I believe that is the intention.”
As a then-candidate for a PhD in History, she had studied Viking and pagan history and knew all too well the differences between Catholicism and Paganism. “And that’s why you are a guide, a patron, rather than someone to be served.”
Saint Michael circumnavigated her altar clockwise. That was odd. “That is correct, because pagans don’t worship in the same manner as Catholics do.”
A thought suddenly dawned. “So that’s why Grandfather Cummings kept pestering me about marriage.”
“Yes, you need someone to pass the sword to and train in sword-fighting and shamanism, just as your grandfather did for you. Remember, it must be a blood relative descended from your ancestor. Technically, you could pass it onto your mother, but then you’d have to train her as a shaman.”
“Or what?”
“Or the sword would be ineffective,” he said. “It would function just as an ordinary sword.”
“So what if I die before I can pass it on?”
“That is part of its magic. It
will eventually find a bearer with Olaf’s blood.”
“So I will eventually have a child? Even though my marriage prospects are weak?” She didn’t really love her boyfriend. She had considered breaking up with him once she got a job at a University (probably not U.C. San Diego, where she got her PhD) after her vigil. Marriage had been so distant in her mind, probably because she grew up in a divorced family. It hadn’t worked out for her mother, so why would it work out for her?
“Actually, I think you are under more pressure than that.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Have you not been paying attention? The sword was meant to be wielded by a descendant of Olaf to defeat the draugar. I can only suppose that is you.”
“But I have committed murder. Most likely I will go to jail for a very long time.” She bowed her head in shame, her guilt overwhelming. “I can’t fight these draugar from prison. Should I kill myself? Or turn myself in? I’m not being suicidal, but I want to make amends for what I’ve done.”
She looked at her chalice on the altar behind Saint Michael. She wished she could just fill it with poison and drink it, but she could not be harmed by anything in her Inner Temple.
“I have not fully explained the situation to you,” he said. “Every major city in the world is infected—only some rural areas remain untouched.”
“Oh, my god, what caused it?”
“We do not know. The entire astral plane has mobilized but all we can do is advise people and put out fires. That is why I did not respond to you, not because I did not want to, but because you were not important enough . . . until now.”
“So you don’t want me to turn myself in?” she asked.
“Under normal circumstances, I would say turn yourself in. But there is little rule of law at the moment, and now with your immunity and skills, we require all the help we can get on earth. I have little choice but to ask that you not allow yourself to be punished—at least not until we have a little control of the situation. Is that acceptable?”
She nodded, a tear flowing down her cheek. She didn’t want to live, didn’t deserve to live, but that meant she didn’t have a right to decide her own fate. She needed to put her fate into the hands of the Lord—in this case Saint Michael representing him. “I think it would help atone for my egregious sin—helping you, that is.”
“If you truly feel you have committed a terrible sin, then you should do as I ask without question.”
She took a deep breath, and her belly expanded and contracted in the physical world. “What is it you want me to do? I’ll do anything you and the Lord require of me.” She had so many questions to ask, but for now showing contrition was very important to her.
“Concentrate first on becoming properly medicated. You cannot help us if you are insane. It does not have to be the exact kind you take as long as it prevents you from breaking with reality. Do not bother to contact your physician. I doubt you will able to reach him.”
She nodded. “Things are that bad? I must steal them?”
“Yes, from a pharmacy, probably, but be aware you may find your medication already looted from some places.”
“What if I kill more innocent people until I get my meds?”
“Everyone is innocent. I suspect those responsible are dead, or draugar, but I cannot be sure. George was just as innocent as the rest of them. The difference was George attacked you, but the others did not. But everyone, including you, are innocent victims. As long as you are focused on acquiring the proper medication for yourself, you will be forgiven. And now that I know your plight, you will always be able to contact me if needed.”
She brushed tears away. “I always thought you had the ability to help anyone . . . an infinite number of people at a time.”
“Regrettably, that is not the case. And I can only help those who reach out to me, and those are the only ones whose minds I can read. We suspect someone caused this, that it did not happen without help from either humans, demons, or both, because of how unlikely such a disease could happen naturally. There have always been plagues of one kind or another, but this one seems a bit . . . specific. But we have no idea beyond our suspicions.” He paused.
“But you should not concern yourself with what awaits ‘down the road,’ as you would say. Focus now on getting your medication. Can you do that?”
She nodded. “I can.”
“Then begin.” He clapped his hands. It was loud, forcing her to open her eyes in the physical world.
Chapter Twelve
Day Zero
Alexander knew Emily was in rough mental shape (physically, she was covered in blood—and perhaps some brain matter). Janice continuously reinforced the idea to Emily that her family was in Heaven. Emily seemed to accept it each time, but then reverted to asking Vin—Prince Charming—to take her home.
His inflamed wrist was still in a lot of pain. Touching it made it much worse.
“You should have that wrapped,” Janice said.
“I suppose I should.”
“I’ll go look in the pharmacy. I’ll get you some ibuprofen, too,” she said.
“I’ll go with you,” Vin said. “I would like another peek outside. See if I can see more people.”
“I don’t think there’s anyone left,” Jize said.
Vin scowled. He appeared to like to do that. “We can’t be the only survivors. Let’s go, Janice.”
After they left, Alexander took the opportunity to talk with Jize, who hung on to Emily’s hand, both of which were bloody.
“You know, I’ve seen you in concert several times.”
“That’s good to hear,” Jize said. But Alexander detected a hint of insincerity. It dawned on Alexander that Jize needed no starry-eyed fans at this time. Who could blame him? “I think we should wash up. Emily, too.”
“Of course.” Alexander smiled, but he realized how insensitive he was being. He himself had washed up when he was in the bathroom.
Jize and Emily emerged from the bathroom at the same time Janice and Vin came back with some wrap.
“Jize,” Vin said, “help me move some tables to barricade ourselves in while they take care of Alexander’s wrist.” Jize nodded. “Emily, can you sit down here?” Vin gestured to a chair on the end of the nearest table. He guided her into the seat. “I’ll be right back, I promise.” He smiled.
Then he and Jize went to work setting up the barricade. It wouldn’t stop any determined human or zombie, but at least it would slow them down and serve as a warning mechanism.
“Hurts a lot, doesn’t it?” Janice asked, pointing at Alexander’s wrist. “May I examine it?”
He nodded. Janice put the wrap and ibuprofen tablets down on the table near Emily and gently took his wrist in her hand. She touched the swelling gingerly.
“Well, you need an x-ray to determine if it’s broken, but it looks like that won’t happen for a while.”
“If ever,” Alexander muttered. She seemed to ignore or not hear that.
“Hopefully, it’s just sprained. The wrap should cut down on the pain and swelling.”
Alexander nodded, and as she wrapped him up, he found himself impressed with her. “You act like you’ve done this before. Did you take a first-aid class recently?”
“Something like that.” She continued to wrap his wrist in silence, and then she suddenly spoke again. “Actually, I’m a retired nurse.”
That sounded odd to him. Why would someone retire from nursing so young? There was a story in there somewhere. She had seemed reluctant to give up that information. So why did she?
He thanked Janice after she finished. His wrist felt better already. She handed him the ibuprofen, and he started walking back to the bathroom to get some water when he noticed the TV hanging on the wall.
“Oh, my gosh, we need to turn on the TV!” Alexander spent a minute looking for the remote—it was near the microwave, of all places—and hit the power button. In the bottom right corner was the logo for the Progressive News Network, or PNN.<
br />
Across the bottom was a banner that read:
BREAKING NEWS: Zombie Apocalypse Sweeps World.
“Oh, shit!” Alexander let slip. He recognized the anchor as Pete Littleton, who said:
We have had reports of what we can only describe as zombies taking over large cities in the US and around the world. This includes New York City where our broadcast originates. We are trapped on a high floor at 70 Carnegie Plaza in Midtown Manhattan.
The shot of Pete gave way to an outdoor shot. Alexander recognized it as outside Carnegie Plaza. Alexander could still hear Pete’s voice.
This is a shot from a little over an hour ago. You can see the zombies—yes, that’s what we’re calling them, zombies—all over the place. Before that—what you are about to see is the most graphic real television footage I’ve ever seen, so be warned.
Now the camera showed a different view in the same plaza.
Here is a zombie crushing the skull of a person. Then the image pans to what looks like a zombie eating the brains of a different victim. Therefore, we’re calling them zombies—because they like to eat brains. Note the sores on the zombie. Now we’ll take you to our current live feed overlooking the plaza. You can see that there are no zombies. Nor any dead bodies at all. It appears that the ones killed by zombies come back from the dead or, if injured, heal from wounds that should have killed them, and become zombies themselves—another reason to call them zombies. Carl Ebert of the CDC recently gave us his time to explain what all this means. Here he is previously in our breaking news coverage.
Now the TV pictured a man in his fifties. Underneath was a banner that read:
CARL EBERT, CDC
A male voice different from Pete’s said:
So Carl, can the CDC make anything of this? What do we know at this point?
The man on the screen spoke.
Very little, I’m afraid. The biggest clue we have is the large sores on the bodies of the so-called zombies. This leads us to believe there’s a virus or bacteria causing this. But there’s a more horrifying explanation—state-sponsored terrorism. Whether the pathogen developed in nature or escaped from a lab, or was released from one, no one can say for certain. But it is safe to say it is nothing like anything we at the CDC have ever seen before. Furthermore, it may be more than just a virus or bacteria because of the ability to come back from the dead, so-to-speak. We do not know of anything that could cause this. But if someone engineered this, there are few entities that could have done it: Russia, China, Iran, the UK, the EU, and, of course, America. But, again, we at the CDC have no knowledge of this. If America developed it, it was with compartmentalized top secrecy.
