The End: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

by P. A. Douglas

  “When you’re the general and the world around you is in chaos, you can make up the rules as it suits you. Now, down to business. What can you tell me?” Baker asked, setting down the drink without taking a sip.

  She placed the folder on the desk and opened it.

  The General raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t look like a whole lot of intel, Dr. Gibbs.”

  “That’s because there wasn’t much to find, sir,” she said, her words frostily. “They’re average civilians.”

  “Average civilians who managed to avoid the plague that’s affected most of the population in this area. Something’s different about them,” Baker said.

  She flipped to the first name in the file. A small profile photo of a young, rebellious-looking man slid across the table finding Baker’s hand as he scooped it up before allowing it to come to a stop.

  Gibbs thumbed through the notes for a moment reading over a few details. “Kent Kingsly. Thirty-four years old. Six-foot-two, blue eyes, brown hair. One hundred ninety pounds. Originally from Illinois, picked up and moved to Florida five years ago with a rock band. Spent a couple months in juvenile detention for grand theft when he was younger. Honestly, from what I can tell, this guy is harmless. He plays the card but doesn’t have an ounce of gut to actually back anything up. He’s all talk. Beyond that, he’s as healthy as most Americans. “

  General Baker leaned up from his seat passing the picture back, then sat back down, picking up his drink. Spinning the ice around and around for a moment, he eyed it with great appreciation. While taking a deep gulp, he gestured with his other hand for her to continue with the next civilian’s report. Coming away with a half-empty glass from his mouth, the cup reached the tabletop of the desk, leaving a smirk across the General’s face where the alcohol had recently just finished touching his lips. “Ah, that’s some good stuff.”

  She continued, “Cynthia Smith. Thirty-eight years old. Five-foot-five, hazel eyes, red hair, one hundred and eighty-seven pounds. Originally from Texas, raised in Florida almost from birth. She’s a local.” She retrieved the photo of the red-headed lady and tossed it across to Baker. “This one is mentally unstable. Several reported cases of attempted suicide. If she is a threat to anyone, it is most likely only to herself. I’m not the slightest bit concerned with her. All she needs it medical treatment to keep her from having any episodes. I have one of my assistants filling out a prescription for the woman. The hardest part will be to get the lady to take them.”

  Without feeling the need for Baker’s approval, she just continued moving on to the next person. She tossed out another photo.

  “George Wellington. Sixty-eight years old. Five-foot-nine, gray hair, brown eyes. Two hundred twelve pounds. Local, born and raised. Nothing special about his medical history. The man has a son named Tyler, still missing. His wife died a few years ago in a car accident. Worked the same steady job his entire life straight into retirement. I’m surprised the man is still holding on. He’s been through hell. He requested to speak with you in person. Something about needing to look for his son. I told him I would see what I could do,” Gibbs said, hoping the General would be sympathetic enough to give Wellington some time.

  “I’ll be sure to speak with him after dinner tonight,” Baker said, propping both elbows up on the table, looking a little bored.

  “Thank you, sir. I know he will feel much better if you can offer him a little hope.” Gibbs was surprised Baker seemed concerned for the man. Maybe it was the scotch talking.

  “Moving on,” Baker said.

  “Oh… right.” She flipped a few pages and landed at Eric’s section of the folder. “Eric Micson. Age seventeen, six foot, blond hair, green eyes, one hundred and forty-five pounds. Also a local born and raised. Still in high school, an A-B student. No record that I can find. The all-American teenager every parent wanted but didn’t get.”

  “And the boy,” Baker asked.

  She closed the folder and slid it to the side. She recited it by memory. “Billy Woods. Age nine. Other than his height, weight and eye color, we have no other information about him. Parents are unaccounted for. George said he found the boy locked in a public bathroom, screaming for help at a park. George saved the kid and ended up at the radio station with him where we picked them up.”

  “I’m surprised there wasn’t something that connected them. And you say they’re in good health?” Baker asked.

  “Other than a little malnourishment, everyone seemed fine. Nothing to be alarmed over,” Gibbs said.

  *

  They sat there for a second in Baker’s office staring at the air between them. The General knew she was hiding something, but he wasn’t sure why.

  He picked up his tumbler and proceeded to refill it. “You know… Dr. Gibbs, sometimes I wonder.” He stepped away from the mini-bar and turned his back on Gibbs, casting a quick gaze over a multitude of photos and medals that hung from the walls in his office, stopping at one photo in particular.

  “Sometimes you wonder what, sir?” Gibbs asked as she grabbed the folder and held it tightly.

  Baker reached up, taking the framed photo from the wall to get a close look. In the black and white photo, a much younger, more vibrant Baker stood with three other men near his age, all wearing matching uniforms. The men were smiling as if a funny joke had just been told. The backdrop to the seemingly playful moment was a B-52 bomber.

  Baker spoke while wiping the accumulated dust from the photo and setting it back on its hanger against the wall, “It takes a team to stay alive, Gibbs. A team. Leaving out the slightest bit of details can be detrimental to the safety of the entire operation. You are a part of this team, are you not?” he asked without taking his gaze away from the old photo.

  Before she could reply, he continued, “Have you ever heard of Han Anderson, Gibbs? The story of a king and his new clothes, are you familiar with that story?” Baker turned, glaring down at the woman, one hand still straightening the replaced photo frame.

  “No, sir. I can’t say that I have.” She swallowed deep and dryly.

  “An emperor, who cared for nothing but his appearance and attire, hires two tailors who promise him the finest suit of clothes from a fabric invisible to anyone who is unfit for his position or just hopelessly stupid. Do you see where I’m going with this, Doctor?” Baker sat down picking up the cigar from his ashtray, flicking ash all over the table in the process.

  Gibbs took off her glasses, rubbing the lenses with her white coat.

  The General again continued, but this time with a lot more grit and tenacity in his voice, “The emperor cannot see the cloth himself, but pretends that he can for fear of appearing unfit for his position, or stupid, for that matter. His ministers do the same. When the swindlers report that the suit is finished, they mime dressing him and the emperor then marches in procession before his subjects. A child in the crowd calls out that the emperor is wearing nothing at all and the cry is taken up by others. The emperor cringes, suspecting the assertion is true, but holds himself up proudly and continues the procession assuming that the people in the crowd are the ones who are stupid.” Baker slammed the cigar back into the ashtray, smashing it beyond recognition.

  “Do you think I’m stupid, Dr. Gibbs? Are you playing me for a fool?” he shouted. “Now what is it about these civilians that you are neglecting to tell me? Do you think I can’t see past your magical clothes, Doctor?”

  She sat there for a moment. In as soft voice, she said, “One of the civilians… one of the civilians… is… is infected.”

  “Is what?” the General asked.

  Stronger, she said, “Infected. One of the civilians is infected. It’s Eric, the teenager, sir.”

  Relaxing a little, he propped himself back in his chair. “A few minutes before you arrived, one of your assistants informed me that he suspected as much. I blew him off at first—failing to see what advantage you’d have in keeping a secret like that. But when you walked in, I could tell you were hiding somethi
ng. I have a gift for reading people, Dr. Gibbs. So, you have some explaining to do. First, where is Eric now?”

  “In the mess hall with the other civilians,” she replied. “I gave him a shot that should stop the spread of the bacteria. I’m still—”

  “What do you mean should?” Sitting forward again, leaned over his desk, Baker’s face returned to that awful glare. His fists clenched tight atop the table.

  “It works in the lab. Eric is the first carrier I’ve been able to work with who hasn’t fully changed over yet and took the opportunity to test out the formula,” Gibbs said. “I’m going to personally keep tabs on him. If the infection spreads, I’ll report it immediately.”

  Baker shot to his feet pushing his chair calmly into place under the desk. He slowly walked around the desk making his way behind Gibbs.

  She shifted left and right in her seat. Baker’s hand suddenly landed on both of her shoulders. She leaned forward and tried to stand.

  He pushed her back down, sending her right back into place. Holding tighter than ever, he spoke again calm and collectively, “So let me get this straight. You, you of all people decided to let an infected person into my base and thought it okay to have them mingling with my men. You intentionally put my men, the soldiers I am accountable for, in harm’s way without my consent. All for what Gibbs? A little fucking science experiment that should work?”

  “I was afraid if I told you, you would have killed him. General, we’re running out of time. We don’t know what caused the outbreak, yet we put ourselves right in the middle of it. What happens if we come down with this… this condition? Time is running short, and I thought the risk was worth the reward. I believe we’re living on borrowed time. Not just us, but the whole United States—even the whole world.”

  General Baker shoved her back down with both hands still firmly clasped onto her shoulders. “What you have done is nothing short of treason.”

  Gibbs contorted her face as if she were in fear of being struck. She sat squashed between Baker and the seat. Then she said in a small voice, “I would like to leave now. Please.”

  “Of course, of course you would. And you should.” Baker stepped back, releasing his grip. The General then made his way around her and took a seat at the desk, pulling a cigar from his shirt pocket. He lit it the same way he had done it every time before. After a few puffs, Gibbs jumped to her feet and grabbed the manila folder, then turned away to swiftly make her exit.

  An electronic click sounded from the door.

  Baker picked up the phone almost instantly speaking with someone on the other end.

  As he muttered something, Gibbs reached for the door. It was locked. She shook the handle reputedly. “What’s going on?” She dropped the folder and grabbed the door handle with both hands. The papers and pictures scattered about the floor.

  “Yes… send them in,” Baker said and hung up the phone.

  The electronic click sounded from the door again. The doorknob began to turn, and then the door opened.

  Two armed soldiers entered the room, forcing Gibbs to retreat. She stepped on the contents of the folder strewn on the floor.

  “Take her down to the cells and lock her up. I’ll deal with her later, personally,” General Baker said from behind his big desk. He waved and gave a mock smile to Gibbs as the two men grabbed hold of her. The smoke from his cigar clouded around his face.

  “You can’t do this! I still have work to do. I need to watch Eric,” Gibbs shouted. She flailed about in the arms of the two soldiers, trying to break free of their grip. Her efforts were futile.

  The two soldiers exited the room closing the door behind them as they went. The folder of spilled files had a photo of Eric turned right side up. The General left his seat and retrieved the photo of the teenage boy and glared at it a moment, then blew a heavy gust of cigar smoke into the photo as he held it.

  “Not on my watch,” he murmured to himself before crushing the photo in his hand.

  5

  The cafeteria was practically empty. Kent, Cynthia, George, Billy, and Eric sat together eating and carrying on in conversation. The only other people in the lunchroom beside themselves were the cooks, who kept themselves busy prepping things for the next meal of the day. One other person walked around the mess hall, gathering up empty trays and cups on a roll cart, undoubtedly the designated dishwasher. They found themselves seated almost center of the very large room.

  Everyone had clean clothes on, feeling fresher than they had felt in days. All but Cynthia still wore what they had shown up with. She, on the other hand, had received a new pair of camo pants and a plain gray shirt. With almost all of her original wardrobe tattered beyond repair, she was happy to be issued something new, even if it wasn’t her style. Her long flowing red hair now clean was wrapped tight in a long ponytail, running down her back.

  Kent looked her over, feeling like it made her look as if she belonged in the military. It turned him on. Cynthia was aware of it and disliked his lack of manners. The entire time they ate, he wouldn’t keep his hands off her, and it was getting annoying. He was acting like a child, she thought and that he needed to show some dignity and respect for the others at the table, if not for her.

  With almost everyone’s plates nearly emptied, they just sat there talking amongst themselves and watching the television. With Billy in the group, a cartoon station was the channel of choice. Something about the moment just seemed right, seemed real. For the first time in days, the group of survivors felt normal. There was a renewed hope buzzing about in their midst. Everyone was cheery and giddy, laughing at stories and one another. Things were going to be okay. Sure, they had all had their fair share of loses, but who didn’t? Optimism was alive once more.

  “—and that’s when Eric here just snapped. He ran through a pile of those things, straight across the shelter, and started kicking the generator pipe like some sort of WCW maniac.”

  Cynthia cut Kent off, finishing the story for him, “Yeah, had he not pulled that crazy stunt, we wouldn’t be here today. We ended up nearly blowing that shelter out of the ground. It was freaking crazy,” she said and laughed, shoving Eric playfully.

  “Ha… It was nothing, really. Do or die, right?” Eric shrugged his shoulders at her boastings and blushed at the same time.

  The sound of the television echoed in the background. Billy moved his attention over to it. His legs swayed back and forth, his feet too short to reach the tile floor.

  “So where do you think we will go from here?” George asked and brought a glass of soda to his lips.

  “Hell, this outbreak is only in one area. Chances are, the government is going to pay us a pretty penny to keep our mouths shut. Soon as that happens, I’m hopping on a boat and hitting the islands,” Kent said.

  “Oh, and what islands would that be, Kent?” Cynthia asked pushing him off of her for the fifth time in the last few minutes.

  “Any island,” he said reaching down with one hand to get a palm full of Cynthia’s bottom.

  She glared at Kent and pulled his hand away. “Really now, and what if the government doesn’t pony up like you think they will? What then?”

  “I know what I’m going to do,” Eric interrupted while he looked down at his bandaged hand. The bandages wrapped around all four knuckles. Some blood and other liquid lightly soaked the top of it around the cut. He flexed his fingers as he spoke, slowly taking his eyes from his wound and toward his comrades. “I’m going to retire.”

  The cafeteria suddenly filled with laughter at the thought of a teenager already set on retirement. Billy turned and smiled along with the laughter. The mirth lasted for only a few seconds.

  “How’s that thing holding up?” Cynthia asked pointing at Eric’s bandages. “Looks like it hurts.”

  Before Eric had the chance to speak, Kent butted in, “Man, you sure were in there for a long time. What did they do to you in there?”

  “Fixed me up, of course,” Eric said. He looked down at his ha
nd a bit longer in thought before continuing. “And yes, it freaking hurts. The doctor stabbed the hell out of my knuckles with a big needle. She sucked out some liquid from it to do some testing of some kind she said, and then gave me a shot. That was painful. Her assistant had to hold my arm down to do it,” Eric replied, his eyes fixed on what little was left on his plate. The fork in his hand mixed the last bit of food around as he stared. “Since she gave me that shot, I kind of feel funny. Like sick to my stomach or something. I just want to lay down when I finish eating.”

  “What about you, Mr. Wellington? What are you going to do now?” Eric asked.

  “I was hoping to speak to the General sometime today. I plan to continue searching for my son and want the Army’s help,” George said looking down at the little boy sitting beside him. “And for Billy’s parents too!”

  Billy immediately joined the conversation as if listening in the whole time, “My parents? I watched daddy shoot my mommy at home. She was attacking him in the living room. After that, my dad took me through the woods behind the house and across the street into a park. Daddy locked me in the bathroom there. I could hear him shooting some more and then it stopped. He left me there.”

  The room was suddenly quiet. Billy went right back to watching the television as if what he had said was nothing at all. He leaned forward taking a sip from his straw without taking hold of the cup of soda. Both of his hands lay tucked to his side, hands gripping the bench as his legs swayed.

  George sat in silence thinking back on when he happened upon the young boy locked away in that park bathroom. He had recalled one time Billy mentioning that his father was a policeman. George instantly flashed back to the moment when he drove up to the park. Several zombies littered the area meandering about. A few intently clung to the restroom door trying their best to get it. George vividly recalled one of those corpses being a uniformed officer, gun still in hand. Blood covered the victim’s throat and shirt, along with several chunks of flesh missing from its upper arms. With the gun in one hand, the zombie pounded at the locked door alongside a few others. Lost in thought, George was surprised that this detail had not clicked before.