There was no sparkle in his eyes. They were now the dull, cold-blooded killer eyes of a shark. He had no expression of pain, despite the sucking chest wounds, and the only way I could describe it was that he looked…well…hungry. There was a room full of guns pointed at him, but that didn’t stop him from bearing his teeth and lunging for the closest soldier.
I lost count somewhere around a dozen shots, as multiple weapons fired in unison. It sounded as though Mother Nature had unleashed a thunderstorm in the cafeteria. Marty’s body convulsed under the hail of bullets, but he didn’t stop moving forward and go down until half a dozen rounds literally blew apart his skull. Bits of brain, bone, flesh, and blood slowly dripped down the front of the soda machine, right over the lighted section that read, “Refreshing!” Punctured soda cans inside of the machine fizzed wildly and sprayed out from a dozen holes, helping to wash away some of Marty’s splattered remains.
Biohazard teams rushed in to whisk away anyone within blood spatter distance, and immediately started to remove the body and spray some decontamination solution onto every surface. We were all ordered to quickly go to the main conference hall, but it would be twenty minutes before they rounded up all the people who ran when the first shots were fired. We were then given a brief statement that we were all to leave, and come back in two days when everyone interested in continuing to work at ParGenTech would undergo a complete round of testing—blood, urine, saliva, and stool samples, then return in another 72 hours for results to see if you were clean. Or you could opt for the faster and more definitive—but far more invasive—spinal tap, which could get you back to work the next day.
The entire staff was then dismissed, and people couldn’t wait to run to their cars to get the hell out of there. But they left behind that 800 pound gorilla in the conference room, the question that haunted everyone—how could this happen at ParGenTech, the place filled with scientists, doctors, and soldiers, the place working to find a cure? Had Marty Chang exhibited any of the symptoms on those laminated cards that were now carried by all employees? Why hadn’t his infection been discovered in the mandatory screening two weeks earlier? Had the switch taken place in a heartbeat, as he was slipping quarters into the soda machine?
I had met the enemy, and he was one of us.
The Enemy Within: I’m not going to pretend that Marty Chang was a dear friend of mine. We said hi to each other in the hall, I had gone to see one of his stand-up routines with some other people in the lab, and we were on the same winning volleyball team at the company picnic. But he was one of us, and now his guts and congealed blood were in a body bag mingled with six flavors of carbonated beverages and a fistful of lead.
The same question was in everyone’s mind as they sped out of the parking lot—“If it could happen to Marty, will it happen to me?” I did have headaches and a sore neck, and I had been a little irritable, but it was the stress, it had to be the stress. I dug around in my purse for that stupid laminated symptom card, and as I got onto the TZ Bridge I scanned the list to see if I was experiencing anything else.
I really didn’t have any other symptoms. Maybe the occasional indigestion, some trouble sleeping, and I did drop a few things in the last week, but again, nothing that couldn’t be explained by a dozen other reasons. Still, the last thing on the list made my heart skip a beat—glowing green under a black light.
I had picked up a battery-operated black light a couple of weeks ago for an emergency zombie kit I was making, and the instant I got home I grabbed it and ran to the bathroom. With the bathroom lights off, I pulled down the shade and stood in front of the mirror. Closing my eyes and taking a short, nervous breath, I switched on the light and looked at myself in the mirror. My teeth glowed white, but there wasn’t any hint of green. To double check, I pulled back my eyelids, stuck out my tongue until it hurt, then pulled off my pants and shirt and did a full body scan. Nothing! I took a deep breath of relief.
“Sweetie, is that you?” my mother asked by my bathroom door. “You’re home early. Are you sick?”
“No, mom, I am fine,” I said with complete honesty.
“Are you sure, dear?”
“Yes, please don’t worry,” I said as I put the light on the sink and then my head in my hands to collect myself.
I hadn’t closed the door all the way, and my mother gave it a nudge and peeked in. When she saw me bent over the sink with the lights off, she came in and put her arm around me.
“Something is wrong! Do you feel sick?”
“No, mom, it’s just the stress from all-”
My words caught in my throat as I straightened up and saw my mother’s reflection in the mirror. The black light on the edge of the sink was shining up into her face—my mom’s softly glowing, green face, and her bright green eyes.
“Mom, NO!” I shouted as I spun around and grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Harry, come quick,” she yelled. “Rebecca isn’t well.”
I grabbed the light and ran it along my mother’s arms, praying it was all some terrible mistake, but the soft green glow was everywhere.
Then my dad came hurrying in and at first I didn’t see it because I was still in shock looking at my mother, but then the bright green glow of his eyes caught mine.
“No! Oh god, no, no, no,” I said as I sank to my knees under the weight of the unbearable discovery.
My mother started crying and my dad said he would get the car and bring me to the hospital, and I never loved them more than at that moment—the moment where I knew they were doomed, but saw that their only concern was now and always for me. I stood up, took each one by the hand and told them we had to talk.
I didn’t care how many times I swore to keep silent, or how many nondisclosure forms I had signed. I started to tell them everything—and I do mean everything—right from the beginning. They sat quietly on the couch, holding hands, my mother occasionally dabbing a tear from the corner of her eye. I was being very clinical and scientific in my explanation, but I choked up when I came to the part about them both being infected, and I just couldn’t say it.
“It’s okay, Becks, we understand,” my dad said putting on a brave face. “Maybe this drug of yours will work, and if not, your mother and I are old and we led damn good lives. Damn good.”
There were a few moments of awkward silence, then my mother blurted out, “It’s all my fault!”
“Oh, mom, how is any of this your fault?”
“You told us time and time again to stay in the house. You tried to protect us, and I was just a stubborn old fool!”
She burst into tears and couldn’t go on. My dad continued.
“A few weeks ago the neighbor boy, Billy, was sick. Gladys asked your mother if she would look after him for just a few hours while she ran some errands.”
Ambulances and cop cars had been to the house a week ago, and no one in the family had been seen since. I was about to try to console my mother, to tell her she had only acted out of love and compassion, when she wiped her eyes and looked right at me as she spoke.
“It is all my fault, and you’re probably infected now, too, because of me. Oh, what have I done to my baby!?”
Her words struck as hard as the bullets that tore into Marty Chang. From the moment I had seen her green glow, my only thoughts were for my dear parents, and the awful fate that awaited them. I never stopped to think that for weeks I had been breathing the same air, eating the food my mother had prepared, received their warm hugs and kisses on the cheek. How could I not be infected? It must just be in too early a stage to have developed the glow.
I tried to put on my best poker face as I lied through my teeth, assuring them that if I didn’t glow I was clean. Neither of them believed a word, but we all played along.
“Just as long as you’re safe, honey,” my mother said, then reached for the phone. “Now I guess we had better call the hospital and see where we should go.”
“No, don’t!’ I said leaping to my feet and grabbing the phon
e right out of her hand.
I knew about the awful facilities where they were holding large numbers of infected people under almost inhumane conditions. This was not what was going to happen to my parents. And maybe there was still an outside chance the QKs would work on them, even though so far they had no effect on such advanced infections.
I explained that I had to go in for some tests the day after tomorrow, and I would have Phil use his influence to get them into a nice facility where they could undergo treatments and be taken care of. And it would be close enough for me to visit them every day.
“Sure, Becks, whatever you say,” my dad said, placing a hand on my shoulder, then pulling it back as he remembered his mere touch could be deadly.
I looked down at my own hand and wondered how long before the enemy within me would show itself.
Chapter 3
Phase 3: The Worst Day of My Life: That night and the following day were very awkward and difficult. We all tried to be brave, but cried a lot, looked at family photo albums, and even played a game of Scrabble like we did when I was younger. Of course, everyone avoided making any kind of word that involved death or infection. At one point I had the letter tiles of Z, O, M, and B, and even though I and E are common tiles and I could have waited for them to make a big score, I unloaded the Z on making just a 12-point ZOO as soon as possible.
My dad took down the strong box from the shelf in their bedroom closet to show me all their important papers, such as their wills, the deed to the house, and the receipt for their burial plots. As a health care worker, I always urged families to prepare all their necessary documents, but I never really understood the emotional pain involved in the paperwork of death and dying.
I was so distraught both nights I had to take one of my mom’s sleeping pills to quiet my racing mind. Was I infected? Was there any way to save my parents? What was going to happen to my friends, co-workers, and the entire world for that matter!?
I was too nauseated from anxiety to eat anything the morning I had to go to ParGenTech. With masks and gloves on, my parents and I hugged goodbye as if it was the last time we would ever see each other, and we all lied and agreed it would all work out somehow.
“After all, it’s not like it’s the end of the world, dear,” my mom shouted, as they waved goodbye from the doorstep as I drove away.
At ParGenTech, there were more cars than I expected. After Marty’s terrible death, I thought a lot of people would quit, but it may have been that they came back to find out if they were infected, too. There was someone in the lobby instructing people where to go depending upon which tests they were submitting themselves for. Most people were opting for the blood, urine, and stool sample tests, but a few would rather have a needle stuck in their spine then dump in a cup.
I went to neither location. Instead, I headed straight for Phil’s office. He had several people in conference and more waiting at his door. Under normal conditions, I wouldn’t dream of barging in, but I was practically frantic.
“Excuse me, Phil, but this can’t wait,” I announced, walking right into his meeting.
“Becks, if you could come back in a few—”
“Now, Phil! I mean right now!” I said trying not to look and sound as though I was going to switch at any moment.
He asked everyone to please wait outside, then asked me to sit. I was far too wired to sit.
“It’s my parents, Phil, both of them! End stages, no doubt about it. Glowing green, bright green,” I said as I started to cry and he moved toward me to console me. “No, Phil, stay back. If the infection has progressed this far in them, I must have it, too!”
Phil was speechless for a moment, and the expression on his face spoke volumes—the news couldn’t be more distressing if his own daughter was telling him.
“Maybe not. You’re always careful, right? You would know if you’re infected, right?” Phil said, grasping for straws.
“Phil, I’m scared. I’m scared for my parents, I’m scared for myself, I’m really losing it here.”
“Okay, okay, try to relax. Let me think.”
“I want the spinal tap immediately. And I need you to do me a huge favor. Please send a team to get my parents and bring them to one of the nice, local containment facilities. I won’t have them in one of those cattle cars at the asylum!”
“Of course, I’m on it right now. I’ll call your parents and tell them to expect a team in a few hours. You head down to the testing room, and give them this priority note. And I’ll make some calls right now and make sure your parents get the best treatment. I promise.”
Maybe it was my imagination, but everyone looked at me like I was dangerous when I went to the spinal tap registration room and gave them the priority note from Phil. I was immediately escorted to the warehouse that had been converted into some rather impressive medical facilities.
I was told to sit in a cold, metal folding chair, and the nurse asked if I needed anything, like a drink of water. I said that would be nice, and could she include a tranquilizer with that, please? A big cup of water and a little cup with a small, yellow pill were soon on the table next to me.
In the fifteen or so minutes I had to wait, the sedative was already making me a bit lightheaded. It was working fast on my empty stomach and strained nerves, and I welcomed its potent calming power.
I was led to a curtained section where an exam table and lights had been set up. By this point, I was more than half in the bag from the sedative, and barely remember getting undressed, and then climbing onto the table, getting on my side, and bringing my knees to my chest. I knew the routine—sterilize the area, administer an anesthetic (which burned like a son of a bitch), then an odd feeling of pressure as the needle punctured the lumbar region of my spine.
That was the last thing I remembered. For the next few hours I experienced the most peaceful, dreamless sleep—the last I would ever have.
When I started to awake, it was like trying to pull myself out of a hole filled with dense fog. I was flat on my back, and winced in pain as I tried to shift my body and felt the soreness in my lower spine. At first I couldn’t remember what was going on, but bit by bit, the awful reality returned.
Although I had expected to wake up on the exam table, I was now on a soft bed in a small room with solid walls, and just a small viewing window in the door. It was the same type of barred viewing window as in the white trailer, and I got a sick feeling until I reached down to touch the floor and discovered it was concrete. I was momentarily relieved to know I wasn’t shut up in one of the mystery trailers.
Then a female voice came over an intercom speaker somewhere in the ceiling.
“How are you feeling, Ms. Truesdale?”
“A little sore. A little dazed. What was in that tranquilizer, anyway?”
“Please remain on your back, a doctor will speak to you shortly.”
I think I drifted in and out of sleep for a few minutes, until a familiar voice refocused my attention.
“Becks, how ya doin’?” Phil asked softly.
“Phil, where are you? Where am I?”
“I’m right here at the door,” Phil replied, tapping lightly on the barred window. “But don’t get up, just stay down.”
All hope suddenly drained out of me as I realized Phil was going to stay on the other side of the door. That could only mean one thing.
“You don’t need to say it, Phil,” I said with strange detachment. “I’m infected. How bad?”
Despite the anguished look in his eyes, there was a fleeting look of relief that he didn’t have to say the actual words.
“Early stage. Very early stage. No mature parasites. Mostly eggs, a few larvae. But we’re hopeful, Becks, very hopeful.”
I couldn’t find the words to speak, so he continued.
“I was with the doctors when they confirmed the results, and I authorized them to immediately inject a cocktail of the QK drugs right into your spinal fluid. We think it just might work at this stage. We thin
k we caught it early enough.”
Was that some thread of hope to cling to? No matter how tenuous, I grabbed on tight to the thought.
“Thanks, Phil, for everything. I’ll try whatever treatment we have. I’ll be your number one guinea pig.”
I smiled at him and gave him a thumbs up, but I could see he was fighting back tears.
“Phil, what is it? Is there something else?”
“Becks…I…I…I don’t know how to tell you this. We talked about waiting, but decided you should know…” he said, his voice trailing away.
“For god’s sake Phil, what is it? What could you tell me that’s worse than this!” I shouted, rising to my elbows.
“It’s your parents. They’re dead.”
Screw You, Aunt Dorothy: My mother’s sister, Dorothy, was nothing like my mom. Dorothy was a straight-laced, bible-thumping, fire and brimstone prude, who would sooner preach to a little child about how his sins caused him to fall down and scrape his knees, rather than help him to his feet.
Whenever something really bad happened to someone in the family, Dorothy would be Johnny on the spot to “console” everyone by reminding us over and over that “God works in mysterious ways.”
As the impact of Phil’s words hit me, I sank back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. From a lifetime of experience, I pictured my aunt delighting in the news, as it gave her the perfect opportunity to thrust her pinched, wrinkled face and sour breath right up to anyone she could corner, and tell them how our family’s sins brought this upon ourselves. And she would invariably end with that annoying phrase, “But God never gives us more than we can handle.”
HVZA (Book 1): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse Page 4
