Nuclear Undead: Wake the Dead

by N. J. McConnell

  My family isn’t wealthy and I’m American by birth, so I entered the school as a scholarship student who didn’t fit in and received quite a lot of rubbing for my efforts. When the headmaster became aware of my academic achievements, the outward displays of bullying ended immediately and I was instead touted as an example of what they too should aspire to become. This actually made things worse and the torment, although now hidden from academic view, continued until I finally finished my studies and left for university.

  I have now been a lecturer for three years and am also a published and peer reviewed researcher. This type of commitment to learning doesn’t leave much spare time to develop social skills. I’ve come to accept this as my lot in life and find fulfillment through research instead of relationships. Sometimes I think that it would be nice to go home to a warm and loving family, but until I learn to speak to a woman without stuttering, that will never happen.

  The semester ended over a week ago, but amazingly, a number of students are still whining about the failing grades they earned during the term. If they used better time management and had been more industrious in completing their assignments, they would have passed easily.

  It’s correct to say that I seldom give A’s, but that evaluation is earmarked for exemplary work and so far none of the students have impressed me. The majority submit only mediocre work and therefore, earn C’s. No, I don’t evaluate grades on a curve. Pupils will never learn to apply themselves if we academics make it easy for them to pass.

  Classes finally ended and now the campus is closed to students and general employees, but while others use this period as a time to rest from their jobs and studies, it is the perfect opportunity for me to work on this project that, to be truthful, I find tremendously intriguing. I’ve been examining genetically compliant viruses and bacteria as well as various other cellular classifications in order to track regeneration possibilities interrelated to the reparation and renewal of flesh including muscular structures and organs. In other words, the secret to eternal youth. The applications for this research, if my assumptions are correct, could be vast and highly profitable. The possibility of the body regenerating itself after injury or possibly putting an end to aging is fascinating.

  Research is what gives meaning and purpose to my life. To be able to pose a question, then set about analyzing the data step by step in order to prove a hypothesis is exhilarating. Each time that a new project is initiated, I become so absorbed in it that I have difficulty sleeping or focusing on anything else. My preoccupation with research in much the same as a detective’s obsession with unraveling a cold case that’s been hidden away in a file on his desk for years. I won’t be satisfied until the answers are forthcoming.

  It’s not that I don’t find satisfaction in teaching, but when student don’t care to acquire the knowledge that I spent years studying, it feels like a waste of time and can be draining. I don’t understand their thought processes at all. They frequently speak of the high wages they’ll earn upon graduation, but are barely passing their courses. If their mindset and work habits don’t improve exponentially, they won’t graduate at all. I fear that a profession which requires them to inquire ‘Would you like fries with that’ will be their new job descriptions if they don’t alter their paths.

  I was peering through the eyepiece on a microscope in the lab scrutinizing a tissue sample when the sirens began wailing outside. My first guess was that they were set off in error, but not wishing to make assumptions not supported by factual evidence, decided to turn on the radio in my office for confirmation. Unfortunately, there was no music playing and all stations were being interrupted with news bulletins. To put it crassly, the proverbial shit had hit the fan while I was examining cellular structure.

  There was really nothing to be done other than to make logical conclusions and strategize based on available data. I quickly secured all entrances and exits, then verified that I was alone in the lab and the area around it before removing what water and food sources I could get to from the faculty lounge refrigerator and the vending machines. I carried the supplies into my office that not only possessed a desk, but a very comfortable couch that I used regularly when working late nights when still needing to rise early the next day.

  My office is a much grander scale than some others because the research I do brings grant money into the university coffers. It’s also used for storage, but I quickly dispensed of unneeded items and filled the space with anything that I could find that would enhance my ability to survive this unknown pandemic or whatever the news media was calling it at the time. I carried copious amounts of books inside to keep my mind occupied, then after pushing the furniture up against the already locked metal door inside the locked laboratory inside of a locked building, I felt quite safe. What I failed to consider is that I would eventually require use of the facilities. I may be a genius, but sometimes I’m not very smart.

  At first I repurposed empty water and soda bottles for urine, secured the tops back on and disposed of them in the garbage can, but after a couple of days, the food had digested and my state of affairs became rather unbearable to put it delicately. It would have been illogical to make use of the waste basket to relieve myself not only due to odor considerations, but also because hygienic requirements couldn’t be met without running water and toilet paper.

  When I could no longer accept my lot due to the pressure building up in my abdomen, I scooted the furniture back into place, eased the door open a hair’s breadth and carefully peered out. After noticing no movement, I progressed further out into the laboratory itself. The room was empty with all its beakers, burners and slides. The situation so far was a positive one.

  After opening the main entrance to the lab and noting that the passage was also unoccupied, I quickly waddled toward the lavoratory, hoping that I would make it there in time since I had no change of clothing. I was chuckling on the way at how most people in America don’t know that lavoratory and laboratory are entirely different words and not just a typographical error. Some of the grammatical skills I’ve encountered since coming back home to America are atrocious.

  After the deed was completed and I was able to breathe a sigh of relief, I attempted to re-enter my sanctuary, but the night watchman would have none of that. No, he didn’t order me to leave the premises. He didn’t say anything. The fellow was standing there with a corpulent stomach hanging over his uniform pants and was staring at nothing specific until he noticed he wasn’t alone.

  As he turned around and saw me, I sensed immediately that something was off key. He began hobbling his way towards me, emitting a horrific sound similar to the mating noise of cats combined with the growl of a rabid creature. It was fear-provoking.

  This was one situation that was simple to understand and I took the only option available at the time. I ran. Never since I was a boy running away from bullies in the school yard have I run that fast for that long. My lungs were beginning to feel as if they had been cut open by a knife and my legs were wobbling as I made my way outside of the building. Holding my side and attempting to catch a breath, I carefully moved toward a black Escalade that was parked askew near the entrance with the driver’s side door open and no one inside. The keys were hanging from the ignition ready to go.

  I scanned the surrounding area to ascertain if the vehicle’s owner would be forthcoming, but instead detected another creature staggering towards me from a half block away. Having no other choice if I wanted to stay alive, I entered the vehicle and without hesitation swiftly put it in gear and began driving. There was really no purpose or reason for my actions other than an instinctual need to survive. I was unquestionably in shock and was acting on impulse.

  When I first noticed the tall muscular older gentleman standing in front of me on the roadway waving his arms, my first reaction was to mark this off to being another creature and put my foot to the floor to run him over or swerve around him, but then the logical part of my brain began to refocus and I realize
d that the creatures didn’t stand up straight in semi-clean clothing and wave their arms while yelling “stop!” I barely hit the brakes in time to keep from turning the man into a pancake.

  It’s fortunate for both of us that I stopped in time, because that’s how I met Dan.

  Chapter Five

  Wishing You Were Here

  “Be at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let every new year find you a better man.”

  Benjamin Franklin

  After the sun finally set behind the tree line, things changed rapidly outside. I watched through an opening between the shutter as Mr. Sherman, the elderly gentleman that lived in the house about a quarter mile from me, pushed a green Briggs and Stratton lawnmower down the road with an unseeing look plastered on his skeletal face. The mower wasn’t actually running, but he still paced back and forth in rows as if he was cutting grass. Not seeming to notice that there was no grass, he was shambling along the pavement of the road. I couldn’t help noticing the blood smeared across his pale face and that his normally spotless shirt was encrusted with bits and pieces of something that I’d rather not know.

  I would never think about approaching him now, but I really liked Mr. Sherman. He’s a polite old gentleman who cuts brush growing along the fence line between our property lines while his two Pomeranians run underfoot. He’s usually singing along to some old time country music blaring from a portable radio set on a tree stump or hanging from a fence post.

  Mr. Sherman is at least eighty years old, but he’s a feisty old man. He lets his daughter help out around the house, run errands and pay bills, but it’s not because he needs her. He just doesn’t want to hurt her feelings by telling her that he can do it himself. He refuses to give up on living, but he misses his wife terribly. She died recently and when he speaks about her, it’s in a loving way with a dreamy look in his eyes.

  If he’s outside when Coco and I go for our walks, we stop by to chitchat. Coco talks with his two dogs through the chain link fence. Of course, the canine idea of communication is yapping and whining at each other, touching noses or peeing on the fence. Coco will proudly poop next to the fence from time to time in some territorial ritual that only dogs understand and then scratch the ground and strut around afterwards like she’s proud of her deed. I’m not one of those people who leave their dog’s excrement in a neighbor’s lawn and always come prepared with a pocket full of pink poop bags that have little white hearts on them.

  The neighbors down the other end of the road attend college at the university in town. They’re renting the place until graduation, but they have parties all hours of the night that can even be heard over at my house. One of the girls likes to prove how many cuss words she can drunkenly yell out at the top of her lungs and has no understanding of volume control. They don’t seem to grasp that some people have to get up for work in the mornings.

  The girls wave when we pass on the road, but other than that, I rarely see them and that’s fine with me. Sometimes their friends stop at the wrong house and ring my doorbell, though. One guy rode his motorcycle almost to the front porch steps before he got off to come to the door. I would have chewed his ass for leaving tread marks on my manicured lawn that I worked hard to get that way, but I didn’t want to come off like the grouchy old cuss who shakes a broom at neighborhood kids and yells, “Get off of my grass,” so I keep quiet.

  Who am I kidding? I just don’t want to start having problems with them. People who are selfish and disrespectful like that have a tendency to slice tires and spray paint houses when they get pissed off. I decided to just put up with the noise till they graduate and leave.

  At thirty two, I’m not old by any means, but I’m definitely more mature than these college girls. Part of that maturity comes from my job working in law, but it was mostly the way I was raised.

  After Dad retired from being an Army Ranger, he sat around the house watching television or trying to catch up on all the repairs that he didn’t have time to do before. He soon found that he was bored out of his mind and there was nothing left that needed to be done around the house.

  Mom finally had enough and told him to get a hobby or she was going to kick him out the door, so he started his own company that contracted out security and intelligence services to the government and whoever had enough cash. With his decades of experience and knowledge, his skills didn’t come cheap and the business became a success.

  Mom would never have actually gone through with her threat, but she knew that he was miserable just hanging out at home. Like a lot of men, he would never admit to making a mistake in retiring. Her ultimatum let him do what he wanted anyway and gave him a way to save face. That’s true love.

  Sometimes, Dad’s a little scary. He reminds me of Liam Neeson in the Kidnapped movies. I think the man knows what’s going on before the even the government or television stations do. No matter what happens now, I know that Dad is the best at what he does and will do everything possible to protect my mother, sister and me.

  I just wish he was here right now.

  We’re a close knit family. It’s not that we agree on everything, but we always support each other regardless. One thing’s for certain, you never ask for an opinion unless you can handle total honesty, because that’s what you’re going to get. The truth hurts sometimes.

  Although I know that their home is as well protected as mine, my first inclination is still to pack my things, shoot a way out of the house and then head straight to my family. Yes, I’m aware that this type of thinking is irrational and my dad would be the first person to chew my butt if I even thought about trying a stunt like that. If there’s a safe way to find them, I’ll be all over it, but it might take some time to come up with a workable plan. Right now, I’m going to do some surveillance while I think about it. It’s just hard not knowing for sure if they are still alive.

  Oh, my God. I can’t believe that I even considered such a thing. Of course they’re alive!

  In the meantime, I have to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice in case our bunker is compromised. For this reason, I’ve packed a “bug out” bag with what I consider essentials, ready to grab on the run. It’s a green woman’s internal frame backpack weighing about five pounds when empty that I take with me when we go on camping trips. The bag has space for everything that a gal needs, but fully packed, it can weigh almost a hundred pounds, so I had to be smart in deciding what to put in it. Living in the country outside of a big city isn’t exactly a wilderness, but there are still certain things that are necessary for survival in a situation like this and they all found a place.

  After packing the basics of clean underwear, socks, a change of clothing, MRE’s, food for Coco, water, basic medications, first aid kit, hygiene items and an extra pair of shoes, I added as much ammunition as I could fit into the bag. I have to assume that clothing will be easier to find than ammunition and even though a sense of fashion isn’t necessary for survival, I can die without enough bullets. The problem is that ammo is heavy, so that by the time I had the bag zipped and tied, it’s heavy and difficult to lift without straining. I’ll just have to suck it up until the load lightens up after the ammo gets used. If all goes well, I won’t need the pack or the ammo either. That’s best case scenario, though and Murphy’s law usually applies in my life.

  I’m drained from literally doing nothing. I know that’s strange, but it’s true. Boredom with a mix of fear added in can cause a person’s mind to wander in dangerous territories. After eating some of the casserole I prepared, I washed dishes and put things away, then undressed and lay in the tub for a while surrounded by scented candles, trying to relax in order to sleep better tonight. Last night’s dreams were full of death and I don’t know how many more of those nights I can handle.

  I stared at the earth tone ceramic tiles on the bathroom wall and listened to the gentle sounds of water swaying with my slightest movement, but still couldn’t unwind. Relaxing in the foamy bubbles seemed decadent when pe
ople were dying or already dead outside. I realize that I should be happy with my situation, but I can’t help but feel depressed. Most people aren’t as well prepared as I am and don’t stand a chance when things get even worse – which they will.

  Those who are able to shelter inside their homes might be safe right now, but unless they planned far ahead like I did, it won’t take long before they run out of food or other supplies and have to risk going out to scavenge. Their lives will be in danger every time they leave their hiding place, but without nourishment they’ll die anyway. The most vulnerable will be the elderly, disabled and children. They’ll be the first to die because they aren’t able to defend themselves and their immune systems are weak, so they need a healthy diet. The surety of this happening to so many people is too awful to even consider, but I still can’t seem get it out of my head. My neighbor is already dead and has turned into one of those things - zombies. What other friend or family member has been lost in this madness?

  While I was dressing for bed, the electricity in the homes around me finally went down. The streets are now blanketed in blackness and filled with an eerie silence. The buzzing on the electric lines that travel above our heads, the electric compressors and other mechanical sounds that are now silent creating an ominous stillness unheard of in our modern world.

  I felt my way through the hallway and into the kitchen to rifle through the drawers in search of duct tape and aluminum foil to use for covering any openings in the shutters that might allow light to shine through. There are solar panels on the roof with a separate power inverter, so we still have electricity, but caution has to be maintained to keep from drawing attention to our location. Whether from zombies or humans doesn’t matter. They can both be dangerous right now.

  The next morning was filled with more of the same monotonous drivel, but to pass the time, I made it a point to learn everything I could about these zombies. Not only by watching YouTube videos that popped up with regularity at the beginning, but are becoming less frequent as time wears on, but also through personal observation. One thing that I figured out through watching out the windows, with the lights turned off of course, is that the creatures never come out during the daytime when it is sunny. This is very interesting. From my vantage point, I can’t see where they are hiding, but they obviously don’t vanish into thin air, so I’m assuming that they are hiding nearby. I haven’t seen anyone else who lives on my street, but I know unless they left, they’re still out there hunting for someone to eat.