by Smith, Aaron
Doug got in his car and let out a long, deep sigh. It was too warm inside the parked vehicle and he lowered the window. He looked down at his hands. He began to tremble. Could he trust himself around that girl? He had spent so many years keeping a distance from people, emotionally if not physically, and most of the time was fine with being alone. But tonight, he felt different, as if the change of scenery had cleared his mind. He felt the staleness of year after year in Chicago falling away and he wanted something different, something spontaneous, something free. He sighed again, hoping he wasn’t about to make a big mistake.
Be careful Doug, you’re treading a very dangerous line. Very thin, very fragile.
Danielle Hayes cursed for the seventeenth time as she made yet another detour to go around yet another roadblock. As that seventeenth “Fuck!” came out she remembered the little boy in the passenger seat and turned for a second to excuse herself.
“No problem,” Brandon said. “I’ve heard it all before.”
Danielle chuckled and tried to calm down. All she wanted was to get back to her building and lock herself and Brandon and Claire inside, to stay put until sanity returned to Chicago. The news reports coming through the car radio had been all over the place with widely varying estimates of dead and injured. Danielle had finally shut the radio off. She had no idea how far the strange contagion or outbreak of craziness or whatever it was had spread, and she hoped her home would provide some safety. She also had no idea what to do with the seven year old next to her. She had to get home, feel as secure as she could, and think.
She made it. It was only when they were safely inside the elevator and it began to rise that Danielle breathed normally again.
“Why do you have a crutch?” Brandon asked. “You’re not using it.”
“I’ll explain that later,” Danielle said, suddenly remembering what she had forgotten while trying to navigate Chicago’s chaotic roads: she still had to find the words to tell this poor boy that his parents and brother were probably dead. Dead or something worse, Danielle knew, but she wasn’t going to tell Brandon too much, at least not yet. She still had no understanding of the situation—never mind what a seven year old would make of it.
As Danielle and Brandon entered the apartment, Danielle saw that Claire was seated on the couch, furiously scribbling in her sketchbook.
“Not watching the news?” Danielle asked.
“I couldn’t take it anymore,” Claire told her, looking up. “I’m glad you’re home. I was worried, but somehow I knew you’d make it back. Oh, shit! Who’s the kid?”
“This is Brandon,” Danielle said, laughing a bit at Claire’s reaction, momentarily forgetting the nightmare she had just driven through to make it home. “I think he’ll be staying here tonight.”
“Danni … what’s going on? Why is he here?” Claire looked confused.
Danielle turned to Brandon, pointed to the door off to the side. “Brandon, why don’t you go wash your hands and your face, use the bathroom if you have to. It’s that way, through that door, okay?”
As he went into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, Danielle walked over to Claire, knelt down in front of her, and spoke softly, just above a whisper, “His parents are dead, and his brother and his aunt and uncle. His uncle was one of those things and I … I killed it. I don’t know if anybody’s left of his family.”
“Fuck,” Claire said, the harsh word coming out soft with sympathy and sadness. “What’re you going to do about it?”
“That,” Danielle said, “depends on what happens with this situation, if it ends, whatever it is, soon. I guess I’ll have to try and find out if he has grandparents or anybody else. And Claire, he knows about his aunt, but not about his parents or his brother. We’re going to have to tell him. This will not be an easy night for any of us.”
Before Claire could respond, they heard the sound of the toilet flushing and the bathroom door opening. Brandon came walking out, still drying his hands with a towel. His face was paler than it had been minutes earlier.
“Can I ask a question?” the child said as he walked over to Danielle.
“Sure, Brandon,” she said.
“Are my parents dead like Aunt Phyllis? I thought about it and they wouldn’t leave me with somebody I don’t know. You can tell me. I can take it.”
“Shit,” Claire whispered. She wanted to get up off the couch and hide. She was glad she wasn’t Danielle at that moment.
Danielle’s head spun for a second.
“Yes, Brandon, they are … and I’m sorry.”
“Is Joseph dead, too?” Brandon asked, his face twisting in sadness as he fought to keep from crying. Danielle just nodded, bordering on tears herself.
Brandon lost it. He let out a little sound like the muffled yelp a puppy makes when you step on its tail. He ran straight into Danielle's arms. She could feel his tears wetting her shoulder.
On the couch, Claire swore again.
Danielle held the sobbing boy for a long time. Nobody spoke. Finally, Danielle looked at Claire.
“Can you scoot over so we can get off the floor?”
Claire adjusted her position and made room. Danielle helped Brandon, weak and wracked by sobs, up onto the sofa, sat him between she and her roommate.
“Brandon?”
“What?”
“Do you have grandparents or another aunt or an uncle, a cousin maybe, or anybody in your family?”
“No,” he answered, letting out a little cough as he spoke. “They’re all dead. What’s going to happen to me now?”
“I don’t know yet, partner,” Danielle said, “but we’ll figure it out together.” She glanced over at Claire to see that tears had begun to stream down her face, too.
The phone began to ring, the landline. They ignored it at first. On the sixth ring, just before the answering machine would have picked up, Claire reached over and picked it up, cleared her throat, spoke a hoarse greeting and listened for a second.
“We’re fine, Mrs. Hayes,” she said after a moment. “Yes, we’re inside, we’re both here, and nothing bad has happened near us yet. Umm … she’s in the bathroom. I’ll tell her to call you later. Try not to worry. We’ll be fine. Bye.”
Claire hung up the phone. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk to your mother,” she said. “There’s too much happening and she’s on the verge of panic, it sounds like. She saw on the news.”
“Thanks,” Danielle said. “Next time it rings, it’ll probably be yours. I’ll deflect that one.”
No one spoke after that. The two young women sat on the couch and wondered if life would ever go back to what it had been when they had gone to sleep the night before. Between them, a sad little boy slowly cried himself to sleep, lost in grief and confusion.
Outside the apartment, the streets of Chicago were bright with police lights. The sound of sirens still cut through the early evening air. Doors were locked, giving the people behind them at least a tiny feeling of security, but the sense of safety was outweighed by terror, uncertainty and dread.
In the streets and alleys, those unlucky enough to have no immediate shelter found their shoes stained with blood as they walked, all of them hoping they would not encounter the things that now strode those streets. In a few sections of the city, fires had started to burn and the wailing of fire trucks had joined the symphony of madness.
The religious prayed. The fearful, of whom there were many, cried. Traffic jammed the streets despite the orders of authorities to stay off the roads. And among all the human confusion, things that were no longer human wandered and feasted and multiplied. It was going to be a very long night in Chicago.
Chapter 6
Captain Terence Trumbull stared at the television screen in utter shock as memories flooded his mind. The door to his office was closed and locked so no one could see his reaction. He knew that almost every television on the base was tuned to one news channel or another as any officer or enlisted man or woman there would be inter
ested in the developments in the Windy City. Most of them, Trumbull guessed, would be shocked and even horrified. They would also be wondering if military forces would be called in to assist with the situation.
Trumbull also knew that of the hundreds of soldiers stationed at the Rock Island Arsenal in Davenport, Illinois, he alone had any idea of what was really going on in Chicago. Terence Trumbull had seen something like this before and was, as far as he knew, the only man still alive who had ever witnessed such a thing.
He had always hoped and prayed that no one would ever again have to experience it—but it seemed that his hopes had been in vain and his prayers had gone unanswered. He turned away from the screen for a moment and glanced around his office. He looked at the spines of some of the books that stood on the shelves: the Holy Bible, the Quran, various Hindu, Jewish, Buddhist texts. He sighed. What good were holy books and words that supposedly came from the mouth of God when Hell had once again broken loose on Earth?
And this time, Trumbull knew, the area where the inferno would burn was much larger than it had been the first time he had seen such things. This time, he feared the flames of horror could spread indefinitely.
Captain Trumbull had not always been an army chaplain. Once, he had been a real soldier, not the token officer he now was. He would never tell any of those men and women who came to him for spiritual guidance how he really felt about his specialty, but the truth was that he felt impotent; unimportant and a waste of time and taxpayers’ money. He knew that what he did meant something to some people and he was glad to be of use, but he often longed for the days when he had been allowed to truly fight for his country. That was something the army would no longer allow him to do. When that privilege had been taken away from him, he had been given a choice: stay in the service of the United States in a noncombatant role or return to civilian life. Trumbull had elected to continue to serve, but the way he served was not what he wanted, not even close.
After enough time had gone by that the news cycle had begun to repeat itself, he did his best to compose himself, wiped the sweat from his brow, and concentrated on steadying his breathing. When he felt somewhat normal again and trusted that he could communicate coherently, he got up, made sure his uniform was presentable, and walked out of his office and down the hall to have a conversation he had hoped he would never have to initiate.
The voice from behind the door called out after the third knock.
“Enter.”
Colonel Peterson swiveled around in his chair, away from the computer. Peterson was a slim, athletically built man in his early fifties with a reputation for intelligence and discipline. For the past two years, Trumbull had enjoyed serving under the colonel.
“Evening, Captain,” Peterson said with a nod. Unlike many of the other base personnel, Peterson always addressed Trumbull by rank rather than as “Reverend.” Peterson knew that Trumbull had not always been a chaplain, but had been awarded several battle commendations in his previous incarnation as an officer, before things had changed. He was of the opinion that Trumbull was capable enough in his current role, and had great respect for Trumbull’s past record, a record not widely known among the rest of those on that particular post.
“May I sit down, sir?” Trumbull asked. “I need to speak with you.”
“By all means, Captain.”
Trumbull sat down. “Have you received the call yet?”
“I’m assuming you mean about Chicago.”
“Yes.”
“I’m on standby. The platoon leaders have been informed. I expect the real call any minute now. They’ll want infantry and medical personnel.”
“I want to go, Colonel.”
“Captain Trumbull, you know I can’t authorize that. You’re on strict non-combat duty. I can’t override that status. Why would you want to go?”
“Because, sir, I might be the only man in the world who has any idea what’s really going on in Chicago tonight.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Colonel, how much do you know about my time in the army before I was sent here? I’m asking exactly what it is you know about me and how I came to be classified the way I am. It’s important, Colonel.”
“All right, Captain. I know you once commanded a platoon in combat. I know you were decorated for heroism more than once, and I know that something happened and you were deemed no longer fit for field duty and reassigned as a chaplain so you could continue to serve in some capacity. As far as I’m concerned, you have my respect for your past record, and you have my respect as a competent officer in your current duties. That’s all I need to know.”
“With all due respect, Colonel, tonight you need to know more. When I’m done with what I have to say, you may very well think I’m crazy. But I hope you won’t. I hope you’ll understand why you have to let me go to Chicago with the troops you send in.”
“I’m listening, Trumbull.”
Trumbull squirmed in his seat for a moment, adjusted his positioning, wiped his hand across his brow and found that he had begun to sweat again. He started to speak in the sort of voice that belongs to a man who expects to be haunted by certain memories for as long as he lives.
“As I’m sure you know, Colonel, there are fifty-four different nations on the continent of Africa. It’s not the most stable part of the world and at any given time there are sure to be nasty things going on in at least a handful of those countries. Civil wars, overthrowing of governments, political upheavals, terrorist recruiting—you name it, it’s happening somewhere on that continent. With all those little conflicts going on over there, the US government gets involved more often than the public knows, more often than even most of us in the army know. The details are highly classified and I’m not going to get too into it now. But I was over there for a lot of those events and I was right in the middle of it for most of my first few years of service.
“At one point, when I was a first lieutenant, I was put in command of a small band of soldiers working in one of those war-torn areas. There were eight of us, specially selected because of various skills and experiences. I was the leader, there were a few Rangers with different weapons specialties, a medic, an interpreter who could speak a handful of common dialects, and even a guy who could sneak in and out of almost anywhere for recon. That guy was like an army ninja; you couldn’t spot him even if you knew he was coming, and no alarm or sentry was any good at keeping him out. We could blend in, rarely wore uniforms. We had high-tech equipment designed to look like regular stuff. We were good at what we did, and what we did could get pretty nasty sometimes.
“At one point, we had to travel by Jeep through a large stretch of what we thought was unsettled land between two more populated areas of a country whose name I can’t mention because it's classified. Well, it turns out that land wasn’t as empty as we thought and we came across a little village, a very primitive village, what you might call a lost tribe—natives living just like they had a hundred or a thousand years ago. Somehow, this little bubble of people had never become part of what passes for modern civilization in that part of the world. But, it turned out their language was close enough to one of the more common African languages that our translator was able to communicate with them. It was a strange experience, like those people—and there was about sixty of them, I guess—and our guys were from two different worlds. They were fascinated by us and we were intrigued by them. Seriously, I felt like Captain Kirk landing on some alien planet or something. They asked us to stay and eat with them and we accepted, mostly because we wanted to talk with them and make them understand that they ought to stay away from certain places while that part of the continent was on fire with all that trouble.
“So, we stayed for dinner and then some. The food was amazing. Just living off the land, roasting animals they hunted and making use of some local herbs, those people did pretty well. We stayed for that night and then another day, and another day after that. It was a welcome rest after all the traveling and killing we
’d been doing. But on the third day, things changed.
“Dusk was coming and we had decided to spend one more night in the village before moving on in the morning. A man came wandering into the village, a guy we hadn’t seen before. It turns out he was the group’s shaman or witch doctor or whatever you want to call it. He’d gone off into the wilderness a couple days before we’d arrived, to perform some kind of ritual in solitude, some sort of primitive rite to call down blessings upon the people from some god or such. The people were pretty happy to see him come back and he sat down to eat with the rest of us. I remember he had a kind of strange intensity about him, like a man who’d seen more in his life than the rest of the villagers had. I kept glancing over and watching him while we ate, and I had this strange foreboding feeling.
“There’s no easy way to describe what happened next, Colonel, so I’ll just come out and say it. One minute this shaman guy was munching on a piece of fruit. The next minute his eyes went blank, his mouth dropped open, a shudder went through him like he’d suddenly felt cold even though it was a warm summer night out there, and then he wasn’t really human anymore.
“He just grabbed hold of the person next to him, a young woman, and sunk his teeth right into her throat. Ripped her apart. There was blood everywhere, sir. I’d seen a lot of blood before, being a soldier, but it was never like that. Everything went crazy.
“The men and I didn’t really know what to do. We got back in the Jeep and watched as the whole tribe went crazy. They killed that shaman, hit him in the head with a big stick and then drove a spear into his brain through his eye socket. But a few minutes later, the girl he’d killed, the one with her throat ripped out, the one who had to be dead after such an injury and so much blood … well, she got up and started killing, too. It was like … like a disease that spread like wildfire and we watched as they basically killed each other, tore pieces off each other, became these … these frenzied cannibals.
