The King of Clayfield - 01

by Shane Gregory

  I turned on my laptop. The internet was still working. The news stories on my internet provider’s home page were about Canton B. One headline said PROTECT YOURSELF WITH ALCOHOL. The blurb underneath said, “Doctor tells people to get drunk.” I rolled my eyes. Even then, with the most sensational story of all time, they felt the need to get more sensational.

  I moved on and checked my emails for something from Blaine or my mom, but there was nothing there but advertisements. I logged into all the social networking sites. I hadn’t been online since Wednesday, and that was to check my bank statement. I hadn’t visited any of the social sites since Sunday. There was a lot of talk about Canton B, but none of my local friends had posted anything for a couple of days…except one. Jen Warren, a woman I knew from my high school days, had posted as recently as three hours before.

  Her post said:

  “Things are really bad. People are killing each other outside. We’re at home 131 College St., Clayfield. Please send help.”

  That post had 68 comments on it, many of them said, “Praying” or “Sending positive thoughts your way” or some pointless variation of that. A few people talked about themselves and how things were where they lived. A few said they were going to help, but I visited their profiles and they lived north or west of the rivers or too far away for that promise to be realistic.

  I sent her a message:

  “Jen, I am at home now. It’s getting dark, and I’m not going out. I will come by your place in the morning. I will be in a black SUV. Have some things ready to leave. Please respond to this message, so I know you got it.”

  I hit “send.” Then I checked Blaine’s profile. There was nothing posted since last week, and it was a link to a seed catalog. He’d commented how it was time to start his tomato seeds indoors. I visited the profile of his wife, Betsy, and the week before she’d posted a link to a Stevie Wonder music video.

  Not getting any pertinent information, I got busy with the masked woman’s advice. I typed HOW TO PURIFY WATER into the search engine. Every result was a link to a site pertaining to disaster preparedness.

  The first one was a government site. It had already been updated and adapted to deal with the current crisis. From what I could gather, it was posted for those not in infected areas that were experiencing shortages. There was no advice as to how to deal with the infected except to keep your distance and notify authorities. We were past that. I got the impression that they’d written off the infected areas as a loss. There was actually a sentence toward the end of their home page that said,

  “Once the affected areas have been fully depopulated, testing should indicate whether these areas are habitable again.”

  Depopulated? I stared at that sentence trying to figure out what they meant. Did they plan to wait it out or depopulate it themselves? I didn’t like either option. There wasn’t going to be a rescue. At best, I could expect to stick it out here alone until the infected died off. At worst, the federal government was going to do something to eradicate us.

  I couldn’t think about that right now. I had a job to do. I dug around in my desk and came up with a partial package of paper–at most, 30 sheets. It would have to do. I started printing out the information. I printed from the government site for a while, but then I found some sites that seemed better suited for my situation. These were sites that used acronyms like WTSHTF (When The Shit Hits The Fan) and TEOTWAWKI (The End Of The World As We Know It). Those terms described my day exactly.

  These sites were like a gold mine for me, but since it was all so new to me, I wasn’t sure on which information I should focus. I kept it simple with food and water. I looked through their guns sections, but I thought some of it was ridiculous. I mean, where would I come across an automatic weapon? I already knew how to shoot; my dad took me hunting when I was a kid. It had been a while, but I could still do it. As far as using the guns for something other than hunting…I didn’t even want to think about shooting someone.

  I did remember the masked woman talking about hooking a generator up to a well pump. I knew Blaine had a well at his place. It was under one of those little white, fiberglass well houses. I did a search for that, and there was discussion about this in a forum. I’d have to hardwire the generator into the pump. I printed off some information on that, too.

  One site had a list of “necessities” that everyone should have in case of the end of the world. Another site told how much food was needed to supply a family of four for a year. I printed front and back of every sheet, and it didn’t take long.

  I tried to call my mom and Blaine again. They didn’t answer. Then I checked to see if Jen had responded to my message, but she had not.

  I searched online a while longer and started hand writing information in the margins. I wrote until my hands hurt. I thought about exploring more sites, but I was exhausted. I realized as I turned off the computer that I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. It was now close to 11:00 pm. Only twelve hours before, I’d been sweeping my museum.

  CHAPTER 6

  Before going to bed, I looked at the TV. There was a video of men in biohazard suits, lifting body bags onto a truck. Then the image switched to the news anchor standing at a large map. All of the southern states east of the Mississippi River were shaded in red, also all the way up through D.C., Maryland and parts of Pennsylvania. Looking at the map, I really didn’t see any way they could stop it from taking every state east of the Mississippi. They might be able to stop it from spreading into Canada.

  The anchor said, “An Ohio doctor claims inebriation could have an affect on Canton B.

  “Dr. Sharron Harris of the University Hospital in Cincinnati has spent the past two days assisting medical personnel in Louisville, Kentucky. She is with us now, via satellite. Dr. Harris, this has the potential to be something big. How did you come to this conclusion?”

  The doctor looked tired and solemn. She said, “I examined a woman last night, a rape victim. Her assailant was later brought in by police exhibiting symptoms of the virus. Tests concluded that he was infected, however, his victim tested negative. She had been drinking.

  “This morning, I treated a homeless man that had been attacked. He’d been beaten and bitten by two individuals in the advanced stages of the virus. The homeless man is an alcoholic and was intoxicated at the time. I did tests on him, and they all came up negative for Canton B…”

  The reporter interrupted her, “Yes, but doctor, does this really indicate that alcohol had anything to do with it? I’m sure there are people out there with a natural immunity.”

  The doctor shifted in her seat, “No, right now, this is a theory. I have contacted hospitals across the southern states, but as you know, much of the South is without power and communication is spotty. I did receive an email from a nurse in Atlanta who stated she had treated an intoxicated woman following a car crash, and the woman had tested negative.

  “I don’t think it is a cure, but I think that perhaps alcohol’s interaction with the brain might prevent the virus from initially taking hold. We don’t know enough to say for sure, but I think it should be investigated further.”

  “Doctor, isn’t there a danger in telling people to drink? I would think that now more than ever, especially in the infected zones, people wouldn’t want their judgment impaired.”

  “I’m not telling anyone to drink; I’m trying to get information out there that has the possibility for saving lives.”

  “Doctor, how much should we drink to fight off the virus?”

  “I’m not say anyone should drink…I don’t know….”

  I turned the TV off. I had a bottle of bourbon in the pantry, but I didn’t want to get plastered just on the hunch of a tired doctor. I had to keep my wits.

  I started to try my mom again, but decided to wait. Part of me questioned why she hadn’t called to check on me.

  I slept hard. When I woke up, daylight was coming through a gap in my bedroom curtains. There was a faint smell of smoke. The hou
se was cold. It wasn’t cold enough for me to see my breath, but it was uncomfortable. My alarm clock was dark. I’d set it to go off at 6:30 am, so I could go help Jen. I tried the lamp by my bed, and it wouldn’t come on.

  I peeked through the curtain, and there was about an inch of new snow on the ground. A body was in the street in front of the house next door, also covered in snow. It was smoky out there. I’d hoped it had all been a dream.

  I went to the kitchen where I could check a battery-operated clock. It was a little after nine. I looked out a window in the back of the house. I could see a lot of smoke coming up over the trees to the west.

  I wouldn’t be able to stay. Maybe I could bundle up enough to sleep there, so long as that fire didn’t spread, but eventually the water would freeze. It might warm up this afternoon, or it might stay this cold for a week. I didn’t know, and I doubted the local weatherman was still making forecasts.

  I went to my closet and put on some warmer clothes–a blue and yellow Murray State University sweatshirt and some jeans. Then I took out five more changes of clothes to take with me to Blaine’s. I piled them all on the bed, and then I went out to the spare room to get my suitcase. On my way through the living room, I stopped to try my mom again. The phone relied on electricity and was dead. I felt a little empty and worried. I wondered if I would ever know if she was okay. I was suddenly angry with the woman in the mask for taking my cell phone.

  I was angry all around.

  I went into the spare room. I never called it the guest room because I never had any guests. I’d always thought about turning it into a little library or a study, but that’s just another plan that never happened. The room was stacked with boxes and junk. When I divorced two years prior, I’d bought this place. I unpacked the necessities when I first moved in, but this other stuff had never made it out of their boxes. Some of the boxes were packed when I left home for college many years before. I was just too sentimental or too much of a pack rat to let any of it go.

  One of the boxes contained my old comic books. Some were collector’s items, but I never sold them, because I always thought I’d read them again. I tried once, but they just weren’t the same…no, I wasn’t the same. Another box had some of my back issues of Mother Earth News. I never threw them away either. I always had this little fantasy of living in the country and growing my own food. I could live that dream vicariously through Blaine and reading those magazine articles. I grabbed the box. I figured that I’d need them.

  I packed my clothes in the suitcase. I emptied out one of the boxes of junk from the spare room and put the contents of my medicine cabinet in there. I took everything--even a bottle of expired vitamins. I had three rolls of toilet paper and a partial; I put them in the box. Toothpaste, mouthwash, disposable razors, nail clippers—it all went in.

  I had some lace-up Wolverine work boots in the closet that I didn't wear much, but I kept them around in case I ever needed to do any work outside. I put them on and took the box of toiletries, the magazines, and the suitcase out to the Blazer.

  While I was out there, I removed the child's car seat. There was still a sippy cup in the little cup holder. It made me sad. Once it was out, I brushed out the stale Cheerios and raisins that were in the backseat. Then I went back in to pack my food.

  I thought I had been running low on food and had been planning to go to the grocery since Tuesday. But when I got in the fridge and cupboard, I found a lot there. I always had food in there that I forgot about or ignored, like boxed rice mixes or cans of vegetables that I rarely ate. It had become a little like the clutter around my desk, and eventually I didn't see it in there anymore. Some of it was close to or a little past the Use By date, but it was food. It all fit into three file boxes.

  I opened a granola bar and ate it. I hadn't realized how hungry I was, and I wound up eating two more and finishing off a bottle of grape juice.

  Once the food was in the back of the Blazer with the other stuff, I loaded all the water I had bottled up the night before, which took up half the floorboard in the back seat--two half gallon juice bottles, and six smaller bottles. Then, I went back in for another sweep of anything I might need.

  I bagged up a couple of blankets and a pillow, and put them by the door. I put my laptop and the stack of papers I'd printed next to that. I put on my heavy coat, and tied a dishtowel around my nose and mouth. I couldn't think of anything else. If I needed some of the personal items, I could come back for them later.

  I loaded the last of the stuff. The back of the truck was crammed. Then I locked the house and opened the garage door. It was so quiet. No car engines. No voices. No hum from the wires on the poles running down the street. Not even a dog barking. There was no one around, and the snow hadn't been disturbed, so no one had been around for a while. The smell of smoke was strong; it had settled low and close to the ground.

  I backed the Blazer out then got out and shut the garage door. The driveway was a little slippery. When I got back in, I put it in four-wheel drive.

  I saw fourteen dead bodies as I headed south on my way to Jen's house on College Street. I didn't know if they'd been murdered by the infected or had succumbed to the cold. I saw only two people out walking around, but I didn't stop; I didn't want to risk it.

  I did see an older tan Ford pick-up truck driving one block over and headed north as I crossed over Walnut Street. The back of the truck was piled with stuff, and there was a tarp tied over it. I just caught a glimpse, and they didn't slow down. I turned at the next intersection and circled around to chase them down, but by then, they were gone.

  When I got to 131 College Street, it was after 10:30 a.m. Jen lived in a little white house, not that much different than mine. I pulled the truck up into the yard, with the passenger side close to the front porch steps. The front door was standing wide open. I waited a moment to allow her and anyone else inside time to come out, but no one did.

  "Shit," I said. My own voice sounded odd. Then I realized I hadn't said a word since yesterday when I'd screamed at the boy behind my car.

  The tobacco stick was still in the front seat. I grabbed it and got out, leaving the engine running. Going up the porch, I noticed footprints in the snow on the steps coming out of the house and headed down the street.

  Cautiously, I stopped in the doorway and looked inside. To the left, along the wall, there was a door, and next to that was a couch that had been folded out into a bed. The bed was unmade. On the other side of the room, a lamp lay in the floor. Pictures were crooked on the wall. I could smell feces.

  I wanted to leave right then, and I almost did, but I'd promised her I'd come. Just inside, there was an opening to the right, which led into a small dining room, and behind that, the kitchen. There was a laptop on the dining room table, open. Next to it was a coffee cup with the string of a tea bag hanging out of it. One of the chairs was overturned, and there was a pile of human excrement on the floor next to it.

  I entered the living room, and tried the switch by the door. No power there either. I went around the foldout bed to the other doorway. There was a bathroom in front of me and a bedroom on either side. All of the doors were open, and there was no one inside.

  Both of the bedrooms were a mess, but the one on the left was worse. The dresser was turned over and leaning against the bed. The floor was littered with clothes and cash. I stepped in and looked around. I saw a stain on the wall that I presumed to be blood. I hadn't got there in time to help.

  I went over to the dresser and righted it against the wall. The top drawer hung open, and women's underwear spilled over the side. I started pushing them back into the drawer, when I heard movement in the closet.

  I held my stick up.

  "Hello?" I said.

  No response.

  I stepped closer.

  "Jen?"

  Silence.

  Then the bottom of the closet door exploded outward, and the lamp on the nightstand by the bed shattered. I peed myself a little.

 
"Jesus!" I said, falling backward over the corner of the bed.

  "Get back!" said a woman's voice from the closet.

  "Jen?" I said. "I've come to get you."

  The long barrel of a shotgun eased out of the bottom half of the splintered closet door followed by Jen's face. Her eyes were red, her hair was tangled, and she was shivering.

  I pulled down the dish towel from my face, so she could see who it was.

  "You came," she whispered. Then she lifted her gun at me. "Are you sick?"

  "No," I said.

  She disappeared back inside, and then the door opened. She stepped out with a shotgun in one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other.

  Her brow furrowed, "Whatcha doing with those?"

  I looked down to see what she was talking about. I was holding a pair of her panties.

  CHAPTER 7

  I dropped the underwear and looked up at her. She was still staring at me like she was expecting an answer.

  "We've got to go," I said, stepping past her to the bedroom window. "That gunshot will probably attract them."

  She just stood there swaying; her gaze had shifted to a million miles away.

  "It's been hell," she said in a hoarse whisper.

  I could see three men at the corner of the street, two houses away.

  "They're coming," I said. I grabbed her arm to lead her out, but she wouldn't move.

  "I'm so drunk," she said, continuing to stare.

  "Have you been infected?" I said.

  She shrugged.

  I took her shotgun and bottle. She didn't resist. I stepped back to the window. The trio was still at the corner, but they would notice the noise of the Blazer's engine.

  When I turned back, she was sitting on the bed.

  "I'm so damn drunk," she said again. This time she put her head in her hands and started bawling.

  "We can talk about that in the car," I said. "Let's get some clothes for you."