The Final Day [Complete Edition]

by Shawn W. Salzman

  "Would you object to me giving you a sedative to keep your nerves down?"

  I shake my head.

  "I don't want this infection gaining any ground before I get back," he sticks me with the needle and empties the contents.

  Within seconds, I start to feel a little bit of tingling in my arms and legs. Kinnelson wraps his arm around me and helps me to my feet.

  "Let's get you to the couch, for now."

  My legs begin to numb as we near the couch. Vision begins to blur. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

  My body hits the couch and I have never felt more comfortable. Sounds begin to muffle. I hear Kinnelson talking to Kari.

  "What's wrong?" I hear Kari say.

  "I need to hurry," Kinnelson answers, his voice is fading fast. "We... don't have... much... time."

  11 AM

  HOUR TWENTY-TWO

  An organ plays. People are singing and laughing all around me.

  "Take me out to the ball game. Take me out to the crowd. Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack. I don't care if I ever get back..."

  Where am I?

  My eyes are heavy but I force them open. The light is intense; my pupils must be pinpoints right now. Peering through eyes no more than slits, colors form around me and develop into an aura of familiarity.

  The scoreboard... I'm in Milwaukee. This is County Stadium. But, that's impossible! County Stadium was torn down in 2001.

  I look around at the crowd. There are Brewers fans everywhere. They all have stuff on with the old ball and glove logo

  .

  The smell of popcorn and stadium dogs wafts over me. I must be in heaven. Nothing smells better.

  A vendor stops next to me and waits. I reach in a dig through my pockets for change. I pull my hand out and extend it to him, a hand that belongs to a child.

  Am I dead?

  The vendor smile and hands me a bag of popcorn and gives me a quarter back. "Just fifty cents, kid."

  Kid. I must be dead, or dreaming.

  A familiar voice calls from next to me. "I would have paid for it, Mikey."

  I look up and it's my dad! The dark brown hair brushed back on his head, just like they did in the fifties and sixties. Dressed in his t-shirt and jeans and his work boots, it's my dad.

  This can't be real. My dad died years ago, right after Lexi was born. There's no way this can be real.

  The crowd cheers as the announcer pipes in over the intercom.

  "Next up, number four," the announcer calls out in a sweeping voice. "Paul Molitor!"

  "Molitor," my dad scoffs. "Here's another strikeout."

  I don't get why he never liked Paul Molitor. He never like Robin Yount, either. Go figure, two Hall of Fame baseball players and my dad hated them both.

  I look at the scoreboard. Strike two. A grin forms on my dad's face. He knows what's coming.

  Strike three...

  "Next up, Ben Oglivie," the announcer shouts out.

  1982 - It has to be. Paul Molitor. Robin Yount. Oglivie. Pete Vukovich on the plate. It has to be "Harvey's Wallbangers."

  And this has to be a dream. If it is and I know it is, why can't I wake?

  I settle back in to the moment and toss some popcorn in my mouth. The oily, buttery taste is amazing, just like how I remember it.

  I don't want to wake up.

  The side is retired. I watch as the Royals head in to their bullpen and the Brewers hit the field. The Royal's center fielder, Amos Otis, is moving really slow, staggering.

  "Stormin'" Gorman Thomas heads towards him. He stops a few feet away. Otis starts swinging his arms, out of control, almost like he's clawing at the air.

  What the hell?

  Thomas starts backing away. Otis lunges at him, attacks him. I see his head plunge in for Thomas' throat.

  Players begin to attack each other on the field. They're killing each other!

  I look around at the crowd and no one is doing a damn thing! What the hell is wrong with these people?

  "Do you not see what's happening down there?"

  I tug on my dad's shirt and point. He doesn't even give me a reaction in return.

  "Dad," I holler at him. "Don't you see that?"

  "See what?" He grins a bit, still facing forward.

  He reaches over and pats my leg. I gasp in horror. His hand is gray, speckled with black. Lifeless. Dried blood and pieces of meat are caked to his fingertips. I follow his arm up to his shoulder, then to his face...

  He turns his head to look at me and I scream! The right side of his face is torn, rotten. Flesh dangles from his cheek, exposing the pinkish-red of his gums and an exposed jawline. The cartilage of his nose is beginning to rot away. A gaping hole in his skull remains from where his eye once was. Disheveled hair atop his head, he is one of them!

  I fall off my chair and kick wildly, scooting myself backward down the aisle way.

  "Help me," I cry out. "Help me, please!"

  A hand grabs hold of me and lifts me to my feet. Finally, some help! I turn to face my rescuer. The lady's face looks familiar but I can't place her. Hell, I don't care who she is, as long as she's helping me.

  A primal, musky smell washes over me and fills my nostrils. I hear a heartbeat. Soft at first, it grows considerably louder until each reverberation pounds in my veins.

  I look at her. She looks at me and screams. Her eyes grow wide, and she tries to back away.

  I pull her hand close to me, raise it to my mouth and take a bite. My teeth grind into her flesh, the meat and muscle tickling my taste buds.

  Then the blood begins to flow onto my tongue. The salty, metallic flavor makes me shudder orgasmically. My tongue serves as a passage for the warm liquid, moving it along to the back of my throat.

  She yanks her hand back. I take her thumb and fore-finger. She can have the rest. Blood shoots from a severed artery and washes over my face like a warm shower of crimson.

  I need more...

  "I knew you could do it, son."

  My dad's voice rings out from behind me, vibrant and proud.

  "Now," he continues. "Finish her off."

  You don't have to tell me twice. I hone in on her neck and leap forward. My fingernails claw into her skin as my snapping jaw closes around her jugular. Warm blood washes over me like a water fountain. I lap the liquid into my mouth as fast as it drains from her body.

  Her life fades. She falls to the ground and I fall with her. As I continue to consume her, I look out across the stadium.

  Bodies are everywhere. The drab gray concrete is now a shimmering red, flooded with the blood of thousands. Blood washes over the upper deck railings like rainwater, careening to the seats below.

  All of the meat... an unlimited source of food for an unlimited appetite. And I want to taste them all...

  12 PM

  HOUR TWENTY-THREE

  A child screams. It gives me a chill, but it is amazing. I can feel the adrenaline flow. Vulnerable. Defenseless. Free for the taking. How tender and tasty the meat must be.

  I search the stands. I see a lot of dead ones, but that's it. None of them are still kicking and screaming. Well, some are still kicking, but there isn't enough life left in them to scream. So, where is it coming from?

  I glance at the field below me. Bodies are everywhere - the bastards aren't saving any for me!

  The kid screams again. I think it's a girl but, when they're little, it's hard to tell. My eyes jerk to a crowd of eaters - an apt title for us. After all, is this not our destiny - to eat? Four or five of them are in a circle. They're closing in on someone.

  As I focus on the field, the stands around me begin to disappear. Like water flowing downward and ash floating up, the benches vanish along with the rest of it. Trees appear in various spots. A playground to the right. A shed behind the group of eaters. The bodies remain but the surroundings are changing.

  The child screams again.

  Michael, you need to wake up!

  Not this time. Thi
s is the best dream I have ever had. Why would I want to wake up? You heard that scream, it was incredible. Orgasmic.

  I hear the child cry out again, more panicked than before. Through the mob of eaters, my eyes zero in on locks of long blonde hair. The voice now has a face...

  Amy.

  Talk about Deja Vu - didn't I just go through this? I saved her little ass once and now I have to do it again? Wait a second. No, I don't have to do it again. This is a dream. I can just eat the little shit and nothing will ever come of it. Yeah, sounds like a plan to me.

  I start to head over there. There are corpses everywhere. I step over them and - if I feel the need - on them. I can't keep my eyes off the mob ahead. They had better not steal this one out from underneath me. She's mine.

  "Mike," Amy calls out to me as if I really give a shit about her.

  I don't answer her. Why bother? It just seems stupid to talk to your food, anyway.

  "Mike," Amy screams again. "Help me!"

  Persistent little shit.

  The eaters are a bit too close to her for my comfort and, therefore, must be eliminated. The lanky-looking one on the right has got to go. I close my fist around his shirt collar and yank him backward like a ragdoll. The meat bag hits the ground and stares at me as he gnashes his teeth. I guess that taking away his food pissed him off a bit. That's okay. I can take care of that.

  I raise my foot and stomp down on his skull. The bone snaps beneath my foot with a satisfying pop. I can feel the spongy mush of his brain matter splatter out. There's one thorn out of my side.

  The little, fat one to the left is next, but he'll be easy. I shove him to the side. He trips over his own feet and topples to the ground. I could kill him, but I think I will just leave him alone. He's too damn fat to get up on his own anyway.

  Amy's eyes lock with mine. Her eyes widen and her jaw drops. By that look, it seems I'm not exactly what she expected.

  "Come here, Amy," I snarl at her. "Come to Uncle Mike."

  Amy screams and backs away. She doesn't even know she's almost in the arms of the eaters behind her.

  "Aww," I make a half-assed sad face at her. "Is that how we greet people?"

  I lunge at her. My fingers wrap around her wrist and I yank her toward me. I can feel the bones breaking in my hand.

  Tears pour down her little face as she screams.

  Michael, you have to wake up! The scream is real! It's real!

  "Michael, stop!"

  Amy's lips don't move. It's not her voice.

  I grab a handful of hair and yank as hard as I can. Her exposed neck waits for me to taste it. Her fear is exhilarating. It will make her that much tastier. I lick my lips and lunge in.

  Out of the corner of my eye, a clenched fist slices through the air. The solid mass of clenched fingers slams into the side of my face. My teeth chatter from the blow. The inside of my cheek tears open as it rakes across my teeth. My mouth fills with the salty, metallic taste of my own blood.

  A bright flash streaks through my eyes. An onrush of sound pounds into my ears as everything around me wipes away - the field, the trees... all of it.

  "Get your hands off of her," the voice hollers out again.

  My vision moves in and out of focus, but I see her standing there with her fists out in front of her, with a snarl on her face that could rival mine. I can't believe the bitch hit me.

  I look at my hands and realize they still have Amy in their grip. Instead of being in the field, I get to eat her in the confines of my own living room. This "reality within a dream" is an amazing concept and it makes me that much more hungry.

  "What is wrong with you, Michael?" Kari is frantic. I don't think I've ever heard her like this. "You have to snap out of it!"

  Yes, Michael. For the love of God, think about what you are doing!

  Shut your fucking mouth. I know exactly what I am doing.

  I open my jaw and snap my neck forward. My teeth sink into Amy's neck and I take a bite. I was right. The flesh is so much sweeter when they're young. No wonder why men prefer veal and lamb over all else.

  "No," Kari screams behind me. "Michael, stop!"

  She grabs my hair and yanks me back. Bad move. I swing out blindly with my right arm and catch her across the cheek. She stumbles and begins to fall. Too bad she doesn't let go of me. I begin to topple over with her.

  My eyes steal a glance at Amy as I fall, standing there screaming as she bleeds out through her neck. Keep screaming, you little shit. It will just make your blood that more sweet when I get to finish you off.

  We hit the ground hard. Well, she does. Her body cushions my fall perfectly. Even with carpet beneath us, her head still makes a satisfying clunk as it smashes off the floor.

  I instantly turn my eyes on her. She took a good hit. She's still conscious, but she's definitely in a daze.

  "Get your hands off of me, you fucking bitch," I growl at her as I grab the sides of her head and slam her skull off the floor repeatedly.

  Michael, leave her alone! That's your wife!

  I laugh under my breath. After four or five good hits, my "wife" is finally unconscious. I turn my attention back to Amy. She's sprawled out on the floor, motionless. Dammit, the shit bled out before I could have some more!

  Now, I'm pissed. I look back at Kari and contemplate ripping her apart. The thought sounds good but something is keeping me from doing it.

  Because, you're still human, Michael!

  "For God's sake," I grab my head and holler. "Will you shut the fuck up?"

  A whimper behind me takes me off guard. I whip around to look. My feet and arms get tangled up and I almost crash to the floor. A face peeks out at me around the doorway. It's a little girl. I see the long hair pulled into pigtails and the little pink and grey sweatshirt. It looks so familiar...

  Of course she looks familiar. Think, Michael. Think.

  My head starts to pound. I can feel the blood pumping through swollen vessels. Pain builds - at first weak - then a slow crescendo.

  The eyes. The hair. The aura of familiarity surrounds me but I can't remember, even though I know I should.

  "Daddy, what did you do?"

  An onrush of memories hits me like a freight train.

  "Lexi," I call out as I reach out to her.

  She screams and leaps out of the doorway. Her feet tangle and she trips, but it doesn't slow her down. On hands and knees, she scrambles down the hallway and banks left in to the last doorway: Steven's room.

  "Lexi!"

  The door slams shut. I can hear the muffled screams of my children and it tears at me.

  My eyes fall on Kari, unconscious on the floor next to me. Blood trickles from her nose. Her hair runs moist with crimson. What have I done?

  The ones that I wanted to protect the most are in danger, not from what's outside, but from me. This... plague is overcoming me. No matter the treatment, this is a battle that I surely feel that I'm going to lose.

  As I look around me, I'm not the only one. I killed my best friend. A little girl that I loved as much as my own lost her life by my hand. Now, my wife...

  I reach out and press my fingers against her neck. Her pulse is weak, but she's still alive. For how long?

  1 PM

  THE FINAL HOUR

  My fingertips grasp the corner of the laminated drawer front. I pull outward to reveal an assortment of knives and other cutlery. The shining blade of a butcher knife rests across the top, beckoning me to wield it, and I do just that, graciously.

  My body has been compromised. The skin draped across my bones is no longer the warm tan it once was, but is now turning a lifeless gray. I am no longer me. This body is mine, but not. My soul is thinning. Illusions and alternate realities are taking me over - taking my soul.

  I peer over the countertop and stare at the evil I have done. The mutilated body of a little girl that I swore on my life to protect is sprawled on the carpet. The woman I vowed to love, honor and cherish until death bid us to part ways, lies unconsci
ous. My beautiful children have locked themselves away, afraid of the monster I have become.

  Death has come. The apocalypse is here, I'm sure of it. The four horsemen have descended down upon us - envoys of the end - to do the bidding of our creator. Humanity has failed. We had our chance to shine and instead, we chose only to destroy.

  Doctor Kinnelson is wrong. There is no cure. There is only... this.

  Michael, you're wrong. Give the doctor a chance. There is a cure.

  I wish that was true. I tried to believe. Most of me still wants to. All of me has become too tired, too weary, though. I can't do it. I can't fight it anymore.

  I stare at the blade of the knife and weep. A lifetime of memories and experiences cut short. All I could ever do or will ever be is gone. I'm never going to see Steven or Lexi graduate high school. I'll never see another Christmas concert or see my grandchildren. Nothing. Everything is lost. I'm lost.

  I feel the wetness of tears caress my cheeks as the blade of the knife presses against my throat. My breath held, I tighten my grip on the handle. All I have to do is slice and I can leave on my own terms. I may still become one of them, but at least I won't know about it.

  I shut my eyes tight.

  "Goddammit!" I slam the knife down on the counter.

  As much as I want to end it all, I can't. My brain commands me to slide the blade across my throat, but my heart does not allow it.

  But it has to.

  I return to the living room then head down the hallway. Maybe the lack of closure is what is preventing me from doing what I know needs to be done. My heart knows I can't leave without seeing my children, without saying goodbye.

  I know it sounds foolish. Doctors and scientists adamantly swear that the heart is for no other purpose than pumping blood, that there is no emotional connection or any type of emotional processor within the confines of its tissue that emits any essence of pain, or guilt, or any other feeling. They're wrong. Dead wrong.