A New World: Untold Stories

by O'Brien, John

  Pushing off the railing, she continues on her way home, climbing a steep hill on the other side of the bridge. As she walks, the same scene comes to her street after street; she’s walking through an empty city, one long abandoned.

  Except for those six. Did the flu take everyone else? she thinks, panic escalating.

  Fear quickens her pace. She wants to run but her legs just won’t respond. As it is, she’s barely able to climb the steep hill that she used to push herself up. Blocks farther, she turns down her street.

  Grime covers the cars of her neighbors, friends that she waved to on a daily basis on her way to one kid activity or another. The yards are overgrown with small piles of dirt in the doorways. Some of the windows have been broken and several doors left ajar. She is the only one out. Part of her mind shuts down from the information overload; or rather the drastic differences. She is barely able to record what she sees. Part of her knows that shock is setting in, but she focuses her attention on just getting home.

  Finally, she stands in front of her house. The dark green mini-van is in the driveway, but covered with the same grime as those of the other houses. One of the front tires is low and it’s obvious that it has sat in place for some time. Carole, feeling numb, looks to the house windows that are covered by drapes. The front door is one of those that has been left open.

  She doesn’t know what to think. On one hand, she wants nothing more than to rush in and see about her family. On the other, she is afraid of what she’ll find. The wind rushes through the branches of the trees lining the street and gusts against her clothing. The utter silence is nearly overwhelming. There’s just nothing but the strong breeze. However hard she tries, she just can’t wrap her mind around the world that she’s woken into.

  Coming to a compromise, she calls out, “Sean? Brian? Mark?”

  Her shout bounces against the house walls, echoing down the street. Nothing. No curtains stir. No one steps out onto their covered porch to welcome her home. She can’t move. She doesn’t want to; doesn’t want to acknowledge what the world around is telling her. She doesn’t want to face the reality that is being shown.

  This is just a dream. This is just a dream, she chants over and over as her feet obey and she walks up the drive.

  Sensory overload causes a numbness to settle within. With that dissociation, she trails a finger along the van creating a line through the grunge. Walking up the wooden steps, she thinks about descending them only a short time ago, in her mind at least, eager to run. If she could only take that moment back and change it. To one side, a porch swing squeaks, rocking slowly in the wind.

  Walking to the entrance, she hesitates. The foyer, partly seen through the partially open doorway, is hidden within a gloom. A small pile of dirt stands against the door, sweeping part way inside.

  “Sean?” Carole calls.

  “Brian? Mark?” she shouts hesitantly.

  Expecting return cries of “Mom” or “hon”, there is no reply. She pushes on the door. It hesitates, partially blocked by the dirt, before opening to the sound of squealing hinges.

  This is far too real, she thinks, stepping into the tiled foyer.

  Passing by coats hanging on hooks near the entrance, she walks farther into the shadowed house. It reeks of mustiness, the smell and feel of emptiness. Reaching to turn on the light switches, nothing happens. They were already in their upper, or ‘on’, position. There’s no electricity. It’s another indication pointing to her having been gone for some time. Rounding the corner to the living room, Carole draws a sharp intake of breath. The once pristine room is a mess.

  The coffee table is upended, scattering the books, magazines, and hurricane lamp she kept there across the floor. The couch pillows are likewise tossed randomly about the room. The two gaming chairs she and Sean purchased for the kids are turned over, one resting on its side near the dining room entryway. On the floor, near one of the chairs, an Xbox controller lies in the shadows.

  Carole can’t tell for sure, but it seems like an arm is reaching out for it, as if it was dropped and someone is stretching to retrieve it. Fear, dread, and panic surface through her numbness. Dashing to the windows, she throws the curtains open, flooding the room with light from the early morning sun.

  Turning to the middle of the room, she brings a hand to her mouth and cries out, falling to her knees amidst the wreckage of the room. The numb feeling she had shatters. Replacing it is a pain far worse than any she’s ever felt. Her heart threatens to rupture from grief. The pain of loss becomes too much to hold within. Tears burst forth and her wails bounce loudly within the enclosed room.

  On the floor near the gaming chair, wearing his favorite Seahawks T-shirt, his long, dark hair obscuring his features, Brian lies face down.

  No…no…no…please…no, she wails, rocking back and forth on her knees. Noooooo!

  Hot tears streak down her cheeks, creating pathways through the grime. Mucus streams out of her nostrils. She wants to go to her boy, pick his head up and hold him, make him better. Surely if she could hold him, he will be alright.

  Scurrying on her hands and knees across the carpeted floor, she draws near her son. Beside him, she lifts his head to her lap. The sight is too much; most of the face is missing. His clothing is partially shredded and chunks have been taken out of his legs. Leaning to one side, she vomits bile. Emptying her stomach, her vision blurred by tears, she lays her sons head in her lap and strokes his hair.

  I’m so sorry…no…please…I’m sorry.

  After a time, she lays Brian’s head gently back to the floor.

  “Maaaaark!!!” she cries, stricken with grief and hoping that at least one of her sons survived.

  Losing both would be too much. The pain of seeing Brian is drowning her with sorrow. She looks about the room, frantically searching for signs of Mark, her other son. Seeing none, she rises and scales the stairs near the foyer. She climbs into darkness, turning down the hall to their bedrooms.

  “Mark? Mark? It’s mom…hon,” she calls, walking down the gloomy hall.

  Checking on each of the boy’s rooms, she doesn’t see any sign of him. Upon seeing Brian’s room, with Seahawk posters adorning the walls, and the crumpled team bedspread, her anguish rises anew.

  Crying, she makes her way to her bedroom. Pushing the door open, she immediately sees the same kind of chaotic mess that was in the living room. The night stands have been turned over, the small items that adorned them strewn. On the floor, a picture of her, Sean, and the kids during a trip to Mount St. Helens lies with the glass shattered.

  The cream-colored bedspread is completely off the bed and stained darkly in places. The sheets are crumpled and covered with similar stains. There’s no sign of her husband, Sean, or of Mark. Feeling terribly alone and saddened, she walks numbly back to the living room where she strokes her son’s hair, cooing, “Brian, I’m so sorry…I’m so sorry.”

  Looking at the mess in the living room, memories fly through her mind, none taking hold for long; her and Sean’s happiness when they first stepped into ‘their’ house. The time Mark ran down the wood-floored hallway upstairs and tumbled down the steps, Sean always complaining about the squeaky board in the bedroom, talks of finally putting a hot tub in the back. Her thoughts slowly fade to nothing; just sitting in her living room, running her fingers through her son’s hair.

  A sound slowly brings her out of her entranced numbness. She turns her head toward the window, realizing that something is outside. There’s some type of aircraft, or helicopter, she’s not sure. And there are words. Straining to make them out, she hears a broadcast telling any survivors to meet at the mall parking lot.

  It broadcasts a few times before fading into the distance. She doesn’t care. The call mentioning survivors fits in with what she’s seen. She doesn’t feel like a survivor though, she’s dead inside. With Sean and her kids gone, there’s nothing to live for.

  A very small spark penetrates through the cloud of her grief. She hasn’t actu
ally seen Sean or Mark, but from the stains on the bed upstairs, she knows they were taken by whatever happened. Still, she doesn’t know what else to do.

  “I’ll be back my beautiful boy,” she says, leaning over to kiss Brian on the back of his head.

  With a heavy heart, she rises and stumbles outside to begin the long walk down the lonely streets to the parking lot.

  * * * * * *

  Still reeking and wearing her heavily stained running jacket and tights, she shuffles forward and boards the bright yellow school bus. Soldiers surround the lot, gathering others who arrived, giving water, food, and medical attention to those needing it. They took her name and guided her to the bus with only an odd look or two at her apparel.

  She slumps into the first seat and leans her head against the window, looking out but not really seeing anything. Her heart beats, but it’s filled with pain and grief. The bus eventually begins moving but she barely notices. All meaning of life has been swept away with the loss of her son and not knowing about her husband and Mark.

  Buildings pass by as the bus leaves the outskirts of town and heads north along the Interstate. She has no idea how long they’ve driven before they turn into a compound. The bus comes to halt with the ‘ppssss’ sound of the air brakes. Others rise, seemingly happy for their survival. Carole wishes she was dead. She can’t forgive herself for leaving her family for something as stupid as having to keep up her weekly mileage. She hates herself for leaving them, anger mixing with deep sadness. Rising with the others, she shuffles out of the door into the bright light of the day. Moving across a parking lot, lost inside of herself, she barely takes notice of the others around.

  “Mom! Mom!” a call arises from one of the groups.

  The sound of the shout causes her to sink into a deeper sorrow.

  Oh, to hear that sound from Brian or Mark.

  “Mom!” the yell comes again.

  She slowly looks up. Carole sinks to her knees, her tears pouring forth with feelings of utter joy. Mark collides into her and tightly wraps his arms around her.

  # # #

  Carole returned to her house and buried her son, Brian, in the back yard. Mark was too traumatized to tell of the night. He only mentioned that he survived and was found by the members of the compound. Carole still can’t explain what happened during the time she was gone, and hasn’t told anyone that she was even missing. She knows something happened, and now knows the ones she saw that night were night runners. Venturing farther into those realms of thought scare her, so she avoids thinking about it. She never heard from Sean and eventually miscarried.

  Pleasanton, California

  With the early evening sun low against the hills to the west, Sam plops down in one of his deck chairs. Reaching into a cooler by his side, he pulls out a Samuel Adams and pops the top. Holding it, he stares at the bottle.

  It’s still so odd seeing my name on a beer, he thinks, taking a drink.

  In the seven years since he’s been able to buy beer, that’s all he’s drank, providing it was available. Not that he is actually named Samuel, but it is close enough. The cool liquid sliding down his throat feels good given the heat still remaining from the parting day. Even with the long shadows from the trees surrounding the back yard providing shade, it’s still warm and trickles of sweat slide down his face.

  “Well, what do you think?” Sam asks James, sitting in another chair around the table.

  James finishes his drink and looks over.

  “I’m sure we have plenty,” James answers, looking at the steaks, burgers, and chicken near the open grill.

  As roommates and best friends, Sam and James started on the preparations since returning home from work. They have a chance now to relax and have a beer before the rest of their friends show up. Leaning back and settling into the comfort of the chair, Sam thinks how much he needs an evening of relaxation.

  The long hours and extra days of having to pick up the slack from the vast numbers that have called in ill from the flu has taken its toll. With no relief in sight, Sam needs this evening to just let go. The pile of projects on his desk has grown exponentially and it’s all he can do to keep the stack from growing even higher. He’ll have to go in Sunday just to keep up, but that’s two days away and he’s looking forward to his friends coming over, especially because Mark mentioned that he is bringing his sister Meg along.

  Sam and Meg started chatting off and on since they met at another BBQ earlier in the year, even meeting for dinner and drinks a couple of times. It really never went too far because Mark isn’t a big fan of one of his friends dating his sister. Sam hasn’t pushed it as he feels that he would have to make a choice between keeping Mark as a friend or dating Meg. However, that isn’t going to stop him from talking with her, so he’s hoping that she makes it.

  “I hope so,” Sam says. “It doesn’t look like much sitting there.”

  “It’s not like there are that many who are going to show. I heard Dave came down with the virus so I doubt he’ll be here. As far as I know, there’s only eight showing…well, nine if Mark brings Meg,” James replies with a knowing smile.

  “You know there’s nothing there,” Sam states.

  “Bullshit. Dude, you can maybe fool Mark with that crap, but you can’t bullshit a bullshitter,” James replies.

  “Ah fuck. I don’t know what to do. Mark would fucking kill me if we actually got together.”

  “You’d have to move for sure. That’s the only way I see you getting around an ass-kicking. And you can’t do that because you’re not sticking me with the rent, so you’d better cast your eyes in another direction,” James states, pointing at Sam with his beer.

  “Ah hell, man. I wish I could. It’s just that, well, shit, there’s just something about her that just…Fuck! I truly hate my life.”

  “Just relax, dude. Who knows, maybe Mark will come around. Or maybe he’ll move and then…”

  “I wish, but we both know that neither of those is going to happen,” Sam says.

  The faint sound of a wailing siren drifts across the neighborhood, interrupting the serenity of the warm afternoon. It’s a sound that they’ve both become accustomed to in the past few weeks. It seems there is barely a moment or place that one isn’t heard from somewhere. It fades, leaving the sound of several birds chirping in nearby trees.

  James’s phone vibrates on the table. Picking it up, he looks at the text message.

  “Well, shit. That’s Tommy. He says he can’t make it. This fucking flu thing is doing a number,” James says.

  “Yeah, and I’m ready for it to run its course. These hours are killing me. I don’t think I can stand going in for another Sunday. I need my weekends,” Sam states, reaching for a second beer.

  “Pass me one of those,” James says. “And yeah, these hours are brutal. Although, I’m happy to be on this side of it rather than catching the damn thing. At least we aren’t sick.”

  “True. I guess there’s that to be thankful for. I wonder how long this is going to last before we get back to normal.”

  “I’m not sure we ever will. Have you heard the death rate this bitch is packing? Shit, you know Lewis died from this shit the other day,” James says, accepting another beer.

  “What? Lewis died? Really? That’s fucked up, man.”

  “You’re telling me. And I hear this isn’t done yet, even if they did hand out all of those vaccines. I’ve heard the worst is yet to come,” James declares.

  “Oh, come on. Seriously? You have to stop believing everything you read. Where’d you get that from? The Internets? Some post on Facebook?” Sam scoffs.

  “No, dude, seriously. There are a lot of people dying from this and there’s more to it than they’re letting on,” James says.

  “Who is this ‘they’? I know there have been a lot who have died, but they’re the old and infirm…like every flu that comes around.”

  “Not like this, my friend. Not like this. There has never been this many deaths before. Th
at’s what all of those sirens are about,” James says, pointing with his beer toward the sound of another siren. “Even if it doesn’t get worse, I have some serious doubts that we’ll recover. Too many people have died. I read somewhere that almost a third of those who get sick, die. That’s a shitload of people.”

  “I doubt it’s that high, but it will simmer down with the vaccinations. Did you get yours?” Sam asks.

  “Fuck no. Did you?”

  “No,” Sam answers, sighing.

  Sam had meant to get his shot, but all he thought about at the end of the day was going home, grabbing a bite to eat, and heading to bed. The last thing he wanted to do after work was go stand in a long line.

  Besides, he had thought to himself, they only started to get distributed a couple of days ago, so I’ll have time. I’ll wait until the lines get shorter.

  The sound of several cars doors shutting coming from the front of the house rouses Sam and James from the comfort of their seats.

  “I guess I’ll start the grill if you’ll bring the chips and shit out,” Sam says, rising.

  * * * * * *

  With the sun having set some time ago, and grease-stained paper plates littering the top of the patio table, Sam reaches into the cooler to grab another beer. The brighter stars glimmer overhead as he passes one to Meg. He’d been standing at the grill since the time everyone arrived, well, the scant few who could make it, so the coolness of the mostly melted ice water feels good as it runs down his arm.

  Everyone had their fill and sit contented in chairs with beers in hand and music playing in the background, the conversation drifting from topic to topic as the food settles and alcohol seeps into their blood streams. This is the relaxation Sam wanted, especially with Meg sitting next to him. They’ve been engaged in their own conversation for the most part since Sam shut down the grill, although they join in whatever topic the discussion turns to from time to time. Sam is also aware of Mark’s periodic glances but, tonight, he doesn’t give a shit. What will happen, will happen, and he’s just going to go with the flow. If he doesn’t start doing something, she’ll eventually find someone else, or worse, he’ll get thrown into the friend zone. That’s something he’ll never recover from.