Survival_Book 1_And Tomorrow

by Ralph F. Halse

  Back then, it was flu-like symptoms for a day or two before an infected turned into one of those hideous things. Not like the crazy stuff happening today. People sneezed once and a heartbeat later, they were as likely to rip your throat out as say excuse me and wipe their nose with a handkerchief.

  First responders had it right by the end of week one. City, County, and State services banded together in hastily formed enclaves at institutions like the hospitals and schools, waiting while government assistance that was slower than molasses poured on a cold, winter day failed to reach them. Last Mike heard, it still hadn’t arrived.

  Newscasters who were brave enough to turn up for work had assured them an inoculation was in production. But Mike gave credit where credit was due. The military instituted a nation-wide lock down toward the end of the first month, and thank God for that. Anything moving between dusk and dawn got shot. Living or dead, the army, marines, National Guard, and navy drilled anyone or thing out after dark, and from time-to-time that included each other. Little did they know in those days that the infected settled down after sundown. Nobody knew why—still didn’t. It was people like Mike, looters mostly and desperate families fleeing into the countryside looking to escape the insanity who were shot at. Unwittingly, the military were creating more undead killers.

  Knowing an armed force stalked the streets protecting lives was a comforting thought at one level. On the other, it was a royal pain in the proverbial ass. His boy Kitch required regular doses of medication, or else he slipped into the worst of his Tourette’s and became non-functioning for extended periods. On an island where ninety-seven percent, or so the Channel Six reporter insisted, of the population were infected, his boy needed to be able to think clearly to defend himself.

  Hospitals catered only to the uninfected. Arrive at the Roper’s Emergency Department with anything less than a gunshot wound, and people were turned away. Take two aspirin, was the phrase the grim-faced triage nurse employed when Mike sought emergency treatment for his boy’s debilitating symptoms. Private medical facilities had shut up shop long ago, and staff were too scared to let the infected in. No one could predict when a patient would turn—still couldn’t, not God, nor man, nor beast. More than one waiting room had transitioned into a slaughterhouse by a single infected, who created more of its kind through blood and saliva exchange. Never mind the actual biting off of faces, ripping out of throats and disemboweling of their pleading victims.

  It was clear to Mike—and ought to be to anyone with a functioning brain—that the infection was entirely random in who it struck down and where. No one was safe. Not the elderly, babies, athletes, medical personnel, office workers or the military. It was as random as a dust speck landing where the wind blew. Countless newscasts related traumatized survivor experiences. Near relatives told the saddest stories.

  Tens of thousands had turned in the second week without warning or displaying symptoms, and that proved no one was immune, not yet anyway. Back then, he’d heard the newscasters speculating that the promised batches of government serum remained in the experimental stage.

  Newscasts compiled from public CCTV footage out of shopping malls, live street feeds recorded on personal and company cellphones—in everyday homes, hospital waiting queues, vehicles, doctor’s offices, supermarkets, and schools set out the cruel, sad facts. You name it—if it was a recordable place, he’d seen countless, horrific images of mass slaughter. It was a popular theme played over and over by commercial channels to induce even more fear into the populace, as if that were even possible. They showed where ordinary folk were cut down by relatives. Clips of mom and pop types chatting with sick daughters in the hospital wards, moms, dads or kids talking across the supper table, in the street or standing in the garden enjoying the flowers and sunshine, driving, walking to school or college were played and replayed. The scene that came next was always the same, only with variants in slaughter and horror.

  Without warning, the person spoken to would turn from someone quite normal and loving into a white-eyed, jaw-snapping killing machine that felt no pain, whose only mission was to sink their teeth into someone’s neck and rip out their throat, even when they had been shot multiple times. Kids killed parents, grandparents killed grandchildren and so on—it was sickening what went down. No one needed to see that over and over again, but the newscasters kept on playing the feeds anyway. Warnings they tried to dress up as crap journalism is what Mike told Kitch it was.

  The only good thing to come out of those horrific images was proof that nothing short of a fatal head injury could slow an infected once they had locked onto a victim, except maybe another infected trying to get in on the action. Through practice and fatal failures, the military learned, a single bullet to the brain worked—two was a waste but reassuring nevertheless. A year after WW3 ended, the new Geneva Convention passed a law, declaring that all military and police weapons were to be fitted biometrically. For the next century, personalized weapons became the norm throughout the world. Without access to biometric convertors, a worldwide civilian population opted for knives, improvised clubs, and anything likely to pierce or crush skull bones.

  A comforting thought, if one could call it that, was the fact that the spread of the disease was, or appeared to be, stabilizing as the infected were thinned out by overzealous military and police. Newscasters speculated millions were trapped indoors, in large public spaces, and vehicles because the evil creatures couldn’t operate simple opening mechanisms, and thank God for that small mercy. Furthermore, when the power grid died, the auto-security locks sealed in the infected forever.

  But hey, who knew for sure what was going on outside John’s Island? Mike sure as Hell didn’t. Washington didn’t have a clue. Nope, that lot had gone into panic-mode as many of their own headed for safety bunkers. Bet a peek inside one of them wouldn’t be all too pleasant about now.

  Wiping his face meditatively, Mike stared hard into the bleak darkness of the pharmacy. No one deserved that crap, not even politicians.

  He took up his weapon and settled himself into a crouch that could launch him in any direction. Armed once more with the short, stabbing spear probing the darkness before him, Mike duck-walked past Greta’s corpse. Weaving a path across a floor littered with smashed and abandoned products looters thought unnecessary for survival, he searched his surroundings for more infected. Wan street light entered through wide windows facing a broad, silent road. Mike had to be ultra-cautious, keep low and move slow. Passing police or military patrols could easily see into the pharmacy from end to end at a glance. If they saw a human shape moving, the trigger-happy National Guard would light the place up like it was Christmas Day.

  Sneaking forward, Mike arrived at his destination. He was surprised the dispensary area remained untouched since his last visit, and that told him a story about how many people were still alive and needing medication. Greta’s corpse was the only one in the store, too—that was unusual. He was sure there had been two dead clerks or shop assistants last time he was there taking medications. If the light was on, he would be able to find the place he saw their head-shot corpses. Dumb move, Mike. You should have taken all Kitch’s medication last time around, instead of leaving it for someone else suffering Tourette’s.

  Most mini-markets, stores, and food outlets were littered with corpses following fierce battles for supplies by ordinary folk battling private security forces, street gangs, each other and the infected for control of vital goods. As he peeped around the corner, ready to leap backward and flee, Mike figured that maybe the military kept the place clean in case they required its contents. Made sense. Not smart letting a rotting corpse spoil the store when you had a need to return and pick it over for medical supplies.

  Then again, desperate citizens like him, classed as looters, had done their homework. Looters knew what they had come for, took what they needed and got the hell out of Dodge. No time for killing, lots more time for running. Out there on dark streets filled with all sorts
of horrors, who the hell wanted to be loaded down with unnecessary baggage? At any given second, Mike might have to run from jumpy cops with hair-trigger fingers, tooled-up military with lots more ammo than aiming ability, other looters, or the slavering infected.

  In and out, lickety-split and he was making for home before the dawn light stirred the infected into jaw-snapping killing machines. His goal, was run like hell as if all the devils in Hell were on his heels. Goddamnit, but if the infected weren’t coming at the crack of dawn, he’d be surprised as all heck.

  Nobody could offer a reason why the infected went quiet come nightfall—not yet. Well, come to think of it. With a whole passel of scientists joining the ranks of the infected at an ever-increasing rate, would someone ever? He thought not. The reality was, Mike didn’t care all that much—he was curious for sure, but on a care factor of one to ten, he was at a minus five on that score. What he did care about was the fact he was stuffing the last of this pharmacy’s TS medications into his backpack. Mike had to source another pharmacy or drug store stocked and not looted, real soon.

  Such a venture had all sorts of dangers attached to it, like emptying the place of the infected and creating an exit, even before he entered. Not to mention dodging the military or other looters, who would be convinced they had staked it out way before he had and would be prepared to defend their turf. First two rules of a looter—pick a way out before you go in, and check out who the hell else was staking the place out. You never knew who was going to show up for the grand opening. Better to be safe than dead, or worse.

  Angling to make a swift exit, a slight scraping noise froze the blood in his veins and prickled the skin all over his body. With the hairs standing up on his arms, legs, and neck, he felt like a porcupine, only way less protected. Mike ducked and waddled as quietly as possible out of the dispensary and into an aisle littered with baby pacifiers and scattered perfume boxes. Still as death, Mike watched and listened for whoever or whatever it was that was in there with him over his thundering heart.

  He cursed his dumb ass. Idiot! He couldn’t remember whether he had pulled that door shut tight behind him. Noob! He was so anxious about finding the meds that he wasn’t concentrating on his personal safety. Stupid, stupid move Mike!

  One thing was damn sure, whoever it was in there with him wasn’t showing any light. There were no pluses in his situation. If he had the company of military personnel hunting looters using night vision, he was as good as head-shot. He doubted it was one of those goddamned infected SOBs’. It was nighttime. Naw, he judged with an increasingly pounding heart, had to the living, looter for sure. If it were one of those dead jerks, they’d have started up with that godawful moaning long before now. Be banging into shelves, falling and thrashing about in the dark creating all sorts of havoc too. Better be ultra-cautious Mike, the living could be deadlier than the infected when it comes to stealing people’s stuff.

  Mike duck-walked as quiet as he could to scan the interior side on to the entry. He would get a good look inside with the dull street light shining in from the background, but not so much he could trust the shadows weren’t hiding a killer.

  Holding his breath, back flat to the cosmetic display, Mike peered cautiously around a geriatric walker by a quarter inch. As he tried to focus on the depths of internal shadows created by the intrusion of weak, yellow lamplight, his world went suddenly black in a starry, painful way.

  As he headed into oblivion, Mike focused on a weird thought. While he was vaguely aware he had been struck on the head and falling—he reckoned that could be a good thing. The alternative was an infected latched on to his throat, and his life’s blood pouring out onto the floor.

  Consciousness returned in a sickening, dizzy wave of nausea seconds later. Flat on his back, he stared up at a ceiling spattered with old, patterned blood stains as he tried to work out what had happened. His vision wobbled and shimmered so violently that the ceiling looked like some mad interior decorator had flicked thick, fat drops of red and black paint up there, only with tiny bits of dried brain and strands of hair hanging out with some thicker than normal blotches. While he was trying to prop himself up on his elbows, a familiar and aggressive voice froze him.

  “Stay down, fella, I mean it. Aw heck, Mike. I’m really sorry, buddy. I didn’t know it was you, couldn’t see in the dark who I was hitting. Lemme help you up.”

  Mike peered upward through the thin layer of blood pouring down his forehead as waves of nausea washed over him. Mike felt his shoulders raised by strong hands. His stomach lurched in response. His knees wouldn’t support him, so he slumped backward and felt about for a seat. Someone caught his shoulders and pushed him firmly back against a display. A hand was held against his chest, propping him upright, restricting movement.

  Focusing in the half-light was hard enough without looking through a million winking stars, sparkling bright lights and a curtain of blood. By closing one blood-streaked eye and blinking rapidly with the other, Mike could barely make out a vague male shape searching through his backpack. He tried to lean forward to take it back, but the pain in his head almost sent him hurtling down that dizzy black tunnel called oblivion. Instead, he touched his head with a shaky right hand. His fingertips came away sticky with blood. Great, just great, if he got out of this, every infected in a mile would smell the fresh blood. Asshats would wake from whatever switched off their killer brains at night to stalk him in slavering packs.

  The figure set Mike’s backpack aside and leaned in close to his face.

  “Man, I’m sure sorry I had to do that. But, hell, you know what it’s like these days? Take no chances, huh?”

  “Jerry?”

  “Yeah, buddy, it’s me.”

  “You survived?” Mike asked, sitting up, now focusing clearly.

  “Me’n Irma did, yep. Wife’n boy turned in the first week... army shot them out on the porch, bang-bang, one each to the head. Fifteen years of marriage and my baby boy gone, just like that. Shit, man, I’m sorry I whacked you hard as I did. But I see something moving in the dark in a store... I hit it in the head. You know how it is, right? Ain’t taking no chances with what’s out at night these days.”

  Shifting to a kneeling position, Mike reassured in a slurred voice, “Y’all ain’t to blame. It’s this goddamn plague that sent the world crazy-mad. No offense taken, I’d a done the same to you.”

  “Look, Mike. It’s nice to catch up’n all, but I gotta get what I came for and skedaddle before dawn or a patrol cruises by, know what I mean?”

  “Sure do. What are you looking for?”

  “Diabetic insulin.”

  “I’m sure I seen some sticks in the small refrigerator, back of the dispensary. Y’all get what you came for, I’ll watch the door. ‘Sides, I need the time to see if I can stand and walk without falling down and making myself a breakfast for any white-eyed killers outside,” Mike offered as he rose to sway on unsteady feet.

  Jerry nodded in the dark and moved away in a foot-sliding motion that made no sound. Mike stared down at Jerry’s feet. He was wearing thick socks to mask his movements, no shoes. Not a risk Mike was prepared to take. So how come he made that scraping sound? Had Jerry baited him? He shook his head, as if to clear it.

  A week back, on the way to the medical outpost, Mike had seen a decapitated head snap at a passing military cop’s booted foot. Guy pulled out his gun and shot its brains out on the sidewalk. He made up his mind there and then, boots only from now on.

  A minute later, Jerry was back, folding his backpack into place. Mike’s former work colleague slipped a strap over his shoulder and settled the weight evenly across his shoulders. Standing with one hand on the door frame, looking suspiciously out into the inky night, Jerry said over his shoulder, “You’re here ‘cause of your boy Kitch, huh?”

  Mike nodded gravely.

  Jerry bent and retrieved his shoes by the door. Pulling them on, he added, “Mike, let me give you a hand outside, ‘til I know you can stand on your o
wn two legs, okay?”

  Together, the pair cautiously opened the door, where they paused to look up and down the street for any sign of the infected or an armed, mobile patrol. No one was game enough to venture out at night, armed or not, unless they were desperate. Coast was clear. Jerry let Mike’s arm go and turned to face him in the doorway. His features were drawn and grim in the dark.

  “Buddy, I gotta run. Dawn’s not far off. Funny, I can sense it these days. Two peaceful months ago, if my security unit didn’t buzz me the time of day, I hadn’t a clue. Now, I’m starting to get it. Mike, it ain’t like the old days when we would talk by the cooler and shoot the shit about who’s nt performing upstairs or not. World’s gone crazy, man, and we’re surrounded by millions of infected. Speaking of which, sunup will bring out the crazies and the dead with it. I’m not hanging around to see if there’s anyone else I know out there or who they’ve been chawing on. I’ve seen enough bad stuff to last me a lifetime and then some. Don’t need more’o those horrors waking me up at night... I got my own worries.”

  “Thanks for not killing me.”

  “It’s not like I wasn’t trying, Mike. Lucky for you, light was in my eyes and my swing ain’t what it used to be. Otherwise, you’d be one of those white-eyed jerks or just plain dead. Look, buddy, it’s been good catching up, but don’t thank me. You were a good guy back in the day. Helped me a lot, what with my wife’n daughter being sick’n all. You never once reported me for leaving work early or coming in late, you’re a good guy. Maybe too nice a guy for what’s gotta be done in days like these. I owe you this much, so lemme get straight to it. Next time we meet, y’all might have to kill me, or me you. Time for being neighborly is long gone to crap and more’s the pity. Damn, even if we get through this shit-storm ‘til those promised shots get here, we’re gonna be competing for food, clean water’n God only knows what. That ain’t right, Mike, I know it. But that’s the way it is these days. Can’t be helped.”