by Steve Kuhn
I chuckled at her and took a long pause to formulate the thought, distracted by the sight of her stitches. They would probably be okay to come out in a few more days. Her hair was gettin’ fuzzy, too.
She scared me sometimes—not scared of her, but scared for her. She was only warm with us, with our crew. It was like the rest of the world, dead or alive, was the enemy. She was right to a degree, but it still scared me that she’d never be able to get too connected to someone. She always had it in the back of her mind that anyone could go at any time and probably in a violent manner. She lost that glow when JC died. I watched the light in her eyes fade the moment she pulled the trigger. Damn.
But, what the hell, right?
I told her that it started way back at the school with Gary’s brother, Alex. I was there all over again. I could smell the smoke and the charred flesh… the dead. I was right back there on the steps, holding onto his hand when they pulled him away from me. I heard his scream trail off as he started gagging on his own blood, and then I was lying on the ground, staring at the night sky on the other side of the railing. When I stood up to begin running, the surroundings had changed completely.
It was daytime. I was with Kylee and Wyatt at the lake house, and we were practicing how to clear rooms, moving through the house. I heard Hope crying at the end of the hall. The hall was strangely long, though—a hundred yards or more.
I rushed past Kylee and Wyatt and sprinted down the hall, crashing through the door. As soon as the door opened, the crying turned into the sound of Kate singing sweetly to Hope. She was sitting on the bed, cradling the baby in her arms. I approached her and placed my hand on her shoulder. She looked up at me, and I gasped at the sight of her. Kate’s face was speckled with blood—pale, save for the powder burns from the gunshot that peppered it.
I tumbled backwards out of the room, leaving them where they were, and found myself on the soft grass next to the manor at the Haven. The sun burned my eyes until the shadow of a man blocked it out. He held out a hand to help me up, and I took it; though, I’m not sure why.
I strained my eyes to adjust them and recognized Junior as I made it to my feet. He stood there, smiling at me, with a big, old, fat cheek full of that nasty-ass tobacco he used to chew on. He gazed out ahead of us, squinting his own eyes in the sun, and said, “Yup, city boy… We sure made a mess of things, ain’t we?”
His belly was still blown wide open, and pieces of intestines and organs hung loosely from the wound.
I turned away.
“Sum bitch… Ain’t seen Cutty in a while. How’s ma favorite spook been doin’, anyway?”
“Cutty’s dead, Junior.”
He spat brown liquid on the grass at his feet.
“Damn shame ’bout that, Dext. I liked him. He wasn’t like you, boy. Yer as useless as tits on a bull.”
I nodded.
He turned and walked towards the manor.
My teeth clicked.
I turned to see Kylee standing there. She was dressed in a bridesmaid’s dress and looked stunning, all cleaned up. Her hair was long and twisted up into this fancy-braid situation. Her eyes were sharp and unmarked. She pointed over to the church, but said nothing. Trey and Rebecca were exiting through the huge, wooden doors, holding hands and smiling as the crowd of nameless spectators tossed rice into the air around them. They were headed to the limo that awaited them.
I squinted to refocus in the sunlight, and the scene melted away. It was replaced by darkness. The rice had become flies buzzing around them, and the crowd became the dead, no longer cheering, but moaning and clawing at them as they struggled to reach the limo… except the limo was now just our ragged, old jeep. Their smiles disappeared with them as they faded into the crowd.
I turned away.
The trees whizzed past me in a blur, and I realized I was running at full speed through the woods. I could hear them growling behind me, close, but I didn’t dare turn to look. My side ached, and it burned. Shit, everything burned—my legs, my eyes. I must have had a fever or something.
Kept runnin’.
The growls subsided, and it was quiet again. I looked down at the pain in my side, and I saw the bite mark, same place as JC’s.
I fell to my knees and looked up at the sky.
A tiny, childlike hand gripped the pistol and pressed it to my head.
A flash and it all went dark.
I opened my eyes again, and Wyatt stood there with his shaggy hair and his awkward, teenage features. He smiled and flipped his hair out of his eyes. “Jesus, Dext. You look like shit, man.”
I nodded.
“I did good, didn’t I? Kylee and Rebecca made it outta there all right?”
“Yeah, Wyatt. You did real good. You saved them.”
“I knew it! I knew they’d be all right! That’s all that mattered to me. Just like Cutty said, take care of our family. That’s what I did, right, Dext? I took care of our family.”
I smiled at him. I didn’t have the heart to tell him about Rebecca. I didn’t want to take anything away.
He pointed off to his right, and I followed it with my eyes, but nothing was there—just the road, long and gray.
I started walking, but my left leg didn’t seem to want to work. It felt like it was asleep, numb. I just drug it along the best I could. My mouth tasted horrible, and the air was rank with smell of the dead—more flies, all around me. I kept walking, dragging my leg behind me.
I saw a table set in the middle of the road, like at a restaurant. It was full of the finest food and drink: red wine, roast beef, suckling pig, the works. I slumped into the single seat and started chowing down, stuffing my face. I was so hungry.
So hungry.
Cutty’s voice called to me over the clacking of dishes and my own greedy slurps and chewing. He sounded disgusted. He barked at me, “Look at ya’self, nigga, lookin’ like a damn Fool. You ain’t no runna, Dext. You ain’t no shouldah nigga. Get up, dammit! Get up!”
I looked back down at the table, but it was gone. There was a body there, torn to pieces, bloodied, and gnawed on. My hands were covered in gore, and I spat out what was in my mouth. It was a finger and some of my teeth. The sound of dishes clacking together was actually bones cracking and cartilage tearing from joints as I fed myself.
Kate knelt next to me, no longer holding the baby. She sobbed quietly to herself.
I wasn’t hungry anymore.
She looked to me and said, “We’ve lost Hope, Dext.”
And that was it.
I woke up.
Lilly stared at me. She had listened intently, patiently, as I recalled the dream. When I was finished, she crinkled her little button nose in thought, pausing slightly as she reflected on it.
I was so eager to hear the pure and unadulterated thoughts of a child her age, without the judgment or arrogance of an adult.
She rose to her feet and said, “Damn, Dext. That’s fucked up.” Then she skipped off to see Boyd.
I should’ve known better…
Entry 145
Nellis.
What happened at Nellis—rather, what we heard at Nellis, cost a man his life. I’ll do my best to relay the dialogue as I remember it so that you can fully understand the impact it had on all of us. More importantly, I will relay the facts so history can accurately reflect the monster behind the plague—a monster who, even more than the dead, must be eliminated by any means necessary.
Now… I can tell you about how we had to clear the airfield of countless geeks, most still wearing their uniforms, and I can tell you about Don’s genius in the area of tactical planning. I can tell you about how we had Boyd on long cover along with Kylee, who with Boyd’s guidance was getting damn near as deadly as she used to be, and I can tell you that the rest of us fought our way, in a tight, L-shaped formation to reduce the danger off crossfire injuries, across the open tarmacs and fields of solar arrays that power the vacant base to this day.
But I’m not going to.
It’s not important.
We blew through hundreds of rounds of ammunition, possibly half of our entire stock, but we made it to the tower. That’s all that matters up to this point. We made it. There’s a part of me that wishes we hadn’t.
Fuck, I don’t even really know how to format this thing so it makes sense as you read the exchanges. Whatever, though. I’m not writing this shit for your Goddamn entertainment. Frankly, if you ever find yourself amused at the shit in this little record of our personal hell, you can go fuck yourself. We’re living it, not you—most of us, anyway.
The control room was pretty much as you’d expect it to be. You’ve seen an air-traffic-control tower, and you’ve seen enough movies to know that there were computers, and blinking lights, and all manner of technical fuckery going on in the place. Sure, we made it to a place where communications may have been possible, but at that moment we found ourselves staring blankly at it all.
I thought we’d be able to just pick up a little microphone thingy, push the button, and start talking to whoever was out there to hear us. That was a stupid assumption. I know that now. So, spare me your eye rolls. None of us knew anything about how to use the equipment, except Boyd. Boyd knew.
He calmly sat in the office chair and fired up the computer system. That shit took forever to boot up. Chalmers asked him, “You know what to do?”
Boyd smiled, satisfied with himself, and told him, “I.T. I was in I.T. b-b-before all this. If the s-s-security on these machines is anything l-like I r-r-remember, we’ll be up in a f-f-few minutes.”
He cracked his knuckles and began click-clacking away.
Understand that what was scrolling on the screen looked nothing like the computer stuff you and I are used to—no little windows popping up and no pretty colors, no drop down boxes or any of that shit. It was just green text flying around fast as hell.
Boyd asked us over his shoulder, “Bragg, r-right?”
Chalmers said anxiously, “Yeah, Fort Bragg.”
Look, I don’t have a damn clue what Boyd was doing. All I know is that in about fifteen minutes, the com speakers crackled to life. He passed this little microphone job to Chalmers and said, “G-give it a g-go.”
[Static]
Chalmers: This is Staff Sergeant Chalmers of the United States Army. Over. Repeat, this is Staff Sergeant Daniel M. Chalmers of the United States Army. Is anyone there? Over.
[Crackling]
Unknown: Hello?
We cheered. I remember that distinctly. It was a nervous cheering, but a celebration just the same.
Chalmers: You can hear us!
Unknown: Copy. Loud and clear, Staff Sergeant. This is West Coast Command. We got you on the heads-up display. Just speak freely and ignore the etiquette. We can see when you release the mic. Go ahead.
Chalmers: Listen very closely to what I’m about to tell you. There is a man named Colonel Lang who is in command of the Contain and Conquer operations for the United States Army. We have information, as well as concrete evidence, that this man is to be considered a domestic terrorist and is, in part, responsible for the outbreak itself. He must be relieved of his command and placed under arrest immediately. If you are capable of disseminating this information to all field commanders under his banner, you are to do so immediately.
Unknown: Copy. Hold the line.
[Inaudible scuffling]
We waited there, biting our nails, for what seemed like hours. It was probably only five minutes or so. That was almost too long. Doesn’t seem like much now, but if you just sit there in silence and watch a clock for five minutes, you’ll get a feel for what I mean. It was torture.
[A different voice, still unknown]
Unknown 2: Repeat your last, soldier.
Chalmers repeated his words regarding the colonel and was met with a chuckle on the other end of the line.
Unknown 2: Staff Sergeant Chalmers… Chalmers, Chalmers, Chalmers.
I scanned the room with my eyes. Chalmers, Kylee, and Don turned chalk white. I knew in an instant who was on the other end of that line.
Col. Lang: I gotta tell ya, Chalmers, I didn’t believe it when they told me who just dialed our number. [Smartass chuckle] I figured you for dead when the communications cut out all those weeks ago. Luckily, we were already pulling back to Bragg anyway. Retreat is such an ugly word. It implies weakness… a loss. This is more of a reallocation of resources.
Kylee moved to grab the mic from Chalmers, but he jerked it out of her reach.
Chalmers: You son of a bitch! You know what we did! It’s time to end it! I’ll spend the rest of my life behind bars if I have to, but you will stand down, or so help me I will—
Col. Lang: You’ll do nothing, Chalmers. You won’t do a God damned thing. My men have already taken your facility. The samples, the paperwork, the computers—It’s all been burned to the ground. Those marines put up a helluva of a fight. I’ll say that much. But we had the numbers. We have the numbers, that is. And, with the deaths of Subject 17 and my daughter, I’d say this little situation of my ‘involvement’ is squared away.
He still didn’t know. Chalmers still had him snowed on Kylee being dead. The cocky prick must’ve assumed Don burned up with the facility. Problem was… now I had Murphy and Alyse on my mind. Damn.
Kylee reached for the mic again, but Chalmers snapped at her, “Stop! He thinks he’s won. We still have Thigpen. We still have you. We still have Don. I dunno if it’s such a good idea to be tipping our hand to him.” He went back on the mic. I think he was gonna try and play the colonel a bit.
Chalmers: You always were one step ahead. I’ll never be able to argue that. You got me. What can I say? I had a moment of weakness, and I buckled under the pressure. Now, I know I can’t fix what I’ve done or who I’ve told. It seems you’ve already done that much for me anyway. But, please, is there any way I can convince you to just meet with me? Hear my side? You win, man. I got nothin’ left.
[Inaudible scratching]
Col. Lang: Oh, Chalmers. [I could hear this fucker arrogantly grinning on the other end] You have so much left—so, so, so much left. Say hello.
[We heard a woman’s voice, crying and sobbing]
Woman: Daniel… he… they… oh, God.
[A struggle]
Col. Lang: The men sure had a good time with her. She’s been at it for… a while now.
Chalmers’ lip quivered, and his eyes filled with tears. He took a deep breath and pressed the mic button to respond, but nothing happened.
Col. Lang: Don’t bother trying to talk back now. We’ve cut your mic. I just want you to hear this. Listen closely.
The woman’s voice could be heard in the background crying as if the mic on their end was simply laid down and left wide open.
It started with her gasping like she couldn’t catch her breath. That was followed by whimpering and then, “No. Please, God, no… Don’t… don’t do it…”
Kylee covered Lilly’s ears and buried her face under her arm to block the sounds as the colonel’s voice was heard off-mic calling to Chalmers, “She can’t believe it, Danny-boy. You should see her face. She’s scared because she can’t believe it’s actually happening right now!”
It was the worst noise I’d ever heard—a choking, wheezy, crying sound.
He kept taunting Chalmers, who could do nothing but bite his lip as he listened to them kill his wife. He bit his lip until the blood flowed.
Col. Lang: Do you hear it, Danny-boy? I told you what I’d do, and you still wanted to fuck with me. Nobody. Fucks. With. Me. My knife is twisting in her gut right now. She’s not bleeding, though, not on the outside. Oh, no, no, no… It’s all on the inside.
More thumping sounds—sharp thumps, like a fish flopping on the deck of a boat. Then silence.
Chalmers desperately keyed the mic. He cried and yelled into the receiver, helplessly begging the colonel to stop, but no one was listening on the other end. He screamed for them to stop until he had no breath left in h
is lungs.
“Bring me the boy!”
We heard it all—the struggling as they drug Chalmers’ son into the room and the cries of the young boy begging for his mommy to wake up. She wasn’t going to wake up—not for a while anyway. And when she did wake up, they’d surely kill her a second and final time.
The colonel could be heard, saying, “I told you, Danny-boy! Didn’t I tell you? Look what you made me do! And now your son, too.”
The child on the other end shrieked in agony. His squeals sounded almost girlish as the colonel tore into him over and over with whatever blade he was using. They killed his Goddamn kid for fuck’s sake!
Chalmers hysterically threw the mic and covered his ears, trying to drown out the horror, but it was useless.
Col. Lang: Now, Staff Sergeant Daniel M. Chalmers… Now, you have nothing left.
[Dead air]
Chalmers shot himself two minutes later.
Entry 146
We sat in the control tower for a long time, almost until sunset. In hindsight, it was pretty morbid, really. Chalmers’ corpse slumped in a sitting position against the wall, still clutching the pistol. I stared at it for a while. I don’t know why I did that, but I did.
His hair sat unnaturally, caked with blood and brain matter around the exit wound. The front of his shirt and pants were soaked with blood that began to turn brown and chunky as the time passed. His eyes didn’t close. Instead, they stared blankly forward, directly at me. The corners of his mouth were turned down in the same grimace that was on his face as he pulled the trigger, and his nose and mouth oozed blood slowly.
It was initially a torrent directly after the bullet passed through. This crimson cascade that ran from his face like a faucet made it seem as if he was leaking his very life force onto the floor in front of him, but I knew better. He was dead long before the shot. Chalmers died right in front of us as he clutched the mic and listened to his family perish. At that moment, he was nothing more than a walking corpse. The only difference between him and the bernies right then and there was that he wasn’t trying to eat us. Other than that, he was one of them—dead.
