The Outbreak

by Atherton, P. A.

  Pulling his head inside, he closed the window and treated himself to a shot of vodka. The warmth spread through his belly and he let loose a contented sigh of relief. Sitting down in Ben's old armchair, he munched on a bag of chips, reminiscing about days past. A few minutes passed and he got ready to pour himself another shot, when a loud pounding downstairs snapped him to full attention.

  Infected. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder and holstering the handgun, he darted downstairs and was almost deafened by the cacophony of beating fists. The sound echoed loud in the tiny bar and he couldn't place the exact location of the pounding. Aiming his rifle at the window, he waited. A wooden board splintered and finally broke inwards, bloodied fist shooting through, grasping wildly. He lined up the shot and squeezed the trigger. A satisfying moan greeted him, followed by the sound of the body collapsing.

  But once the first board had broken, the others started coming down fast, and soon bodies started wriggling through the slats, gnashing their teeth at him, hissing and howling. He began firing, but it was readily apparent that their numbers were too great and he'd soon be surrounded. Turning, he retreated to the top of the narrow staircase and aimed at the entrance. The first body swung into view and he shot it through the stomach. It lurched for a second, and continued its charge up the stairs. He fired again and the body fell.

  Two more bodies appeared and scrambled over each other trying to get to him. They tripped over themselves, buying Dante just enough time to cock his rifle and fire again. The bullet smacked wetly into the older man's chest and he groaned, tumbling back down the staircase. The other man kept running up and Dante let go of the rifle, pulling out his pistol in one deft motion. He unloaded two shots into it, the first entering and exiting the neck cleanly, the other going right through it's eye socket, and it too tumbled down the stairs, landing in the growing heap of bodies.

  He grabbed his rifle again and chambered another round. Four more bodies came around the corner this time, and Dante knew he was in trouble. He let loose one shot into the thick of them and stepped back, slamming the door behind him.

  Bracing the door with his back, he felt it shudder hard as the first body slammed into it. He dug his feet deep into the carpet,

  struggling to maintain a grip on the slick hardwood floor. The door shuddered again and a small hole broke into it. A hand shot through and grabbed Dante by the neck, squeezing hard. He gasped for air and turned his pistol to the hole, unloading his clip through it. His attacker's grip slackened and Dante turned, stuck his gun through the door, and fired. The sound of falling bodies met him and he peered through the hole.

  Nobody there. Holding his breath, he remained vigilant, listening for any sound. A few tense minutes passed before he was certain the attack had ended. Stepping downstairs, he surveyed the damage. Most of the barricade was destroyed and the wood was splintered, if not outright broken. Cursing his bad luck, he began to scavenge throughout the rest of the bar for fresh pieces of wood for the new barricade.

  The building was already stripped bare, but the bar counter was still intact, and the doors to the bathroom and storage room were in good shape. He also figured the staircase door would be suitable, despite the fresh hole in it.

  Setting himself to work, he began to rip apart the countertop, using a crowbar and axe, all the while keeping a careful ear listening for possible intruders, now that he was exposed. It took a long, uneasy hour before he was satisfied that he was protected, and he returned upstairs to relax.

  Night was drawing near and he pulled his armchair up to the window, watching the sun set with a bottle of booze by his side. The remainder of the day was uneventful and he soon fell asleep in an alcoholic haze.

  The ground shook and Dante ran to his window, searching for the source of the tremor. A dark figure on the horizon

  approached, and each mighty step caused the earth to quake. It stood thirty feet high and was coming straight for him.

  In fascinated horror, he stood frozen to the spot, watching the figure come closer and closer. Even before its face came into view, he knew who it was. Ben. And now Ben was coming for him.

  He ran to the counter, and searched for his guns. Where did they go? He looked and looked, but they were nowhere to be found.

  “How 'bout a drink, Dante?” Ben let loose a deep, thunderous laugh, and reached his long arms through the window, grasping for Dante.

  Dante cowered in the corner, far from the windows, but his snake-like arms found him and pulled him in. He clawed at the floor, trying to hold on to anything, but he couldn't resist Ben's strong pull.

  Lifting him through the window, Ben held Dante close to his giant face and stared at him deeply. His left eye was a gaping, bloody hole, and maggots crawled in the vacant socket. With his right eye, he just stared, a thick gaze that was almost palpable.

  “You betrayed me, Dante.”

  “Please, I'm sorry. You made me do it.”

  “You killed me, and now you must become me. Someone must take my place.”

  “I don't understand what you're asking of me.” Ben tilted his head back and let loose a deep, roaring laugh. “Want a drink, Dante?” He shoved a bottle into Dante's mouth and he felt his belly begin to swell, as the liquor streamed down his throat.

  “Please,” Dante gurgled, “please no more.”

  Ben kept laughing and pouring from the seemingly bottomless bottle.

  “Have a drink, Dante. Have all the drinks you'll ever want.” Dante woke up, covered in a cold sweat. He rubbed his head and stood up. The armchair was drenched, and he sighed. No more drinking. And that's final.

  Unable to go back to sleep and afraid of what nightmares may come, he paced the small room, looking for anything to pass the time. He settled for a game of solitaire, before he grew bored and knocked the table over in frustration.

  He started ripping open the cupboards, searching desperately for relief from the intense boredom. Nothing but food was to be found. Turning to the desk in the corner, he rummaged through the drawers. In the very bottom one, he found a copy of the bible.

  Dante was never a religious man, but he did consider himself a Christian. Maybe it was time to actually read the bible, he figured.

  Sitting at the desk, he began to read. It did little to ease the boredom and he almost closed the book, before forcing himself to continue on.

  Who the fuck cares about this shit? Bob begat Sam, who begat James, who begat blah blah blah. On and on it goes.

  It was only using the intense dedication they taught him in the military that he was able to keep at it. He flipped from page to page, skipping the most boring sections. By the time sunlight started streaming through the window, he hit Revelations, and his interest finally piqued. Now here was some interesting material.

  Every page he read, he found himself drawing parallels with his current situation, until he became convinced that he was living in the End of Days. This was Armageddon.

  The only thing he failed to understand was why he was still alive, through all of this. There was no explanation, unless... Unless God had already judged him, and decided he should live.

  I am chosen. He repeated these words to himself, over and over. For the first time in his life, he fell to his knees and prayed.

  Let God hear my words. Give me the strength, oh Lord, to survive. Give me the strength to smite my foes, in your name. Lord, I kneel and offer you my service. Let me be your man, your vengeful arm.

  When he arose, he felt a strange sense of peace and calm. He was chosen. And as one of the chosen, he would survive.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chance Meeting

  Vincent sat upright and stared out through the cell bars. The gray stone walls enveloped him, and he rolled off of his lumpy cot, rising on unsteady legs. His stomach had quit rumbling several days ago, replaced with a dull ache. Everyday he could feel his limbs grow weaker, his mind hazier.

  As he did every morning, he walked over to the entrance, and swiped his keyca
rd, yanking hard on the solid steel door. Nothing. He was still trapped.

  Laying back down on the cot, he stared at the ceiling and wondered how much longer he had left. Probably not long. Rolling back to his feet, he stood over the toilet and emptied his bladder, staring at himself in the mirror. He was fairly thin before, but now he was downright scrawny, his ribs showing through the skin. His reflection startled him; all he could see was a skeletal version of his former self staring back at him.

  So you're dying, get over it. He tried to go back to sleep, but sleep hadn't come easy lately. But he couldn't stay awake, either. Instead he just drifted in that fuzzy state somewhere between waking and slumber.

  Hours passed, before he was startled to full alertness, by the electronic beeping coming from the entrance lock. The door slowly swung open and Vincent darted towards it, coming face to face with Harry, a fellow guard.

  Harry eyed him suspiciously and a tense, silent moment passed before he opened his mouth. “Vincent, right? Vincent Gaultieri?” “You look like shit. What were you doing in here?”

  “Yeah. I worked down in CB Two.” “ I ran in here to avoid the rioting, but never figured I'd get locked in. Until you came, I assumed I was a goner. I can barely walk, as it is. Awfully ironic that I almost died in Death Row.”

  Harry stared at him steadily and Vincent felt a vague discomfort, withering slightly in his gaze.

  “ Well, it never hurts to have a partner in crime.” Harry grinned and motioned towards the door. “Help me dump these bodies, will ya?”

  Vincent walked to where he was pointing and saw a laundry cart piled high with dead bodies. Most of them were mutilated heavily and Vincent choked back the urge to vomit.

  “Weak stomach, huh?” Harry raised his eyebrows and smirked. “Never knew they hired pansies here. Fine, I'll do it by myself.” He wheeled the cart inside and began heaving the corpses into an empty cell.

  “Sorry, I just... it's just that I haven't eaten in a couple weeks, now, and I'm -” Harry held his hand up, interrupting him. “Well, we're overstocked on food, as it is, with no fucking cons to feed. We'll fatten you up in no time.” He rubbed his fat belly and laughed.

  The two left together, Harry wheeling the empty, blood-soaked laundry cart in front of him. Vincent's desperation for news easily overrode his desire to keep quiet and he turned to Harry. “How many of us are left?”

  “To my knowledge, just us.” The realization that everyone else was dead caused him to stagger, the weight of the news overbearing.

  “That's it? There's no one else alive?”

  “Nope. Nobody.”

  “I – I just can't believe it. Any idea how it happened? What caused the outbreak?” “ Who knows. The infection started somewhere, spread, and bam, no more people.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Enjoy what time we got left. There's still some ways to pass the time in this place.” “ How?” The idea of entertainment in this fucked-up situation seemed ludicrous, offensive, and grotesque.

  “There's still some fun to be had.” “ Fun?” convict scumbags, practically begging to die. It's a riot.”

  “Oh yeah. I've been having a blast. All those

  “I thought you said everyone else was dead?” “ Yeah, every person is dead. You know that cons aren't real people. They're animals, and now it's time for the slaughter.”

  Vincent closed his mouth and digested this new information. Harry had a bad reputation as a guard, well known for his sadism and brutality. He just couldn't believe that he was this bad. No, more than bad: he was a monster.

  They reached the cafeteria, which sat deserted, and Harry left the laundry cart in the hallway behind them.

  “ Let's eat.” Harry walked to the grill, and fired it up. Vincent remained by the door and watched him walk into the freezer. He returned with a bag of french fries and a stack of frozen burger patties. “You coming, or what?”

  Vincent walked over. The thought of food filled him with joy, but he remained aware of the fact that overeating now could severely cripple him. He'd have to rebuild his strength slowly.

  “Two burgers, or one?”

  “Just one, for now.” Harry tossed the patties on the grill and the aroma made Vincent salivate. He impatiently awaited the cooking patties to finish and watched the timer on the deep fat fryer tick by. The fries finished first and Harry dumped them out, pouring a liberal amount of salt over them. The burgers finished shortly after, and the moment the patty hit the bun, Vincent snatched it up and began eating.

  “ Whoa, boy! Slow down, or you'll get sick. And then what good would you be?” Harry laughed again, that unpleasant, slightly shrill laugh that made Vincent cringe.

  Despite his intense hunger, Harry still finished his food first, devouring everything with great fervor. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach contentedly. Vincent soon finished and immediately regretted eating as much as he did. His gut protested the onslaught of food and he felt sick.

  Harry, however, looked refreshed and stood up. “Let's go play.” He flashed Vincent a malicious grin and started heading out the door. Vincent followed uneasily and quickly realized their destination. The guard towers. They reached one of the towers outside the courtyard and Harry grabbed a rifle that was leaning against the wall.

  Vincent breathed deeply, savoring the warm breeze against his face. It was the first bit of fresh air he'd gotten in weeks. The natural sunlight almost blinded him, after so many days with just a thin trickle of light to see by out his narrow window.

  The courtyard was swarming with a mass of infected. They paced around aimlessly, occasionally bumping into each other. Harry aimed into the thick of them, scoped out a target and fired. The shot hit one of them right in the gut and it fell to the floor, squirming helplessly. Harry aimed again and proceeded to shoot it in every limb, making a game out of it. Before long, the infected inmate could move only its head and it moaned and gnashed its teeth at the air.

  Once he finished with that one, he moved onto another. Vincent noted with fright the high degree of accuracy Harry possessed. He was good. Too good. He knew that if it came down to it, and he had an eerie feeling it might, he could not beat Harry in a gunfight.

  He couldn't understand quite why, but he had a growing suspicion that Harry was not entirely on his side. The man seemed the type to easily turn traitor and Vincent made a mental note to never let his guard down. An unpleasant hour passed, before Harry grew bored and moved on. “I've got an appointment to make in Solitary. I'll see you later.” Vincent watched him walk away, frowning in disgust. The man was a pig. Totally inhuman. He made another note to himself to investigate what exactly it was that Harry did in Solitary Confinement. For now, though, he needed to rest. The day's events had exhausted him, and unfortunately the first meal he'd eaten in two weeks was sitting like a rock in his gut.

  He returned to Death Row and stopped, staring at the pile of bodies stacked in his old cell. The bodies were all mangled and he had an idea who was responsible for the

  mutilations. He stopped and thought for a moment, trying to figure out where he could sleep. Obviously, Death Row was now off limits, and he needed a place that Harry wouldn't find him in.

  Several minutes passed, before he finally decided on the warden's office. It was exposed, but he would just have to hope that the bastard wouldn't think to look there. Grabbing his old bedding, he threw it over his shoulder and walked to his new sleeping quarters.

  The office was untouched by the outbreak and for a brief moment, Vincent almost forgot the horrors of the previous weeks. Snapping to attention, he laid down his bedding in the corner of the room, by the large bookshelf stuffed with legal texts, and fell fast asleep. He would need his strength for the days to come.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lull in the Storm

  Alice looked around and sighed. The grocery store was stifling and the stench of rotten fruit hadn't left, even though they dumped it all out bac
k. Clive and Amir were still asleep, so she quietly crept to the bathroom. The toilet no longer worked and they had to resort to using a bucket. She found it to be gross and disgusting, but that seemed to describe her life in general over the past weeks.

  Once finished, she walked back to the front of the store and grabbed a box of powdered donuts. They were a little stale, but she ate them anyway. Looking at her belly, she frowned. She'd figured that living during the end of the world would make you lose weight. Instead, all the junk food she'd been eating had plumped her up a bit, and she hated it. But, besides canned goods, junk food was the only food that was still edible, leaving her with few options.

  She sat behind the counter on the wobbly little stool and began playing a game of solitaire. She hated the game, but could find no other way of passing time. The days were long and unbearable and more than once she

  considered whether living was really worth it, if this was all that was left in life. Her natural survival instincts dominated in the end and each time she forced herself to quit thinking such grim thoughts.

  Clive stirred and her heart jumped. His presence calmed her and made her feel safe, despite the bleak circumstances. She watched him sit up and stretch, arching his back.

  She pretended to be focused on her game of solitaire and waited until he approached her.

  “Morning.” He whispered. “How'd you sleep?” “Okay. You?” “ Not too bad.” He grabbed a donut out of the box by her side and she jokingly slapped his hand away. The touch of his skin against hers sent a thrill through her and she blushed.

  “You up for a game of gin?”

  He smiled and she melted a little inside. “Sure. Deal me in.” The pair sat and played their game, chatting quietly, until Amir awoke and began his morning prayers. When he finished, he walked to the counter and popped open a can of sliced pears.