“That’s a nice old house. I’d like to go back under different circumstances.”
“It had a sinister reputation back in the day. The group of Brits that built it was supposed to have celebrated some sort of pagan rites a couple of times a year. Dancing around fires in the nude, sacrificing chickens, stuff like that. The springs up the hill behind it disappear underground then branch off when they reach the house and flow all the way to the original well the town was named for. The water is supposed to have healing properties.” Charles ate cold beans from a can while she drove.
“Really? Where’s the well?”
“No one knows for sure anymore. I think the water either changed course or dried up.”
“Hmm, wonder if it would heal our little epidemic going on now. Wouldn’t it be great to find a cure? Or even better if we could find a time machine and just go back a little and quarantine Haiti immediately after the earthquake? We’ve lost so many-” She was crying. The trees grew blurry and she wiped her eyes hard. “I hate to cry like this, but I’m just so angry.” Charles reached for her hand then winced and drew his arm back to his chest. “Don’t move your arm, Charles, ignore me. I‘m just being stupid.”
They reached the end of the drive and turned right onto 531. A few minutes’ drive brought them back to the barrier pole at the pass. A steel key from one of the key rings found in Lenny’s pocket unlocked the chain securing the pole and she dragged it out of the way.
The road beyond glistened in the bright sunlight.
“Sunglasses. Such a small thing but so useful. I wish I had a pair.”
Charles rummaged through the glove box with his good hand.
“No luck. We’ll find another gas station and pick some up there.”
They drove past the barrier. High in the mountains the cold held fast, keeping the snow from melting much on the hillsides or road. She kept her speed down and negotiated curves slowly.
“So I wonder what I am now. Obviously I’m not a full fledged zombie or I’d have already eaten you.” She glanced back at Daniel then looked at Charles warningly. He backtracked.
“Just a joke Daniel. Virginia’s too skinny to eat. Who’d want her?” He continued in a lower voice. “I know I’m lucky to be alive but I don’t understand why I am.”
“I think you must have inhaled or otherwise absorbed some of the discharge from one of them. It could have happened to any of us. Think about how often we‘ve had to fight them off. You know that black stuff must be full of bacteria for them to decay so fast. Maybe it’s just an especially nasty bacterium that makes you really sick but can’t emit the virus.”
“Or maybe the virus mutated? Thanks for not shooting me.”
“I was ready to. Reluctant though.”
“That bodes well for our future relationship.”
“Our future relationship will be exactly like our current relationship.”
“Traveling together constantly and staying at exclusive resorts?”
“I like you better unconscious.”
“See? I knew you liked me.”
“Can you check the backpack and see if there are any sunglasses in there?”
There weren’t. He pulled out Bill’s worn manila envelope and rifled through the contents.
“This one looks like something involving the U.S. military. How did your neighbor find these documents and why did he never publish them? I would have.”
“He meant to but was waiting to retire so he could devote more time to his writing. Then he was diagnosed with MS. A few days ago, he became one of the new dead and writing wasn’t on his agenda anymore. Is it interesting?”
It was.
The following document is the first hand account of Burton Hayes, twenty one year old signal officer attached to the expeditionary force of the 13th Marine Division dispatched to Haiti in 1915. This copy of the document was obtained from a private collector who inherited it from a family member. The original is stamped classified.
October 2, 1915 Arrived Port au Prince. Weather warm and sunny. Brief tour of the town revealed sanitation practically nonexistent with slops and pots emptied out the windows directly into streets and occasionally onto passersby. Locals uncommunicative and occasionally hostile.
Settled in, making twice-weekly sorties into the countryside, patrolling out about 4 miles before turning back. Came under fire and skirmished with the “Cacos” (local mercenaries) but they broke ranks quick when faced with a company of military regulars. Any time we had one of these encounters we had to go through health inspections. Yaws afflicted the natives but the medics didn’t seem too concerned about that for us. They were especially looking for bites and scratches they said might get putrid.
By November, the novelty of the place was gone and we were ready for some real action. Admiral Caperton summed up the local situation in a telegram to the President.
“Country’s instability largely due to existing professional soldiers called Cacos, organized in bands under lawless and irresponsible chiefs...Believe can control Congress. Can prevent any Cacos outbreak with recently arrived regiment of marines...Stable government not possible in Haiti until Cacos are disbanded...Such action now imperative...Majority population well disposed and submissive…”
Orders subsequently came to set out for Fort Riviere, a stronghold established by the French in the 1700‘s. Over one hundred indigenous insurgents were holed up there and rumor was something unholy was going on. Villagers were going missing. Frightened families packed up and trekked all the way to Port au Prince asking for shelter and protection. They attributed their troubles to the Nzumbi, a band of mercenaries with which we were not familiar.
November 16th 1500 hours: Caught sight of the old French fort after half a day’s march. Built on the crest of Montaigne Noir out of massive stone blocks, Fort Riviere must have towered 4000 feet over the sea. Our platoon, accompanied by a small force of the Haitian Gendarmie, approached from the southeast and circled around the base of the mountain to get closer to the rampart. What little road remained was overgrown and the area around the base hadn’t been cleared in so long it was gone back to jungle. We had three field artillery guns with us ‘til one mule threw a shoe. We hid the gun in the scrub before proceeding to the rendezvous point where we met with 10th Company. Two pickets stayed behind to guard the gun until we could send back for it.
1900 hours: Four men dispatched to retrieve third artillery gun returned with gun but guarding pickets could not be found. Reported the mule dead and savaged with skeleton picked clean. Blood swathed the area and surrounding vegetation heavily trampled. Speculated the men were taken by surprise and held hostage.
Assault scheduled for daylight.
0700 hours: Day dawned clear. Fort quiet, not even cooking fire smoke observed. Shelling began 0745 hours and south wall breached by 0945 hours. Fire was not returned. Figures observed leaping from the breached area onto the plain below and slowly making for our position. No parley or surrender flags but they appeared to be unarmed. As they closed in exclamations of “Nzumbie” erupted from members of the gendarmie who began firing without authorization. The old man swore and cuffed their officers, telling them to stop their men. They ignored him. Some of the combatants went down but, incredibly, others walked on through what became a hail of bullets. The advancing Cacos sported dreadful injuries; some with missing limbs and stripped of skin and flesh on large portions of their bodies. Then something I have never seen before and hope to never see again occurred. Three hissing, growling Cacos reached our line and pulled down Wilson, tearing into his body with their hands and teeth; devouring his flesh on the spot. The gendarmie soldiers screamed, “Détruire la tête seulement la tete.” The old man looked blank for a moment then shouted, “That’s right; shoot the bastards in the head!” We needed little encouragement, fell to, and soon covered the ground with dead Cacos. The firing stopped. Amidst the smoke and confusion the Haitian soldiers moved onto the field, smashing the skulls of the fallen with r
ifle butts and large stones. We retrieved Wilson’s body and wrapped him in blankets. In a lapse of judgment, we failed to set a guard on the body and his head was destroyed by persons unknown.
Orders were to fan out and take down any stragglers. We found over twenty and took them down with headshots. Our Haitian compatriots reduced those heads to greasy fragments. We later counted over one hundred forty dead. Upon entering Fort Riviere, we found nothing alive. Only more of the shambling Cacos of the type before described. Nineteen hundred pounds of dynamite were sent for from Grand Riviere du Nord and the engineers leveled the accursed fort. The rotting and mutilated bodies of the two pickets lost before the battle were brought in by patrols. Found wandering with the Cacos not far from the base of the fort they were shot as part of the round up.
It is believed a local Caco warlord effected the change in the men in Fort Riviere, unleashing them on the countryside to garner local allegiance through fear and intimidation. Locals who were otherwise uncooperative provided this information reluctantly. How this change was effected is still unclear and there are elements of this engagement that remain beyond my understanding. How does a man encounter a storm of bullets and not go down? How do the dead walk?
Signed by my hand on November 19, 1915
Lieutenant Burton Hayes, 13th Marine Company
Researcher’s note: The “old man” referred to may have been either Major Smedley Butler or Captain Ramsey Campbell.
*Many consider the 1915 Marine invasion an early U.S. attempt at ‘nation building’ and, despite improvements in the country’s infrastructure, is considered a failure as such. Both the 13th and the 10th Marine divisions were disbanded shortly after this venture. Reinstated as companies in the 1920’s, details of their Fort Riviere expedition were evidently scrubbed from the record and do not appear in any accounts of the companies’ histories.
“Wow. That’s one little battle we never studied in school.”
“Neither did we. Sounds like some form of this virus, or whatever it is, has existed for a long time. The original natives and probably later the Haitians, dealt with it in their own way. As long as too many people didn’t die at once, they could contain it by destroying the heads prior to burial. The earthquake caused so many deaths; it just got away from them. I found something on the internet about West African burial customs. They try to confuse their dead so they won’t come back home. They didn’t mention anything about cannibalism there though.”
“Viruses, especially retroviruses, bind with their host’s DNA. The dining habits of the Carib were probably absorbed by the virus when it replicated using the Caribs’ cells.”
“How do you know that? About retroviruses?”
“AIDS is a retrovirus. All law enforcement officers have to sit through about a gazillion Health/ Safety procedure films and presentations on dealing with sick prisoners. Some of it sinks in. Retroviruses are fast too. They mutate constantly to confuse the body’s defense mechanisms. Of course we don‘t know this is a retrovirus but it could be.”
“None of this helps us find a way to fight or cure this. All we can do is run from them or aim for the head.”
“No, but scientists in a lab somewhere can work on drugs to control it, just like they did with AIDS.”
“Are there any scientists left? Or working labs?”
There was no answer to that. Virginia turned the radio on and scanned through the static. FM and AM bands were both voiceless still so they turned it off. She felt she had forgotten something she should have noticed. It came to her.
“The state highway truck in front of the barrier! It was gone. We haven’t seen anything else on the road but I know it was there that first night we drove up there.”
“It’s a reasonable assumption that there are other survivors around here. Someone needed it and took it. I can’t say I begrudge them.”
“We have the keys.”
“There are other ways to start a vehicle. We’ll keep an eye out for them but I wouldn’t worry about it.”
They were still an hour and twenty minutes from Springfield but there were two scenic overlooks on the mountain road that gave expansive views of the town. Virginia felt her stomach clench in anticipation and fear of what they would see. Would it be the familiar, lovely little town in the valley, with pastureland and church spires or something else entirely? Daniel noticed the smoke first.
“I smell a fire.”
Poor visibility slowed them to a crawl as an indescribably noxious smell entered the Explorer. Smoke surrounded them. Turning on the headlights didn’t help and they were forced to stop. Virginia got the door open and climbed out just before she vomited on the ground. She remained on her knees and heard Charles walk around to her side of the vehicle. With every breath she drew the thick oily smoke nauseated her anew.
“What is that smell?”
“I’d rather not guess. We’re going to have to wait until this clears before we can go further. We’ll be safest inside the Explorer.” He helped her to her feet.
They sat in uneasy silence. Charles took her hand and she left it there. The smell covered them; gagging them and stinging their eyes. Daniel vomited. Virginia gave him one of the bottled waters to rinse his mouth. She opened the door so he could spit and that’s when they heard it.
Moans, faint first, then growing louder arose from the smoke all around them. They couldn‘t see anything. They locked the car doors and huddled inside. Daniel crawled into the front seat and buried his face in Virginia’s shoulder. Rotten, decaying hands beat on the windows. Faces, skin hanging in shreds, drifted in and out of view as the smoke billowed. An old woman pressed her toothless mouth against the glass and gnawed, blackened tongue licking at the window edge. The pounding on the vehicle grew more insistent as the crowd of dead grew.
Virginia couldn’t stand anymore. “Daniel, get in the back and buckle up. We’re getting out of here.”
The engine roared and they inched through the grasping, gibbering throng. Rotten and somehow frail looking their hunger drove them nevertheless and the walkers threw themselves at the vehicle. After what felt like a lifetime, they caught a glimpse of blue sky and then the metal guardrail girding the left side of the mountain road. They cautiously picked up speed and left the dead and the smoke behind.
“What were they doing up here? I didn‘t know that many people lived in the area.” Charles continued to peer behind them.
“I suspect they came from that new “one-level living” place. We should be able to see it right about now.” They drove slowly past the gates of a luxury retirement community. A sign declared, “Stone Mountain Villas, Active Living for Active Seniors.” A few elderly dead, some in golfing attire, roamed the streets inside the gates. The sound of the vehicle attracted them and they reached withered arms yearningly toward the road. They were not a serious threat, more to be pitied than feared.
“They’re definitely active but probably not the way they’d planned.”
Virginia was still nauseated from the lingering smoke. “Why didn’t you want to guess what‘s burning? Do you think the smoke is dangerous?”
“Probably not dangerous. I worked a bad accident on the west side of Wells a few years ago when a sixteen year old drove her brand new car, full of her friends, right into a propane tank. That’s the only time I’ve ever smelled human bodies burning but you never forget it. ” They rounded a curve and pulled off on the first scenic overlook. Drifting layers of smoke obscured the valley. “This smells much worse. There’re a lot of bodies burning down there.”
Virginia felt a jolt of fear and strained to see through the concealing smoke. Please God, she thought, let me find them alive and well. Please. The air felt warmer now and snow patches were sparse. They crested the mountain and headed downhill. Swerving around abandoned cars they reached the outskirts of town.
Springfield was an old town, established in the glacier carved valley when extensive anthracite deposits were discovered in the area. Coal companies
bought out the mineral rights from the few local landowners, quickly established a company store economy and built a shantytown, importing cheap immigrant and Negro labor. Then, in one of the few successful worker uprisings of the time, the miners demanded and got a nine hour work day, wages paid in actual currency, alternatives to company stores, and the right to measure the accuracy of the scales that weighed their carts at the end of the day. Blacks and whites stood side by side and insisted on their rights as human beings and it worked. A charming small city gradually replaced the coal shacks. The town was proud of its contentious past but the coal deposits were long exhausted and the mineshafts locked for over forty years. The natural beauty of the area remained and the town now boasted assorted retirement and golfing communities. A lake, gouged out of the earth when the glaciers retreated after the last ice age, attracted water sports enthusiasts, including anglers. The water looked choppy today and the few boats at the dock bobbed in the breeze.
“Anna caught her first bluegill right over there.” Virginia pointed to a small pebbly beach bordered by birches and hemlocks. “She was so excited when she landed it and then cried when she found out it couldn’t breathe out of water. We threw it back.”
“I know how to fish!” Daniel exclaimed. “Can we go fishing after we get her?”
“We’ll see.” Virginia was suddenly terribly afraid of what she would find at her in-laws'. The nightmare she had in the attic was tormenting her and she fought down her fear. The smoke thickened again and they slowed down, unable to see more than a few feet in any direction.
The Living Dead (Book 1): Contagion Page 15
