Z1N1: The Zombie Pandemic: 2012 Was Just the Beginning

by Mitchell Layne Cook

  March 14, 2013: Thursday, 9:45 AM – Boise, Idaho – Office of Karl Timmons …

  Karl already knew what was coming. He had just finished watching a local newscast that was covering the aggressive actions of North Korea. He called Michael into his office and dialed into a secure IPPC conference line. The meeting was already in session.

  “Well, it’s nice of you to finally join us, Karl.”

  Karl really hated the sound of Donovan’s voice, especially when Donovan was being his normal asshole self…which was just about any time the douche bag was conscious.

  “Sorry, Donovan, we are here now,” Karl said.

  “Oh good, now we can get started,” Donovan continued. “As I was saying, due to the actions of North Korea, we feel it’s appropriate to enact Security Measure 7A. I’ve contacted my sources in the US military. The plan is already in motion.”

  “This is crazy,” Pamela said. “We could be teetering on the brink of World War Three if things don’t cool down.”

  “That is a possibility,” Gaylord Hastings said.

  Karl knew this was a big deal. All of the big players were on the same conference call. He had previously studied the procedures when the IPPC officials granted the money to his firm. He had no idea that something like this could actually happen. Luckily, he thought to himself, somebody or a group of very smart “somebodies” had already conceived of this possibility. Karl had never imagined that he would ever be involved in anything that could lead to conflict, especially a possible world war.

  “Karl how are the production facilities taking the news?” Pamela inquired.

  “I’ve had a few reports come in from the Rochester office from my man in charge there. As you know, we just learned about this. We probably didn’t have the same advance warning that the IPPC had. I will send out the high-priority email regarding Security Measure 7A and both facilities will be put into heightened alert.”

  “Very good, Karl,” Gaylord said. “Well it looks like you folks have this covered. I’ve got a few other meetings to attend. I’m trying to secure more funding for additional production facilities. Keep me apprised of the situation.” Gaylord exited the conference call.

  Donovan took control of the meeting as soon as Gaylord exited the room. He always had to be in charge, but played second string when Gaylord was present. Karl imagined that there might be friction between Donovan and Gaylord. When the two were together, Gaylord was the man in charge. He held all the purse strings. He made the decisions. Donovan was always quick to spring to the forefront once Gaylord had exited any situation. The man was driven by pure ego.

  “Pamela, get the Stockholm teams up-to-speed,” Donovan began. “Karl, the US government will be sending two platoons, about forty soldiers to each facility. According to my source in the government, those troops should arrive by Monday.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh and Karl?”

  “Yes?”

  “The special IPPC teams will be sent as well. They are in charge. Be a good boy and do as you’re told,” Donovan said in an overly condescending tone.

  Karl imagined the delight spreading across Donovan’s face. Why was this man such a dick? What drove a man to become like this? Karl sat back in his chair and offered up the only response he could muster: “Yes, sir – I understand.” With that the emergency meeting came to an abrupt end. All parties moved into action.

  “He doesn’t like you, does he?” Michael inquired after being quiet throughout the entire meeting.

  “He doesn’t like anyone. Hell, I doubt he even likes himself.”

  Karl pulled up the IPPC Charter information on his Blackberry. He read over the pertinent information about how to relay Security Measure 7A to the appropriate teams. Karl composed an email and sent it to both the Boise and Rochester facilities.

  “Michael, let’s go ahead and get things started around here,” Karl said after sending his email from the portable device. “The Rochester office will be doing the same.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  March 14, 2013: Thursday, 12:10 PM – Rochester, New York – Secondary production site of Illumination Pharmaceuticals …

  “I think this place is driving me nuts,” Craig said, breaking the awkward post-lunchtime silence.

  “More so than normal?”

  “Yes. We’ve been cramped up in here for a month now. I feel more like a prisoner than an employee.”

  “Just hang in there,” Julie said, reassuring her distressed coworker. “Besides, in about two weeks, Alexander and Mandy will be here. They would have been here sooner, but Alexander couldn’t clear his schedule.”

  “Yeah, and I know he and Amanda wanted to travel together. She never has liked to fly alone. I’m glad the company is flying them in, but it’s too bad we’ll probably be working most of the time and never get to see them.”

  “Well, they will be here for quite some time. We’ll be able to spend plenty of time with them and show them the town.” Don’t worry about the details…” Julie stopped mid-sentence as she stared at her computer screen.

  “What is it?” Craig inquired.

  “Check your inbox. It’s a high-priority message from Karl.”

  “Oh, let me rush right over and do that. You know I can’t call my day complete unless I read some of his inane dribble…he loves to type crap out on the Blackberry of his. Sometimes I think he loves…”

  “Stop it,” Julie quipped, interrupting her friend. While she too often felt irritated by the amounts of “spam” email from the company, this message appeared to be very important. “This looks serious. Go check it out.”

  Craig quickly tabbed through his applications to his email. Nothing. He clicked the “send/receive” button over and over, still nothing. His computer began making loud churning noises in the background as the overworked hard drive struggled to keep up.

  “I hate this sorry ass computer,” Craig fumed as he slapped the side of the computer case repeatedly. His computer, apparently not too fond of the abuse, abruptly issued the “blue screen of death”.

  “Damn it! I’m going to chunk this piece of shit computer out the window, I swear to God above.” Craig said through gritted teeth.

  “Calm down, Craig. Gosh, kids these days…so impatient. Come over here and I’ll let you read it, but you must promise me that you’ll be a good boy!”

  Craig smiled at Julie. She always had a way to make him laugh. However, before shoving himself over to her desk, he delivered one last kick to the side of the computer and spoke softly to the unresponsive hunk of failure: “I’ll be back for you. This isn’t over.” Craig leaned back in his wheeled office chair and pushed off from the side of his desk, gliding over the well-waxed floors to Julie’s desk.

  While neither partner was usually overly interested in reading emails from Karl, this email had been sent with the highest priority. As Craig got into position, Julie adjusted the monitor so both of them could read the email:

  March 14, 2013

  12:17 PM EST

  From: Karl Timmons

  To: Rochester Facility, Boise Facility

  CC: Donovan Bryant, VP DLD IPPC

  RE: Security Measure 7A

  Our company must act quickly to protect our facilities and associates in times of possible national unrest. Based on the aggressive actions exhibited by North Korea, we as a company must take appropriate precautions.

  While there is no reason to believe foreign invasion a possibility, our main concern is that unruly and frightened citizens might take action into their own hands. Mass hysteria and mob rule often incite otherwise law abiding citizens to make poor choices.

  As we all know, fear of the unknown is a powerful motivator that can and sometimes does cause individuals and groups of people to act irrationally. Based on this, our IPPC counterparts have enacted Security Measure 7A.

  This measure is an agreement entered into by the US Government military forces and the IPPC. By mid-day, Monday, March 18 – 1 pla
toon (about 40 soldiers) will be sent to both the Boise and Rochester facilities to ensure the safety of our associates and to ensure that production of the much needed vaccines continue uninterrupted.

  In addition to the US military soldiers, IPPC science teams will be dispatched and should arrive no later than mid-week. These IPPC teams will take control over the production facilities during this time.

  More details will follow as the situation progresses.

  “Wow…this is serious,” Craig said after finishing the email.

  “Military guard at both facilities?” Julie looked very concerned.

  “It’s for our protection, Julie,” Craig said as he put his hand on her shoulder. “They are only trying to protect us from people that might try to force their way into our buildings to steal the vaccines. Folks are terrified.”

  “This is just crazy.” Julie sat staring at the email.

  “Well at least one good thing is coming out of this mess.”

  “Oh yeah, what’s that?” Julie inquired.

  “At least we don’t have to watch Theo pretend like he’s in charge anymore!”

  Chapter 9

  March 16, 2013: Saturday, 12:44 PM – a small village two miles east of San Juan de Pasto, Colombia…

  “Look at this, father!” Alejandro yelled in Spanish.

  The young boy stood up and dusted the dirt from his jeans. His father watched closely as the boy wrestled with the large fruit. Alejandro squealed in delight as he fell backwards onto the seat of his pants. Victory! He had finally managed to lift the large pumpkin from the fertile soil.

  “Yes! It is spectacular,” Sebastian replied. “Your mother will be very proud. Speaking of your mother, she should have lunch just about ready for us.” The old man estimated the weight of the pumpkin to be around ten kilograms. “That magnificent pumpkin should make for an excellent dessert after dinner.”

  Sebastian and his eleven-year old son had been working in the garden since sunrise. Normally, Alejandro did only minor work on the farm, but since his grandfather had taken ill late last year, the boy had been trying to help his father more with the everyday chores. The heat of the day had begun to take its toll on the pair. Now was as good of a time as any to take a break for a refreshing meal. They could finish the gardening chores later in the evening when the temperatures would be slightly less brutal.

  “Should I put the pumpkin into the wheelbarrow with the other crops, father?” Alejandro inquired still clutching the large orange fruit firmly in his arms.

  “No, son – that is your prize. Carry it with you and surprise your mother.” Sebastian watched his son’s eyes grow in anticipation. The young boy struggled against the hefty weight of the fruit, but he could barely contain himself. No matter how heavy his burden, Alejandro held firmly to the pumpkin, refusing to let it drop. His mother would be so proud.

  Though the family was poor, even by Colombian standards, they never wanted for food. Each and every day, the family worked the earth. They cared for and respected nature and for the last ten years, the earth had provided for them. More than half of the years during the past decade, the farm produced enough surplus crops that the family was able to sell the extra produce at a market in San Juan de Pasto. This year, even though early in the growing season, Sebastian had predicted that the garden’s bounty could potentially be the largest of the decade.

  Alejandro walked beside his father who was pushing the full wheelbarrow. Even though the boy wanted to rush inside and share his great find with his mother, he still helped his father return all the tools to their rightful spots. He wasn’t much help with the chores since he was whimsically distracted; the large pumpkin required both arms and all his concentration.

  For many evenings over the past few months, Sebastian had often expressed his joy to his wife, Paola, of how well his son had handled additional chores allotted to him. His son had done an excellent job in place of his ailing grandfather. Sebastian pushed the wheelbarrow under the shed and covered it with a tarp. He nodded for his son that they were finished with the chores for now.

  Alejandro turned toward the house, visualizing his mother’s happy face as he presented her with the large pumpkin. To speed up the cooking process, he would even offer his help in readying the fruit. Maybe this year his mother would allow him to prepare the fruit by himself? Last year, his mother had cut open the large fruit while he removed the seeds. Now that he was a year older, Alejandro hoped that his mother would trust him to make the whole dessert from start to finish. He could already taste the sweet pumpkin pie on his lips.

  “Go now, son – show your mother,” Sebastian said. “Be quiet though. Be respectful. Your grandfather may not yet be awake. You know he’s been ill. The medication he received a few months ago seemed to have helped him, but recently I fear he is getting worse.”

  The young boy sprinted awkwardly towards the front porch. Each and every step the young boy took, the fruit seemed to be trying to free itself from its captor, but no such luck. Tonight, the family would dine on sweet pumpkin pie.

  Sebastian meandered towards the house at a slower pace than his son; the years of hard labor had not been kind to his body. However, minor aches and pains would not stop him from providing for his family. He began to laugh as he watched his son struggle to open the screen door while balancing the behemoth pumpkin on his hip. Moments like this, Sebastian could never remember being happier or more proud of his son.

  Alejandro braced the pumpkin between his right thigh and the side of the wall next to the doorframe. He reached for the handle with his left hand and swung open the door. His young eyes viewed something that would haunt him for the remainder of his short days. He yelled at the top of his lungs simultaneously dropping the large pumpkin; it smashed to the ground, erupting in a geyser of sticky juice and seeds. The boy stood motionless – white as a sheet hanging out to dry.

  Sebastian’s body instinctively reacted to the horrific screams of his son before his mind could even process what was happening. He sprinted the agonizing few meters to the house and hopped up onto the porch. He grasped his son by the shoulders, looking down directly into his son’s vacant, tear-filled brown eyes.

  “Alejandro! Alejandro! What is it?”

  The boy collapsed to his knees and could barely muster the strength to point into the house. Sebastian looked through the door into the kitchen. There on the floor was Sebastian’s own father, Santiago, straddling his wife, Paola. Her broken body pointed away from the door and lay awkwardly beneath the weight of her father-in-law. Her neck abruptly twisted so that her head faced the door in opposition to the positioning of her body. Her frantic, fear-etched face forever frozen in time stared blankly into nothingness. Dark blood seeped into the stone floor from a large wound on her neck just below her left ear. Santiago was chewing on her severed right arm.

  “Father! Paola! Oh my God!” Instinctively, Sebastian picked up a nearby chair and smashed it over the back of his father’s head. The old man tumbled off of Paola and rolled across the ground. Santiago looked up and grunted while continuing to rip flesh from the woman’s arm. Sebastian made eye contact with his father. The man that had raised him, taught him to till the earth, taught him to be a family man no longer resided within those blood-filled, soulless eyes.

  Sebastian paused momentarily, taking his eyes off of his father. What was going on? Sebastian kneeled down and tried to stop the bleeding from his wife’s neck. Santiago leapt from his crouched position and tackled Sebastian. Alejandro watched in horror as his grandfather gnawed out a mouthful of flesh from Sebastian’s upper thigh.

  “Run, Alejandro! Get to town! Bring help!” Sebastian yelled as he fought with his father.

  Santiago stood up in an unnatural, lumbering way as he hobbled toward the front door in the direction of Alejandro. Sebastian grabbed his father’s leg to slow his momentum. “Run, son!” Sebastian pleaded.

  The young boy stood up and jumped off the small dirt-covered porch. He ran towards
town as fast as his pre-pubescent legs could take him. He never looked back. Not once. He had to get help. He ran as fast as he could; his lungs began to burn but he pushed on. He would save his mother and father. He would bring help.

  Alejandro entered the village square. He hunched over, placing his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. Instead vomit spewed from his mouth. The physical exertion combined with unbelievable fear and lack of anything of substance in his stomach was too much for his digestive system. He stood up and wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. He vomited again.

  His young mind could not decipher what had just transpired. The thoughts of his mother and father being eaten by his grandfather came close to shutting down his fragile mind; his tenuous connection with the real world almost faded. What had just happened? Why was his grandfather attacking his parents? None of it made any sense. One centralized thought kept him going: He had to find help. Surely someone in town would be able to help him. Maybe one of his father’s favorite trading partners or maybe even someone from the church. Alejandro looked around for a familiar face.

  As the young boy fought off the urge to vomit, he scanned the town centre. He saw no one at the vegetable stand, no one near the tavern. Movement or a reflection off of the barbershop window caught his attention. Alejandro looked in the direction of the town fountain and fell to his knees. His body seized, refusing to move. Unable to close his eyes, the young boy glimpsed malefic atrocities that smothered any remaining vestiges of the once sane world that he had lived in less than an hour ago. The town he had visited so often had turned into a slaughterhouse. Everything unfolded in front of him in a vivid slideshow of pain and gore…