Something the surfer had said stuck out.
The things he said about a virus.
Of bites.
And fevers.
Infected.
Nasties, he called them.
There was something else he'd said, or implied, she couldn't remember which. About how these...nasties aren't the only things the living has to worry about. There'll be plenty of looters, folks taking advantage of the chaos to fill their own coffers. And people who've just snapped under the pressure. Polk had seen something like that before, in Iraq. Soldiers folded under. Hell, she'd experienced mild symptoms herself after a long and tedious mission outside the wire. Coming back, ears ringing, too many smokes smoked, too many IEDs ripping apart their trucks. Too much of everything, so much so that when you finally drop your gear, you can't seem to get back up again. The weight of the world and all its unpleasantness has you pinned down, spinning round and round. There'll be those people, broken and perhaps even more dangerous than the looters.
Polk jumped up and checked the door bolt. Satisfied it was locked, she slid back down to the floor, feeling that unpleasant weight of the world touching her shoulders.
She glanced down at her gnarled stump. The place where her arm used to be. Laughing, Polk remembered how it wasn't even supposed to be her. It ought to have been Jonny sitting here staring at his own mangled flesh. But he'd gotten sick, right? Wasn't that what happened? It'd been so long now, it seemed to her nearly a lifetime ago. Hell, as of the day it was just over ten years since she was sworn into the United States Army.
Ten years? Where has the time gone?
Jonny had been sick the day Polk got hurt. She'd volunteered to take his place in the turret. The mission had sounded simple enough, escort a fuel truck to some beatnik garrison camped out in mud city. Simple. But death don't care what's simple or not. It comes and when it goes... Death had grazed her that day, she knew it. Most of what happened with the explosion was fuzzy. Bits of white light and voices, reassuring her everything was going to be okay. Her next clearest recollection was waking up in an Army hospital in Germany, bunked to some poor bastard who had his leg blown off screaming about giant bugs in the desert.
Ten years? And what, five since then?
Sounded right. Five years of rehab and wandering around, unable to settle, unable to sit still long enough to remember what home tasted like. Unable to face her father or her siblings. She'd found Jonny and he'd taken her in without question. Polk knew he blamed himself for everything. It really should have been him on that mission. But it wasn't. It had been her. And on some level, maybe that's why she asked him if she could stay at his place for a while.
Polk held her stump up, examining the healed scarred lumpy flesh. Exhaling, she looked over at Karen's mom; the table cloth covering her was spotting with dark red patches that reminded her of the flag the surfer had used to impale the dead woman.
Flags and fathers.
Patriotism.
Peacekeeping.
War.
What did it all matter in the end? Was it all political banter? Did it fuel marches and rallies? Give those backyard barbeques something more to be jovial about? Tweet storms and social media clout to feed egomaniacs? Everything comes at a cost. And war has the most sizable bill. A bill a hell of a lot of people skip out on while a few good ones get stuck with. It seemed to Polk that the act of peacemaking had been replaced a long time ago with the act of peacekeeping. And keeping peace implied force, which implies action and violence, which imply casualties. And casualties imply reaction and further repercussions. And on and on it goes. Never ending. Never ceasing engraved names on tombs and memorials that over time become worn down by wind and rain and time and eventually forgotten. A perpetual river of corpses laid upon the dam of civilization.
But not anymore...
Now our dead have broken through the cracks.
Refusing to look at this dead woman on the floor a moment longer, Polk stood and started up the stairs. The floor boards creaked under her, echoing coldly in the empty house. In the guest room, her current residence, she changed. Slipping easily out of her baggy sleep shorts and pulling her tank over her head, she took to the more precarious task of shimming on a pair of jeans. Five years since having her arm amputated, jeans were still a challenge. But she did her best, one leg at a time. Next, she took a t-shirt randomly from her drawer, a smiley face Nirvana shirt. She found a freshly washed sock for her stub and pulled it on. Gazing in her closet, she considered her Jordan's, but then went to her calf high cowboy boots. Thick and sturdy, comfortable, and best of all...no laces.
Outside, the sun was setting, casting a strange dark orange glow. The sounds of chaos, dogs barking, cars speeding by, honking, screaming, gunshots, seemed to be fading as well. The return of silence ought to have been comforting, but Polk found none of it reassuring. With everything happening, the silence could only mean the worst, death was spreading, finding people in their homes and taking them or chasing them away.
The neighborhood was isolated, which was at least one good thing.
Not as much traffic as your typically suburban area.
Not as much trouble.
But there was always the potential.
Beside her nightstand, she opened her footlocker, the one she had kept her things in Iraq, the one her unit had shipped back to her following her early retirement. Smirking at that thought, Polk took out the three-inch spiked prosthetic she'd made...the object of obsession for her therapist.
"Just in case," she whispered and then hurried out the room and down the stairs, refusing again to look at the dead woman on the floor.
Spotting her smokes on the counter in the kitchen, she laid the prosthetic down and lit one of the cigarettes. Hoping to hear Karen's nagging voice asking her to take it outside.
But there was no Karen.
No Jonny.
No one.
Karen's car keys were hanging on a rack next to the fridge.
Too risky, she thought. The best plan would be to stay here and wait for them to come...if they come out at all. Keep the news on. Keep a lookout. Keep things safe. And then we'll make a plan.
Polk took a long drag and exhaled. Walking over to the front window, she looked up into the now darkening red sky. High above a plane was flying by.
"Where are you guys?" she whispered to the window.
Focusing on the street in front of the house, she noticed a man with a strange limp, stumbling into the driveway. And behind him, another creeping body, with the same exaggerated gait.
"Shit." Polk turned away and went to go check the other doors, closing the blinds in windows along the way. Through the back, a few other shadows were slowly moving through the unfenced backyard. "Shit. Shit. Shit. Seriously, Jonny. Where the hell are you?"
Karen
Part 2
Webster,
Texas.
"I'm sorry. Let me deal with this man first."
"Doctor, that's guard is dead."
"No, I can...I can help him. It'll be okay."
"Listen, he's dead, lady..."
"No. I can help him."
"What about the rest of us?"
"Soon. Very soon."
The crowd, though diminished since the incident with the fat man and the guard and then the fat man's daughter, the little girl in the red dress, and then with Jonny attempting to restrain her from eating her father, from ripping and gnawing on his dead fat arm. The crowd had dwindled since then, but there was still a sizeable group of those too sick or too scared to abandon hope of being saved. They demanded rescue, but there was none here to be found. Jonny had said so. Whatever that meant for Karen's sister, she didn't know. All she wanted was to find Jonny and go home and figure things out there. Run Kristy a bath. Get her some sleep. Maybe then she'd feel better. Maybe...
"Jonny?" Karen pressed her ear against the men's restroom door. "Honey, are you okay?" She listened for any sound of movement. There was something, the faintest
rustle.
She pushed slowly on the door, opening the restroom a crack. "I saw Taj running out of here. He's gone, Jonny. He left. What happened?"
Still nothing from within. Just that faint scraping.
Pushing just a little harder. A sink, bloodied, hand prints on the mirror. And even more gore on the tile, glistening in the flickering bathroom light. Karen held her breath, not wanting to see; unable to stop herself. She had to know even when her gut told her the truth.
"Jonny?" she called, nearly whispering.
Further in, legs spread out on the floor.
No! Karen held her mouth.
Letting the door open completely, she stood at the entrance. Her gaze wandering over the horrible scene, the crimson slick floor, the knife with clumps of hair glued to the blade, the dead man on the floor, Taj's father. And beside him, sitting lazily on the floor, gazing up at her like a lost child was Jonny. His neck looked open and darkening pink. The shirt she had picked out for him to wear at her parents was soaked with blood. His skin was pasty white and his eyes...clouded yellow.
"Jonny, no..." Karen wept, still pressing her hand to her mouth. Her eyes burned and itched. Her legs felt glued to the spot, unable to move away or embrace him.
He stared up at her without the slightest hint of recognition. He stared and moaned, attempting to sluggishly pitch himself up from his sitting position. Drool drooping down his chin. Bones crackling as if rigor mortis had set in.
Karen watched, struggling to keep herself from hyperventilating. Gulping air rapidly and exhaling just as quick, she watched as Jonny got to his feet, awkwardly balanced, nearly falling back to the floor. Yesterday they were at an Astros baseball game, weren't they? They were having a good time, despite the fireworks and setting off his PTSD. They ate hotdogs and drank beer and laughed and smiled. He'd been out of the service for only a while, but they made the best of it, hadn't they? Bought a house together, regardless of what her parents thought, how strange it was that they should be living together and not married. She didn't care. She loved him. Loved how he did her laundry and even folded her clothes and put them away for her. Loved how she never had to ask him to leave the toilet seat down. How he complimented her cooking, even when it was horrendous. Loved the smell of his hair. His kiss. The way he held her, soft yet firm, comforting, protecting.
She watched him stagger toward her.
"Oh, Jonny, please..."
More tears.
More moans, but no longer pleasant nor reminiscent of her lover. These were the sounds of hunger, of something that only partially remembered it could speak once. Guttural noises as if from a rotten child. Spoiled and wanting.
Closer, he reached out for her.
She closed her eyes, wanting his touch.
Someone screamed from the waiting room. Several now, followed by the sound of shuffling, feet running, and gasps of panic. Enough to wake her.
Kristy...
She stepped away from the restroom entrance.
Jonny groaned, annoyed, his cold clawed hand grasping air.
Karen waited for him to come closer. Holding him back with one hand, she reached into his front pocket and fished out his keys. "I'm sorry, Jonny." She let go and stepped way again. Pausing. Hesitating, she said, "I love you," and then turned and ran away, ran back into the waiting room. People, those that were left, scattered, some leaving behind loved ones. Only those no longer conscious enough to care remained. Next to the check in desk, the doctor in the white coat was laid out on the floor. The guard knelt beside her, chewing on something she couldn't quite see.
Looking ahead, Kristy was still curled up in her seat. Eyes closed, sleeping.
Glancing back at the check in station, Karen could see what the man was eating. Grasped in his hand, hunched over like an animal protecting its meal, he chomped on a chunk of blood wet meat. Gazing down at the doctor, her neck and face and lip glimmered dark red in the fluorescents. Her eyes open and frozen, staring up at the ceiling.
"Kristy, Kristy, wake up. We have to go... We have to go now." Karen shook her sister.
Nothing, her sister refused to budge.
"Kristy, please...we have to go," Karen pleaded.
Slowly, as if sedated, Kristy stirred and woke. She looked at her sister with an expression of lazy recognition of who she was or what was going on.
"Can you stand?" Karen asked.
Kristy licked her cracked lips. "Thirsty."
"Can you stand?" Karen asked again forcefully.
Whining, Kristy complied.
Karen braced her, wrapping her arm under her. Tugging, "Come on, we have to go."
Limping, Kristy didn't seem to see any of the carnage going on, the once thought dead now getting up and moving, attacking, eating. The guard stopped chewing and glared at them as they approached the entrance door. Rigidly, he got to his feet and started shuffling towards them, moaning, smacking his wet lips.
"Come on," Karen hissed, gritting her teeth, prodding them both along.
"Where are we going?" Kristy asked.
"Home," Karen said, tugging faster, moving them out the door. "We're going home."
Outside the clinic, the world seemed to be on fire.
Cars and trucks rushed past, most hardly keeping to their own lanes as they dodged other vehicles and people running or walking aimlessly on the streets. Cop sirens blared and firetrucks rushed by. Delivery vans left abandoned on the side of the road. One, a truck with a Budweiser logo was being raided by a mob, crates and boxes of beer being passed down and loaded into a nearby trailer. Two men in jean jackets and bandanas and sunglasses guarded the payload with shotguns. High above, a helicopter buzzed by, kicking up debris and grass trimmings. Karen shielded her eyes, gazing up, watching as it shined a spotlight down on the looters.
Some of the men opened fire on it.
Instinctually, Karen ducked, her arm still supporting her sister.
Whining, the helicopter pivoted and whirled away. As it turned, Karen could see the Channel 8 News logo printed on the side.
Turning back to the looters, some of them were gesturing her way. She frowned, their expressions were confusing. She expected anger or laughter, getting away with their crime, but all she saw was dread.
Two of them aimed handguns.
"Don't," Karen yelled, grunting as she pulled Kristy along with her, turning sideways and trying to shuffle...somewhere, anywhere but in the line of fire.
Gun reports blasted from the truck, zipping past her.
She fell, her sister along with her, down on the parking lot pavement.
Trembling, she looked up, surprised to find neither she or Kristy had been hit. Glancing back to the men, they turned away, seemingly satisfied. And then she looked back to the clinic. The guard was laying facedown just outside the door. She'd forgotten entirely about him.
Exhaling, stood, brushing bits of pebble and dirt from her now skinned knees. She wanted to thank her rescuers, but they were packing up, finished with what they had set out to do, and were driving away in a convoy of rubber and smoke that included several trucks and motorcycles.
Watching them leave, Karen turned back to her sister on the ground. She pulled her up and started again toward Jonny's Jeep, parked two more rows down.
"Where are we going?" Kristy asked, grunting sleepily.
"Home, we're going home," Karen answered.
"Karen...I don't feel so good."
"I know. But everything is going to be okay. We're going to be okay." Karen opened the Jeep passenger door and pushed her sister up inside. She buckled her and then closed the door. Running around to the other side, she climbed into the driver's seat, adjusted for her height, and started the engine.
Rumbling shook the Jeep.
As if in an earthquake, the world gyrated, her teeth rattled.
A squelching wail filled her ears, forcing her hands up to protect them from the horrible violent sound. Nearby car alarms honked and beeped.
"What the hell--"
Karen started to yell.
Suddenly a large shadow rushed passed.
Karen stared upward through the front windshield. Her mouth agape.
She stared, unable to look away.
Falling from the sky, a red and orange tubular giant with wings howled past. Its twin engines on fire, smoke billowing behind. The Southwest logo cracked down the side.
Across the street on the other side of the railroad tracks, Karen watched as the plane impacted the undeveloped lot. Metal screamed and twisted in on itself. Dirt and rock kicked up, showering the area like miniature meteorites. Parts of the airplane, including its right wing, broke and rolled away from the body. Debris scattered.
The sound was deafening. Karen and Kristy both shielded their eyes and gritted their teeth until the plane had finished grinding into the earth, coming to a stop in a haze of dust and smoke.
Karen and Kristy looked at each other.
Karen shifted into reverse and pulled the Jeep out of the parking spot.
The entrance to the clinic opened.
Shuffling bodies poured out, taking in the scene, searching for something or someone. Their posture was crooked. And their movements were lazy, as if unsure where to go. Some turned and spotted Karen and her sister in the Jeep.
Growling, they started for them. Shuffling. Scraping their feet on the ground. Eyes fixed with a cloudy white yellow film.
Karen shifted into drive. Hesitating, she pushed down hard on the accelerator and propelled the Jeep forward, tires squealing. Some of the horde from the clinic were knocked to the side, falling over the shrubs that lined the front. Others, pulled under the impact. She winced at the wet crunch as the Jeep bounced over them, shuddering at the image of torsos and legs and arms and skulls cracking and brains squirting over the pavement.
Pulling out on Highway 3, she carefully traversed the maze of abandoned cars. In a red Subaru, a dark figure hammered against the glass, trapped perhaps, she couldn't tell. She glanced at the foggy shadow within as it beat its fists on the glass.
Planet of the Dead Page 13
