Those Who Remain

by Priscila Santa Rosa

  “Frank… We need your help,” Ma starts, her sweet voice especially sugary.

  “He was fine… He looked at me. He was fine.”

  Great. He’s still in denial.

  “He wasn’t. He tried to bite you, in case you didn’t notice,” I say.

  Frank’s head shoots up, and the ghostly stare becomes a face contorted by anger. I take a few steps back.

  “Frank, the Millers just came from the factory too. They said it was overrun with the zombies. They barely escaped.” Ma draws Frank’s attention back to her. “Louis would’ve killed others. You did the right thing by letting us protect the town.”

  He didn’t do shit, Ma. I guess she’s being diplomatic now. Should I take notes? Nah.

  “What you want from me?” His question comes out as a barely audible whisper. “Haven’t I done enough?”

  “I know you want a proper burial and ceremony, which is your right,” Ma shows me her hand to stop the protest forming in my throat. “But this disease is a horrible thing, very dangerous. We can’t be sure Louis’ body won’t spread it someway.”

  “No. I want him buried next to his mother. He deserves at least that. That’s all I ask. He…”

  He stops mid-sentence, choking up. I give Ma a look. See. I knew it.

  “Frank, please. We need this last sacrifice, to make everyone safe. To ensure this won’t happen again to other people’s sons and daughters. Louis would understand.”

  Yeah, right. Not likely. He hated this town and wouldn’t give a damn if everyone else died thanks to his stupidity.

  Frank’s only answer is a slow nod.

  “Thank you so much, Frank. You’re a hero. I’m so sorry for your loss,” Ma says then tilts her head again at me.

  “Yeah, me too.” I clear my throat after she gives me a look and continue in a monotone voice, “I’m sorry for your loss, but thanks for putting the town’s safety first. We are all in this together.”

  We leave the man to his grief once again, going out of the police station and into Main Street. Roger’s still there, surrounded by a group of people shouting questions. Of course, even during a zombie outbreak, gossip travels fast in this town.

  “Folks, the situation is under control. Please go back to your homes.”

  Ma strides past them, right to the middle of the circle, ready for battle. I spot the Millers, Ted and Martha, and walk toward them. Their faces are blank, bodies close together. Martha hugs herself, eyes running over the scene, while Ted keeps a hand around her. Their blue uniforms are stained red. The McCarthy’s pig on Martha’s clothes has a clear drop of blood over its smile, reminding me of Alan Moore’s Watchmen. I hope the ending for my story is less of a bummer.

  “Hey, Ted.”

  I knew them because Ted and Martha had a small son. Carl liked video games, and came over regularly to ask for tips on beating Final Fantasy IV’s final boss. No matter how much I try to teach him, he fails every time. Dumb kid, but cute.

  Ted’s head turns to face me. “Hey, Danny.”

  “How’s Carl?”

  “Sleeping at his grandma’s house.”

  “Good. That’s good.” I give them a smile. One that’s hopefully “diplomatic” enough. “Are you feeling okay? No fever? Dizziness?”

  “We’re fine,” Martha snaps at me, showing me her bare arms. “No bites. So don’t look at us like that. Roger told us about Frank’s son.”

  They do seem clear of bites, and show no signs of fever or lumps. Time to put Ma’s lesson to the test.

  “You’re very lucky, then. I can’t even imagine what you had to go through. Must’ve been terrible.”

  Of course I can imagine. From the lipstick marks on Ted’s neck, they were probably having sex in the storage room while all hell broke loose. After they finished, half of the workers were busy eating the other half. They must have slipped past most of the zombies’ notice, and escaped the chaos. From the dirt and mud on their shoes and pants rims, they reached the town through the woods, which explains why they got here after Louis, who came with his car.

  Yet, diplomacy requires I ask them anyway, so they feel comfortable enough to answer my questions. Or so I hope.

  “It was like a nightmare. People eating people,” Martha says, voice softer. “We just ran the other way.”

  “When did it start? At what time?”

  “Three. Four. I’m not sure,” Ted tells me. “We were on a break, and when we came out people were killing each other.”

  “Did you come on foot?”

  “Yeah. By the woods.”

  My mind races as I hear the confirmation to my theory. If two healthy adults, shaken but unharmed, took six hours to get to town, then how long until zombies reach us?

  Ted and Martha don’t know the woods well enough, so they probably got lost on the way, and walked in circles. What about a zombie? It hears something; a bird, a bunny, goes running toward it, and then starts to wander, aimlessly.

  “Did any of them follow you? How did they look?”

  “They looked like demons. Crazy, like rabid dogs.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Points for the dramatics, but I need specificity here, pal.

  “I mean, did they have any limbs left? Maybe missing feet or half a leg? Exposed bones? Muscles showing?”

  From the way they are staring at me with horror, I think I can cross that out.

  Okay, so we are probably not dealing with the slow zombie shambling around. I mean, if there was some kind of spell or voodoo stuff going on, yeah, I would assume them to be slow, limbs intact or not, but this is not a movie, so… We better prepare for the fast zombie type.

  Next: time. We need a timetable. The woods have food, animals they can eat. I mean, some guys in India did film zombies eating dogs, cows and rats so… They eat that stuff, not just brains.

  That gives us time. The factory has lots of people, but forming a hoard requires a strong clear bait or really loud sound, which won’t be the case, since the factory is far enough from the main roads. I hope.

  That means small groups or lonely zombies wandering around the forest. No clear goal, at 2.8 miles per hour, the average human walking speed. The factory is 30 miles from here. That’s ten hours, maybe eleven.

  “Danny?”

  Ted and Martha are nowhere to be seen. Instead, I find Roger, giving me a worried frown. We are the only ones left out on the street.

  “Yeah? Sorry, I spaced out a little.”

  “I noticed,” he says, unable to contain a small smile.

  Ma probably told him about Frank’s decision. I smile too, relieved he’s not too mad at me anymore. The smile closes fast.

  “Roger, how long do you need to train an elite squad of badasses?”

  “A…What?”

  “Zombies are coming. They are coming now.”

  The Doctor III

  December 14th, Monday, 6 am

  Tigh’s voice fights against the helicopter’s droning noise. “Listen up, the family is trapped inside the supermarket, in the administration office. The building is surrounded by a parking lot where most of those things are. Keep your weapon firing, don’t let them get close.”

  Next to me, Tom, Jones, and Matthews nod at him.

  “Our objective is to bring those people back alive to the extraction point. Until then, protect the Doc. She’ll evaluate their condition so we won’t bring sick people in.” Tigh points to the pilot. “Charlie will provide air support. With luck, those things will be more interested in the helicopter’s noise than us.”

  The aircraft hovers above the grass, then we jump. Around me, four battle-ready soldiers adjust their guns. The helicopter leaves us behind, gusts of wind and dust spreading on the field. The skies are clear blue and the sun shines hot. Being out of that hole feels good, but my relief dies soon enough. A small group of infected sprint toward us, attracted by the commotion.

  The soldiers form a circle to protect me, while we advance toward the supermarket’s parki
ng lot. I try to keep up, more than ever feeling like a lost civilian. Sweat runs all over my face.

  There’s no time to wonder at the ethics of shooting unarmed, sick people. Even knowing that they outnumber us and show no signs of rational thought; I flinch more than once at their falling bodies. To distract myself from it, I focus on observing the disease responsible for so much destruction. Just before they’re shot dead with precision, I take note of everything I can: memorizing their movements, levels of awareness, and behaviors.

  Some of them are able to run, bodies in almost perfect condition, while others stumble around with deep puncture wounds from bites all over, with exposed bones and ripped skin, so they are no more than carcasses. Either type of the infected shows a high threshold for pain, lack of conscious thought, but a hypersensitivity to sound. Their skin is yellowish just like my patients from St. Jude, dark lumps signaling the advanced stage of the disease.

  Dr. Velasquez suggested the disease was a mutated form of the rabies’ virus, noting the transmission by saliva and prolonged mania, but he had no explanations for the lumps, slow-to-zero heart rate, or had suggestions for treatment. The few times we were able to contain a patient, Post-Exposure Prophylaxis proved ineffective. Without a safe test subject there was no way of exploring different options, and where would one find a safe patient in a world where they all wanted to eat you?

  My thoughts are interrupted by Tigh ordering us to move faster. We are almost at the supermarket’s entrance and my breathing hurts.

  The circle formation won’t fit between the cars of the parking lot, so we split into pairs, Tigh leading the group alone. Falling into routine, Tom moves next to me, firing his gun constantly. He gives me a nod, his face drenched in sweat. The smell of gunpowder and the sounds of bullets hitting muscles and organs make his efforts to calm me useless.

  Looters cleaned the Super-Savings Mart almost completely. Only items too big to be carried were left behind, like refrigerators, beautiful brand new TVs, and other appliances worth a lot of money. Most aisles are bare, but there’s still enough discarded rotten and spoiled food to make me nauseous.

  We find the administrator’s office blocked by shelves and boxes. Around it, six infected try to claw their way in. The squad cleans them out in a flash, while my heart beats loudly. The furniture is next. In a few seconds I’ll need to work fast and no mistakes are allowed. Can I do it?

  The family huddles together in a corner, with a radio, open snacks, and empty bottles on the floor next to them. The only source of light, besides our flashlights, is a camping lantern. I can’t imagine staying inside this room for days, with no hope of escaping.

  “Get up, hands where I can see them,” Tigh says, gun still raised. “Now!”

  The father grabs a small girl, holding the child next to his chest. The mother gets up, almost falling down again. I move to approach them, but Tigh holds me in place.

  “Show me your arms,” he says to them. “Or we shoot.”

  The man and woman obey, the father trying hard not to let go of their daughter. No bites. At least, not on their arms. I free myself from Tigh’s grasp and start my evaluation. Time to exercise my rusty bedside manners.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the mother, feeling her forehead. Behind me, I know the soldiers are covering the door.

  “Anna.” She clears her throat to speak, eyes unfocused and lips dry.

  I feel her wrist carefully, calculating her heart rate. Faint. Her body temperature is normal, a good sign. I’m worried that she’s relying on the wall to stand.

  “Do you feel any pain?” Anna shakes her head slowly. “How about dizziness?”

  She nods. One look at the three empty bottles on the floor is all I need to conclude my diagnosis: dehydration. I open my bag and take out a small bottle of fresh water.

  “Roll up your sleeves and turn around, Anna. Slowly, so you don’t feel dizzy.”

  While she does what I asked, I confirm that her arms and exposed legs have no bite marks. Her shirt and loose skirt are dirty but have no blood or rips.

  “Okay, that’s good, now drink this.” I give her the water. My own body relaxes as she does this.

  I move to the father, checking his pulse and temperature.

  “We came here looking for food, but they were everywhere,” the man says to me, his voice raw from a dry throat. “Please take us with you.”

  “We will,” I say, but the feeling of being watched by Tigh is hard to ignore.

  I examine him like I did with Anna. He appears fine, though also in need of hydration. I offer him another bottle, but he shakes his head slightly. He doesn’t want to let go of the little girl. His hands are trembling as I reach my own toward the child in his arms. She’s probably four, maybe five. It’s impossible now to ignore her stillness, and silence. Her eyes are closed.

  My hand lingers on her forehead.

  She has a fever. Her breathing is uneven.

  Carefully not to draw attention, I position my body to hide the girl from view and peel back her collar, revealing raw skin and dark lumps.

  The father looks at me. I stare back, my hand moving away slowly.

  “Doctor, we should move out,” Tigh says from behind me. “Are they clear?”

  The father and I stare at each other, his child between us.

  “Doc, yes or no?”

  Yes or no. Simple. Nothing will ever be simple anymore. Either answer will condemn me. For all my bravado and demands, my first reaction is to step back. Tigh’s hand is heavy on my left shoulder, I turn to face him.

  “Yes. Yes, they’re clear,” I say, clearing my throat after. I’m lying to the very people that saved me. “We can take them, but they will need support, they’re very weak right now.”

  He nods. The lack of questions and doubts ties a knot inside my stomach—the lie worked. They trusted me. What have I done?

  Tigh moves next to the father offering to take the girl.

  “No, I will carry her, you help the mother,” I say, before it’s too late. “Tom, can you take the father?”

  We are out of the office, Tom and Tigh supporting the couple while I carry the girl. Her head rests on my shoulder, little hands finding my neck. There is no way of knowing how long until she tries to rip my skin apart. The infection spread took hours for some, for others, mere minutes. Part of me hopes it will be sooner, rather than later.

  At the supermarket front door, Tigh stops us. It’s easy to understand why; our presence attracted a mob to the parking lot, which is now overrun. I chose not to count each one, but there are more than fifty people scattered between cars. Many are close enough to bang their bodies against the building’s thick glass windows repeatedly, with no regard for their own injuries. Each collision makes me step back and wince.

  “Take a deep breath everyone.” I listen to his advice, but while my body has adrenaline to count on, my mind is nowhere near ready. “Keep your head low, watch each other’s backs. We will make it. Understand?”

  A nod, then another.

  “Do you understand, soldiers?” he repeats, raising his voice above the bangs against the windows.

  “Yes, sir,” the three men say in perfect unison.

  Perhaps noticing my silence, the Sergeant looks at me, and then takes out one of his smaller guns, offering it. I shake my head.

  “You aren’t alone anymore. You need to protect the little girl,” he says.

  I bite my lip. “I don’t know how to shoot.”

  “It’s easy to learn things when you’re about to die. Take it, the safety is off, you just need to point it and pull the trigger. Aim for the head, and that’s it.”

  Slowly, I accept the gun. It’s heavy and feels awkward, especially since it was a gesture of trust coming from a man who disliked me, and that I just betrayed.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Tom giving the father a handgun, as well.

  We create a line, with Tigh behind me, so Tom and I are in the middle. Jones and Matthews, fre
e from carrying the family, split, one at the rear, while the other goes at the front to clear a path to us.

  For a second, none of us move.

  Tigh opens the doors.

  At first, we have the element of surprise in our favor, bullets hitting bodies before they realize our presence. It doesn’t last long, we move too slowly now and the number of infected around us grows.

  They come from all sides, stumbling between the cars, forcing themselves to keep moving while ignoring broken bones and injuries that would have made grown men beg for death. The ones that are able to run are the first ones to fall, thanks to our bullets.

  Knowing my limits, I pull the trigger only two times, somehow managing to hit an eye and a mouth. I’m not flinching it anymore; I need my eyes open to shoot and it’s hard enough to do that while holding a small girl and having no ability whatsoever. In front of me, Tigh shoots and shoots, never seeming to miss even with Anna’s added weight.

  The infected, in their frenzy, start to climb the cars, scratching the metal to support themselves. What once worked as a barrier, keeping us out of sight, and deterring their movements, now gives them the advantage.

  Gone is the slow and methodical sound of a bullet firing and hitting its target. Instead, the shots are now frenetic, urgent, mixed with grunts and swearing. It’s too much, there’s too many. I’m sweating, my hands usually so steady and professional, start to shake under the strain. A deep panic of losing the grip on either the child or the gun fills me.

  One of them jumps from the top of a Lexus at me, I raise my arm, shaking so bad and shooting air. Somehow the body falls by my feet, the smell of burnt metal coming from behind me. Tigh saved my life once more.

  Before I even consider thanking him, a rain of bullets fills my ears, then a scream. Then another, and another.

  “Keep going, Doc. Just keep going.” His voice reaches me, when I almost turn my head to see what was happening. “Don’t look back.”

  With no choice, I press forward.