by Paul Seiple
"Scott Wright approaching."
The robotic voice pulled Mitch's attention away from the report. He pressed a button on his keyboard. The door to his office unlocked. A tall, thin, younger man entered.
"Give me some good news," Mitch said.
"For once, I actually have some," Scott said. "It evolved again. There's a unique gram-positive bacterium that appeared in subjects who've not been fed in three weeks."
"Do tell," Mitch said.
Scott took a seat next to Mitch and stole a banana from the desk. "As skin dies, it sheds a new strain of Staph. aureus closely related to methicillin resistant, but whereas MRSA can lead to necrotizing fasciitis, the new strain seems to try to repair flesh." He peeled the banana and took a bite.
"Remarkable. It never ceases to amaze me how it finds ways to use resources for survival," Mitch said.
"Well, Judas hasn't exactly figured out how to regenerate flesh yet using the new Staph.," Scott said. "Flesh is still decaying at a rapid rate."
"But the virus created the new form of Staph. A, right?"
"It appears that way," Scott said.
"Can you believe it? A virus that creates bacteria to survive," Mitch said.
"It's amazing. For years, we've tried to perfect a bacterium-virus hybrid that will destroy MRSA, and Judas created the hybrid to try to survive inside the host."
Mitch chuckled. "If I didn't know better, I would say it's mocking us."
Scott tossed the banana peel into a trashcan. "Well, the new Staph. A isn't replicating fast enough to slow the decaying of flesh yet."
“‘Yet’ is the key word," Mitch said. "Do you think that's why..." Mitch paused and opened a spreadsheet on his MacBook. "Subjects 23, 42, 44, and 49 died?" Mitch hesitated again, knowing that “died” was the incorrect term. "Well, ceased to exist?"
The infected no longer had names. They were numbers. Numbers were easier to keep track of during research. After prolonged starvation, Judas went dormant in some of the hosts. They fell into a coma-state and were put out of their misery.
"No. Here is another bit of good news... Judas is selecting which hosts to try to save."
"I thought the purpose was to persevere in all hosts," Mitch said.
"That appears not to be the case. Subject 23 suffered from diabetes. Subject 42 had the early signs of dementia. Subject 44 had Parkinson's, and Subject 49 had undiagnosed Stage 3 colon cancer."
"Are you telling me Judas knew it couldn't save those subjects due to existing illnesses, so it cut its loses."
Scott smiled. "To an extent. It seems Judas viewed those subjects as weak hosts." His smile grew wider. "It gets better. There isn't a trace of Judas in those subjects."
"How does it erase itself once a host dies?" Mitch asked.
"That's just it. I don't think it did in those hosts. Everything we know about Judas's will to survive tells me it wouldn't give up. We took samples from several of the remaining subjects in Cell 8 and Cell 9. Two of those samples had elevated levels of Judas. I think it jumped from imperfect hosts to subjects it could survive in."
"Fascinating. Survival of the fittest. It's using natural selection," Mitch said.
"It looks that way," Scott said. "I've isolated the subjects with elevated levels of Judas. There's a strong possibility the Staph. A will replicate faster. If so, hosts that do not feed shouldn’t deteriorate as rapidly."
"Wonderful. And what is happening with the subjects who are being fed daily?" Mitch asked.
"No change. Judas is holding steady. Almost content. I still haven't figured out how it shuts down the decaying process. My guess would be it's the keratin in the flesh we're feeding them."
"Well, Judas 2.0 looks to be thriving. Any luck with 3.0?" Mitch asked.
"Team Da Vinci is working on it, but there still is no success in reversing the antibodies in those immune to Judas."
"Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there is a problem on Sector Seven," the guard watching the cameras said. "Since Ken Barber opened the cells, the infected are still roaming free."
Mitch turned to Scott and smiled.
"What should we do, sir?" the guard asked.
"Is the containment door still secure?" Mitch asked.
The guard typed MAIN on the keyboard. The camera shifted to the containment door. He typed STATUS. The word SECURED appeared on the monitor underneath a live shot of the door.
"Yes, sir," the guard said.
"Rewind the tape to when Alan escaped," Mitch said.
Mitch and Scott watched Ken Barber unlock the cells as Alan ran to the door.
"He's not trying to attack Dawson," Scott said.
"He still recognizes Alan as a friend," Mitch said. He paused to see Ken open another cell that housed the prisoners being starved. The infected pushed by him to feed on Morales's warm body. "Look at them. Just like a starving predator feasting."
Ken moved to the next cell and freed the sick.
"Fascinating," Scott said. "Barber seems to have developed a pack mentality. He is freeing his pack."
Mitch smiled deep and wide. "The dead do not do this."
"Of course they don't. A major setback of death is the end of cognitive function. Barber is clearly thinking," Scott said.
"This is a good sign. If they can think, we can lead them," Mitch said.
The men went silent as the feed showed Alan point the gun at Ken Barber and pull the trigger. Ken slumped to his knees against one of the cells.
The herd Ken released crowded around Morales's and Reynolds's bodies. The camera flashed to the containment door as Alan exited. The nearest cells were still locked.
"They have no desire to free the others," Scott said.
"Do you think that means Judas evolved in Ken Barber?" Mitch asked.
"The only way to be sure is to run tests. Hopefully, the shot from Dawson left enough brain to sample," Scott said.
"What would you like for me to do, sir?" the guard asked.
"Go live," Mitch said.
The freed infected roamed aimlessly near the back of the room far away from the ones still imprisoned.
“Lock Cells 8 and 9," Mitch said.
The guard typed a sequence of commands. The doors to Cells 8 and 9 shut. A few of the infected were locked inside. The rest still roamed.
"Load the feed chamber in Cell 10 with a heartbeat," Mitch said.
The Christmas music stopped. The herd looked toward the ceiling. After a brief silence, The Foundations' "Build me up, Buttercup" began to play. The infected moved toward Cell 10.
"It's amazing they can associate that song with feeding time," Mitch said.
"Well, watching them feed is the stuff of nightmares, and that song is the perfect lullaby for a nightmare." Scott laughed. "Actually, it's the intro of the song. They've learned to recognize the rhythm."
"Again, the dead do not do that," Mitch said.
"Loaded and ready to drop, sir," the guard said.
Mitch nodded. A door in the ceiling of Cell 10 opened. A homeless man, around age fifty, fell to the concrete floor. He didn't have a chance to stand before the herd swarmed him.
"Lock the cell," Mitch said.
Speckles of blood splattered against the camera, making visibility nearly impossible. Mitch didn't need to see the dead devour the man. His prisoners were slowly becoming his soldiers.
Three
Alan Dawson put his ear to the exit door. There was an unusual silence. If his math was right, and it was Christmas Eve, Uptown Charlotte should be busy with last-minute shoppers and bar hoppers. Alan had a sinking feeling the virus was spreading faster than the projections he found before being imprisoned.
Why has no one tried to stop me? he thought, pressing his back against the cold, concrete wall. Surely they know there's been a breach. Alan listened again through the door. A car engine broke the silence. He pushed against the door handle and cracked it enough to see a dusting of snow on the ground. Light snow continued to fall.
Liz would lo
ve this, he thought.
This would have been the twelfth Christmas for Alan and Liz. Even though the divorce had been final before the eleventh, and she was gone before the tenth, Alan couldn't help but continue to count the years. Each year, she would wish for a white Christmas. Only once did it snow, and it was for about thirty minutes, but the happiness it brought to Liz was a memory Alan would never forget. He hoped she was getting snow in DC.
Alan surveyed the scene. No black Suburbans. No ARMA soldiers waiting to take him back to the cells. He stepped out into the cold air. Wet flakes slapped the side of his face as a rush of wind whipped by. Alan huddled and shivered, using the doorway as a shield.
"Even if my car is still here, I can't take it," he said between chattering teeth. There would surely be a tracker on Alan's car. Every car ARMA owned was probably fitted with trackers by now. Randle Street wasn't that far, maybe a fifteen-minute walk, but the weather would make it seem much longer.
"What am I going to tell Ken's wife?" Alan asked himself as he looked for a way to get to Randle that didn't involve walking.
The truth was out of the question. Alan didn't want to spread more fear. Ken was dead. That blow would be life-altering. Alan would spare the details of Ken turning into a zombie. Alan had a hard time coming to terms with the word “zombie.” He thought about the past and joking with Liz about prepping for a zombie apocalypse and how ridiculous it seemed at the time.
A knocking sound over his left shoulder caught Alan's attention. An older man in his late sixties to early seventies dragged his boots through the snow. He stopped at a beat-up red pickup and braced against the back of the truck, lowered his head, and gasped for air as if he had just finished a marathon.
It's definitely not tagged, Alan thought, referring to the ARMA tracking system. But can I take an old man's truck... on Christmas Eve... and in the snow?
The snow picked up. The older man made no movement toward the cab of the truck. He rested his head on the tailgate. Alan stepped out of the doorway and walked toward the pickup. A burst of wind grabbed a stench coming from the man. Alan gagged as the odor caught him off guard. The man faced Alan. His right eye was diluted with a milky film. His left eye was still blue. The man's skin was nearly translucent. His hair matched the falling snow. He groaned before spitting out the words, “Can you help me?"
Alan took a few steps back, putting a parking meter between himself and the man.
"I don't feel well." The man's voice was weak. His words were garbled as if his throat was drowning in phlegm.
"What's your name?" Alan asked.
"Reggie. Help me."
"I'm sorry, Reggie, but I can't help you."
Reggie stepped away from the truck and moved in Alan's direction. He limped, dragging his right leg behind him. "You have to help me."
Alan took a few more steps back. Reggie crept forward. Alan had no fear of being attacked, but he wanted to keep the old man distracted. The truck was Alan's way out of this problem. Reggie was clearly infected. That erased any doubt Alan had about stealing the truck. But he still had to get the keys. Given his luck, Alan was pretty sure the keys were lodged somewhere in the old man's overalls.
"I'm not a doctor," Alan said.
"Don't need a doctor," Reggie said. "Need to eat." Reggie's speech became harder to understand. His movements were more erratic.
Alan unbuttoned the cuff of his left sleeve, exposed his forearm, and inched closer to Reggie. "Does this look good?"
The old moan groaned. The right side of his face had a slight droop that hadn't been obvious a few seconds earlier. Spittle trickled from the corner of his mouth and rested in a crease just above his chin. Both of Reggie's eyes were cloudy now.
"Judas is progressing much faster," Alan said. He waved his arm at Reggie as if he were offering a dog a treat. "Come on, you know you want."
Reggie slipped but regained balance before hitting the snow-covered asphalt. His groaning turned into a low, guttural growl. Alan inched forward until he was within Reggie's reach. Alan flashed his bare forearm again. Reggie lunged. Alan sidestepped the attack. He caught the back of the old man's head with an elbow, sending him face first onto the pavement.
Alan clenched his mouth at the sound of the old man's teeth shattering against the road. It didn't stop Reggie from getting to his knees. Alan placed a foot against Reggie's ribcage, shoving him back down.
"Do I kill him?" Alan said. "Can I kill him?"
Reggie turned his head as far as possible. Blood splattered his gray stubbled chin. He opened his mouth. His front teeth were broken into jagged weapons. If he could get free of Alan, Reggie would use them to rip away the flesh and satiate the hunger. He snapped his mouth with enough force to break off another shard of a tooth.
"What have we done?" Alan asked. He didn't need anyone to answer. He knew what ARMA had done. It brought forth the end of the world.
Reggie pawed at Alan's leg with his right arm. Alan planted his foot between the old man's shoulder blades, well out of his bite range. There was a sickening thud. Reggie's shoulder popped out of socket. His upper arm snapped in two. Reggie showed no signs of pain. The broken arm flailed as Reggie tried to feed. The sight answered Alan's earlier question. He couldn't kill the old man. Reggie was already dead.
Alan lifted his foot. Reggie flipped over on his back. The speed of his movement startled Alan, sending him to the ground. Reggie grabbed Alan's ankle with his good arm. His mouth snapped. Blood and saliva covered Reggie's lips as he moved in for a taste. Alan pushed away with his hands. Reggie held on, sliding on his stomach in the snow. Alan shook his leg but couldn't free himself. The old man's grip tightened.
"How the hell is he getting stronger?" Alan asked.
Reggie's mouth drew closer to Alan's ankle. Alan jerked his leg back. He couldn't shake Reggie's grasp. Alan landed his free foot on Reggie's shoulder. The force separated the two, giving Alan a few seconds to roll to his side and get to his feet. The old man struggled to gain purchase in the snow. Alan planted another kick to Reggie's ribs, sending him face first onto the pavement. Alan didn't hesitate this time. He stomped the back of Reggie's head. Alan gagged from the sound of the old man's neck cracking.
"He's dead," Alan told himself as he stomped again. And again.
Crimson stained the snow as blood leaked from underneath Reggie's smashed face. Splatter covered Alan's Salvatore Ferragamo loafers. He was more worried about the infection lurking in the blood than the shoes being possibly the worst footwear for snow. Why wasn't Alan sick? He had been locked in a cell twenty-four hours a day with a man who succumbed to the infection. Ventilation was horrible. Alan had to have been exposed to the virus. But he wasn't sick.
Alan nudged Reggie. The limp body slid across the snow. Alan wiped his loafer on the old man's overalls. It did nothing but smear the blood. He bent down, searching Reggie's pockets. Alan took the keys to the truck and Reggie's wallet. There was about seventy dollars, which Alan desperately needed. Mitch had taken everything when he made Alan his prisoner.
"Reginald Hanover," Alan said, looking at the man's license. Reggie was older than Alan estimated. He was seventy-six. Does he have a family? Are they waiting for him to celebrate Christmas? Alan shook his head, trying to rid it of those thoughts. Alan knew the truth. Reggie probably had a family waiting for him. Alan also realized Reggie's family would get sick, if they weren't already. Alan eyed the old man and said, "I'm really sorry I did this to you, Reggie." He wasn't apologizing for ending Reggie's misery. He was sorry for causing it. It was becoming more apparent that Alan was responsible for every person who succumbed to Judas. Was his punishment to be immune and watch the world suffer for his stupidity?
Alan tucked the license back in the wallet. He fumbled with the keys, stopping at one with “Toyota” engraved in it. The snow fell heavier as Alan slipped over the pavement.
"I have to find some better shoes."
Alan turned back to Reggie's tattered work boots. Something i
nside wouldn't allow Alan to take the old man's boots, even though he was dead. Alan opened the door and sat for a minute inside the cab watching the snow. He cranked the truck and started the heat. Cold air rushed from the vents.
"Old truck. It's going to take a minute to heat up."
The minute turned into three minutes. No heat. The air grew cooler. Alan shivered beneath his John Varvatos dress shirt. His body screamed at him to find warmer clothes. Alan turned the heat off and headed to 2610 Randle Street.
Four
"Did you hear that? It sounded like a gunshot." Ann Turner paused from hanging an elf ornament on the Christmas tree.
"I heard it. Probably fireworks," Dan Turner said, never taking his eyes away from the Panthers game.
Another bang caused Ann to flinch. She dropped the elf back into a plastic box of ornaments. Dan muted the sound. The second clap did sound like a gunshot.
"I think it's coming from the Barber house," Ann said. She walked to the window and peered through the curtains. A black Escalade was parked across the road from the Barber house. Ann didn't recognize the vehicle, but it was nothing out of the ordinary for Christmas Eve. Ann was more taken by the snow as it began to accumulate. "The snow is really coming down."
"Maybe Ken got his kids a pellet gun or something for Christmas," Dan said before turning the volume up on the television.
"I haven't seen Ken over there in weeks," Ann said. "Do you think they’re having marital problems? It's such a bad time of the year for that."
"There's never a good time, dear. I'm sure Ken was away on an important mission. Or maybe he caught the new flu." Dan chuckled and sipped eggnog.
"Don't say that," Ann said.
She shifted behind the curtain as two men came out of the Barber house. They slipped down the driveway, carrying black bags to the SUV.
