Convergence: The Zombie War Chronicles - Vol. 2

by Damon Novak

  I knew what it was; I worked hard for years to get my gig, and I was so close to a national syndication deal that I didn’t want to mess up my chances by on-air fuckups.

  My mind went right to the Woodstock performance of I’m Going Home by Ten Years After. I ran around my desk to get it queued up. After that, I put Grand Funk Railroad’s I’m Your Captain in line, followed by Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, which would kill almost twenty minutes. Last, I put The Doors’ song, The End in line, which seemed appropriate. Once I set it to continuous play, I ran to the door and yanked it open. “Hose yourself off, man. I gotta get home. I queued up over an hour of tunes.”

  “You comin’ back?” yelled a groggy Glenn, as I ignored him and charged out to the parking lot and got on my imaginary Harley. I fired it and powered into the street, turning toward home.

  I only lived five minutes away, which is why this was a perfect gig for me.

  Ω

  I tell everyone on air that I ride a Harley, which is why I call it my imaginary Harley. I pretty much lie to my fans because a lot of my classic rock listeners are American purists, and they love their Harley Davidsons.

  In truth, I ride a Kawasaki. It’s a crotch-rocket, and right now, I was glad. I fired it and tore out of the parking lot, holding onto those handlebars with all I had.

  I found the road slick with the black stuff that coated everything within sight. Slowing more than I wanted to, I still got to my house in just under four minutes, and that was when the dogs caught my attention.

  The first one I saw might’ve been a Dalmatian. It was the right body type, but it was so coated in black muck that I couldn’t identify it for sure. If it was, then it was Pongo, named after the 101 Dalmatians hero. He was the only Dalmatian on our street and he was owned by a kid named Brandon.

  I only know that because while Brandon was always outside calling Pongo, his mother – whose name I don’t know – was always out calling Brandon.

  The presumed Pongo was staggering, barely staying on his spindly legs. When I passed him, his four extremities crumpled beneath him and he fell.

  Fear gripped me. I didn’t stop; I wanted to, and on any other day I would’ve, but my family was just down the street and I had to get to them.

  I noted the absence of Brandon’s voice, echoing through the neighborhood as he searched for his dog. That made me notice the absence of any cars or people on the street except me and my bike.

  I gunned it to get clear of the dying Dalmatian, and my rear tire broke free, causing me to fishtail just before I reached my driveway. I managed to get it back under control and bounced over the raised concrete slab at the foot of my drive that had been slowly lifting over the years; the victim of a tree root.

  We lived in the shittiest house on the street; while I was negotiating national syndication, I wasn’t there yet, and my pay reflected what a mediocre deal I was, radio air-wise.

  I screeched to a stop, cut the motor, and kicked the stand down. Jumping off, I headed toward the door.

  I didn’t see Petey out there, and Heather wasn’t out calling for him, so I assumed she’d convinced him to stay inside after his shower.

  When I saw the door standing open and black crap in the form of handprints smeared on the jamb, I ran.

  I heard sobbing as I hurried through the foyer and into the hallway, instinctively following the sound. I knew it was my wife. When I got to the bathroom, I saw Heather kneeling beside the bathtub, and my boy’s arm hanging limp outside of it.

  “Heather!” I shouted, dropping down and nudging her out of the way. She was hysterical, and when I had clear view of my son, I knew why.

  His head was jerking back and forth, and black spittle flew from his mouth. While his face was spattered with the black stuff, the water was like ink, so I couldn’t see through it. I reached down and pulled the plug. The gurgling of the water sounded as the tiny vortex spun over the drain.

  “Baby, what’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know, babe. Glenn got sick from the rain, maybe that’s it. Here. Stand up.”

  She did, and I grabbed a handful of the shower curtain and yanked it down, rod and all. I wadded it and tossed it into the hallway beyond the door.

  “What are you doing?” Heather screamed.

  “Getting that crap out of our way!” I yelled back and was immediately sorry.

  “I’m sorry, H. I’m just –”

  “It’s okay. Me, too. It’s Peter.”

  When the water had almost drained completely, I saw my son’s arms and legs were convulsing. Reaching over, I turned the water on and adjusted it closer to the red than the blue. Then I pulled the knob on the tub spout. The shower rained down.

  Standing, I aimed the spray at Petey, rinsing every last bit of blackness from him. Face, hair, everything.

  Then I saw it; the bite on his inner left forearm. I aimed the water away and turned his arm. “Heather, did you see this? This looks like a human bite!”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t say anything about it and I didn’t see it under all that black stuff,” she said, her voice shaking. “He was lethargic when he got here, and all I could think of was getting that stuff off him!”

  I turned off the water and reached down, scooping him into my arms.

  “Petey!” I yelled. When he failed to acknowledge me, I tried, “Peter Rode! Do you hear me?” I lay him on the floor and slapped his face several times, trying to elicit some response.

  Nothing.

  “Micky!” cried Heather. “We have to take him to the hospital!”

  “Did you call 911?” I asked.

  “No, this got really bad just before before you came in, and –”

  “Call them now!” I shouted. I picked Petey up again, nudged past her, and carrying him into his bedroom. I rested him on his bed, but he immediately began twisting around, tangling in the sheets beneath him.

  “Hurry!” I called. Peter had never been sick in his life; just a healthy kid all the time. I’d never had to face losing him.

  I heard something drop from the other room. I was opening my mouth to call out to Heather to ask what happened when all of a sudden, my 8-year-old son’s body stiffened. He sat bolt upright so that he was bent at a 90-degree angle at the waist.

  His legs were as stiff as steel posts; hands planted on the mattress with eyes wide open, staring past me, blank.

  The moment I reached out to take his shoulders, he screamed.

  Not like a boy. Not like anything human. His raw cry was both similar and dissimilar to any number of Hollywood-conjured creatures I’d watched over the years in a thousand horror movies.

  He howled like a child possessed.

  The fact is, I still can’t describe that sound, and it still sends chills up my spine.

  Hearing it made me wonder what had changed inside my boy to give him the capacity to produce the sound.

  “Heather!” I called.

  I looked at Petey. He was still stiff as a board, staring straight ahead. No more sounds came from him. It was as though he were struggling against himself. I could practically look into his strange eyes and see that little boy fighting with what he … was becoming.

  “Goddamnit, Heather!” I shouted again. “Are you okay?”

  This time I heard a whimper. I jumped up, glancing back one time to see him still sitting there, taking no notice of my departure. I ran down the hall, rounded the corner to the kitchen and saw my Heather on the floor.

  “Heather!” I shouted, dropping down to help her.

  Black red smears were everywhere, like a finger-paintin’ done with bodily fluids on the kitchen floor all around her. Heather lay on her stomach amidst the mess, still reaching for the phone, but now just slapping at it. It was as though she had some idea she needed the phone, but no idea what to do with it now.

  Like she’d lost her mind at lightning speed, and a tiny part of her still clung to the knowledge that caused her to drop to the floor.

 
; I didn’t think. I bent down, grabbed her arms, and dragged her from that mess into the living room, laying her to rest on the carpet. The moment I released her arms, she rolled over and clawed at the floor again.

  Clinging to her sane intentions. I started crying then, everything was so overwhelming. I didn’t normally cry at all, and I haven’t cried since. Part of the reason I never found a need to cry before was that I had no goddamned reason to. I had the best girl and son in the world.

  Now both of them were being torn away from me by a mysterious, dog-killing, human-ravaging disease.

  Jumping up, I ran to the counter where Heather always dropped her purse. I fished around inside and found her keys. She drove a Toyota Highlander that stayed in the garage. It was silver, and the paint was like it was when it was new, in 2008.

  As I got her keys, I saw the phone in the muck again. It looked active, and the numbers on the screen said 911.

  Trying to stay out of the blood and vomit slick, I leaned down and two-fingered it. Wiping it on my jeans, I put it to my ear.

  And heard the circuits busy message, playing over and over. Please try your call later.

  I wasn’t sure there would be a later.

  A scraping noise came from the porch, where’d I’d obviously left the front door open, just as I was ending the call to 911. I looked up to see a woman standing there, screaming. “Bandon! Bandon! Andon!”

  It went on. The words became less intelligible with each passing second. Worse, I knew who it was.

  It was Brandon’s mom. She might’ve been pretty once. Blonde hair, nice figure. Not very attractive with the sludge running down her chin and chest, though.

  Her eyes looked like Pete’s. Vacant, staring toward me but not at me.

  I hadn’t seen Heather’s eyes yet, and you have to remember that at that time, I didn’t know Brandon’s mother was a danger. I turned my back on her and bent down, slid my hands beneath Heather’s spasming body, and carried her to the sofa.

  I rested her on her back, but just like Petey had done, she jerked and twitched and clawed at the cushions, but never settled. Her eyes were open, but darted side-to-side, clouding with what looked like yellowed cataracts.

  I felt my entire world slipping away as those tears ran down my face.

  Suddenly, I felt hands on my shoulders and a growl beside my ear, accompanied by a rank odor. I jerked my upper body away as Brandon’s mother’s teeth snapped closed on the material of my shirt. Allowing my momentum to carry me over the back of the sofa, I landed on the hard tile on my hands and knees and scrambled to my feet.

  She came after me. I ran to my bedroom, flinging the door closed behind me, but not hard enough to cause it to latch. Reaching my nightstand in seconds, I yanked the door open, grabbed the lockbox from the middle drawer, and cradled it against my waist as I tried to dial in the 4-number combo and make it into the bathroom.

  I glanced up to see my delirious neighbor staggering in front of our king-sized bed, heading for me with hands reaching, mouth open with her teeth bared.

  I got into the bathroom and slid the pocket door closed. She slammed into it and kept on slamming.

  I fumbled with the lock wheels and finally got 1-7-9-1 dialed in. The latch popped, and I put the box on the counter, pulling out the 9mm and the ankle holster that went with it. Bending down, trying to ignore my crazy neighbor about to make mincemeat out of my bathroom door, I secured the Velcro holster straps around my ankle. Then I pulled all four magazines out of the small safe. All full.

  Putting three magazines in my pockets, snapping one in the gun. I took two deep breaths and reached out, putting my fingers into the handle of the slider.

  “Your son isn’t here!” I yelled. “My boy’s sick. If you don’t get out of my house I’m going to shoot you.”

  Another slam, and the door fell from its upper track.

  “Goddamnit.” I tried to pull the door, but it tweaked at an angle and caught. “Fuck!”

  I was frantic. I got back four steps and ran at the door, my right foot raised. My Nike hit it dead center, and I was shocked to find how easily the door broke in two as the fractured halves folded into the bedroom, knocking Brandon’s mom backward.

  As my momentum carried me through, I two-handed the gun and walked backward toward the door to our bedroom. She was only stunned, but clawed at the bed and dropped back onto her feet on the floor.

  My hands held the gun out, but I couldn’t fire. I’d never shot anyone before. Something in my mind clicked, and I just backed up two more steps and yanked the door all the way closed.

  She hit it. It wasn’t a slider, though. It opened in, so she was up against a solid wood frame and jamb.

  Still, I watched that door for another thirty seconds or so, just to make sure she couldn’t get out. Before I was certain, a figure moved into my peripheral vision.

  It was Petey. His face was nearly white, as were his entirely clouded eyes. The black pupils were still visible beneath the cataract-like film, enormous.

  Like a dead person.

  With the kid’s mom in the bedroom scratching and throwing herself at the door, and Heather now trying to get to her feet, I didn’t know what to do.

  Then, after teetering there and staring blankly at me, Petey started staggering toward me. His mouth was open, and he was emittin’ the same growl as Brandon’s mother. He was as detached from the world around him as the other two.

  I needed more information. I could see if I grabbed Petey, he’d never acknowledge it. Heather was up and moving behind him, both of their strange, alien-like faces facing me. I needed two straitjackets if I wanted to make sure they didn’t hurt me or anyone else.

  Of course, I didn’t have any straitjackets. I ran around the kitchen island and slammed the front door closed. The front was now secure, and the rear sliders were closed. They couldn’t go anywhere, and I couldn’t see how they could hurt themselves any worse than they had.

  I charged through the kitchen again, hit the hallway, and ran into my office. Neither had seen me after I disappeared around the wall leading into the kitchen.

  I eased the door closed before they happened upon me and dropped down into my office chair. I woke up my computer and put on a news site.

  SUSPECTED VIRUS CAUSING CANNIBALISM AMONG INFECTED was the headline.

  I stared at it for a moment, then my eyes went to the door. My wife and son hadn’t yet figured out where I’d gone, because they weren’t at the door. I just heard the odd thump from the living room where I’d left them.

  I’m no speedreader, but my eyes ate up the words on that website. Emergency Services had been overwhelmed, but now it just seemed they were out of business. People were posting on Twitter, Facebook, on blogs, posting horrible pictures on Instagram; you name it.

  It was the same everywhere. Family and friends getting sick, presumably from the black rain, and attacking everyone. Others were getting sick from being bitten or scratched by the rain-infected. It was vicious. Deadly.

  Cannibals. It was like bath salts rained from the sky, driving everyone mad.

  But I knew right away it wasn’t that. The bath salts seemed to supercharge people, like adrenaline was surging through them, tapping the most violent parts of their brains.

  These things were slow and deliberate; they’d eventually do the same things to you as the bath salts people.

  Only slower.

  You know how people say their minds were running at a mile a minute? So many thoughts passing through that reaching a decision was impossible?

  It’s where I was. It was the only place I could be. I couldn’t get any help. I couldn’t leave my family there like that, but I also couldn’t contain them in any meaningful way.

  They began to stream live video. It was what looked like a doctor on the screen. He stood before a monitor that appeared to show the top of a man’s head. I glanced toward the door again before looking back at the screen.

  Opening the right-hand drawer, I located m
y ear buds. I grabbed them and jammed them into my ears, plugging them into my laptop’s headphone jack.

  Across the screen, the previous message was replaced with GRAPHIC VIDEO TO FOLLOW.

  “… you will see, when I remove this crown, what has occurred. This is one of the earliest victims brought into the ER. He died minutes after being admitted and by the time we wheeled him down to the morgue, he’d already begun to … well, I can only use the term, reanimate. Granted, we’re only a few hours into this black rain phenomenon, but it’s an incredibly fast transformation, and we’ve had to make some serious on-the-spot decisions.

  “Now, I have draped off his face so that only the top of his head is visible. When I remove this crown, you will see what has become of what should be a healthy, pink brain.”

  I felt my lip start to quiver. It was then I realized my whole body was shaking.

  He fitted a filter mask over his face. When he turned the cap and lifted it off the man’s head, it separated with a sound like a vacuum releasing. The black goo stretched from the main reservoir – if that’s what it could be called – to the crown of the man’s skull the doctor now held in his hand.

  The many squiggly crevices that made up the brain were filled with a black, tar-like goop. Every indentation was a small river of ink.

  “What you see is common among several we have captured. We are beyond all tenets of medicine. What we do now we do in the name of saving mankind, if it is even possible. What you will see next may convince you of what I know to be true.”

  As I stared, unable to turn away, he unwrapped the head as the camera pulled back, revealing the man’s face.

  His eyes were like Petey’s and Heather’s. His mouth gnashed, and he snapped his teeth as he let out a low growl.

  When they’d pulled the camera farther back, I saw a clamp around the man’s neck that appeared to come right out of the chair. Then I realized it was a restraint.

  The doctor began turning the clamp counter-clockwise, loosening it. When it fell away, the man with clouded eyes and infected brain threw his body side-to-side, fighting to get out of the chair and at the people in the room.