Riding The Apocalypse

by Frank Ignagni III

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, the President is supposed to speak at any moment.”

  “Turn up the television please,” I said to him.

  “Aye,” Max said as he grabbed the greasy remote from the top of a recycling drum.

  He cranked up the volume and dropped the remote back on the drum.

  Our timing was almost perfect. The screen was flashing “The President of the United States will be speaking any moment.”

  A handsome broadcaster was talking in the meantime. “The military has begun to set barriers around principal cities in an attempt to slow the spread of the virus and quarantine the already infected.”

  I took a seat on a stack of tires in the corner of the garage and rubbed my chest. I pulled up my shirt to look at the damage my handlebar had done in my collision with Tubby.

  “Whoa, man!” yelled Max. “What the hell? You look like you fell off your stripper pole again.”

  Laughs all around. Buell spit his cold coffee and gave an exaggerated knee slap.

  “Nope, I jammed my chest into my handlebar trying to avoid a fat Texan monster on the up-side of 280,” I answered.

  “Man, haven’t we all been there,” Buell deadpanned.

  “Fuck it!” I exclaimed as I ripped my shirt off.

  “Easy, Rem, it’s not the end of the world,” Buell quipped.

  I don’t think he realized the irony.

  “Sorry, guys, I have been stressed out this week. Even before this bullshit started. Sorry if I’m being terse.”

  “It’s all good, Rem, but what does ‘terse’ mean?” Buell smiled.

  Always the kidder Buell was. He had a knack for lightening the mood with a well-placed joke or personal jab.

  “We will let you know if you are getting to the point where we may mutiny,” Max said.

  “My cynicism is rearing its ugly head,” I said.

  “So what else is new?” Buell asked. “You know, for someone who has it so good, you sure are a grumpy fucker lately.”

  It was Emily.

  Emily had dated before, but this was the first time she overtly chose anyone over me and it did not sit well. And during a fucking zombie attack too! I knew I had no right to be jealous, but it still stuck in my craw.

  I threw my ripped shirt on the floor and walked toward the front of the garage. I looked out the window at the monsters who were now clawing at the fence. They were thirty feet from my garage, but I could see their jet black, lifeless eyes clearly. The sharp contrast of their eyes to their ashen gray skin was far from human. Many of the infected had blood on their faces and clothes, but others looked unscathed. The only thing they all had in common was the horrifying eyes.

  I shuddered and turned away.

  “So what to do, guys? Look at those fuckers outside, pushing on the gate. They don’t seem to be smart enough to use all their strength together and push the gate over, thank goodness.”

  “That’s because they don’t even know it’s a fence. They are just bumping into it like flies on a window,” Max added.

  “It appears the best way to stop those infected is blunt force trauma to the head. The brain appears to be the only vulnerable organ,” said a familiar voice from the television.

  That sentence caught our attention. As one, we fell silent and turned to the flat screen TV mounted above the door leading to the office. The person speaking on-screen was dressed in a lab coat and sported reading glasses. I recognized him immediately.

  Dr. Howard Evans looked forbidding and authoritative as he spoke.

  “The infected, by all accounts, are undeterred by trauma to any other part of their body. Attempting to disable them by striking their legs, for example, would slow their progress, but it would not stop them altogether.”

  He paused for a moment to wipe his glasses and take a drink of water. Nobody made a sound.

  “However, we strongly urge avoiding the infected at all costs. Avoidance is the best survival tactic. It is not your responsibility to eradicate these people. Your personal health is of far more value and we are even now assembling teams to confront the infected. We are not sure how this virus is spread, and so it is best that all contact be avoided. This information was given to you as a last means of defense.”

  Dr. Howard Evans was the head of the CDC, otherwise known as the Centers for Disease Control. I recalled Evans’s appointment by the President a few years ago. It had been a pretty big deal because he was an expert in the field of botany and had a long record of successful ventures. He was also a multi-millionaire. Convincing a successful professional from the private sector to take a government position had been quite an accomplishment for the President. I had no idea why Evans would want to be a government worker but he seemed happy about the appointment. Perhaps less money for more power is not necessarily an unfortunate trade-off?

  Dr. Evans, prior to his appointment, had briefly become a household name when he won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2004 for discovering a plant resin which slowed the incubation rate of the West Nile Virus, which had appeared in the U.S. in the late 1990s. I vaguely remembered him saying he found the resin in a remote jungle somewhere. I can’t recall where but then I wasn’t exactly hanging on his every word.

  Dr. Evans’s discovery had been a timely breakthrough and I still remember the sight of him at the press conference. The fucker looked like Indiana Jones and knew his shit, forgive my French, so listening to him speak so assertively about the present virus was reassuring. I would compare his confidence to Ronald Reagan’s when discussing Glasnost, but with less hair.

  “Let’s go try it—”

  “Zip it, Buell, I want to hear this,” said Max.

  “We have definitively observed the virus being spread through infected saliva coming into contact with an open wound. Thus being bitten is the most likely method of transmission. But I would like to stress here we do not know if this is the only way. By all accounts, the infected’s first inclination is cannibalism, and though slow afoot, they appear to be quite strong. If you are bitten, immediately call one of the numbers flashing on the screen in red. These call centers will assist you in finding the nearest available treatment center. Do not fear reporting, you may not necessarily be infected. The treatment centers will administer tests and begin treatment if necessary.”

  “Treatment?” Max said.

  “The containment of this virus will take more than bombs and bullets—”

  A man with a microphone headset came forward and handed a note to the doctor.

  “I am being told to wrap this up, the President waits for nobody. In closing, I strongly urge you not to hide your injuries from anyone, especially not your families. To be perfectly blunt, it could mean the difference between life and death for your loved ones. Plea—”

  A man in a dark blue suit, wearing an earpiece, approached the doctor from the right and placed his left arm around him. Dr. Evans was then unceremoniously whisked from the podium. The abruptness of his departure seemed unnecessary, particularly as he was giving such useful information.

  “You don’t let the guy finish his sentence?” Buell asked.

  The scene instantly changed but the President’s podium appeared queer to me. The backdrop was not an American flag, or the White House Rose Garden. It was a gray cement wall. I also noticed the Presidential Seal was noticeably off center. That was more unsettling than the gray background, how hard is it to hang a fucking seal? A cacophony of voices filled the air, and we stared expectantly at the unmanned podium.

  “Jesus, these guys look disheveled. I don’t like the looks of this,” Buell said. “I wonder how fast it’s spreading?”

  “I dunno, Emily and I talked about that earlier.”

  “Well, if you think about it, the virus would propagate pretty quickly if nobody knew what was happening,” Max said. “I mean, how often do you expect someone to bite you?”

  “Sec, someone coming to the podium,” Buell interjected.

  Rueben Jackson, the press secr
etary for the President of the United States, took the podium. He proceeded to formally announce the President’s arrival and I found it comforting that the protocol was followed so closely, it almost made up for the crooked seal. I surmised keeping up the decorum was a strategy carefully calculated to calm, and I, for one, appreciated it. We watched the purported leader of the free world approach the podium from the right. President Christopher Atkins looked calm, collected, and purposeful. He adjusted the microphone up slightly, cleared his throat, and pulled at the sleeves of his suit jacket.

  Textbook Atkins.

  “Fellow Americans, I am here speaking to you at a time of strife unprecedented in our country’s history. Now let me be absolutely clear: we will prevail. Things look dark now, but we will galvanize and prevail. I am confident in the character and resolve of this great nation. I am confident in the bravery and resourcefulness of my fellow man. We shall triumph in these onerous and difficult times, regardless of the challenges.” President Atkins spoke these words as he stared ahead with confidence, gaze proud and unwavering. Unfortunately he sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

  The President continued. “Presently the virus is spreading through various cities and states across America. Scrolling on your screens now are lists of the counties with confirmed cases of infection. These lists are provided by your local affiliates and specific to your locations.”

  The names had started scrolling shortly after the press secretary introduced the President but I had already stopped reading. I would be hard pressed to think of a county that wasn’t on the list.

  “As we strive to disseminate accurate and useful information, we are also taking action to slow the spread of this virus and establish control and containment,” President Atkins said as his chest seemed to push forward.

  “We have maintained a strong military presence in the most hard-hit regions, and are confident in our efforts. The Red Cross will continue to erect safe areas, to provide medical and housing assistance for those who are displaced or injured. Your network stations and local radio broadcasts will relay these locations as they become available. There have been reported cases of this virus outside of the United States and South America. We will relay the specific information to the public if and when they are confirmed. As the President of the United States, I ask for your prudence, and I urge all Americans to draw on your inner strength during this trying time. I have the utmost confidence that we will regain control of this Outbreak and remain the powerful nation we have been for over two hundred years.”

  He paused and took a drink of water. I looked closely and noted his hands were steady.

  “Our thoughts and prayers go out to those who have lost loved ones. God bless America.”

  We stared in silence for a moment. Max was the first to speak.

  “Am I the only one here who thinks we need some weapons? Maybe some guns and a shitload of rounds?”

  “Rounds?” I said confused.

  “Yeah, bullets,” Buell said, laughing.

  “I knew that,” I said defensively. Although, truthfully, I hadn’t been one hundred percent sure which is why I had asked.

  “My dad’s old handgun is in the office safe with a box of rounds,” I said, emphasizing the word “rounds.”

  “Hey, guys, can we get serious for a sec?” Max interrupted. He pointed out the window, and looked back at us. “Look at those fuckers out there by the gate. You guys are making jokes, and I get that, but let’s focus. They look serious out there.”

  “And stupid,” Buell joked.

  It is funny how you make jokes at times of tragedy. That was Buell’s way, and I expected more of the same as times got tougher. That notwithstanding, Max was onto something; I had almost forgotten about them. We needed weapons and a plan to defend ourselves until the military gained control. The President had not exactly been gin clear on the details. We had no idea what the next few days would bring, and luck favors the well prepared.

  I suggested we take inventory of everything on hand in the garage. They agreed, and we started our scavenger hunt. I looked to my right and saw the vending machine was almost full. It was a reassuring sight but how long could one survive on Diet Coke, Snickers, and Beech-Nut gum?

  Ten minutes later everything was laid out on the floor of the front office. Buell had brought items nearly identical to what I had taken from my home and so we had an ample supply of breakfast bars, chips, and canned Chunky soup. Buell had also brought a bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon. Maker’s is normally too sweet for my taste, but in a pinch it would suffice. Good thing I kept Buffalo Trace in the office.

  “We only have one gun, that’s not gonna cut it,” Max said.

  I looked down at the .38 revolver on top of the box of rounds. The gun looked menacing just lying there.

  I hate guns.

  I looked at the monsters banging on the cyclone fence, then again down at our supplies.

  “This is not going to do, we need a plan.”

  Chapter 6

  “There’s the blood.”

  The plan was a team effort. Max, Buell, and I all had input, and we were confident in the result. We took a little from each other’s playbooks and formulated a strategy we felt would get us to a nearby Kmart or, if need be, the strip mall, a little farther away. I stood up, analyzing the chalk diagram on the garage floor and hoped we had thought of everything, hoped it would be sufficient. It better damn well be sufficient, or better yet, perfect. The stakes would be raised the moment Buell and I left the garage.

  “What if it’s already stripped?” asked Buell. “I mean, Kmart?”

  “I doubt it. I think people are heading home and locking their doors, now that they’ve declared Martial Law. The store parking lots were not full when I passed them earlier but I think if we wait too long, then people will start running out of supplies, and it will become a free-for-all. This isn’t like a storm, where people get a warning. People were running home or away from their homes, no time for shopping, or at least it looked that way. We need to act now!” I replied with a little more edge than I wanted to convey.

  “Rem is right. Let’s do this while there are still supplies to get,” Max added. “We made the plan, let’s do it. C’mon, fuckers, we have been through a lot, we got this.”

  “I know, I was just trying to talk myself into it, that’s all,” said Buell, as he looked at the chalk sketches on the ground.

  “So are we all clear, or do you want to run through it again?” I knew it was a rhetorical question before I even asked.

  Nobody said a word. We stood there, looking at each other and the garage floor drawings. Then Max looked out the window. It genuinely seemed to be sinking in now, this shit was real, and we were gonna try this.

  It is perplexing to me every time I feel this way. The sense of camaraderie, or even euphoria, whenever I am among friends or family during a tragedy or a crisis. Maybe it is because your emotions are raw? I had a sense of déjà vu. I suddenly recalled my mother being gravely ill, so my dad and I were at the hospital at all hours of the night. At a moment’s notice, we would both rush to the hospital and sit in the waiting room for hours on end. It went on for weeks. We sat together in the waiting room most of the time because she was sedated often. The strange part was that we cracked jokes, laughed, and actually had fun most of the time.

  Then she passed, and it was not fun anymore.

  Tragedies do draw people together, and in some ways are a positive experience up to a point. I truly believe that. And up until now, we had been inside a cement building, behind a cyclone fence, stocked with food and water. We even had TV. It wasn’t stressful, or even scary. Shit, it was actually kind of fun at times.

  But now we had to go outside.

  I broke out of my reverie when Buell started putting on his riding gear. I followed suit before setting up my helmet intercom. I watched Max do the same. We were damn skillful riders, and respected the risk involved in riding motorcycles even in situations th
at did not involve the undead. We all wore leather jackets, gloves, boots, etc. Shit, Buell had a full one-piece Dianese leather racing suit and leg guards. He looked and rode the part. Having been on many road trips together, we knew each other’s habits and strengths quite well. I hoped this would prove to be a benefit on our sojourn.

  The first step of the plan was for Max to create a diversion to move the monsters away from the front gate. This would clear space to get Buell and me out of the garage parking lot, and onto the main road. The next step was where Buell’s expertise would come in. In all my years of riding, I have never seen anyone launch a motorcycle from a dead stop as fast as he does. He was the king of drag racing as a kid, and as I said before, nobody passes him. I sat down to put on my boots, and glanced at Buell sitting on his bike. He was ready to go before Max and I had our boots on. He looked like he was going ninety miles per hour, and he wasn’t even moving yet. I gave him a nod, he nodded back, and I suddenly felt a surge of adrenaline.

  Love that guy.

  Max opened the roll-up door on the side of the building to our right. There were side doors on both sides of the building, perpendicular to the sidewalk. As a result, when the door opened, the monsters could not see the door or Max from their vantage point in front of the garage.

  Max changed all that.

  “Hey, Dodger fans! Get your asses over here!” Max shouted as he exited the garage.

  Max immediately headed to the front corner of the yard, moving to his right. He looked ridiculous wearing his riding gear and helmet while yelling and waving his hands wildly. Max didn’t need to wear his gear because he wasn’t going to town with Buell and me, however, the extra protection seemed like a good idea.

  There were now twenty or so monsters in front of him. The lingering mob slowly made their way toward a possible meal. I watched them nervously from just inside the office, as they hobbled as fast as they could toward Max, stacking up on the other side of the fence. The monsters looked unassuming physically as they limped along. They looked awkward, clumsy, and most had suffered some visible form of trauma. Yet it was their black eyes and white pasty skin that chilled my blood. They moaned and snapped their teeth while shuffling toward Max’s dance performance. Awkward or not, they were not to be taken lightly.