Riding The Apocalypse

by Frank Ignagni III

  “So I guess the rats made it their home?” I ask.

  “That’s the rub, Remy, the shrine was sealed, and the walls encased in limestone, granite, and mortar. It was really quite beautiful inside. With numerous carvings and murals on the walls and slate floor. There was hardly a scratch on the tomb walls and not one crack to be found, the air was stale and foul. The rodents did not enter after the shrine was sealed, they were placed in beforehand.”

  This does not seem likely. Is the bullshit starting? But why lie? The doctor sure looks as though he’s enjoying story time.

  “So they survived in a sealed tomb in the ground for twelve hundred years?” I repeat incredulously.

  “The Mayans had built a perfect shrine for one of their sacred animals, a creature that had carried the very plague that led to the Mayan demise.” Evans gives a wry smile. “They stocked the shrine with mountains of grain, as evidenced by the empty burlap bags we found. The bags literally disintegrated as we touched them, it was quite interesting. We also noted a small spring leaking through the cracks in between the slate slabs. They were too small for even a cricket to pass, but did provide some moisture. This was not an accident of course. There was no mortar in these evenly spaced crevices, an intentional design feature. Though most small rodents need very little water, and can extract moisture through food to sustain themselves, this was obviously a designated water supply.” Dr. Evans winces as he shifts under the heavy bag.

  “So they had water but how did they survive when the food ran out?” I ask, my head spinning.

  “Have you ever heard someone say that if you put enough monkeys and typewriters in the same room, one will eventually type War and Peace?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “The Mayans placed the sacred animals in a shrine, in an attempt to appease the gods who had laid waste to much of their civilization. They also buried the virus as a way of asking the plague be buried with their shrine. This much we know as it was scribed in the limestone in the form of glyphs and logograms. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, the combination of the plague and nature’s will mutated a new strain of the virus. This combination of variables allowed the sacred animal to propagate a breed, and not succumb to extinction. When the food ran out, they found a way—”

  “How? Oh shit, I—”

  “The rats consumed their own to sustain themselves. One infected rat consumed another, doubly infected young were born and soon all the healthy rodents had been eaten. They lived symbiotically with the plague, encased in this tomb for a thousand years.

  “To put it simply, by trying to bury the disease, the Mayans used enough monkeys and typewriters to mutate the virus into what the world now faces. A perfect storm of nature. It was meant to be, Remy, no denying this.”

  “I call bullshit.”

  “Seeing what you see now, is this so incomprehensible?”

  Score one for the doc. Asshole.

  “Look at it like this, over time and history a lobster has developed the ability to almost completely circumvent aging as you or I know it. Do you realize ninety percent of all lobsters expire through fishing, parasites, or being prey? They do not age the way you or I do, they have evolved through time with the ability to molt, and thereby almost completely replenish every part of their anatomy annually, including their central nervous system. Lobsters can reproduce as well as maintain their strength and metabolism until death. Dying of old age to a lobster is like dying of pneumonia for us. Nature has selected them, just as these rats were selected. If a lobster, why not a sacred animal?”

  “Assuming you are being straight with me, what was in the plague or virus that originally brought down the Mayans?”

  “Without trying to bore you with details, the virus attached itself to the brain and festered from there, with amazing uncontrolled cell growth; much like cancer. However, other than what’s written of the illness on the walls of the tomb, nature has kept some secrets to itself. It was recorded that the human plague was carried by the rats, who appeared immune to its toxins,” Evans continues with renewed energy. “The explanations in the carvings are not completely satisfactory by our standards. Though the writing does describe a massive sickness, the symptoms are not recorded. The plague also evolved further over hundreds of years in the shrine. This is a possible explanation of the lack of evidence of a natural disaster, or even fossilized evidence of something catastrophic enough to destroy the Mayan civilization. We can now safely assume what destroyed the Mayans was a plague, one which I have now harnessed,” he says in a boastful tone. “We also know that the surviving Mayans attempted to bury the virus, with all of its history.” The doctor stops for a moment and shifts uncomfortably in the chair. He is struggling, though he tries not to show it. “One last, desperate attempt to appease the gods and bury the demon of their demise created a mutated version of the plague. I am not a religious man, and do not believe in an incarnation of God, but I do believe there is a life force in nature; this life force intended this phenomenon for future generations. We are the twentieth century version of the Mayans, Remy.”

  “How did you learn what the effect—”

  “Fascinated by the idea of the rats surviving the permanent incarceration, I took some back to my labs, and identified the mutated virus. From that point on, all I had to do was figure out a way to infect a lot of humans at once without their knowledge—”

  “Distamycin.” My murmur is barely audible.

  “Well done, Remy. You went through some of my papers?”

  I nod.

  “You are correct, Distamycin was the binding agent I needed to attach the virus to human DNA to make it possible to use on a large scale. The only real challenge was to find a DNA strand that was exclusively human to bind it to. If all animals, including normal rats, could contract it, I doubt the human race would survive.

  “After years of searching, one of my scientists discovered three genes in chromosome 1 that are completely unique to the human brain. These three genes, SRGAP2B, C, and D exist exclusively in humans, not even apes possess these genes in the brain.”

  “So that is why the brain must be killed—”

  “Very good, Remy. That explains the fact that you can only kill them by killing the brain, and how they can move around with missing limbs. It took me almost seven years to perfect the dosages as well as the application method. I am not playing around, Remy. Yes, I helped nature create these zombies, if you want to call them that, but they are not the intrinsically evil variety. Just the hungry kind.” Evans flashes that smug shit-eating grin I have come to loathe. “All parts of the brain that functioned for other needs were directed for hunger, or obtaining prey. For example, the frontal part of the brain for memory reacted only when we fed our test subjects. Basically, the entire brain, even parts we didn’t commonly use, were co-opted for hunting and eating. The infected don’t feel pain, nor require a fully functioning body because the brain has decided it is a waste of its utility. All function is brain wave activity sending orders through the spine and nerves to hunt and cannibalize.”

  His smug look is really getting to me. That sick fuck seems to be enjoying this more and more as he goes on. It’s like it’s cathartic for him to dump this on me. And while I really don’t want to indulge him, I crave more answers, and honestly, I am riveted. Just to jab back at him, I grab two beers and some Tapatio flavored Doritos from the counter behind me and sit back down.

  This time I choose an office chair and scoot it closer to him. We sit opposite each other like two buddies having a conversation at work. Except Howard is holding a fifty pound sack of rice on his lap, and I am holding a gun pointed at his head. Feeling magnanimous now that I am more comfortably seated, I decide to finally acknowledge Dr. Evans’s obvious discomfort.

  “Sit still, punchy, if I see you move an inch, I am going to put a bullet in your right kneecap to slow your roll.” I point the gun at his knee. Being a tough guy has some advantages. What a difference a
few hours makes.

  I proceed to open a series of drawers under the counters, looking for something to restrain the doctor. I fumble through drawers full of bullshit I do not recognize. I am pretty mechanically savvy, and have seen my share of tools, but this shit looks foreign to me. It takes a few minutes to find something suited for the purpose, something I know how to use and am confident will work. I pull a handful of zip-ties from the drawer and walk toward Dr. Evans cautiously. If Evans is going to make his move, now is the time. I decide it’s worth the risk, as being on my toes at all times does not seem reasonable, particularly now that I have a snack and a fresh beer. I want to relax, and more importantly, I need to use the head.

  I throw the doctor four large zip-ties, and instruct him at gunpoint to zip-tie his left arm to the metal wheel on the door he entered from. The ties are about the size of the ties you used to see police use to restrain criminals, back when we watched TV. I watch as he rolls the office chair to the door while still sitting, still wearing the rice bag as a cummerbund. It takes him a minute or two to figure it out, but he successfully manages to tie his right hand to the metal wheel with his free hand. Feeling pretty confident of the result, I make him tie an additional four zip-ties to the wheel. The ties are thick and strong; he’s not going anywhere, at least not with that hand attached to the rest of his body. I let him keep his other arm free. I do not want to scratch his nose, or hold his dick if he has to take a piss.

  “Go ahead, throw the sack on the ground,” I say magnanimously.

  He pushes it off with his left hand, exposing his sweaty lap. Evans then arches his back and heaves a sigh of relief.

  Feeling Evans has earned it, I take one of the beers, pour it into a microwaveable plastic bowl. I slide the bowl toward him with a broom, taking no chances. The doctor reaches down, and grabs the bowl with his free hand and sips from it. I should have made him drink like a dog. Oh well, another missed opportunity.

  “Okay, jerkoff, you were saying?”

  He laughs at that one. Maybe he thinks it’s old school, and that was kind of what I was going for.

  “After creating what I considered was a proper application, I tested it on a number of controlled subjects a bit further south, in Chile.”

  “But why do this?” I ask incredulously. “You had everything you wanted, no? You had fame, money, you had—”

  “There is always something more than money, Remy. There is always something more to want. I wanted to help cleanse this fucked up world. Nature had already started, Remy; when the Mayans got too powerful, nature acted. I am merely a pawn for nature. It was our turn, I just helped it along.”

  “You aren’t God, Dr. Evans, you are a prick zip-tied to a giant metal wheel drinking cheap beer out of a microwave dish. What happened, man? You obviously cared about people once. You became a doctor, you found a vaccination for the West Ni—”

  “That was the straw that broke the camel’s back, Remy. The more I tried to help this so-called human race”—he adds one half of an air quote, his other hand tied up—“the more corruption and greed I encountered, the more I grew disenchanted with our leaders,” Evans continues, a disgusted look on his face. “My family was threatened with harm and I was warned of financial ruin if I released my findings to the country where I discovered the West Nile cure.

  “Do you remember the name of the country where my plant resin was found, Remy?”

  “I don’t recall actual—”

  “That is because I was not allowed to divulge it. The powers that were at that time had just secured a contract in Uganda, Africa, for over two billion dollars in high blood pressure medications, dialysis treatment, training equipment, medical staff, and fucking mosquito netting no less.” He smiles. “You know high blood pressure and renal failure are symptoms of West Nile, do you not? People with these symptoms were left to die. I was forced to shelve my discovery, and its origin, for two years until the government contract was finalized and implemented. Keep in mind, Remy, the West Nile Virus has been active since the early 1940’s. It originated in Africa, and came to the United States in 1999.”

  “Don’t tell me—”

  “The spread of the West Nile Virus in the United States was not an accident.” Dr. Evans looks directly into my eyes. “I was informed my family and myself would be spared any unpleasant consequences, provided the antidote was released in two years’ time. I also had to agree never to divulge where it originated. I wanted to fulminate against this injustice, but my hands were tied,” Evans says, looking over to his beet-red hand tied to the door. “Actually, on the flip side, I was well compensated for my silence, so part of the largess I used to facilitate this purge came from the taxpayers.”

  “Irony,” I say.

  “Quite. Ironic, yes, but a coincidence, no. When I received the funds I knew it would be possible to use the discovery I had made for its true purpose. There was no coincidence: I was chosen.”

  Ugh.

  “I have always loved and worshipped nature, Remy. That is why I do what I do, and why I am so proficient at it. Because I believe in my vocation, it is more than an occupation. My passion for my work is greater than I have for myself. There in that jungle, nature spoke, and I listened.” Evans finishes in a more solemn tone than I have heard thus far.

  Holy shit, if this guy is even being half truthful, I can see where his jaded attitude comes from. But genocide is just never the way to go about correcting things.

  “I see you pried the locks off the freezers.” Dr. Evans interrupts my thoughts, gesturing in the direction of the broken locks with his free hand. “Do you know what is in there, what you saw?”

  “I have to be honest, Doc, with your sick mind, I have no fucking clue,” I tell him truthfully as I switch the gun from my sweaty left hand to my dry right one.

  “It is the antidote to the virus, my friend.”

  “Stop calling me your friend, asshole. You are not my friend, you snarky piece of shit.” I stop because I don’t like what I’m saying, not the message but the words. I decide I need to be more collected and articulate. But motherfucker Dr. Evans’s cavalier attitude is pissing me off. He’s winning; he’s killing humanity. And he does not appear the least bit sorry.

  Yep, he is under my skin.

  I hate being manipulated. I want to beat him with a pipe until he shits bone fragments. However, I need to regain my composure to get as much out of him as possible.

  “I understand, Remy, you’re angry with me. But my part is over now anyway. The final stage of my plan was to create and provide an antidote with which to inoculate the remaining population, thus saving the world while purging the earth’s evil. The world can still save itself and cull the evil masses. The serum in that cooler is complete and can be administered quite easily. There are additional freezers scattered along the coast in various locations, as well as other warehouses worldwide. Like I said, this is much bigger than just me. It is no accident, I stationed the warehouses along ports for easier administration and logistics. You will find the precise locations there in my notes, along with the dosage as well.” He indicates the filing cabinets. “If you kill me, I do not expect or want the antidote to go with me. I have accomplished what I wanted, though I would like to have lived to see the beginning of the revival.” Evans sniffs as he tears up slightly.

  “You genuinely believe what you did was right, don’t you?” I say incredulously.

  Dr. Evans is on a roll now and continues his speech, embracing his self-styled martyrdom and really pissing me off.

  “You see, Remy, this world needed an ass kicking, or a reboot, if you will. I, Dr. Evans, was the chosen one. Nature is our God, not some mythical man in the sky. I am just doing its work,” he says, looking me straight in the eyes. “I have no regrets. It was my calling. How many people suffered and died as a result of shelving my treatment for the West Nile Virus? Was that justified? That was for money, I am doing this for the good of nature and mankind.”

  I can see th
e doctor’s discomfort even though it isn’t affecting his sanctimonious tone, unfortunately. His right hand, which is zip-tied to the iron wheel, is turning purple. Dumbass pulled the zip-tie a few clicks too tight. Bummer.

  “I should kill you right now,” I say.

  “Killing a man does not disprove his point. Many righteous men have been killed for their tenets, Remy,” he says calmly.

  Man, this fucker is pissing me off.

  “Riley is dead,” I say, changing tacks. “If there is anything left of him, it is outside the door leading down the stairs to the basement. If you don’t believe me—”

  “Open that cabinet, if you would be so kind,” Dr. Evans asks as he points to a large metal cabinet some ten feet to the right of the clothes lockers.

  I walk over and slowly open the left door, half expecting it to blow up in my face. There is no explosion, but what I do see is a dozen video monitors showing different areas of the store.

  “Number four I think it is, Remy,” Evans adds.

  I look to the corresponding number on the monitor, and there it is. A clear image from a camera somewhere in the stockroom pointing directly at the door where Riley met his demise. I can still see the bloody carcass on the floor, among the handful of monsters still pounding on the door. There are so many monsters in the stockroom now, they can barely move. Senator Riley has been reduced to a three dimensional Jackson Pollock painting.

  As I look at the door, I am glad I never tried to escape the cellar in a moment of desperation.

  For even more terrifying than Riley’s carcass is the door itself. Almost covered with streaks of blood as the monsters continue to pound on the door, wearing their hands to bloody pulps. They have been pounding and slapping at the door for over a week.