by Jack Wallen
And with that warm, fuzzy thought, I must say ‘good night’.
Blog Entry 12/11/2015 2:22 a.m.
I woke in the middle of the night to another dream. I was in an audience attending a symphony. Surrounding me were the upper echelon of the wealthiest citizens on the planet, every woman covered in the finest silks and diamonds, every man tuxedoed and manicured to perfection. Not a sound was made by the audience as the red velvet curtain was drawn back to reveal the musicians. Even before the conductor’s baton was raised, I knew something was amiss. Instead of instruments, each musician held in their lap an Obliterator. At first it seemed I was watching a moment frozen in time. No one flinched the slightest muscle, nor was the tiniest of sounds made by musician, conductor, or audience. The moment hovered in the air, waiting for some inciting incident to tip it over an edge and let momentum carry it forward.
When the moment was finally given the requisite nudge, the conductor’s baton began dancing like the man was attempting to swat flies from the surrounding air. The musicians, at various moments, would turn on and off their Obliterators, creating a cacophony of sound that had very little to do with music.
The dream took a turn for the horrific as, one by one, the musicians turned from innocent instrumentalists to flesh-gnawing, brain-eating zombies. At first they seemed content to attack one another, but soon they realized their folly and, at once, took off toward me.
I tried to hide behind the opulence of one or more of the attendees, but the zombies would not be fooled. When a small crowd of moaners managed to get their hands on me, they began pulling at my limbs. Just as it seemed I was about to be drawn and quartered, something woke me. When I jerked out of the nightmare, I was sitting up in my bed breathing and sweating like I had just won a marathon. My heart was trying its best to pull itself out of my chest and my breath was coming in desperate drags. Everything was pitch black. I felt alone, absolutely, utterly alone.
Blog Entry 12/11/2015 7:01 a.m.
The orchestra from hell did not revisit my dreams. Fortunately I can’t remember how the second act played out. I do remember very well, however, every moment of Act The First. That bit of theatre would haunt me for quite a while. It might be some time before I can enjoy the lush beauty of a symphony again. There are worse things, I suppose.
My first task of the day is to create the schematics for the Obliterator and upload them to the web site. That will take all of thirty minutes, as I fortunately keep extensive and thorough notes.
But before I undertake that task – breakfast! I closed my eyes and imagined a hot plate of waffles with thick, sweet syrup and a cup of hot coffee. Yeah, that’s love. But instead I’ll have to settle for a couple of granola bars and a lukewarm cola. I suppose the complaining should be reserved for the real problems. Actually having sustenance could not be counted among said problems.
“Bethany, I have a surprise for you.” Jean’s voice pulled me from my hot-waffle day dream.
“Is it a pot of the blackest coffee? If not – fuggetaboutit,” I chuckled in an attempted New York accent. An actor I was not.
“Actually it’s much better than that. I have someone who wants to talk to you.” You could almost hear the smile creep across Jean’s face.
“Oh my God, Susan?”
“That’s correct. Now, she’s going to have a bit of trouble using her voice and she might seem a bit out of it, but she did ask for you by name.” Jean helped me up out of my bed. I have to hand it to the man, he was scoring major points with me left and right.
I slowly walked to the side of Susan’s bed. She was still perfectly horizontal, but when I came to her side, she moved her head so she could see me. Her eyes were mere slits, but when they spied my face, she smiled the faintest smile. That smile did more for my morale than anything to date. Susan recognized me and it made her happy.
“Hi hon, how do you feel? Are you okay?” My voice was a near-whisper. “You don’t have to talk, you can just nod your head if you want.”
She nodded.
“It’s so good to see you. Do you know where you are?”
Susan slowly shook her head. Her answer to the question caused her brow to furrow. Poor dear probably has no idea what has happened.
Before I could ask another question she slowly raised her hand and pointed at the journal I was holding in my hand. I knew exactly what she was asking. Susan wanted to know about Jacob. The child has been comatose and, upon waking, the first thing she wants to know is if the man that infected her was still alive. When I shook my head her lower jaw quivered and tears began streaming down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Susan. I’m so sorry.” As the words tumbled from my mouth, my hand gently caressed Susan’s hair.
“Am…I…?” was all Susan could utter. It was obvious what she wanted to know. Was she infected? How do I tell her ‘yes’ without crushing her soul?
“Just relax and rest. We have a doctor here who is going to make everything better.”
How could I? Avoid the question and then pepper the avoidance with a lie. Is that what being a parent is all about? Is this how generations of adults have protected their children? As the tears trickled down her reddening cheeks, the answer became all too clear all too quickly. Yes, at all costs. And at that very moment I fully understood Jacob’s devotion and absolute dedication to our safety. I wanted nothing more than to protect what little innocence remained within Susan.
“Bethany,” Gunther’s said with an alarming sense of urgency, “come with me, quickly.”
I gave Susan a soft stroke on the cheek to try to reassure her that all would be okay. She looked at me and her face warmed a bit. I felt a comforting wash of humanity spill over my skin as I was pulled out of the room by Gunther’s voice.
In the next room Gunther was standing in the middle of the hall, gesturing for me to follow. He led me to one of the few external windows on the floor and pointed to the street below. When I reached the window, my eyes immediately caught what he wanted them to spy. Walking around the empty street was a man in a suit, carrying a sign. I couldn’t make out what the sign read, but judging from the volume and tone of his voice, the contents were of cataclysmic importance.
I pulled open the window to try to hear his words. As I expected, he was speaking French.
“Go grab Michelle or Mikka so they can translate for us.” I gave Gunther a gentle push back toward the mothership room.
I couldn’t believe the man on the ground was still standing. Why had a horde of undead not descended upon him and ripped him to bits and chunks? I listened carefully for the familiar sounds of an Obliterator, but heard none. It would have surprised me to hear the sound, given how the plans had been released to the world only moments ago. But I had to hope.
Before my thoughts could dig any deeper, Gunther returned with Michelle.
“Can you hear what that man is saying and translate it for us?” I queried Michelle, hoping to avoid seeming like I was making demands. I just wanted to know what was going on and make her feel like part of the group.
Michelle nodded and hung her head out of the window. “He’s talking about God, about…vengeance. He…what? I think, if I am hearing correctly, he is saying the end of times has come because of homosexuality. God has struck down humanity for allowing men to commit the atrocity of atrocities.”
I couldn’t believe it. The very real, very un-biblical apocalypse has finally arrived and the fanatics still manage to spout false religious dogma. I wonder how that gentleman would feel if he knew it was human beings just like him that actually brought this hell to Earth?
“He is saying ‘Let he who hath followed closest in God’s path replenish the Earth with righteous justice.’” Michelle continued the translation.
I had to be honest, I was only watching, waiting for the undead masses to rain down the unholy plague upon our sidewalk reverend. Against all logic, the man was still preaching at the top of his lungs, untouched and unafraid.
“We need
to get him inside or he’ll be dead any moment.” Gunther was pulling my arm in an attempt to drag me out of my trance.
I wasn’t so sure if the man was in any danger. Maybe there was some purpose for piety. Maybe righteousness would be enough to fend off the evils that man had wrought. Or maybe the evil was only taking a nap and our streetwalking evangelist was about to become screamer soufflé.
I didn’t say a word; I just took off running. Both Gunther and Michelle were at my side within five strides and we ran together until we reached the elevator – the same blood-spattered elevator that had nearly carried us to our deaths. When the doors opened the metallic tang of blood assaulted our senses. My gut bubbled and churned at the smell as the elevator doors closed and we began the slow ride down to the first floor.
“Did we put an alarm on the elevator? Or are we to assume the zombies aren’t smart enough to push ‘up’?” Gunther looked at me and offered a smile that said ‘We have to laugh at something’. I agreed and laughed along with him. The hacker in me kicked myself for neglecting the elevator. I made a mental note to add an alarm should the elevator be called from the first floor. It would be nothing to fill the elevator cart with the sounds of the Obliterator.
When the cart came to a stop and the door opened, the bitter December wind whipped our faces. The temperature had dropped considerably since yesterday. Just like everything else since entropy’s clock struck midnight, nothing is predictable – not the weather, not human nature, not even time can be counted on as it once could.
Our quarry was still marching about in the street, his sign held high, his voice booming loudly enough to draw even the hardest of hearing undead. The man was nothing more than a target beating steep odds by remaining alive as long as he had.
The plan was simple: Michelle runs to the man, explains he must come into the hospital, and guides him to safety. While Michelle reels in the catch, Gunther and I will cover them with a gun and an Obliterator.
“I am ready,” Michelle said, as nervous as a child about to go away to camp for the first time – leaving parents and all familiarity behind.
Gunther gave her the ‘go’ finger and Michelle sprinted out to the reverend. She reached the man far faster that I would have imaged. The reverend saw her coming, but assumed her a zombie and –
“No, no, no, no! Don’t shoot!” I stepped outside of the safety of the hospital and screamed at the top of my lungs. But it was too late. The gun went off. Michelle screamed, but remained standing.
“Michelle! Michelle, are you okay?” My heart was leaping to my throat.
“Yes, he missed.”
I tossed aside the plan and ran to Michelle’s side. “What the fuck are you doing? Couldn’t you see she was not one of them?” I was practically nose to nose with the man. His eyes were rimmed in fear.
“I…I…couldn’t…no. I…” The man was in shock, which explained everything.
“It’s okay. Really. I’m okay. Let’s just get him inside. Come with us.” Michelle had the man by the arm and was gently coaxing him forward.
“I’m very sorry. I did not mean –”
“It’s okay. Just please come into the hospital with us.” I grabbed the man’s other arm to give Michelle a hand. I looked to the hospital to see Gunther still standing sentinel.
“Yes, I will do that.” I was amazed this same man was, only moments ago, spouting off like a man possessed.
“Gunther! Get the elevator ready,” I yelled out.
“What are you doing in the hospital?”
“Surviving. What are you doing in the streets?”
“Saving.”
“Saving what?”
“Souls.”
I suppose I should have expected that.
“What is your name?” I decided to steer the conversation away from soul and salvation.
“Phillipe,” the man said humbly.
“My name is Bethany, this is Gunther, and Michelle.”
“It is my pleasure to meet you. Do you have any food? I haven’t eaten in – oh my, I cannot remember how long.”
Phillipe was all nerves, twitchy and jumpy. A simple tap on the shoulder from behind would probably send the man into cardiac arrest. Phillipe was also wearing dirty street clothes. After hearing his sermon I would have expected the man in the vestments so befitting such sentiments. No collar, no cassock, nothing – just a suit and some fairly fancy wing-tip shoes coated with the gray ash that still blanketed the Earth. His voice, no longer a righteous bellow, was cracking and wheezing from overuse.
When we entered Susan’s room everyone looked up with warm, inviting smiles. Even though the man seemed quite well removed from his mind, everyone here would welcome him – bombastic piety and all.
Jean greeted Phillipe with a glass of water, which Phillipe eagerly accepted and greedily gulped down. The look on his face when he finished, was pure delight – as if he had just tasted the sweetest elixir handed down from the Gods. That look was quickly replaced by one of pure desire when Phillipe beheld our paltry supply of food.
“Eat all you need,” Jean happily said to the newest member. The group released a collective sigh, knowing we’d have to go foraging sooner than we thought. We knew it was for a good cause. No one in the room was about to deny a fellow survivor the right to sustenance. Besides, we could use another man in our group. We have all the brains we need; brawn, however, was in short supply.
Phillipe grabbed a jar of peanut butter, opened it, dug two fingers deeply into the jar, pulled out an enormous ball of sticky deliciousness, and shoved the entire amount into his mouth at once. I had to admit the sound was fairly repulsive, but the site was precious.
We all stared on, as if we’d never seen another human being eat before. It was cave men witnessing the birth of fire all over again.
When the glob of peanut butter had finally cleared his mouth and throat, he introduced himself to everyone. One by one he stepped to and leaned in for an embrace and a name. But before Phillipe could make it around the room, all went to hell when a banshee-like scream issued from the man’s mouth.
“A Beast! One of the minions of Satan! You greet me as a brother and promise me safety, only to lure me into your filthy house of sin and abomination!” Phillipe was pointing to the screamer we had sedated and tied to a bed in Susan’s room. Jean had decided, since this new subject was being used to test the vaccine, the zombie had to be close by at all times. So there it was, up close and personal for all to see and enjoy.
“Phillipe, what are you –” I went toward Phillipe, only to have him knock me away.
“Stand away whore. I will not allow you to further infect me with your temptations.” From within his jacket pocket, Phillipe pulled out a pistol.
“Phillipe, put the gun away. There is no need to get upset. Nothing or no one will harm you.” I held my hands up, hoping he would take the gesture as it was meant – peace.
“Back away Hellspawn. This beast must die!” The crazed man cocked the hammer of the pistol and pointed the barrel toward the inanimate zombie.
“Phillipe, we are very close to creating a vaccine that will cure this virus. We are using that zombie as a test patient,” I tried to reason with the man, make him aware of the truth.
“That will not do. This virus was a holy intervention, brought to us to cleanse away the unholy. The unbelievers, the homosexuals, the criminals, and the freaks. It as a holy purging and no one will undo what God had done for us.”
I stood between the man and our test subject. I would not let this zealot destroy our work.
“You will have to kill me before I will have any part of this blasphemy.” Phillipe stood his ground, the gun didn’t waver an inch. If he were to pull the trigger now, the bullet would pierce my chest.
“Phillipe, we are dealing with a pandemic, not a holy intervention. This is the work of man, not God.” I knew using reason with the insane would only serve to drive me mad, but it was the only weapon I had.
“H
ow dare you!” Phillipe said as he raised the barrel of the pistol to point directly at my head.
“Phillipe, we even know the name of the man responsible for all of this.”
“Yea, verily, and his name shall be –”
“Oh shut the fuck up! Shoot the crazy bastard and put him out of our misery.” Zander stood, hoping someone would pull out a weapon and send a righteous bullet through Phillipe’s brain.
“Zander, stop! Phillipe, if you want no part of this, you are free to leave. But we will not have you interfering with our work. We’ve come way too far and we can’t handle any setbacks at this point.” Reason was quickly losing the battle.
“I must say, Bethany, it is ironic that this man is spouting the same dogma the creator of this virus used in the concentration camps,” Gunther acknowledged.
“What are you talking about?” Phillipe continued pointing the gun directly at me, but quickly tossed a look over his shoulder to Gunther.
“What Gunther means is the man that first created this virus was Josef Mengele. He was following the orders of Adolph Hitler, who seemed to think he was taking orders from a much higher power. Both Mengele and Hitler hated the same people as you.” My last sentence wafted out into the air and dropped over Phillipe’s head like a tiny bomb.
Phillipe had no answer. He just pointed his gun, with a confused look glazing his face.
“Oh my God, Bethany…look!” Jean was pointing at our resident guinea-zombie.
I refused to believe there was any sort of divine intervention going on, but at that point our vaccinated zombie woke…and showed no signs of violent behavior. He was clearly still not human, the vacant look in his eyes left no room for debate – there was definitely no one home – but the undead patient wasn’t moaning, screaming, or trying to break free of its bonds. In fact the zombie seemed overly-content with just hanging out, tightly strapped to a hospital bed.
“I’m going to test the Obliterator on it.” I grabbed the device, directing my comment to Jean. “We’ll know right away how much screamer is left inside that body.”
