The wooden floor under his feet creaked softly as he approached the small bare window. The trees across the street were starting to change color. The sky was bright blue with a single puffy white cloud meandering across it. If he could manage to keep his chin elevated, he might be able to convince himself that things were not as they were. In the driveway, the street, and in all the yards as far as he could see from that little window, were hundreds of the infected. These were not transients passing through as so many before had done. These had moved in to stay. It was as if they were looking for something, or expecting something. The truth was he had the unreasonable fear that they were looking specifically for him. It was as if they could sense that he was somewhere near. He’d seen them lift their noses on more than one occasion and sniff the air. Rubbing at the gooseflesh that suddenly came over him, he turned from the window. The numbers of infected people in the neighborhood was steadily increasing. If he didn’t do something soon, he may not be able to do so later.
Jack lit the propane stove, set the coffee pot on the flames, and then dressed. He had already thought about what needed to be accomplished if he was going to leave this place. Three weeks ago, he drove Mack’s Cadillac out of the garage and parked it in the yard. Then, he backed the white Fiat into the garage so that if he needed to make a quick getaway, he could. He knew the tank was full because he had siphoned fuel from the Caddy. On the front of the small car, he attached two pieces of sheet metal he’d found in the back of the garage. When it was time to go, he didn’t want to hurt those who were infected by running them over. It was a human version of a cow scoop one might see on the front of an old-fashioned locomotive.
At first, he’d thought to load the Fiat with enough supplies to get him through for weeks, and then it occurred to him that if something happened to the little car, he would lose what he had. It would be better to leave the excess supplies in the loft just in case things didn’t work out. He could always come back for them. He decided to fill the army backpack with supplies that he could carry without being overburdened. Canned goods, crackers, packaged meat, and bottled water topped the list. The clothes he had scrounged and the denim winter coat went next. The semi-automatic pistol, snapped tightly in a holster, hung from his belt on his right side. The shotgun, strapped over his right shoulder, protruded up from behind the backpack. The whole getup made him feel like Mad Max. He finally decided on taking the two-man tent, the bullhorn, binoculars, flashlights, and the gun cleaning kit.
Jack adjusted the straps on the pack and pulled up his hoody. The coffee went into a thermos. After shutting off the propane stove, he looked around the room. He hoped he wouldn’t be back. His watch read, 9:23 A.M. That gave him just about two and half-hours to make it to St. Michael’s Medical Center. On any normal day, it wouldn’t take him but about thirty minutes to make the trip across town. Things were different now. Not only did he have to protect himself from the infected, but there was also a possibility of running into Colonel Psychopath and his Goons of Doom.
Moving down the stairs, Jack kept his eye on the large windows spanning from one side of the garage door to the other.
It was not the kind of door that was meant to keep anything more than the weather out, especially a storm of shamblers intent on sampling his platter. At the bottom, he purposely avoided the one stair that was loose. It had been the cause of one very unpleasant weekend. One unbelievably loud squeak and he was using the bathroom in a bucket rather than face the multitude that had been attracted by the noise.
Out the windows, Jack could see about thirty people lingering up and down the narrow driveway between the garage and the street. Most of them simply stood in place staring at the ground, while others rocked or moved back and forth. It reminded him of the psych-ward at the prison. Many of the men were so doped up that they couldn’t function. Their days were spent standing, sitting, or lying in a drug induced stupor. An untied shoestring could offer hours of visual entertainment.
The Fiat was small — Jack was not. With the driver’s seat pushed back, he had just enough room to turn the wheel if he spread his knees. He placed the backpack on the passenger’s side and reached back to buckle his seat belt, and then thought better of it. No use in being tied into a situation where he may need to move speedily, he thought. The car started quietly and hummed as if trying to convince someone that it was more than it seemed. Jack inhaled slowly and deeply, and then exhaled when he pressed the button on the garage door remote. Heads turned lazily as the jointed door rolled up exposing the little car to the morning air. There was a brief moment where everything remained motionless. It felt like the calm before the thunderstorm.
A woman in a pair of soiled white jeans and a similarly deteriorating blouse raised a single arm toward Jack. He had seen her often on his excursion around the neighborhood. In fact, he had nicknamed her Doris after his junior year homeroom teacher. She moved slower than most and so he usually walked around her if she wandered too near him. He had even shared with her his thoughts on what it was like to be paroled into a world where the sick have outnumbered the healthy.
Her voice rasped and gurgled with fluid, but her intent was clear. Me want to eat you, Jack inferred. Putting the car into drive, he pressed the accelerator gently, at first. He tried his best to maneuver around those he could and the remainder was pushed aside by his makeshift scoop. He couldn’t help but grimace and shout “sorry” every time he knocked a person over. On one occasion, he sent a large man flying into a mailbox because he was distracted by the pretty woman wearing nothing but a neck brace. Blushing a profoundly deep shade of pink, he had to resist the urge to get out and help the man back to his feet.
Jack wove his way down Willow Street toward the devastation that had once been the downtown district. He tried to avoid the tank tracks that had scarred the surface of the street. Passing over the mutilated black top caused the little car to vibrate unnecessarily. Thinking of the tank reminded him of that morning Margaret died a burning death. It also reminded him of the reason he decided to bring the guns along. He had an appointment with a certain Colonel. Shaking his head to clear away the negative thoughts, Jack turned his attention to the road. He needed to get to the other side of town, but to do so he would have to find a way around what had formerly been labeled the Quarantine Zone.
The sheer numbers of infected people roaming the streets amazed him. He hadn’t been able to get the car past five miles an hour as he weaved in and out and around clumps of the infected. The good news was that there had been no concentrated effort to do anything more than moan and wail as he passed by most of them. That is, until he turned onto Oak Street.
Halfway up the block, the street became so congested by throngs of sick people that there was no way to get the car through them. So, he turned the small car around in the middle of the road — driving up onto the curb — in the hopes of finding another way through. The closer he skirted the downtown area and the closer he came to his destination, the more the streets were filled with the sick. Repeatedly, he found the secondary streets he needed to turn down fully congested with the shambling throngs. He began to wonder if he was going to have to drive out and around the city.
After about a half an hour, Jack found himself barely able to pass through the crowds. Their clumsy bodies and milky eyes stared at nothing until he began to move past them. It took the sick a moment to register his passing, but when they did, they would wail and grasp at the air. Jack watched them fill up the passage behind him. There would be no turning around, he realized, as it suddenly became apparent that the street ahead of him would soon be blocked as well.
CHAPTER 11
T he seriousness of the situation finally dawned on him when he found himself corralled and forced into a right turn down a two-lane street lined by four-story commercial buildings. A hundred yards down the street and he was required to stop as hundreds of people blocked the thoroughfare. At any other time, it would have looked like a street party. Unfortunately, there
were no partygoers carrying red plastic cups of alcohol. There was no throbbing music or gyrating bodies. Scratch that. There were gyrating bodies, just not in the recreational sense.
Jack put the car in reverse and then threw his arm over the passenger’s seat. He looked out the back window. There was no sign that he’d even came from that direction. The block party closed in around him faster than he had expected. He felt his tongue thicken as goosebumps made the flesh on the back of his neck cold. There was only one thing to do. He put the car in drive and began to move forward ever so slowly. The homemade cow scoop would have to do its job.
A hand reached for him from amongst the crowd, but found its progress foiled by the glass of the windshield. The windshield, however, was not designed to stave off the showers of hungry grasping and pounding hands. After about twenty minutes, the windshield cracked under the constant assault. It was a small chip at first, then a crack. Jack watched the fracture snake like lightning across the glass from the point of impact directly in front of him.
“Please, hold together for a few more minutes,” he pleaded with the weakening glass. The crowd was becoming more densely populated making the trek arduous. He was forced to keep one eye on the surrounding buildings to maintain some sort of trajectory. The people in front of him were nudged, pushed and toppled out of the way. Occasionally, he would wince, as the car would ride over a foot or a leg of someone who hadn’t managed to get fully out of the way.
An orange semi tractor-trailer rose up in front of him. Jack slowed to a full stop as he took stock of the situation. The road was blocked. Spanning between the two buildings on each side of the street were hundreds of infected people. Through the rearview, he could see that he would not be backing up.
He was stuck.
To prevent them from breaking through the windshield, he pulled the front of the car beneath the trailer so that the windshield was protected.
According to the map, he was one block from the hospital. One block. The crowd around him pressed in harder and the car shook as dozens of hands groped for a way to get to him. Their teeth clicked against the windows and slid harmlessly across the glass. Instinctively, Jack locked the doors. He couldn’t shake the chill that spread across his shoulders as he considered his predicament. He was trapped and he knew it. The hospital might as well be across town for all the chance he had of getting to it.
Through the gaps in the crowd, he could see the building to his right. It was a four-story structure with a stone façade. It was closer than the building to his left. He could only see the top two floors from his position within the encircling, agitated crowd. It was like drowning fifty yards from land.
The driver’s side window cracked and the car shook more violently. The rear window soon followed suit. He figured he had a few minutes before the safety of his little abode was compromised. So, he slid back between the front seats and opened the moon roof. A familiar odor poured in from the outside. It smelled as if something was on the verge of spoiling. With the roof now open, the wailing and moaning of his besiegers were no longer muffled and washed over him in waves that made him shiver. Fear choked his throat and he had to force himself to shake the image of the gnashing teeth tearing at his flesh.
A thought suddenly occurred to him. From his waist, he withdrew his pistol and held it in his shaky grip. Everything in him rebelled at the thought of using it — even to protect himself. The weapon felt heavy and cold in his hand. When the driver’s side window finally shattered, he grabbed the backpack and climbed through the moon roof to stand on top the vehicle. The car was too small to prevent hands from grasping at his ankles.
“Get away from me!” Jack screamed as the sudden realization of what he would have to do to remain uninfected dawned on him. Pointing the weapon at the tallest man reaching for him he said, “I mean it. I’ll blow your head off!”
His words made no discernable effect on the crowd. Their milky eyes were fixed on him. Their mouths hung slack as they moaned in seeming expectation. Grey skinned hands reached out for a morsel of his flesh.
Jack pointed the weapon . . .
. . . the slobber fell from the dog’s grimacing lips. The light from the street lamp pouring through the kitchen window illuminated the hackles on its back while managing to cast the dog’s shadow to its left across the kitchen tile. For some reason, Jack half expected the slobber to sizzle when it came into contact with the floor. It didn’t, but he was sure that it should have.
. . . the dog took a menacing step forward. Jack found himself sweating. It was that cold trickle down his back that made him realize, instinctively, that he was in serious danger.
. . . the dog’s feet shift slightly. The movement was enough to let him know that the time for thinking was over. The dog was going to force him to act. Jack knelt and raised the pistol so that the barrel was pointed directly at the agitated animal. In that moment, he thought it strange that he should wonder at how the light from the window, lighting on its glossy fur, should contrast so well with the pitch darkness of the hallway behind it.
The animal attacked. Jack squeezed the trigger. The shot deafened him for a moment and left his ears ringing. His night-sight was stolen by the muzzle flash. Yet, he could still make out the dog lying on its side breathing heavily. It wasn’t dead. Instinctively, he raised the pistol to finish it off when the hall light came on blinding him.
Through his upraised hand, he could make out two figures. One was bent over the other. It took no more than a moment for the reality of what he was seeing to take root in his mind. A little girl in pink pajamas was sprawled on the floor with blood oozing from her chest. Her father was bent over her small frame trying to staunch the wound.
“No!” Jack screamed. Tears streamed down his face. “Not again. Not ever again,” Jack whispered in a hoarse voice. The pistol fell from his limp hand, landed on the hood of the car and disappeared out of sight. He heard it hit the pavement under the feet of those reaching for him. The decision was made. He would not kill these people even to save himself. He would not — could not — kill again. These people were delusional. They were sick, but they were not evil or malicious. They were not at fault for their behavior. He would not punish them for their inability to control themselves. He withdrew the shotgun and tossed it away. He knew that if he didn’t get rid of it, he might be tempted to use it to save himself. If he managed to get out of this situation, he could find some other means of balancing the books with the mad Colonel.
Jack started to put the pack on his back, when he noticed a particular item inside it. It was the bullhorn. It had a siren. It reminded him of the night not too long ago, when a siren was used as bait to draw thousands of the infected into a trap. The horn was made of plastic and didn’t weigh much. It had a red stripe around the center giving it the feel of a “rescue” item. Well, he was in need of rescuing.
A hand, with a little more control than the others that grabbed for him, caught the cuff of his jeans and pulled. Jack’s feet went out from beneath him and he fell from the car, through the crowd, and hit the pavement. Pain exploded up his left elbow into his shoulder and the bullhorn skittered out of his grasp. Milky eyes stared down at him hungrily. There was no sense of delight in those eyes at the realization that their meal had just been handed to them. None cooed in excitement. There were no hi-fives or hand slaps. Without pomp or circumstance, the infected men and women around Jack simply reached for him intent on eating him.
The crippling pain in his left arm hindered his ability to fend off their first attempt to sample him. He kicked out with both legs, toppling those he struck only to find the two replaced by four more. He pulled several of them off their feet with his right arm, but no matter how he struggled, the pain in his left arm was debilitating. He could feel the strength ebbing from him as he struggled to keep their mouths from him.
It was then that he saw it. The pistol he’d dropped. It was lying between the feet of a vastly overweight woman who had just shuffled into t
he battle zone like a secret weapon that had been reserved for the final play. The woman lumbered heavily. Her shuffling feet kicked the weapon within Jack’s reach. He picked it up. Six shots echoed through the canyon between the buildings. The echoes were swallowed by the moaning and wailing of the sick as they renewed the efforts to get to the front where the feeding would soon begin.
Somehow, between the first shot and the sixth, Jack managed to stand up. The weapon was extended at the sixth body to crumple to the ground. It was the obese woman. The falling bodies — there were six of them —were just enough of a distraction to allow Jack to climb back into the car and shut the door. There were too many of them trying to get to him through the driver side door, so all they managed to do was keep each other from their objective. They reached for him in an almost pitiful manner. Their hands brushed up and down his arms and shoulders looking for a solid hold.
Jack curled up into himself, his eyes tearing. He had just murdered six more people. That made eight people he had killed in his life. I’m a serial killer, he thought. No one is safe around me. The gun in his hand was warm to the touch. He simply couldn’t bear to think about it anymore. If he was a murderer, then he should murder the right one.
With that, he placed the hot barrel of the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Tears pioneered glistening trails down his cheeks and disappeared into a month’s growth of beard. He sobbed. He pictured the little girl he had killed thirty years ago. She was so innocent. Her father soon followed. Yes, he was a murderer indeed. The thought made him look at the pistol. He had extra ammo in the backpack. It was lying on the ground just outside the door. As he pondered how to get to the satchel, a thought occurred to him. He didn’t need bullets. A crowd forty deep just outside wanted nothing more than to assist him in this endeavor. Talk about assisted suicide.
Dead World: Hero Page 10
