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Middletown Apocalypse

Page 20

by Brett Abell


  Several others are hit and thrown backward, the sound of their bones snapping lost beneath the screeching of the bus’s brakes. Oil, gas, anti-freeze, and the smell of burnt rubber permeate the intersection. The sound of squealing tires stops, replaced by screams from the wounded and the terrified witnesses. Ruined bodies dot the corner, blood smeared on the concrete sidewalk.

  Charlie’s airbag deploys, but it only cushions an already lifeless body. The package? It leaves its place on the passenger seat and is launched through the broken windshield upon collision. Sailing through the air, on its second fall of the day, it hits the side of a building with a solid thunk. Bouncing off the concrete wall, it skips down the sidewalk. If anyone was listening to the sounds it made with each impact, they would have noticed changes from solid thuds to ones that sounded much more fragile.

  Many of those packing the sidewalk, each on their own errand and buried in their own thoughts, fell within seconds. To those watching, it looked like those occupying the densely packed sidewalk fell like a tipped row of dominoes. That is, until they rose again, and the real screaming began.

  * * * * * *

  Sergeant Brown sits on a blanket spread between him and the expansive lawn of the school commons, relishing a little time in the sun with the smell of summer still in the air. Tearing his eyes away from his Kindle, he looks up from the book he’s reading. He’s six books deep in a series about night runners, a series that he started on his last tour, and is appreciative of the time he has to himself. Looking over to the far side of the large commons, he catches sight of a young lad wheeling an aluminum cart like those you may find in a library. Brown notes where the young man’s attention is focused, and smiles.

  Oh, to be young again.

  Feeling relaxed, he’s content to merely watch the lad follow the young woman. Only part of his mind is actually watching the two, the rest of it is absorbing the day. Brown’s attention perks up as he notices an upcoming collision—one of the shirtless students is madly streaking to catch an overthrown football, his attention on the ball and not on where he’s going.

  This is going to be quite a surprise for both of them, Brown thinks, a warning from him virtually useless at this distance.

  The two collide, one going at full speed, the other practically standing still.

  “Oooh! That’s going to leave a mark,” he cringes, seeing the two bodies hit and go down in a flurry of limbs.

  The metallic sound of the cart tipping over and hitting the concrete pathway drifts across the commons. Sergeant Brown sees both of them stand, and continues watching to make sure that everyone is all right. The lad brushes himself off, uprights the cart, and studies the package he was carrying. Shaking his head, the boy replaces the package, turns around, and begins retracing his route.

  That package could have contained the lad’s science project—something he had been working on all term and was on his way to deliver for a grade. Brown thinks how that boy’s day may be ruined by that one moment in time, one that he never saw coming. A collision not of his making turning what promised to be a fine day into a disastrous one. He’s had the same thoughts seeing people along the side of highways following a collision, how their day and perhaps the next couple of weeks were ruined because of a singular moment in time. How they looked forward to getting home and putting their feet up at the end of a long day and now are stranded on the side of the road with their vehicles in need of repair, one more problem to deal with.

  The excitement over, Brown returns to his Kindle. The day is warm and damn near perfect—one of those days to be spent reading and then napping under the sun. Having spent the last several years stationed overseas in Iraq and Afghanistan, he’s long past the point of being sunburned. A lot of the contentment he feels is because of this assignment with the ROTC program, his last post before retirement. Yeah, he’d take this assignment any time. There’s only paper to push—no sand to clean out of every orifice just to find more immediately taking its place. Under his short-sleeved army shirt, sweat trickles down his side and he feels the rigid weight of the ribbons pinned to his chest.

  The weight of years in the army, he thinks, swiping to a new page and losing himself again in the book.

  Brown periodically looks up while reading and scans the area, a force of habit. During one such moment, a short time after the incident, Brown notes one of the footballers drop to the grass. One moment he’s standing around, chatting with his buddies, talking about girls or an upcoming party, the next, he slumps to the ground. Sergeant Brown wouldn’t have given it a second thought, except for the way the guy fell so suddenly. Brown had witnessed many guys go down in the desert from the heat and this guy fell in a similar way.

  Placing his Kindle on the blanket, Brown rises to go help. Two steps toward the boy, he sees the same thing happen to several others within the commons; they just fall to the ground in place. It’s like a hand reached down and began arbitrarily plunking toy soldiers over. The boy who fell first thrashes for several moments and then rises, screams, and begins ferociously attacking the lads who were bent over him.

  The same happens to all of those who fell—others who were out enjoying the day with him. Every one of them rises with screams and locks onto the nearest person, tearing into them with intense savagery.

  Nope, nope, nope.

  Brown has been in enough situations and has enough training to recognize the signs of some kind of toxic agent. His mind immediately recalls the boy with the overturned cart. Looking across the expanse of the commons, he sees the building from which the boy emerged. Engraved letters carved over the entrance denote the Biology Department. That cements his thought.

  Someone created some kind of toxic agent and was carting it across a crowded area—fucking moron!

  The attacks multiply as the commons fills with screams of fear, agony, and aggression. Other shrieks erupt from various directions across the campus, some far away, others closer. Without another thought, Brown turns and runs, leaving his Kindle, blanket, and the attacks behind.

  His mind wars with the need to exit the area immediately, to get off campus, and with his responsibility. Even though it’s just an ROTC assignment, his place in the event of emergency is at headquarters.

  “Well, fucking A,” he mumbles, altering his path slightly, and makes for the ROTC building.

  His Corframs don’t give him the best traction, but adrenaline propels his muscular six-foot three-inch frame with enough speed to give Jesse Owens a run for his money. Screams near and far stir the once calm air, the tranquil day transformed into a violent one as if a switch had been thrown.

  Two people, a male and female, enter the commons near Brown, and upon seeing him, alter their path on an intercept course. They fly across the lawn with almost inhuman speed, their mouths turned back in grimacing snarls with streaks of blood flowing down their chins and smeared across their cheeks. The fingers and hands at the ends of their madly pumping arms are stained bright red.

  The two have a good angle on him; there’s no way he can turn to get away from them. Seeing an upcoming fight, Brown slows as he knows there’s no way defend himself at a dead run. That will turn into a tackle and wrestling match, and he’d be at a disadvantage against the two of them. Side by side, the two race toward him.

  Almost at the last minute, he steps to the side of the leftmost attacker. The man tries to stop and make an adjustment but only manages to reach out an arm and throw himself off balance. His speed and momentum carry him past. Brown turns with the passing man and slams his massive fist into the back of the assailant’s head, connecting with the lower side of his skull. Coupled with the momentum, the punch sends the man flying forward through the air, where he hits the ground with an “oomph” and slides to a stop; he doesn’t rise.

  The woman stops her mad race, pivots on one foot, and lunges at Brown. Ready for this move, Brown punches straight out, slamming his tightly curled fist into the bridge of her nose. Her head rocks backward as blood f
orcefully squirts from her nose, mixing with the dark streaks already covering her lower face. Not content to merely throw one punch and see what happens, Brown is now in full battle mode. He jabs sharply with his left, throwing his shoulder behind the strike. He feels the cartilage of her throat give way as he mentally strikes for her spine. Trying to draw breath through her ruined throat, the woman’s chest heaves with effort. Blood streams from her nostrils and she slumps to the ground, her hands grabbing at her neck. Not wanting to prolong his stay in this suddenly hostile environment, Brown turns and leaves the woman violently thrashing on the ground.

  Screams echo off the walls of the buildings and travel muted from within every structure. Arriving at the ROTC headquarters building that sits nearly adjacent to the commons area, Brown pauses a moment to catch his breath before climbing the wide steps. Blood smears cover part of the glass on the inside of the double set of heavy doors. He hesitates, knowing that to enter the building will shorten his line of sight and his ability to react, thereby limiting his options. He always hated having to go into buildings in Iraq and Afghanistan: anything could be around the next corner or in the next room.

  And there are far too many corners, he thinks, pulling the door open with a sweat-slickened hand.

  He steps inside, the coolness of the interior a stark contrast to the heat outside. The sweat on his cheeks enhances the chill. The door sweeps closed behind him, shutting off the shrill screams coming from the campus. He listens for any sounds within, but there is only hushed silence. The cold air isn’t the only contrast between indoors and out.

  Trying to keep the clop of his shoes to a minimum on the linoleum floor, Brown edges along one wall to the open stairwell situated in the middle of the floor. He keeps fumbling at his side and searching his pockets for a weapon that isn’t there, hoping that one might magically appear. This situation feels like one of those nightmares of standing in front of class completely naked, and having just emerged from a swimming pool.

  Still slightly panting from his run across campus and climbing the overly large steps, Brown arrives at the third floor, which houses the Army ROTC detachment.

  I’m certainly not in the shape I used to be, he thinks, looking down both directions of the hallway in front of him.

  Sprays of drying blood line the walls, the thicker splashes slowly dripping down the surface. Smeared streaks of the same coat the floor. There isn’t a sound, nor is there anyone in sight. Cautiously stepping into the hall, he walks by an open door leading into one of the classrooms. The iron smell of blood fills the room and seeps out from the open doorway. Inside, dark and drying liquids cover desktops, walls, and the floor. Stained papers are strewn everywhere and binders sit amid overturned tables and chairs. Having witnessed several similar scenes, it appears as though a grenade had been tossed into a crowded classroom.

  Sergeant Brown walks past the classroom and opens the door to his office, afforded to him as NCOIC of the detachment. Ignoring the streaks of blood splashed across the opaque window and the drips covering part of his stenciled name, he steps inside and closes the door behind him. It’s been his sanctuary amid the chaos of the cadets, and he feels that now as chaos reigns outside.

  He walks across the small office to look through the window. It offers a good view of the commons area and the carnage happening below. Muted screams filter into the office as the figures below run everywhere. Some are being chased, others are in pursuit. Those hounded are soon caught and brought down, only to rise moments later to join in the pursuit. Red gore and torn-up lawn mar the once pristine nature of the commons.

  Brown spots a large group chasing after three others. The three keep looking back over their shoulders at their assailants, their fear evident. Backpacks bob up and down as they try to outdistance those behind.

  “Fools, don’t look back,” Brown mutters, silently urging them to run faster. “Don’t you know that will only slow you down?”

  His silent wishes go for naught as the pursuers close the distance and catch them. The three are quickly submerged below a mountain of gnashing teeth and flailing limbs. The mob then rises and races off in search of others, leaving behind three thrashing bodies. The three lie still for a moment before rising and racing off, vanishing from sight.

  So, whatever the agent is, it’s highly contagious, and transmits quickly—maybe through saliva? This resembles some zombie-like nightmare come to real life, he thinks, shaking his head at the ridiculous idea.

  But, I can’t discount what I’m seeing, and it’s spreading quickly. It’ll be in town before I know it, and from what I see going on here, it will encompass the entire area within hours.

  He looks to the closed door of his office. There’s no one here. I’ll wait a few minutes longer, then call my responsibility complete and get the fuck out of here.

  Brown hears running steps in the hallway outside. He fumbles for his keys, something he should have done immediately upon entry. He realizes that he won’t have time to unlock the drawer where he keeps his sidearm. Instead, he steps to the side and grabs one of the flagpoles standing behind his desk. The stars and stripes flutter in the air as Brown brings the pole from its stand and turns toward the door. The pole is a little long to be used effectively in the office, but it was the only thing within reach. The door bursts open.

  Brown lunges forward as three people stumble into his office, one after another. The second one, seeing the pole thrust toward the cadet ahead of her, yells, “Sergeant, no!”

  Upon hearing the words, the first in a little while, Brown holds back his thrust, but doesn’t ease his stance. He hadn’t survived his many combat tours by relaxing in the middle of chaos. His vision clears and he recognizes three of the detachment’s cadets, none of them displaying violent behavior. Slowly, expecting them to jump forward at any moment, he lowers the staff.

  “Get in here and close the door,” he gruffly states.

  Seeing the third cadet about to swing he door closed, he adds: “Quietly, you fool.”

  It’s not really any way to speak to an officer cadet. They’re not officers yet, but they’re not raw recruits in basic either. However, the situation is tense and it just comes out. After all, in the midst of this, to slam a door and draw attention to oneself is foolish and he’ll call it the way he sees it.

  “What’s going on, Sergeant?” the female cadet asks.

  “I’m not exactly sure, but it looks like some kind of toxin has been leaked on campus,” Brown answers.

  “You mean, like, a nerve agent?” the first one questions.

  “Not exactly,” Brown replies. “But, regardless of what it is, it’s spreading quickly. It’s already across campus and will be in the city soon.”

  “But, why aren’t we affected?” the female queries.

  “Genes, good luck, who in the fuck knows? And maybe it only has a low persistence, meaning it disperses quickly. I don’t really know anything except that we’re alive and uncontaminated, and I mean to stay that way,” Brown states, setting the flagpole back into its stand.

  Taking his keyring out, he unlocks the bottom drawer of his desk and withdraws his handgun.

  “You keep a weapon in here?” the first cadet, Hayward, asks.

  “Rule number one: never be far from a gun, son,” Brown replies.

  “So, what do we do, Sergeant?” the female asks, her blonde hair bound tightly in a regulation bun.

  “Overall, Clarke, we need to get out of the city and away from any populated areas. We’ll have to take our chances that the agent isn’t persistent and that we won’t run through any particles. I would say that we stay here and wait for the authorities to get a handle on this outbreak, but judging by how quickly this is spreading, we’d more than likely be dead or worse by the time the cavalry arrives,” Brown responds.

  “Worse than dead? Is that even a thing?” the other male cadet, Mendez, asks.

  “We could become one of them,” Brown states, pointing out of the window.

&
nbsp; “Oh … yeah. Didn’t think of that. Are there any other weapons around?”

  “None that I know of,” Brown says.

  “So, how should we do this?” Clarke asks.

  “Anyone have a vehicle parked nearby?”

  “I have a motorcycle,” Mendez says.

  Brown just stares at him, waiting for the ridiculous nature of that statement to settle in. He notes the flash of awareness and the cadet looks away, adding: “But I don’t think that’ll do us any good.”

  A gruff “No shit, Sherlock” statement almost passes through Brown’s lips, but he lets it slide. After all, they’re in a tense situation where there’s a good chance they won’t make it to sunset. It’s early afternoon and they need to be somewhere safer before dark, preferably out of town. If they can find a vehicle, that could be minutes away. If not, then it will take hours. On foot isn’t preferable, as they’d make little headway compared to the level of risk.

  “Anyone else?” Brown asks.

  “I have a car, but it’s parked across campus,” Clarke chimes in.

  “How far across campus?”

  “Pretty much as far as you could get from here and still be on campus,” Clarke answers.

  “How about you?” Brown asks Hayward.

  “Sorry, Sergeant; I live in the dorms and don’t have a car.”

  Brown pulls a binder out of his drawer and opens it to a small map of the campus.

  “Show me where you’re parked,” he asks Clarke.

  She looks at the map, orients herself, and points to a parking lot that is truly on the opposite side of campus.

  “Shit, cadet, you must damn near park next to me. Okay, we need to get to that lot without running into the crazed fools roaming the grounds. That’s our first objective. We stay together and move when I say move, stop when I say stop. Don’t question a thing, just do it. If you see anything, mention it, but do so quietly. Our goal is to not draw attention to ourselves in any fashion,” Brown briefs, sliding the .40 mag out of the handgun and checking the 22-round hi-cap mag—which is only holding 21.

 

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