Middletown Apocalypse

by Brett Abell

  No words are spoken upon their meeting. Well, that’s not entirely true as the three cadets immediately begin speaking over each other to tell their story, talking so fast that none of them makes any actual sense. Brown holds up a hand, instantly silencing them.

  “Story time comes later. Right now, we’re still in the middle of it.”

  “We can’t get through that,” Clarke comments, nodding toward the mess in the lot.

  “No, but the cars in front might be viable,” Brown responds.

  “Fair point,” Clarke states.

  “So, what happened to you, Sarge?” Mendez asks as they edge into the parking lot.

  “I told you, story time can wait till we’re around a campfire. Right now, we need to get out of here before night,” Brown answers.

  “What happens when night falls?” Mendez questions.

  “Darkness … darkness happens,” Brown replies.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we won’t be able to see as well,” Brown firmly states, concluding that Mendez perhaps is not the sharpest tack in the box.

  The late afternoon sun casts long shadows as the four make their way through the tangle of cars, many of them still idling. Exhaust fumes fill the area; combined with the heat of the day, the emissions make them all a little lightheaded. Brown worries that the gases hanging in the air might affect their mental abilities—something they need fully intact.

  Screams, both near and far, emanate from the adjoining residential neighborhoods and from within the campus. Brown gets the feeling that they are approaching the edges of the expanding circle of frenzied infected. They are only halfway to the vehicles near the exit, having had to duck down several times as packs streaked through the lot.

  Ahead, the shrieks suddenly grow in intensity, causing them to duck again. Brown rises just enough to peek through a window. From the direction of the exit, a large group of infected are heading straight toward them.

  “Shit! Ladies and gents, it’s time to move—and I mean now!”

  Fear instantly crosses the faces of the cadets.

  “Where?” Clarke asks.

  “The way we came,” Brown answers, rising to make his way as quickly as possible through the jam of vehicles.

  “How many are there?” Hayward asks from behind.

  “Lots.”

  Reaching the outer edges of the cars, Brown looks over his shoulder, immediately wishing he hadn’t. A horde is scrambling over and around vehicles like an incoming wave.

  They have a little bit of a lead, but Brown knows how quickly that can diminish. They break into the open and make for the wide pathway leading into the campus proper. Screams and the sound of bodies slamming into and onto vehicles follow in their wake.

  The four of them run for all they’re worth. Brown slows a touch to allow the others to keep up and in order to maintain some semblance of order, but it’s an all-out retreat. The cadets aren’t far behind, but are strung out in a line. Shrieks from the side catch Brown’s attention. Turning, he sees a smaller group emerge from around a building and make for them.

  They still have some separation from those behind, but that is rapidly disappearing. The ones to the side have an angle on them. Brown can’t stop to shoot; there are too many. And firing on the run is damn near pointless. The angle the new group takes isn’t the greatest one, but their speed makes up for it. Brown slows to fire on them and notices that Mendez has stopped some distance behind. The fear on his face is evident, but it’s also clear that he’s run out of gas and can’t go on. Clarke and Hayward slow when Brown does.

  “Keep going, you fools,” he cries, pushing them forward.

  The new group, seeing Mendez standing still, alters their path toward him, their screams intensifying. Brown aims and fires into the group, seeing one clutch its leg and fall to the ground. He keeps firing, noting that several bodies drop. He knows he’s depleting his rounds, and that it might be for naught.

  The group closes in on Mendez, who tries to flee at the last moment. He goes down in a tangle of bodies. Brown is close enough to see the pain and fear written on his face, hear the first bites and rending of flesh. Mendez looks directly at him, pleading through the waves of agony. Brown takes careful aim, and fires.

  Sparking, the bullet strikes the pavement, just in front of Mendez’s head. It ricochets upward and impacts underneath his eye, driving into the brain. Mendez slumps to the ground, vanishing under a sea of bodies. Without a word, Brown turns to resume his flight.

  The group behind has substantially closed the distance and the remaining three uninfected will join Mendez if they don’t do something soon. Brown catches up with Clarke and Hayward; they run past several buildings before Brown directs them toward a near one. His legs feel rubbery and his mind is spent. They can’t go on for much longer, and it’s the only thing he can think of. Out in the open is no good, so that only leaves inside.

  The volume of shrieks from the horde vibrates in his skull and threatens his very sanity. Not wanting to, and remembering mentally telling a small group of three who were being pursued against doing this very thing, Brown looks over his shoulder to assess their situation. The pack on his heels looks very much like some of the movies he’s watched: large and snarling, blood smeared across their faces and staining their clothing, all intent on sinking their teeth into him.

  The peaceful eight-hour day that he expected his ROTC assignment to be has turned out worse than any combat tour he’d ever had to endure. Brown finds himself wishing he were in the ‘stan. Racing up the steps, Brown notes that the lettering above the entrance indicates that they’re entering the biology department. The almost humorous coincidence is not lost on him. He also notices Clarke still clinging to the single wooden pole left to them.

  It worked once, he thinks.

  With the horde only fifty feet behind, the three of them throw the doors open and dash inside. A hallway runs the width of the building with several corridors branching to the sides.

  “Quickly, head toward that,” Brown says, barely able to catch his breath as he points to the exit at the far end of the hall.

  They start running, the sound of their sneakers pounding on the floor echoing down the empty hallways. None of them can go much faster than a swift jog; it’s all they have left. Behind, doors open and screams override the sound of their running. It spurs them to greater efforts, but at the expense of any reserve left.

  Brown feels the burn of his lungs wanting more air, of his muscles needing more oxygen. He hasn’t had a drink in quite a while and it’s only a matter of time before his legs cramp and seize.

  Just a little further.

  With the sounds of pursuit hard upon them, they crash through the exit doors.

  “Quickly, put your shoulders to it,” Brown directs.

  Faces filled with rage span the width of the hall, each one intent on catching up to their prey. Brown doesn’t see why the walls don’t crumble to dust from the level of their screams. The doors close and Brown snatches the guidon from Clarke’s hands, ramming it home between the enclosed handle.

  The infected pound into the doors. The wooden pole bends outward, but holds.

  “Let’s go,” Brown says, trying to catch his breath.

  “Where to?” Clarke asks.

  “There’s a FEMA shelter not far from here. It’s well stocked and it will give us time to breathe.”

  “I’m all for that,” Clarke states.

  “Do you have enough juice to make it a little further?”

  “If I have to,” Clarke responds.

  Hayward merely nods.

  “Okay. They’ll figure out shortly how buildings work. We need to move.”

  The three head down the steps, leaving the screaming horde of infected to mercilessly but ineffectively beat on the doors. Brown keeps them moving quickly, wary of more groups. He leads them to a small, concrete building that doesn’t look like much.

  “Huh, I pass by this every day,�
� Hayward states. “I thought it was a utility building of some kind.”

  “Well, it’s not,” Brown replies.

  Taking out a set of keys, he sets one into the lock of the heavy, steel door.

  “Are those issued to staff?” Clarke asks.

  “No,” Brown answers, turning the key.

  “Well, where’d you get it, then?” Hayward queries.

  “Never mind that. Just be glad that I have it.”

  Brown pushes the door open, reaches to the side, and flicks a bank of switches. Lights flicker and then come on fully, revealing a wide set of stairs leading down to another steel door.

  “I suppose you have a key for that, as well.”

  “Yep,” Brown answers.

  About John O'Brien

  John O'Brien is a former Air Force fighter instructor pilot who transitioned to Special Operations for the latter part of his career gathering his campaign ribbon for Desert Storm. Immediately following his military service, John became a firefighter/EMT with a local department. Along with becoming a firefighter, he fell into the Information Technology industry in corporate management. Currently, John is writing full-time on the series, A New World.

  As a former marathon runner, John lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest and can now be found kayaking out in the waters of Puget Sound, mountain biking in the Capital Forest, hiking in the Olympic Peninsula, or pedaling his road bike along the many scenic roads. Find out more at http://anewworldseries.com/

  Middletown of the Dead

  Armand Rosamilia

  One

  They were all dead.

  Charlie Noble, curled in the fetal position under a desk and covered in their blood, whimpered again. How was he going to escape this nightmare? He opened his eyes but Doctor Langham was still dead, throat ripped out, his glassy eyes staring … accusing.

  Where were the others? Charlie closed his eyes again. He didn’t care where they were anymore. He’d wait for the campus police or the Indiana State Troopers or the military or whoever else was going to come and save him from this craziness that wasn’t happening to him wasn’t happening at all wake up wakeupwakeup …

  A chair moved across the lab and Charlie reluctantly opened his eyes.

  And noticed Doctor Langham was no longer staring with vacant eyes. The puddle of blood was still present, and a thick line of crimson trailed off out of sight to Charlie’s left. In the direction of the doors to the lab.

  The box was still sitting on the table, the set of supposedly empty test tubes resting in their plastic case. Except Doctor Chin had uncapped a test tube.

  Charlie closed his eyes again and tried to ignore the squeak of the chair, which he’d heard a hundred times every day. He knew who had sat in it before but he didn’t want to know who was on it now.

  * * * * *

  Every weekday morning, promptly at quarter to eight, Jim from the mailroom would deliver the mail with his small cart. And every day he’d complain to Charlie he needed a bigger cart.

  Which is what happened this morning. Charlie felt like every day was Groundhog Day, only there was even less purpose to his days. He was in the lab five days a week to get a good education and to get his credits out of the way so he could graduate in two semesters and get a real job, and not necessarily in a laboratory.

  Charlie wanted to be a musician, and his few extra hours each day were spent jamming on his old Fender Telecaster and practice amp in his apartment, so he didn’t bother his three roommates. He hated his roommates, slackers who had no clue about life and what they were going to do when they all eventually graduated.

  “Are you thinking about your roommates again,” Jim from the mailroom asked with a knowing smile. “I can tell. You get this mad look on your face and your eyes get smaller. Somebody piss you off? Take your last Ramen noodle bag? Steal your hidden M&M’s?”

  Charlie shook his head and sighed. How many times had this conversation happened? Too many to count. Instead of telling Jim from the mailroom he didn’t have hidden candy or make one of the two lame jokes he always did (‘they got into my midget porn stash again’ or ‘they are always leaving the toilet seat up’), he just stared at the small box with all the biohazard stickers on it.

  Charlie loved hard rock and metal music, and the band Biohazard was one of his favorites. He thought it ironic but the older lab technicians didn’t get it. He lifted the box. “Anything else?”

  Jim from the mailroom shook his head. “Light mail day today. And it’s a good thing. This cart can only handle so much.”

  “I believe you’ve mentioned that before,” Charlie said, trying to hide the sarcasm. It was lost on Jim from the mailroom most days, anyway. The guy was perfect for his job: a big awkward oaf, scraggly hair and bad breath, a cliché pushing a cart in a bad job before he graduated Middletown University and went off into the real world of working at the post office or in a Kinko’s or telemarketing. Jim from the mailroom wasn’t going to cure cancer or become a Senator.

  Charlie didn’t think he was going to be anything important, either. He had one dream: rock star. If it didn’t work, he’d have some mindless job to fall back on. He could push and work in a lab after graduation and make a decent living, or work at the local pharmacy and hit on the MILFs who came in with their brats. He’d spend his days dreaming about his crushed dreams and nights spent in a crappy apartment playing songs no one would ever hear.

  Doctor Langham was suddenly in front of Charlie with his hand out and a scowl. “Daydreaming again? Shouldn’t you be in the Philosophy department instead of wasting my time?”

  Groundhog Day. The old bastard had only one snarky comment and he used it at least twice a day on Charlie, sometimes up to five. The record might’ve been a few weeks ago when Charlie was working on a new song and couldn’t get it out of his head, even while at the lab.

  Charlie handed over the box to Langham, who handed it to Doctor Chin.

  * * * * *

  You’d think two above average intelligent doctors, who’d both written exemplary papers in the field, would’ve checked the damn shipping label before Doctor Chin opened the first test tube. Or maybe read the packing slip.

  Doctor Langham had finally looked at the box, but it was too late.

  “Wait. This isn’t supposed to come to us. This is for ISDH.” Doctor Langham turned to Charlie. “Why did you accept this box?”

  “Jim from the mailroom gave it to me. How was I supposed to know it wasn’t for us?”

  “Two idiots,” Langham said.

  “I think they’re empty anyway,” Doctor Chin said. He uncapped a test tube.

  Doctor Langham went ballistic, and Charlie couldn’t blame him. Chin had just broken about a dozen lab rules by opening the test tube, and now the moron was smiling as he put it to his nose.

  “Nothing. Told you. Let’s see what’s in the next one,” Doctor Chin said.

  Doctor Langham pushed Doctor Chin, which I’d never thought possible.

  “Get out of my lab,” Doctor Langham yelled.

  “Shouldn’t we wait before anyone leaves? You know … follow protocol,” Charlie said.

  “I’m out of here. You can take this rinky-dink joke of a lab and shove it up your ass, buddy,” Doctor Chin said. He aimed a finger at Doctor Langham. “I’ll see you in Hell.”

  “You always were the dramatic one, weren’t you? I’m going right to the Dean with this infraction. The closest lab you’ll be able to work in will be at Optical World. I never liked you, anyway,” Doctor Langham said.

  Charlie stepped between them. “Seriously. Can we all calm down for a second? We might have something really bad and really deadly loose in this room.” Charlie looked around but everyone else was going about their business. “We could all be infected.”

  Doctor Langham seemed to finally hear Charlie and what he was trying to convey. “No one leaves this lab until we’ve sterilized everything. Cancel all lunches and the afternoon schedule. This will take a while.”

&
nbsp; Everyone groaned and glanced at Charlie.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Charlie said. He pointed at Doctor Chin. “This idiot opened a test tube, not me.”

  Doctor Chin was suddenly in Charlie’s face. “You are standing on a slippery slope, young man. I would be careful where this is headed. I can easily drop you from this class and it would have severe repercussions if you weren’t able to complete such a basic lab. Do you understand?”

  Charlie wanted nothing more than to punch the arrogant prick in the face but walked away instead. This guy was always trying to rattle his chains. He was a condescending asshole who thought he was someone, when he really wasn’t anything. He worked in a shitty lab in a second-rate school. The bigger universities had updated and better labs than this place. If Charlie had been able to afford real tuition, he wouldn’t have given Middletown University a thought.

  If he had the money, he’d be a touring musician and earning an honest living. Who wanted to look at shit under a microscope? Tiny creatures you couldn’t see with the naked eye were boring. Cells didn’t mean jack-shit to Charlie. And you couldn’t pick up women in a bar when you told them the entire truth about what you did for a living, which wasn’t actually a living. When you paid them thousands of dollars a semester to let them boss you around it wasn’t really a job as much as it was like boot camp.

  Charlie sat down at his desk and shuffled papers, trying to act busy and get his emotions in check. So what if he punched the bastard in the jaw? What was the worst thing that could happen?

  He’d be expelled and ruin any chance of a real career. He knew he wanted to be a famous musician but the chances of it happening were so damn small. He believed in his talent but talent never translated into paying the bills. If he went by what his roommates said, he sucked. All they did was tell him how lame his songs were and his playing like that of a fifth grader. Yeah, Charlie knew he had to get a better support system at some point, and he was hoping it would evolve as he got a real job in the real world.