by Brett Abell
“Shit!” he shouted. “It’s blocked!”
“Turn back to 9 Street and cut over on Maple!” said Sally.
Pam spoke. “Look! Isn’t that Officer Brown?”
Middletown Police Officer Jack Brown was one of the cops in town who often responded to campus emergencies. They had conducted several emergency response drills over the years and Brown had always been involved. He was a highly decorated and respected officer.
Now, he staggered in the street, clearly afflicted with the illness that had quickly spread across Middletown. His police cruiser had been involved in the multi-car crash. Smoke and fire billowed from the squad car’s engine compartment and the driver’s door hung open. The hood was crumpled, the paint peeling from the intense heat of the licking flames. Just behind it, a Volkswagen Beetle lay on its roof, the windshield smashed and the bodies of the driver and passenger sprawled on the ground amidst the wreckage, clearly dead.
West threw the SUV in park and unlocked the door. He grabbed the broadsword and jumped out of the car, running for Officer Brown. When he reached him, he called, “Jack? Jack!”
The officer turned. His eyes, normally smiling and cheerful, were muted and blank. The now familiar blackness, as deep as pitch, stared back. He moved toward West with the single-minded hunger that all of these new changelings seemed to harbor.
Horrified by what he had to do, West took a step back; then another.
He heard sounds from behind him and the horn on the Audi blared. He spun around and saw that several more infected men and women had reached the wreckage, and were now feasting on the dead bodies of the VW occupants. Others were moving toward him.
West fought it as long as he could before doubling over and puking in the street. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he jerked his head around to see Officer Brown had drawn to within four feet of him. West gripped the sword with both hands, raised it overhead and swung it down atop the head of Officer Jack Brown. West’s eyes were closed when he felt the hardened steel crack the cop’s skull.
The Audi’s horn blared again, and West turned to see more of the infected townspeople coming from the surrounding buildings. Sally leaned over the back seat and pressed hard on the horn, her eyes wide with fear and panic. West quickly leaned down, wiped the gore from the both sides of the blade onto the cop’s shirt, and grabbed the 9mm from Brown’s holster.
He bolted back toward the Audi.
Feeding the sword back inside the car, West dropped into the seat with the gun between his legs. At the same time, he threw the transmission into reverse, gassed it and cranked the wheel, spinning it around until the car was facing east on Highway 236. Shifting back into drive, he mashed the pedal again and the Audi responded.
They reached North 9 Street and turned left, flooring the accelerator until he hit Maple, where he spun the wheel left again. When he got back to North 8 Street, they were past the blockage and he turned right. The road was relatively clear, except for several people running along the sidewalks.
A horn honked as he drove by, and he jerked his head to the right, spotting a silver Lexus sedan. Inside was a boy of perhaps ten years, kneeling in the driver’s seat, leaning on the car horn.
“That boy needs help!” said West. “Pam, jump over and climb into the front seat. Sally, I’ll pull alongside the car. When he opens the door, you open yours and slide over fast. Ready?”
“Good. Okay,” said Sally. “I’m ready. Go!”
Dalton slid the car to a stop and honked his horn. He waved the boy over and Sally waited, her hand on the door handle. The boy opened the door and almost fell out. Sally threw the door open and slid over. The boy moved slow; too slow.
“Hurry!” shouted West.
Finally, the boy was inside and Sally reached over to yank the door closed. West hit the gas again.
“Mmm mmmm,” the boy babbled. “My … mommmmm …”
West jammed south towards Locust Street where City Hall was located. “Your mother? Where? Did you see her?” asked West.
The boy didn’t answer. Dirt caked his cheeks.
“It’s okay,” said Sally. “Shh, now. What’s your name?”
The boy still didn’t answer. He lowered his head and appeared to fall asleep.
“He’s exhausted,” said Sally, her voice a whisper. “Poor thing.”
“Poor everyone,” said Pam through tears. “Poor all of us.”
“Is he okay?” asked West, trying to drive and turn to see the boy’s condition. “He seemed alert just a second ago.”
“It must have just hit him,” said Sally.
West reached Locust Street, but instead of turning left toward the City Hall, he stopped the SUV. “Check his arms.”
The boy was wearing a long-sleeved, striped tee shirt. After touching his cheek again to no response, Sally slid his left sleeve up.
The veins were alive, rolling and moving with black, worm-like creatures. Suddenly his entire body went stiff. They boy’s legs jutted out, his arms suddenly as rigid as steel bars, and his head flew back into the seat. His body shook violently and his eyes flew open.
Black. Like death. He turned toward Sally Lauster and lurched forward. His teeth sank into her chest and he growled and clawed at her before pulling away, his mouth filled with the sheer material from her blouse, along with stringy, bloody meat.
Pam shrieked. West grabbed the gun from between his legs, let go of the wheel to chamber a round, and before he could warn Pam to cover her ears, he fired directly into the boy’s head. It exploded into a bloody crimson mist and painted the rear windshield a deep, running red.
Sally Lauster leaned back in her seat, her chest rising and falling fast, her eyes fluttering. As Dalton West stared at her, black lines moved from the gaping wound in her chest up the veins in her neck, and made their way over her face. When her eyes fluttered again, the dark lines had already begun to blacken her irises to the hellish look of the cannibal masses.
“No!” West screamed, but he acted quickly, turning the barrel and firing into Sally’s face. A similar blood mist filled the car, and when the ringing in his ears stopped, he heard Pam’s heaving sobs.
West was in a daze. What had just happened? Had he really just rescued a little boy and now both he and Sally Lauster were dead?
He unlocked the door and leapt out of the SUV, leaning back in to grab the huge sword. He then yanked open the driver’s side rear door before running around the SUV to repeat the process on the passenger side. Once that door was open, he used the sword to push Sally’s body out of the SUV. He ran back around and did the same thing to the body of the boy. He did not want to touch either one of them. He’d seen how efficiently the strange, black cells moved under the microscope.
“Fuck this,” he said. “Pam, get out. Hurry!”
“Why? They’re everywhere! Why can’t we stay in the car?” Pam pleaded.
“Because I don’t know if those fucking organisms can move over synthetic material!” West yelled. “You stay, you might turn into one of these things, so get out, now!”
Pam threw her door open and jumped out. She ran around and met him by the door. She did not look down at Sally Lauster’s body.
“We run the rest of the way. You get to City Hall. I have to check my mom’s house. It’s not far, so I’ll meet you there soon.”
Pam nodded fast. West gave her the broadsword and she took it, clearly having difficulty hefting its mass, but she held onto it.
He kept the gun. He would use it until it was empty.
*****
More of the infected townspeople flooded into the streets. Those unaffected ran toward the bunker; it must have been a universal plan for the residents of Middletown; get to either City Hall or the high school. He was sure many had gone to the bomb shelter beneath the football field, but West had toured this older bunker in the past and it was solid and secure.
West and Pam reached the building where two officers staffed the door, guiding people inside.
&
nbsp; Pam looked back at West. “Hurry, okay? Be safe and hurry, Dalton.” She went past the officers and inside.
“I will,” said West. He recognized one of the officers. It was Sam Curtis. He called, “Sam! Is my mother in there? Grace West?”
Officer Curtis shook his head. “Professor West! No, I haven’t seen Grace come in yet. If you’re gonna check on her, I suggest you get back here in a hurry. This bunker’s getting full and we’ll be sending everyone over to the high school. We’re going to have to close it up soon!”
Unfortunately, the bunker was created back when the town only had around six hundred people. The population had since quadrupled in size, but back in 1840, after Middletown was incorporated as a town, the bunker was created. It had only been built to handle a hundred people at most. It was never expanded because in the 1960s after the Cuban missile crisis, they had built the larger shelter beneath the football field.
West ran. His mom’s house was just a half block past the City Hall complex. He turned left on North 6 Street and in another twenty large, full-run steps, he was at her house. The American flag still fluttered in the wind from its tall pole on the right side of the white two-story home with brown trim, a wagon wheel planted beside the porch steps.
West charged up the steps and pushed through the unlocked door. “Mom!” he shouted. The gun hung down in his left hand.
“Honey,” he heard his mother call from upstairs.
He mounted the steps and charged up. He reached her room and burst through the doorway. His mother sat in a chair beside her bed, her head bowed. In her hands was an unopened package of some kind.
He rushed to her and knelt beside her chair. “Hi, Mom. We have to get to the police station, now.”
“Oh, Dalton,” she said, still not looking at him. “I don’t think I can make it there.”
“Why, mom? What’s wrong?”
“I’ve begun to feel strange,” she said.
“What’s that … Mom, what’s that in your hands?”
“I ordered this for you,” she said. “For your birthday next month. The driver just left it on the porch and rang the bell like they always seem to do these days. I went down just a little while ago to get it. Haven’t felt the same since. I think I might be coming down with a cold.”
“Mom?” said West. He looked at the package. It was shipped by FedEx, and there were spots on it that looked wet.
“Put the box down, Mom,” said West. “Please.”
“You can open it now if you want, honey,” she said. “It’s what you said you wanted.”
“Mom, please,” said Dalton. “Please put the box on the floor.”
She raised her eyes to look at him. Dark, closely clustered lines darted back and forth, filling them, blocking out the whites.
West put the gun on the bed and reached for the box. He set it aside and took his mother by her hands. He turned her arms over and saw the black veins rippling beneath her translucent skin.
“Oh, Mom,” he whispered.
Something stung his hand. He looked down to see a small, black hole. He closed his eyes and released a long breath. He leaned forward, wrapped his arms around his mother and held her to him. He swore he felt her muscles relax briefly.
“Oh, Dalton. You’re a good boy.”
He released her and reached over to retrieve the 9mm from the bed. He held it with both shaking hands, the barrel pointed at the top of his mother’s bowed head.
He fired, and in the silence that followed, he heard her body slide down in her chair.
Without looking at her, he reached over and pulled the sheet from the bed. He spread it and lay it over her now lifeless body.
The box on the floor was addressed to Grace West, 127-1/2 N. 6 Street, Middletown, Indiana 47356. He slid into a sitting position between his mother’s chair and her bed, and picked up the box. With weakening fingers, he tore through the tape and packing.
He removed the item and looked at it. At first, he was confused. It was a child’s bank. It was blue, and it was shaped like a tooth; a molar. At the top was a coin slot. It said, “Tooth Fairy Savings” in playful print at the bottom.
He had told his mother he wanted a Bluetooth speaker. Of course, she did not need to buy him anything for his birthday, but she loved it, so he suggested inexpensive things that he would still enjoy.
She was not up on technology. She had chosen this blue tooth.
West smiled as the tears rolled down his cheeks. He set the tooth aside and picked up the gun again. Turning over his arm, he saw the black lines working their way up past his bicep.
He put the barrel of the 9mm under his chin and held it with both hands. West thought briefly of Pamela Howard, safe in the bunker. Maybe. Maybe she was safe.
Maybe nobody was.
His black-veined fingers squeezed the trigger. Dalton West never heard the gunshot.
About Eric A. Shelman
Eric A. Shelman lives in southwest Florida with his wife of 29 years, Linda. His love of writing began as a small child – mainly with poetry – and blossomed into a fixation on horror of all genres. He is the author of the nine-book Dead Hunger zombie series, A Reason to Kill, The Witches of Laguna Beach, Shifting Fears, The Camera: Bloodthirst, Out of the Darkness: The Story of Mary Ellen Wilson, Case #1: The Mary Ellen Wilson Files, and his latest release, the first book in his newest creature feature series, Scabs: The Gemini Exception. Visit his website at www.ericshelman.com and find him on Facebook and Twitter, of course!
Blue Flu
Heath Stallcup
Winter had yet to reach the small college town of Middletown as students walked to and fro across the campus. With books tucked under their arms or bags bulging and ready to burst, they made their way to their respective classes totally unaware of what was about to take place in their sleepy lives.
Charlie Noble stood at the window and tapped his foot. The effects of too much coffee and lack of sleep were playing hell with his nerves and he bit absentmindedly at his fingernail. He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder and noted the time on the clock. It was barely two minutes past the last time he had checked. He was supposed to fill in for Professor Wright, and he had spent the entire night going over the content for the human anatomy class that would begin at the top of the hour.
Pacing the small laboratory and stopping to stare out the window again, he nearly jumped when a banging sound came from the laboratory door. Charlie huffed as he strode the short distance to the door. Whichever student had decided to disturb him while he tried to mentally prepare for the task would be rebuked in a manner previously unknown to them.
Charlie threw open the door and stared in disbelief at the person standing before him. He couldn’t see the person’s face for all of the boxes he held. “Delivery time, Chuckie!”
Charlie sighed and his shoulders slumped as he recognized the voice. Derek Wilson pushed forward into the lab and unceremoniously dropped the stacked boxes on the floor next to the workbench. “Later, dweeb.” He spun on his heel and reached for the door.
“Hey! Hold on, jockstrap.” Charlie grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him back. Derek shot him a hateful stare then slowly lowered his gaze to Charlie’s hand holding his baseball shirt. Charlie let the shirt go and cleared his throat nervously.
“You can’t just drop this stuff on the floor. What if something breakable is in there?”
Derek towered over the slightly older man and gave him a droll stare. “Not my problem, butthead. They should’ve packed it better.”
“You work for the university post office, so it is your problem if you caused any of the fragile items to …”
“That’s why they insure packages, sack breath.” Derek set his jaw as he stared down the smaller man. “I’m going to be late for practice and coach don’t take excuses. Do you want me to tell him that you’re the reason I’m late?”
Charlie swallowed hard and shook his head. “No. I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I didn’t
think so.” Derek placed a hand on Charlie’s white lab coat and squeezed his shoulder hard. “You know how coach is. You might end up losing your TA position. Then you’d be right back to what you were before. A nameless nobody with nerd glasses.” Derek chuckled then let Charlie go. He noted the blue-green stain where his hand was and raised it to his nose. “Jesus. I think somebody sent you a turd in a box.” He reached out and wiped it on Charlie’s lab coat again.
“Derek, you have no idea what that was. You should at least wash your hands.” Charlie pointed to the sink just as Derek rubbed his hand across the smaller man’s cheek.
“You’re a snot rag. I’ll just use you.” He laughed to himself as he turned and walked out the door.
Charlie groaned as he turned for the sink. He wet a paper towel and did his best to remove the foul smelling smear from his face. His lab coat refused to come clean. He quickly pulled it off and dropped it into the soiled bin.
Glancing at the clock again, he shrugged and began sorting the boxes. He quickly found the offending leaker and placed it on the workbench. He removed what was left of the plain brown wrapper and laid it flat on the table. “Los Alamos? Why on earth would they be sending something to Dr. Wright?” He tried to read the label but much of it had been smeared by the liquid oozing from the corner of the box. “Wait a second. This isn’t Middleton Research.”
Charlie scratched at his cheek and tried to study the label more clearly. He soon found his eyes losing focus and he shook his head to try to clear it. “I should have slept more.”
He turned and lifted the lid on the box to find what appeared to be pieces of glass test tubes broken inside, the shards of glass floating in what was left of a greenish goo. The smell was horrible. Somebody had found a way to cross the smells of decaying petrification and dog shit. He pushed the offending box closer to the sink and turned it so that it could drain from the edge.
