Origins of the Outbreak

by Brian Parker

  “What hospital should I take you to?”

  “Take me home. I don't think we should go near the hospital anytime soon.”

  “That bad, huh?” she asked.

  “Yeah. They'll take the injured to the hospital first. Then they'll turn and start attacking people. We don’t want to be anywhere near there.”

  “But you're bleeding. A lot.”

  “My wife is a nurse. She can help me just as much as a doctor can. I'll get over this or I won't.”

  “Okay, where are we going?”

  “Get on the 35. We live north of Waco. I'll tell you when to get off.”

  She looked over at him. “Amanda. My name's Amanda.”

  He patted her shoulder with a bloody hand. “Thanks, Amanda. Gary.”

  “Can your wife do anything about my arm?”

  “Yeah, she can help with that too. Do you need to call your family, let them know where you're going?”

  “I don't have a family. I lied about having kids so they’d let me go. Didn't work though.”

  “Where were you planning to go when the zombies –” he grimaced in pain. “When the zombies came?”

  “My apartment. I didn't get any food though, so I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

  “You can stay with us, Amanda. Any woman that has balls as big as yours is sure to be a huge help in the coming days.”

  She nodded her head enthusiastically. “Thank you, Gary! Oh my God, thank you!”

  The Prepper, 7:17 a.m.

  “This is it,” Kenny groaned, his face red with exertion. “This is the big one!”

  Plop! the turd fell from his rear and landed against the bowl of the low-usage toilet. “Ugh, yeah. That hit the spot.”

  He finished reading the “Soldiers of Survival” magazine and placed it in the rack beside the commode.

  “Wow, I needed that!”

  “God, Kenny! Can you at least turn on the fan? And I don't need the play-by-play next time!” his wife Carol yelled from the cramped front chamber.

  “Yeah, sorry. Guess it's gonna take us a while to get used to being in such a tight space, huh?”

  “It wouldn't be tight if you'd opted for that extra pod like I asked.”

  “Dammit, Caroline. That was another forty thousand dollars!”

  “Well, no one is gonna give a shit about money anymore, you said so yourself. We should have had it installed.”

  Kenny wondered what deity he'd offended in a past life to be shackled with that woman. He and Carol – Caroline when he was angry – had met at a preppers’ convention seven years ago. It was love at first survival camp. Although their beliefs on how the world would end differed, they instantly fell in love and moved in together after only a few weeks of long-distance dating.

  Kenny thought that the dollar would destabilize due to massive immigration and bring the world markets crashing down right along with it. This would cause an all-out war because of the impending totalitarian government response and the Mexicans fighting to gain ground. Carol believed that the overuse use of GMOs in our everyday food would cause more and more cancers that would become both more deadly and airborne, causing widespread chaos. Either way, neither of them had predicted zombies and had even sniggered at the preppers that they knew who did believe in them. Goes to show you that you can’t imagine every scenario.

  Kenny had spared almost no expense in preparing their doomsday survival location – minus the additional living pod which they could have used to store some of the goods piled up haphazardly in their subterranean abode. Over time, they'd eat enough food that the space would free up and they could move around more comfortably.

  They'd spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to purchase the land and three survival pods, dig holes for them and stock them up with supplies. That was after they'd been able to save a lot of money since Kenny and Carol were both handy. They installed solar panels that were hidden in trees, ran the plumbing themselves and had devised low-cost ways to trap, purify and store rainwater. Guess the banks will never get the rest of their money now though, he laughed.

  The only concern that either he or Carol seemed to have was that they had to leave their house in uninfected Dallas and drive into the infected zone near Gatesville. They'd made the trip late last night, after dark so scavengers couldn't see them, and had – literally – run into a couple of the creatures along the back road to their hideout.

  When they arrived, they’d sprinted for the safety of their pods. Kenny still needed to go out and cover the truck so they would be totally untraceable, though. God! They'd been so scared last night after they hit those two zombies. They'd laughed themselves to sleep after they were safely behind the heavy-duty, blast-resistant steel door and the terrors of the undead were locked outside. He wouldn't admit it to Carol, but he wasn't sure if hitting those creatures had been the right thing to do.

  They had no clue how or if these things communicated. What if they were attracted to scent? What if having the blood of those others on their bumper would only attract more of them? Carol may have had a good night's sleep, but his slumber had been restless and full of worry. He planned to take the truck several miles away from their site and clean off the gore the best he could in the river. Then he'd drive back and camouflage the truck so it couldn't be seen from the air and would look like an overgrown cedar patch to any observers on the ground.

  Now that he'd taken his daily dump, he was mentally prepared to go topside. “Alright, wife. I'm getting ready to go up and clean up the truck, then when I get back, I'll camouflage it.”

  “Sounds good, Kenny. Remember the signals?”

  “Yeah, I remember them. 'Shave and a Haircut' is the duress code, don't open the door. Three rapid bangs then a pause and one more means to open it up.”

  He'd learned about the duress code from an issue of “Soldiers of Survival” several years ago. What it was used for was when someone had been compromised, but appeared fine to a guard. The code would alert them that someone had gotten to Kenny and was either waiting out of sight or had a scope on him from far away. If he banged out the duress code, they had a lever inside which would activate pneumatic pistons and raise a six-foot tall shield up from the ground, creating a mini safe area that he could use to safely duck inside. He hoped that they'd never have to use that little invention, but it always paid to be prepared.

  Kenny got dressed and took a short-barreled 30–30 rifle from the gun locker beside the front door. He walked over and gave Carol a kiss. “You think we can break in the bunker tonight?”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked. “We've had sex in here probably twenty times since we built it.”

  “Yeah, but we were never actually locked down,” he replied.

  “We'll see. Just get back here soon.”

  “'Kay,” he mumbled as he pushed past a stack of condensed milk cases. When he got back to the door, he pulled down the periscope to check out the area. He'd paid extra for the military-grade contraption. It wasn't the type of periscope that most people thought of with glass and mirrors. The forty-pound device was a solid block of ultra-clear plastic that extended three feet. It still used mirrors inside, but because it was made of the durable plastic, even if someone shot the damn thing, you could still use it, you just had to look around where the round impacted.

  A quick 360–degree scan showed nothing of interest – which was exactly how he liked it. He gave it two minutes and then scanned the area again. “Okay, the way's clear. Make sure you lock the door behind me.”

  “Alright, be safe,” Carol said.

  He nodded and spun the wheel. It gradually released the pressure on the seals and then the heavy door swung away into the morning. The dull light filled the space and he had to squint, despite the lighting that he'd rigged up inside.

  “Damn, it's bright out!” he muttered.

  “Close the hatch so dust doesn't get inside!”

  “Damn, woman! You don't stop, even in the end of times!”
/>
  “There's no reason to tax the air filtration system if we don't need to,” she chided.

  “Hell, that I can support. Alright, see you soon.” He stepped over the threshold and closed it gently behind himself. Damn woman and her nagging!

  He rested the rifle in the crook of his arm and walked over to the truck. Dried blood and intestines covered the front bumper. He thought about what he was supposed to do in order to get rid of it. There was a creek about six miles away that he planned to go to. He'd drive the truck in and then wash everything off in the water.

  It didn't take him long to drive over to the water. He'd never seen anyone driving on the old dirt road, but there were several houses along the way, each of them a potential threat to him and Carol.

  He hadn't started out as such a loner, but he'd evolved into one over time. It was part of the territory he supposed. As someone who foretold the collapse of society – and really believed it – regular people tended to distance themselves from him. As time went on, he craved conversation with non-preppers less and less. He was absolutely fine with the support network that he'd developed over the years. He didn't know where any of his friends' hide sites were and they didn't know where his was, which was just fine. In the next few days, he planned to call them over shortwave radio to see how they were holding up.

  He'd received a cryptic call from his buddy Sage yesterday while he was at work. Sage lived in Austin and had said that the end was here. He was making a run for it with his dog Banana to their site. He promised to get in contact with Kenny over the radio as soon as he could. That's what had sent him over the edge. Sage was one of the smartest guys he knew. Hell the guy even had frozen dog sperm so he could impregnate Banana if they would be spending a few years underground. He may have been borderline crazy, but he knew that he needed somebody to talk to and eventually his dog would die of old age.

  Kenny turned from the road and dropped the truck's front end into the creek. He made sure to set the emergency brake and then got out to wash off the mess. The morning was warm, but Kenny was fine in the water. Ten minutes into the wash and he felt an incredible sense of calm settle over the area. Everything seemed to go still, even the birds that had been loud as hell earlier were now quiet….

  “Shit!” he shouted, his voice shattering the stillness. He splashed loudly to the cab of the truck and got the rifle. Seconds later, they arrived.

  A group of twelve zombies emerged on the far side of the creek. Kenny didn't hesitate. He'd gone to survivalist weekends for the last four years. They passed survival tips and techniques, but a big part of those weekends was learning to shoot under pressure. This was the greatest pressure that he'd ever been exposed to, that was for sure.

  He gripped the bed of the truck and swung up into it with ease. Carol may nag the shit out of him, but since they'd married she’d managed to convince him to drop over fifty pounds and he could now run for ten miles without stopping.

  He calmly brought the rifle to his shoulder and aimed down the iron sights. Crack! The first round sped from the barrel. He worked the lever action without even waiting to see if he'd hit the creature that he was aiming at.

  Crack! Chamber another round. Crack! Cock the lever, chamber another round. Crack! Kenny was on autopilot. Crack! Crack! Crack! Click. Click.

  He'd gone through all seven rounds and five more creatures advanced towards him. The demise of seven of their companions – Kenny had learned to be a very good shot under pressure – didn't affect them at all. They continued forward, hungry for his flesh.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered as he dug in his vest for additional shells. Several dropped with loud pings off the bed of the truck. The noise seemed to echo across the peaceful creek bed. They'd practiced firing when people yelled at them and hitting them with sticks, but they'd never really rehearsed reloading under that same pressure. It was always high fives and beers when they completed a firing table.

  He managed to get three rounds into the gun and brought it to his shoulder. He recognized that he was shaking and took a moment longer to breathe and aim before firing.

  Crack! Crack! Crack! Click! Kenny was out of time. The two remaining creatures had emerged from the creek. The first stumbled into the side of the truck and he jabbed the barrel of the rifle straight into its eye as hard as he could. The zombie fell, dead from the weapon smashing into its brain. When it fell, the rifle was jerked from Kenny's hands.

  “Fuck!” he screamed in frustration.

  The final creature had reached the side of the truck and it was slowly pulling itself into the bed of the truck with him. Kenny reared back and kicked with everything that he had.

  His steel-toed boot connected with the zombie's jaw and knocked it backwards over the side, but it was up almost instantly, pulling itself into the back of the truck once more. He looked around in frustration what was he supposed to do?

  One thing was certain, he couldn't stay in the truck with the zombie. He dove over the side and hit the gravel roughly with his shoulder. He regained his feet, but his shoulder hung limp and useless. His mind dimly told him that he'd dislocated it when he fell.

  The creature stumbled over the side as well. It landed in a heap of arms and legs before it unfolded itself and began to shamble towards him again.

  Kenny was out of options. He cast about until he found a softball-sized rock. It felt extremely heavy in his hand as he charged forward and smashed it into the creature's temple. The impact sent waves of pain through his injured shoulder.

  The zombie stumbled and fell to its knees, then began to get up again. “No you don't, you disgusting fucker!” he shouted and brought the rock down into the back of its head.

  It pitched forward onto its chest and struggled to get up. Kenny fell to his knees and bashed the thing's head into a pulp. Blood and brain matter sprayed against his new hunting vest. He continued hitting the creature's head until the skull collapsed completely.

  “Fuck you,” he mumbled and dropped the rock. He sat back onto his feet and cried. Why had God allowed this to happen?

  When he'd cried himself out, he went back to the truck and retrieved his rifle. He was rewarded with a wet sucking sound as the barrel dislodged from the soft tissue. He reloaded it and then hopped into the driver's seat. He'd washed the damn truck enough.

  He drove in a semi-daze back to his hide site and quickly covered the truck with the specially made camouflage netting as good as he could with his injured shoulder. After a few adjustments, he decided that it was the best that he could do for now, so he turned towards his new home.

  Kenny stumbled to the door and pulled away the netting that helped to hide it from a distance. He pounded three times and paused before slapping his hand one final time on the metal. Thirty-one, the day that he and Carol had been married.

  When she opened the door, she gasped at his condition. One arm hung loosely at his side and dark red splatters covered his face and chest. “Oh my God! Are you okay?”

  He'd realized something during his fight. He'd been one tiny misstep from death and it caused him reevaluate what he'd long considered a truth. Turns out, he'd been lying to himself, things weren't that bad with Carol and she was, in fact, the perfect woman for him.

  He fell inside and she pulled the hatch closed behind him. “I love you, Carol… We can't go back outside for a long time. It's all gone. This is the end.”

  The Engineers, 8:43 a.m.

  Thump, thump, thump. Thump, thump, thump. The Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicles' 25mm Bushmaster autocannons spit devastation into the zombies surrounding the base. The large rounds split the creatures in half, but they continued to crawl towards the defenders even when they were missing their legs. The fuckers just kept coming.

  Lieutenant Colonel Jose Quinones keyed the handset on his radio, “Ghost Six, this is Trojan Horse Six, over.”

  A young man answered the radio, “This is Ghost Six Delta. Six Actual is monitoring, over.”

  The battalion comm
ander's driver had been answering for him all night as he fought both his track and the battalion. The Engineer hadn't ever viewed it as a slight, he knew the deal. 2–7 Cavalry, Ghost, was one of the premier units in the United States Army and they'd been sent outside the safety of the wire to try and clear some space around the base overnight.

  The battalion's Bradleys had crushed thousands of the creatures, their huge engines propelling the tracked metal giants, but over the hours of revving forward and backwards, one-by-one the behemoths had run out of fuel, even as they tried to maneuver away. As could be expected, the vehicles had been swarmed by the undead. The Ghost battalion had been forced to button up and wait for assistance for the last fourteen hours.

  The remainder of the 1st Cavalry Division's 3rd Greywolf Brigade had been called forward from their reserve position to do what they could to relieve the trapped cavalrymen. The brigade's Bradleys fired where they could, but Ghost's vehicles were so interspersed with the creatures that it became the individual Infantrymen, armed with M4s and sniper rifles, who bore the responsibility of picking off the creatures as they clamored across the armored vehicles. More needed to be done.

  That's where the 8th Engineers came in. Quinones' job was to try and burn the fuckers off. They'd broken out a modern version of the flame throwers that had been so effective in World War II and more recently in the caves of Afghanistan. The idea was that the flames would be hot enough to destroy the creatures’ brains, which seemed to be the only method of killing them. According to the manuals, the crews inside the Bradleys should be protected from the intense heat that the flamethrowers would produce. They were out of options and this was what the brigade commander had decided to go with.

  “Tell Ghost Six that we're in position. I need him to verify that all rounds for the coax are expended and not exposed.” The Bradley also had a coaxial mounted M240C machine gun that was slaved to the main gun and pointed wherever the turret was aimed so they could fire the smaller caliber 7.62 millimeter round instead of the giant Bushmaster. The bullets for the coax fed from inside out into the open air. They had the potential to detonate or explode from the heat of the flames that his soldiers were preparing to unleash.