A Bad Day For The Apocalypse: A Zombie Novel

by Jason Offutt

  “Nikki,” brushed across her consciousness. The voice was faint, so faint she didn’t know if it was a voice, or something in her Baroque Era brain. “Nikki,” it said again, just as faint. For once she didn’t have her iPod buds plugged into her ears, nodding along to Katy Perry or Lady Gaga; if she had, the sound of someone quietly calling her name would have died in the air. The only person in the house was Dad. Nikki hit “save,” shut her laptop and dashed down the stairs.

  Darkness hung heavy over the first story of the Holleran house. Gene Holleran would tell Nikki he extinguished the lights to save electricity, but Nikki knew otherwise. Ever since the Outbreak hit, people started going crazy. Looting, breaking and entering, raping, killing, like the world didn’t have enough problems. Gene wouldn’t tell her, but he kept the house dark to keep her safe. If the bad people, the crazy ones, thought the house was empty, they’d just keep on moving. No fun raping and pillaging if there’s no one to rape and nothing to pillage. Ever since Nikki’s mom died in 2000, losing Nikki was not going to happen on Gene Holleran’s watch, not ever.

  “Nikki,” Gene wheezed as his daughter bounded down the steps and into the living room, kneeling beside his prone, shadowy figure. Nikki fumbled for the table lamp on Gene’s nearby desk. She clicked it on and flooded a small patch of room in yellow haze. Gene lay on the rug next to the coffee table, his eyes trying to focus on something, anything. She looked in his face. No blood streamed from his nose, none leaked from the corners of his mouth. She ran her hands through his thick hair, just starting to gray, looking for trauma. Nothing.

  “Are you okay, Dad?” she asked softly. “What happened?”

  He swallowed slowly and took a breath, the effort in those simple actions caused Nikki’s stomach to flutter.

  “I,” he started, then stopped, closing his eyes. Nikki choked back a scream. His chest raised and lowered; he was still alive. “I fell,” he said a few long moments later. “I was walking across the room.” He paused for a breath, the breathing labored. “And my head got light. I don’t remember falling. I just opened my eyes and I was on the floor.” He paused again and ran the tip of his tongue across his lips. “How’s the term paper coming?”

  Nikki shook her head in three short strokes. “That’s not important, but this is,” she said, cradling his face in her hands, a day’s worth of stubble scratched her palms. Her dad had always had a heavy growth of whiskers. A quick burst of memory exploded in Nikki’s head, of Dad rubbing his stubbly chin over her four-year-old tummy, and her uncontrolled giggles. “Dad. Can you understand me?”

  Gene nodded slowly.

  “Is it the Outbreak, Dad? Do you have the Outbreak?”

  He frowned. “The Outbreak?”

  “The sickness that’s going around,” Nikki said, trying to keep the nervousness growing inside her. “The one making people bleed and, and …”

  “Go stupid,” Gene finished. He shook his head slowly. “No. I haven’t been outside in two weeks. If this was a disease or something, it would have shown itself before now.”

  Nikki stared into her father’s eyes, the green irises losing their luster in the dim light. “Your nose is bleeding.”

  Gene smiled. “I must have caught my nose on the coffee table on the way down,” he said. “I’m surprised it’s still attached.”

  Nikki relaxed. Nosebleed caused by landing on the floor by way of a coffee table; that made sense. She grabbed hold of that information and held tight, but he’d fallen because of light-headedness. That wasn’t good.

  “Then what happened, Dad?”

  He pointed toward the corner. “Would you get something for me?”

  Nikki nodded. “Sure, Dad.”

  “That bottle of medicine in the desk,” he said, then coughed, a trickle of blood rose in the corner of his mouth. “Third drawer down.”

  Nikki stood and covered the short distance in three quick steps, and pulled open the drawer. A yellow-gold medicine bottle with a pop-off cap (no children in this house to protect, no siree) sat on a thin sheaf of papers. Nikki paused as she grabbed the bottle. The papers were Gene’s will.

  “Your will?” Nikki’s voice rose as the words pushed out of her mouth. “What’s going on, Dad?”

  He waved her closer. “Just give me a pill.”

  Nikki looked at the bottle in her hand. It was Ophiocordon.

  “The Piper? Since when did you need the Piper?”

  Gene’s brows pinched. “The Piper?”

  “That’s what people are calling Ophiocordon,” she said. “Because so many people are taking it. The Piper’s something from an old rock song.”

  Gene’s face grew soft, peaceful. “Led Zeppelin,” he said, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “The song’s ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ The lyrics are ‘the Piper’s calling you to join him.’”

  “Yeah?”

  Gene laughed. “I get that. Now, give me one.”

  Nikki popped off the cap and dropped a white oval capsule into the palm of her hand. Just one. She always tossed the right number of pills into her hand. Aspirin, antibiotics, diet pills. She always felt if regular people had super powers, this was hers. “Since when have you needed antidepressants?”

  Gene’s face grew soft, peaceful. “Since your mom left us. I had a harder time than you knew. But I had to stay strong; you needed that.”

  Tears forced their way to Nikki’s eyes. Guilt rushed through her; she hadn’t known. Seventeen years and she hadn’t known. How could she not have seen what her father was trying to cope with? Gene grabbed her wrist, his grip painfully weak.

  “Do not do that,” he said, his voice soft; too soft. “You were so young. You needed to think about growing up. I couldn’t let you know what I had to deal with. That wouldn’t have been fair. Now give me that thing, that Piper. I need it to push through this.”

  Nikki slid the pill into her father’s mouth. He dry swallowed and lay still, his eyes closed. Less than a minute crawled by, though it seemed like hours. A smile broke his face; the Piper’s bliss had kicked in.

  “Now,” Nikki said, looking into her father’s peaceful face. “What happened to you?”

  His mouth opened slowly. “I think it’s my ticker giving way.” He tried to force his smile into something encouraging, but failed completely. That was the Piper’s strength; it made you feel that good. “Your Papaw had a bum ticker, so did his dad. But at least I’ve got something doctors might actually be able to fix, at least for a while. I’ll be fine, baby. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll be fine when I call an ambulance,” Nikki said. She gently pulled her hands from her father’s scratchy face and stepped toward the desk where he paid bills, and did his taxes every April – “I’m not going to send these in until the last minute. I’m going to make those IRS bastards wait for Gene Holleran’s money.” That’s where he kept his phone. Not a cell phone, not a wireless phone, but a heavy black Western Electric 2500; a model about a year past having a rotary dial. She picked up the handle and dialed 9-1-1.

  “I don’t need an ambulance,” Gene said weakly.

  Beep-beep-beep.

  “What Dad?”

  Beep-beep-beep.

  “I can make it to the van,” Gene said, slowly propping himself on his elbows. “I don’t need an ambulance. I can make it to the van.”

  Beep-beep-beep.

  Holy shit, ran through Nikki’s head as she dropped the handset back on the cradle. Nine-one-one is busy.

  “You’re right, Dad,” she almost whispered. A few minutes ago, sitting in her room, staring at her computer, writing a term paper for a jerk-off summer class at a jerk-off community college, everything seemed normal. It seemed safe, even though she knew there was something outside her house that wanted to kill her. No, Nikki, no. Damn, damn, damn. Inside her house, with SpongeBob leaning over her shoulder suppressing his infectious, if not annoying, giggle, and her dad downstairs having a beer and watching TV, she felt things were going to be fine. Scientists, or
the government, or Dr. McCoy from “Star Trek” – somebody would fix this Outbreak thing and the world would go back to the way it was. She now knew something was seriously fucked. Nine-one-one was supposed to be the savior. Got a fire? Call 9-1-1. Getting robbed? Call 9-1-1. Your father is lying on the floor dying from a heart attack, or the Outbreak, or Mexican banditos? Call 9-1-1. But 9-1-1 isn’t coming today. Nine-one-one had something better to do. “Here,” she said, grabbing his right elbow and shoulder. “Let me help you up.” And she pulled.

  The hospital sat just about a mile away and would only take a minute or two to drive there, but getting Gene Holleran to the family van Mom and Dad once used to take little Nikki to the water park, or miniature golfing, or to youth soccer, seemed to take hours. “You still with me, Dad?” Nikki asked, Gene’s weight heavy against her. Gene wasn’t a big man, but at 5’9”, 185 pounds, it took a heavy toll on Nikki just to walk him step by step out the back door to the van.

  “Yeah,” he said, the word coming out in a forced hiss. “I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

  “Just a few more steps, Dad.”

  She leaned forward, unlocked the passenger-side door, helped him in and fastened his seat belt, then ran around the front and jumped into the driver’s seat.

  “Aren’t you going to buckle up?” Gene asked softly.

  “I’ve got something a bit more important to worry about here, Dad,” she said, starting the Dodge and backing out of the driveway. “Just sit tight and save your strength.”

  She pulled onto Fontaine Avenue and turned left on Frederick; this usually busy street empty, traffic lights blinking yellow. A figure, a lone figure, stood in the eastbound lane of Frederick, just standing. Nikki reached down and fastened her seat belt. An Outbreaker. The man’s legs moved slightly like he was sleepwalking, but he didn’t go anywhere. His arms swayed as if caught in a slight breeze, his face blank. As Nikki drove past the man, she watched the Outbreaker’s face; he never noticed the ton of steel pass within feet of him. Whatever this thing did, it made people lose their mind – all of it.

  “Have I been a good father?” Gene asked seconds later in short, weak breaths.

  “What?” Nikki gasped.

  “Have I been a good father?” he said again. “It was hard after your mother died, but I tried the best I could. I wanted you to have everything.”

  Tears Nikki had held back burst from her eyes.

  “Oh, Dad,” she started, the words stuck in her throat.

  “I wanted to make you strong, too, Nikki,” he said, his voice trailing. “That’s why I taught you to punch, and how to ride the motorcycle. I didn’t want you to ever take crap from anybody.” He stopped, his chest still.

  “Dad,” Nikki screamed, the van swerved.

  “I’m here, dear, I’m here,” he said, his chest rose and fell again. “But I, I didn’t teach you something I think you’re going to need.”

  “Dad. You’ve done everything. You’ve taught me everything. I love you.”

  Gene waved a finger as if to quiet her. “I love you, too, dear. But this is bad. This world.” He motioned slightly with his arms. “It’s gone. I’ve followed the news. I’ve followed it a lot. This Outbreak thing has killed millions of people, most of them here, but it’s spread everywhere. No one heard of this shit two months ago, and now it’s everywhere.” A laugh broke through, splattering blood over Gene’s shirt. “And they don’t even know if it’s an outbreak of anything.”

  “Dad,” Nikki screamed as she turned onto the lane leading to St. Joseph Regional Hospital, hoping like all hell she would get there in time to save her father. Gene reached toward her and grabbed her arm, his grip weak as a child’s. “I never taught you to shoot a gun,” he said.

  A gun? “A gun?” she barked. “Dad, I don’t want to use a gun, not ever.”

  “There’s one in my red toolbox in the garage. Second drawer, behind the ratchet set,” Gene whispered. “Take it. And if someone comes to get you, shoot them. Shoot those bastards dead.”

  The van’s tires squealed as Nikki stopped at the ER. “Dad, what are you talking about?”

  He smiled at her. “I love you, baby girl. And there’s nothing,” he stopped. His breath coming slower. “There’s nothing gonna hurt you.”

  A tendril of blood broke from Gene’s left eye and he slumped further into the passenger seat of the van. This time Nikki screamed.

  The glass doors of the emergency room slid open and Nikki ran through, but no one came to greet her. A chorus of steady beeps played in the background behind the heartbeat in her ears. Loaded body bags lay on gurneys pushed three deep against the walls; more lined the floor, all moving as if they were filled with windup toys.

  “Hello?” she said, walking through the maze of undulating body bags, then screamed, “hello?” She pushed her way into the waiting area, a man still holding a coffee cup sat slumped on a flower-print chair, his face covered in blood. As Nikki stared at this bloody, bloody man, he stood and started to walk, the waiting room table in front of him stopped him, but his legs kept moving. Nikki pressed her hand to her mouth and ran to the door for the lobby. Emergency lights flooded the lobby, a grinning Garfield with suction cups stuck to the gift shop wall stared blankly at her, a card strapped to its stomach read, “Dr. Garfield Prescribes Lasagna.”

  “Hello?” she called down the hallway. “My father needs help.”

  Movement.

  Nikki stopped, suddenly afraid. Her father was right, and she knew it. There were bad people in the world, and for some reason bad situations made bad people multiply. A shadow leaned from a doorway into the bright emergency lights revealing a man, a man of about thirty in a lab coat streaked with blood. He held a Tasmanian Devil coffee mug. “Can I help you, miss?” the man asked.

  “Oh, thank God,” Nikki spat, running toward him. The man stepped back, holding Taz in front of him to keep their distance. Nikki saw this and stopped. “It’s my dad. He thought he had a heart attack, but now I don’t know.”

  The man put his right hand out in front of him. “Calm down, miss, miss…”

  “Holleran,” she said.

  “Miss Holleran. I am Dr. Davault. I am the only person here to help you so I cannot promise you anything. First, where’s your father?”

  Nikki motioned down the hall. “Back there, through the ER. There wasn’t anybody there. Nobody. Just nobody. He still, he’s still in the van.”

  “Okay,” Dr. Davault said, stepping slowly closer. Nikki got a better look at him. The man was exhausted, black smudges circled his eyes, and a few days’ growth of beard darkened his face. But it wasn’t a bad face. It was a caring face. “We need to walk that way,” he said, and motioned back toward the waiting room. The waiting room with the churning, bloody coffeeman. She turned and walked. “What are your father’s symptoms?”

  “Well, dizziness. He passed out. He said it was his heart,” she began, then stopped, tears flowing again. Dr. Davault grabbed Nikki’s shoulders, but she didn’t resist, she welcomed the comfort. Dr. Davault was an authority figure. She no longer had to be in control.

  “Miss Holleran, if I can help your father, I need to know everything. Please. What else is wrong with him?”

  Nikki steadied herself under his grip and wiped her eyes. “When I stopped outside the ER, his nose started bleeding.”

  Dr. Davault dropped Nikki’s shoulders and bolted toward the waiting room door. Nikki followed, the coffeeman looking mindlessly through blood-soaked eyes as they ran through the room, the ER doors making a “shwoosh” when they went outside. The doctor stopped at the van, and gently opened the door. His head dropped toward his chest and he turned to Nikki, his face looking more like fifty than thirty.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Your father’s already dead.”

  Nikki fell to the asphalt drive screaming.

  June 28: Paola, Kansas

  Chapter 5

  Another day, another nothing. Doug sat at his desk at the muffler shop, staring
at Catalina looking back at him from the Makita power tool calendar with barren, empty eyes. This might be the last time he saw Catalina. The model, whatever her real name was, most probably lay in her apartment somewhere, her body swollen, unrecognizable, dried blood crusted over her surgically-supple lips, or maybe she simply wandered in the street, her amazing gray eyes dead, unseeing. Doug doubted he’d ever flip the calendar to July because June 28 might be his last day at Doug’s Muffler and Brakes, Paola, Kansas’ finest muffler and brake shop. He came to the shop more out of habit than need; there hadn’t been a customer for more than a week. Ever since the Outbreak came to town, nobody needed muffler and brake work. Either the Outbreak sure liked to take people out of the driving business, or he was one hell of a mechanic.

  The Beatles’ “Oh! Darling” gave way to the Rolling Stones “Gimme Shelter” on the local AOR station coming through the radio above Doug’s desk. A few days ago, the local station said FEMA was setting up a shelter at the local amusement park, Worlds of Fun, but the station wasn’t local anymore, it gave way to a national satellite feed days ago. Gimme shelter? Hell, yes. And while you’re at it, gimme strength. Gimme a shotgun. Gimme a fucking phone call. Somebody, anybody. “Lord, I’m gonna fade away” suddenly snapped into static. Now the radio was gone. If the satellite feed died, what did that mean? Gimme, gimme answers. Doug didn’t have answers, just more questions. If the radio was dead, the electricity would be soon. The Outbreak wouldn’t be far behind either. The Outbreak was out there, looking for him. Doug was sure of that. He might not die directly from the Outbreak, but Doug was sure the Outbreak wanted everybody one way or the other.