Jon ran in and grabbed the creature by its filthy, greasy hair, trying to hold its head and snapping teeth away from Tran’s exposed neck. He couldn’t risk a shot - had to drop the gun to hold on – the thing shaking its head, trying to break free - rail thin, completely naked, screeching and gnashing with manic delight.
Nikki screamed, “Step away and I’ll shoot it! Step away and I’ll shoot it!”
The Fiend suddenly glanced over its shoulder and flipped itself around, causing Jon to lose his grip. Before he could push it away, it bit down on the top of his head.
For Jon, it was one of several slow motion moments in his life: taking the folk’s VW for an illegal joy ride, losing control and flying off an embankment into a shallow river - The time he jammed a carving knife into his thumb - When he lit his face on fire with his first flaming shot of 151, his roommate laughing, throwing a wet bar towel on his head. He could feel the pressure of teeth clamping down on his skull - didn’t register the pain yet. Rather, the skin of his forehead felt stretched. There was an almost popping sound as it was breeched and the blood started flowing down, rancid breath surrounding his face - the odor of this thing enveloping him in disease and decay. He missed his riot helmet a lot - and then he knew he was dead.
To his surprise, he felt resignation. It didn’t stop him from kicking and punching and then finally shoving the thing off, but he accepted this twist with almost emotionless alacrity. Nikki shot the anorexic thing nearly in half with a full-auto burst from the SCAR.
Tran rolled up off the floor bawling, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Nikki shoved him back down and screamed spittle in his face. “Motherfucker you killed my best friend!” He kept saying sorry in wide-eyed astonishment, and she kicked him in the legs, his hands covering his face. “You cavalier piece of shit. There’s no room left for stupid pricks like you.” She pointed her assault rifle at Tran’s heaving chest. The horrified man made no effort to defend himself, threw his hands back in subjugation.
“I’m not dead yet,” said Jon, while feeling the tattered ridges of the bite - looking at the blood on his hand.
That stopped Nikki cold, and she let her finger off the trigger. She turned and looked at this man who had become her lover and friend. Tears welled in her piercing gray eyes. “Shit, Jon. Not you.”
Then his resignation wore off and the full weight of the loss shook him, dismay filling his heart. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the plan. He was supposed to spend quality time with this person, this daredevil, this strong brainy woman. Best friend. It’s true. God damn it! He had been falling in love with her.
She took a step toward him and he held out his bloody hand, warding her off. “No, don’t come closer.”
Tran slowly picked himself up, tears swelling his eyes. "Mr. Washington. I’m so sorry, sir. I-"
“Stop. What’s done is done. I don’t have time. Fuck, it was liable to happen at some point.” He focused on Nikki, “I’ve got maybe fifteen hours of usefulness. I help you guys get geared up and on the road, then cover you from behind. When I start with… When I get the fever, I…” He cleared his throat and wiped the blood away from his eyes with his sleeve. He pointed to his pistol lying on the floor. “I put that in my mouth and end it. Go see my grandmother. Apologize for killing her.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Suicide
Through constantly seeping tears, Nikki bandaged Jon’s head. He held himself away from her, only letting her touch his head – while wearing gloves - wanting so badly to hold her - wondering if he let himself become one of the monsters, if he’d have any memories at all. Tran stood off to one side and shook with rage at himself. After the tenth, I’m sorry speech, Jon gently asked him to stop again. “Learn from your mistake, Mr. Tran. There are few chances to survive them now.”
They finished exploring the school and found no other surprises. In the cafeteria, a walk-in freezer/refrigerator was stocked to the roof. Clearly, when the people running the aid station decided it was time to bug out, they did it in a hurry. Any relief they might have felt over finding the food was erased by Jon's plight.
They walked a mile or so farther south on the Canada Road and didn’t see another soul, just burned, or partially burned, structures and endless, ominous, defoliated black forest. The three scouts returned to the house and reported their tale. The disapproval of Tran’s rashness didn’t need to be restated, it oozed through the air. Tran found himself standing aside, his opinion no longer valued. The group took another vote and decided that they would all walk down to the school together. From there they would gather supplies and food before setting out on the next leg north. Ben estimated sixteen miles to Caratunk.
Everyone kept giving Jon sideways glances. It wasn’t out of mistrust; they all knew how long it took for the disease to take hold; it was pure rubbernecking – morbid curiosity getting the best of them, as much fascination as there was sympathy. They were in the presence of a guy who but for a bullet in the brain, would in a few short hours, lose his identity and devolve into a man-eating psycho. For Steven and the kids it was adaptation to more loss – surreal in the wait, knowing what lay ahead. For Ben, it was about doubt. The label of demon was not so easily cast now.
For Nikki it was simply devastating. Her reaction was born of experience. As a war vet, she had lost many friends in combat. An old switch turned on in her head; the same switch that turned on for Bob back at the mansion. It said that Jon was already gone and she needed to brick over the hole - make it solid, impenetrable. On the outside, the manifestation was simple; she ignored her friend like he wasn’t there. She wouldn’t even look at him, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to befriend any of these other people. She allowed herself a single moment of gratitude; acknowledging at least to herself, that during her time with Jon, she had re-discovered some of her self-worth. After her return from Africa, she had just wandered, couldn’t hold down a job and even flirted with heroin (she still had the connections). Thank God she hadn’t succumbed to it. At one point, she’d become so destitute that she’d sell her rare O Negative blood to eat. She told herself that she was going to make it through this thing, no matter what. To do it, she had to steel herself against the loss.
Jon immediately felt the change in her, and it hurt. He didn’t need to be babied, coddled with explanation, but he needed his friend to at least offer a face of sympathy. She was practically cold to the touch. When he did just that, reached out to touch her sleeve, she gently pulled it away. “Don’t.”
“I don’t want to feel this from you.”
“I don’t either. But you’ve got to let me stay focused. I have people to get home safe.” She still wouldn’t look at him as she aimlessly pawed through discarded camping gear.
He nodded - It wasn’t rejection, it was coping. She was now the sole combatant. It was a revelation to him that he had turned out to be a natural warrior, that he would be missed for that as well. “I understand.” He started to walk away and then stopped. “If you think about it, we don’t really know each other.”
She felt her eyes grow hot and moist and she kept her back to him. “I know you. I’m sorry.”
McNeil and Storm where on day two, flight number eight, when they spotted the ruined Black Hawk. Actually, they didn’t spot it, one of the volunteers back at the CBC watching the video feed did. They got a call to turn around and investigate and found themselves hovering over a small lake island, split by a causeway beach.
Sam set the bird down on the rocky shore between the north and south tree lines and let the engine wind down. As they climbed out, Kelly grabbed a short-barreled shotgun and slung it over her shoulder. There were the remains of a campsite, a burned and partially submerged motorboat in the lagoon, and debris scattered across the rocks to the North - the two searcher’s hearts pumped with an immediate sense of failure. A human hand, still ensconced in its flight glove, was lying near the shore, the bloody stump covered with ants.
Something else caug
ht Kelly’s eye, “Sam, look there.” Piled neatly near the south tree line was the scientist’s discarded gear.
“Someone survived this thing.” She stepped up to the middle of the beach. “Hello? Anybody here? We’re looking for a group of CDC scientists!”
“Uh, Kel, if they were here, you don’t think they might have heard us land?”
“Don’t be a bitch, bitch. What if they’re injured?”
So team Storm and McNeil wasted precious time stumbling through the island’s burnt forests in search of injured scientists.
Meanwhile, the survivors over in Moscow were putting together the last of their newly found gear. Nikki walked past the gymnasium and found Susan and Tran assembling some basic first aid items. It was surreal to see these two scientists almost nonchalantly packing a rucksack amid such horrible carnage. Tran wouldn’t make eye contact with Nikki. His mortification over the incident in this very room set his stomach rumbling with anxiety and regret.
Staring at an IV pole, its drip line leading to a butchered corpse, Nikki found herself with some un-solidified notion tickling the back of her brain, and she unconsciously picked at the fresh scab on her finger; the wound Jon had kissed when they were back on the boat.
Susan interrupted the thought saying, “That should cover us. We’ve even got antibiotics.”
There it was again, just on the threshold of Nikki's forethoughts.
The group assembled in front of the school with Ben ready to lead them up the road. It was agreed that Jon would hang back, just in sight, and then after a couple of hours or so fall back further and then stop. It didn’t need to be said that they all hoped that he would then quickly kill himself before he got the fever and lost his ability for rational thought. In the event that her friend came racing up the road foaming at the mouth, Nikki would take up the rear and keep an eye out.
Everyone offered Jon awkward goodbyes, no one touching him, Steven holding his sobbing little girl back from hugging the man. They then all walked ahead a hundred paces or so and gave Jon and Nikki some privacy.
She said, “When you do it, don’t point the gun at your temple. You may not have the gun lined up perfectly and you’ll just shoot the front of your face off. It could take a while to die from that. Put the gun in your mouth and aim up at the roof. You’re guaranteed to scramble your brains that way. Please don’t let yourself succumb to the fever. I don’t want to have to shoot you running after us.”
“See, I’m still learning about you,” said Jon, hurt choking his voice. “You’re a suicide expert.”
This stopped her short and she turned to him making eye contact for the first time since the moments after he was bitten. Her eyes hardened. “Don’t – do - that. It’s hard enough contemplating the rest of this without you.”
Jon looked chastened. “Well, could you at least say goodbye?”
Her eyes softened slightly, “Goodbye, Jon. You’re a good man.” He looked at her with hope, wanting to hear more. She finally said, “I felt something. I really did. Now let me go.”
Jon started backing up slowly while still looking at her. “Goodbye, Nikki.”
She turned her back to him, walking away. The tingling picked up again in the back of her mind. She was missing something. It was right there, at the edge of her consciousness, yet at the same time, something seemed to be willing her to keep it in the shadows – don’t face it, it’s not true. Jon snapped her out of her reverie. “I’ll make sure you’re still in earshot when I do it. That way you can be certain.”
She didn’t turn. Just kept walking, whispering quietly to herself, “Goodbye, Jon.” She started a slow jog to catch up with the group.
For an hour and a half they trudged north up the Canada Road. Jon let himself slowly fall back, and for much of the time he was out of sight beyond a bend or below a hill. On the occasional straightaway he could be made out as a small speck on a rise and then finally Nikki could see him no more.
The group continued on for another half-an-hour, paused to sip some water, take a bite of bread, and kept on moving. Nikki tried to steel herself against her building sadness, and let herself fall back a few yards from the others, her vision clouding over, her pace becoming disjointed. She wiped the tears away in mild frustration and shook the drops from the tips of her fingers. She focused on a stray drop as it nestled in the cut on her finger. The one Jon had kissed. She had worried about her blood in his in his mouth, but that was silly. They’d shared a lot more than blood… and that’s when it all came to her in one giant rush.
“Stop!” She called to the others, holding up her hand.
The group involuntarily crouched and spun around looking in all directions, certain that they were under assault. Nikki ran forward to Susan.
“I think I’m immune.”
“Excuse me?” she asked, nerves rattled to the edge.
“I survived the infection. I’m sure of it.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” swore Aaron, who was just about ready to fall over and die from this steady diet of fear.
Nikki looked at Ben, “Ben, tell them. You saw me sick and then I got better.”
“It’s true. She got sick and then got better. Don’t know what else she’s talking about.”
Nikki grabbed Ben by his jacket. “The fight with the Fiend in the river. I swallowed some of its blood, the baby’s too. I didn’t admit it, but it happened.”
“Hold on a second,” said Tran. “You ingested blood from an infected person, became sick and then got better?”
“Yes! That’s what I’m saying. I must be immune.”
Susan looked at Ben. “You’re certain that this person was infected?”
“It was a demon all right. No doubt of that.”
“Well, that’s remarkable,” said Susan. “We know of no case of immunity.”
“It happened, I swear.”
Decker said, “What if you didn’t get the blood in your mouth? You said this fight happened in a river? Water up here is chilly, liable to knock your immune system down if you exhaust yourself in it. What if you just caught a cold?”
“That’s what I’ve always assumed. Like you said, nobody is immune, but I know I got the blood in my mouth. I’ll never forget the coppery taste.” She turned and started back south. “Come on. There’s no time.”
“Where are you going?” called Susan.
“To save, Jon. You’ve got to do a blood transfusion.”
“What?”
She called over her shoulder, “I’ve got O neg blood. I used to have to volunteer for the Marine Corp Blood drive every fifty days.” She stopped, “In Southern Sudan we were doing exchange transfusions for Malaria on a regular basis. Come on.”
“But…-”
“You’re CDC for Christ sake. You know what I’m talking about. Get your asses moving! We can’t let him shoot himself!”
Nikki picked up her fast walk to a jog, then dumped her pack and began running a sprint. The others followed tentatively at first, the scientists conferring.
“Could it work?” asked Christy
Aaron blurted, “What about getting back to Canada? We’ve got the original bacterium in these sample cases!”
Susan said, “We’re not going to make it to Canada without her. Dump everything but the samples and the hard drives and run. If she is immune, we’ve jumped light years ahead in the ability to fight this thing. Hell, if she’s immune, nothing can happen to hurt that woman. Move!”
They all dropped their packs on the ground and ran after Nikki.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Cold Steel
Sam got the AStar wound up again while Kelly called in their findings, certain of survivors. Whether they were still alive was unknown. The searchers would proceed to zigzag east to west while working their way north. The scientists couldn’t have gotten too far in two and a half days. Storm and McNeil patted each other on the back; their needle in the haystack had enlarged to size of a twig.
Of co
urse they couldn’t know that they were making the wrong choice. They naturally assumed that the refugees would have chosen to move north, not considering their need to travel south first to get to the Canada Road. The AStar’s new search pattern kept them north of the town of Moscow, towards which the refugees, even now, were returning.
Despite the Army’s desperate need for reconnaissance, with the discovery of the downed Black Hawk, Director Louis-Gelding was able to get an extension on Sam and Kelly’s mission. They would have an additional forty-eight hours before they were to be peeled off for urgent information gathering.
Jon sat down with his back to a thick tree that stood alone from its charred sisters in the nearby forest. It had survived the inferno and stood green and radiant against a world of blackened sticks and damp ash. He had chosen a piece of high ground in order to observe anything coming from the South. His body felt tired and he knew it wasn’t from the walk. Unlike his comrades further up the road, he was carrying no gear. He had a half full canteen that he was gulping from. He finished off the water and wanted more, the notion of which filled him with dread. The first symptom had arrived. He tried to imagine the changes occurring inside of him, his body’s hopeless defenses beginning their valiant last fight. It occurred to him as he shook the last drops onto his lips, that it was a nearly pointless act. But thirst was thirst and the cool water felt good as it soothed his fiercely parched throat.
He un-holstered his Smith & Wesson, felt its cool steel in the palm of his hand, the weight of it, the cross hatching on the wood clad grip, and his heart began to pound. It was the same intense feeling he got just before he had to step on stage to give a lecture – the fear of public speaking surprisingly similar to the fear of certain death. He utilized the calming technique that he’d developed for such situations: putting his fingers on his wrist, feeling his pulse and willing his heart rate to go down while taking slow, steady, deep breaths. As he counted back from one hundred, the panic slowly subsided and he concentrated once again on the gun. Without racking the slide, he experimented with placing the barrel in his mouth and managed to tap his lower teeth, giving himself a sharp stab of pain and scraped the roof of his mouth as he pulled the gun back out. He chuckled through watery eyes, thinking that suicide by bullet to the head was supposed to be a painless affair. Then despair slowed his heartbeat further as he took stock of it all, the life that he’d led: He had never really loved, though he knew that had changed with Nikki. By the time he was eleven, he knew he wanted to be a reporter. He’d wanted nothing more, focusing on that task at the expense of nearly everything else. His true love was the out-of-town assignment, the thrill of foreign travel, submerging himself in other cultures. He had friends, but they were really more acquaintances at the various way stations of his life. He’d never had a confidant, a soul brother, someone to spill his guts to – well maybe Granny Washington. His gut spilling snuck into his writing instead – editorializing - something that his editors had put up with because his reporting was so good. He had built a following at the Atlanta Daily Mail and he had been offered national syndication just before Cain’s broke out. His last assignment was a test of that new position. He felt that he’d done well with his final reports. He’d hung on longer than any of the others, the bigger and better known reporters having long bugged out when the shit truly hit the fan.
Of Sudden Origin Page 27
