A Bad Day Part 2

by Thomas DiMauro

  A few more swerves and he was through. He headed back to the main road. Then he drove north to Turnello's without looking back.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Turnello on the road - Mid-morning Thurs Sep 5

  Turnello felt like he'd been walking for hours. He didn't know where he was or how far he'd gone, but without those pain killers from the cabin, he wouldn't have been able to get very far. He had stayed off roads as much as possible and now found himself amid a large section of new forested growth. The trees were all young and on the smaller side but that didn't make navigating any easier.

  Now the ache was returning, and he knew it was time to take another pill. There were only four left in the bottle. If he ran out before he made it to Cherry Ridge or at least got help, he'd probably die on the side of the road somewhere. He had nothing to drink but just a short distance away the land formed a small muddy depression. In this depression rainwater had formed a substantial puddle.

  He used the walking stick to help him kneel, and he cleared away dead leaves. Gently, he scooped water out with his hands trying not to stir up any silt but the water tasted like dirt anyway. He popped one pill into his mouth and this time bent to drink directly from the puddle. In the quiet of the morning where he should have only heard his own breathing, he heard many footsteps moving through the dried leaves blanketing the forest floor.

  He sat back on his haunches and peered over his shoulder. He saw zombies moving through the tree line. As he turned back to face the way he came he saw hundreds of them grouped together following him. The moment he stopped to rest they would catch up and come into view. More of them with every passing hour.

  Yet they kept their distance and never attacked. He couldn't understand it and even though he seemed to not be in any danger, it was unnerving. He used the walking stick to push himself up, looked over his shoulder once more, and then kept moving north and west. It became a mantra he repeated over and over. North and west.

  The ground changed to a gentle upward slope. He planted the walking stick, took two steps, took a breath, and then repeated the cycle. Slowly he ascended. He hoped that the incline would slow the following horde so he might have the chance of getting a good distance from them.

  Ahead on the forest floor, he saw a motionless gray furry lump. As he approached, he realized it was a dead raccoon. Oddly, the raccoon looked like road kill. Peculiar, considering, he didn't think he was anywhere near a road. But perhaps he was wrong.

  A minute after seeing the dead animal, he heard the telltale churning of many feet through dried leaves. With barely a glance over his shoulder, he continued his ascent. As he moved along, he saw more dead animals scattered all over the surrounding forest. Whenever they were close enough for him to see them in detail, he noticed they looked like they'd been run over by something.

  The ground grew steeper, and it became a struggle for him to continue to climb. There appeared to be a break in the tree line up ahead. Knowing he might soon have a clearer idea of his location pushed him on despite the difficulty. With two hands on the walking stick, taking two steps at a time, he emerged from the woods and found himself on the grassy shoulder of a highway.

  He walked to the edge of the roadway. It was a two-lane with a grassy median and another two lanes heading in the opposite direction. Though there weren't any signs, the road looked familiar. He felt certain this was the highway that led to Cherry Ridge. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had hoped this course would eventually put him on this road.

  It seemed like a tremendous break to find it. However, streaks of blood on the road along with a few more dead animals felt like an ominous sign. He stepped onto the road and looked out in either direction. There was nothing as far as he could see. Across the road, there seemed to be a few more dead animals including a deer.

  He crossed the median and over to the other side of the highway to see if there were any other discernible clues as to what happened. He noted tire tracks, and on closer inspection, the deer appeared to be breathing. He poked it with his walking stick and it jumped up, nearly knocking him over. It stood on shaky legs, ran to the median and fell. Then it rose once again, walked to the other side of the road and plopped down on the grass.

  He did not understand what was wrong with it or what had happened on this stretch of highway, but he figured he might be better off that way. Best to just keep moving. The travel should be easier on flat ground and there was every chance he might find a car or catch a ride. He moved toward the median, so he'd have the option of moving to either side quickly if someone came by.

  He began a now familiar rhythm. Stick, step, step. Stick, step, step. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, but what step number did it end on? He'd give anything to know how many steps it would take for this journey to be over. Even if that number was ten thousand, at least, he'd know how much longer he needed to go.

  Somewhere between ten and twenty stabs of his walking stick to the pavement he heard a ruckus behind him. He turned to find the first of his followers coming out of the woods. All the noise they were making prompted that poor sick deer to jump up once again to get away. Once the zombies caught sight of a living warm-blooded creature they went crazy and poured out of the woods toward it.

  It bounded a few steps, then stumbled. The closest of the zombies put a hand on it and the deer kicked it. It stood on shaky legs again and took a few more steps, but by then they overwhelmed it.

  There were hundreds of them. Turnello had no idea that deer could scream, but he thought there would have been better ways of finding out than this.

  He turned and kept moving. He picked up the pace as fast as he could tolerate. In the quieter spaces between breaths and steps he heard something in the distance. A steady sound he had first mistaken for strong gust of wind through the trees. It was the sound of an engine and it gave him a vague sense of panic.

  He turned to look over his shoulder but the crowd of zombies streaming across the road blocked his view of what might be coming. A car could mean a rescue from his desperate situation, but not necessarily. He had the urge to hide from it and flag it down at the same time.

  Then he realized if the zombies attacked the deer the way they did, they might attack anyone in the car the same way. Whatever kept them away from him might not apply to everyone.

  He had to stop them before they got too close. He turned and headed in the opposite direction--toward the zombies hoping to get past them and stop the car before the zombies noticed. His pace was painfully slow. Two steps at a time. He approached the stream of zombies and the thought of pushing through them gave him pause.

  He had never actually touched one. Would touching them break the spell and have them tear him to bits? His heart raced and breath quickened. He had no time to procrastinate. Holding the walking stick in front of him he limped forward through the crowd.

  He kept his eyes forward, never looking directly at any of them. They bumped and jostled him, even snarling at times, but they never attacked. He could see the car more clearly now. It had a roof rack or perhaps it was a police car. When the lights came on, he knew what it was for sure.

  "No, no, no. Don't do that." Turnello put his hands up over his head and waved frantically at the car. He kept moving forward as quickly as he could. The police car blew its siren several times. "Oh shit. Please stop. Don't do that."

  With only about fifty feet between him and the zombies, the police car pulled over a short distance away. To his astonishment the car belonged to the Cherry Ridge Sheriff's Department. A uniformed officer exited the car with his weapon drawn.

  "No, no, no. Stay in the car," Turnello cried out.

  "Stop right there. I'm the one giving the orders around here."

  Turnello froze in his tracks. "You don't understand."

  "Drop the stick."

  "What?"

  "Drop the fucking stick or I will shoot you."

  Turnello dropped the stick and put his hands up. "You're
making a mistake."

  "Get on the ground."

  Turnello lowered to the ground, terrified of what might happen next.

  "Now put your hands on the back of your head."

  Turnello complied and within seconds he had his hands cuffed behind his back. Then a pair of hands patted him down. He pulled the bottle of oxycodone out of Turnello's pocket. Then he pulled Turnello up off the ground.

  "What the fuck is this," he said holding out the prescription bottle in Turnello's face.

  "Pain killers."

  "Pain killers five years expired? I'm guessing these aren't even yours."

  "I'm hurt. I think I broke at least one of my ankles."

  "You're walking on broken ankles?"

  "I can because of the pain killers. You don't understand--"

  "Why are those people in the road?"

  Turnello glanced over the police officer's shoulder at the group of zombies and saw several heading their way attracted by the noise and movement. "Those aren't people, at least, not anymore."

  The officer's expression hardened. "Do I look stupid to you?"

  Turnello shook his and again glanced at the small group headed toward them. "No, but..."

  The officer looked over his shoulder at the approaching group. "Keep back. That's an order," he called out to them. "Get in the car." He grabbed Turnello's arm and pushed him toward the car. He hobbled forward.

  There were snarls and footsteps. The officer let go of his arm and turned drawing his weapon as he did so. "I told you to... what the fuck?"

  Turnello kept moving toward the car to get some distance from what was about to happen next. He turned and leaned against the car to help keep his balance and take pressure off his feet. The officer fired at least ten times at five different zombies, striking everyone of them in the chest. Every one of them collapsed and seconds later they all got up again.

  "Jesus Christ. What the fuck?"

  "I'd aim for the head if I were you," Turnello called out not sure why he was helping a guy that had been such an asshole.

  He fired twice more striking two in the head dropping them to the ground. Then he swapped out his magazine with a fresh one from his belt and with four more shots he dropped the next three. With all the shots fired the group streaming across the road moved toward the police car with purpose. He sprinted back toward the car and tore the back door open. "Get in," he said shoving Turnello in and slammed the door.

  He got in the driver's seat and cranked the engine. Then he threw the car into gear and hit the accelerator too hard sending them plowing into multiple zombies. Turnello couldn’t see much of what was going on because his cuffed hands didn't allow him to sit on the seat normally. So he lay across the back seat with the jostling of the car sending him bouncing back and forth. He felt multiple bodies strike the car, and he heard the windshield crack.

  Then the airbag deployed, and the car skidded to a stop. Turnello pushed himself up to a seated position. The officer sat there blinking and shaking his head, blood trickling down his upper lip. The car rocked back and forth. Dozens of hands slapped at the windows darkening the car's interior.

  They were in a frenzy. Someone smacked their head against the driver side window cracking it. Turnello felt claustrophobic and dizzy. Someone smacked their head against the window again and it cracked more. The officer seemed to recover from his stupor.

  He looked around, his eyes wide with panic, and drew his gun. He pointed it at the window and squeezed the trigger repeatedly. Blood splattered against the window before it gave way. Hands reached in and tugged at him. He struggled to reload his gun.

  He stepped on the accelerator and the car surged forward knocking bodies everywhere. Something grabbed his arm and pulled it out the window bending it backwards. He screamed as he steered the car wildly with his pistol still in his other hand. They crashed into the guardrail and the car stopped dead.

  His left hand and arm were mangled and useless. He set the pistol down and drew out another magazine from his belt with his right hand. He stuck it in the pistol and let the slide go home with his thumb. Hands reached in the window again. He shot it in the head then turned the wheel of the car but the engine stalled. He set the pistol down and cranked the engine. A zombie stuck his head and shoulders in, and bit his ear, tearing it off. He grabbed the pistol and shot it through the face. Hands grabbed his other arm and pulled him out through the window.

  He disappeared from sight enveloped by them. His screams went on for longer than Turnello thought possible. When they finally stopped, he thought he might make his escape. He put his back to the door opposite them and reached for the door handle with his cuffed hands. He pulled it, but nothing happened.

  Then he wiggled himself around to face the door and then realized there was no way to unlock them from the inside.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Cornelius explains - Denver, CO - Mid-morning Thurs Sep 5

  The moment seemed surreal. Even though Ivy had encountered aliens several times now, it still seemed like she was dreaming. The dim light and the calm artificial voice coming from the disk around his neck only reinforced her belief. She stood with the general wondering what all of this was about.

  "I come from a planet you know as HD40307g. We have been observing and studying your life forms for a long time. Our ancestors first traveled to your planet while you were still in a primitive state. We've always tried to keep our distance and not interfere with whatever was happening on your planet at any given time.

  "Some time ago a novel virus emerged on our world. No one is sure where it came from. Some speculate it came from space and attached itself to our ships. Others think scientists created it, either intentionally or not. Whatever the origin, it swiftly became a pandemic.

  "The effects of the virus were horrifying. It damaged the brain and disrupted neurological function throughout the body. Memory, cognition, and motor function all degenerated, eventually resulting in death. We raced to find a cure. Some hypothesized that if the virus originated on another planet, perhaps the cure also existed there.

  "We sent out research ships to every planet with known life forms to search for an answer. My group came here. We looked at all the substances we could find that had psychoactive properties. We discovered that the plant you call cannabis seemed to block the action of the virus on the brain. While not a cure, it seemed to slow or stop the virus's ability to damage brain function.

  "We sent word back to our planet along with samples. Our climate and seasons are much too different to have any chance of growing the plant there. The easiest thing to do was grow and harvest large tracts of it here, process it, and send the drug back for use. But with the amount needed, there would be no way of doing that in secret. So we devised a plan.

  "We would bring an asteroid back to your planet and put it in orbit. We would break our non-interference rule by making contact and offer the minerals available on the asteroid in exchange for allowing us to farm large portions of land. However, there were those among us that didn't see the point in negotiating with an inferior species. Especially under such dire circumstances. Their solution was to wreak havoc and then in the confusion take the land.

  "Those were the ones that seemed to have prevailed. They changed the trajectory of the asteroid enough so it would collide with your planet. I don't think they expected your nuclear response, however, things still seemed to have worked out in their favor. Even with the accidental contamination of your species with the virus."

  Ivy looked at the general, her eyes rounded and blinked several times in a row as if to wipe the scene from her vision. Then turning back to Cornelius she said, "Why are you telling us all of this?"

  "Because, Doctor, we need each other."

  "We need each other? Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining. Y'all are the ones that created this mess."

  The general put his hand on Ivy's arm. "Doctor," he said. It was a single word and simple gesture but the message was clear. Calm
the fuck down and listen. She exhaled sharply.

  "Some of my people created this situation. I am trying to solve it for both of us. My people and yours. That is why I risked my life and am risking the life of my group."

  "Doctor," the general said, "the video I showed you earlier has to do with this virus. It is spreading quickly, however, the only thing keeping this from turning into a catastrophic pandemic is the fact the outbreak occurred shortly before the asteroid impact. The lack of power and infrastructure has slowed the progress."

  "How did the virus get here before anything else?"

  "I am not entirely sure," Cornelius replied, "I know several ships from the other faction were scouting and conducting experiments in the east. One or many of them may have been carriers."

  "The ship I was on had one of your people having some kind of medical treatment. It looked like he had a gunshot wound but he was also being treated with a cannabis oil."

  "They likely treated him as a precaution."

  "So this virus is capable of cross species infection? How is it spread? Is the effect different in humans?"

  "Yes, by body fluids, and yes," Cornelius said. "Are you familiar with a movie called Dawn of the Dead?"

  "Dawn of the Dead?" Ivy flashed back to her time on the alien ship and the all the VHS and DVD movies she found. That movie among them. "Yes, I know of it."

  "In my species, the virus causes neurological degeneration similar to Parkinson's and Alzheimer's diseases combined. In humans, the virus creates zombies very similar to that movie."

  "Sweet baby Jesus. How does it do that?"

  "We don't know, but what we do know is that if we block THC receptors in the brain, it keeps the virus from progressing. At least, in our species."