Slow Burn Box Set: The Complete Post Apocalyptic Series (Books 1-9)

by Bobby Adair

  “That’s just it,” said Jeff, his voice notching up a level. “We don’t have to. We just have to figure out a way to feed ourselves and stay hidden until the problem solves itself.”

  Okay, I was interested. “What does that mean, solve itself?”

  “When the infected get hungry, and there aren’t any of us around for dinner, they eat each other, right?” Jeff asked.

  “I’ve seen that,” I confirmed.

  “So that’s true?” Steph asked.

  I nodded.

  “People are omnivores,” said Jeff, “With a million infected running around Austin, they’ll eat every piece of biomass they can get their hands on, whether it’s a house cat, an acorn, or us. Pretty quickly, the most plentiful food source available to them is going to be each other. Do you know that the average American contains about two-hundred-thousand usable calories?”

  “Really?” That was a surprisingly morbid bit of trivia. “How could you know that?”

  Jeff went through the calculation with me. “If you take the average weight of a Texan and subtract the weight of the skeleton, then figure the body fat percentage, you can calculate the calories.”

  “And that comes out to two-hundred-thousand per person?” I asked.

  Jeff nodded. “The average calorie intake for a person of the average size is about twenty-five-hundred calories.”

  “That seems high,” Steph countered.

  “We’re talking averages,” Jeff shot back. “There are a lot of really big people out there.”

  “I thought their metabolisms run a lot faster than normal,” I said.

  “That’s been suggested, but not proven,” said Jeff. “If it’s true, then that works in our favor.”

  “How’s that?” Steph asked, surprised.

  “It works in our favor,” Jeff continued, “because if we can stay hidden, then the infected will eat each other up that much faster.”

  “How fast?” she asked.

  “If they are their only food source, they’ll probably eat each other up at the rate of eight to nine percent per month. So a million infected today turns into about a hundred thousand in six months and about ten thousand six months after that.”

  “And all of the infected coming this way from the Houston fires?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t change the math much,” said Jeff. “More infected means more mouths to feed. More mouths to feed means more infected get eaten. The result doesn’t change in the end.”

  Steph’s face looked almost hopeful. “That makes it sound like we have a chance.”

  “And you did all this math in your head while you sat there?” I asked with as much disbelief as I could put into my voice.

  Steph said, “He’s really good with numbers.”

  I shook my head. “I’d need a spreadsheet to figure all that out.”

  “Jeff doesn’t,” Steph reassured me.

  “Wow.” That was impressive. “You know, I saw a news story about the drought and the reduction of the state’s cattle herds, and one of the surprising bits of information I came across was that there were something like five or six million cattle in Texas. What do cattle weigh? Somewhere between five hundred and fifteen hundred pounds? That’s a lot of calories, right?”

  “Enough to seriously change the math,” Jeff agreed.

  “And then there are the other farm animals. Sheep, goats, horses, whatever,” I added.

  “But to get those calories, the infected have to leave the city to find them,” said Jeff. “They have to figure out how to eat them. Cowhide is tough, probably too tough for our tiny blunt teeth to bite through. But that’s not the most important point. The infected don’t know that all of those calories are out there for free. They’re not that smart. They only see the calories running around the cities with them. Those are the ones they’ll try to eat.”

  “You may be right,” I agreed, “but it sounds like there are a lot of hopes and guesses built into your calculations.”

  Jeff nodded. “There are lots of factors that can affect the final number, but the only real question about the end result is when we arrive at ten thousand infected, not if we arrive there. How long do you have to wait until the infected population kills itself off? That might be six months. It might be two years. It might be five years. But however you look at it, there’s a time in the not too distant future when the infected become a manageable problem. All you have to do is stay alive until then.”

  Jeff talked for another five or ten minutes before he got a very glassy look in his eyes and then passed out mid-sentence. Steph had me check his pulse. He wasn’t dead, but he was burning up.

  In the silence left by Jeff’s unconsciousness, I asked, “So you guys are a thing?”

  “We’re engaged,” Steph said, with little enthusiasm.

  I felt a pang of irrational jealousy.

  What did I have to be jealous about?

  “Zed, I should have told you that I had a fiancé.”

  I shook my head, “No, it’s not… That’s not why I came.”

  “At least now you know why I needed someone to talk to.” She nodded at unconscious Jeff. “There’s barely enough room in Jeff’s conversations for Jeff, let alone me.”

  I smiled. “Yeah.”

  “Thanks for coming. It means a lot to me.”

  I shrugged. “I was worried. I had to know if you’d made it.”

  “Was it worth risking your life to find out?”

  That was a hard question. “I lived through it, so yes, I guess so. Do you think you’ll make it?”

  Steph shrugged and shook her head with minimal effort and less result. “I don’t know. Maybe. None of the others that we infected lasted this long.”

  Chapter 9

  After talking with Steph for another half hour about the only things on our minds, the virus, the infected, and our experiences, I returned to the nurse’s station. Evans and Dalhover stopped talking and looked at me when I walked up. During my time down the hall, Dr. Evans seemed to have regained something of himself. He stood a little straighter. His face was a little more animated. Dalhover’s face retained its permanent disappointment.

  “First off,” I said, “thank you for not trying to kill me yet.” It seemed like a good way to start the conversation.

  “There are no evil people here, Mr. Zane,” Dr. Evans told me, instantly back into the harsh, stonewalling man I’d first met upstairs.

  “That wasn’t sarcasm. I meant that sincerely,” I told him. “Things out there are pretty dangerous for people like me right now. I’m learning to expect the worst. So thanks for being good people.”

  Dr. Evans said, “Sorry I got defensive.”

  “Discourtesies are the least of my problems these days.” I shrugged then charged bluntly into my request. “I know all of you debated and decided to shoot the volunteers when they hit one-oh-four, but I think that’s a bad idea. There may be slow burns like me among them.”

  Dalhover snorted and started walking away, “Oh, you’re one of those.”

  I really didn’t like that guy.

  Dr. Evans leaned close and in a soft voice said, “Sergeant Dalhover doesn’t actually shoot them as soon as they reach that temperature. Before we started this experiment, we all agreed that we would, but Sergeant Dalhover waits for the dementia and the violent behavior so he knows for sure.”

  “Oh.” I turned toward Dalhover to apologize but he was walking toward the end of the hall, a thermometer in one hand and a pistol in the other. “I don’t understand, then.”

  “He goes through the temperature checks every hour because that’s the procedure we agreed on.”

  “But why?”

  “Waiting for the volunteers to turn before shooting them presents a real risk to the rest of us. But Dalhover is the one who shoots them. Then he and these men carry the bodies to a window and throw them out. It’s gruesome, emotionally difficult work. Dalhover refused to shoot anyone until there was no doubt what they were.”
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  “And no one else would step up to do the dirty work,” I deduced.

  Dr. Evans’ face turned sadder and he nodded.

  “I guess it’s easier when they’re actively trying to kill you,” I surmised. “But tied up in a chair? Yeah, sitting there looking like normal people…for the most part. Yeah, it would be hard.” I looked back down the hall at Dalhover, who slumped as he walked under the burden of his duties.

  “Sergeant Dalhover is a good man,” Dr. Evans said. “He’s prickly, but he’s a good man.”

  “Is he organizing your defense? I mean, who’s in charge of that?”

  “I retired as a colonel, but I was doctor. If anyone is in charge here, it’s me. After me, Sergeant Dalhover has been the ranking military man for three days now. Yes, he organizes our defense.”

  “Will he listen to me if I talk to him about your tactics?” I asked.

  “He’s prickly, but not closed-minded,” Said Evans. “Do keep in mind though, we’re all learning as we go.”

  Down at the end of the hall, Dalhover started taking temperatures. More than a dozen volunteers were sitting up straight in their chairs with their attention focused on the proceedings. Steph was turned toward Dalhover, her thick red hair hanging down to her shoulders. I wondered how it must feel, watching the executioner working his way up the hall, not knowing if it was your turn to die.

  I said, “That guy down there, Jeff Aubrey, he has some interesting thoughts on how the infected might kill each other off.”

  “Really?” Dr. Evans was interested.

  “Yeah, you should talk to him pretty soon,” I said flatly. “He’s got the fever.”

  “I was hoping he’d make it,” said Evans. “He’s a bright guy.”

  “He could turn out to be a slow burn,” I hoped aloud.

  “I’m afraid that’s a lot rarer than you think.”

  “But you don’t know for sure, do you?” I asked.

  “Nobody knows for sure,” Dr. Evans conceded.

  Changing the subject, I asked, “May I make an observation?”

  “Sure.”

  “You didn’t want to come down here, did you?” I asked. “It was easy to see. But you seem a little better now.”

  Dr. Evans nodded. “Seventeen of the volunteers haven’t shown any signs of the virus yet.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I hate to venture a guess,” said Dr. Evans, “I’m hopeful. After all of the volunteers in the first two groups died, I was afraid that we were making a big mistake. But with seventeen showing no symptoms eighteen hours after exposure, it’s a positive sign.”

  “So Steph might make it?” I asked.

  “Don’t get your hopes up unrealistically.”

  “I’m learning new degrees of pessimism every day,” I said, “but I do know that good things can happen, even with everything that’s going on. Hoping that Steph or any of these other people will be okay isn’t the same as believing they will be.”

  Dr. Evans gave me a half-dozen nods, I guess to emphasize his agreement. “We’re on the same page, then. I don’t know if Steph will make it, but I’m sure some of the seventeen will. At least for me, that was more hope than I came down here with. Let me ask you, Zed. Now that you’re here, are you staying?”

  “No.” Through all the morning’s blood and despair, I’d chosen a path to my hope, and my own hope lay with those that desperate, shared struggle had bonded to me, my new family, Murphy, Mandi, and Russell. “I have people to get back to.”

  “Leaving will be harder than coming,” said Evans.

  “I don’t know.” I half smiled. “Coming was pretty hard.”

  “Yes, I guess it was.” Dr. Evans caught a little bit of a smile himself.

  “Listen,” I said, “after you finish your experiment with the volunteers, get up on the top floor, stay quiet, and don’t let the infected see you. Eventually, they’ll leave you alone.”

  “I appreciate the advice,” said Dr. Evans, “and we may do just that, but please do talk to Sergeant Dalhover. He has some opinions about the behavior of the infected that you might find interesting.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “I’m not in agreement, so it would be better if he explained his position.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Listen, after I get out of here, I’ll try and find a way to get back in contact with you. My buddy and I are both Slow Burns; we can move among them without too much danger. We may be able to help you if you start running low on supplies.”

  “Why don’t you both join us?”

  I stifled a sarcastic laugh, “We haven’t had much luck with the uninfected so far.”

  Dr. Evans put a fatherly, trusting hand on my shoulder. “You won’t have any problems here. I know you’re not a danger.”

  “You’re the first.”

  Chapter 10

  With a small Styrofoam pitcher full of water—the kind put on the bed trays of patients—along with a few single-serving containers of applesauce, I sat on a chair by Steph while I waited for Dalhover to finish his rounds.

  “You should eat some of this applesauce,” I said, holding a plastic spoonful up to her mouth.

  She shook her head. “I may still turn. The food shouldn’t be wasted on me.”

  “Drink some water at least,” I prodded.

  After enough convincing, she finally did.

  “Dalhover hasn’t shot anybody, and he’s almost done,” I said. “Is that a positive sign?

  Steph shook her head, “I count seven or eight that are acting out. I’m surprised he didn’t shoot them. Maybe he doesn’t feel comfortable doing it while you’re here.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Who knows? Maybe it’s guilt. He probably feels bad enough doing it already, and having a stranger watch him do it makes it too hard, too monstrous.”

  “How long have you been a nurse?” I asked.

  “That’s a change of subject,” Steph smiled.

  “Just curious,” I said.

  “Seven years.”

  “Really?” I hadn’t expected that number.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “Ah…I was gonna say that that would make you thirty or thirty one…”

  “Thanks,” Steph said insincerely.

  “But you don’t look that old,” I said. “I mean, you seem mature but you look like you’re in your mid-twenties.”

  “Mature?”

  I shrugged as I fished for the right words. “Confident. Strong. Not hung up in pretending you are or aren’t something. Like back in the triage tent. You seemed in control. That was a crazy night, and everything could have fallen apart so much faster than I guess it eventually did. But you’re one of those people who’s kind of like a rock in a storm. It calms the people around you.”

  Steph smiled and almost laughed, “That’s the nicest I’ve heard it said.”

  “What’s that?”

  Steph nodded over at Jeff, “He says I have a stick up my ass all the time.”

  It was my turn for muted laughter.

  “Thanks,” she said, sarcastically, again.

  “No, it’s not that,” I said. “It’s just that I’ve been told the same thing. Apparently I’m a bit uptight.”

  Steph looked off to my right, and I followed her gazed to see Dalhover’s sour face looking down on me. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come up.”

  Dalhover, of course, said nothing, but simply waited for me to proceed.

  I said, “Dr. Evans asked me to talk to you about your tactics with the infected.”

  “Okay,” Dalhover responded, as though the word took more effort than he had energy for.

  “Okay,” I parroted, for no other reason than to be a dick. “My experience with the infected is different than yours, but when I’ve been trapped with people, kind of like you guys are here, I found that if I remained hidden and stayed quiet, they forget about me. They’re not smart. They don’t have long attention spans. They eventually go a
way.” I didn’t want to tell Dalhover outright that they were dealing with the infected all together incorrectly but it needed to be said. “Whenever people out there fire a gun, start up a car, or even start talking too loud, the infected hear and they swarm to the source. Every time. They know what sounds to associate with normal people. Whenever you fire a gun, it’s like ringing a bell for Pavlov’s dog.”

  Dalhover’s flat expression didn’t change. He just looked at me.

  I looked back and unsuccessfully tried to gesture a response out of him.

  Nothing.

  I got a little irritated. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Dalhover paused just long enough to hint at rudeness and said, “Yes.”

  I decided to be blunt. “Do you think maybe you should change your tactics then? Maybe hide out here? Maybe give yourselves a chance?”

  “No.”

  “What?” The volume of my voice shot up a few notches.

  “Zed,” Steph said, trying to defuse my rising temper.

  “Why?” I asked Dalhover. “Why stick with what you’re doing when you know it’s not working?”

  Over Dalhover’s shoulder, one of the soldiers was starting to fidget with his gun and look around. He was clearly uncomfortable with the tone of the conversation.

  Dalhover decided to speak. “When Evans asked you to talk with me, did you think that you’d just tell me how it was because you’re the only one who knows anything about killing the infected? Or did he want us to share what we both know?”

  “Well…” I started, immediately on the defensive.

  Steph cut in. “Zed, listen to Sergeant Dalhover. Maybe with what he knows and what you know, you might figure out some more things about the infected.”

  I wanted to protest and tell them I knew all the important things there were to know, but I didn’t. As much as I thought it was true, it also felt a lot like arrogance, which meant that’s probably what it was. So I nodded and tried my best to sound sincere. “I’m sorry, Sergeant Dalhover. I’d like to hear what you know about fighting them.”

  Dalhover stared at me for another length of time that bordered on rudeness before his rusty voice said, “Everything you said is right, but you’ve missed the most important point.”