by S A Ison
She knew she needed to get the hell out of the city, away, because all these bodies decomposing, would lead to cholera or typhoid. She’d lived through the Vermilion strain, she doubted she’d live through cholera. It would take planning, but mostly, it would take figuring out where in the hell to go. Her first thought had been Lancaster, where her parents and ex-husband lived, but it would be just as bad as Boston. She could not live in or near a city. Too dangerous. Definitely away from the city. Out to the countryside? She’d have to commandeer a truck and pack it up with supplies, water and food. She wondered how the Amish were doing and if they’d take her in? Or did she even want to stay in a restrictive community?
Turning the cart, she headed up the final stretch of sidewalk to her apartment building, walking along Amory Street. She was glad she lived on the first floor; she’d hate to have to haul all the groceries up the stairs. She heard more gunfire, this time closer to hand. That wasn’t good. Who was shooting and at what?
Ahead of her, she saw a dog. It was thin and dirty. It had large liquid brown eyes, sad and compelling and melted her heart instantly. It was a tan and brown short haired dog, of medium to large build, with a sweet dark face. It looked at her and its tail wagged tentatively. She smiled. She wasn’t a dog person, that was her ex-husband’s wheelhouse, but she was so lonely that talking to a dog had to be better than not talking at all.
“Hey you. You lost? Your people parents die? I don’t have dog food, but I got some canned meats.” She cooed. Her smile broadened when the tail thumped harder.
“Well, come on dog.” She said and the dog followed behind her. Coming up to her apartment building, she stopped and looked around. Bodies littered the street, she turned away. Opening the door to her apartment, she coaxed the dog in, and followed after. She made several trips, bringing the bags of food in. The water was the heaviest and she had to break it down to even more trips. Going to the kitchen, she pulled out two bowls, and opened a bottle of water and handed the dog the water. She rifled around in a drawer and pulled out a can opener and opened a can of meat. She dumped that into the other bowl and set it before the dog. The animal wolfed down the food, licking the bowl.
“I’ll give you more later pooch, I don’t want you to get the shits. Besides, I think your tummy has shrank a bit, buddy. We’ll go back to Whole Foods later for a few big bags of dog food.”
Opening her own water, Emma went to the living room. On the coffee table were several stacks of books. She’d ransacked the local library and a book store, picking books that she thought might help her and her quest for surviving alone, in the hostile world. One book, Mini Farming, written by Brett Markham, would help her begin a garden. She knew nothing about gardening, nor plants. Her mother had a green thumb, but she didn’t. She’d have to learn. She had a book on wild edible plants, survival living, Survival Hacks, by Creek Stewart and a few other odds and ends, one about canning food and food preservation.
She’d been amassing supplies over the past few days, gearing up for the big move. She knew she was dragging her feet about leaving. Here was death and disease, but here was the known. Out there was the unknown. It was a start to a new life, a life alone in a world where there were very few humans. She didn’t know how many people were out there but she knew they wouldn’t all be nice. She thought about the gunshots she heard earlier. She didn’t own a gun, but had found several in the other apartments. She knew that if and when she ran into other people, she’d want to be armed. A woman alone was a dangerous situation. She’d seen enough post-apocalyptic movies to know that, at least there were no zombies. She could be thankful for small mercies.
On her small kitchen table was a Sig Sauer, or at least, that was what the box said. She’d found it in Mr. Willard’s home on the third floor. Mr. Willard had been the first to die at the apartment building, that she knew of. He’d gone to the emergency room and never returned. She had three boxes of 9mm shells. She also had a .38 special and two boxes of shells for that. That gun she’d found at couple apartments down her hall. She’d gone into nearly every apartment on the block. The ones with bodies, she simply looked into and shut the door. It wasn’t worth going in, especially after she’d found the first two weapons. She figured she’d better start carrying one of the weapons on her, now that she heard the gunshots earlier.
She would practice shooting once away from the city. Her ex, Dick, had harassed her into going to the gun range. Being a nurse, she’d seen her share of gunshot wounds and wanted no part of the weapons her ex-husband so loved. Now she was glad for the knowledge. She didn’t know a lot about the different weapons, but she did know how to fire them and she did know how to figure them out safely. She looked over to the dog. At least she now had a companion. She’d have to give the dog a name. There was no collar nor tags. She sighed and sat back. She dreaded leaving this place for the great unknown, but she had to leave.
She picked up the road atlas and flipped it open. Before her were thousands of choices. She but her mind kept going back to a place she was familiar with. A place that she’d felt loved and safe. Raymond B. Winter State Park in Pennsylvania. It was nearly seven hundred acres of wilderness, but had trails, fishing and hunting. It also had cottages, and she was sure there were lots of camping sites. She and her parents went there every year since she could walk. It was a place she loved. Laughing, at the thought, she noticed that the dog looked up at her questioningly.
“I guess I knew all along where I was going. And now with you, I think it’s safe to say that I’m ready to leave. Tomorrow, I’m going to find us a truck. There are a few around the neighborhood, it’s just a matter of finding the keys that go to it. That shouldn’t be a problem, I’ll just have to search every apartment for truck keys.” She laughed again, shaking her head at the monumental task of locating keys to a vehicle. She’d had her eye on a beauty, a blue Silverado. It was a quad cab. She could pack a lot of food and supplies in that, not to mention the truck bed. She’d need a lot and once she got to the park, she’d have to see what she needed to set up her future there.
She’d also have to swing by her parent’s home. She knew they were dead, though. She’d lost contact with them the first week. Her mother had called to say that her father was sick. Her mother hadn’t sounded that good either. Two days later, neither parent answered the phone. She’d grieved for them. But she wanted to swing by her old home and pick up a few personal and sentimental things. There was no more procrastinating. She had to leave this place. She had to begin anew.
Getting up, she grabbed the .38 and tucked it into her waist band. She went to the door; she’d make another run to the store and get dog food. Maybe look around for seed packets. She’d have to start a garden fast. Maybe some canning jars.
“Come on dog, let’s go find you some chow.”
Ӝ
Flynn Kellerman clicked the remote, nothing happened. His face was pale with fear and horror. All the channels had been reporting the same thing; the Vermilion Strain was spreading with ferocious speed across the world. Then there had been the steady warning banner, now nothing. The power was out. Shit, when had that happened? It had only been two weeks, or was it three, when the first cases had been reported? He was losing track of time. The virus had started in several large cities all over the world, including Philadelphia. South Korea claimed the first victim, but it had been a vague report and then all the other countries jumped in. It was a virus, Atlanta CDC identified as EV-01-H, a mutated hemorrhagic virus, origins unknown.
China had been screaming that the U.S. had let loose this plague. The United States said that China, in fact, was the culprit, that had let the deadly virus run amuck. Nations had been pointing fingers and nuclear launches were threatened, and Flynn had been terrified that a bomb would drop on Philly any moment. Now, the power was out. He felt so isolated and alone now. The accusations had gone back and forth, yet millions were dying, no matter the architect of the virus and no cure in sight.
“End of days
.” Flynn breathed, his mouth dry with terror. Flynn wasn’t a high-strung doomsday fanatic, but Christ in heaven, so many were dying so fast. He looked around his apartment, and wondered if this would be his tomb. At twenty-three, he’d only just begun to live his life. He’d just gotten this apartment six months ago, and now, his life would be cut short. He’d just met a great girl, Xandra, and he was pretty sure she was already dead. His whole world was crashing around him, all because of this Vermilion virus. He was alone in this world; his father having died last year, heart attack after smoking for a lifetime. His mother long dead. He had no one.
The Vermilion Strain was aptly named, the virus strain caused its victims to bleed out of every orifice, their skin turning deep shade of scarlet or vermilion from the burst capillaries and blood vessels all over their bodies. Even at this very moment, Flynn could detect the foul stench from his neighbor’s apartments around him, in the six-story apartment building. He’d called in sick three days after the first reports, though he wasn’t sick at all. After the first five hundred thousand deaths, Flynn figured he’d keep his head down, job be damned. Stocking shelves in the box store and looking into the possibly sick faces of the store’s customers, weren’t worth his life. As it turned out, two days later, most of the employees of the box store had died. So, home Flynn stayed, watching the death toll rise around the world. He stood by his window and looked out on the street below and saw bodies.
Bodies for Christ’s sake! Just laying everywhere and no one coming to take them away. He’d not seen the police, nor any of the National Guard, no one. Random people walked or staggered around the streets below. He watched as dogs fought over the bodies. Jerking and pulling them in grotesque ways, and he gagged, forcing himself to turn away from the window. An hour later saw him at the window again, watching.
“What in the hell?” He cried, when he saw a streak of orange and black run across the street and into the alley. Had that been a tiger?
“A tiger for Christ’s sake? Who the hell let the tigers out? Jesus Christ.” He screamed at the window, his fists pounding on the window frame. If the virus wasn’t bad enough, some dumbass had let out the animals from the zoo! What had they been thinking? Lions, tigers, bears, all of those predators loose in the city? My god, he thought, he’d have to worry about them as well. He needed a gun. Where in the hell was he going to get one? He’d have to locate a firearms dealer, or a store and get some weapons.
His brain was in overload, with the virus, possible starvation and now this. He wanted to shrink down and just disappear. He watched out the window, looking for more animals. Sometimes, he saw a car pass by. The cars swerved to miss the bodies, sometimes though, he’d see a car bounce and knew that it had run over one of the bodies. It was all too grizzly; it was all too surreal. Flynn had texted his friends, afraid to leave his apartment. He’d urged Cramer Appleton, his best friend and also drinking buddy, to quit work or at least take a vacation. Cramer hemmed and hawed. That was almost two weeks ago, Flynn had texted him five days ago and he’d heard nothing back. He’d called and left messages. He’d called Cramer’s job and no one answered.
Flynn then texted Roger Lower, and Roger didn’t answer back. He went through his list of names and contacts and one by one, no one answered, no one texted back. No one. He clutched the TV remote to his chest. He went back to the couch and sat down. Bending over at the waist, he rocked and tried to breathe. He knew he was having a panic attack and was helpless to stop it. He got up from the couch and walked to the window. He was wearing a groove in the carpet.
“This is bullshit. Why isn’t anyone answering?” he muttered to the dirty window. Flynn’s fingers wove through his dirty blond hair and pulled. He was beginning to go crazy, cooped up in his apartment, with the reek seeping through the walls. He had to get out of his apartment, but he knew that was a very bad idea. Five minutes later, he found himself going to his front door and walking out with his car keys in hand. He went to the elevator and cursed when it didn’t work. The power was out, he reminded himself. He went to the stairs and opened the door. It was dark.
Pulling out his lighter, he lit it and made his way down the four flights of stairs quickly. He opened the door to the outside, bent over and vomited. The pong outside was horrendous, heavy and cloying. Though it was only April, the warm spring sun was heating up the dead.
Ropes of saliva hung from his mouth as he gripped his stomach. His body shuddered violently. Hot tears flowed freely from his eyes as he squeezed them shut. The smell was beyond anything he’d experienced before. It seared his throat and bit deep down into his gut. With a shaky hand, he wiped at his mouth and turned, back to the building and went back up the stairs to his floor, running quickly, staggering and tripping. Reaching the door, he burst through and slammed the door and locked it. Sliding down with his back against the door, tears falling down his face, Flynn screamed in anguish, rage and self-pity and a heavy dose of fear.
Ӝ
Brian looked up when the lights flickered off and then back on. His generator started up and he smiled. That had been the best investment he could have hoped for. The generator would run for approximately a week before the fuel was out. That would give him time to plan and get his shit together. He knew he couldn’t stay here at the house, as much as he wanted to. He’d spent the last few days going over YouTube videos, he was sure that at some point, that too would die and it had. He’d lost his internet yesterday evening. But not before he’d amassed a large amount of knowledge on how to and DIY videos.
He’d been getting to know Cooper, who’d begun to come out of his shell. The child hadn’t asked to go back to his home after the first day living with Brian. Brian had given the boy a bath, and had dressed him in clean clothing and put him into the spare bedroom, he’d slept on the couch, his own bed too soiled to be useable. He couldn’t bring himself to sleep in it alone, without his wife. The boy had slept the rest of that day and night. He was clear eyed the next morning. From then on, he’d taken Coop with him on his forays, out into town. Thankfully, the child wasn’t big enough to see out of the windows, at the dead that littered the roads.
Coop was now on the floor, coloring. Brian had picked up crayons and a few coloring books. The child was softly humming as he colored the pages. That morning, Brian’s heart had been shattered when Copper had called him daddy. Coop hadn’t noticed the slip. Brian’s eyes stung with tears at the remembrance. He and Christa had thought about having children, but their lives had been busy ones. Then, she’d gotten cancer. By then, they didn’t think it was a good idea. Now he had a child, by way of a pandemic. Each day saw Cooper more resilient and coping.
Brian had picked up propane bottles along with a camping cook stove. He figured he’d need that. Once he got to where he was going, he planned to pick up more propane bottles. It would at least last him a good while. He’d also started picking up dry goods, TP, plastic sheeting rolls, duct tape, nails, screws and other odds and ends. He wasn’t sure what he’d need it for, but if ever he did, he’d have it on hand. It was after all, the end of the world. No one would ever make them again. Also, once the gasoline was gone, he’d be confined to where ever he settled.
Next, he had to figure out where to go. He knew that though. It was where he’d gone hunting with his friends and camping with Christa. R.B. Winter State Park, a couple hours north west of him. There were numerous parks in Pennsylvania, and he was sure he could choose any one of them, but he was most familiar with Winter.
He’d hunted and fished there for the last thirty years or so. He and Christa had walked the trails and had enjoyed the wildness of it. He figured that location would be his best bet. There was plenty of space there and cabins. Worst case, he could take over an RV or find one and tow it behind his truck. He knew he’d not live in a tent, that wouldn’t do for winter. He had a child to care for now. On that thought, he wrote down chain saw on his list. He’d pick up a couple as well as extra chains and oil. He’d have to cut down a lot of tree
s for winter firewood. He’d also swing by the salvage yard and see about picking up a small potbelly stove along with flashing. The cabins didn’t have fireplaces.
So much to think about and do before he had to leave. Once the gas was gone, he’d be stuck at Winter Park, so he needed to get this right. He was a handyman, and tinkered quite a bit. He smiled, remembering Christa complaining about all his projects in the garage. Most unfinished. He loved keeping busy and there never seemed to be enough time in the day. Now, he had all the time in the world. He’d make a few trips. He’d also put a lock on the cabin door, he wasn’t sure how many people would be there, but he didn’t want to leave supplies there without locking them up. He’d make a run this afternoon and drop off a truck load and get a lay of the land.
He went down in the basement. He wanted to check his rifles. He pulled out his Mossberg Patriot, he’d cleaned it two months ago. He also had his childhood rifle, the Timber Classic Marlin. It was the first weapon he’d used to hunt with, with his father. He’d hunted at the state park as well. He smiled at the memory of his first deer, he’d been so proud. He’d been thirteen. He’d have to teach Cooper to hunt, when he got older. He’d also need to teach the child not to touch the firearms. He’d have to keep locks on them. He didn’t want a tragedy.
He’d have to load all of that as well. First things first. He needed to get over to the state park to find a place to live. To see what conditions were. He hoped that if others lived there, that they were good and decent people. He knew people lost their minds in horrendous conditions. He’d seen it in his work. Devastation brought out the best and the worst in people. He didn’t know if others would head out there as well, because there were so many choices, also, he didn’t know how many people were left alive. He’d not seen very many. He suspected that R.B. Winter Park might be a place where others would congregate to live. Perhaps he could join up with others and make a small community? Help each other to survive. Though it was late spring, winter would be there regardless of how ready he was or wasn’t. There wouldn’t be anyone coming in to save the day. Whatever they could find, hunt or scavenge, was all they would have.
