First Weeks After

by Jay Vielle

  “And how is it that you survived? Or that Emmitsburg survived?” asked Vinny. “You gotta refresh me. I wasn’t really paying attention on the ride up from Virginia.”

  “Lead,” she said. “Our lab in Fort Detrick was coated in it, and the counter measures coming out of Camp David, or Site R as Colonel Cannaveral mentioned, basically put out like a lead ordnance force field that was triggered simultaneously. It’s pretty advanced stuff, but Emmitsburg is lucky enough to be right next door to Camp David.”

  “So, assuming that the Colonel is right—and I do,” I said, “How nasty is it that they would have to clean up all of those dead bodies when they supposedly came to take over? I mean, conquering the enemy land is good, but we’re talking about having to deal with literally millions of dead bodies. That’s grisly.”

  There was an awkward pause. Wendy was biting her lip, clearly trying to decide whether or not to speak her mind.

  “Well,” Wendy said. “The mutates are doing that, aren’t they?”

  “Wait, what?” asked Tommy, turning around. “Are you saying that the orange things are like, like vultures or something?”

  “We know that they are carnivorous. They live on flesh, living or dead. I’m just saying, it’s possible that the Russians knew what they were doing with these bombs. If ninety percent of the people exposed die immediately, and the remaining percentage literally clean up the mess, they’ve got themselves a whole new world to conquer. No muss, no fuss,” said Wendy.

  “Jesus. That’s diabolical,” I said.

  “I don’t want to discuss this anymore,” said Tommy. “Turn the radio back on.”

  “Did the Colonel tell you this?” I asked Wendy.

  “I’m not supposed to say,” she said, “But it was a working theory with some of the people he was talking to as this was going on. We didn’t have time to discuss it much, as things were happening too fast. But I heard the conference call with the Joint Chiefs. Ray—the Colonel—he was on that call, and I was in the room.”

  “Dear God,” I said. Tommy’s face was pinched horribly. He looked like he was fighting back tears. Then I realized. We were talking about his mother. She was one of those things created by the Russians. She was the vulture cleaning up their massive genocide. This wasn’t some abstract science fiction topic for him. It was personalized. It was Mom.

  “I had some concerns about that theory,” Wendy said. “It makes sense in the worst way, but something that I thought about that the Colonel might not. All of those mutates were somehow immune to the Russians weaponized Ebola.”

  “Meaning?” I asked.

  “Meaning they’re all carriers. Anyone who comes into contact with them—and doesn’t get killed—will contract Ebola. But it won’t speed through their system like it would have been with the Brenerium warheads, though. It would, in theory, operate as it normally does. So, it would take days to kill someone. They would suffer horribly, with no one around to treat them.”

  “That’s awful,” said Vinny.

  “It is. And it would also pretty much, in theory, take care of anyone who wasn’t killed outright in the bombings,” Wendy said.

  “Like us,” Vinny said.

  “Like us,” she repeated.

  “Damn. That is pretty fucking thorough,” Jake said.

  “Except for one thing,” I interrupted.

  “What’s that?” asked Jake.

  “What about the mutates themselves? What will the Russians do when they get here? They would still theoretically have to contend with them, wouldn’t they? I mean, in general, it’s a pretty flawless plan. But then they’d just have to recapture these Ebola-ridden mutate things,” I said.

  “Well, maybe not,” said Wendy.

  “How’s that?” asked Jake.

  “You may remember me telling you that we captured one of those things. We had it locked up in quarantine, and it died in less than twenty-four hours with no food,” Wendy said.

  “So, the problem takes care of itself,” I said.

  “These things, whenever they run out of food, will just expire,” she said.

  “And statistically, anywhere they dropped bombs, people died all over, and twenty percent of the population will feed on the remains of the other eighty percent,” said Jake. “Jesus. So, all the Russians have to do is sit back and wait.”

  “What about the other countries involved in the war?” I asked her.

  “That’s not really my specialty,” said Wendy. “I’m the NIH disease person assigned to the premier biological weapons defense research base. I was paired with the Army’s top biological and weapons expert, but he’s the one with the military angle on everything. I picked up a few things just being around there, but I’ve pretty much told you everything I know.”

  “Which is more than you told us before,” Vinny said. “Why did you wait?”

  “Well, there was the little matter about us being captured and set up to be sold as sex slaves, if you recall,” Wendy said. Vinny blushed.

  “Sorry. It’s been a crazy week,” he said.

  We rolled on towards Glenmont. Then I had a thought that freaked me out.

  “Jake,” I yelled. “This plan isn’t going to work.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “Do you get seasick on kayaks?”

  “The horses. Won’t they be dead, too? Like all the people?” I asked.

  Jake’s face froze, and he instinctively slowed down.

  “Shit,” he said. “I didn’t think of that. Now what?”

  “Horses can’t get Ebola,” said Wendy.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Horses were among some of the test animals infected with Ebola. They showed little or no symptoms and tested negative after a few days. They should, in theory, be okay,” Wendy said.

  “No shit?” I asked.

  “No shit. And cats can’t get it. None of Africa’s big cats showed any signs of it, despite eating primates that were known to have had it,” she added.

  “Wow. Didn’t know that,” I said.

  “Isn’t it nice having a disease specialist along for the ride?” Wendy said, smiling, and looking at Jake in the mirror.

  “Yes. Yes, it is,” said Jake. I glanced at Tommy. He was feigning sleep in the passenger’s side. Glenmont was just a few miles away. The map Jake had said the stables were easy to find, off the main road and backed up next to a park.

  We slowed down until we spotted the facility. Jake drove up slowly.

  “Dad, are we seriously gonna steal horses?” asked Vinny.

  “No. I plan on talking to the owners and leaving the truck here as collateral,” he answered.

  “What if they don’t go for that?” asked Tommy.

  “Then we steal them,” said Jake. “This is an emergency situation, so it takes precedence.”

  “What if they violently disagree?” asked Vinny. “Like pull a gun on us or something?”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Jake said.

  It didn’t. We got out and immediately saw dead bodies on the ground. All were discolored, some were bloated. I thought I was going to vomit.

  “Holy shit,” said Tommy, turning away.

  “Somehow I don’t think they’re gonna mind,” I said. We walked over to the stables. Horses were outside, munching grass in one of the fenced-in areas. They saw us and started trotting toward the fences.

  “What are they doing?” I asked.

  “They’re probably hungry and thirsty,” said Jake. They’ve had grass, but I bet they’re hoping we can give them some grain. Tommy, check those water troughs over there. If you see a hose or a spigot, fill up the troughs. Hungry and thirsty horses don’t usually cooperate,” Jake said to me. Tommy nodded. He seemed relieved to have something to do. He didn’t ever scowl when he was busy, and his demeanor was softened. It wasn’t until something came up that made him think of his mother that the scowl returned, and the tension filled his body back up.

  Tommy turned on a hose, and three
of the horses walked up and started drinking from it as he stood there. He patted the nearest one on the neck. Jake was in the barn looking around. He came out with a bucket full of grain with a metal scoop inside. He scooped a little into each of the food troughs along the fence, and the horses fought over space to get to it. The ones that were drinking all trotted over to the grain bins and started trying to wrestle for position in front of the food. Water was necessary, but the grain must have been like Hershey bars to them.

  “We’ll give them a little time to feed and water themselves,” said Jake. “In the meantime, let’s take a look at what kind of tack they have here.”

  “Tack?” I asked.

  “Saddles, bridles, that kind of thing. ‘Tack’ is kind of an all-encompassing word for that stuff,” he answered.

  “Your boys seem pretty comfortable around horses. Have they ridden?” I asked Jake.

  “We used to have a few horses when the boys were younger. They helped me take care of them. I made them learn to ride, but the truth is they never really loved it like I did. Once they hit middle school and got into wrestling, we rarely got on them again. Eventually I sold them. They make expensive pets, and we weren’t using them like they needed to be used.

  Jake entered a room reserved for tack, as he called it. Inside were a dozen or more saddles of varying sizes, all sitting on poles that jutted out from the wall. On the adjacent wall were tons of bridles, halters, and lead lines. Jake explained to me the difference. The bridles had metal bits that were placed in the horses’ mouths and were designed for riding only. Halters had no bits and were used mostly for leading horses around.

  “Okay, everybody come over and pick out a saddle you like,” Jake yelled. “Preferably a Western saddle with a horn.”

  I looked everywhere and couldn’t find a horn. Then I realized it must be another one of those horse riding terms. The horn is the part of the saddle that rises up in front of the rider, almost looking like an upside-down ladle. Jake said it’s used largely for roping cattle and other horses and using as a stabilizer, but he also said that it was very handy when riding in rough country for holding onto. He said that a greenhorn like me probably ought to be tied to one. I decided to take it as a compliment, though I’m pretty sure that’s not how it was issued. Jake grabbed a couple of ropes and rolled them up.

  “We’re ready,” he said. “Grab any gear from the truck you might need. Food, water, whatever.”

  “Dad, where we gonna put all of it?” asked Vinny. Jake went around the corner and held up some leather pouches.

  “In these. I found the saddle bags in another room,” Jake said. Jake gave everyone a saddle bag. We filled them up, and Jake checked the sturdiness of the saddles fastened to each horse.

  “Okay, crew. Stage one. Mount up. We’re headed southwest,” he said.

  I uncomfortably mounted my horse. Jake picked one that seemed the most docile for me, but I was still nervous as Hell. We started to walk along the pastureland towards the park. We rode in a single row, with Tommy leading and Jake holding up the rear. I looked forward at Vinny, who was in front of me, and got a chuckle as I looked at the saddlebags on his horse. Now I understood why that term was used to describe women with large, drooping hips. From the rear, they actually make the horses look a little like some of the people we taught with at Hunter’s Run. Jenny Custis came to mind, among others. I wondered what she and the rest of her psychotic church members were up to as we walked towards the D.C. waterfront.

  CHAPTER 4

  Jenny Custis was cooking in the Hunter’s Run cafeteria alongside Melanie Richmond and Rozlyn James. Jenny was an older, overweight English Department Chair who seemed to derive pure enjoyment out of correcting people. She was the perfect grammar Nazi, I always used to say. She was barking orders to Melanie Richmond, the school secretary. Melanie was an attractive divorcee in her early forties with the kind of self-esteem issues that led her to seek approval and fulfillment by being the town gossip. I had it on good authority that she slept around a few of the departments as well. Jake always said she was the crazy ex-girlfriend you always heard about on country music stations. The third member of the party in the kitchen was Rozlyn James. Roz was the kind of good-looking that comes from being wealthy. She had good skin, was usually properly made up, often wore stylish, expensive clothing that matched everything down to the last accessory, and as a result, was strong and confident. She was not a member of the HRHS faculty, but she was on nearly every parent council that existed at Hunter’s Run High School, including the athletic boosters, PTA, and the community board. She was also the wife of Billy James, deacon of the Church of Many Blessings. That part was a surprise.

  No one could figure how she ended up with Billy. He was a friendly fellow—that much was agreed upon. But he was, at best, awkward around people, and his Irish roots were easily visible in his spiky tuft of red hair and freckles. He was usually smiling or laughing awkwardly as well. He was a crucial member of the church, heading its outreach with youth—especially the youth of Hunter’s Run. But he was frequently wishy-washy, and Jake once postulated that may have been what attracted Roz the most. She was bossy, assertive, and opinionated—everything that made Billy cower a bit and take a back seat. Roz wanted the spotlight, and she frequently got it. When she wasn’t handing something out on camera, she was taking selfies and posting things on social media. In every way but official, she ruled Hunter’s Run with an iron hand. And beware anyone who crossed her, or they would find themselves eviscerated on Facebook and Twitter the next day.

  It was rumored that Roz was fairly generous in other ways as well. Though slightly past her prime, Roz would turn heads when she was made up and dressed well. And a few of the gentlemen in the parish were rumored to have turned more than their heads with Roz. Other than Father Joe, Roz was the beacon of the church, and her personal wealth and her affiliation with the high school truly made her one of the most important people in the town.

  The one seen most in her company was a man named John Segen. John had been a member of the church for some time, and like Roz, he adored the spotlight. He was usually the loudest talker, the biggest tipper, the most frequent tweeter, and the slap-happiest guy on Facebook. He was on all of the same councils as Roz and was a fixture at local sporting events. His sons had attended Hunter’s Run and had played a number of sports there. To read his Facebook post, you’d have thought them the most perfectly gifted athletes of all time. John was married to his perfect match in Adeline. Like John and Roz, she ruled the social scene at Hunter’s Run. The three of them were always drinking, dining, or meeting somewhere—and if you missed out on the event, there was always the consolation that you would see it well spread and illustrated on every kind of social media. Contrastingly, Billy would rarely join his wife, but often was off on a mission for Father Joe.

  All four of them, however, were in the Hunter’s Run cafeteria at this moment, helping to prepare food ahead of time for Father Joe’s big gathering. Father Joe had planned it that way. Now that the internet seemed to be back up and running, the event he had planned would be well-advertised with the James and Segen families leading the charge.

  “So why are we cooking all this day’s ahead of time?” asked John.

  “So that when the people arrive, all we need do is heat everything up. We’re going to sell things at the concession stand for the big town meeting at the football game. Father Joe has us frying chicken tenders, grilling hot dogs and hamburgers, and popping popcorn. He’s got a lot of food here,” said Roz.

  “How many is he expecting?” asked Billy.

  “The stadium seats six thousand, if you use both sets of bleachers,” said John. “That’s about how many people there are in town, give or take a few.”

  “And just how does he expect to get everybody in town here?” asked Billy.

  “We’ve mandated it on social media,” said Roz. “Don’t worry dear, they’ll come.”

  “TV is out, some cell towers are s
till down, and I don’t think that everybody has internet up and running. Do you think?”

  “Enough, Billy. I don’t want to hear your nay-saying attitude. Just do what I tell you and load those burgers onto the pans to cook. We’ll be fine. John, have you posted?” Roz asked. Both John and Adeline were simultaneously taking selfies in front of the cafeteria. They checked out their pictures, nodded, then uploaded.

  “Not to worry, Roz,” said Adeline.

  “Addie, did you get the church banner in the background of yours?” asked John.

  “What do I look like?” asked Addie. “A rookie? Did you get the Hunters Run banner in the background of yours?”

  “Naturally. Fair enough then. Anybody seeing us on Facebook will be here. That’s good for three thousand at least,” John said, winking and giving Billy a high five. Billy smiled awkwardly and feebly offered his hand.

  “Three thousand, huh?” said Addie. “I’ve got four thousand, six hundred and something friends. That’s way more than you,” she said.

  “You’ve got boobs,” said John, laughing a little too loud at his own joke and winking at Billy, who just smiled awkwardly back.

  “You two,” said Roz, smiling. “Okay, Mel, is the chicken all done?”

  “Sure is,” Melanie Richmond said.

  “That chicken looks overcooked,” said Jenny Custis.

  “Don’t want to get the people sick, now do we Jenny?” said Roz, moving pans to the sink.

  “Do be a dear and wash these up for me, would you?” said Roz. Jenny frowned slightly and nodded. She wobbled over to the sink and began washing pans.

  “Where was Wes going?” asked Roz.

  “Father Joe said something about Ivan at the bank,” said Billy.

  “Oh yes, that makes sense. He’d be important to have there. And Pedro? I haven’t seen him today,” Roz asked.

  “He was going to talk with the faculty of the college, I believe. They are starting to gather there, even though it’s not yet officially opened up again,” said Billy.