ZNIPER: A Sniper’s Journey Through The Apocalypse.

by Ward III, C.

  Ignoring their father, the debate continued. “Zombies are undead. Risen from the grave, and they shamble around moaning a lot with outstretched hands. Brain-dead souls, in search of living brains,” Zavier explained.

  “How about those movies that had sprinting infected crazy people who attacked everyone? Those were the best kinds of zombie movies,” Curtis interjected.

  “I hate that kind of zombie; they’re scary and harder to shoot,” Zavier said.

  “Ophiocordyceps unilateralis, also known as the zombie spore, is part of the infectious hybrid pathogen in the Grays. So, technically, they are zombies. Just not in the traditional rotting undead sci-fi sense.” Erica winked at Zavier.

  “Zombie snipers of the apocalypse.” Victor said jokingly.

  “ZNIPERS” Zavier said grinning.

  “Heck yeah!” Victor cheered, leaning over to fist bump with Zavier.

  “You know, there were a lot of brain-dead zombies walking around before the Dark Day. Stumbling around with their face buried in a mobile phone, paying no attention to the world around them,” Victor preached. “Or how about the brainwashed zombies that couldn’t form a coherent original thought, the zombies who took emotional commands from mainstream propaganda on TV?”

  “I miss my phone,” Michael said sadly, missing the meaning to his dad’s rant.

  “I miss cartoons on TV,” Zavier added.

  “And I missed all of you, and I’m so very happy to be here. In this wonderful home. Listening to you bicker back and forth again. Just like old times,” Erica said, smiling.

  SILK ROAD

  Trading of goods and services

  Victor had just brought in an armload of chilled wood from the front porch and was carefully organizing logs into a perfect pattern inside the fireplace to reawaken the smoldering ambers when he heard a gentle knock on the door.

  “Good morning, Victor. Is Erica awake yet?” Mrs. Cloud asked in a hushed tone as he slightly opened the door, keeping out the frigid morning air.

  “Yes. Please come on in and out of the cold,” Erica said from behind Victor.

  “You’re not supposed to be standing,” Lawrence, the town’s veterinarian, scolded Erica, then gave a sharp look to Victor, who only shrugged his shoulders, silently refusing responsibility of her stubbornness.

  “Oh, please! I’m not completely crippled. I can hobble from bed to couch. But I could do it better if you brought me some of those pain relievers,” she said with a subtle plea in her voice. “It’s nice of you to come by for a house visit.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t make you hobble yourself all the way up to the infirmary. Seriously, though, if you are not going to use the wheelchair, I’ll splint your leg and give you crutches. Your damaged muscle tissue needs time to repair,” Lawrence warned her.

  Erica exaggerated an eye roll as she turned away from the veterinarian to find a younger Hispanic man. “Hello, I don’t think we’ve met yet.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I’m Jake. I was an EMT on the Fire Department when the lights went out.” The young man stepped forward, politely shaking Erica’s hand.

  “Well, as nice as it is to have company, I don’t think your entire gang needed to come for a simple checkup?” Victor quizzed them.

  Mrs. Cloud took a seat in the rocking chair next to the couch Erica had planted herself in. “If you are feeling up to it, could we discuss what you know of the outbreak?”

  “Sure, I can tell you in great detail about the strain, as well as observations I have made in the field. But from what Victor has told me, you all have gathered some substantial materials yourself.”

  As the medical research group began discussing the hybrid pathogen, possible origins, and early symptoms to late stages with Erica, Victor hung a kettle in the fireplace to boil water and made tea for his guests. Most of their dialogue was outside his realm of understanding, but he stayed to listen, catching bits and pieces he could use for survival while outside the wall.

  “So, in your opinion, a parasite, fungus, and prion are working as a singular unit?” Jake asked.

  “Yes,” Erica confirmed.

  “But the Cordyceps fungi prefers insects with low immune systems. It doesn’t target warm-blooded species,” Lawrence argued.

  Erica rebutted, “Each piece of the hybrid produces a specific symptom that is easily noticeable. But the Grays are a product of the combined effects. The prion destroys the human psychological and social part of the brain; the parasite alters the host for favorable conditions, including lowering the body temperature and protection; and the fungus takes control of the nervous system. Whether Ophiocordyceps unilateralis is supposed to attach to mammals or not doesn’t change the fact that it is happening now.”

  “Yes, yes,” Mrs. Cloud agreed. “Compared to a normal, healthy patient, all of our subjects have exhibited dangerously low core temperatures with extremely low resting heart rates.”

  Jake and Lawrence nodded their heads in agreement.

  “There have been other physical changes to the infecteds’ anatomies,” Lawrence added. “Leishmania has eaten the flesh from around the first and second knuckle of each digit, enabling them to use sharp, bony fingers to grasp, claw, and scratch. Additionally, the tendons in their hands have become semipermanently restricted.”

  “Interesting observation,” Erica noted. “Any theories on why this is happening?”

  “I have a theory,” Lawrence continued. “It was after we noticed their hands tightly curled into balls that we first thought they were in a fighting or defensive posture. But that was wrong. Instead, their fingers are now naturally clinched into fists, much like an owl’s talons. With restricted ligaments, it takes physical effort for them to open their hands wide. After they clasp onto whatever it is they are grabbing, they relax their hands and will have a death grip on their prey with no effort or energy spent.”

  “That is terrifying!” Victor said from the doorway, truly shaken yet impressed by the lethality of the Grays.

  “I would love a tour of your observation facility,” Erica stated enthusiastically.

  “Have you seen the tumors on their necks and heads?” Mrs. Cloud asked.

  “At the lab in Detroit, we were shown pictures of a late-stage victim with a cantaloupe-size growth on the neck area. Then, just a few days ago, while I was in Houghton Lake, I observed a Gray within a horde with a large tumor. Maybe it was a week ago; I’m sorry, it was difficult to keep track of time out there.”

  “That’s OK. We think the tumors are spore pods. Would you agree?” Lawrence asked.

  “That would be a strong assumption,” Erica agreed. “The early infectious stage spreads through bodily fluid, then it mutated to skin-to-skin contact. Spreading via airborne spores would be the next logical evolution mutation.”

  “In our observation area at the jail, inside a locked cell, we found a deceased subject with a neck wound. Our best guess is that an unauthorized person was in there, probably a junkie looking for meds. The intruder got too close, and the Gray’s spore-tumor popped, infecting the victim through the bars. If they are infected with the same spore that controls—then kills—ants, it makes sense.” Mrs. Cloud added.

  “If the Gray died after releasing its spores, just like in the ants, then could the bursting tumor be the end of the lifecycle? Maybe these things will die off sooner than we originally thought?” Victor asked.

  “We can’t say.” Erica looked down. “If we were dealing with any of the three elements separately, I could give an absolute answer. But this hybrid is far different from anything we have seen before. As soon as a host is contaminated with any virus, the strain goes to work, altering and adding genes to the human DNA sequence. That’s not uncommon. Turning humans into those things out there…yeah, this hybrid is something far more advanced.”

  “Speaking of altering DNA and evolving, we have another question—a hypothesis,” Lawrence said.

  Mrs. Cloud glanced at him with a look of warning. Jake s
traightened in his chair anticipating the question to come. Even Victor picked up on their shifts in body language.

  Lawrence went on: “With bodily deformities and the thickness of scabbed crustaceans, it is difficult to observe them in the wild, and admittedly, we mostly only cataloged infected killed at the wall or the few live subjects that Victor has captured…but we haven’t seen an infected female in months.”

  Erica’s eyes widened as she understood the implication of the statement. Her mind slipped, rewinding, remembering every encounter with a Gray over the past couple of months. How did she miss that detail? She was trained to study, catalog, and report the slightest of abnormalities.

  She shook her head slowly. “Neither have I. They have all been males.” Her mind began to hypothesize the meaning: Is the lifecycle of females shorter than males? Are there packs of females, and if so, where are they? Is there a gender hierarchy among the Grays? Did the males kill the females, or are the females being protected?

  The conversation in Victor’s living room went into overdrive. He could no longer keep up with the scientific terminology, chemical formulas, or the medical journal articles being referenced.

  Victor attempted to intervene, suggesting that Erica should get some rest. The outcome was just the opposite. She demanded someone wheel her down to the lab so they could get to work immediately. He wanted to object, but he was happy to see the spark of life returned to her hardened eyes. She needed to be back in her element, to help the traumatic recovery of being in the field for months.

  Stepping out onto the porch to go find the sheriff, Victor spotted Kevin walking up the sidewalk. He climbed down the stairs to shake his hand.

  “I was just coming by to say hi and check in on Stephan—I mean, Erica. How’s her leg?” Kevin asked, genuinely concerned.

  “Oh, she’s doing just fine. Keeping her off of the leg will be the hard part. You mentioned that you were in high-risk security before the lights went out?”

  “Security at the lab wasn’t all that high risk—not like running diplomatic missions in Kabul or anything,” Kevin corrected.

  “True, but you were a Cav Scout in the army, and you do know about physical security measures and emergency action plans. This town has an important position for you. That is, if you’re willing to accept. How would you like to be in charge of our Town Defense Force?” Victor asked, putting a hand on Kevin’s shoulder.

  The old red pickup truck slowly rolled around the corner and onto Main Street. Victor and Kevin burst into laughter at the sight of goats standing in the truck bed, looking over the roof, and Sheriff Bohner trying to steer with a dozen frenzied chickens inside the cab while a tethered cow trotted behind.

  “Keep laughing, a-holes!” Sheriff Bohner yelled out the window as he passed.

  Kevin slapped Victor on the shoulder, still laughing, “I guess he made a deal with the Amish folks. Looks like he made out fanta-a-a-astic,” Kevin said, mimicking a goat.

  They caught up with the truck at the TDF building, where farmers had relieved the sheriff of the animals being herded toward the fenced-in soccer field. Sheriff Bohner was swiping chicken feathers off his coat when he pointed a finger at Victor and Kevin. “Not a word, or I’ll lock you both up,” he said with a scowl.

  “Congratulations on making the deal. You know that there are some dairy farms out near that Amish community. There’s no way that they could manage that many cattle without modern equipment. Maybe we could barter for a few milkers? Cheap even, I bet,” Victor offered.

  “Sure, fine. But you get livestock-transportation duty next time,” the sheriff said with a grin.

  “While you’re here, I have news: Kevin agreed to take over as TDF commander, so I can go out on the rescue missions that are farther away. We had three new requests for relocation assistance come in yesterday.”

  “Good. Glad to have you on board, Kevin. Anyone that can survive out there as long as you did deserves the position. It’s an important task, keeping the entire town safe.” Sheriff Bohner shook Kevin’s hand. “Speaking of the defense force, I’m going to borrow a few of the finest later. The council has decided to open up trade with Kalkaska to the north. See what they have to offer. The mayor and I will go on horseback, with escorts, up the railroad to avoid road bandits.”

  Victor approved. “Smart plan. Whatever was troubling the Kalkaska mayor, it must be serious. Let us know if we can help.”

  Victor spent a couple of hours showing Kevin around the TDF headquarters building, showing off the TDF armory and its capabilities, pointing out the location of all the guard posts, and describing their basic reactionary plan, which needed to be updated as the town expanded. Victor confessed that he hadn’t been conducting as many security drills as they should have due to workloads and missions.

  Afterward, Victor, Raymond, and a couple of recovery team members prepared to move out, using the two pickup trucks. As they checked weapons, gear, and radios, the diplomatic excursion trotted by on horseback. A pair of hunters went with them as guides, joined by a few protection team TDF guards; Sheriff Bohner was the authority figure, and the mayor served as the emissary.

  Reaching into his saddlebag, the sheriff pulled out a couple of mason jars of Chad’s corn whiskey. “We should be able to trade something for these.” He smiled.

  “If you don’t drink it all on the way there,” Raymond sniped as the caravan trotted by.

  “All right, gents, of the three addresses for us to visit today, the family farthest away has children. I say we go there first. The closest family can wait till tomorrow if we don’t get to them today.” Victor eyed his crew. “Any bitches, moans, or complaints? Good, I didn’t want to hear them anyway. Let’s roll out.”

  The two-truck convoy headed out the town’s south gate. As the gate slid open and they slowly rolled through, Victor spotted the town’s newest security measure: three small cottages that had been rentals earlier in the summer. Structures that close to the perimeter wall had been a security risk and were almost burnt down by Raymond to provide a clear field of fire. But instead of burning down the little cozy cottages, they stacked more shipping containers around each house, creating individual quarantine zones for newcomers. The engineers argued that a chain-link fence would be far easier to build than shipping container emplacement, but Victor countered that it was the town’s responsibility to protect and care for anyone placed in quarantine. Chain link was not a proper barrier from the occasional raider harassment.

  The convoy turned west on Route 55 and then slowly traveled toward their first objective. As the sun peaked in the sky, the morning frost layer melted away, giving way to an unusually warm day. Taking advantage of the sun’s warmth, Victor turned off the truck heater and opened the passenger window for some fresh air, catching a faint whiff of chimney smoke.

  “They call it an Indian summer,” Victor’s driver, Roger, said. “You know, the last blast of warm air, right before we get slammed with snow?”

  Looking out the open window at the windswept fields of dead, brown grass and the gray leafless trees that held fat squirrels, Victor agreed. Winter was almost upon them, which would bring new hardships and challenges with it.

  The lead truck slowed, stopped, and then reversed into the driveway of a cobblestone farmhouse. Victor’s truck did the same, parking side by side, both truck engines running, with the drivers’ doors open for a quick getaway if needed.

  Raymond flanked left around the house; his driver, Doug, flanked right out of sight. Roger stayed with the vehicles, watching the road as Victor casually stood fifty feet in front of the house with his rifle slung across his back, nonthreatening. This is the part Victor hated most. He stood there, completely vulnerable. His fate lay in the intentions of whoever occupied the house. Victor would rather fight off a horde of Grays than face nervous uncertainty.

  The pickup trucks, still idling with rusted mufflers in the driveway, were not quiet by any means. If anyone was home, they were immediately aware of
Victor and company’s arrival. But they had yet to come out. Which meant that the occupants were deathly scared or deadly sly.

  “Hello. Hello, we are from Lake City. You requested relocation assistance. You may come out; we have the area secured. There are no infected in sight,” Victor yelled toward the house through cupped hands.

  He spotted a window drape pull back briefly. His pulse accelerated. He fought the instinct to reach for his weapon and dive for cover. Here it comes, he thought. At that moment, he could be perceived as a heroic rescuer, then greeted with hugs and gifts. Or he could be easily gunned down for two running vehicles, weapons, and whatever supplies the ambushers assumed their victims had brought them. If Victor didn’t get shot within the first five seconds, he took that as a sign of good luck.

  The front door cracked open. A tall, skinny man wearing khakis, a flannel shirt, and eyeglasses poked his head out and looked around skittishly. Victor waved to him.

  “Hello, sir, I’m Victor. I have perimeter security set around your house. How many travelers do you have today, and do you need assistance carrying luggage?” he asked, staring authoritatively into the man’s eyes to establish the fact that Victor was in charge, and to surreptitiously inspect the man for constricting pupils.

  “Hi, I’m Don. Thank you so much for coming. We had doubts. We lost our faith in humanity after our gardens were plucked clean last month by neighbors who we thought to be close friends. Then raiders tried to break in a couple weeks ago; they didn’t care if we were home or not. They shot up the place, but luckily, cobblestone is mostly bulletproof. After that, they set fire to our car, just for fun.” He pointed to a charred, gray four-door Volvo, the “S604OEW” on its license plate barely readable. “We were so relieved to hear your broadcast on the radio. Last week finally broke us; a tribe of crazed cannibals circled the house and demanded that we send out ‘the young, tender children.’ We refused, of course, but we had to eventually fight them off with steak knives, because we ran out of ammo months ago.”