Genesis Virus

by Pinto, Daniel

  MOABs (Mother of All Bombs), who comes up with these silly names, were launched in New York and California. And like that (I just snap my fingers), two of the most populated states were erased from the map. America was one of the last nations to kill their own, not out of righteousness, but to see if this bomb would work, if not, nuclear weapons, would be the next logical step. The go-to option when humankind can’t get their way, kind of like every bad weather day being blamed on Global Warming.

  Our President held a live address to the nation on an armored bus, but he never got to finish that speech. That static was the last visual America ever saw. I imagine people still staring into that static hoping to find a clue that will set everything right. The bombing of the nation did not stop, only the reporting of it. I did not have to see it, I felt it. I had learned, twelve solar powered bunkers, insulated with starlite material able to withstand extreme heat, were built across the states each capable of holding up to one hundred and forty-four people, it was called the Ark Program. Because there is comfort in unoriginality. Many people died to claim one, that I saw. Too ineffable for this journal.

  Officials could only get to one more MOAB and to a city, I forget the name, it was mentioned on the radio and sold as the last hope; people were given days to get there before it would be closed. I never made it though; I was miles away when I saw a black mushroom cloud and hole punched clouds in the distance. Was it mass suicide all along or was it overrun? Everyone that knows was blasted to atoms. The irony was the dead trying to kill me slowed me down and saved my life in the process, it all gives me the chills just thinking about it.

  What if life has always been about constant disappointments with random moments of happiness, rather than about constant happiness with random moments of sadness? Would knowing that make it more bearable? All life’s questions are answered in death and if not who gives a fuck.

  The universe created the Genesis Virus and now Earth is the reluctant host. Full disclosure, everything I know and everyone else knows about the origin of the Genesis Virus is pure speculation cobbled together by fear and necessity. But the aftermath, now that is a horse of a different color, all sane survivors are reliable jurors, witnesses, and judges to the devastation of their existence. A person is only crazy if someone else is right, but what if everyone else is wrong? Humans can fly into space, but the best idea we have to win against the dead is to run and hide like a child from the boogey man. A worldwide diaspora occurred making everyone an immigrant on the run with no homeland. City squares and courtyards are still filled with people, just the wrong ones. Man should not expect the last rites and any other rights for that matter. Life has always been about waiting only now there is nothing good to wait for.

  I can never awake from this American nightmare. Some days I wake up so quick I forget all that’s happened and it comes back to me and I have to relive all my troubles all over again. I hope all of this will one day be like that moment before I fall asleep, unrememberable. The human existence has been bastardized and the living has to kill their former-selves in order to survive. Kids born are having more taken than given to them in this life; they have become more cynical and selfish out of necessity.

  Humanity is on its last breath and it’s hard to know what people are thinking, but with a gun to your face, you can guess. Worry about the Devil in front of you and you’ll be ahead of the curve. That’s my motto. I’m always afraid, but I’ve learn how to harness and channel that energy into surviving. Compartmentalizing one’s fears is the only way a person can live, if you want to call it that.

  Living in lean times, these hyperbeings, these subhuman creatures all possess an irrational want desire that must be satisfied for organisms with no more concepts of anything. They’re antipodes of man that possess congenital insensitivity and can’t feel physical pain or mental anguish which is their greatest strength, making them the alpha dead with a soul fetish. And I have never been the submissive type.

  Humans with the mental capacity of newborns are ruling America. It sounds like a bad joke with annihilation being the punch line. I don’t have the luxury to be depressed and mope around 24 hours a day, maybe one day I’ll earn the time to cry in bed. Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone. No one wants to be alone in any capacity any longer. A victim complex never did anyone any good neither did a devil-may-care attitude. It’s beyond comprehension how these biters came to rule the wasteland in a short amount of time. The living are the last nuisance. Without the living the dead have no purpose, it’s a unholy codependency.

  Humans were kings of the hill, atop quicksand and now the world is full of de facto kings of garbage. A new phrase is, it’s a man-eat-man world, and it’s tossed around campfires now, sometimes with humans roasting over it. I subscribe to the idea that it’s man versus man in the last war for democracy, capitalism, and peace; all the things that driven men mad. The undead is an ocean and the living is a creek; within the estuary, the fate of the future will be determined by us or for us if we can’t work together.

  Dead humans are regressing back to nothing. The monsters are a reflection of humanity and how pure hedonism and shortsightedness will only lead to temporary pleasure and everlasting death. I can accept something and think it’s strange at the same time because I’m not one of those things, but I know they exist. The metamorphosis of the human psyche, the idea of consciousness will become an urban legend in the universe unless I can figure out a long-term solution.

  We know how it feels to live, these things know how it feels to die, what if these things have their old consciousness, but are unable to control it and are a paralyze passenger. That’s immortality no one wants. The torturer and the torturee. Should I pity them? The whole hate the sin not the sinner thing.

  Making life or death choices in a blink of an eye, that stays with you forever has become routine. Is my life a farce or a tragedy? Only time will tell. The only thing I know for sure, is that I don’t know anything.

  A single creature moves and changes the murmuration and trajectory of its swarm, into the path of the living, killing a group of humans, all from the slightest chance. We all live and die on the whim of the dead. The human race is in a corner; we can fight, die, or cry. Humans are in high demand, but in low supply. These non-sequiturs human beings haunt my daydreams the few I do have. I don’t say any of this to scare you, merely to delineate my fractured state of mind. I don’t care about you and you don’t care about me, that’s the beauty of time travel with words and never having to cross paths. Your empathy or sympathy can’t help me, but every time you read this, I’m alive and matter for just a few more moments. Imagine me next to you peacefully in relaxation because I can’t fathom it. No matter what has occurred in both our lives, we’re blessed because we are alive and reading this.

  David

  2

  The last Biker from Jacob’s team made it to the helicopter and was taken back to his camp after a bumpy ride down the mountain.

  He removes the bandanna from his mouth and says to the guard with the assault rifle across his chest. “I need to see your Boss. Pronto.”

  “He’s our Boss. Where’s Jacob and the other guy?”

  The Biker says. “That’s what I have to tell him.”

  “At this hour,” the guard contemplates what little he knows to make the right call. “Follow me after you give this man your weapons.” The Biker volunteers his weapons without a fight, begging for whatever happens next. Self-imposed doom? After he’s thoroughly patted down, he’s escorted to the Boss’s office with two shadows at his blind spots. He stops halfway down the hall and looks back, biting his lip, catching hold of a walk-the-plank vibe in his gut.

  Before they file into the room, the Biker uses the bottom of his shirt to clean his filthy face. He keeps touching his face after it’s clean and his catfish whiskers. The other man shoves him through the door. “Go.”

  All mouths are shut and all eyes focus on the Biker as if he’s about to pe
rform the National Anthem. The Biker says in a choppy voice. “Sir, I need to talk to you about Jacob.” He walks further in with his head down, telegraphing his uneasiness. Another man in a chair pulls a chair out of the Biker’s way. His eyes are tiny slits like holes poked through a bed sheet.

  The Boss is enjoying his record player, reclining in his chair facing the wall.

  The man at the door says, “sir,” because no one can hear the Biker. The instrumental music screeches to a halt, the chair rolls back, the Boss gets up and stomps over to the Biker, and looks down over him. “What is it? Let’s have it.”

  “Sir, I think Jacob is dead.”

  “WHAT.” The Boss grabs the man by his throat and slams his back against the wall. The man’s face is red with pulsating veins; he looks around the room for help. None shows up. After a minute, the Boss lets him go. The Biker knocks over stacks of books and is on the ground wheezing and coughing, pleading with one hand in the air. “Sir, I can fix this.”

  Someone says. “Kill him. He’s lying, covering his ass.”

  Another person says. “He could have ran away, but he came back.”

  The Boss says. “Did you see Jacob go down?”

  “Sir, no.”

  “Then there’s still a chance for both of us.” The Boss puts his hand through his wavy hair, meditating. “Tell these men the details, then take my chopper.”

  The Boss helps the Biker up, fixes his shirt and trundles back to his leather chair.

  He stops with one hand on his desk, tapping on the wood with his knuckles. “Who said you could use the chopper today?”

  The Biker takes a step back. “Sir, Jacob ask me to join him today, that’s all I know. Swear.”

  The pilot and a bodyguard are gathering their supplies from the gun racks and drawers in the large room that is laid out like a sea captain’s quarters.

  As soon as the men face the Boss, signaling they’re ready, he says to the Biker. “Go with these men. Bring back my son or his attackers or don’t come back at all.” He stares at the Biker who desperately avoids eye contact by watching the other men.

  The Boss asks everybody in the room. “Does Jacob’s friend, this other guy have any family?”

  His bodyguard says. “Sir, I don’t think so, I don’t even think anybody knew his real name.”

  The Boss says. “Good, he won’t be missed.” And then looks down at his watch. “The sun is barely coming up. Bring me good news before it goes down.”

  The Biker walks up to the Boss and shakes his hand, then hurries out first.

  After the crew leaves, the Boss says. “An unforgettable handshake on an unforgettable person.”

  The Boss’s lieutenant laughs and then says. “Sir if Jacob’s gone, who’s going to run the other camp?”

  The Boss says. “We’ll wait and see.”

  3

  “Code red. Code red. Lock up Paul.” David’s voice booms into the room.

  Jude watches David and Phillip run away, with the underground scope and pulls the fire alarm. He immediately grabs his pistol and runs through the bunker. Floodlights activate and doors fly open. People are rushing into each over to get their belongings as if they’re going to miss the underground subway out of Dodge. Kids are crying against the credenza in the kitchenette, waiting for their guardians. Maria puts Abigail down to help clean the little boy’s bloody knee. “This is no big deal. People are acting like they never heard an alarm before.”

  Two men are exchanging blows by the exit. Jude turns and shouts at a teenage girl. “Where’s Paul…the new guy?” He can’t hear himself. “Paul.”

  The interim leader walks up. “The last time I’ve seen him, he was in the sleeping quarters.” Jude is about to run in that direction when the leader grabs him by the forearm. “Why, what’s going on?” The leader lets go and addresses everyone. “Everyone just relax, we’re safe in here.”

  Jude glances at him. “He might know something about these enemies at our gates, I have to go.” The alarm shuts off.

  Jude gets to Paul out of breath. He is sitting up reading on an Army cot. “What’s the ruckus about?”

  Jude points a pistol at him. “Get up slowly and come with me. Your friends found us.” Paul smiles like a man with no fears. “What are you talking about? I haven’t even left this place.” He waves his hand between them. “Good book, it just got good too.”

  Jude walks up and presses the gun to his temple. “Just get the fuck up and follow me.” Paul says. “Ok, ok, relax. I’ve been a good prisoner. Is this the day two of us go outside and one comes back?” After no reply, Paul becomes quiet and aloof.

  After a while the two men run into the leader again and he asks. “Jude, where are you taking Paul?”

  Jude says. “The cell.”

  The leader says. “It’s this way, I can handle it. Give him over.” He looks in that general direction. When he turns his head back to face the men. Jude shoots him in the throat. “Shut the fuck up, with your constant questioning.” He slaps the man out of his face with the gun.

  The sound of the gunshot hurts everyone’s ears in the bunker and they instinctively get low like it’s a tornado drill. A young kid runs by to get to their mother. Jude grabs her and brings her to his chest. He yells and walks backwards. “Anybody follow us and I’ll kill this little bitch.” Jude is waving the pistol at everyone with a shrewd look on his face. Paul opens the bunker door.

  Ava runs around the corner with a gun in her hand and locks the door. “What happened?”

  Outside Jude says to Paul. “This way to the vehicles. You can deliver what you promised me, right?”

  Paul says. “Yeah, lets go, before they get brave, now you follow me.”

  4

  A soft woman’s voice says. “David it’s time to get up.”

  David gasps for air and his pupils dilate. His wallowing in a dream is cut painfully short. He looks up; blinking at the sky, then grabs his chest and notices the rope keeping him alive up in the tree. His head is throbbing and he feels more dehydrated as he touches his crack lips. Leans his head back and rebuilds his last memory. Both of us should be worm food, maybe there is a God looking out for one of us, but which?

  “Phillip. Phillip. Get up wherever you are, buddy.” David chuckles to let Phillip know it’s a joke then he tries to look around, realizing Phillip is nowhere.

  He struggles with the rope and gets dizzy when the ground comes flying into his face like the wind. “Shit, Phillip, you should have waited for me. You stubborn prick, now I have to cut myself loose, and now I’m talking to myself.” David’s knife is in the rope around his leg. “Thanks again Phillip.” For a moment he thought he lost his lucky knife.

  David leans headfirst repeatedly to loosen the ropes in a car jerking motion, back and forth. How many days has it been? Starts to cut the rope, the ringing in his ears slow him down. A concussion, definitely a concussion. The knife falls on his thigh, sliding to the side. He reaches and catches it midair by the handle with two fingers.

  5

  Meanwhile, Phillip is halfway to the bunker on his dirt bike, drifting through the insipid landscape. He uses his crowbar, an extension of his arm, as a joust to obliterate a wondering zombie in the eye that had to go bye-bye. After a few more zombie collisions, one zombie falls over and somehow grabs onto the back of the bike. Phillip drags it for a few blocks as he tries to hit it, while not damaging the tire. He pulls over to kick it off. Dusting off his new circular goggles, he spots a black dot in the crystal blue sky, a pockmark in the distance in front of him. He hasn’t slept, it could be a exhaustion mirage. But why take chances? He grabs the walkie. “Can anybody hear me, don’t let anybody leave the bunker. Jude.”

  Phillip speeds away to his preordained destination, but lets up on the throttle once he sees a chopper heading for him. Slowing to a dead stop, him and the bike seem to hover in place waiting for liftoff. He throws down his blood encrusted crowbar and checks his handgun ammo, then reinserts the clip. No mor
e shotgun ammo, he used it all to survive the night. These mystery men have been chasing him for the last few days, keeping him on the defensive. If he could just get back home, he could resupply and fight them on his terms. But in that quick moment, he decides not to see his family for days until he sorts this shit out.

  He hops back onto his bike, turns it around and heads away into the torrid wind back towards the woods. Damn forest. I could lose them if I can get back.

  Phillip crosses over miles of uneven earth, trying to get the dirt bike to full speed; his sweaty palms release the handles as he bounces up and down in his seat, his shirt is flapping in the wind like a cape.

  It sounds like thunder behind him and it was such a beautiful afternoon. He underestimated the speed of the helicopter. Everything looks the same it’s as if he hasn’t moved at all, trapped in hot quicksand.

  6

  Reflexes returning, David jumps down from the tree to find his weapons and Phillip’s pack. “Traveling light, I see. You’re either hunting or taking a shit.” David laughs as he puts the pack on. “Either way I’m heading for the river. You’re going to have to wait for me, old buddy.” Before David goes, he tries to swing his weapons. “Ouch.” The bruises on his back slow his swings down. His resilient ego is bruised as well.

  He throws the shield down then unzips his backpack to fill it with zombie limbs and runs as best as he can for the river beyond the ridge.

  7

  The black chopper is hovering behind Phillip, who instinctively pulls to the side. His body is as still and straight as a downhill skier.

  The Biker in the backseat says with childlike excitement. “That’s Jacob’s killer, stop him.”