The Night

by Steinwachs, Mark

  “Mom?” No response. “Mom? MOM!”

  Shit! She’s out of it. Gone.

  Finally she turned and looked at him.

  “Are you okay, Mom?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think things are okay at all anymore, Jonathan. Your father and sister are dead. People are going crazy all over the country.”

  She stopped, finishing her coffee. “I’m going to get another cup. You’re a mess, go shower. When you are done, I’ll shower and then we’ll figure out what to do.” Her speech was calm and even, her voice almost soft.

  Is that what I sound like? Is that what people sound like before they snap and go on a killing spree or something?

  He opened his mouth to reply but couldn’t find the words. They looked at each other again. Although her hazel eyes stood out more vivid than ever before, there was also a burned-out quality to them.

  It’s like her brain flipped a switch. This can’t be good. Isn’t that what I did?

  “I’m going up to my room to get some clothes.” He paused, his voice faltered slightly. “I’ll be right back after I check on things. Do you need anything?”

  She smiled at her son. “No, there is nothing for me up there.”

  Jon headed upstairs. He saw what was left of his sister first. The blood that pooled around her body was beginning to dry. The hallway was a mess. Pictures were smashed on the floor. A table was turned over and broken. Streaks of red were everywhere. Tears began to well in his eyes once again as everything started to sink in. He stepped past his sister and turned towards his parents’ room. The open door beckoned him.

  The condition of his father’s body was worse than his sister’s. His mind raced, replaying those earlier seconds. He stood in the doorway and let the images play. Jon saw himself crying as the bat struck home. He was beating his father—no, the body of his father—into a mess of flesh and bone.

  Jon snapped out of the memory and looked at his bat. It was coated in a sticky, red slime. He spun the bat in his hand as he walked to his room. This time he passed by the body of his sister without looking at it.

  He went into his room and got his clothes that he had laid out for the day. Jon walked to the window and looked out, the morning sun bathing their back yard.

  No fires of hell, no mass chaos, nothing; just another morning. You’d think I’d stop looking, but here I am.

  He pulled himself away from the window and looked over at the clock. 7:30. Jon walked from his room and was at the top of the steps, about to call to his mother, when he heard her crying in the kitchen. Sobs and jagged breaths wracked his mother’s body, not the anguished cries of a woman grieving for her family but ones of resignation and loss. He slowly descended the stairway, stopping on the bottom step.

  I should go to the kitchen. Go talk to her, comfort her. How? What would I say? What can I say?

  Jon’s head dropped as he turned from the kitchen and went to the bathroom. He shut the door and turned on the shower, making sure the water was hot and letting the room fill with steam.

  I should go to Mom. I should be there for her.

  His hand went to the doorknob. The last time he stood at a door like that, he opened it and beat his father to death. He took his hand off the knob.

  I can’t. I can’t help her right now. She needs to get it out on her own. Yeah, let her grieve in peace. She doesn’t need to see the person who killed her family.

  Jon opened the shower curtain and leaned the bat against the wall of the shower. It was the first time since everything happened that it was out of his grasp. His hand hovered close to it. It was hard for him not to hold it again. The water started beating on it, washing away the brutality of the morning. He could make out the word Easton on it as the blood was washed to the bottom of the tub.

  He stripped down. For a moment he looked at his blood-soaked clothes. He snatched them up and shoved them behind the toilet, partially hidden.

  That will make it all go away. Nice.

  He stepped in and felt the hot water rush over him. Once more the tub turned crimson. Jon reached for the soap and washed himself vigorously. The water ran clear when he was done with his hair and he felt cleansed enough to step out. After quickly drying off and getting dressed in his fresh clothes, he retrieved his bat and got ready to open the door. Again his hand paused as it closed over the knob.

  How long will this go on for? Am I ready for what is out there? What is out there?

  He opened the door and stepped out. He heard the TV, some newscaster talking about the mental patients, but not his mother crying. He went into the living room where his mother had returned to the couch, watching CNN.

  “It’s happening all over the country. People are going crazy and attacking each other, Jon. It’s unbelievable.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it is, Mom. Look, why don’t you go get a shower? I’ll keep an eye on things out here.”

  She got up without a word and walked past him. She squeezed his shoulder gently as she passed by, and then he heard the door shut. Jon walked to the dining room and looked out the window. It seemed to be a peaceful morning. He looked up and down the street. Some of the cars were gone but a few were in driveways that normally wouldn’t be at this time.

  As he was about to turn away, the front door of a house down the street burst open. A lady ran out screaming, heading for her car.

  Oh, God, what is her name? Jesus, is she bleeding? Dammit!

  Jon took off without thinking. He yanked the front door open, sprinted across the road, heading towards his neighbor. Birds scattered from the trees as the commotion tore the morning air. Her husband came through their open front door. He stopped for a beat, stunned by the harsh sunlight. Then he lurched forward and raced towards his wife.

  “Help! Please,” she shouted, tears streaming down her face. She was frantically trying to unlock her car but couldn’t get the key in the lock.

  Jon got within range as the man grabbed his wife. He swung his bat catching the man in the chest. Jon heard bones snapping like dry twigs, seeing the zombie’s ribs cave in as it hit the ground. His wife dropped the keys. “What? What! Oh, my god! Help me!”

  Jon dealt the final blow against the zombie as it got to its knees. It was like a big, fat, slow pitch. In an all-too-familiar scene for Jon, its head caved in, skull torn apart, brains scattered across the pavement. He turned and saw the woman snatch her keys off the ground where they had fallen in the attack and finally unlock the door.

  “Mrs. Jamison, wait. Wait a second.”

  “N-n-n-no. I’m leaving. I’m going to the police.”

  It was then that Jon saw the open wound on her arm. “No. No, don’t do that. Stay here. You can’t drive. Come to our house.”

  “No!” She slammed her car door shut and started the engine. She peeled out of the driveway and sped down the road.

  Shit, that can’t be good at all.

  He turned back. The front door was wide open.

  I’m so fucking stupid.

  Jon ran back into his house. He stopped, looked around, listened; the only sound was water running in the shower. He shut and locked the front door.

  Stupid. Really fucking stupid, Jon.

  He flopped on the couch to see what CNN had to say.

  The Recovery

  One of the leading researchers in the early days of the outbreak was Dr. Janice Boshifski. She was the face of the CDC for the first few months. Everyone knew who she was. What most people didn’t know was she almost didn’t make it to her office that first morning.

  Excerpt from “The Decade”

  Dr. Rudolph Graham

  Janice looked at her watch. Her plane had been circling the Atlanta airport for over an hour. It was bad enough they booked her on the redeye back from Los Angeles, this added delay didn’t help. She hated all-night flights. What did it matter if you got in at six in the morning only to be useless the rest of the day because you didn’t sleep?

  “This is your pilot speaking,” the fri
endly voice crackled through the small speakers. “We are now beginning our final descent into the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. We’re sorry for the delay. We should be on the ground in fifteen minutes.”

  She looked around at the other people in the cabin. A few seemed restless, some slept, but most sat there with the glazed look that comes from giving up and accepting the fate of commercial air travel. Glancing at her watch again, she let out an audible sigh. “So much for going home before work,” she said quietly to no one. Looking towards the front of the plane, she longed for first class, with the bigger seats and more legroom. A vodka and OJ wouldn’t have hurt either. Janice pulled her phone from her pocket and slipped her earbuds in. Hitting play, she closed her eyes and let the sounds of Depeche Mode cascade over her.

  ***

  The black FBI Suburban turned left, drove under the terminal, and onto the runway. Agent Randall Jeffries sat in the passenger seat checking his Glock 23. Fully loaded and in pristine condition, all the agent had to do was click the safety off and he would be ready for action. He looked over to his partner who sat behind the wheel.

  Agent Pat Betzon met his partner’s eye and began. “Dr. Janice Boshifski, or Bosh as her co-workers call her,” he recited from memory, “is sitting in row twelve, seat A. The good news is she is close to the front. Bad news is she has a window seat. The middle is open but the aisle seat is occupied.”

  Pat looked in his rearview mirror at the doctor in the back seat, poring over notes he brought with him from his house. Dr. William Ayers was their first pickup of the morning, a doctor at the CDC who had worked alongside Dr. Boshifski on numerous occasions.

  He continued. “An aircraft stair truck will be standing by and will pull up when the plane comes to a stop on the runway. Only the pilot, co-pilot, and lead flight attendant are aware that there will be someone from the FBI coming on board to retrieve a passenger. They have been given no other information. Doctor, you sent the text to Dr. Boshifski, correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dr. Ayers said. The doctor had been quiet on the ride from his house. Pat guessed he was still angry at them. Dr. Ayers said he never left without saying good-bye to his son. Pat told him there was no time to wake the child and ushered him from the house.

  Pat went on. “Perfect. She lands, checks her phone, gets the text, grabs her bags, Randall escorts her out, and we’re off to the CDC.”

  He stopped the SUV on the T of the runway close to where the plane should stop. The stair truck pulled up beside them. Pat gave a wry smile to his partner. “Piece of cake.”

  Randall shook his head and smiled. “What does she look like again?”

  Pat sighed, knowing full well his partner knew what she looked like, but he asked the question because he also knew Pat couldn’t not answer. “Dr. Boshifski is thirty-five with long, black hair usually worn in a ponytail, and green eyes. She is five feet nine inches tall and in good shape from regular gym visits. Normally she travels in jeans and a t-shirt.” Pat turned his head and looked in the back seat. “Does that about cover it, Doctor?”

  Dr. Ayers answered with a calmness Pat figured most CDC field agents have. “You guys do your homework. That’s correct.”

  “Good. Now we wait.” Pat looked at his watch. “Should be five more minutes.”

  A couple of planes landed on the runways and taxied to a stop, joining the rest that were waiting further instructions from the tower. “They aren’t letting any planes move. I heard they might shut down all flights in the country. Looks like they may have done it,” Pat commented.

  A plane was coming in low at the other end of the runway. Pat turned to his partner. “This should be ours. Randall, you’re up.”

  ***

  Janice was jolted awake as the plane touched down. Her eyes popped open and body tensed for a second until she realized they hadn’t crashed but simply landed. Reaching over, she raised her shade to reveal a sunny Atlanta spring morning. All around her passengers began to gather their things as the plane came to a stop on the runway.

  Janice looked out her window again and noticed the planes that were backed up around the airfield.

  The phone vibrated in her hand—she didn’t realize she had taken it off airplane mode—signaling a text message was waiting for her. Probably William making sure I got in okay and wasn’t going to blow off the office today. As the text opened, commotion in her peripheral vision drew her eyes back outside the plane. On the next runway over, the emergency door in the rear of a Delta 737 pushed open and the yellow excavation slide started inflating itself. Before it was done, a woman dove out, bounced off the half-inflated slide, and hit the ground. Janice saw the woman cry out in pain as her ankle twisted under her. More passengers started piling out, pushing each other to get free of the plane. Then the front cabin door flew open. Janice stared in disbelief as another group of people pushed out before that slide was ready. These people were already injured with bloody, open wounds. The plane was rocking now. Something obviously wasn’t right. Janice’s stomach knotted, she wanted to get out and help, but she was trapped. What could she do?

  She scanned the crowded tarmac; farther along the runway another plane’s slide unfurled, followed by another plane, and another. The runway was beginning to fill with passengers. In her plane people moved around, attempting to get a better view of what was happening outside. There were still a handful of passengers that were sleeping. How they were was a mystery to her. The lead flight attendant got out of her seat and started to open the front cabin door.

  Janice turned her attention back out the window. Yellow slides dotted the runway with passengers sliding out and running in all directions. Two people tumbled down the slide on the plane closest to hers. As soon as they hit the ground, the man dove on top of the woman and bit into her neck. She cried out, blood spurting, covering the face of her attacker.

  Janice jumped as she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned, and for a moment thought she was looking at Depeche Mode’s lead singer, with jet black hair, slightly large nose, and deeper skin tone. The tailored suit jarred her from the image. She pulled the earbuds off. “Shit! What the hell?”

  “I’m Agent Randall Jeffries, FBI. I’m here to escort you back to your office.”

  Janice was one of the top field agents the CDC had. Her mind processed information at an incredible rate and she had the ability to absorb information around her that most people looked past—her row mate was standing in the aisle out of the way; muted but rising conversation filled the plane; she could still hear the music coming from the earbuds in her hand; and a very attractive man from the FBI got on her plane while it was still on the tarmac. He must have seen everything else going on across the runway.

  “Not until I help the people from the other planes,” she stated flatly, looking up at him.

  That’s when all hell broke loose.

  Three gunshots rang out from the bottom of the stair truck. First-class passengers on the opposite side of the plane looked out their windows. Behind Janice someone yelled, “He bit me!” As she turned around to see what was going on, Agent Jeffries drew his weapon, firing off two quick shots. The violent retort of the gun filled the cabin of the plane. People screamed, ducking for cover. Janice wasn’t sure if he hit who he wanted to but knew he hit someone, as blood spattered across the plane and passengers.

  Janice’s row mate made a grab at the agent. Not hesitating, the FBI agent fired off a round, putting it square into his attacker’s chest. The man stumbled back and dropped to the floor of the cabin.

  “Everybody freeze!” Agent Jeffries yelled over the noise in the plane. “FBI!”

  Janice ignored the FBI agent and tried to push past him towards the injured people. He shoved her back in the seat without taking his eyes off the people in the cabin. “Get off the plane. There’s a vehicle with my partner and Dr. Ayers at the bottom of the stairs. Go! Now!”

  The mention of Dr. Ayers made her pause. Grabbing her bag from under the seat,
Janice started moving. Agent Jeffries’ hand made contact with her chest and once more she fell back into the seat. This time the agent turned his body, blocking Janice from getting out, and fired his pistol.

  A female passenger was almost to Agent Jeffries when the gun went off. Janice’s ears rang. In her years at the CDC, she stared death in the face more times than she could count, seen the most violent viruses destroy the human body, but she had never seen anything like this. The bullet ripped through the woman’s face; blood splattered the partition separating first class from coach. The body spun from the impact and fell onto the passengers two rows in front of her.

  Agent Jeffries turned his head, scanning the cabin. “Go!”

  Janice ducked under his arm. The doctor in her longed to stay and help, but she followed the instructions of the FBI agent and headed for the door. She felt him following behind her.

  Ringing from the gunshots and more screams filled her ears. A loud “Fuck!” stood out above the other noise. In front of her one of the passengers pushed a man into the aisle. He faced Janice, mouth covered in blood, eyes wide. All she could think of was an animal with rabies. She needed to get by him without getting bit. Before he could move Janice hit him with as much force as she had, throwing her right shoulder into his left. Janice was past him and turned towards the door heading for the stairs out of the plane. Two more shots were fired behind her as she bounded into the Atlanta morning.

  The scene on the ground was just as chaotic as in the plane. People ran in all directions. Her feet hit the runway at the same time it registered that she had jumped over the body of the lead stewardess from her flight. A black SUV idled fifteen feet away from her. An FBI agent stood behind the open driver’s side door, firing shots across the runway.