by Adams, Lucia
“Give me a minute,” I said, and walked her to the door. Over her shoulder I could see her son standing in their open doorway. It tore at my heartstrings to see his small chest heave in and out as he tried to gulp down air.
I walked over to the window; I was three stories up and had a grandstand view of the city. The streets were eerily quiet. Overhead, the sky was covered by an iron grey mantle; hazy drizzle filled the air with moisture. I had a sudden urge to stand under the purifying drops and let the cool water wash over my face. Would it cleanse the dark, deserted avenues and laneways of the contagion? I wondered. I did not think so. I brushed back strands of, shoulder length, light brown hair from my face and massaged my temples. I could feel the coarse bristles of an unshaven chin, as my mind wandered with my gaze over the streets of Dublin.
It had not been too bad at first. Those of us who had survived the initial outbreak locked ourselves away in the building. I watched the world wide epidemic unfold as panic ensued globally. At first, the emergency services struggled to cope, and then they collapsed completely. Pictures came in from every corner of the Earth showing hellish scenes where riot police and the Army tried to contain the infected. The walking dead, some labeled them. But then the soldiers and policemen, everybody, became infected themselves.
Those of us left in the building got together and decided to stay put until a rescue came. Surely this would be all over in a couple of weeks, we thought. We broke into the other apartments and took whatever food and anything useful we could find. Some of the group gathered together, even sharing apartments, for comfort, for safety, or out of loneliness. Others, like me, preferred to stay alone.
Like I said, at first it was not too bad; we had pretty much everything we needed, but then the power was cut. Somehow the screams during the night sounded worse when there were no lights in the corridors. The pleas for help from unseen victims would wrench your soul. There was nothing any of us could do.
We quickly learned to stay away from the ground level windows and doors. The infected pretty much left us alone, apart from occasionally passing by the front of the building, pressing grotesque faces up to the glass before moving on. With their dark, sunken eyes and rotting flesh, they really did look like animated corpses. Needless to say, none of us had slept well for the previous couple of weeks. Every one of us bore a haunted look in our eyes, the mark of dark dreams and horrifying nightmares both real and imagined.
I knocked on Mrs. Watson’s door, and we went to see Robbie from number twenty-nine. Robbie was a big burly fireman who had appointed himself as our leader, which was fine by me and everyone else.
“We have a problem,” I said.
“You better come in then,” Robbie answered, and we followed him into his apartment.
I got straight to the point. “Mrs. Watson’s boy needs more medication.”
He looked from me to her, stroking his chin. “Hmm, I’ve been thinking we would need to send out a foraging party soon. God knows how long we’re likely to be here. Okay, we’ll put a team together. There’s a pharmacy on Talbot Street that’s ten minutes away. While we’re there, we’ll grab what we can from the Spar and any other shops.”
“Okay,” I nodded.
“Have you got a weapon?” he asked. I shook my head dumbly. “Here,” he said, handing me a hurley stick. I had played the Irish game of hurling at school and the weight of the ash stick, with an axe-shaped head, felt familiar in my hand. I hefted it and gave an exploratory swing.
Looks like I’m on the team, I thought.
Eight of us were chosen, all youngish males. The plan was simple: run like the clappers to the Spar on Talbot Street, then the pharmacy, and then get back. Simple.
“Mrs. Watson will have to come,” I suggested, “to identify her son’s medication.”
“I’m a paramedic,” Robbie answered. Some people just know how to make you feel six inches high.
We gathered in the lobby of the building, Robbie gave us a pep talk.
“Okay, let’s do this quickly. Grab what we can in the Spar, on to the pharmacy for the kid’s medicine and anything else you might think useful—painkillers, bandages, penicillin—and then straight back. At least it’s bright out. God, I’d hate to be caught out there in the dark. Oh, and wear something over your nose and mouth. Best to be on the safe side.”
If only we’d realised going out while it was bright was exactly the wrong thing to do. I found that out later.
We filed out onto the street. The building was right in the IFSC, Dublin’s financial centre. We were all nervous. There was a weird atmosphere and a strange smell in the air, kind of sickly sweet, not overpowering, but lingering all the same. The rain felt good—cool and refreshing. We all had some kind of a weapon: golf clubs, baseball bats. I had the hurley, and Robbie had a whopping great axe. My face was covered by a bandana, and I had thrown on a leather jacket before we left.
None of us knew what to expect; we had all watched the infected from the lofty perch of our balconies or the building roof. They could move quickly when they needed to. Somehow I had expected them to be slow-moving lurchers. I hated to use the word—they were, after all, sick people—but “zombie” was constantly in the back of my mind.
Sleep deprivation and fear can kill as quickly as carelessness. Can you forgive these things? Not if you are dead.
We moved quickly in single file through deathly quiet streets. Abandoned cars and buses blocked the roads, many with dark stains on the seats and the ground around them. I thought it best not to dwell on it. We passed by Connolly Station. I could imagine idle trains lined up on tracks like the carcasses of enormous, stricken sea creatures stranded on a beach somewhere, only this beach was made of concrete, metal, and glass, built with the blood and sweat of a hundred and more generations of Irish men and women. People who lived, loved, and died in this city—their city, my city. I wondered,would I be the last?
I was not happy, not happy at all. To be honest, I was totally freaked. I didn’t really understand what had happened; maybe I never will. I watched the events on the TV just like everybody else, but it made no sense to me. They said it was caused by global warming; when the icecaps started to melt it unleashed some sort of prehistoric superbug, dormant for millions of years. First it killed most of the bigger animals—nearly all of them! I’m not religious, never have been, but what that thing does to people is like God’s vengeance on us. People are turned into mindless, barbaric cannibals. Zombies!
I’ve seen what they can do, and they scare the livin’ shite out of me.
We agreed at the start: once we locked the front door of the building, that was it. No one goes in or out until we get rescued. It made sense. Sometimes it was not easy. A few days in and I heard a woman’s scream coming from the street. I ran to the window to see what was going on and saw her running past the building. I was about to step out onto the small balcony and tell her to run to the front door, and I would let her in. And then I saw them.
There were about a dozen of them chasing her down. They could move. Not an all-out sprint, but over a distance I’d imagine they could wear you down. I’m not sure why—some inner sense maybe, perhaps it was just bad luck—she looked up and saw me at the window. Her eyes were full of terror and pleading, then she stumbled. It was enough. They were on her like a pack of rabid dogs.
I froze, paralysed with shock and fear. They dragged her down and ripped her to pieces like jackals feeding on some unfortunate beast. I watched, mesmerised by their savagery. And then one looked up; it had her decapitated head in its hands. I jumped back from the window, but could still look out. For as long as I live, I will never forget the sight of it gnawing at the woman’s head, stripping flesh from the skull. Sometimes I think the ones who died at the beginning were the lucky ones, and the survivors were the truly cursed.
We made it to the Spar on Talbot Street, a once busy shopping street in the heart of Dublin. It was now deserted. Most of the shop fronts had their windows smashed.
A lot of the merchandise lay sodden on the paths and road.
We all had shopping bags and sports bags, anything we could use. We stuffed them full of tinned food and bottles of water. I could not help but pause at the broken down freezers and fridges, looking at all the rotting food. What sort of future was there in a world with so few animals?
“Leave them to this, you come with me,” Robbie instructed.
Something caught my eye.
“Hang on a sec.” I leapfrogged the counter, grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels, and jammed it into a bag. “Okay, let’s go.”
The pharmacy was only a couple of doors down. We both entered cautiously. I, for one, was shitting myself. I’d never been so afraid. All I kept thinking about was that woman and the horrific death I witnessed. Witnessed? Stood idly by and watched. Could I have done anything to help? Would it have made a difference?
“Grab anything you think we might need. I’ll go in back to the dispensary and grab the kid’s medicine,” the big fireman said.
I was barely listening. “Jesus, what the fuck is that god awful smell?” I asked. It hit me the moment I stepped through the door. Robbie sniffed the air and shrugged.
“Probably the drains,” he answered, before disappearing behind the counter.
I started loading anything I could: paracetamol, bandages, allergy tablets, even a few packets of Lemsip. All the strong drugs would be in the back, and Robbie knew what to look for. I wrapped the bandana tighter around my face—the smell was making me gag.
I noticed Robbie walking slowly backwards from the dispensary. A bottle of pills dropped from his hand. I scooped them up.
“We done?” I asked, relieved we could get the fuck out of there.
“R-r-r…” he said, like he had something stuck in his throat.
“What you sayin’, man?” I asked.
“R-r-r-r-r…”
“You alright?” I asked, taking a step towards him.
Then I heard a snarl.
A hideous face of rotting flesh and dead eyes appeared. The fireman turned ever so slowly. Blood poured down the side of his head, a huge flap of skin hung from his cheek, exposing the bone.
“RUN!” he finally screamed, before falling to his knees.
“Jesus Christ!”
The zombie stepped forward, its black hands reaching for the fireman.
“Fuuuuuccckkkk!” I screamed and hit it in the face with the hurley. Jesus, it was like hitting a tree trunk. I hit it again and again and again, all the time roaring at the top of my voice. I kept hitting it until I felt something give way. Finally, the stick broke in two, and the head rolled off the zombie’s shoulders onto the floor with a sickening squelch.
My breath came in greedy gulps as I steadied myself. Robbie was lying on the floor now, and I couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead. As I bent to examine him, I heard another scream.
“Get the fuck outta here!” A voice said from out on the street. Another resident was grappled to the ground by more of the walking dead. I grabbed Robbie’s axe and ran. Okay, I’m not proud of deserting my comrades, but—fuck it—I hardly knew them.
I ran the length of the street at a full sprint, out onto Amiens Street, and ran like fuck back towards the building. I glanced over my shoulder, but could only see three of the men who had started out. Thankfully, no zombies were following. Of course, that probably meant they were feasting on the other four lost souls.
As we neared the building, we slowed, all of us with heaving chests as we tried to catch our breath.
“Jesus! What the fuck is that?” One of the men said, pointing upwards. I looked up. A woman stood on top of a railing on a third floor balcony.
What the fuck?
Her arms were stretched out on either side of her, her head was held high. And then she jumped.
At that moment, I realised it was Mrs. Watson. She sailed through the air in a graceful arc, like a diver springing from the high board, or a ballerina leaping into the air. The world slowed down for me; words died in my throat.
Then her head exploded on the hard, cobbled ground.
CHAPTER 5
Omaha, Nebraska, USA
Sharon
2 months earlier…
I swiped my key-card over the small red light, granting me entrance into the protected rooms of the Cryopreservation department of the Henry Doorly Zoo. This was where we housed the frozen genomes of every species on the planet for the protection of the gene pool diversity of endangered species. “The Frozen Zoo”, as it was commonly called, was a joint collaboration of several wildlife preservation societies, the Zoological Association, and over a dozen countries.
We even had the DNA strand of the extinct Tasmanian tiger. It was believed that within five or six generations of genetic engineering, we would be able to have a full blooded tiger. Unfortunately, with Australia’s animal population under stress from all the introduced species, the government wasn’t prepared to handle the reintroduction of an animal that had been extinct since 1936.
The doors shushed open, the hum of the cryo tanks greeted me. I did a tour of the room, making sure that all the lights were green and not red. This wasn’t really my job—we had interns to monitor the tanks—but something about this room calmed me. The silence embraced me, the potential for so much life awed me.
Those of us who worked here called this room “The Ark”, and the computer system that monitored it, “Noah”. I logged into Noah and made a few notes, stating that I had checked the machines and found everything in working order. I then logged off, took one last look around, and left.
As the doors opened, I saw Dr. Jack Mecum leering at something on the computer with one of the interns—Sam, I think his name was. Jack whistled low and said, “Good thing no one that looks like her works here, or our frozen zoo would experience some melting.” They both guffawed loudly. Sam looked up and made eye contact with me. At my raised eyebrow, he blanched and poked Jack.
Dr. Mecum looked up and smiled his best snake oil salesman smile. “Hey there, Red.” I shook my head and walked on, but he followed after me. “C’mon, Red, don’t be mad. It was just a joke.”
“I’m not mad,” I said.
“Then why are you ignoring me?”
“I’m not ignoring you. I’m paying you the same amount of attention I would to anyone who calls me ‘Red’.” Honestly, I really didn’t mind the nickname. Several friends and family members have called me that. But when he said it, it just sounded so damn condescending that it set my teeth on edge. It reminded me of those men who call women “Blondie”.
“Aww, Red.” He moved in front of me, effectively blocking my path. He really was a handsome guy—if you liked overly manicured metrosexuals. I didn’t. “I’m sorry. Forgive me?”
I raised an eyebrow and looked at him in exasperation. “That’s some serious charm you are trying to work on me.”
“I know,” he laughed. “My mother always said if I could find a way to bottle it, I’d be rich.”
I rolled my eyes and sidestepped him.
The outer room was lined with workstations and microscopes. A large first aid kit sat upon the counter next to the sink. I smiled wickedly and walked over to it.
“I think someone beat you to it, Jack. There is already a product on the market that has the same effect as your charm.”
I opened the kit and grabbed a small brown bottle. He had followed after me. When I turned, I slapped the bottle into his open palm and walked away.
He read the label “Ipecac” out loud. Sam had evidently heard the last part of our conversation and howled in laughter.
“Dude, that stuff is used to induce vomiting!”
“I know what it’s used for. Now get back to work!” he shouted as the door closed behind me.
*
I was seated in the lab, peering through a microscope at a tissue sample, when I heard the doors shush open, and then felt a presence behind me. I stopped, turned, and frowned in confusion at what I saw: Mi
litary Brass.
There were about a dozen of them in the room, with more filing though the door, decked out in all their uniformed splendor. My friend Jenny called the collection of medals and ribbons “fruit salad”. Those standing before me wore an entire produce section on their chests.
“Dr. Pennington?” Having grown up in a military town with a father who was retired Air Force, I recognized a four-star general when I saw one. A full-bird colonel stood next to him, surrounded by more officers and a few enlisted men.
“Yes?” I said, drawing the syllable out into a question.
“I am General Daniels, and this is Colonel Marks,” he said. I guess the others didn’t need names.
“Hello. Is there something I can help you with?” I asked, resisting the urge to stand at attention. I rose from my chair, as it seemed rude to keep sitting, and I didn’t like the way he was towering over me. The General was in his late fifties and had a full head of white hair, but I could tell that he was in good shape and wasn’t someone I wanted to mess with.
“We need to talk. Is there somewhere we can go that is secure?”
I gestured to the room around us. The lab was as restricted as the Ark, which begged the question: how did they get in?
The men parted like the Red Sea, revealing a woman. She was about five feet tall and just as round. She appeared to be about the same age as the general. I met her faded blue eyes and was momentarily stunned by the intellect that stared back at me. It was almost divine.
“We have a bit of a situation, Doctor,” General Daniels said. “We could really use your help. I understand that you are one of the best in your field.”
I fidgeted nervously “I wouldn’t say I was the best, General.”
“I didn’t. I said one of the best.” The flush that crept up my neck exploded across my face, which had the unfortunate effect of making me look like a pomegranate.
I met the woman’s gaze. She smiled back, not unkindly. “I’m Dr. Leslie Anders from the CDC.” She didn’t offer to shake hands. I guess when you deal with infectious diseases all day, you tended to shy away from such things. Instead, she indicated a steel table nearby. I followed and sank into a chair across from her. The soldiers remained standing.