I approached the sliding glass door that led from the living room/den to our back deck. I peered through the blinds, which had been shut last night and now cast the room in darkness. Nobody was lurking on the deck. I unlocked the door and slid it open. The deck ran almost the entire length of the house. It was connected to a concrete path on the side of the house that led around to the front. I shut the door and, handgun held up, finger brushing the trigger-guard, crept along the rear wall of the house with my heart pounding.
I remember thinking, as I was traversing the circumference of the house to reach the front, what the hell are you going to do if he's still out there? Shoot him? You've never shot a living thing, much less a human being, in your life. Realizing that, I wondered if I would freeze in some sense of moral fear, afraid of the legal consequence that should befall me after this madness was over and I was brought up on murder charges.
I took a deep breath and banished those questions. I couldn't deal with them now. It seemed that things had changed so rapidly in such a short amount of time that to entertain such thoughts as legal issues over using a firearm in self-defense and the repercussions thereof could prove fatal for me and, ultimately, for Tracy and Emily.
I took a deep breath and paused at the corner that led to the front of the house.
I could still hear the primitive at the front door.
There was a pause in his activity. I wondered if he was retreating, but then I heard shuffling footsteps come my way.
He was moving along the front of the house and, judging from the sounds, he was trying to open one of the windows to get inside.
That decided it. I stepped away from the corner of the house and there he was, fifteen feet away from me. He looked startled as I stepped away from the wall and I saw that he was just a guy my own age. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and tie, black dress shoes. I didn't recognize him. He could have lived in my neighborhood judging from his appearance. Maybe he had a wife, a family, and they were now either dead or reduced to the same primitive state he was in. His hair was ruffled, the right lens of his glasses shattered. His face was smudged with dirt, as were the knees and elbows of his suit. His eyes reflected all the emptiness of a cow. They were blank, devoid of intelligence or rationality.
I had the gun in front of me in the classic firing position and what I said to him was stupid, but in hindsight I realized I was still clinging to the idea that there was still order in the world. "Who are you?" I said. "What do you want?"
The guy looked at me briefly, and then said, "Aaguh meeearaoowww! Blew aaaugghhh!"
Then he lunged at me.
I pulled the trigger and squeezed off three shots that plugged him square in the chest.
He went down, bleated once, and was silent. The sound of the shots was loud, deafening. My ears rang as I approached the body cautiously, weapon still held out and ready. I stood five feet away from him and watched for any sign of life.
There was none.
I'd just killed a man.
I didn't let that settle into my psyche. I retreated back the way I'd come, slipped onto the rear deck and made it back inside the house. I locked the sliding glass door, made sure the blinds were in place, then engaged the safety and re-holstered the gun. I made my way downstairs.
When I entered the bedroom I said, "It's okay, it's just me."
"What happened?" Tracy said. She and Emily looked frightened.
"What was that noise?" Emily asked.
I knelt in front of them. "It's okay, I got him, he tried to attack me!"
"Who was it?" Tracy hissed. I could see her face in the darkness of our bedroom. Gone was the grief that had been there a moment ago. It was replaced by a sense of stark fear.
"I don't know!"
"What's going on?" Emily cried. She buried her face in Tracy's shoulder.
"He was like some kind of animal," I told Tracy. I was trying to rationalize my act of self-defense. "It was weird, it was like he wasn't even human. He was trying to get in the house, trying to get in through the windows but he couldn't. I mean, he could have broken them with a rock or something but he wasn't doing that. He was just pawing at them, trying to find a way in as if he didn't know how they worked or something, and then when he saw me I asked him what he wanted and he just spoke gibberish. Then he lunged at me and he looked like he was going to kill me. His eyes—"
I stopped. Emily was crying and I could tell Tracy was terrified. How to describe his eyes? "His eyes were...they were...just empty."
I don't remember how long we sat in our room. I was wired, primed for any noise or rustle of movement outside. I was afraid the sound of the gunshots would attract more of them, but that never happened. I heard a lot of gunshots in the distance, and a lot of sounds like crashing and yelling and screaming. I heard sirens. I heard what sounded like genuine automatic gunfire, probably ten blocks away. Through it all the three of us sat in our bedroom, listening as the world outside went mad.
At some point Emily calmed down enough and began to drift off. Tracy laid her on the bed and she drew herself up into a fetal position, thumb corked in her mouth. Tracy covered her with the blanket and we went back upstairs, making sure to leave our bedroom door open.
I'd left the TV on when I went outside to deal with the primitive and CNN was still on. The newscaster was still broadcasting from his secure location and he was talking on a cell phone. Those who were still alive and rational got his half of the conversation. "...where you are you can see that everybody is like this? How many people would you estimate are now in this state?"
I turned down the volume slightly on the television so we would be alert to any unusual sounds outside and I sat down on the sofa. Tracy had a look of shock on her face. Her eyes had a far-away look and her expression was slack, as if she was slow to respond. I know she was still dealing emotionally with Eric's death, and while I was glad she was with me so I could keep an eye on her, I was also worried about her. "You okay?" I asked.
She didn't respond. I asked her again. She looked at me, her eyes red, and her voice sounded strained. "Why is this happening?"
I took her hand and tried to sound and act strong. "I don't know, honey."
The rest of that day went by in a slow haze. We sat on the sofa and watched the news. I flipped from CNN to Fox to the local news. We watched as the situation worsened. As troops were called in, they began reverting to the primitive state themselves and were summarily executed by their comrades. Local police forces were going through the same turmoil. Some newscasters were openly deviating from their prepared scripts, telling their viewers that they believed what was happening had to do with that virus that started in the Middle East and that our government had worked in concert with other governments to cover things up because they were caught off guard and didn't know what the hell to do. We watched as society began unraveling, as civilization broke down so fast it was like watching the twin towers fall all over again. Watching as people roamed the streets like animals, attacking others in mindless fashion, pawing at each other, pausing to relieve themselves or defecate in public.
Elsewhere, the television news camera caught the primitives at various stages; fighting each other, attacking those unaffected, roaming the streets seemingly ignoring each other, and sometimes copulating.
Through it all I paused every now and then to check the back of the house. I made sure all the windows and doors were locked and that the drapes were drawn. I checked out the neighborhood from the kitchen window, which provides a good view of our street, and it was quiet. Checking out the south side of the property, I saw smoke from over a dozen fires rising in various parts of the city. Through the locked windows I could hear sirens, burglar alarms, and more yells and screams. I saw several military helicopters at one point, and later learned that the pilot of one lost control and crashed in Long Beach.
I wonder if he lost control because he'd suddenly changed into a primitive?
Through it all, the newscaster broug
ht me up to speed thanks to his communications via cell phone with the outside world. Tracy and I sat and listened as we learned the following: For some reason people were reverting to what was being described as a primitive state. As a result, they were losing the ability to reason, their speech, whatever previous knowledge and sense of civilized behavior they once had, and were relying on their most basic urges or instincts. In short, they were behaving like animals. When they came across normal people they either fled or attacked ruthlessly. They weren't using weapons, they weren't using cars, and they weren't even communicating with each other.
Whatever was causing this was currently unknown but it was suggested that it was the virus that had been earlier reported to originate in the Middle East. The media was calling it the Havoc Virus. Nobody knew anything about it, much less how it came to be, and the few scientists left who were unaffected were trying to find a cure.
It was rumored that if this was indeed the Havoc Virus, the U. S. Government knew about it early on and sent the National Guard in to major cities in an attempt to clamp a lid on it. One scientist was quoted as saying that the CDC was made aware of the situation a week ago and had been working non-stop to contain its spread but realized they were in a losing battle with a virus that was airborne and 99% communicable.
The problem was global. It was currently unknown where it might have started. Rumors were flying around speculating that the virus may have originated in the Middle East.
The few medical professionals that could be located were adamant in saying they believed it affected the central nervous system, rendering victims in a psychotic, animal-like state.
Despite early efforts by the Federal government to clamp down on the media for news leaks, it was becoming evident that most people in government were affected by the virus and that the President himself was infected.
I flipped to our local CBS affiliate to see if there was any news on the local front.
It was off the air.
"Shit," I said, flipping to NBC, which was still broadcasting. The lone NBC anchor was broadcasting from a secure location. It looked like the bathroom of the building. She looked battered, bruised, and scared. "I can say with all certainty," she said at one point, "that this city is dying and it is not only martial law but it is every man for himself. God help us."
Tracy started crying again. "Why is this happening? Why...where's Eric, what are we going to do about Eric?"
I couldn't listen to Tracy cry about Eric. I got up and made a check of the house again. Everything seemed okay. I took a furtive peek out front and saw a middle-aged man wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else dart down the street. He hid behind an SUV parked in front of the house across the street, peered around it, and then darted to hide behind some bushes. I couldn't tell if he was a primitive or not, but I wasn't going to take the chance to find out.
While Tracy sobbed quietly on the sofa I stole downstairs real quick to check on Emily.
She was asleep in our bed. I checked the bedroom window, which looked out over our backyard, which really wasn't a yard at all. The window overlooked the hills of the canyon our house rested on. I saw no signs of people, normal or primitive, anywhere.
I went upstairs and took a quick inventory of our provisions. We still had plenty of food in the house from our grocery run late last week, everything from fresh fruits and vegetables to canned goods. We had beef and chicken. We had medicine, bandages, plenty of batteries. We had fresh water. Tracy had always insisted on having an "earthquake kit" in the house and I took stock of it now, making sure everything was in place. The house was still being powered by electricity and gas, but who knew how long that would last? At some point the power grid to our area would blow and we'd be cut off. Likewise for the communications.
I settled down on the living room sofa again and watched the news, trying to get some information on what the highways were like. The newscaster that had been broadcasting over South-Central Los Angeles via helicopter earlier, was now hovering somewhere over San Bernardino reporting on the carnage farther inland. Interstate 10 looked like a long narrow parking lot, both east and west-bound lanes. Surface streets appeared somewhat better. Most cars appeared to have crashed as their drivers were reduced to the primitive state instantly. The dead lay behind the steering wheels of their vehicles. Other vehicles were empty, probably from those that were able to escape serious injury. The primitives roamed the streets like zombies.
I checked my watch. It was now twelve-thirty p.m. And things were spiraling downward fast.
At some point Tracy made me call the school. I did and got a busy signal.
Tracy began crying again. "Eric!"
I could only sit beside her on the sofa. For the first time in our relationship I didn't know how to comfort her. Everything I thought of saying would sound hollow, false. Things like, everything will be okay. Bullshit. Everything was not going to be okay. In fact, everything was going to get worse.
I did, however, encourage Tracy to go downstairs and lie down with Emily, and she finally did. I helped her downstairs, got her in bed where she promptly cuddled our daughter close to her and let out more heart-wrenching sobs. I sat in the darkness of the bedroom, fighting the sadness that wanted to well out of me and waited until Tracy's sobs trickled down and she fell asleep.
I headed back upstairs, sat on the sofa, and watched the news. I sat there on the sofa with the Sig Sauer fully reloaded and reholstered. I'd grabbed three extra magazines and loaded them along with a brick of 9mm shells I kept stored in the garage. I had a case of 9mm and .45 caliber ammunition each and four bricks of .22 shells for the Ruger. I would need more, I was sure of it, but for now I had plenty.
I sat in front of the television for the rest of the afternoon and watched as civilization fell.
By three p.m. we had no government. No more Republicans or Democrats to bitch about. Anarchy had taken root in every major city. Those that weren't primitives were either rioting in the streets, or were hiding in homes or offices. In short order, everything started falling apart. Military and law enforcement presence and response dwindled to nothing. Order became total chaos. Television stations began going off the air one by one, first the locals, then the larger networks. Channel 5 in Los Angeles was the last hold-out and it finally went off at five that afternoon when a technician, who was filling in for one of the news anchors who'd turned primitive on camera and lumbered out of the building, suddenly turned around and screamed "Noooo!" and a flying thing leaped at him, pushing him off camera. I heard grunts and yells, then the picture toppled as the camera tipped over and the feed went dead.
I continued to check outside periodically through the blinds, as well as through the peephole in the front door. The man I'd killed still lay on our front walkway, but he was so out of view of the main street that nobody would've seen him if they'd strolled by. Looking at the dead man, a flare of guilt rose within me. Aside from insects and spiders, I'd never killed anything before. Never had to make the choice to put a beloved pet through euthanasia, never accidentally hit a cat, or a squirrel in the street. Despite the fact that I had no choice in the matter, that I had to defend my family and myself, I had just taken a human life. That crazed primitive that had tried to kill me had once been a civilized human being.
I heard a commotion in the neighborhoods below us that abruptly died off. I continued to hear gunfire, screeching tires, yelling and screaming that came from somewhere—East Pasadena, maybe? Looking out the windows, I could see the smoke from fires that now burned out of control in Pasadena and farther to the west in Burbank and downtown Los Angeles. I saw no cars come barreling down our street, did not see the man in the shorts again. As far as I knew we were the only house whose occupants were alive and normal.
At some point the hunger in my belly woke me up and I retreated to the kitchen where I made myself a cold beef sandwich. I ate it with water from the tap as my beverage. I then realized that the public water system would eventually grow conta
minated, if it weren't already.
I was finishing my sandwich when I heard Tracy and Emily downstairs.
They were talking and I could tell Tracy was trying to explain to Emily that something very bad was happening. Emily sounded confused and scared and, judging by the tone of Tracy's voice, she sounded like she'd bounced back, regained her fighting spirit. I went downstairs, and when I entered our bedroom I saw them on the bed. Tracy was sitting up, cradling Emily in her arms. Tracy's gaze met mine and I saw right away that she was still emotionally wounded, still in shock from the news of Eric's death. I hoped she would be able to put that grief and hurt someplace else in order to deal with the task of surviving. We didn't just have ourselves to think about. We had our daughter to care for.
"How you guys doing?" I asked.
"We're okay," Tracy said.
"I'm hungry!" Emily said.
"Come on upstairs," I said. "I just had a sandwich. I'll make you guys some dinner."
"What time is it?" Tracy asked as she rose from the bed. She helped Emily up and they followed me up the stairs to the main portion of the house.
"Almost six."
Emily sat down at the kitchen table, looking small and frail in her nightgown. Tracy fell into the task of getting Emily something to drink—orange juice—while I went about the task of preparing another meal, this time for all three of us. I assembled milk, eggs, and sausage together and began making omelets while Tracy poured orange juice and brewed coffee. Emily sat at the table and flipped listlessly through a coloring book.
"I can't believe we slept that long," Tracy said at one point. Despite the fact that she was no longer a crying mess, she still looked shocked and wounded. No doubt she was operating on some kind of autopilot.
"You needed the sleep," I said.
Primitive Page 3