Pandora: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse

by McCrohan, Richard

  The American people were polarized into two camps: those opposing having their loved ones taken away, never to be seen again, and those saying this was the only way we could assuredly contain this evil virus. The result was not pretty. This was the new world that Sean, Michael, Jack, and the rest of the human race woke up to.

  7

  Sean woke up to a pounding at their front door. As he jumped from his bed, hearing someone else start down the stairs, he glanced at his alarm clock. Six in the morning, he thought grumpily. Who the hell could that be? He raced downstairs with Jack right behind him. Michael, already at the door, looked through the small glass window there before opening it.

  On the front porch stood three police officers in Kevlar vests. Behind them was a National Guardsman, and parked at the curb was a desert-tan Humvee.

  “Can I help you?” Mike said quizzically.

  “Are you Brian Dunn?” asked the lead officer, glancing at Mike then taking in Sean and Jack standing behind.

  “No,” replied Mike. “We took Brian to Saint Mary’s Hospital yesterday. I think he died there.”

  The officer looked at a piece of paper that seemed to be a list, then back at the three housemates. “I need to see IDs from the three of you.”

  The boys reached into their pockets and quickly showed their wallets. After checking their licenses, the officer looked up and stated sternly, “We’ll need to check the house to make sure Mr. Dunn isn’t on the premises.”

  “I told you,” Mike huffed, “he’s not here.”

  The three cops immediately changed their demeanor. While the lead officer gave Michael a hard stare, the other two lowered their hands to their holsters.

  “Hey, it’s all right, officers,” Jack quickly inserted. “We understand.” He opened the door wide and, gently pulling Mike back, stood aside.

  The three policemen entered and professionally split up, quickly searching the house from top to bottom. They even checked the basement. Not finding the person they had come for, they gave the boys fast smiles and rapidly left. The lead officer looked back at his list, pointed across the street, and the three, with a guardsman tagging behind, strode toward the opposite house.

  Looking vaguely stunned, the three friends stepped onto the porch. Two large olive-drab trucks were idling farther down the street. They watched as the cops went to the Johnstons’ home across the street. The door opened as the officers stepped onto the porch.

  Luther and Fran Johnston were a sixty-year-old couple who had lived there for twenty years. Both recently had been hospitalized with the Pandora virus. There was a brief conversation at the door, and then the three cops walked back down the porch with the couple in tow. Mr. Johnston had his arm around his wife, who was crying softly. The guardsman escorted them to the closest truck, and they got in, helped by the people already seated inside.

  In the meantime the three cops crossed the lawn to the Russos’ house.

  The Russos weren’t popular around the neighborhood. Joe was a nasty man who constantly was complaining about something or someone. Having a very short fuse, he always was working himself up about real or imagined slights against him. His wife, Gloria, was a brassy blonde with a chip on her shoulder who sauntered about the neighborhood as if she owned it. They had two daughters, both of whom had been ill recently.

  As the three officers approached the family’s front stairs, the door opened. “Get off my property!” yelled an angry voice from inside the house.

  Coming to an abrupt halt, the lead officer called out, “Sir, we’re here to check on—”

  “I know why you’re here!” Joe Russo shouted, talking over the cop’s words. “You’re not taking anyone here. Turn your fucking asses around, and get the hell out of here.”

  “We can’t do that, sir,” replied the officer. He and his companions had reached down and unsnapped their holsters.

  “Then fuck you!” yelled Joe.

  The door, which until now was open just a crack, opened wider, and the barrel of a rifle pointed out. As the three policemen reached for their weapons, and two other guardsmen came running over, unslinging theirs, the rifle barked out a shot. The bullet hit the lead officer in the chest, knocking him flat on his back. Immediately the other two cops and the two soldiers opened fire at the front door. A furious fusillade blew holes in the door. Another rifle shot rang out, and the four men continued to fire, all but blowing the door apart. They split up; one soldier moved to one side of the door, and one cop and the other soldier to the other side. The remaining cop bent down and grabbed the back of his fallen comrade’s vest and dragged him off to the side, behind a bush.

  In that brief lull in the action, a woman’s voice called from the inside of the bullet-ridden doorway, “You shot my husband, you bastards. I’ll kill you!”

  The officer crouching on the side of the driveway arched his arm and threw a flash-bang grenade into the vestibule. As it went off, they ran in after it, firing as they went. From inside the home came screams, shouts, and more gunfire. After five minutes there was a sudden silence.

  Watching stunned were the three housemates and a couple of neighbors. Soon the three armed men reappeared, and shortly after that, a number of other police officers began to enter and leave the domain. An ambulance quickly came, and four body bags were taken out of the house and placed inside it.

  As Sean walked a bit closer after the ambulance drove off, he heard one of the cops talking to another. “These guys just don’t get it,” the cop said, disgustedly shaking his head. “He had his two dead zombie daughters locked in their bedroom. What the fuck did he think he was going to do with them?” He spat on the ground. “People are just so damn stupid.”

  Sean turned and joined his friends, and they went back into their house. As they were closing the front door, they heard more shooting from a few blocks away. They went into the kitchen, made coffee, and sat down to eat breakfast.

  “I called Nicole late last night when she didn’t call back,” mumbled Jack as he mechanically ate some fruit. “She didn’t answer.” He looked up. “It went right to voice mail. I’m really afraid for her. If it’s this bad here, imagine what the big cities must be like. It’s got to be awful. I called again right before the police came, but it said her voice mail was full.”

  The three ate the rest of their meal in uneasy silence. When they finished, Jack took his coffee into the living room to resume his television vigil. Mike returned to his room upstairs, while Sean took his coffee cup and walked over to stare out the big picture window in the living room. The Humvee and two trucks were gone, and for a moment, it seemed as if all this never had happened. He was about to turn away when he noticed a man walking down the middle of the road. As he watched, he took a closer look at this stranger. Walking with an uneven gait, he looked like someone who’d had way too much to drink and was trying to keep his decorum. There was a smear of blood on the sleeve of his shirt, which was halfway out of his pants, and his face had the unmistakable pallor of the dead. His eyes were milky, and his mouth was half open in a dullish expression. Sean stood there and watched the man pause for a second. He swayed to and fro, his head hanging slightly to one side, then resumed his trek down the center of the asphalt. Soon he disappeared behind the trees that lined the street.

  Troubled by that unholy sight, Sean turned and dug out his cell phone from his jeans pocket. After dialing his parents’ number with his thumb, he put the phone up to his ear and waited for an answer.

  “Hello?” It was his mother, Cecilia. He heard the television blaring loudly in the background. His father needed hearing aids but refused to get them, saying everyone just mumbled their words too much. So the television was always turned up all the way.

  “Hi, Mom,” Sean said warmly. “How are you feeling?”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” said his mother. “I’d put your father on, but he’s answering the door.”

  “Is it the police?” Sean asked curiously.

  “I guess so,” answe
red Cecilia. “Somebody was pounding at the door just now. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s one of the neighbors complaining about the television volume. Your father—”

  Suddenly there was a banging and scuffling noise in the background. Sean heard his father shouting something.

  “John? John?” his mother called out. “What’s wrong, John? Who’s at the door?” She put down the phone, and Sean heard her walking toward the front door from the kitchen. “John?”

  Between the din from the television, the yelling of his parents, and the crashing sounds coming from the front of the house, Sean couldn’t tell what was happening. “Mom! Mom! Mom!” he shouted into his cell. The noise stopped, and he heard only a dial tone.

  Jack stood up from the sofa. “What’s wrong?” he asked worriedly.

  Sean already was running for the door. “It’s my parents,” he yelled over his shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

  “Need me along?” Jack asked but found he was speaking to an empty room. He heard Sean’s car start and a squeal of tires down the drive. As he stared at the door, he thought, This can’t be good.

  Sean was weaving through traffic, trying to reach his parents’ home. The distraught son was driving wild-eyed, saying, “Shit, shit, shit” over and over. Finally reaching the Sullivans’ house, he screeched to a stop and frantically exited his car. His parents’ front door was open, and he heard the television blaring from the house. Sean rushed up the steps. When he reached the open door, he stopped. “Dad?” he called hesitantly. “Mom?” Reaching out his hand, he pushed the door fully open. There was their hall table, overturned, with its bric-a-brac lying broken on the floor. He looked around as he stepped through the threshold and saw bright blood spattered on the wall. There were several smeared red hand-prints on the mirror, which hung skewed on the wall. Looking at himself through the dripping prints gave him a macabre, evil, fun-house appearance. He looked down and saw a blood trail smeared across the entrance tiles that led into the living room. Shaking, Sean called out tremulously, “Dad?” He hesitantly eased into the room, and as he fully entered, he saw his father splayed out on the blood-soaked carpet. The end table was on its side; a coffee cup lay next to it, its dark-brown contents mixing with the bright blood that was flowing from his father’s throat. He saw where the arterial spray had arced across the ceiling as his father went down.

  Sean fell to his knees and cradled John Sullivan’s head. His father’s eyes were wide open and staring blankly. “Dad, Dad,” he moaned. “Oh, my God, no.” As tears ran down his face, a thought dawned on him. “Mom?” he asked, looking up frantically. He got up and ran into the kitchen. The damage in that room was more complete. Chairs were strewn all about, and dishes and food littered the floor. The blaring voice on the television was starting to drive him mad. He followed the debris and blood spatters to the mud room at the back door. It looked as though his mother had been trying to get outside to escape, but she hadn’t made it. With her legs stretched out in front of her, Cecelia Sullivan was sitting on the floor, her back against the door. She was clearly dead. Her nightgown was torn open, and she was almost eviscerated, her intestines tumbling out of the ragged hole in her abdomen and into her blood-drenched lap.

  Sean stumbled back, putting his hands over his mouth in shock. He was crying so hard now he could hardly see. Making a sudden choking sound, he turned and ran for the sink. Leaning over the drain, Sean vomited out the entire contents of his spasming stomach. Gasping and choking, he straightened up, looked back at his mother’s body, then bent over again and was wracked by dry heaves. Finally getting control he stood erect and walked into the living room. Mind blank, he automatically shut off the television. Sean walked through the open front door and, standing at the entrance, dialed 911. All he got was a busy signal. He then noticed bloody footprints leading away from the house. Following them to the neighbor’s backyard, he found the person who had savaged his parents. It was their neighbor. Covered with blood and just standing there, chewing on something in his hand, the undead man didn’t notice Sean standing there. Suddenly overcome by a white-hot, raging hatred, Sean grabbed a shovel that was leaning against the house and ran at the gore-soaked figure.

  The zombie saw Sean running toward him, groaned loudly, and raised a hand. Sean, enraged, knocked the zombie’s arm down and swung the shovel like a baseball bat with all his might. The flat of the shovel hit the ghoul square in the center of his face, making a sound like that of a melon bursting. As the zombie staggered back, Sean swung again, screaming in anger. This time, his face now pushed in, the zombie fell backward like a tree falling. Sean stepped up and stood over him. Using the blade of the tool, he chopped at the creature’s head. The blade kept rising and falling, gore flying in all directions, until Sean was physically unable to lift the shovel again. Panting furiously, he stood there, leaning on the shovel, eyes closed, trying to catch his breath. It took at least ten minutes for him to calm himself down, get his breath, and take stock of his actions.

  The zombie, lying flat on his back, arms outstretched, had basically no head left. There was only a mass of wet, bloody tissue and shattered bone. As Sean gazed down, noticing one intact milky eye staring up at him from the jumble of flesh, it was hard to believe that what he saw once had been a human face.

  Still breathing heavily, Sean dropped the gore-covered shovel and trudged back to his parents’ house. After climbing the front stairs, he leaned wearily against the doorframe, not knowing what to do next. Even though 911 wasn’t answering, he knew he couldn’t possibly leave his parents lying there like that. His eyes filled again with tears, but he was much too exhausted to cry. Sean slowly stepped back into the abattoir then grabbed the afghan his mother had knitted years ago from the back of the living-room couch. He opened the green, pink, and cream-colored blanket and walked over to cover his father’s body. As he walked, he spread his arms up and out, holding each end of the thick blanket out. Bending to drape it over his father, he looked down and froze. The only thing on the carpet was a large pool of congealed blood. His father’s body was gone.

  8

  Michael Quinn got a call on his cell phone at noon. Seeing it was Susan, his girlfriend, he quickly answered. “Sue, how and where are you?” he said without preamble. “We’re still at the hospital,” she announced. “They closed the emergency room, Mike. I heard some of the ER nurses talking, and all the patients who came in turned into zombies and attacked everyone near them. The entire first floor is in shambles. Whatever staff made it out either came upstairs or ran away. We’ve disabled the elevators and blocked the stairways with hospital beds and furniture. Fortunately we’ve had very few turn in our wing. And those who did we knew were going to, so we restrained them in their beds.”

  “Jesus, Sue,” gasped Michael incredulously, “that’s horrible.”

  “I’m telling you, Mike, it’s now a desperate situation here.”

  Mike thought for a moment then asked her, “Do you want me to come get you?”

  “Not yet,” she answered, exhaling sharply. “We’re safe for now, and the patients here still need our help. If things deteriorate any further, I’ll call you back.”

  “Stay safe, hon,” he said.

  “You too, Michael. Bye.”

  Michael disconnected and sat back down on the sofa. The television was on, and unbelievable images were flooding in from all corners of the globe. Riots were erupting in every major city. People still were continuing to die of the Pandora 2 Mutation and coming back to life. The quarantine centers were now just holding pens for zombies, as victims died, turned, and attacked the personnel and the not-yet dead, and they in turn died and attacked others. In some countries, such as Germany and Israel, law enforcement just secured the gates, evacuated military personnel, and bombed the infected who were enclosed within. In most cases, many, many zombies were annihilated this way, but others were now free to travel the countryside, as their prison had been destroyed.

  In many areas of the world, zom
bies roamed freely. Certain zones were losing all communication with the rest of civilization. Television, telephones, and the Internet still functioned as usual, except in a number of poor third-world countries.

  Jack was sitting despondently in one of the leather easy chairs. Unable to reach Nicole in New York City and very worried about her, he was curled up and halfheartedly munching on an apple. Suddenly his cell phone rang. Scrambling to his feet, he raised it rapidly to his ear. “Nicky?” he asked anxiously.

  “No, it’s me…Tommy,” a male voice roughly responded.

  “Holy shit! Tommy?” Jack shouted happily. “Oh, man, it’s so good to hear your voice.”