by Matthew Boyd
Z.N.A.
ORIGIN
© Matthew Boyd, 2011
Cover Art © by William Vitka, 2011
Chapter One: Neighborhood
October 10th, 2012. 2:45 p.m.
The sun was shining brightly overhead and the entire world seemed too quiet. No birds were chirping. No engines humming or dogs barking. The only noises he could hear were the gentle breeze that had kicked up and his own heartbeat.
The inside of the house looked pitch black from the outside. All of the lights were off in the house. Hell, all the lights in the world were probably out by now. That sort of stuff seems to happen once almost all the people are dead. Certainly didn’t make things any easier, even in the daytime.
Paul slowly crept up to the front of the two-story house with both hands on his AR-15. He made very little noise, only the faintest jingling could be heard with each step from the various items and extra magazines he kept in his vest. He could hear the jingling and although it was barely audible, he mentally kicked himself for not securing his gear a little tighter.
“Next time I will…if there is a next time,” he thought to himself.
He knew if any of those things were around they would hear it if he moved much faster than he was now. It seemed strange that somehow all of the windows on this house were still intact. The grass had grown tall and thick, and was now starting to be covered with the first falling leaves of autumn. Two cars were parked side by side in the driveway. They were dusty and dirty and looked like they hadn’t moved in months. Paul carefully circled around the house to the back, scanning for any movement on the large wooden deck with the typical wooden patio furniture and old planters. There was one regular door with a small window that appeared intact and a large sliding glass door that had been smashed in. Paul slowly moved his way up to the small door and tried the handle. It was locked.
Crouching and still moving slowly, he edged his way up to the smashed glass door. Tiny fragments of broken glass and dried drops of blood littered the deck. Paul nervously peeked into the living room of the house and other than more shattered glass on the inside and some turned over furniture, everything appeared perfectly normal.
Paul stood up and began to advance towards the entrance, rifle at the ready. Sunlight entered the house just enough for him to be able to search effectively. He considered opening the front door for a secondary exit if needed, but relented. There was just too much closed off space to go traipsing across the living room without clearing the first floor room by room first. Paul craned his neck as he stepped over the glass shards and into the house. The set of steps leading upstairs directly to his left were clear. Paul advanced, sweeping the room, and cleared the short hallway to his right. His footsteps seemed impossibly loud to him, but in reality, couldn’t be heard more than a few feet away.
Carefully, he moved down the hallway and cleared the two small bedrooms and the bathroom in the rear of the house. Heaving a sigh of relief, he relaxed a little, knowing that at least the bottom floor was clear.
Paul hated having to do this, but his food and water had finally run out after 6 months. Scavenging had kept him alive so far. What happened had happened fast, and there were lots of homes with supplies that never got a chance to be used. After nearly being killed just trying to get home the first day, he headed down to his secure basement, locked the door, and stayed put until he had no choice but to venture out.
He was about to move to the stairs and clear the second floor when something caught his eye in the last bedroom. Propped up in the corner of the closet was a blue and white R/C airplane.
“Oh wow!” thought Paul. “I haven’t used one of these in ages! I used to have so much fun with mine. At least, before…everything.”
Paul knew that someone in his neighborhood had one, and here it was. He had seen it flying in the open area behind his house more than a few times in the past. The remote control was nowhere to be seen, but even if he could find it, there would be no playing with the plane. It was just too dangerous and would draw unwanted attention for miles. Paul spun the propeller playfully and turned to go. The plane must have barely been propped up. It shifted over some other items in the closet and fell over on its side, making a loud clattering racket.
The effect was immediate. Paul heard a loud and raspy growl from upstairs, followed by several pairs of fast running feet pounding above him and moving towards the stairs at the other end of the house.
“Oh shit!” Paul said out loud, swinging his AR-15 back out in front of him.
He ran out into the hallway just as the horrifyingly fast creatures came rushing down the stairs. Their bodies collided with each other and into the walls on the stairwell, leaving smears of blood wherever they touched. There were two of them, and the creatures barely seemed to resemble humans anymore. Most of their skin hung in flaps, and the clothes they once wore were shredded and coated in dried blood. Their eyes had turned completely black and most of their hair appeared to have been torn out. Both of these appeared to be middle-aged males.
They saw him immediately and sprang forward in his direction, knocking down a table and destroying an old lamp. Paul leveled his rifle at the first one and pulled the trigger. A mist of particles exploded out of the creature’s head, and it crashed to the floor. The second creature bounded over the first and continued to advance. Paul fired again.
Three bullets blasted right through the creature’s abdomen, which knocked it over. Flailing wildly, the creature righted itself and started to get back up. What looked like blood and some vile black substance mixed together poured readily out of the three bullet holes he put in the creature.
Paul set his sights for the creature’s head and pulled the trigger again.
Click. The rifle failed to fire. Paul quickly slapped the bottom of the magazine and pulled back the charging handle, attempting to clear the failed round. With a pants-wetting growl, the creature was back up and running towards him again. The failed round popped out and Paul released the charging handle and slapped the forward assist. The creature was less than 10 feet away and Paul pulled the trigger again, hoping this time would not be his last.
The rifle boomed. The round hit the creature dead center in the throat and it collapsed like a rag doll, slapping against the wooden hallway floor face-down and sliding right up to Paul’s shoes before stopping.
Sweat was dripping from what seemed like every pore in Paul’s body. He was shaking so badly he nearly dropped the rifle. This was not his first time dealing with these things, but that didn’t make them any less frightening so far. Having a malfunction did not help things, but at least he knew if it happened again he could deal with it. Paul composed himself and checked his gear. Everything was in its right place. Paul nearly jumped to the ceiling when suddenly he noticed there was movement at his feet. The creature was still alive.
It was paralyzed from the neck down, but somehow it was still alive and working its jaws. The creature tried to growl, but no sound was coming out. Paul used his foot and flipped the creature over to get a better look. Its eyes locked on Paul and it increased the biting motion, which was now almost rhythmic. It moved its head from side to side and appeared to be doing anything it still could to get to him. Paul pointed the muzzle of his rifle against the creature’s forehead and ended its miserable existence.
What had the world come to? Since coming out of his shelter three weeks ago, Paul had not seen another living and normal human.
Chapter Two: Origin
February 16th, 2012. 6:00 a.m.
Paul was going to be late for work again. Another night of drinking a few too many and going to sleep on the couch would be landing him in hot water with his boss for sure. Right now, though, the only hot water he cared about was from
the shower head he was standing under.
“I gotta quit drinking,” Paul said to himself. “If I’m late to the warehouse one more time the boss is going to shit-can my ass so fast it’ll make my head spin.”
Paul tried to forget about the pictures in his mind of his boss yelling at him. He soaped up while putting on his best rendition of “Singing in the Rain.” It seemed appropriate at the time. The best part about living alone was he could sing as badly as he wanted to in the shower, or at least that is what he told himself.
It was hard to live alone sometimes. His mother and father had passed away years ago in a car accident, and his brother had been killed in the Afghanistan war the same year. His life seemed full of tragedy for a long time after all that. Exiting the shower and drying off, he threw on his brown on brown on brown work uniform and hat. He grabbed a can of soda and a blueberry bagel and headed out the door. Climbing into his black 1997 GMC pickup truck, Paul started his 15 mile drive to the shipping warehouse.
Pulling up into the gravel parking lot outside the warehouse, Paul noticed very few vehicles. Several of the companies’ plain brown delivery trucks were still sitting inside the warehouse bay, ready for the day. Paul looked around, scanning the parking lot and breathing a huge sigh of relief.
“Oh, thank Christ. No sign of the bosses’ car.”
Paul pulled into his spot and jumped out of the truck.
“Wonder where the heck everyone’s at though?” He thought to himself. “Some kind of meeting or something I didn’t get invited to?”
Paul walked up to the main desk and grabbed his paperwork. After a short check-in and inventory count, he climbed into his delivery truck. It was loaded up with lots of boxes to be delivered, but thankfully he still had a long time until Christmas again and the maddening amount of work it would surely bring him. With the way things were going in this economy, it would be a miracle if the company hired an assistant for him this year.
Paul fired up the engine and turned the truck radio on. The radio program was a popular news and current events show. A familiar voice came on and gave the latest headlines.
“…and Toyota continues to decline, shutting down two of its U.S. assembly plants in the wake of its vehicle recalls. Spokesmen for the company could not be reached for further comment. Today, in health news, an apparent stomach bug is going around and in recent days has sickened millions of Americans. No deaths have been reported yet, but doctors are saying that so far it appears to be much worse than in years past. Doctors believe it is most likely a new form of the norovirus, a highly contagious gastrointestinal illness that causes diarrhea, nausea, and vomiting. Doctors advise that those who are sick stay at home and that everyone practice more diligent hand washing. In other news, it appears that the once dreaded ‘Swine Flu’ pandemic has not reached the level of danger experts had initially believed. So far milder again this year in most cases, ‘Swine Flu’ appears to have responded well to the immunization attempt. More than two-thirds of the U.S. population has received the vaccine. On a related note, in a recent breakthrough scientists have managed to identify and modify a certain string of the viruses’ RNA, one, which they hope, will help eradicate the Flu virus forever. The researchers first human trial was conducted early last week and the results appear, quote, ‘promising’.”
Paul listened absent-mindedly for a few more minutes and then clicked the radio off. He continued on, driving in silence for the next few hours, enjoying the peaceful empty streets of the residential neighborhoods in the cold morning, stopping here and there to make his deliveries. It seemed strange to him at the time, but very few people seemed to be out and about. Only one customer had greeted him all morning. The rest were “ding and drops”.
Traffic was also pretty light for a Monday morning. Around one o’clock he stopped at his favorite restaurant, Murphy’s, to grab a bite to eat. Country music was playing softly on the overhead speaker system, and he could hear dishes clattering in the kitchen. Only two other customers inhabited the restaurant and they were silently watching TV and drinking coffee. Settling in to his favorite booth, Paul noticed the place was emptier than usual.
Betty, the head waitress and co-owner of Murphy’s walked up to Paul. Betty fit the stereotype of the typical middle-aged truck stop choke-n-puke waitress perfectly. She was wearing the same faded tan uniform shirt and thick eyeglasses he had seen her wear since the first day he walked through the door. Her makeup was applied in thick layers and her blond, but rapidly graying hair was bunched up in an enormous bee-hive hairdo. She had her pad out but Paul had never seen her actually use it.
“Heya hon. What can I get for ya today? The usual?” She said, friendly as ever.
Paul glanced at the menu for a moment, but tossed it back down. Why did he even bother? He always got the same damn thing.
“Yeah. Lemme just get the usual, Betty. Oh, and a Pepsi to drink please. Thanks.”
Betty brought him out his drink immediately and he started working on it. Paul folded the menu back up and decided to take a look at the news on the TV above the bar. The reporter appeared to be in the middle of some huge riot or something on TV.
People were running around and cars were on fire. Police in riot gear were shooting what looked like teargas. The reporter held one hand on his microphone and the other up to his ear, and was obviously was saying something, but Paul couldn’t hear anything since the volume on the TV was muted. On the bottom of the screen was the headline, “Violence in the Nation’s Capital.”
The image of the reporter turned to static and then flashed back to the anchorman sitting at the desk, who looked a bit surprised but continued the news report. Paul figured it was probably some more of that mess in Iran.
He couldn’t help thinking to himself, “Those guys over there are gonna screw up eventually and cause World War 3.”
Just then Betty returned, holding a platter with a steaming hot bowl of soup and a gigantic turkey sandwich.
“Oh yeah. Looks awesome. Thanks, Betty. Hey, by the way, where is everybody? Doesn’t seem nearly as busy as usual around here.”
She put her hands on her hips and replied, “Everybody’s come down with that stomach thing I guess. Think I might be gettin’ a touch of it myself, but I hope not. I got bills to pay, so if I ain’t at work, then I must be dead.”
She placed a bottle of ketchup and some extra napkins on the table in front of Paul, which he eyed suspiciously, hoping he wouldn’t catch whatever it was she might be sick with.
“The entire staff called out today leavin’ me and Murph here to do all the cookin’, servin’, and cleanin’. Normally, I would be up to my eyeballs if that many people called out, but it looks like most of the customers decided not to come in today. Maybe everybody’s tryin’ to save money with the economy like it is or something. I don’t know. I just know my tips are gonna be lousy today.”
Paul took a swig of Pepsi and said, “Well, I’m sure things will pick back up tomorrow, Betty. People can’t be out sick forever.”
“They better not be. I got a business to run here,” she said, smiling again.
Paul could see she did look a bit under the weather. Her eyes looked sunken and she seemed to be moving much slower than usual.
“Anything else?” she questioned, and Paul just shook his head. With that, Betty grabbed the empty tray and headed back into the kitchen. Paul would be sure to leave her a fat tip today to help her make up for the slow business.
After a quick pee and hand wash Paul paid his bill, waved goodbye, and headed back out to his truck. He pulled out of the nearly empty parking lot and sat in light traffic behind a few cars at the red light of the nearby three-way intersection.
The light changed and traffic started to go when unexpectedly a silver 1980’s Oldsmobile barreled through the intersection, T-boning the small car right in front of Paul. Paul slammed on brakes and watched helplessly. Tires screamed and glass shattered everywhere. The driver must have been going 60 or 70 miles a
n hour as the collision pushed both cars all the way across the road into a utility pole and caught on fire.
For a second, time seemed to stop. Paul gasped in shock, watching the scene unfold before his eyes. He was gripping the steering wheel with both hands and had his foot firmly applied to the brake.
Time restarted itself and now seemed to be going a thousand times faster as people started exiting their vehicles. Paul jumped out of his truck and ran over to the Oldsmobile. Electrical lines had snapped and were dancing across what was left of the hood of the silver car. The driver was an old lady who looked to be at least 90. Her face was completely covered in blood. She was not moving and her head was against the steering wheel and blasting the horn.
Paul grabbed the handle, ignoring the possibility of high-voltage electric death, and barely managed to pry the door open. The old lady wasn’t wearing a seat belt and she slumped out onto the asphalt. Paul and another driver that had come to help grabbed her by her purple sweater and dragged her away from the flaming vehicles to the middle of the now completely jammed up intersection.