by Guy James
“Vicky...” Jane said, her heart pounding in her ears. “Vicky? What’s happening? What’s wrong with you?”
Vicky groaned in answer, and began to stagger toward Jane.
Jane drew in a breath and tried to move her feet. They were so heavy, as if they were glued to the floor…and that smell, it was making her want to throw up, like she was turning into mush on the inside and her body needed to expel it. She tried to get her legs to move, but her muscles were frozen solid.
Of all the stupid images she could’ve pictured at a moment like that, Jane was now picturing a frozen, unthawed chicken breast under warm running water. If her legs were the chicken breast, and her mind the water, the thaw would take too long and…and what? What was Vicky going to do when she reached her?
Vicky dragged herself to within a few feet from Jane. Vicky raised her arm, bumping it clumsily into Jane’s shoulder. Jane recoiled but still couldn’t get her legs moving. Vicky’s hand tried to grab, but the rickety, uncoordinated fingers closed on air.
Vicky shuffled closer. Her mouth opened, and a thin string of drool began to make its way from her bottom lip to the floor. The string broke when it reached knee level and plipped onto the floor a few inches from Jane’s foot. Jane still couldn’t get herself to move, the muscles in her legs were clenched so tight now that they burned. Run, she kept telling herself, run, get out of here.
Vicky’s head came to within inches of Jane’s face. Vicky’s mouth was snapping open and shut in violent motions, sending the whole of her body into seizures with each snap, as if Vicky had no control over her limbs at all.
When Vicky snapped at Jane’s neck, Jane’s instincts finally, mercifully kicked in. She reacted, falling backward away from the bite, and kicked out with her leg, striking Vicky in the knee.
Jane fell backward onto the floor. The air was clearer there, and the fog in her mind and numbness in her body let up. She remembered where she was, who she was, and she remembered that she had to survive. It didn’t matter what was happening, she was going to survive.
17
Sven had seen this movie before. He had an idea of what was going on, but he had to make sure.
“Bob,” he said. “Wake up Bob. You wanna hit some balls today?”
Bob said nothing.
There was a faraway scream.
“It’s a great day for tennis, weather’s perfect.”
Bob just stood there.
“Nice headband, where’d you get it?”
Bob still said nothing.
Nodding in understanding, Sven picked up a branch and waved it at Bob. It was a soft branch, so instead of poking Bob as Sven had intended, the branch only caressed the immobile tennis player.
After a few tender, leafy caresses, Bob raised his head. Sven jumped back, dropping the branch.
After Sven regained his composure, he retrieved the branch and resumed the caresses, aiming the branch at Bob’s face this time.
Bob’s eyes snapped open to reveal dark, glaring eyeballs in too-loose sockets—just how Lars had looked in the basement. Then the tennis player’s head tilted sideways, snapping his neck, and sending Sven tripping backward over his own feet to fall onto the grass of the back yard.
There was another scream, much closer now.
Bob’s mouth popped open, and he began to sputter and pop toward Sven, clicking and gnashing his teeth. Sven got painfully to his feet, ran around the chomping tennis player and went back into his house, locking the back door behind him. From the kitchen window, he watched Bob make his awkward way to the back door. Then Bob began to bump into the door. He kept at it, bumping the tennis racquet against the door over and over again. He never tried the knob.
18
The knee kick sent Vicky staggering backward several ungainly steps. Then she stopped, steadied herself, moaned and resumed her pursuit. As she drew closer again, her dragging feet picked up shards of glass and scraped them along the floor.
“Stop!” Jane screamed, unnerved by the scraping shards stuck in Vicky’s feet. “Just stay over there, and, and I’ll get help. Just stay on that side of the room. Okay? Don’t come over to this side, okay?”
Vicky groaned and kept coming.
Jane remembered her gun. It was upstairs in the bedroom. She wanted to get it, but she’d have to go around Vicky. What was she even thinking? She couldn’t shoot Vicky. Was Vicky still Vicky? What was wrong with her? What was with the biting? People with colds and even the flu didn’t try to bite other people…right? I don’t know, Jane thought in exasperation, I’m an accountant not a doctor!
Vicky was getting closer, her saliva splattering the floor as she went.
Forgetting that she could get up, Jane crawled backward without taking her eyes off Vicky. She crawled until she bumped into the wall behind her and had to veer left, into the kitchen. Once Vicky’s staggering body was out of sight, Jane found it easier to concentrate. She got up, shook herself, and closed the kitchen door. She looked around the kitchen for something to prop against the door. Her eyes settled on the wine refrigerator. That would have to do. She dragged it over and set it in front of the door. At least the door opened inward—that was something.
Muffled by the glass of the kitchen windows, Jane heard a faraway scream. It was unmistakable—pure terror.
Jane’s mind began to race as she stared at the small wine refrigerator in front of the closed door, and listened to Vicky’s dragging, scraping feet out in the hall. Jane knew she had to get out of the house, and she cursed herself for ending up in the kitchen with only the one door. She looked at the windows over the sink. She could try to jump out if it came to it. She began to look around the kitchen, thinking about what to do next. Her eyes came to attention when they fell on her 32-piece, stainless steel knife set. She walked over to it. Jane felt her heart beating in her chest as she closed her left hand around the handle of the largest knife in the set. The plastic handle was room temperature. She pulled the knife out and stood there for a moment, thinking. Then she opened a drawer and took out a long, two-pronged weenie fork.
Holding her knife and fork, Jane turned back to the door.
19
Sven locked his front door and then submitted his body to agonizing pain by pushing the couch up against the door to the basement. Afterward, he hobbled upstairs to his bedroom where he retrieved his backpack and gym bag. He put on a pair of nylon track pants, a loose t-shirt, and his most comfortable pair of cross-trainers—a pair of Asics. Sven took his emergency supply of protein bars out from under the bed and put it in his gym bag. Then he grabbed all three of his stainless steel water bottles and a portable water filter and threw all of them into the gym bag.
Sven didn’t pack any clothes—except for his man-tard, which he put in his gym bag by rote. Realizing that he had packed it made him think of Lars, in his now bloody cat food-coated man-tard in the basement. They had gotten their man-tards together. Lars had introduced him to the man-tard. Before Lars, Sven hadn’t known there was a male equivalent of a leotard. Man-tards made lifting so much better. The mind-muscle connection that man-tards enabled just couldn’t be matched. Sven was crouched over his gym bag now, clutching the man-tard. He nodded his head, and as he did so, a single tear rolled down his well-muscled cheek. The tear fell, landing soundlessly on the man-tard.
Sven pulled himself together and carried the gym bag and backpack downstairs to the kitchen. To the gym bag he added the first aid kit that he kept on top of the refrigerator. He filled the three water bottles and put them back into the gym bag. Sven opened his cupboards and cursed under his breath. He kept all the good stuff in the storage room downstairs. But he couldn’t go there now.
Out of the cupboard Sven took a small bag of dried pineapple and papaya, a box of oatmeal granola bars, and some uncooked rice. He put all of these into the gym bag. Sven looked at the bag that was now bulging. He took the rice out and put it back in the cupboard, figuring that wherever he was going, he wasn’t going to be cooking ri
ce. Then he took a small bag of Ivan’s dry cat kibble out from under the counter and stuffed it in the outer pocket of the backpack.
“This is your ride,” Sven said to Ivan, pointing at the backpack. Ivan looked up at him and tilted his blue head to one side.
Sven took a pan out from under the counter and set it on the stove. He turned the stove on. Then he picked Ivan up and found an angle at which both he and Ivan could see Bob bumping and grinding against the back door.
Sven pointed at Bob. “You never liked him did you?”
Ivan hissed.
“Smart cat.” Sven gave Ivan a smelly fish treat, which Ivan gobbled happily. Then Sven put Ivan back down, and put the bag of fish treats in one of the backpack’s small outside pockets.
When the pan was hot enough, Sven took out two ribeye steaks that had been meant for his post-benching meal. He seared each to perfection, all the while trying to silence the voice in his head telling him he better enjoy them, because they would be his last. Sven plated the steaks in overlapping slices, and carried the plate into the living room. Ivan followed. Sven sat down on the floor and began to eat the steaks. He started with a knife and fork, then put the knife and fork aside and used his hands. Sven devoured the meat while Ivan lapped at the steak juice that collected at the bottom of the plate.
It occurred to Sven to turn the TV on and see if the news had anything to say about what was going on. He wiped his hands, got the remote, and turned the TV on.
The first channel that came on was all static. Sven flipped around and saw that most of the channels were just static. Thinking that was all in a good day’s work for Time Warner, he nodded to himself as he chewed and kept on flipping.
The first channel that worked was Comedy Central. The caption on the screen read, “Strange Flu Outbreak Grips Commonwealth of Virginia.” There was a reporter on the screen. She looked uneasy and pointed behind her. She said, “The CDC is handling the matter and asks that if you reside in Virginia, you stay indoors until the matter is resolved.”
Sven gnawed on one of the rib bones. The reporter went on, “The flu symptoms are rather unusual but the CDC insists there is no cause for alarm. Special field units have been dispatched to—”
The channel cut out and the TV screen filled with static. Sven looked down at the bare rib bones in his plate. His stomach growled against the backdrop of Lars’s scraping downstairs, Bob’s bumping outside, and Ivan’s tongue smacking as he worked on the steak juice in the plate. Sven picked up the remote and flipped around some more. He found another working channel—the Oprah Channel. There was a news report on that one too, but with no caption on the screen.
The reporter said, “The Virginia flu outbreak has been traced to—” and the channel cut out. The TV filled with static once more. Sven had had enough of Time Warner and its static, so he turned the TV off.
Maybe he should have turned the TV on before he cooked his steaks. Maybe then he would have heard more about what was happening. He shrugged, walked back into the kitchen, and seared another ribeye.
20
It was clear that Ivan didn’t want to get in the backpack. Sven pleaded with him, but Ivan just wouldn’t listen.
“Come on, we have to get out of here,” Sven said. “Just get in and we’ll talk about it later.”
Sven pointed at the backpack in frustration. “Please? We really have to go. I promise we’re not going to the vet. Would I lie to you?” That was probably the problem. When they went to the vet, Ivan usually traveled in the backpack, and Sven figured that Ivan suspected this was a vet trip.
Ivan meowed in defiance as he danced around the backpack, hitting Sven repeatedly with his tail.
“Come on,” Sven said, still pointing at the backpack. “We’re really not going to the vet, and I won’t close the top of the backpack all the way. You can peek out as we go, so you can jump out and run away if something happens.”
Ivan turned away from Sven and waved his tail.
“Okay, okay, I’ll get you some beef jerky. How about that?”
Ivan got in the backpack.
“That’s all it takes,” Sven said, and he put on the backpack and picked up the gym bag. He got his car keys and made for the front door.
Something in the basement overturned as Sven was walking to the door. He stopped for a moment, and then he heard the screams.
21
Lorie was trying to finish her eggs. She knew she had to finish them, and the toast too. Her breakfast would be her fuel for the race. But she was too nervous, and her stomach wasn’t cooperating. Lorie always got that way before track meets, and today was the most important meet so far. She cut away a piece of broccoli omelet with her fork and stared at it.
Evan was next to her, eagerly lapping up spoonfuls of Fruit Loops. Lorie looked into his bowl. There were only three fruit loops left—one blue and two yellow.
“Do you actually like that stuff?” Lorie asked. “The milk doesn’t even look like milk anymore, it’s all blue and purple and orange in places.”
Evan looked up at her as he sloshed another milk-drenched loop into his mouth. “These are great. And blue milk is better than regular milk. It’s sweeter.”
“Milk isn’t supposed to be sweet, Evan. Everyone knows that.”
Evan picked up the bowl of cereal and slurped up all of the brightly-colored milk. He put the bowl down, turned to Lorie’s plate, and looked thoughtful. “It looks like mine is better than yours. At least I want to eat mine. You’re just playing with your green omelet.”
“Am not. I’m just not that hungry.”
“You shouldn’t play with your food.”
Lorie smiled. “I’m not playing with it.” It was good to have Evan around. It made for much less boring breakfasts, even though he liked those silly cereals that she had no taste for. Lorie also liked Evan’s dad, and Lorie’s mom liked Evan’s dad, and they all hung out together and it was fun. It had been a little weird when their parents first got married, but now it was starting to feel normal, a lot like things used to feel like back when Lorie’s dad had been around before he—
A shattering sound came from the living room.
Lorie was on her feet at once, calling into the living room. “Mom? Are you okay?”
No response.
Lorie began to walk toward the living room threshold. “Mom?”
No response.
“Come on,” Lorie said to Evan, and he got up to follow her.
Lorie’s mom and Evan’s dad had been taking their breakfast on the balcony off the living room. They often took their breakfast out there, outside and away from Lorie and Evan. They liked their privacy.
As Lorie was about to cross into the living room, there was another shattering sound, and Lorie was hit in the face with a rancid, too-sweet smell that stopped her in her tracks.
22
Sven realized that the screams were coming from the front yard. He looked out the window into the yard but saw nothing. The screams continued, unabated.
He could only get a full view of the yard if he went outside, and he had been on his way out until the screams began. Now he stood there, uncertain.
In the basement, something heavy fell, its sound adding to Sven’s uncertainty.
Sven turned to the door to the basement that was blocked with his couch. He turned to the front door. The screams seemed to be subsiding. Sven went back to his kitchen and looked out the window. Bob was gone.
“Here we go,” Sven said to Ivan, and opened the back door. Ivan’s head and front paws stuck out of the backpack, his paws perched on Sven’s left shoulder. Sven found himself thinking that it was a fun day to be a cat.
Sven walked out and shut the door behind him. The back yard was empty. He made his way around the back of the house and walked through the driveway. The straps of the backpack bothered his benching injury, but carrying the food-loaded gym bag bothered the injury more. Both were necessary, he knew, and grossly inadequate if what he suspected was happeni
ng, really was happening.
Sven let out the breath he’d been holding since he walked out of his house. His mid-size SUV was still there. From somewhere beyond the car, the screamer, though apparently losing steam, kept screaming. Sven put his bag down on the driver’s side of the car and rushed around to see what was happening.
It was Bob. His tennis racquet was on the ground and he was bent over something. Was he the one screaming? No, he was bent over someone…someone else.
“Hey,” Sven said, “what are you doing over there?” It wasn’t unusual for Bob to be in Sven’s back yard, since Bob and Sven shared a driveway and sometimes Sven saw Bob doing skinny guy calisthenics back there. It was weird, but it was alright by Sven. Sven got to use Bob’s three extra parking spots whenever he wanted, so he wasn’t about to complain about Bob’s back yard Pilates. But Bob was in Sven’s front yard now, and he wasn’t doing Pilates.
Bob turned, and when Sven walked closer he finally saw the screamer. It was Bill, the mailman, or at least what was left of him. Sven’s jaw dropped and he walked backward into the pokey hedge. Bob began to get up from his crouch over Bill and locked his dead black eyes on Sven. Bob’s face was covered in blood and gobbets of flesh, his arms were covered in gore up the elbows, and a four inch piece of intestine hung out of his mouth, suspended, apparently mid-swallow. Bob and the parts of Bill’s flesh that covered the cannibalistic tennis player began to stagger toward Sven in uncoordinated spasms.
Even while Bob approached, Sven’s eyes were drawn back to Bill, who lay in the gore of his own evisceration. Finally, his screams died down to whimpers, and the whimpers died down to nothing. Bill lay still.