by Seiple, Paul
"I question that too. What's the point? Look around; we are the only people left in Black Dog. What kind of life is this? Aren't we prolonging the inevitable?"
"Even the healthiest person is going to die. Death has always been inevitable. But we're not infected. I don't know why, but there is a reason we're not sick."
"Maybe Neal was right and God is punishing us."
A dull pain in Winston's lower back caused him to stand up, bend over, and place his elbows on the porch railing. "What's gotten into you this morning?"
"Yesterday was too much. Fisher, the little kid, and Tommy. I don't know what happens to us after we die, but I don't want the guilt of what we've done following me through eternity. You know what I mean?"
"We did what we had to do to live another day. That's what our lives have come to. Tommy hit himself in the head with a hammer. We couldn't let him continue to hurt himself, or worse, hurt us." Winston eased himself down and sat next to Melanie. He put his arm around her. "It still bothers me, but we're fighters. I watched a documentary on Muhammad Ali when I had the luxury of television. Ali said, 'Don't count the days; make the days count.' We have to make the remaining days given to us count. I believe we aren't sick because we hold the cure."
Melanie curled her lips and squinted.
"You do know who Muhammad Ali is?" Winston asked.
"Yeah, he floated like a bee or something, right?"
"Close enough."
Melanie smiled and put her head on Winston's shoulder. "Thanks for making me feel better."
A bang interrupted the peaceful moment. Winston sprang to his feet. "Did you hear that?"
"I heard something. It sounded like it was far off, though. Probably those rent-a-guards compensating for penis size."
"No, it sounded like it was in the backyard." Winston walked to the side of the porch and peered around the house.
* * *
"How the hell did you know he was infected?" Jones asked, standing over the body.
"Instinct," Charles said.
Jones bent down to get a closer look at the man. He appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. It was hard to tell, given that the right side of his face was missing. His left eye had a milky glaze that let Jones know Charles’ instinct was right.
"Come on, we have to find Carpenter's daughter now. If Hendricks didn't know we were gone, he will now. Her house is on the next street over."
The front door to Melanie Carpenter's bungalow-style house hung open. The windows on the front of the house were shattered. The body of Dean Kurten lay in the road not five feet from her walkway.
"Shit," Charles said.
"Are you sure this is her house?" Jones asked.
Charles pulled a cell phone from his pocket. "2124 West Summerdale." Charles eyed the house number painted on the curb. "This is it."
"Well, there is no way she's in there."
Charles looked at his watch. "The boat is leaving soon. We've got less than thirty minutes to find her...alive or dead." He handed Jones a revolver. "You know how to use it?"
Jones nodded.
"OK. Stay here and watch guard. I'm going to do a quick walk through of the house."
Jones paced the front yard as Charles entered the house, which was in shambles. The living room furniture was flipped over. The refrigerator was pushed over on its side. Both doors were open and food was strewn all over the kitchen floor. Charles crept past the bathroom. The medicine cabinet was open. Pill bottles filled the sink. He walked by a bedroom that seemed to be untouched. A slight creaking sound caused Charles to freeze. He placed his back against the hallway wall and moved toward the noise. The creaking grew louder as Charles approached another bedroom. He readied his assault rifle and peeked into the room.
A woman sat rocking in a chair with her back to Charles.
"Melanie Carpenter?" Charles asked.
The rocking stopped.
"Your father sent me to bring you home."
The woman stood up and faced Charles. She took a step in his direction. Her movement mimicked an elderly woman. Shock paralyzed him. The woman's face sagged. Her flesh was pale gray. She had no pupils, just a thick white film over her eyes. Bald spots mixed with long blond hair. The woman opened her mouth and let out a low moan before charging at Charles. She slammed him back against the wall. The force sent the rifle flying across the room. The woman bit into the shoulder of Charles' containment suit. He grabbed her arms and reversed positions, pinning her against the wall. The material of the suit shredded between her teeth. She broke free from his grasp and ripped at Charles' hood. He tried to grab her wrists, but sweat dripping into his eyes mixed with her fast movement made everything a blur. The woman tore the hood from his face. Her nails scraped Charles's cheek. A stench of death hung in the air, robbing Charles of his breath. He put his palm against the side of the woman's head as she lunged for him. Charles slammed her head against the wall. Her hands fell to her sides, giving him enough time to escape her. Charles rolled on the floor to the rifle. He pulled the trigger as she dove for him, putting a bullet in her head. Her body landed on his stomach, once again robbing him of breath. Charles pushed her away and lay on the floor for a few moments before inspecting his cheek in a mirror above a chest of drawers. The cut was deep. It didn't matter. It broke the skin. Charles knew what that meant. He was infected.
"Everything OK in there?"
Jones’ words stung like disinfectant. No, everything is not OK. It never will be again, Charles thought as he exited the house and stood on the porch.
"Shit. Where's your hood?" Jones asked.
"Go to the boat. Tell them I didn't make it."
"What?"
"I'm infected." Charles pointed to his face. He looked at his watch. "You only have about fifteen minutes to get out of here. You need to go now."
"What about Melanie?"
"She's dead."
"Is she in there?"
"She's dead. Take my word for it. Now get the hell out of here while you still can."
Jones turned away. The gunshot made him fall to the ground. He looked back at the porch and only saw the soles of Charles' boots.
* * *
"There's another shot."
"What are you doing?"
Winston checked the Colt's clip. "I'm going to see who's shooting up our lovely town." He smiled.
"Just stay here. It's safer. We can pick them off from the porch if they are really that close," Melanie said.
"I don't want any more unwanted guests at casa de Winston." Winston stepped over the body of Georgie Howell and onto his front lawn. "Remind me to take out the trash when I get back."
Melanie ran down the steps. "I'm not staying here alone." She got behind Winston as they walked down the middle of the road. "Don't you find it strange we are alone here? There should be more sick people. I mean, the streets were never really crowded. But where are the infected?"
A sudden urge to vomit cut Winston off before he could respond. He bent over, grabbed his knees, and dry-heaved. Winston hadn't eaten much the last few days. He dry-heaved again.
"Winston?" Melanie placed her hand on his back.
"I'll be fine. I just need a minute." Another dry-heave was followed by a series of coughs.
"You sure?"
Winston cleared his throat. "Yeah." He looked up to see a man in a white containment suit aiming a gun at him and Melanie. He pushed her behind him.
"Are you infected?"
Winston barely made out the muffled voice, but he heard the word “infected,” and judging by the dry-heaving and coughing, he understood the question. "No, we are not." He eased the Colt into Melanie's hand behind his back. He whispered, "Aim it in the space between my arm and side."
The man held his arms up in a show of peace. "I'm Dr. James Jones. I can get you out of here."
Melanie stepped out from behind Winston. "Jimmy?"
"Melanie? I thought you were dead."
Jones started toward Winston a
nd Melanie. Winston jerked the gun away from Melanie and aimed it at Jones. "Don't come any closer."
Melanie placed her hand on Winston's forearm. The heat from his flesh startled her for a moment.
"I'm not going to hurt you. Your father arranged a way out of here."
Winston tightened his grip. "I said no closer."
"It's OK, Winston. Jimmy is a family friend." She gently pressed on Winston's arm until he lowered the gun.
"What's the closest way to the lake? There is a boat waiting, but it's not going to wait much longer," Jones said.
"Follow north. It will lead you to Luther's Diner." Winston pointed to an intersecting street. "You can see the dock from there."
Melanie grabbed Winston's hand. "Let's go."
Winston didn't move. "I can't."
"Winston, Marianna is dead. I'm sorry, but it's the truth. We have a chance to get the hell out of here. We're fighters, remember? There's nothing you can do for her. It's about our survival now."
"It's not about Marianna." His eyes met Melanie's. She was slightly blurry. "I'm sick."
"I know, but I'm sure we can find some cold medicine." Melanie smiled.
Winston felt the hunger for the first time. It was stubborn, powerful, and had no intentions of leaving. It invaded his senses. His mouth watered when he looked at Melanie's neck. The smell of her flesh only intensified the hunger. Winston closed his eyes, trying to shake it off. He saw Georgie crawling on Melanie, smelling her. “You smell so good.” Winston opened his eyes and let go of Melanie's hand. He stepped back. "I can't go because I'm infected." A trickle of blood escaped his nostrils.
Melanie cried, "No."
Winston wiped the blood away, smearing it across his face. "It's OK. I was never meant to leave here. I couldn't leave Marianna."
Jones put his arm around Melanie. "We have to go."
Winston smiled. "He's right. Now get the hell out of here before I try to eat you."
Melanie wiped the tears from her eyes. "What are you going to do?"
A peaceful expression washed over Winston's face. "I'm going to be with my wife. I've really missed her."
* * *
The armed men inched Salk and Swann closer to the barricade separating Black Dog from the world. With each step, gun barrels pressed against flesh, letting Salk and Swann know the only other option was death. After seeing the destruction Judas caused, death was probably the best option, but Salk felt a moral obligation to go down swinging with the monster he helped create.
"You know something's been eating at me ever since we got here. Just what hell are you called? Guards? Hired hitmen? What? I mean, you're sure as hell not soldiers," Salk said.
The men didn't answer.
"Don't give them a reason, Bob," Swann said.
"It's the end of the road," one of the men said. He used his gun to push Salk by the barricade.
Salk stumbled. Swann caught him before he hit the ground.
"Hope y'all enjoy your stay in Black Dog."
The other armed man laughed.
"You OK?" Swann asked.
Salk nodded and waited for the men to walk away. He whispered, "All right. There is a boat waiting for James and Melanie Carpenter. If we hurry, we may can catch it."
"Who's Melanie Carpenter?"
"I'll explain later. The boat's our only option. Tom's going blow this place to hell very soon."
"Run. Get the hell out of here. I thought I was doing the right thing. There's too many of them." The man ran up on Salk before he had a chance to pull the pistol Charles gave him.
"Calm down," Swann said. "Too many what?"
"I...I...thought if I locked them up until there was a cure, I could save them. They were sick. Weak. But somehow, they got stronger. They broke free. And they're coming. We have to get out of here." The man ran toward the barricade.
"Wait," Swann said.
Gunfire filled the air. The man's body jerked before hitting the ground. Salk grabbed Swann and hid behind a pickup truck.
"What the hell is happening?" Swann asked.
A group of about twenty people rounded a corner and ran towards the barricade. A small portion broke off and began to devour the man killed moments ago. The rest were shot before they could break through the barricade. The armed men then took aim on the ones feasting on the dead man.
"Come on," Salk said, dragging Swann, who couldn't stop watching.
"We caused this," Swann said.
"We can think about that on the boat. Tom's going to drop the bomb. There's nothing we can do to stop that. If the bomb eliminates the spread of Judas, we're the only ones who know it exists. We can stop Tom. The lake's this way."
"Hey, you."
The male voice froze them mid-run.
"Where do you think you're going?"
A group of seven people stepped out from behind a row of trees. Salk pulled the pistol and shot in their direction.
"Go to the boat, Carolyn," Salk said, running away from her.
Salk fired again, taking a man down with a bullet to the leg. The man crawled toward Salk, who ran towards him and kicked the man in the head. A second man grabbed Salk's shoulder. His touched startled Salk, causing him to drop the pistol. As he reached for it, a woman pawed at his other arm. He smacked the side of her face, shaking her off. He jerked free from the man's grasp and stumbled over the man he shot. Salk fell to the ground. The infected swarmed him like bees.
"No," Swann said. Her voice drew attention from the horde of dead. Three of them stopped feeding on Salk and started toward her. Swann kicked off her heels and ran toward the lake. The asphalt tore at the soles of her feet, but she blocked the pain by thinking of the alternative if she stopped. She saw the boat as the lake came into view. "Wait."
A guard on the boat took aim with his assault rifle.
"Don't shoot," Jones said. "I know her. Carolyn." He jumped off the boat and ran towards her.
"James."
Swann collapsed in Jones' arms. He picked her up and carried her to the boat.
"Bob didn't make it," Swann said. "We've got to go now..."
Gunfire cut her off as the guard took out the three people chasing her.
"We have to go now, James. Tom has a bomb. This was never about Judas. It's always been about the bomb."
* * *
"That shit was insane. A straight-up zombie apocalypse. Let's kill this one so we can leave this shithole."
"I'm not going in there."
"I'm not either."
"Maybe we won't have to. It looks like he's already dead."
Richie sat up on the bed and reached for the notebook. He jotted something and walked to the glass window. He held up the notebook. Richie wrote only one word — pussies. He smiled as they read it.
"Wait, can he hear us?"
Richie continued to smile and nodded. He wrote something else.
"What the fu..."
Richie slammed the paper against the glass, startling the guards. This time, it was three words — Come on in.
"Fuck this."
"Reynolds, you can't just walk away. Hendricks gave us orders."
Richie scribbled on the paper and held it up for them to read. He's right, Reynolds. Hendricks gave you orders. Get your ass in here and kill me. If you can.
"Fuck Hendricks. And fuck you, Williams, if you think I'm going in there with that thing."
Richie scribbled again. He held the notebook up. There was a frowning face on the paper. Richie frowned too.
"The asshole is making fun of us," Reynolds said.
Richie smiled.
"OK, how about this, let's pump carbon monoxide in through the filter system. We don't have to go in and we can watch the bastard die slowly."
Richie wrote on the pad — Already dead, dumb ass.
"I don't remember this prick being such a prick before," Williams said.
A determined look replaced Richie's smile as he wrote again — Judas can change your personality. He held up a finger
as if he forgot to write something. He put the pen to pad again — you fuckfaces.
"I'll get the jeep," Reynolds said.
Richie pulled a chair up to the window and watched Williams attach one end of a hose to the clean air filter system and the other to jeep's exhaust. Williams motioned for Reynolds to start the jeep. He looked at Richie and smiled. Richie stuck his middle finger against the glass. It took only a few minutes for Richie to feel the effects from the carbon monoxide. It started with pain radiating up his neck. The ache settled in the back of his head above the base of his spine. A methodical thump. He felt a moment of nausea, but his body adjusted quickly. Judas was protecting Richie from the poisonous gas. Carbon monoxide filled the room. Richie closed his eyes, sat back, and marveled at the war raging within him. A deadly virus determined to make him its slave fighting off a poisonous gas determined to kill him.
A soft voice spoke. "This isn't how it's supposed to end, brother."
Richie opened his eyes. A small boy with a yellowish-green glow surrounding him stood in front of Richie. "Jason?"
"In the flesh...well, not really."
"I can't breathe." Richie gasped for air.
"I know. I'm sorry. You're fighting a losing battle. Just let go." Jason extended his hand.
Richie's eyes rolled back as he felt a shot of cold race through his body when Jason touched him.
"This isn't how it was supposed to end."
This time, the words were much softer, a whisper.
"Shut it off, the prick's dead," Williams said as he watched Richie fall to the floor.
* * *
"I sure as hell hope that's the last of them. Those bastards are getting scarier."
"Tell me about it. I never thought when I came home from Afghanistan I'd fall right into a George Romero movie."
"Who?"