by Jon Athan
Jensen murmured, “Christ...”
Romero continued, “Listen, we know the origin of the infection. We know what Price did, but we don't know how to reverse it. There's still time, though. You must find the exact origin of the plant and reverse the side-effects, Jensen. I think it may be located in Japan or China, somewhere East. If you find the plant or find the seller, you'll find hope.”
Jensen sighed, then said, “I'll relay this information to Hill as soon as possible, we'll see if the Secretary of State can get a hold of them. We'll contact all of our allies and get this straightened out. For the time being, I believe the virus has been strictly contained to the United States, but... well, you never know. We can only hope our allies are safe and can offer a helping hand.”
As the sound of shattering glass echoed through the laboratory, Romero rapidly said, “Listen, listen, if you haven't figured it out yet, aim for the head. Terminate the brain or pierce the spine at the neck and these creatures will die. Fire is a suitable substitute. Burn them, Jensen, burn them all. These are the only sure-fire methods to stop them until you find the plant. If you haven't done so yet, quarantine ground zero. Don't let anyone out. The plant's fluid may have blended with the storm's rain causing it to evaporate into the air. Everyone in the vicinity is already infected. If they die, they will rise and unwittingly spread the disease. Find and quarantine everyone. At least quarantine the state.”
Jensen nervously coughed, then said, “It's too late for that. It's already spreading like wildfire. We needed a cure, not a quarantine.”
Romero sighed in disappointment, then whispered, “There's still hope, there's still hope...” Romero's eyes widened as an idea materialized. He said, “If you see any zombies with anomalies in their eyes, different colors or...”
Romero paused as fear struck his palpitating heart. A cold sweat drenched his timorous body. Pools of anxious fluids materialized in his cavernous wrinkles. An undead Davis ran towards the center of the hall, then sniffled up towards the ceiling. Suddenly, Davis glared at Romero, then sprinted towards the desk like a jaguar hunting its prey.
Shocked, Romero stuttered, “They–They've truly evolved... They can smell us... They can actually smell us...”
As the phone fell to the tile flooring, Jensen said, “What was that? Romero? Romero, are you there?” Romero bellowed as Davis gnawed into his face like a starved animal. Over the phone, Jensen shouted, “Romero?! What the hell's going on down there? Romero!”
Day 6 - December 28 th, 2015
Treacherous Trent
The waist-high foliage soughed with each refreshing gust of wind. The thick tree branches groaned and croaked with each flurry. The razor-edged machete chopped through the rustling bushes, slicing through the crackling branches and leaves with the utmost ease – like a knife through butter. The nippy woodland was gently caressed by the afternoon's sunny warmth.
As he stumbled through the dense forest, Trent Troutman muttered, “I knew I shouldn't have left that damn trail. I should have stuck to the plan, stuck to the path! I'm a damn moron.” He glanced over his shoulder, weaving and bobbing his head as he peered through the cluttered trees left behind. With narrowed eyes, Trent murmured, “There's no going back now...”
Trent continued his arduous journey through the woodland. The dry leaves cracked beneath his black grain-leather coated waterproof boots with each onerous step. Birds melodiously chirped from the croaking tree branches, blissfully oblivious of the ongoing apocalypse. Woodland critters scampered between the whooshing bushes. Preying animals snickered from the dreary shadows, stalking from the impenetrable shadows.
As he stepped over the putrid animal feces, Trent angrily whispered, “A damn apocalypse and these animals can't stop shitting themselves. Hell, I guess I can't really blame them... I should be shitting myself, too.”
Trent stood five-eleven with a sturdy physique. He had buzz cut hair and stubble on his chiseled jawline. His brown eyes glimmered with sincerity. He wore a Sherbrooke camouflage jacket with snap cuffs and nylon lining. His matching camouflage pants whooshed and swished with each calculated step and each gust of wind.
As Trent carefully lunged through the rocky hillside, a ghoulish groan reverberated from behind. Trent stopped in place, his body involuntarily frozen by the immense fear swelling in every limb. He swallowed loudly as he glided his eyes towards the right, peeking over his shoulder without moving his head an inch. The sound of bushes rustling increased with every passing second – the concealed threat was gradually approaching.
With wide eyes, Trent sheathed his bloodied machete and shouted, “Shit! Crap, crap, I'm going to die out here! I'm dead... I'm dead!”
Trent bolted past the adjacent tree, then slid down the bumpy hill. The detached leaves majestically spiraled into the air as Trent rode the rugged hillside with a frantic glide. As he reached the bottom of the hill, Trent stumbled forward and staggered towards the center of a newfound path. His bottom lip quivered as he stared at the dirt path beneath his mucky boots.
Trent whispered, “No, I'm free... I'm not dead, I'm free...”
Suddenly, a loud click echoed through the forest. Trent gulped the anxiety clogging his throat as he slowly turned towards the familiar sound. He nervously smiled upon spotting two hunters on the dirt path – both aiming their Nosler M48 TGR 2010 rifles at Trent. Their aim was impeccable, not a single waver in their arms and not a single twitch of the eyelid.
Trent lifted his trembling hands towards the sky and stuttered, “I–I mean... I mean no harm boys. Let's... Let's just... Let's talk this through.”
The man to Trent's left stood a towering six-two. He wore a black-and-gray camouflage jacket and matching pants. His black hunting boots were stained with mud and blood – a striking combination. He had a stern, unwavering facial expression plastered on his clean-shaved face. He had short, beach blonde buzz cut hair and crystal blue eyes.
Trent gazed at the man with watering puppy eyes and nervously asked, “Co–come on, pal, wha–what's your name?”
Trent's eyes widened as the man walked forward and aimed his rifle. Trent indistinctly yammered, then winced as an earsplitting gunshot echoed through the woodland. He slowly opened his eyes and realized he wasn't shot. Trent watched the peculiar pair with a furrowed brow, then looked over his shoulder. A bald white-eyed zombie wearing a white tattered button-up shirt and begrimed khaki's staggered to his knees. The right side of the zombie's head was splattered across the floor behind him.
The shooter spat a blob of gooey saliva, then responded, “The name's John Meier.”
Awed, Trent turned towards Meier's partner and asked, “How–how... how about yours, bu–buddy? What's your name?”
John's partner responded, “Eddie Mendez.”
Eddie Mendez stood five-seven and wore the same clothing as John Meier. He had soft, cinnamon-colored skin. His ears protruded from beneath his black curly hair. His lustrous brown eyes could pierce through the darkest void – beacons of hope. He had a protuberant beer belly he wore with the utmost pride. He wielded the same Nosler rifle as John.
Trent smiled as he sighed and nodded. He gazed at both men, then said, “My name's Trent Troutman. Thank you for the help. Thank you very much. I think we can be friends, really. You know, as friends, we shouldn't be aiming weapons at each other like this. It's not very nice.” Trent pointed into the woodland, then explained, “I stumbled over here because I was being chased by one of those... those zombies, which I see you're familiar with.”
As the hunting pair aimed their weapons at Trent, Eddie whispered from the side of his mouth, “If they're coming down here already, we should get out of here before we leave a trail. The gunshot was too much already.”
John inhaled deeply as he nodded, then asked, “You say your name is Trent?” Trent rapidly nodded. John continued, “Okay, Trent, let's pretend we are friends. Friends are honest with each other, right? So, tell me, are you infected? Have been bitten? Shit, have you been ki
lled?”
Trent frantically shook his head like a dog out of the bath, then yammered, “No, no, no!” As he spotted the reluctance in the pair's steady faces, Trent explained, “I haven't been bitten or anything, I swear. I'm 100-percent fine. You can check me, I don't care. I'll strip to my birthday suit if I have to. I'm clean.”
John and Eddie indistinctly bickered and bantered as they aimed their guns at Trent. Trent's face twitched from the overwhelming anxiety. With his hands reaching towards the sunny sky, Trent's eyes constantly glided towards the forbidding forest. The ghoulish, faint groaning blended with the soughing woodland.
John slowly lowered his weapon and said, “Alright, you can join up with us for the time being. We expect you to pull your own weight. It's only the two of us and we've been doing fine so far. Understand that, okay? We're jeopardizing our safety by allowing this.”
Trent rapidly nodded and said, “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Eddie smiled and swayed his gun towards the woodland, then said, “Let's head over to camp. You never know what's out there, man.”
***
The pair walked down the desolate path as sundown gradually approached. John and Eddie strolled with unbreakable confidence – their heads towards the sky and their chests protruded forward. Trent followed the pair with a dithering strut, trying to replicate the hunters' unwavering conviction to no avail. He was drenched in a cold sweat, his legs wobbled, and he constantly looked over his shoulder.
As he gazed forward and marched, John asked, “So, what are you doing out here in the great wilderness, Trent? What were your plans before running into us?”
Trent swiped at the trickling sweat on his brow, then responded, “I got lost a while ago. I stupidly got off the damn path thinking I could take a shortcut. I've been stumbling through these woods for hours. I really had no idea what I was doing.”
John furrowed his brow as he glanced back at Trent, then said, “That's strange. You seem dressed for the part. How the hell did you get lost out here? This... This is child's play for anyone with real experience.”
Trent grinned as he looked towards the droplets of blood on his pants, then explained, “I'm not from around here, actually. I'm... I was just stopping by when the whole thing happened. This is really not a good time to be new in town.”
Eddie placed his right palm to his belly as he chortled into the sky. Eddie responded, “I suppose, I suppose. But, it's a great time to be a hunter and a gun advocate. Killing these brain-dead morons is a whole lot of fun and, when you really think about it, it really doesn't harm anyone. Guns are actually saving us now.” Eddie light jabbed John's arm and asked, “Right?”
John nodded and continued the admirable speech, “You see, Trent, this is why we have guns in this country to begin with. I mean, imagine if we had nothing. Just our fists or... or...” He pointed towards Trent's sheathed machete, then said, “Or a machete! How long do you think you'd last with that measly thing? I mean, they almost caught you just now! You can't survive this type of apocalypse with that! You need an arsenal of real weapons.”
Trent chuckled and grinned, then responded, “You're right. I mean, you're partially right. But, survival takes more than just an arsenal of weapons. You need... you need brains and wits. That's how people survive in times like this. Brains and wits.”
Eddie laughed, then said, “Sounds more like deception to me. All I know for certain: you have to be thankful for guns. I mean, you may need 'brains and wits' in some countries without rights, but here, in America, you only need guns and bullets. Guns and bullets.”
“Enough about that,” John said as he nodded forward. He looked over at Trent and said, “Welcome to home base, pal.”
Trent staggered towards the makeshift camp at the left side of the dirt path. A 2-room cabin tent sat towards the center of the improvised camp. The 13-by-9 foot family tent had a gray and orange exterior. It rustled with the gentle flurry of wind. An unlit fireplace sat a mere two meters from the tent's opening. Two begrimed white plastic chairs and a white cooler sat outside the tent facing the dirt path. Crushed cans of cheap beer and junk food wrappers littered the surrounding area.
Trent nodded as he stepped towards the unlit fireplace. He said, “You really have a good set-up here. How much food do you guys have? I mean, how long can we survive out here before we have to head back for more supplies?”
John grinned from ear-to-ear and explained, “Eddie and I, we've had this planned for years. Something like this was bound to happen with all the crap our government is up to. The secretive shit they don't tell us about. They called us crazy, lunatics, psychos, gun-lovers, Republicans, and so on. Then, all this shit happened. It turns out, we weren't so crazy after all.”
Eddie continued, “So, when it all went down, we took our guns and raided their stores. Being the only 'nuts' around, we took what we wanted. We didn't physically harm anyone, but we gave ourselves the advantage. We've got more than enough supplies to last weeks out here.”
Trent smiled as he said, “Wow, this is amazing. I...”
John stepped towards Trent and interrupted, “Now, now, pal, you can't just piggyback off us. You're going to have to pull your own weight around here. Sure, we'll share some of our supplies, but you'll have to watch our backs and help out. We're in this together.”
Trent nodded and said, “I can do that. I've killed a few zombies already.”
John shook his head and explained, “You need to listen to me. The only thing worse than the undead during a zombie apocalypse are the people left surviving. You understand what I'm saying?”
Trent gazed into John's glimmering eyes. His words were dark and foreboding, but his eyes sparkled with determination and compassion – a man willing to survive and aid. Trent nodded as he agreed with John's sentiment. The cans rustled as Eddie walked past the pair.
Eddie said, “I've got to take a piss, brother. I'll be right back.”
Trent looked over at Eddie and said, “You know what, I've got to go, too. I'll join you. I'd rather not be going out there alone later...”
John chuckled as he watched the pair depart into the neighboring trees, then said, “You kids have a good time.”
John walked towards the large tent, then sat in the plastic seat beside it. The seat cracked and howled from the weight. He grabbed an icy, damp beer from the white cooler beside him, then pierced the can with his sharp knife. He chugged the tantalizing liquid as he contemplatively gazed towards the departing pair.
John nodded and said, “I don't know what to think of you, boy. You don't seem phased at all... Something's not right...”
***
Eddie sighed as he stood in front of a towering tree. His pants rustled as he shuffled in his heavy clothing and prepared to urinate. Trent stopped at a tree two meters behind Eddie. He fiddled with his pants as he intently gazed over at Eddie and smirked. His eyes gleamed with a deviant spark – a dastardly stare.
As he gazed forward, Eddie whispered, “I can't piss with someone watching me. Shit, I don't even know the guy...” He sighed, then turned his cheek towards Trent. Eddie said, “Hey, Trent, I noticed you've got a little blood on your machete. How many have you killed so far? You're dressed for the part, so I know you've got yourself a kill count.”
Trent chuckled, then responded, “It's been so long. I've lost count.”
Suddenly, a steady stream of urine struck the tree. The unusually tawny piss flowed down the sopping tree trunk, then cascaded onto the foliage. The puddle coursed towards Eddie's sturdy boots. Eddie inhaled deeply, then sighed from the overwhelming relief.
As he urinated, Eddie said in a dubious tone, “Long? These things only started showing up a few days ago, didn't they? How long did you say you've been in town?”
Trent omitted his cackling giggle with his hand to his mouth, then said, “I've... I've been doing this for a very long time now. Longer than I can remember.” He recomposed himself, then answered, “I've been near this town for
too long. I could only watch from far, far away. But, I'm back.”
Eddie furrowed his brow as he shook his junk, then said, “This... this is some crazy shit, man. You're starting to confuse me. I mean, I thought you said you...”
Eddie stopped as a twig snapped behind him. He slowly turned his head to glance over his shoulder. He gaped upon spotting Trent with his unsheathed machete. Without any hesitation, Trent lifted the machete over Eddie's head, then pulled back at Eddie's neck. The sharp blade slowly cut into Eddie's thick neck as Eddie helplessly attempted to wrestle with Trent. As the honed blade thrust deeper into his throat, Eddie clenched the collar of Trent's jacket, then pulled down. His bloodshot eyes widened as he spotted the orange prison jumpsuit beneath the hunter's clothing.
With zany eyes, Trent watched Eddie gargle his own blood. Trent explained, “I've been killing for far too long. The consequences of getting caught were outrageous, don't you think? I mean, death row for killing a few people? Are you kidding me? A life for a life doesn't seem fair to me. Not at all. But, now... now, everything is fair game. I can kill and I can say it was only to survive. It's paradise for men like me.”
Eddie's eyes rolled back as blood spurted through his gritted teeth. Blood oozed from the grisly laceration as the bone viciously snapped. Trent tossed Eddie's body aside, then caught his breath – inhaling and exhaling deeply from the exhilarating rush. He removed the rifle from Eddie's shoulder, then stuffed his hands into his pockets.
Trent grinned from ear-to-ear as he salvaged a box of bullets and three sealed chocolate bars. As he shuffled through Eddie's pant pockets, Trent found a brown leather wallet. He inspected the contents – a wad of cash, two credit cards, a California driver's license, and a family photo. The family photo depicted a younger Eddie with a young curly-haired girl in a pink dress.