by Jon Athan
Loraine crawled towards Travis and clasped her moist hands as she helplessly pleaded, “Please, don't do this. Let's just kill that thing and wait until this all blows over. The military will protect us, the government will save us. Don't risk our lives for something so foolish. Please.”
Travis sniffled and swallowed loudly as he inspected his perturbed peers. The melancholic shadows surrounded them, cutting them off from the light and trapping them with the gloomy darkness. Warm rivers of tears streamed down Loraine's scarlet cheeks. Curtis watched Travis from the center of the living room with his hands to his hips and a soul-piercing glare in his eyes, like a scolding parent punishing a child. Marshall held Loraine by her hips as he kept a keen eye on Travis.
Travis huffed, then said, “I'm doing it anyway.”
***
Travis staggered to his feet, doddering from left-to-right as he tried to balance himself. He shook his head, then marched towards the arch entrance to his left. Loraine wildly sobbed as she hopelessly clasped at Travis' ankles, missing his legs by a hair. Marshall and Curtis quickly followed behind Travis.
As he latched onto Travis' broad shoulder, Curtis said, “Think about what you're doing, man. It's not right. It won't work, Travis.”
Travis pulled away as he continued to stomp forward. As her somber tears trickled onto the hardwood floor, Loraine yelled, “Stop him! For crying out loud, we're all dead if he opens that door! We're all dead!”
The shaky floorboards groaned with every hurried step as the trio walked into the main hall. The archway across the living room entrance led to the kitchen. The first door in the hallway led to the basement, the second door led to the restroom. The fortified front door and the stairs leading to the second story awaited at the opposite end of the hall.
Curtis grabbed Travis' forearm and pleaded, “Please, don't do this. Don't...”
Before he could finish, Travis rapidly turned and elbowed Curtis in the temple. Curtis' eyelids fluttered as he staggered to his knees from the hit to the head. Marshall gasped as he watched the devastating blow. Travis nonchalantly strolled towards the first door in the hall, then glared at Marshall.
Travis asked, “What are you looking at? You going to stop me, boy?”
Marshall shook his head and said, “You're a lunatic...”
Travis nodded and responded, “I thought so.”
Travis grabbed a candle from the floor in the hallway, then opened the basement door. With the sole illumination from the flickering candlelight, Travis descended into the dreary darkness – delving deep into the uncertainty. Marshall rushed back into the living room, then lifted Loraine from the floor. He dragged Loraine towards the arch entrance to the right.
As she recomposed herself, Loraine asked, “What happened? What's going on?”
Marshall led Loraine to the staircase in the hall and said, “We're leaving. That lunatic is going down there. He's actually going to do it.”
As she caught a glimpse of Curtis' unconscious body on the floor, Loraine gasped, then said, “What about Curtis? We can't just leave him here after all of this.”
As the pair scampered up the creaky stairs, Marshall shook his head and responded, “We can't carry him, either. It's too late for him, sweetie. We have to go.”
The dilapidated stairs creaked and howled with every step as Travis slowly descended into the tenebrous basement. His boots clicked on the ground as the light illuminated the concrete floor and brick walls. He sniffled loudly, catching a dreadful whiff of the putrescent undead. He carefully stepped towards the center, then placed the candle on the floor.
As he stepped in reverse, Travis said, “Come here, girl. I've got something special for you. Come on out.”
Chains clanked and rattled over a ghoulish groan. A woman emerged from the dismal darkness on all fours, chained to the wall like a captive in a dungeon. She had a five-three stature with a frail figure. She wore a dirtied white sundress with a stitched floral pattern down to her knobbly kneecaps. Thick and purple veins bulged on her pale skin. Her curly brunette hair sat towards the center of her back. Blood trickled from a wound on her head and streamed down her left cheek. Her lips were torn off, revealing all of her bloodied teeth and gums. Her vibrant amber eyes inexplicably glimmered with humanity and life – a striking difference compared to her physical condition.
Travis smiled as he said, “Sonya? Sonya Mitchell, right? That's the name on your ID. It's nice to finally meet you. My name is Travis. I figured I should introduce myself. I'm here to... to save us. To undo everything you caused.”
Sonya wildly blinked and tilted her head like if she were listening to every word – like if she were miraculously comprehending the human language. Travis furrowed his brow as he knelt down and gazed at Sonya. His hand trembled as he slowly extended his arm towards her. Suddenly, Sonya hissed and groaned as she lunged towards Travis. She chomped at the air, missing Travis' fingers by a mere inch.
Travis nervously chuckled as he withdrew his arm and shook his head, then said, “I knew you weren't like us. You're a monster. You're a damn beast. You've destroyed everything, but now you're going to help me rebuild it. You're going to breed my children, I can guarantee that.”
As Travis unzipped his pants and reached into the opening, he heard the creaky staircase. His eyes widened as he turned towards the noise and met the butt of a heavy lamp. The thud echoed through the room as Curtis struck Travis with all of his might. Travis' eyelids fluttered and his body shuddered as he plummeted towards the floor.
As the lamp clashed with the concrete ground, Curtis said, “I can't let you do this to her, Travis. It's too foolish. She could be the cure. She could save us, but not like this. You can't reproduce the world's population. You can't.”
As he swiped at the blood and sweat trickling down his raised brow, Curtis turned towards Sonya. Like a feral beast, Sonya snarled and growled at Curtis as she stood on all-fours. Curtis couldn't help but gaze into her beautiful, glistening eyes. Her amber eyes glistered like crackling flames illuminating a drab dungeon. Abruptly, a blood-curdling screech reverberated into the home. A bone-crunching thud immediately followed.
Curtis turned towards the staircase and whispered in a dubious tone, “Loraine? Marshall?”
As he slowly stepped towards the stairs with his fists clenched, croaking and groaning emerged from behind. Curtis stopped in his place as he bit his bottom lip. He slowly turned, then gasped upon spotting the horrendous scene.
“No...” Curtis murmured as his eyes watered.
Sonya leaned on top of Travis as she gnawed into his crotch, like a starved dog chomping into a sausage link. Blood spurted and streamed from her vicious bites, splattering onto her face and on the grimy concrete. Travis' right leg violently trembled and his head swayed as he indistinctly muttered. His eyelids flickered as his eyes rolled back.
As the sound of wood shattering and splintering echoed from upstairs, Curtis staggered to his knees, then slowly crawled towards Sonya and Travis. Sonya continued her feast, devouring Travis' groin with her sharp teeth. A rumble of footsteps and monstrous moans reverberated from the first story as the makeshift barricades were broken. Curtis disregarded the home invasion as he locked eyes with Sonya. Her alluring eyes were indecipherable. Her eyes glimmered with compassion, innocence, and sincerity – a complete contradiction to her savage actions.
As the basement stairs creaked and growling echoed through the room, Curtis asked, “What are you?”
Day 9 - December 31 st, 2015
Code: Dead
A newspaper rustled with the gust as it swayed by the school bus under the bridge. An undead man, barely clothed by his tarnished white t-shirt and shredded blue jeans, wandered in the desolate street above the vacant flood-control channel. The evening twilight sun dawned onto the small town, caressing the doom and gloom with a reassuring warmth and a sense of normality.
Sitting behind the driver's seat in the school bus, Kenneth Hill sighed, then said in his stentor
ian voice, “I need updates. I need updates now. I need all of my options on the table. I need everything. No more loose ends, you understand?”
53-year-old Kenneth Hill stood five-nine. He wore a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His damp, sweat-stained shirt was crudely tucked into his navy trousers. His black dress shoes were scuffed and begrimed. He had thinning, straight white hair atop his dome and stubble on his sullen face. His stern blue eyes were demanding yet compassionate.
Sitting in the seat directly across Hill, John Jensen explained in a husky tone, “I'm sorry, sir. You are the acting President now, Mr. Hill. We lost contact with the higher-ups after the Air Force One crashed. Everyone is either dead or... or undead, I suppose. It's now your responsibility to handle the situation. The choices, despite the limited options, are yours to make. That's the only update I have for you, sir. I'm sorry.”
John Jensen stood a sturdy five-eleven. He wore a wrinkled white button-up shirt stained with blood, coffee, and sweat tucked into his rumpled navy pants. He had hoary hair atop his noggin, wiry stubble on his gnarled face, and tired blue eyes.
Hill sighed as he despondently stared towards his lap, then asked, “Have we heard anything from the lab yet?” Jensen sat in absolute silence. Hill sniffled, then said, “I understand that silence all too well. It seems we've lost control of the situation. We've lost control of our country. Have we heard anything from our allies?”
Jensen loudly swallowed the lump in his throat, then responded, “Our allies have been offline since yesterday. We've tried to contact them for hours. Maybe it's an error on our end or on theirs, but we've essentially been abandoned. It's a blackout, sir, we're on our own.”
Hill inhaled deeply, then turned towards Brian Kash in the driver's seat. Hill said, “Kash, give me something. Give me an escape route. Planes, boats, anything. Break this chain and give me some good news for once.”
Kash responded, “I can't fly a plane, but I can operate a boat. I can... Well, we can take a speedboat. I'm sure I can even handle a bigger ship. We get on water and we can sail out of here without a single problem. That's all I've got. I'm sorry.”
32-year-old Brian Kash stood five-eleven with a timorous posture. He wore a torn white button-up shirt dangling out of his navy trousers. His black dress shoes were scuffed-but-intact. His brown eyes swelled with fearful tears. His clean-shaved face was covered in soot and droplets of dried blood. His slick black hair was sloppily parted to the right.
Hill nodded as he explained, “America has been lost. We cannot allow this to spread beyond our borders. The consequences would be unfathomable. If there is even a shred of hope, we cannot allow this disease to spread. If the human species is to survive, we must execute Code Red.”
Kash and Jensen reluctantly nodded in agreement. Jensen pensively stared out his window, watching a cloudy river of water stream down the vacant channel. Kash tightly gripped the steering wheel as he absently gazed forward, trapped in his dreadful contemplation.
As he leaned on the door and peered towards the gloomy dawn sunlight, Maxwell Booker said, “Code Dead. The last resort. Nuclear warhead will hit prime targets. The most populated cities in the country will be obliterated. The nuclear aftermath will wipe out every living thing by the end of the day.” Booker turned towards Hill and asked, “Are you sure you want to do this? You'd be wiping out American society as we know it...”
Maxwell Booker had a towering stature with a strapping physique. He wore a white button-up shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up beneath a black bulletproof vest. His navy pants were wrinkled and his black insulated boots were stained with blood and mud. He had an unremitting posture with keen blue eyes. He tightly gripped a black 9mm handgun as he leaned on the entrance.
Hill rebutted, “It's quiet the dilemma, don't you think? The decision isn't yours, though. It's a burden on my shoulders. A difficult choice on my lap. If I don't follow through, it could lead to the extinction of our species, not just American society.”
The pair gazed at each other in deep contemplation. Cornered animals without an escape route caught in a stressful conundrum – caught in a labyrinthine conscience searching for right and wrong. An eerie silence drenched the school bus, only occasionally broken by the whooshing wind. Suddenly, the back emergency door violently rattled.
Jensen turned towards the door with wide eyes and said, “They've found us...”
Hill leaned forward in his seat and gripped Kash's shoulder as he directed, “Get us to the shore. Immediately. Call it a cowards reaction, but we're going to survive by any means necessary. Get us to a boat.”
As he weaved and bobbed his head for a better view of the surrounding zombies, Booker asked, “You want us to leave? You want to abandon the people without a warning? Is that what you're planning?”
Hill explained, “I'll send out a final broadcast before we execute the plan. Someone must survive to represent us. You're free to stay if you must, Booker...”
Booker shook his head and said, “Just make sure you give them a proper warning... Let's get the hell out of here.”
***
The engine coughed and rattled as Kash turned the key in the ignition to no avail. Raucous zombies moaned and groaned at the bus as they quickly surrounded the stranded vehicle. The undead slapped and gnawed at the school bus. Booker looked over the sea of approaching zombies – some shambling, others sprinting ferociously.
Jensen shouted at Kash, “Hurry! Get us out of here before it's too late!”
As his eyes swelled with tears, Kash slammed his fists on the steering wheel and yelled, “I'm trying! I'm trying! The damn thing won't start!”
Hill tightly gripped Kash's shoulder and said, “Don't stop trying.”
As Kash turned the key in the ignition, the engine coughed and croaked. The loud clanking noises reverberated through the open streets, echoing through the lugubrious sky. Booker maneuvered towards the seat behind Jensen. He dropped the hazy window, then protruded his arm out. With steady, relaxed breathing, Booker shot the zombies. Their heads exploded with each precise shot as Booker handled the firearm with consummate panache.
Over the earsplitting rounds and coughing engine, Hill said, “Jensen, I fear we'll need a 'Plan B.' It's... If we are overrun, it's probably best to take as many of these monsters with us. It's better than becoming one of them. Hand me the grenade.”
Jensen grimaced from the fear as he slowly shook his head. He placed his trembling fingertips to his brow as he deeply contemplated. Thoughts of death poisoned his timid, fracturing mind. The inevitable pain was too much to endure before it had even occurred.
Jensen turned towards Hill and said, “I can't do that, sir. We can't die like this. There must be another option...”
Hill simply extended his arm towards Jensen with an open hand. He gazed at Jensen with compassionate eyes, convincing him without uttering a single sound – I know what I'm doing, trust me. Jensen reluctantly placed the grenade in Hill's unwavering palm. As Hill gripped the smooth steel body of the M67 grenade and shut his eyes, the engine suddenly started.
Bug-eyed, Jensen shouted, “Wait! We can go!” He turned towards Kash and instructed, “Get us out of here! Now!”
Kash gritted his teeth as he stomped the pedal and spun the helm. Hill, Jensen, and Booker swayed as Kash jerked towards the hill to the right. The wheels squealed as the vehicle struggled to trudge up the slope. The school bus crashed through an iron fence as the vehicle hopped over the hill. The group simultaneously sighed as they found themselves back on the main streets.
Hill sighed in relief, then said, “Great job, Kash, great job. Head to the shore. We must board a ship immediately. Don't stop for anyone or anything, you understand?”
Kash nodded and said, “I've got it, I've got it...”
The thunderous gunshots from Booker's handgun continued to reverberate through the gloomy sky as the bus slowly trudged along. Red-eyed zombies of all shapes and sizes quickly caught up to the cough
ing yellow bus.
Hill asked, “Booker, don't you have anything stronger? Something with a little more punch?”
As he meticulously aimed, Booker responded, “All ammo has been exhausted, sir. This is all of my remaining firepower...” Booker's eyes widened as a bulb illuminated above his head. He turned towards Hill and said, “Gasoline.”
Hill smiled as he repeated, “Gasoline.”
Booker ran towards the back of the bus, Hill followed closely behind. The pair quickly returned with red canisters filled with gasoline. Jensen's nose wrinkled upon smelling the pungent flammable liquid. Hill opened the window parallel to Booker's seat, then dumped the gasoline. Booker followed suit, dumping the flammable liquid on the agile zombies and the chipped side of the bus. The pair simultaneously retrieved their lighters, then glanced at each other.
As his lighter ignited, Hill asked, “Are you ready?”
“As ready as I'll ever be,” Booker responded.
As he stared at the peculiar duo, Jensen asked, “What are you going to do? What are you...”
Before he could finish, Hill and Booker ignited the gasoline at the sides of the vehicle. The vibrant flames sparked across the sides of the bus, burning the surrounding zombies with the blistering flames. The sound of crackling fire reverberated over the ghastly groans and moans. The undead slowly staggered and fell one-by-one as they burned to a blackened crisp.
As he watched the grisly commotion, Booker smiled and said, “It worked...”
As he returned to his seat, Hill turned towards Jensen and said, “Hand me the transceiver. I have to give the people a fair warning. I must send one final broadcast to the American people. A proper goodbye... and a warning of the inevitable.”
Jensen sniffled as he handed Hill the sleek black radio. He turned a knob, then nodded towards Hill. Hill inhaled deeply, then exhaled from his nose as he attempted to compose himself. He shut his eyes as he deeply contemplated and planned as final address to the lingering survivors.