by Kirk Withrow
The heavy footfalls behind him signaled that Reams had decided to join him at the front door. “John, you all right, man? I saw you stagger there…” said Reams. His words were cut short as he caught sight of the carnage within the house. “John…I’m sorry.”
No words came to John as he stood in the doorway. He could only shake his head in disbelief. After several minutes, John found his voice, “Reams…we’re screwed. What the hell are we going to do? This thing has killed everyone I know in just a few days. It’s everywhere. I doubt if there is anywhere left unscathed. Why the hell are we even trying?”
Reams regarded his friend with a look of sincere contemplation that quickly morphed into one of anger. “That’s bullshit, John! What about your daughter? What about finding her?”
“I think we both know what really happened to her,” said John shaking his head as if not wanting to hear what the big man was saying.
“What about the shoes, man? The footprints?” pleaded Reams, making it difficult to tell whom he was really trying to convince. “What about your friend with the cure? I’m not letting your sorry ass give up on me now! Finding your family and your friend, that shit is the only reason I’m here! I had already given up back at the airport, and then your ass came flying in talking all that crazy shit! You wouldn’t let me give up then, so I’m not letting you give up now!”
John continued staring numbly at his two dead friends for several more minutes. Slowly, he turned toward Reams, and said, “You’re right.”
Tentatively, John and Reams entered the front room of Al’s house and surveyed the scene. On the table next to the bodies John found a note that had been scrawled by Al and addressed, ‘To John or whoever finds this.’ The macabre letter spelled out exactly what transpired, providing the details about how this malevolent plague managed to claim the lives of his two friends. As horrific as it was to finally reach what he considered his ‘safe zone’ only to find the disease had already swept through taking his friends with it, John found comfort in knowing the story behind their deaths. He had seen so many dead and infected, and without having known them or how they came to be sick, it was easy to forget that they used to be people just like him. It was hard not to think of them simply as ‘monsters.’ Al’s note provided a welcomed element of humanity and closure.
Parts of the note were illegible as the ink was smudged where drops of water had landed. Not water—tears. There were also blood splatters dried to a dark crimson that John tried not to think about as he read the letter aloud.
"To John or whoever finds this:
I can't hope to put into words exactly what I experienced over the last couple of hours. I knew something was up after hearing the news reports and picking up some internet and ham radio chatter. I decided it might be time to 'batten down the hatches.' Sylvia had left earlier to go into town for some groceries. I tried to call her cell but was unable to get her. Despite worrying about everything else I wasn't too worried about her—she is tough as nails. When she pulled into the driveway, however, I could tell something was wrong. Her truck swerved erratically and her speed fluctuated oddly. As soon as she stumbled out of the driver’s seat, the horrible confirmation hit me like a ton of bricks, nearly tearing my heart from my chest. She staggered toward me trying desperately to speak. The front of her neck was injured and she looked like she had already lost a lot of blood but I still had no idea what happened. I raced to her as she collapsed into my arms. With each futile attempt to talk more of her life seemed to gurgle out of her neck. I tried in vain to staunch the flow of blood but it continued to seep through the towel and between my fingers. How she was alive at all was a mystery to me. I could see the jagged edges of her tracheal cartilages in the depths of the wound as the gash bubbled and spat with every breath. She kept mouthing what I thought was the word 'head' or 'dead.' Then, the mouthing and the bubbling stopped. I knew what that meant, but I could neither believe nor accept it.
Sylvia was my whole world, and she was gone. I had my pistol to my head sobbing uncontrollably so I didn't notice initially when the gurgling sound returned. When it finally got my attention, I realized they were not the same choked and drowning respirations I heard earlier but rather that of movement like mud squishing between your toes. My Sylvia was moving! Dumbfounded, I let the pistol fall away from my head. I continued to watch in horror as she twitched and writhed, weakly at first. I thought it might just be the last, fading neural impulses of a dying brain. But rather than fading away, the movement slowly escalated! I could not take my eyes off of her, as painful as it was to see her like that. She began to move her extremities awkwardly and after a few minutes she rolled to her side before slowly getting to her feet! More than a half hour after I was certain she had died, she stood up! Her movement was not the natural, graceful, loving Sylvia movement but rather an uncoordinated, clumsy, sinister movement.
Even though this was the woman who meant more to me than anything else including my own life, I knew enough to back away. I guess my irrational, excessive paranoia paid off. As the shell of my beloved wife lumbered toward me with clear malicious intent in her disturbingly vacant, frosted eyes, I knew that my Sylvia was no more. In an unthinking instant, I brought the pistol up to rest the barrel on her forehead before putting her to rest for good.
I shot her! Christ, I shot Sylvia! I have no idea what in the hell is going on! Regardless, I realized that despite all my planning and preparations, whatever was happening managed to kill me from the inside before I even had a chance. She was probably the only thing I truly needed to survive and the one thing I never fathomed I would be without. I’m sorry. I have to go. I’m already gone.
Thank you for reading my letter, hopefully it will help you in some way. I have plenty of supplies here so please take what you need. May your path be more pleasant than mine.
Yours in death, Al Forrester"
John stood there in total silence for several minutes after finishing the letter. What he read, indeed what he now felt he had lived, was tearing him apart inside. Without realizing it, John was overtaken by violent sobs, his tears joining Al’s on the paper as they helped erase the horrible truths contained within the letter. Not for the first time he wondered what the hell had become of this world, and he felt a tinge of jealousy toward Al. Al’s race was run, as awful as it was, and he no longer had to endure any of this shit anymore.
Reams approached and laid a hand on John’s shoulder. The slight touch startled John and brought him back to the moment. With the renewed understanding that their world was irrevocably changed, the two survivors retrieved their few possessions and began settling into their new residence.
Chapter 19
October 6, 2015
After the discovery of the horrific fates of Al and Sylvia, John and Reams set about giving them a proper burial. John thought they would have wanted to be buried together in a single grave. Once the burial was complete, they began the grim task of cleaning the house to eliminate all reminders of what happened there. With no other place to go, and with the realization that Al’s house was set up with catastrophe in mind, John and Reams made the decision to stay there for the time being.
John had two goals at this point, and Reams considered them both to be his goals as well. First and foremost, they needed to find John’s daughter, Ava. After that, they would try to locate Dr. Lin San and help facilitate her research on a potential cure for the abominable plague currently besieging the human race.
Their plan was to stay at Al’s house for approximately two weeks if conditions permitted, during which time they would spend their days searching for Ava, and their nights reading and learning from the treasure trove of useful survival information scattered throughout Al’s residence. Depending on what, if any, evidence they found regarding Ava, they would then decide whether to stay and continue the search, or to move on to find Lin San. They both agreed they should spend the next day regrouping, resting, and preparing for the weeks ahead.
A cursor
y search of Al’s residence revealed a mind-boggling amount of food, water, weapons, and equipment. In addition to the crops and scattered livestock including cows, pigs, and chickens, there were also several pallets of MREs and freeze-dried foods. Though they both recognized the importance of the sustainability offered by the crops and livestock, neither knew much about how to manage these resources, and they did not plan to stay at Al’s long term. They decided they would take advantage of the food the animals and crops provided while they were there and planned to release any remaining livestock upon their departure. With both of the large tanks nearly full, they did not think water would be an issue during their stay. They found several additional water bladders, portable water filters, and bottles of purification tablets. There was also more camping and survival equipment than they would ever be able to use. Flashlights, batteries, cooking stoves, fuel tabs, tents, sleeping bags, and random camouflage gear occupied nearly every shelf in the small garage. Upon seeing everything Al had stockpiled, Reams turned to John and said, “I know you said your friend was a survival nut, but damn! This place is stocked better than a sporting goods store!”
With a small, sad smile creasing his face, John replied, “Tip of the iceberg, my friend. Let me show you something else.” John turned and headed back into the house with Reams following close behind, eager to see what more there could be. They moved through the house to a rear corner room containing a washer and dryer as well as all of the other typical items one would find in a laundry room. On the wall opposite the entrance was a large three-foot by five-foot movie poster of A Boy and his Dog. Reams looked at John, rolled his eyes, and shook his head.
John entered the room and walked over to a thermostat on the wall next to the poster. He manipulated the cover on the thermostat until it popped off revealing a small keypad underneath. After keying in a fairly lengthy string of numbers there was a low mechanical sound followed by a click. The ‘poster’ seemed to hinge forward off the wall. John motioned Reams forward with a wave of his hand. Reams walked over and grasped the heavy door that had been concealed behind the poster. As he opened it further, he could see it was at least six inches thick, and resembled a door on a bank vault. Through the door was a small room with another door just inside, and to the left. This one looked just as formidable as the first but had a lock that appeared to be opened by a simple key. John crossed the small room and unplugged a small table lamp that had the base of a broken light bulb stuck in its socket. He manipulated the cover plate on the electrical outlet and it popped open to reveal a small cavity containing a key.
John opened the door to a long, narrow room that ran the entire length of the house. Reams’ jaw dropped as the two men stepped into the room that resembled a long, wide hallway. The wall on the left was adorned with firearms of all types, while the wall on the right was covered with shelves containing boxes of ammunition, magazines, and weapon accessories. At the far end of the room stood a reloading bench, as well as a workbench. Cradled within the jaws of the vise on the bench was the lower receiver of a rifle. John recognized the rest of his AR-15 lying in pieces on the benchtop.
The two men gazed at the arsenal decorating the wall with expressions that portrayed both the giddiness of a child in a candy store and the reverence of a devout believer at the altar. Dumbfounded, speechless, and mouth still agape, Reams turned his head to regard John. John did not look away from the impressive array of firepower, instead acknowledging him with a smile and a slight nod of his head.
The two men spent the next few hours looking over the weapons and discussing what they considered to be the merits of each as it related to their current situation. Reliability and high ammo capacity were the two characteristics they seemed to come back to each time. When they discovered several suppressors on one of the shelves, they added the ability to minimize the sound signature of the weapon to the list of favorable attributes.
After much deliberation, Reams opted to keep the Mossberg as a backup, and chose a La Rue Tactical OBR chambered in 7.62 NATO for his primary weapon. In addition to the iron sights mounted on the picatinny rail, there was a holographic sight as well as a light secured in an offset mount. Aside from the abundant ammunition and magazines, he found a Gemtech Sandstorm suppressor that he could attach to the rifle. For his sidearm he chose a FN Five Seven MkII with a threaded barrel. “I remember my brother talking about the Five Seven a few years back after the shooting at Fort Hood. Holds twenty rounds and with the right ammo, it can penetrate body armor. Should be perfect for the shit we’re in now,” said Reams.
Though John had seen and indeed fired nearly all of the weapons on display, including both Reams had chosen, he caught sight of a rifle that he had not seen before at the end of the wall. It was a bullpup design with the words ‘IWI Tavor’ printed on the polymer stock and ‘5.56x45 NATO’ etched on the eighteen-inch barrel. John picked up the rifle and was immediately impressed by how light and balanced it was. It utilized standard AR-15 magazines and had a reflex optical sight mounted on the picatinny rail. As clichéd as it was, when he shouldered the weapon, its ergonomic design truly made it feel like an extension of his arms. John chose this as his primary weapon, and he kept his Glock 23 as his secondary weapon after installing a threaded barrel he found on the shelf. Knowing the infected were drawn to sound, John procured a suppressor for each weapon as well—a Gemtech G5 for the Tavor and a Gemtech Blackside for the Glock.
“Al, you beautiful, gun-crazed bastard,” muttered John, as he checked the fit and function of the new weapons.
Both men spent a few more hours familiarizing themselves with the weapons and equipment they acquired from Al’s little armory. They grabbed extra magazines and ammunition, loading at least five spares for each weapon. By this time it was getting late in the day, and they decided it would be prudent to limit their excursions away from the house to the daylight hours whenever possible. They discussed the tactics they would use whenever they went out searching for Ava, as well as a general plan for where they would conduct the searches. While they knew the information they didn’t know far exceeded that which they did, the two men agreed their best chance for survival was through knowledge, preparation, and discipline…that and, of course, an insane amount of luck.
Though they had some ideas about how the infected things were able to locate healthy humans, it was still largely speculation. They knew sound was a big factor but also knew there was more involved than sound alone. If one of the revs did something that resulted in noise, the others would undoubtedly take notice but quickly lost interest. If, on the other hand, the sound originated from a healthy person it would typically capture their attention indefinitely. Reams also learned early on that, while they could see, they tended not to notice slower, less contrasting movements especially from a distance or in low light settings. Additionally, John’s experience submerged in the sewer ditch mere feet from a large number of revs made it seem probable that smell or body heat might be significant factors, as both were effectively masked by the foul sewage. John even considered the possibility of pheromones and chemoreceptors, or electroreceptors similar to the ampullae of Lorenzini found on many sharks, when he and Reams discussed the topic one evening.
“Most animals communicate at least in part using chemical messengers called pheromones. Humans possess an intranasal structure called the vomeronasal organ that is thought to be a vestigial sense organ for pheromones. Maybe it retains some degree of function, and whatever neural derangements the infection causes essentially ‘unmask’ this sense,” John hypothesized. “Structures such as the ampullae are electroreceptors that allow sharks and other ‘less evolved’ animals to sense electromagnetic fields as well as temperature gradients in the water. I suppose it’s possible that the infection leads to cellular alteration that allows them to function somewhat like these electroreceptors.”
Reams stared at John as if the man had just lapsed into a religious trance and began speaking in tongues, before adding in his best Car
lton Banks voice, “Only one problem Jacques Cousteau, the revs aren’t in water.”
Without missing a beat, John replied, “Elementary, my good man. Bees possess a similar ability to detect electromagnetic fields using mechanical receptors and they are also not in water.” Having nothing to add to that, the big man just shook his head as John smiled.
Chapter 20
October 13, 2015
It had been a week since John and Reams arrived at Al’s house, and they spent the majority of the daylight hours searching for Ava. This day was no different as they crept silently down an abandoned street in a half-crouch, moving from cover to cover in a bounding over-watch configuration. ‘Cover’ in this situation was not so much a hard barrier they could hide behind but rather anything they could seek refuge behind that lacked a place where a rev could be hiding.
On their second day searching, the two men experienced a close call when they moved into a recessed doorway in an attempt to keep out of sight of a group of revs about thirty yards ahead of their position. With all their attention focused on the group of eight ahead of them, neither noticed the formerly petite female advancing through the door at their six o’clock. Reams decided to sling his rifle and switch to his sidearm just as the thing let out a low moan. By sheer dumb luck, the rotating buttstock of his rifle struck the thing hard on the forehead, momentarily knocking it off balance. It was long enough for Reams to sweep the thing’s legs, sending it to the ground. With a single, strong stomp, the thing’s skull collapsed like it was little more than an insect. They promptly added this nearly catastrophic lesson learned to their burgeoning list of operational procedures.