Redivivus Trilogy (Book 1): Threnody

by Kirk Withrow

  Caught off-guard by Reams’ lighthearted reply, John let out a clipped, girlish laugh that would have made milk shoot out his nose as the mood in the dark, cramped tunnel rose by leaps and bounds.

  “Good to have you back, ol’ buddy,” said John. “Now let’s see if we can get your big ass out of there. Ethan, wedge yourself between the walls of the tunnel, and give Reams something to push against. Reams, I’ll pull on your arm while you try to wiggle side to side. Don’t try to muscle through too much; it’ll just make it harder. Take it from a scrawny white boy!”

  Using their new tactic, Reams began to inch forward at a snail’s pace until his right arm finally joined his left on the outside of the hole. John grabbed both of his wrists, pulling him to the left and right until the big man was crowning at last. That’s one hell of a case of shoulder dystocia! With one last hardy tug, Reams flopped through the opening like a twelve-pound baby sliding out of the birth canal.

  Shining his flashlight through the opening, Ethan quipped, “That hole looks reamed!” Several clods of dirt flew through the narrow gap, unceremoniously striking him in the chest. After clambering through with ease, Ethan emerged on the other side and said, “What?”

  With the entirety of their group freely mobile again, they scurried down the remainder of the tunnel until they came to a similar sized cellar at the opposite end. They found a ladder much like the one on the other side, except the lower half lay broken on the cellar floor, while the upper half hung loosely from cellar wall. Cursing, Ethan shined his light around the room looking for ideas. This room differed from the previous cellar in that it was shorter, only about ten feet tall. Above the useless ladder they could see the hatch that would take them back above ground.

  Before anyone could voice a plan to get out of the cellar, Reams was already moving an old wooden crate that was about two feet tall. He reached up and tore the remainder of the ladder from the wall with ease, showering the survivors with a barrage of dirt and mortar as the rusty, disintegrating hardware pulled free. After positioning the crate under the cellar door with the ladder on top leaning against the wall, he motioned for John to try out his new creation. “Unless you think I should try it out first,” he said with a toothy grin.

  Once atop the ladder, John was able to open the hatch with a few solid blows from his shoulder. Dust and dirt trapped around the door for nearly a century rained down into his mouth and eyes as it gave way. He let out a sigh of relief that the small door had not been locked like its counterpart in the church.

  Peering through a crack beneath the partially opened hatch, John found the room above to be cloaked in darkness every bit as black as that in the tunnel. After a silent pause, he was satisfied that he heard no sound coming from within the house. Shining his light around, he saw what appeared to be a utility room, with several shelves and a large sink along the wall. Carefully, he pushed his head farther through the opening, forcing the cellar door fully open. Though he intended to lower the door gently to the floor, it slipped from his grasp, knocking a small chair over before crashing to the ground with a loud thud. Wincing from the noise that sounded like the report of a cannon against the quiet of the room, John quickly pulled himself out of the cellar realizing he must have dropped his flashlight in the commotion.

  As the reverberations of the crashing door faded in his ears, a subtle creaking sound he had not heard before registered in his brain. Immediately, John froze as he strained to see in the darkened room. Edging forward cautiously, something firm struck his face. While there was no real force behind the blow, the alarm he felt caused John to flail out wildly, striking whatever had hit him as he fell back onto his haunches. He recoiled as he realized that whatever he hit was unmistakably human but lacking the characteristic warmth he had grown to associate with being human. It was also at that instant that the sickly smell of death finally found its way through his olfactory pathways to his cerebral cortex. I am going to die here!

  Sensing something was wrong, Ethan leapt onto the crate and moved up the rickety ladder. Once there, he clicked on his flashlight and aimed it up through the open hatch as he ascended the wobbling ladder. Illuminated by Ethan’s flashlight, what John saw before him was the stuff of nightmares, and he felt his blood run cold. To his horror, a massive human form loomed before him right above the open cellar door. Struggling to find his voice to warn the others, John saw Ethan poke his head through the open cellar door with an incredulous, quizzical look on his face.

  “John, you look like you just saw a monster or something. You okay, buddy? You know this guy or something?” said Ethan as he tapped the dangling leg of the corpse suspended from the rafter by a rope secured around his neck. The leg drifted away slightly before softly rebounding into the back of Ethan’s head. If he noticed the contact at all, John couldn’t tell. Over the incessant hammering of his racing heart, all John could hear was the creaking sound of the rope as it pulled on the rafter above.

  After several moments during which John stared wide-eyed at his friend that he still thought might be devoured by the monster looming above him, the catecholamine storm tearing through his bloodstream slowly regressed taking with it the deafening roar of blood raging through his carotid arteries. He began to hear Ethan’s repeated inquiries about his condition and whether or not he knew the ‘monster’ above him, the ‘monster’ that John now realized was the corpse of a man who had chosen death by hanging to whatever more malefic fate he perceived to be awaiting him.

  Drawing his first breath in what seemed like hours, John said, “No, I’m fine. I just thought it was…never mind. It just startled me. I’m good.” Ethan hopped out of the cellar door and joined John in the small utility room. They, in turn, helped Kate and Reams out of the cellar, thankfully concluding their subterranean adventure.

  Moving in a loose formation, the band of survivors cautiously prowled through the large, plantation-style home looking for any means of escape from the nightmare.

  Chapter 36

  October 21, 2015

  In the quietude of the night, the old home popped and creaked like an arthritic struggling to climb a flight of stairs—each tiny explosion of sound like a susurrant protest against the presence of the invaders snaking through its passageways. Ethan took the lead as the group maneuvered down the corridors of the once imperial southern plantation home with slow, deliberate movements, pausing intermittently to listen for anything the house was trying to tell them. Though the halls of the antiquated house were dark, none of them dared to risk broadcasting their presence by turning on a flashlight. There was just enough light filtering in from the rising sun on the horizon to allow navigation through the bowels of the seemingly vacant abode.

  As she passed by one of the many open doors lining the hallway, Kate suddenly froze as a soft mewing emanated from somewhere close by. The low, keening sound struck her tympanic membrane with less force than a gentle zephyr. Once the faint signal traveled the short distance to her auditory cortex where it was processed and interpreted against her cumulative life experience, however, the implications of the sound seemed rancorous and deafening. It carried with it the promise of a thousand horrible things intended for her, and her alone, as it triggered alarm bells in her mind.

  Uncertain of exactly which direction the sound came from, Kate remained rooted to the spot watching the three men ahead of her advance around the corner and out of sight. Part of her wanted to scream for them, part of her wanted to run for them; all of her merely stood stock-still as though waiting for whatever was behind the sinister sound to take her. Her breathing intensified making it all the more difficult to hear the soft, sad sonance. Though she knew it was likely coming from within one of the adjoining rooms, she still could not triangulate the exact direction from which it came.

  As the nearly inaudible noise, like that of a kitten stuck in a tree, reverberated in her ears once again, she sensed it originated from her left side. Guardedly, she gazed into the dark abyss of the room and saw only bla
ckness. Her intense scrutiny of the room was shattered by a clinking sound like that of dishes clanging together somewhere behind her. A nauseating sensation rose within her gorge as Kate realized she must have been wrong about the direction of the sound. She could almost feel the deathly cold fingers tightening around her neck. Oh, my God! I’m going to die here!

  Kate whirled to face her attacker as she backpedaled into the room she had been investigating. Her heart nearly exploded as an obscure creature tore out of the room in front of her. Its dark, foreboding eyes contrasted sharply against its pale face as it moved into the moonlight that weakly illuminated the hall. After letting out a distressed snarl, the thing that she now recognized as a raccoon skittered off down the hall.

  With a nervous smirk, Kate struggled to reign in her breathing as she collided with something that nearly sent her trundling to the ground. The surprised expression on her face was instantly replaced with one of pure unadulterated terror as the original mewing sound erupted directly behind her, now truly louder due to its dangerously close proximity.

  Pivoting around, Kate was finally face to face with the source of the terrifying sound that had been plaguing her. As her heart seized in her throat, her eyes fell on a bewildering sight—simultaneously horrible, sad, and almost harmless. To be clear, the thing before her did possess deadly potential but much in the same way as a bullet without a gun from which to fire it. The rev sitting in front of her, forever doomed to remain strapped in the motorized chair whose battery had long since drained, was likely an incomplete quadriplegic before falling victim to the infection. Its head lolled slightly from side to side as its jaws worked feverishly, snapping and biting the air around its searching head. A gnarled hand at the end of a contracted arm still rested on the defunct control for the lifeless chair.

  Kate deflated slightly, as she gazed down at the sad creature. She felt immense pity for the rev, having been made to endure so much in life only to end up like this in the end. Without warning, tears began to fall like rain pouring over a broken gutter. Again, her tears were brief as the new Kate emerged from behind the walls of fear and helplessness of her old mind. Standing tall, the new, callous, and strong Kate was not heartless, but rather possessed a heart surrounded by a nearly impenetrable shell forged from the abuses and horrors of the new world.

  Knowing what needed to be done, Kate drew her knife and – without another thought on the matter – plunged it deep into the rev’s orbit. With a sharp, violent twist of her wrist, she felt a slight shudder, and wondered if the tip of the blade might have set off an electrical storm that caused the entire life of the former lady of the house to flash through her dimming mind, as depicted in Hollywood deaths. In all likelihood, the synapses within the decrepit lady’s mind – previously hijacked by the merciless pathogen – had long since been discharged in much the same way as the useless battery sitting in her motorized chair. Now the elderly lady, like the battery, was truly dead. Pulling her knife free, Kate wiped the blade clean, and turned to walk away before pausing by the door. Over her shoulder, she said, “I hope you’re in a better place. You’re finally free. Run.”

  Moments later Kate emerged from the bygone house and joined the three men on the front porch. Reams looked at her with a concerned expression on his face, “You okay? I was just about to come looking for you.”

  Managing a weak smile, Kate replied, “I’m good. Something just caught my eye, and I had to check it out. What’s our plan?”

  The two listened in as John continued outlining the details of his plan to Ethan. Pointing to a worn map for illustration, John said, “We are here, about a mile or so outside of town. The girl Trenton saw would have likely taken this route past his office. Following that course we should reach Hood Street two or three miles after that.”

  Chapter 37

  October 21, 2015

  Noiselessly, the four bone-weary survivors crept toward Trenton Wentworth’s former law office in the early, predawn light. They each kept a watchful eye for any sign of danger, or Ava. No one spoke, and John imagined this was as much a result of exhaustion as the desire to avoid alerting anyone or anything to their presence. Though there was still a definite nip in the air, the early morning sun felt warm against the exposed skin of his face as he gazed up at the clear sky—the first subtle shades of sapphire daring to poke out from behind the slate and charcoal. The nearly imperceptible breeze did not carry the repugnant smell of rot and ruin, but rather the pleasant earthy scent of the crisp, autumn woods.

  Scanning his surroundings in all directions, a weak smile creased John’s face when he realized that for the first time in what seemed like days, nothing was pursuing them. For a brief, wonderful instant, John almost convinced himself he might be feeling happiness; however, distant and fleeting. No sooner than the thought crossed his mind, he wondered if it was merely the calm before the blustery, omnipotent, all-consuming storm, as if he had stumbled into the eye of a category 5 hurricane. John was not a superstitious man, but given everything that had transpired over the last couple of weeks, he was seriously considering taking it up.

  Regardless of any meaning behind the lull in the action, the period of relative calm afforded John a few moments to ponder the plague, the world, and his new friends as he walked. He was thankful for the reprieve, as he had not had time to truly think about all that had changed over the last couple of weeks. His focus had been almost exclusively on learning about the plague itself in order to survive, and on finding his daughter. The events at Hermitage a few days back made John realize he had neglected to fully consider the impact of other humans—the potential secondary kill.

  As vile as the disease was, John knew there were still far worse things in the world. Thinking back to the house in Hermitage Estates, he knew they had already witnessed some of them. The infected, as best as he could tell, were essentially unthinking automatons, albeit with lethal potential. Uninfected people, on the other hand, were still in control of their faculties and could be every bit as lethal, if not more so. John accepted that human behavior was exceedingly complex and extreme conditions often led to equally extreme manifestations. A cursory glance at people in the aftermath of any catastrophic event throughout history provided countless examples to support that. To John, it seemed that nearly every action could be explained by examining it in the context of the motivations of the reward system in place.

  What led some people to rise out of the ashes like a phoenix while others burrowed down into the mire like a serpent remained enigmatic to John. Undoubtedly some individuals, such as the bikers in all likelihood, were already slanted toward such devious behavior and the evaporation of the justice system with its manmade consequences merely served as the uncorking of the bottle. Such odious behavior occurring in the days immediately following the breakdown of society probably had less to do with the horrors of the outbreak itself, and more to do with the lack of any supervision, like the blatant opportunism exemplified by the mass looting after Hurricane Katrina and other large-scale catastrophes.

  John feared they would encounter far greater evils from people irrevocably altered by the plague itself as time went on. The psychological trauma associated with such profound loss including family, friends, society, and essentially everything else comprising a person’s identity would certainly push some individuals far beyond their breaking point—like PTSD on steroids. Cultivated in the milieu of pervasive desolation, misery, and complete lack of support in the new world, some individuals would certainly be transformed into humanoid monsters, their depraved and twisted minds making them hardly recognizable as a member of the once dominant Homo sapiens sapiens, despite their outwardly similar appearance.

  With a shudder, John thought such people would replace the revs as the scariest and most dangerous monsters in the land in a heinous continuation of the malefic evolution of a dying species. Similarly, he feared the worst was yet to come as such people would not emerge immediately after the plague, but rather would be born out
of the dust settling in the months and years following the world’s collapse. Nurtured by the malignity strewn across the impious land, like some demonic nursemaid from Hell, the creation of such evil would certainly take time.

  The morose line of thinking was forcing John’s head down into a dark, ominous place to which he did not wish to go. Still relishing in the natural beauty all around him at that moment, John willed his thoughts to a brighter place as he reflected on each of the people that joined him on his search. He knew they each had their own reasons for doing so, and he was thankful each of them decided to come with him. Life as it was over the last couple of weeks was infinitely harder than anything he had ever experienced previously, and John knew he would not have made it this far without their help and support.

  Before considering his newfound comrades, John thought about how much he himself had changed in such a short amount of time. He knew that any catastrophic event invariably leads to one of two possible outcomes in a person: one is either overwhelmed by grief and despair, thus rendering them incapable of coping and surviving the horrors of the event; or he or she is polarized to action by the need to right all of the miserable injustices, and to reestablish some vestige of the life to which they had grown accustomed.

  In light of this John considered where he fit into that algorithm. He had certainly tried – even wanted – to go down the path of grief and despair. The thought of how much easier it would be to no longer feel the unquenchable, bottomless pain that came from the loss of his wife, Rebecca, and likely everyone else he knew, made him want to throw in the towel even still. Fortunately, that desire faded with remarkable speed when he thought of his little girl, Ava. Despite all rational probability being that she, like nearly everyone else, had succumbed to the contagion, the fact that John did not know this for certain was a strong enough motivator to keep him going. When coupled with the remote chance that his lifelong friend, Dr. Lin San, might be working on a cure at that very moment provided the proverbial nail in the coffin. John knew he would never give up no matter how much easier it would be. For John, and he suspected for most everyone else as well, it all boiled down to two things: hope and love.