The Reaper Virus (Short Story): Sarcophagus

by Nathan Barnes

  The man drooped his head with thin blond hair. Sorrow exuded from the man like the waiving of a white surrender flag. Then he answered Paul’s warning, “I don’t mean to trouble you.”

  Paul interrupted him arrogantly, “good! Come on back later today so we can get to know you.”

  “No.…” the little man said back with startling determination. “I can’t come back later. I need to talk to you now.”

  After wiping milk from her red lips, the makeup-plastered woman with a New York accent called to them, “ease up, Paul. Pastor Doug would have let the man speak.” A couple quieter voices mumbled agreement with her guilt trip.

  He rubbed his temples with those big hands while visibly weighing options. Thirty seconds passed without anyone speaking. Finally Paul said, “alright, alright. I’m sorry to have come off so harshly, sir. How can we help you?”

  Relief only made the man look more pitiful. He tried to compose himself, “my boy. He’s not feeling well.”

  “A lot of folks aren’t feeling well these days,” Paul added lacking any tact. “Those people are why we’re stuck on this bridge. Is your boy… you know, sick?”

  Tears streamed down the man’s face. “No I swear,” he sobbed, “but my wife was. We lost her. He helped me lock her in our bedroom before we left. I couldn’t…. I couldn’t let her go. She pounded on the door so loud that we could hear it outside while we packed the car.“

  Gasps emanated from the hushed retreat members. Paul took a few steps closer while still keeping a little distance. “I’m so sorry to hear that. We’ve all lost something or someone in this nightmare. I know that doesn’t make the loss of your wife any easier, but just know that we’ll certainly add you and your son to our prayers.”

  “I don’t need prayers!” Yelled the little man, startling Paul. He took a deep breath and raised his head a few inches, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just that…. well, I’m sorry. What I need is to trade. He won’t eat what I have; however, he might snack on some dry cereal. If I can get him to eat that then maybe we can get medicine in his system.”

  “Alright, partner,” Paul said trying to sound far more confident than he actually was. “We want to help you and your boy. What do you have that you’d like to trade?”

  “Eggs. I scrambled a few dozen of them because I didn’t want them to go bad. They were already close to expiration when we packed them. My wife bought them two weeks ago for a bake sale. I cooked them less than an hour ago with a propane camping stove.” The man paused, carefully observing the layout of their breakfast assortment. Then he added, “doesn’t look like you all have much protein there. The eggs will keep your bellies happy a lot longer than the marshmallows in that cereal. I’ll give you the whole batch for two of each cereal type.”

  Intrigued whispers echoed throughout their group. Helping this poor man shouldn’t be dependent on trade; it should be their defaulted nature. Even so, Jessica’s stomach growled at the mere mention of scrambled eggs. It amazed her that barely over a day past a regular meal and they were at the supposed mercy of apocalyptic bartering. The lack of planning that went into this costly outing was shocking. Their attitudes would have been much different had the church thought to invest in some mobile cooking equipment rather than crates of goods meant for onsite prep. In hindsight, she’d take a school bus and a propane grill over their luxury coaches.

  Paul peered over his shoulder towards the rest, seeing the approval of the man’s desperate offer ripe on their faces. He hated the idea of parting with fourteen boxes, however, he also knew that tempers would be manageable for a solid half of the day with a better meal starting them out. Then Paul grew sad. His niece loved scrambled eggs. Whenever his brother travelled for business she would stay there. Welcoming her with a cheesy plate of eggs the next morning made him feel like the good uncle he aspired to be. “Why didn’t you offer to bring her on the retreat?” Thoughts bombarded his confident facade. “Hell, they both should have come! He’s your brother for god’s sake. They should have come instead but you were so scared of the zombie stories.”

  They all waited with baited breath. Percussive pops from distant gunfire teased their isolation. The sound was so faint that a shift in the breeze was enough to fool anyone who noticed into thinking it was their paranoid imagination playing games. After a few seconds the trading neighbor interjected into Paul’s sudden thoughtful state, “what do you say, mister? Ya’ll seem like good people. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t so worried about my boy. His mother would have wanted me to….”

  Paul came back to the bridge, interrupting his pleading, “of course. Say no more, my friend. I doubt anyone in our congregation would disagree that it’s our duty to help.” A collective release of held breath was heard behind him. The desperate neighbor looked at the large man as he spoke with tears slicked down his cheeks. “Your offer is very fair. Tell you what, if your boy decides that a certain type is his favorite, come back and talk to me. I’ll swap the ones he doesn’t like for ones he does.”

  “Thank you, sir!” His knees gave out causing him to drop to the pavement. Weeping he said to the group, “thank you all. I… I don’t know what I’d do if….”

  Throwing caution to the wind, Paul closed the gap between the two. A paw of a hand gripped the sad mans arm to help him up. A few other retreat members quickly joined him in the assist. Conversations continued; their morning went on like a television drama had ended. Jessica turned to Ava, smirking at the bits of cereal glued in patches around her daughter’s face. “Hope you have room for scrambled eggs.” She said, using a napkin in her pocket to wipe her clean.

  “Is that man’s son dead?” Ava asked innocently.

  “No, babe. No, he’s not. He said his son isn’t feeling well. But he’s very worried about him getting a good meal just like I would be worried about you.” She watched Ava digest every word spoken.

  The exchange was made soon after. It was difficult to see much of the hand off without getting closer. Jessica stood on her tiptoes to get a look. Paul and two other men from the retreat stood near a gray sedan. Then the sad man appeared from behind the car carrying an aluminum-baking pan, like the kind you’d expect to house a sheet cake. Inside the car there was a kid with a mess of blond hair. He looked pale, with a sheen of sickly sweat glistening enough for her to notice from several cars away. Paul’s animated demeanor was turned up a notch, his voice loudly broadcasting a recap of the church’s kind dealings. He must have viewed the trade as setting a precedent for preferential treatment in the new order of the bridge. ‘This is absurd,’ Jessica muttered under her breath, ‘just give the poor man some food and cut the crap.’

  Before long a bounty of fluffy yellow pebbles steamed atop their makeshift buffet table. All who wanted a serving got their share. Their neighbor must have cooked three or four dozen eggs that morning. Jessica thought it was odd that he would cook so much with only two mouths to feed. She suspected his intention all along was to trade. It was smart, supply and demand in exigent circumstances.

  Ava inhaled every crumb of her cereal. Surprisingly, she hit the plate of eggs with equal enthusiasm. “Are you growing again missy?” Jessica asked her playfully. She was desperate to talk about anything beyond the present. Every few minutes she caught Ava’s eyes wandering out to the river. Curiosity over the people in the river was as alluring as a siren song. A smirk was all she got back. Her daughter had a distant, however content, look to her. The little girl pondered their situation more than a five year old should ever dwell on something so grave.

  Jessica thought again about abandoning the retreat group. The luxury coach felt less and less like deliverance and more like imprisonment. They could get their bags and just walk like so many of the cars around them. Paul would try to stop them with his awkward frame and shit-eating smile. She could hear it now, ‘think of your daughter! Where will you go? We’re a family!’ It angered her to even imagine the exchange. Her revolver was always there as an insurance
policy; she knew that waiving it in front of his face would easily cancel their reservation. Then again, where would they go? At least they had food, a bathroom, and some safety in numbers.

  “Are you going to finish your scrambled eggs, Mommy?” Ava asked as crumbs fell from her lips.

  She looked at her plate finding it mostly intact. After being so deep in thought over their next move, she’d all but forgotten they were in the middle of a meal. “Of course honey, I’ve had my fill,” Jessica answered while passing the plate.

  Then a startling boom sounded from behind them. It came so suddenly that the plate of eggs was dropped to the pavement before Ava could take hold. Screams answered the unexpected explosion. Sound behaved differently on the bridge, unfettered by the open setting and odd air currents. Through it all, Jessica swore it almost sounded like a shotgun firing. Several unsettling seconds passed without anyone moving; frozen in fear not knowing what unfolded back in the direction from which they came. It wasn’t until the second blast that everyone scattered like roaches in a newly illuminated kitchen.

  Panic quickly overcame their civility with fear added to the particularly tense scenario. Retreat members literally clogged the door to the bus when everyone tried to re enter at once. Paul stepped in using his oversized arms to force a quick, orderly boarding. Ava held Jessica’s hand tightly as they waited for their turn to hastily board. Curiosities raged so Jessica glanced back towards the origin of the sounds.

  An old woman with wild silver hair stood by the front bumper of the gray sedan that belonged to the sad egg man and his ailing son. The windshield transformed into a nearly opaque mesh of broken glass. Two pock marked clusters were focused over the glass of the passenger side. Then the egg man ran from behind the vehicle. He was different than he was during their trade deal. Using a previously unseen level of ire, he charged towards the frail-looking old woman. She didn’t seem to notice him coming, like her being there had put her into a daze.

  The old woman pivoted on her heel as if to check her surroundings. She had both hands gripped onto something long and dark. It took a moment of squinting for Jessica to put the pieces together. A split second before the man intended to tackle her, she raised the black shotgun and jerked the trigger. Light bellowed from the barrel. For the third time a blast echoed around them inciting even more panic. Jessica was so stunned that she hardly reacted. Instead she watched in slow motion as the man’s sad face was torn to bits by the devastating point blank spray of buckshot.

  His face taking the full brunt of the blast did nothing to slow his momentum. A crimson splash went one direction while his body dove towards the woman who killed him. The collision caused another jerk of the trigger which sent searing lead into an adjacent abandoned minivan. Loud honking and sirens instantly cried out from the alarmed van. Jessica watched it all unfold, helpless to look away. All the while, panicked retreat members pushed her forward in line.

  Jessica’s focus shifted to farther down the bridge once the old woman dropped beneath the weight of the lifeless man. More commotion was taking place now at the other end. She froze, hoping it wasn’t what she feared. Then a nearby voice screamed, “THEY’RE COMING!”

  Jessica saw them in that last second before entering the bus. They flocked to the first rows of occupied cars like birds drawn to seed. Twenty, maybe even thirty, of the horrid creatures finally scampered their way onto the bridge drawn by echoes of the breakfast execution. Screams rippled along the roadway from motorists caught in a tidal wave of infectious hunger.

  Their hands lost grip in the commotion of boarding, pried apart by a rush of frightened people. Ava looked back for her mother from the stairs, feeling like she’d failed in her buddy responsibilities. Her glance coincided perfectly with Jessica’s sighting of the coming undead. She saw the panic on Jessica’s face, witnessed her mommy’s brave front vanish for a singular moment.

  “Mommy!” Ava didn’t know what else to say. She wanted her to know that she was there. She wanted her mommy to not be afraid.

  People pushed from all directions through the small corridor. The line slowed as people inside clamored to find their seats without any coordination or organization. Retreat members outside gave little regard to the congestion within and kept pushing. Jessica shot her eyes back to the bus entrance as her body cleared the threshold. Ava was two steps ahead with a stocky man between them. They locked eyes when the little darling turned towards her while still being moved inside.

  Simultaneously, three more booms thundered from up the bridge as another desperate person grabbed the shotgun that fell from the old woman’s hands. Screams, louder than the rest of the uproar, and highlights of breaking glass answered the ballistic roar. Car alarms randomly sang a melody of chaos. Despite the frightening raucous, the mother and daughter kept their eyes locked for that second.

  Jessica’s voice was loud and firm, “Even if you can’t see me, I’m here. Go to our seat. Cover your ears. Close your eyes. Don’t stop until I say so.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Those first rows didn’t stand a chance. Travellers, stuck on the bridge just the same as those in the church retreat, were geographically placed in the crosshairs. They were just people - men, women, children, young and old. All they wanted was to get away from a crumbling city, to get somewhere that they could survive. Unlike the retreat members, they were trapped there without bathrooms or the level of shelter offered by the bus. After nearly two days it’s amazing they didn’t all abandon their cars. Hope that the world would be saved kept them there, kept them waiting for salvation. These are the poor people who were condemned by circumstance as the first to die.

  “Is everyone here?” Paul called from the front, breathless from panic. “Call up if you don’t know where your buddy is!”

  No one called. No one even talked. Cries, gasps for breath and whimpers continued in place of silence. Madness loudly carried on outside as occasional gunfire joined screams of agony loud enough to be heard beyond the sound-dampening coach walls. With the attack advancing from behind them, all direct view of the threat was obscured.

  A man sitting in a center right row yelled up, “Frank, what’s in the mirrors? You have to see something from there!”

  It got quiet. Even crying hushed as they waited for word from their driver. This sort of instance was normally when Paul jumped at the chance to assert his authority; yet, even he turned to Frank anxiously awaiting an update.

  “They’re close. Three, maybe four car lengths back,” he answered in an eerie calm. The quiet ended as quickly as it began. Fearful cries now loudly occupied the cabin. Their leader stood stunned for several seconds before urging calm. Frank rose from his chair, pushed Paul into his seat and yelled, “SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY!” His unexpected outburst brought the silence back like a switch had been flipped.

  All Jessica could hear was the thumping of her heart. She looked to Ava who sat with her hands over her ears and her eyes closed as instructed. The wise little angel looked content. No tears fell from her eyes. Jessica couldn’t say the same for her face was slick with fright. She looked back to Frank, the old man now stood a row in front of them. Paul’s disconcerted mug peering up from behind him in obvious defiance of the driver’s commands to sit.

  “Ya’ll are scared, hell, so am I,” Frank said just loud enough for all to hear. “And I’m sorry for the foul language. Right now I need every one of you folks to keep your cool. From what I heard, those…. things…. out there will be drawn to us if we make ourselves known. If that’s true then I think at the moment our best chance is staying in the bus.”

  A couple voices of protest replied. Various sobs continued throughout the conversation. The old man allowed people to simmer before going on, “We’re higher up than the other cars so that should work in our favor. I hate pointing it out, but I think the only reason those sick creatures aren’t pounding on our door is because they are too occupied with the poor people in the cars before us,”

  “Who
was shooting a shotgun? Were they shooting at the infected ones coming up the bridge?” A woman with a slight southern accent asked from the rear driver’s side of the cabin.

  Jessica saw it all happen. She wished more than anything that she could forget it. Then a man answered the question, “it was an old woman. I saw her shoot through the windshield of the egg man’s car.”

  “Maybe his boy was sicker than he let on,” commented someone else.

  The lady with a New York accent added, “then the poor guy ran at her. She blew his freakin’ head off.” Volume in the cabin raised in response.

  Frank took control again, “quiet down ya’ll. It don’t matter who was shooting what. We’re all safe. That’s more than I can say for most anyone else out there. If you want to keep it that way, and I know I would like to, then keep your damn voices down. The windows are tinted so they can’t see in here easy. Don’t press your face against the glass or turn lights on. Keep a low profile so they look for dinner somewhere else. Who knows, maybe someone ahead will try to plow through and we’ll get an opening. I’ve been scoping out a possible way but there are too many cars to get far. The situation can still change. If it does then I’ll use every bit of power we got to get off this strip.”