The Ark (Life of the Dead Book 3)

by Tony Urban

  He returned to the overlook and waited. Hours turned into days which became a week. Finally, on the tenth day, he saw the boat speeding away from the island. He watched in the telescope as it docked and three men moved from the boat to the truck. A few hours later the truck returned and Saw watched as a big man carried a much smaller man from it. They boarded the boat and sped toward the island. He didn’t know what happened to the other two men who left the island and didn’t much care because he knew his plan had worked.

  “That’s my boy, Mitch. I knew you could do it.”

  He packed away the telescope, casting one more glance toward the island before leaving. “You don’t know it yet, but hell is coming.”

  Part Five

  Chapter Forty-One

  The keys felt frigid in Emory’s palm, like a handful of ice cubes, and he quickly dropped them into his coat pocket.

  “Thank you for these.”

  Delphine nodded as a gust of wind caught her white hair and blew it across her face. “Least I can do. Especially if what you think is true.”

  Emory had heard rumors about Delphine’s keys, and had noticed how she always seemed to come and go where and when she pleased. After he told her what he’d witnessed, she was quick to offer her assistance.

  “Now go to Wim. Tell him to wait outside of the clinic and if I’m not out by 1:30 to come in and get me.”

  “You sure you ain’t better off taking him with?”

  Emory shook his head. Yes, he probably - no, certainly - would be safer with Wim at his side, but it was too risky. It wasn’t long ago that Wim had been sentenced to almost certain death for defying Doc’s orders. If he got caught breaking into the lab… Emory didn’t have to guess what the punishment would be. He wouldn’t take that chance. He loved Wim too much to risk his life on what might be the delusions of an old fool.

  “No. This was my grand scheme and I bear the responsibility to carry it out and accept any consequences that might occur.”

  “If you say so.”

  Delphine left him then, and Emory’s grand plan went into action. Oftentimes, as the years became decades, he’d thought that being old was the next best thing to being invisible. People ignored you, maybe because you were a walking embodiment of their own fears of aging. The upside to this was coming and going without anyone paying too close attention, and in the dim moonlight, it was even easier than expected to make his way to the medical clinic unnoticed. Once there, Delphine’s keys opened all the locks, including those to steel double doors that were located at the far end of the clinic. It took considerable effort for Emory to swing them open and, when he did, he revealed a long, downward sloping corridor. The grade was so steep that he needed to slow his gait to half its usual lackadaisical pace.

  A bright light illuminated the end of the corridor. The vision brought Emory back to the afternoon when he had to flee the tunnel after crashing his Mercedes. That had been one of the worst days of his long life and wasn’t a memory he cared to relive. As he neared the light, the room came into view and helped him push those thoughts aside.

  When he stepped into Doc’s lab, his first observations were of the sheet covered steel gurneys which stood out in stark contrast against the gleaming white walls and floors. He knew immediately that the sheets covered bodies and, after making sure there was no one in the room, he went to them. Along the way, he saw marker boards covered with notes, dates, and diagrams. Sketches of human-esque figures, people with four arms, no legs, two heads, it was like a demented child’s sketchbook and it made Emory feel ill.

  “What perverse mind came up with this…” But he knew all too well who was responsible.

  Emory approached the first gurney where the sheet was sunken down in the middle, like a valley in between the rolling hills of the human form. He peeled back the sheet, first revealing the dead, gray face of a zombie. Its eyes snapped open and it attempted to lunge toward him, but straps held it to the table. Emory pulled the rest of the sheet away, discovering that the creature was unclothed. Its midsection had been splayed open, all the organs and intestines gone, leaving behind just a black, putrid hole through which he could see the zombie’s spine.

  The sight horrified and disgusted him. He was ready to flee. This was proof enough of Doc’s madness, but Emory had always possessed a healthy sense of curiosity and, with six more tables, he found it impossible to resist. He remembered Grant watching Let’s Make a Deal on many afternoons. Are you going home with the zombie you already have or do you want to see what’s under sheet number two? Let’s try sheet number two. I’m feeling lucky.

  There, he found a zombie whose head had belonged to a white man but its body was that of a black woman. The head had been sewn on so crudely that the stitches gaped apart and black fluid oozed out as it strained toward Emory.

  The third reveal was a zombie with its rib cage split open and its heart missing. The fourth uncovered a man with every bit of flesh stripped off his body, all the muscles and tendons exposed. It stared at Emory through lidless eyes, its mouth opening in a pained growl.

  Leave now, he thought. Go to Wim and tell him what’s happening.

  But there were still two gurneys to go.

  Emory grabbed the fifth sheet, but before he could sweep it away he heard a voice behind him.

  “They are some of my earlier work.”

  Emory spun around and saw Doc watching him. The man stepped toward him.

  “I’m not terribly proud of them, but even DaVinci had to start somewhere.”

  “How could you?”

  “Oh, it was quite simple really.” Doc motioned to the zombie that had been disemboweled. “He was the first. One day, the question came to mind, do zombies shit?”

  Doc was beside him and Emory took an instinctive step away. He didn’t want to be close to this deviant.

  “After all, they’re voracious eaters. That’s pretty much all they do. Eat. So, when they eat, where does all that meat go? I decided to find out. I had Phillip bring me a zombie and fed it can after can of chicken. Apparently, it was close enough in flavor to human flesh to suffice. Maybe we don’t taste like chicken. Maybe chicken tastes like us. There’s a question for you.” Doc cackled at his own joke.

  “After feeding it, I waited and waited. And waited some more. As it turns out, the digestive system of a zombie is quite slow. Nearly twenty-six hours passed but sure enough, zombies do shit. Perhaps that’s why they walk so awkwardly, their pants must be full of it.”

  Another cackle. Emory thought the man seemed to be in love with the sound of his own voice.

  “Once I knew that their bowels worked, I wanted to see what happened with the stomach and intestines removed. Would it die? Or cease eating?”

  Doc took a bag of what looked like pale colored jerky and held it toward the zombie’s mouth. Its head darted toward it and Doc pulled back with a gleeful grin. “Now, now, wait until its properly tendered.” He eased the meat forward, then deposited it into the zombie’s open, waiting mouth. “As you can see, they still eat.”

  Doc moved to the zombie with its chest open. “You take out their heart, they carry on. Lungs are equally expendable, if you were wondering.” He headed toward the black and white zombie. “I cut this fellow’s head off with a common handyman’s saw. I thought for sure it would destroy it but that head remained alert. Hungry. We had her body lying around so I decided to play Dr. Frankenstein. I didn’t even need a bolt of lightning. Just slap them together and on they go. It’s like the easiest jigsaw puzzle ever made.”

  Doc discussed all of this with the nonchalance of a mechanic talking about swapping out engines. Emory supposed, to this madman, that’s all he was doing. To Doc, these weren’t human beings, they were toys and this lab was his playroom.

  “Why though? What would possess you to do this?”

  “Boredom mostly. Little boys pull the wings off flies or burn ant hills for the same reason.”

  “But the people here respect you. They practic
ally worship you. Isn’t that enough?”

  Doc scoffed. “The people here are imbeciles. How could I ever be satisfied leading this group of dolts around by their noses. They’re only alive because I saved them. And do you know how I found most of them? Advertisements in the tabloids.”

  “‘The end of the world is nigh! Do you want a safe haven? A place where you can start anew? Apply now!’”

  “Fools. All of them. I probably could have done a better job of choosing people to save, but this bunch is easy enough to manipulate. They haven’t even realized that I was the one to unleash the virus in the first place.”

  Emory had suspected this ever since Wim told him about the red circle he’d seen on Doc’s calendar, but knowing it was true wasn’t the relief he’d expected. It only brought more horror. He wondered how much time had gone by. Shouldn’t Wim be coming now?

  “So, all of this is because of you?”

  “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “My God.” Emory didn’t know what else to say. The jubilance Doc displayed over being able to brag over these horrible accomplishments was unlike anything he could have ever imagined.

  “God? He’s a lightweight. It took him 14 billion years to make this world and I brought it to its knees in less than three.” Doc clapped his hands together. “But wait, there’s more.”

  He moved to one of the covered zombies, grabbed the white sheet and pulled it off with the flair of a magician. “I’m calling this one, ‘mother’, for obvious reasons.”

  The pregnant woman looked toward Emory and he realized she was alive - really alive. Her distended midsection looked almost big enough to burst and when Emory examined her closer, he could spy movement, tiny hands and feet pressing against the skin of her belly from the inside.

  “The sperm was harvested from that fellow over there.” Doc motioned to the skinless zombie. “He didn’t mind. In fact, I think he rather enjoyed it. Anyway, a little back alley invitro and eight months later, here we are.”

  Doc patted the bulbous belly. Emory thought he saw one of the hands inside reach toward him but told himself that was impossible. Then again, looking at this abomination, was anything truly impossible? He was no longer sure.

  “I’m quite excited to see what she births. Boy, girl. Human, zombie. Some sort of hybrid. The options are practically endless.”

  Tears leaked from the woman’s eyes and Emory had to turn away. He couldn’t handle any more.

  When he turned, he saw Phillip standing in the background. His heartbeat quickened and pain shot through his chest. It’s time, Wim. Don’t wait. Get in here.

  “You’re a monster,” Emory said to Doc. “And sooner or later they’ll all know. Ramey will see what you really are.”

  “Yes, Ramey. She’s been a massive disappointment. Once, I thought perhaps she’d be able to follow in my footsteps but she lacks the vision. A sad case, that one. But that’s fine. My legacy will carry on in other ways. Regardless, I’m tired of this Scooby Do villain speech and no one’s going to ride to your rescue at the last minute. Let’s get on with it.”

  Phillip grabbed Emory around the neck, his forearm digging into his windpipe and making him cough.

  “Don’t suffocate the old fool, Phillip. That wouldn’t be any fun.”

  Phillip’s grip loosened enough to let him breathe.

  Doc pulled a cotton swab from his lab coat and dipped it into the open mouth of the gutless zombie. He swabbed it around and, when he extracted it, the swab was dripping slimy yellow saliva.

  “I still haven’t solved the mystery of why people who were immune to the airborne version are susceptible to bites. I think the concentration of the virus is higher in the saliva. Their mouths are basically Petri dishes. Perhaps that’s the reason, but no one seems immune to this.”

  Please, Wim. Please come. We’re running out of time.

  Doc moved to him, holding the swab at chest level. “It doesn’t take an actual bite, of course. Just transference of the saliva.” He was in front of Emory now. The swab was inches from his face. “Now say ah for the doctor.”

  Emory clenched his jaws so hard it made his brittle teeth hurt. Phillip grabbed his chin and tried to pull his mouth open, but Emory surprised even himself by managing to resist.

  “Have it your way then.”

  Doc shoved the swab up Emory’s nostril so forceful and fast the old man thought it might poke into his eye socket. Phillip released him and he fell painfully to the floor in a heap.

  “Careful, old timer. Don’t want to break a hip,” Phillip taunted.

  Emory pulled the swab from his nose and threw it aside. When he looked up, both men were on their way out of the room.

  “What’s that hotel say? We’ll keep the lights on for you?”

  And they were gone.

  Emory held his finger over the opposite nostril and blew as hard as possible. Snot and the zombie’s yellow, pus-filled saliva shot out his nose and onto the floor and he prayed it wasn’t too late.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Wim checked his watch. It was 1:27. He didn’t want to wait for the half hour but tried to make himself.

  “Getting close now?” Delphine’s voice said behind him.

  He didn’t know how she’d managed to sneak up on him and didn’t like it.

  She’d come to him earlier that evening, just after he’d finished topping off the troughs with pig feed. She told him that Emory was sneaking in Doc’s lab and that he didn’t want Wim to know until he was already inside, lest he try to talk him out of it. Wim thought the plan brave but foolhardy and Emory was right, if he’d have known about it ahead of time he’d have not only tried to talk him out of it, he’d have stopped him by force if necessary.

  If anyone was venturing into Doc’s lab, it should be him, not an eighty-plus year-old man whose arthritis was so bad that he oftentimes couldn’t walk more than a few paces in a minute. But it was done and now all he could do was follow his wishes and wait until 1:30. If he wasn’t out by then, Wim was going in.

  Wim turned to Delphine and noticed how the moonlight made her white hair almost glow. “Three minutes. Perhaps two now.”

  Delphine nodded then took a puff on a hand rolled cigarette. “Do you expect he’ll find anything in there to make a difference?”

  “I hope.”

  “I wouldn’t, if I was you. You think the people here will care about what he did? Or what he’s doing?”

  “Wouldn’t you? If it turns out he had a hand in the plague, then you’d be living with the man who killed billions of people. Wouldn’t that matter?”

  “Depends on your perspective, I suppose. One hand, you could say he’s a murderer. Other hand, you could say he’s a savior.”

  “A savior?” Has she lost her marbles?

  “He saved them’s what I’m saying. To some people, maybe lots a people, that might be more important than the killing.”

  “I’d hope not.” Wim cast another glance at his watch. 1:29.

  “People’s selfish, Wim, is what I’m telling you. Long as they get something they want, they can overlook a lot of bad.”

  “Are you selfish?”

  “I am. You are too.”

  “You think so?”

  Delphine nodded. “The other day, when you saved all those people from the zombies, twas just one you really cared about. You wanted to prove yourself to Ramey.”

  “I don’t know why you think that.”

  “Because I know men and they’s all the same. You wanted to be a hero for her.”

  He didn’t appreciate this line of questioning and didn’t respond.

  “Answer me honest. If there was a group of zombies chasing me and another group of zombies chasing her, which of us is you gonna save? You can only pick one.”

  He looked at her long enough to meet her gaze and immediately wished he hadn’t. “Well, I believe Ramey’d have a good chance of taking care of herself.”

  “I might could too.”

 
“I reckon that might be true. But I’d still watch out for you.”

  Delphine shook her head. “There’s men that are built for lying. Maybe most of em even. But you ain’t one of em Wim, so you best stop trying.”

  Time was up, thankfully, and he moved toward the clinic. “Nice talking to you, Delphine.”

  “What I say about lyin?” She smiled a little when she said it.

  Wim did too, then he went to see what Emory was up too.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  After regaining his footing, Emory managed to stumble out of Doc’s lab and into the clinic. The further he walked the clumsier his feet became. Twice he fell and each time getting back up proved more of a challenge than the last. He thought his legs might give out so he took a seat at a desk to recuperate and catch his breath, which seemed to come in shallow, gasping wheezes.

  Oftentimes since the epidemic swept the land, he found himself wondering what it was like to fall victim to the virus. What they felt. Whether they knew what was happening to them. Now his questions were getting answered.

  There wasn’t much pain, which both surprised and relieved him. The arthritis he dealt with daily was much worse. There was a headache, a dull throbbing that felt a bit like a hangover, leaving his head foggy and thoughts slow to come. The thinking was the worst. His memories raced away from him like road signs passed on an interstate. He struggled to remember what happened to him. Where he was. And as minutes passed, who he was.

  It came back in flashes. He remembered marrying Wim and Ramey and how happy it made him. Then he remembered Christopher dead after the wreck, crawling soldier style along the pavement with his broken, twisted back. He could see Grant sitting on a dock in Menemsha, eating hot buttered lobster rolls as the setting sun lit him up like an angel. Emory thought he could still taste that lobster, caught fresh from the ocean that very morning, and his mouth flooded with saliva.