Apocalypse Journeys (Book 1): Jacob's Odyssey

by Melrose, Russ

  Since the virus attack, Julia had transitioned her blog to an informational site on the virus and the grays. Not only did she provide a contrast to the mainstream news presentation of events (CNN was the lone survivor of mainstream news on the internet), but she had blog pages where people could self-report news in the comments section and another blog page where survivors could let their loved ones know they were still alive. She also had a tips page for staying alive, a kind of survival guide, where visitors added their own tips and shared their survival experiences.

  I read both CNN and Julia's blog to get different perspectives on the ongoing crisis. They offered different versions of who was responsible for the spread of the virus. The official version had ISIS, in conjunction with other terrorist organizations, as responsible for the attack, and it was that version that made the most sense to me. CNN often quoted Homeland Security, the only part of the government that still seemed to have a presence. Julia didn't speculate on who was responsible as much as pointing out how the official version didn't pass muster from a common-sense perspective, and she made some valid points. She questioned why terrorists would release the virus in international airports that had flights scheduled to their home countries. And she had a point since every country in the world had been affected.

  But I didn't care. Not really. Mostly, I browsed the internet to get information about the infected. Learning as much as I could about the infected was my new hobby. And I was driven to find out as much as I could.

  Today when I visited CNN, they announced that several labs around the country were working in conjunction with the CDC in Atlanta to develop a vaccine. What was left of Homeland Security was providing support for the labs. I only paid attention since one of the labs was located in the Salt Lake Valley. The article listed phone numbers and addresses for the labs and encouraged anyone who might have an immunity to the virus to contact them.

  There was no question as to how the virus was spread. On July 4th, the virus was released in airports throughout the world in a highly coordinated attack. At least sixty airports throughout the world had been targeted, eight in the United States alone. With all the connecting flights, every major city in the world had been affected.

  The virus was reportedly released as an airborne contagion from suitcases and carry-on luggage by terrorists who were strategically located throughout each airport for maximum exposure. The virus was secreted away in the steel support rods and handles of suitcases and luggage and released by a simple trigger mechanism. It was undetectable by scans and x-ray machines.

  Three suspected terrorists were arrested in airports on July fourth—two of them in the United States, one at O'Hare Airport, another at Kennedy International. The third was arrested at Heathrow Airport in London. They were detained because they had been loitering around the airports, looking suspicious. No one had a clue the terrorists were there to release a deadly virus. They were questioned about what they were up to, but they kept mum and a day and a half later each of them began with the coughing and the sneezing. The authorities never managed to put anything together till it was too late.

  The virus itself was an insidious creation. Not only was it highly contagious, but because of the incubation period, the virus spread unchecked throughout every nation on earth. People would return home from trips and give the virus to their family members; children would go to daycare or summer camp and pass it on to the other children; employees would give it to one another at their workplace. It was passed around at malls and movie theaters and grocery stores and restaurants. During the incubation period, the virus was passed mainly through direct human contact. Children were especially vulnerable because of the way they interacted with one another. Adults would pass the virus to one another through kissing or sex or a sweaty touch. But the virus really exploded during the initial part of the second stage. That's when the coughing and sneezing began, and the virus was once again airborne. Most people thought they were catching a simple cold or that their allergies were acting up. No one had any idea they were infected with a deadly virus.

  Nearly two days passed before anyone realized what was going on and by then it was too late. The virus was everywhere, and you never really knew for sure who was infected till they began showing second stage symptoms. A few hours after the sneezing and coughing, the more serious symptoms of the virus would begin to manifest.

  The incubation period for those who were bitten was remarkably shorter—something to do with the virus being introduced directly into the body's circulatory system. Those who were bitten would turn in one to three hours depending on the location of the bite. If you were bitten, you had precious little time.

  Today's hot topic on Julia's blog had to do with a conspiracy site calling itself The Berne Project. Everyone was urged to visit the site and listen to a recording that reportedly exposed the conspiracy. I had never been a conspiracy buff and had no interest.

  I headed over to the survival guide section—my favorite part of the website. I read the posts there daily to see if there were any survival tips that might prove useful. Today there were reports of grays breaking into homes in something resembling a methodical pattern, laying siege to one home after another down a street. One poster said his family hid in their attic for three days when they became aware the grays were ransacking their neighborhood. I was glad I was getting out while I could.

  Some posters were stressing the idea that head trauma was the best way to kill grays. I didn't know whether it was accurate information or folklore.

  I yawned and stretched and thought about a nap. I wasn't sleeping well at night and often took catnaps in the afternoon. Last night I had a disturbing dream in which Alex kept trying to get me to remove the bullets from the holes in his forehead. I woke drenched in sweat and couldn't get back to sleep.

  I couldn't believe how tired I suddenly felt. I placed my iPad back in the backpack in its usual spot. I kept everything neatly packed in case I had to leave in a hurry. The only items I left outside the backpack besides my cap and sunglasses were the Glock and my bat. The bat served as my sleeping companion. I picked it up off the floor and nestled myself and the bat into a comfortable sleeping position, and then I drifted off to sleep.

  *****

  Alex and I used to drink vodka martinis back in college. On this night, I was pining for a deja vu experience. I found the vermouth in the pantry and added a splash to the vodka I'd already poured into the coffee mug. I didn't want to use their delicate martini glasses, so I opted for a coffee mug. I also added a couple of large, pimento-stuffed green olives from the fridge. I looked around for toothpicks but never found them, so I stirred the vodka martini with my finger. The vodka was ice cold, just the way I liked it. I sucked my finger dry and savored the dry, cold taste of the martini. A hint of vermouth made all the difference. I fixed a second martini and took them out to the back porch.

  There were two deck chairs and a small table. The chairs were plastic but had thick, comfortable floral cushions. I sat down as quietly as I could. Before I came out, I'd set the thermostat to sixty degrees again to keep the air conditioning going, help mask any sounds I might make. I sipped the martini and took in the evening twilight. I put my earbuds in and listened to the Cowboy Junkies on my iPod. The sun had just set behind the Oquirrh Mountains and the sky's palette was a powdery Robin's egg blue. High above, thin translucent wisps of white clouds stretched lazily across the sky as if someone had taken an oversized cotton ball and stretched it out till it was threadbare. They were the kind of clouds you only saw during the summer months. Above the Wasatch Range, a pale half-moon lingered quietly, and I couldn't help but smile as Margo Timmins began her beautiful, wistful version of "Blue Moon Revisited."

  The Cowboy Junkies were a Canadian group from the late '80s whose songs were a melodic blend of blues, country, and folk. They were actually before my time, but Raymond Jacques introduced me to them along with a mix of R&B from the '60s and '70s. Raymond was smitten with Margo Timm
ins, lead singer of the Cowboy Junkies. And for good reason. People Magazine tabbed her as one of the fifty most beautiful women in the world. According to Raymond, Margo was easily top five, though he wisely never made mention of that to my mother. Raymond was a Jamaican native who drifted in and out of a relationship with my mother for almost a year. I never knew exactly what Raymond did for a living, though I suspected he supplied people, including my mother, with recreational marijuana. He was soft spoken and mellow, always smiling, and was the only one of my mother's lovers I made any kind of connection with. He used to play his R&B CDs on my mother's stereo in our living room. He'd educate me about R&B artists like Minnie Riperton, The Delfonics, Sam and Dave and many others, laughing and smiling the whole time. Raymond loved his music and loved sharing it. Eventually, he faded from our lives like the rest of them. I truly hoped Raymond was okay.

  I loved how cold the vodka was and loved its paradoxical nature. Despite its icy coolness, it warmed my insides from my gullet all the way down to my stomach. I knew it wouldn't take long before it would begin to numb my mind too, and I was okay with that. Because even if it was just for a while, I needed to forget about Alex and the Petersons and my former fifth-grade students, everyone else for that matter. I figured two vodka martinis would do the trick. I'd always been a lightweight and knew my limitations intimately. I knew I might get a little silly from two vodka martinis, but I wouldn't get drunk. I definitely didn't want a repeat of my drunken episode at the condo.

  Near the end of my first martini, I became self-congratulatory. I lauded myself for how well I'd acclimated to the dysfunctional post-apocalyptic world we now lived in. After all, I knew how to skulk through neighborhood backyards and evade the mindless hordes of infected. And through practice and self-diligence, I'd become a master of breaking and entering and a scavenger to boot. I'd even devised a clever set of rules for survival in a world dominated by the infected. I followed each rule I'd created with exactitude and meticulousness. I did it because I wanted to stay alive, and I did it because it was in my nature. I'd definitely found my niche in the post-apocalyptic world. I was a survivor.

  I noticed the flickering of the first star of the evening to the south, though it could have been a planet reflecting the sun's light. I didn't really know. Somewhere along the way my sips had become small gulps and I had quite the little buzz going. I was feeling pretty wonderful and enjoying myself immensely. A little light headed too. The only thing I lamented was the nearly empty second vodka martini mug. I plucked the last surviving olive from the bottom of the mug, popped it into my mouth and let it languish there a while. Margo was singing about her "Misguided Angel." He was her bad-boy, heart-of-gold lover. She described him as a blend of Gabriel and Lucifer. And she'd love him till the day she died, or so she said. And I couldn't help but think that most of us were indeed a blend of Gabriel and Lucifer. Light and darkness. I knew I was.

  And a familiar thought came back to me again like a bad penny. I thought about the moment at Alex's house when I turned and reached for the gun and shot my brother. The scene rewound itself over and over again in my mind, playing endlessly. And a voice within me kept asking the same question that had tormented me ever since that quicksilver moment. Had I shot my brother out of a need for self-preservation? Was it that cold and simple? I could remember being aware that the gun was behind me. But I couldn't recall having had a thought that led me to reach for the gun and use it. Everything seemed to be awareness and instinct. The one thing I was painfully aware of was that Alex didn't factor into my thinking when I reached for the Glock. Not in any way. That was the source of the pervasive guilt I'd been feeling since that day. My shooting of Alex was impersonal. And while it was easy for me to rationalize that Alex wasn't really Alex, but some ghoulish aberration, it didn't alter why I shot him. What drove me that day was fear. I was deathly afraid of what might happen to me and I acted out of a deeply-rooted need to survive, to preserve my life. Alex didn't factor into the equation. His being infected didn't factor into it either. My only concern was for myself. I may have acted out of instinct, but how can you separate instinct out from who you are. And I speculated to myself in my sudden alcohol-induced clarity, that the instinct to survive was rooted in the darkness of self. I kept telling myself that my actions that day were instinctual as if that might help justify what I'd done. I kept telling myself that I didn't really choose to shoot Alex. It was an instinctual reaction. And how do you control an instinctual reaction? You can't. But the dark voice inside me would have none of it.

  I went into the kitchen and fixed myself another vodka martini. What would one more drink hurt? I stood in the darkness of the kitchen and reminded myself to sip my drink, make it last. And I wondered if I'd have another dream about Alex tonight.

  Back out on the porch, it occurred to me how reclusive I'd become in the post-apocalyptic world. My only relationships were with a coterie of illusory ghosts—Alex and the people whose homes I now stayed in. They really weren't ghosts though. It's just that their homes and their belongings offered up shadowy traces of who they were. And I could feel their presence even though I knew they weren't really there. But I did feel a kind of kinship with them. They were like family now. And while I visited Julia Courtney's blog daily, I never posted or communicated with anyone. I kept my distance. I hadn't seen a human being in weeks and wasn't bothered by it at all. Even before the world fell apart, I'd been a bit of a recluse. The only relationships I had were with my brother and an annual influx of ten-year-olds from Beacon Heights Elementary. And they were always temporary. I loved the kids, but I also loved that every year they came and went. Eventually, it was as if they never existed. I also steered clear of creating relationships with the other teachers or administrators at Beacon Heights. I was quite the loner.

  Minnie Riperton was serenading me with her sexually provocative rendition of "Inside My Love." I didn't mind. It was beautiful. And Minnie fit right in. She was a ghost too. She died of cancer way back in 1979 at the age of 31. She may have only been here for a few years, but her music kept her essence alive and well. I took a generous sip of the martini and let its essence suffuse me with its golden warmth. And then I thought about Jessie. I blamed the sudden reminiscence on Minnie. Normally, I kept my memories of Jessica Hartley neatly tucked away in the nether regions of my subconscious. No need to resurrect old wounds. But Minnie just wouldn't leave well enough alone. While we're here the whole world is turning, we should be one, fulfilling our yearning. And there was no one I had ever yearned to be one with more than Jessie. Jessie of the bright red hair and freckles and the silky soft skin. Petite and lovely. But my yearning for Jessie had less to do with her loveliness and more to do with the way she accepted me without reservation. I even felt comfortable enough with Jessie to open up to her in a way I couldn't with anyone else, including Alex. Jessie was bright and articulate and lovely, but there was a part of me that couldn't understand what it was she saw in me. I suspected she was out of my league, though she didn't seem to think so. But some people can't stand happiness; it's too much of a burden for them, makes them feel uncomfortable. So, I found a way to sabotage the relationship. A wild college party and a more-than-willing drunken co-ed. And then, of course, there was one of Jessie's friends who just happened to be at the party. She outed me the very next day. I made a feeble attempt to get Jessie back, but she'd have none of it. And who could blame her?

  I took another sip of the martini and felt myself glow inside. And then I had a sudden epiphany. Nothing really profound. I realized that memories are a lot like ghosts, they don't really exist anywhere except in our minds. Like Alex and Jessie. Nothing more than shadowy traces. They weren't here anymore, but I kept them alive and well in my mind. For I was in love with ghosts. Memories and ghosts.

  Chapter 6

  The Swimmer

  I used Audrey's room for my lookout perch. It offered the best view of the street as it stretched northward. I stood six feet back from the window star
ing through my binoculars. There were three of them across the street. They were hunched down beside some white azalea bushes. With the morning sun directly in their eyes, there was little chance they'd see me. There was something off about this threesome, something that didn't track.

  The infected never stood around waiting for their prey. They could never stand still, and stealth was never their strong suit. Two of them appeared to be first generation. They stood on either side of a young male. They were middle-aged, a man and a woman. They had dark dusty-gray, emaciated faces, and their skin was puckered. The male wore a tattered dirty-white dress shirt with a skinny black tie that was twisted over his shoulder. His shirt was untucked and stippled by a spattering of dried dark brown blood. He teetered side to side with his arms held up like a wrestler about to engage an opponent.

  The female on the other side looked as if she had been through the wars. She was naked with dirt smeared over much of her body. She had a deep crescent-shaped gash on her upper thigh, blackish from where the blood had congealed. It looked like her infection had come from a bite on her forearm where you could see the perfect shape of crusted bite marks. And like the middle-aged male, she couldn't stand still. She kept shifting her feet like someone needing to urinate, and her head was tilted awkwardly to the side and shook with a palsied movement.