Apocalypse Journeys (Book 1): Jacob's Odyssey

by Melrose, Russ

  A young twenty-something male stood between them. He held his arms in front of them, holding them back as if they were a pair of overly eager children ready to run out on a playground. He displayed a control over the other two I'd never seen before. He hardly looked infected.

  I adjusted the zoom to get a closer look. His skin was whitish gray but not tightly drawn at all. And there was only a faint hint of veins and arteries beneath his smooth ash-white skin. He was tall and lean, built like a swimmer. His hair was whisker short. He wore a long pair of khaki shorts that rode down on his hips and covered his knees. He also wore tennis shoes without socks. His eyes weren't jaundiced at all. He had sharp bluish-green eyes and a long slender nose with tightly drawn nostrils. Dark patches of dried blood teared down from the corners of his mouth and trailed down onto his bare chest. His arms were long and slender with sharply-defined lean muscles and tightly corded veins.

  I'd never seen an infected like him. His eyes were intensely focused yet his physical demeanor calm. He displayed a patience the infected simply didn't have. From the moment they turned, the infected were relentlessly frenetic and incapable of stillness or inertia. They might move slowly, but they never stopped moving, and their flight or fight response mechanism was in constant overdrive. They were ravenously hungry and insatiable, and their demeanor was like that of a rabid dog. And other than an ancient, instinctual drive to feed, they had no discernible cognitive abilities. But this young male seemed cool and calculating and was obviously in command of the other two.

  Just then I heard a brief, muted scraping sound, and then I heard it again, repeating every second or so. Keeping an eye on the threesome, I moved meticulously to my left toward the girl's bed to get an angled view up the street. He was a half block away, shuffling slowly down the street, a slender man with tousled dark hair in his mid-to-late thirties, wearing striped pajamas and a single bedroom slipper on his left foot. He had the other slipper in his right hand and held it up in the air. He seemed fascinated by the slipper. His face had a pasty light gray complexion and was frozen in a display of perplexity as though he had forgotten what the slipper was for and the answer was beyond him. The skin on his forehead was pinched together, forming vertical worry lines above the bridge of his nose. His mouth was wide open and his jaw slack.

  The man was obviously infected and probably midway through the second stage, although there were no bite marks or scratches visible. And just as he ran his free hand through his hair, a terrible piercing scream rippled through the morning calm, followed by a shrill, high-pitched quavering sound that was anything but human. It was the young male. I'd never heard a sound like that come from someone infected before, anyone else for that matter.

  The man in his pajamas never broke his shuffling stride, and his attention remained focused on the slipper he held in his right hand. He was studying it diligently when the young, infected male speared into him, lifting him right out of his slipper and into the air. The man landed harshly on the asphalt, his pajama shirt riding up onto his chest with the young male all over him. The Swimmer tore savagely into the man's throat, causing small geysers of bright red blood to sprinkle onto the pavement.

  The middle-aged male arrived next and bit right through the man's pajamas and into the flesh of his inner thigh. The female trailed behind, loping awkwardly across the street, favoring her injured leg. When she arrived, she landed heavily on her knees and buried her teeth into the man's bared stomach, fiercely twisting her head back and forth, tearing into the man's skin and stomach lining. The man never changed his expression. He seemed as puzzled as ever but had somehow managed to hold onto the enigmatic slipper which he continued to hold up in the air.

  This was the first time I'd witnessed an attack and feeding. I'd seen them on the internet many times, but they never seemed real. This was just a hair's breadth away. I couldn't breathe or move. I stood pinioned to the floor and watched them tear the man apart as if they were a pack of animals feeding. I couldn't look away. I was mesmerized and fearful at the same time.

  An irrational part of my mind tried to convince me that if I didn't move or breathe, I'd be perfectly safe. It was like one of those paralyzing dreams where you couldn't move a muscle or breathe even though your very life depended on it, all because there seemed to be some kind of irreparable disconnect between your brain and your body. I knew I needed to breathe. I just needed to get my body to go along with the idea. After a few moments, I forced myself to breathe. I began by inhaling short jabs of air, taking a little more air in with each succeeding breath, anything to get more oxygen into my lungs. Even then, I was afraid I was making too much noise and they might hear me.

  Out on the street, the man's body began to shake violently as his nervous system went into shock. The female had found the man's intestines and had pulled them out and was greedily devouring them. Blood dribbled down her chin and her eyes were wide with excitement. The young male, fresh blood dripping from his mouth and chin, was standing now looking down at the man as he bled out. Next to the man's neck and head, a large pool of blood had collected on the pavement and continued to spread outward in a widening circle.

  Mercifully, the man stopped shaking before a last expulsion of air left his body and the arm that held his slipper fell to the pavement as his body relaxed. The Swimmer reared his head back, raised his arms up and let out a terrifying howl with the same strident trilling sound as before while his companions continued to feed on the man's carcass.

  That's when I became aware of the moans. They were coming from up the street. A desperate wailing, rising in intensity, coming closer. I focused the binoculars northward and spotted them about a block and a half away. There were at least sixty of them. They moved hypnotically, though with great urgency, drawn by the quavering screams. They stumbled relentlessly forward, a ragged army of clumsy marionettes. There didn't appear to be any runners amongst them.

  Even from this distance, I could sense the intensity of their insatiable longing. I took a breath and did my best to compose myself. I figured I had fifteen minutes before they'd be here.

  Before I could move, I was paralyzed by a sudden crazy notion, or more accurately, a visual memory. I remembered the young male had sprinted across the street to tackle the man in his pajamas. But that couldn't be. The infected couldn't run full out. I still had a slight hangover from the night before and wondered if my mind was slightly off kilter. But I hadn't imagined it. He'd run across the street like an athlete, smooth and agile. I was sure of it. I played with the memory, then realized I'd better get the hell out of there.

  I ducked down out of sight and made my way down the stairs and into the kitchen. My backpack was on the table. I slipped into my hiking shoes and double knotted the laces. I removed the binocular straps from around my neck and wrapped the binoculars and the baseball bat in dish towels and fit them snugly into the backpack with the rest of my things. I slipped my arms into the backpack and tightened the straps. Then I quietly engaged the front buckle.

  I tightened the chums on my sunglasses and put my baseball cap on. I tested the bat a few times to make sure it was snug enough but still easy enough to remove if needed. I moved to the back door and pressed my hand against it to hold the door firm within the jamb. I turned the doorknob incrementally to minimize any possible sounds. I was hoping they were too preoccupied in their feeding frenzy to pay attention to any slight non-ambient sounds. I edged the door open just enough to fit my body through and then I stepped out onto the cement porch.

  I always felt safer and more confident in backyards. They had become my realm. A rush of adrenaline raced through my body, jacking up my energy. Amazing how in one moment you can be paralyzed by fear, and in the next be energized by it.

  I had to get off the block. My best bet was to head east toward the freeway and the mountains. The backyard fence was made of cinder block which would make for a quiet, easy trip over the wall. I walked cautiously across the yard keeping an eye on the ground to make su
re I didn't trip over anything. I made my way to the middle section of the back fence and jumped up, grabbing at the top row of cinder blocks and lifting myself up and over.

  I made my way to the gate next to the side of the house. The moans from the approaching pack grew louder and I could hear the scudded scraping of their shoes against the asphalt. The corner post near the gate looked to be the sturdiest section of the fence. I tested the fence's horizontal wood brace and it seemed stable enough. I put my weight on it and it held up well. I grabbed the top of the wood planks on either side of the corner post and lifted myself up, then swung my right leg up to the top of the fence and pulled myself up all the way. I grabbed the top of the post to stabilize my balance and looked back to the sliver of street between the houses but didn't see any infected. The angle hid me well. But as I turned, my weight shifted and the wood plank beneath me groaned. Right before I jumped down, I looked back and saw the Swimmer's face appear in the space between the houses. For a fleeting moment, I was certain his eyes locked onto mine.

  I landed on the grass, my mind racing. Would the Swimmer run around the block to get to me? There were maybe five houses to the end of the street, then he'd have to go right another half block to get to the street I was on. I wondered if the others would follow him. I moved to the front of the house but stopped once the end of the street to my left came into view. A dozen infected trundled excitedly down the street, another group drawn by the Swimmer's shrill howling. Their attention was focused in the direction of the feeding. I didn't move a muscle. I'd have to wait for them to move past the intersection. I remained perfectly still, aware the Swimmer might be moving closer with each passing second.

  The early morning sun baked my face. It was unrelentingly bright and its warmth penetrated the layers of my skin. I was crouched down, ready to sprint across the street, every muscle in my body tensed and coiled. It was a windless day and would have been remarkably quiet if it hadn't been for the sounds of the infected. Their incessant moans and the scraping of their shoes on the asphalt breached the air.

  Then I heard a sound and the hairs on my arms stood up as a ghostly chill passed through me. I ran without thought or hesitation, and just before I reached the street, I glanced to my left and saw the last stragglers clear the intersection. I headed for the nearest fence across the street, running faster than I ever thought possible.

  I heard the creaking of the fence behind me and heard him land on the grass.

  As soon as I reached the fence, I scrambled over and ran through the backyard. It occurred to me I might have an advantage. Climbing fences had become second nature for me. And while I'd never been much of an athlete, I was agile, and the increased strength in my arms and shoulders from the pushups might help me. At least that's what I told myself. All I could think about was putting as much distance between myself and the Swimmer as was possible.

  I was halfway through the next yard when I heard him clamber over the gated fence to the previous yard. After I cleared the fence at the side of the house, I ran with utter abandonment across the street. I didn't check the street for any infected. I focused on the fence ahead and nothing else. Before I reached it, I heard him jump down from the fence back across the street. It was easy to hear him. He made no effort to be quiet.

  I ran through two more blocks and realized he was easily keeping pace with me. He wasn't gaining but he wasn't losing ground either. For the first time, doubt crept into my mind.

  After I cleared a front yard fence, I ran out into the street and nearly came to a stop. The I-215 freeway was just two blocks away now, and I hadn't created enough distance between us to turn north without him knowing.

  Three houses down across the street, four infected men sat in the yellowing grass of a front yard, greedily picking the bones of what was left of a small animal.

  The four infected men raised their heads at the same time. One of them, a slender bedraggled man with wild brown hair, got up first. In his haste, he bolted in my direction before he'd actually reached his feet. He lost his balance and crashed to the ground. The other three rose to their feet, moaning excitedly. They staggered eagerly toward me, but I was already closing in on the fence. No way they could get to me. Then I heard the Swimmer clamber over the fence behind me.

  I hustled to the fence and climbed over and saw a soccer ball lying in the grass. I knew what I would do before my feet hit the ground.

  I released the front buckle of the support strap on my backpack and picked up the ball. I went around the corner of the house and quietly slid my backpack off and set it noiselessly onto the grass. I heard the rhythmic slapping of the Swimmer's tennis shoes on the asphalt as he ran across the street. I slipped the bat from the pack and set it gently against the back wall of the house and got into position to throw the soccer ball. My timing would have to be perfect.

  I focused on the Swimmer's footsteps. I could hear him running in the grass now. I did my best to filter out the rising sounds of the moans as the four infected men drew nearer. They were at least a house away.

  The Swimmer was halfway to the fence. A couple more seconds and he'd be there. I reared back and let the ball go with everything I had. It sailed a few feet over the fence and landed with a soft thump on the grass. I could hear it bounce twice more before it rolled to a stop. If I could hear it, so could he. He attacked the fence and was over it quickly. I'd already grabbed the bat and held it upright in a striking position, my hands tightly clenching the neck. I felt an incredible tension in the muscles of my arms and chest and upper back. I heard him running and knew it would only be a fraction of a second now. I jumped out from the back wall of the house and let out a maniacal scream as I wildly swung the bat at him with malignant force. I held nothing back. He tried to slow his momentum but he ran right into the wheelhouse of my bat.

  He raised his right arm defensively, but it was too late. The fat of the bat struck him flush in the chest just above his nipples. I felt a vibration from the impact ride down the bat into my hands. His legs whipped up in the air and he landed heavily on the back of his head and neck. His body and legs were nearly vertical when his head struck the ground. I took a step back as the rest of his body came crashing down. I was still tensed up, ready to strike him again if necessary. I could feel a visceral intensity well up within me. I felt powerful and irrevocably resolved to protect myself no matter what.

  The Swimmer lay on his back making a muted croaking sound, gasping for air. After several seconds, he gingerly rolled onto his side, his ash-white face contorted in pain. He was still struggling to catch his breath. Other than a subtle tracing of arteries and veins just below the surface of his skin, he looked nothing like the other infected. He almost looked human. He looked strange with the ash-white skin, but he didn't look anything like the other infected. He looked physically intimidating and scary, and he was infinitely more dangerous than the other infected.

  He caught his breath and measured me with seething hazel eyes, intelligent eyes. I took a step toward him and raised my bat as if I would strike him again, and he shrank back and raised his hand in front of his face in a defensive gesture. Not a fearful gesture, just defensive. It was as if he were doing the most sensible thing given the circumstances. Anger and hatred filled his eyes. I moved cautiously over to my backpack and put it on. I kept a wary eye on him and kept my bat handy.

  The other infected were at the fence now, pounding at it with their fists and heads. Their wailing moans filled the air. The Swimmer's chest was raspberry red where the bat had struck him and the shape of the wound was identical to the fat end of the bat. He had begun inspecting his wound and gently tested the area with his fingers. The Swimmer was different from the other infected in another aspect. He could feel pain. The others didn't feel a thing.

  Backpack secured, I headed for the back fence. I thought about debilitating the Swimmer further with my bat so he couldn't follow me, but the feeling of power I'd had earlier had vanished, replaced by my usual extreme cautiousn
ess. I didn't believe with his injury the Swimmer would continue his pursuit. I needed to get going. The moans would draw more infected.

  The Swimmer watched me go but made no attempt to get up as I tossed the bat over the fence and lifted myself up and over. After maneuvering over the front fence, I checked the street and it was clear. I gazed at the imposing ten-foot freeway wall, and then I realized something. On the other side of the next block was a frontage road. If it were clear, I could just run down the road.

  The freeway wall made for a natural barrier to the east and the row of homes bordering the frontage road would create a barrier to the west. As long as the frontage road itself were clear, I could make great time. All I'd have to do is check the roads that t-boned into the frontage road. Then I realized something else—without intending to do so, I'd created a diversion. All the infected in the area would be drawn to the yard where the four infected were still frenziedly pounding at the fence trying to get to me.

  When I arrived at the frontage road, I retrieved my binoculars from the backpack. I checked the road in both directions. I saw no infected. I walked at a fast pace. Being able to walk out in the open gave me a feeling of freedom I hadn't felt since the virus hit. I began to jog. If I could go four or five blocks north, it would be a safe enough distance from the Swimmer and the other infected. Then I'd head three or four blocks west so I wouldn't be boxed in by the freeway.

  Every once in a while, I looked back, half expecting the Swimmer to appear on the road chasing after me. But I never saw him.

  Chapter 7

  The Josephsons

  For the past two days I'd taken refuge in the home of Jordan and Angela Josephson. It was a lovely home. And judging from the photo layout on a table in the Josephsons' living room, they had quite the sprawling family. In one photo, thirty-five or so family members were queued up in rows according to height. The Josephsons were an elderly couple, and their home had been beautifully updated with wood floors throughout except for the kitchen and bathrooms, whose floors were tiled. There were matching granite counter tops in the bathrooms and kitchen along with some elegantly designed maple cabinets. It was a brick ranch style home in the Holladay area, likely built back in the sixties. Holladay was located on the east side of the valley in the shadows of the Wasatch Mountains, an upper middle-class neighborhood with beautiful backyard views. More importantly, it placed me two days from my target area.