Extinction Cycle (Kindle Worlds): Extinction [Isolation]

by Brian Martinez

  Starvation was an interesting experience, one he wanted to end as soon as possible.

  Bolstered by the new energy, Calvin continued to explore the ward, checking the rooms first, then the storage areas. Other than some towels, the good areas all seemed to be locked.

  He needed to find a key. If videogames had taught him anything, it would be on a dead body.

  Will and Stan had been driving for hours, yet by morning they'd barely traveled any distance at all. The interstates were a mess. Some of them were destroyed, others were jammed up with cars and remnants of fires, leftovers from scenes of unimaginable destruction. A few times they even came across survivors, people who begged them to stop, but they never did.

  It was so easy to take the system for granted when it worked the way it was supposed to. When it all ground to a halt, when the infrastructure failed, to use Stan's words, that was when its importance became so clear. Society was a way for things to function so that people could get on with their lives. With that gone, simply functioning became life.

  The trip that had taken Will hours to make the first time seemed now like an impossible journey. They had to get on and off the interstate so many times, they started to question taking it at all, but then they would come across infected, get themselves noticed, and soon they were clamoring to get back to the comparatively quieter road.

  Somewhere along Interstate 80, Will checked the gas gauge and realized they couldn't wait any longer to fill up. "We need to stop," he said.

  Stan sat up in his seat. "Are there any rest areas coming up?"

  "Not soon enough."

  "Alright, give me a second." He pulled the map out of the glove compartment, found their location on it and started checking for gas stations. "Here, this should work. Take the next exit."

  Will navigated the ramp and followed Stan's directions, which brought them to an open lot some eight hundred feet long and five hundred feet wide. On the west side, there was a combination cashier/convenience store, in front of which was a long row of gas pumps covered by an overhang.

  After driving a quick lap around the lot, to make sure the area was clear, Will pulled up to one of the pumps. He cut the engine and jumped out with the Glock at the ready. Stan followed him out, standing lookout while Will opened the gas flap. "Didn't dad drive a truck at some point," Stan asked, looking off at the row of trucks parked on the far side of the lot.

  "For a little while."

  "What company did he work for?"

  "It wasn't a company, it was a foundation. He delivered to food banks, charities, things like that."

  "Why did he stop?"

  Will paused to look back at his brother. "Probably because they took his license away."

  "I forgot about that." Stan frowned and shook his head. "One thing hasn't changed- there's always someone who thinks they know you better than you know yourself."

  "He wasn't fit to drive. He almost killed mom pulling out of the driveway one time."

  "I don't remember that."

  "You were young, there's a lot you don't remember. That's why you wear rose-colored glasses whenever you talk about him." He looked back at Stan. "Dad lost his mind as he got older, which is something you should be worried about."

  "And why is that?"

  "Because you're exactly like him." Will turned back and swiped his debit card to start the pump. The machine beeped and the screen read: SYSTEM ERROR.

  "The credit card network is down," Stan explained.

  "Alright, let's check inside. There's probably a way to activate it at the cashier. Some people pay before they pump."

  Stan widened his eyes and smiled sarcastically. "Really, Will, is that how gas stations work?"

  "Shut up. Let's go." They walked to the building, Will in front.

  "I always thought I should have been named Will," Stan said.

  "What? Why?"

  "Because, you were named after our grandfather yet I'm the one who's always trying to put him to rest."

  Will peeked through the glass door. It was well lit inside thanks to the strong sunlight through the windows. Having a clear line of sight made him relax a bit. "He was put to rest a long time ago. 1968, I think the year was."

  "He didn't even get a proper burial. That's not being put to rest."

  Will opened the door. They both ducked inside, exploring the small convenience store. Will checked behind the register for a way to activate the pump while Stan grabbed a plastic bag and stuffed it with all the food it could fit.

  "What about his memory," Stan asked.

  "Whose?"

  "Who do you think? Our grandfather."

  "Give it a rest," Will sighed.

  "I can't. Will Junko died for no good reason. He was a test rat, and when the test went bad they threw it in the trash and set the trash on fire."

  Will found the gas control next to the register. It looked fairly simple to work. "You can't bring him back from the dead," he said.

  "No, I can't. But I can make his death mean something."

  Will looked at his brother. He must have been tired, because Stan was almost making sense. He activated the pump and headed to the back of the store. "Keep a lookout," he said, "I have to take a piss."

  "Good talk," Stan replied.

  As Will opened the door to the restroom, the first thing that hit him was the smell. It was the sour odor of sickness and bile. The next thing that registered was the shape of a man on the floor, huddled next to the toilet in a pool of his own fluids.

  Will didn't see the gun until it was too late.

  "You won't take me alive, you son of a-"

  BANG. The gunshot was deafening in the tiny space. It missed Will by inches, lodging into the wall just behind him. Will scrambled out of the way and slammed the door shut as three more shots tore holes through the wood.

  "I can wait," Stan said to Will as he retreated.

  "Me, too."

  They ran out the door. The man in the bathroom was too sick to follow them, but the damage was done. The telltale shrieks of infected were already sounding in the distance. It wouldn't be long before they showed up.

  Will started the pump and began filling the tank. "Will," Stan called out. On the far side of the lot, over a hill, figures started to appear. With his free hand, Will pulled the Glock from his waistband and undid the safety.

  "Are you insane? You can't fire that here," Stan warned. He motioned to the machines, one of which was currently pumping gas.

  He was right. "Damn it," Will said. He reengaged the safety and tucked the gun back into his waistband. He stopped the gas flow, pulled the nozzle from the van and returned it to the pump before the tank was even half-full.

  The infected were closing in. They appeared between the distant trucks, galloping toward the men. Stan was already back in the van. Will jumped in and both men put on their seatbelts.

  "Should we blow up the gas station or something," Stan asked, staring at the creatures coming at them, two of which were directly ahead.

  "No, we should not." He started up the van, slammed it into drive and hit the gas pedal. The tires squealed as the van bolted away from the pumps and toward the exit.

  "Uh, Will?"

  He kept the van going straight, bearing down on the two infected ahead. The creatures only ran at them faster, their eyes burning and chests heaving, both covered in gore and missing patches of skin.

  "Now would be a good time to turn," Stan suggested.

  Will kept the wheel locked. The creatures didn't stop, either. The distance between both sides dropped to a few feet in seconds. Stan shouted as the two infected jumped at them, aiming for the windshield.

  Will stomped the gas pedal to the floor. The extra speed caused the infected to misjudge their jump. Their bodies crashed into the front of the van. Both bounced off the hood in a flurry of broken bones and limp limbs.

  With the infected behind them, and the van sporting a few extra dents and stains, Will glanced at his brother. He was staring a
t him wide-eyed. "What," Will asked.

  "What the fuck was that?"

  "They were in my way," Will said. He turned his eyes back to the road ahead.

  Calvin found a dead body.

  It was mostly eaten. It stunk so bad he gagged and wretched as he searched its pockets for keys. Then he flipped the sticky mess over and checked the rest.

  Nothing.

  He moved through the maternity ward until he came to a large observation window. It looked in on three rows of tall baby beds. They had wheels at the bottom, and plastic trays at the top lined with blankets.

  Like the incubators, they were empty. Calvin thanked God for that one. He'd heard someone on TV arguing about why hospitals were moving away from nurseries like this one. Some said it was better for the baby. Some said it was worse for the mother. Calvin was just happy he didn't have to see anything he didn't want to see in those tiny beds.

  What he could see in there, however, was a set of keys on the ground.

  Calvin stood at the nursery's doorway. A faint sound came to his ears, some kind of movement inside the hospital. He thought about turning back, retreating to the bathroom and waiting for the right time. On cue, his stomach cramped up with hunger.

  "I get it," he whispered. More movement came, this time closer. He had to accept the possibility that something had followed him.

  The only way out was through.

  He pushed the door open and ducked inside the nursery. It was dark, but he could clearly make out the rows of tall crib beds, as well as the glint of keys on the floor at the other side of the room. There was an odd smell in the air.

  Calvin ducked down low to avoid being seen through the observation window. Hunched over, he crossed the nursery, stopping two feet shy of the keys. In the dim glow of the emergency lights, he made out the shape of a hand near them. It was palm-up and limp. The fingertips had been chewed clean down to the bone. If it was attached to a body, he couldn't see one.

  There was a sound, too.

  Chewing.

  Something scurried behind him. He spun, the breath catching in his chest, but he saw nothing. One of those things was in here with him, he knew it. He had to get those keys and get out. He crouch-walked the rest of the way.

  Now he could see the body the chewed-up hand belonged to. It was a nurse. She was pressed up against the far wall behind one of the crib beds, and her head was missing. Three, hunched shapes were latched onto her, like massive tumors undulating in the dark.

  She was still being fed on. Calvin watched in horror as the infected babies ripped small hunks of flesh from the corpse and swallowed them down. "Oh my God," he said under his breath.

  One of the babies looked up. Its small, yellow eyes picked him out in the dark. It made a hissing noise, showing him its tiny, needle-like teeth coated in the dead nurse's blood. The other two creatures snapped to attention.

  Calvin straightened up. "H-hold on," he said. "I can...I can get you formula. Do you want that?"

  The infected babies shrieked at him. Without a second thought he turned and ran for his life. He headed for the door, thinking if he could close it behind him, if he could just push it shut and drag something to block it, it wouldn't take much to barricade the tiny nightmare creatures inside. They were still just babies. They couldn't be very strong.

  Before he could reach the door, a sharp pain seized his right ankle. His leg gave out and he slammed down hard on the floor. The wind was knocked right out of him and his vision flashed white. When he blinked it away, he was face-to-face with a beautiful woman.

  The nurse's head. Its eyes stared blankly at him from under one of the crib beds.

  Calvin pushed himself onto his side to look back. He prayed for the third time in his life. He prayed the tiny monsters crawling toward him on fattened hands and feet would leave him alone. That their needles wouldn't tear him open. That they wouldn't feed on him the way they'd fed on the woman whose head now watched him beg for his life.

  This time, his prayers weren't answered.

  -21-

  April 25th, 2015

  DAY 8

  He was a lot of things- scared, sad, lost, but most important, Marco was alive.

  It hadn't taken long for him to realize the crazy shit he was seeing on the news had to do with what Stanley had found. Stanley had spent years searching for the truth behind his grandfather's death. He'd sworn up and down that it involved secret government testing that had been hidden from the public for close to fifty years.

  Marco knew his friend better than anyone knew him. He didn't believe Stanley was capable of selling secrets to terrorists, any more than his law-loving brother was. That meant he'd been framed. Someone didn't like where he was digging. Then, days after getting out of jail, Stanley learns about something that scares him so much he skips town? And the day after that comes the incident at O'Hare, involving what many people argued had signs of biological warfare? It was all too much of a coincidence, and Marco didn't believe in coincidences. He'd learned that from Stanley.

  Once he'd decided to follow Stanley's advice and get out of the city, he left work without telling anyone he was leaving. Then he went home to his parents' house and packed a bag. He begged his parents to go with him, but they wouldn't listen. They called him crazy. They said he was impulsive. For the millionth time, they told him Stanley was a bad influence on his life, like he was still a kid they could scold, and he should go back to work before he was fired. No matter what he said, they wouldn't go with him.

  The roads on the way to their house had been a nightmare. He didn't know where to go, which way to leave the city, how to get out in time, until he remembered his father's boat. While his parents were arguing, he snuck the keys off the hook in the kitchen. He left without saying goodbye, because saying it would hurt too much.

  His father's boat was at a marina on the Washington Channel, not far from the Jefferson Memorial. It took him so long to reach it, by the time he pulled up to the docks it seemed like the whole world had had the same idea. The waters were so jammed up with boats trying to flee D.C. he had to take the boat north, under 14th Street and through the Tidal Basin, just to reach the Potomac.

  By the time he did, the bombings had already begun. Less than a mile up river, he watched military jets fly over the Arlington Memorial Bridge and reduce it to flames and debris. As the bridge crumbled and fell into the Potomac, along with the shapes of all the unfortunate souls on it, he realized he would never see anyone he knew again. Not Stanley, not his parents, not even his prick of a boss. If they were still alive, he would never know.

  Like the other boats, he made his way south. He followed the Potomac for miles, looking for a place to dock safely. He ended up coming to shore at Mount Vernon, George Washington's old estate.

  He'd been there once as a tourist, visiting its restored Colonial buildings and gardens, but watching cities burn from its shore he felt like an alien tourist visiting Earth. An outside witness to its destruction. A cold, hollow feeling moved into his chest and threatened to never leave.

  Now, days later, he was still there. He'd grown attached to the Mount Vernon estate. Before all this it had been a popular tourist spot, but now it was something more. There were others, people who had gotten out of the city and found safety there. They formed a small community, sharing what they'd managed to bring with them.

  A group of people had already lay claim to the red-roofed mansion at the heart of the property. One of them was a cute Spanish girl named Maribel, who had smiled at him when they met over a makeshift dinner. When she looked at him that way, just for a second he forgot how screwed up things were. It may not have been much, but it had to count for something.

  With the mansion occupied, Marco scouted the rest of the property for a building to call his own. He ended up moving into the blacksmith's shop. He loved the brick fireplace fitted with a leather bellows. He tried out the clamp, held the hammer and got to know the various metal tools. Maybe in this new life he could be
the blacksmith. He imagined they were the hackers of their time, bending the world around them to suit their needs.

  The estate was surrounded by woods, keeping it moderately isolated from the nearby suburbs of Virginia. It was no guarantee of safety, but so far they hadn't seen anyone else come through. The action seemed to be focused on the populated areas. Still, they stayed indoors most times. They closed and locked all doors as a point of habit. Some of them talked about putting up structures to connect the buildings. Others said it wouldn't work. The important thing to Marco was they were talking long-term living, and that was a good thing.

  If he hadn't followed Stanley's advice, he never would have made it this far. He would have been killed in the bombings along with his parents. But Stanley had told him to get away from people, to trust no one, and Marco believed he was wrong about that. People were good. Society was good. There was strength in numbers.

  He looked out on the property. His old life was gone, but his new one was just starting.

  Stanley had been plugging his laptop into the cigarette lighter periodically and trying to sign on. He was trying to get updates on what was going on in the world. Being isolated was a gift in one way, but it also left them flying blind. Connecting had become next to impossible as server after server crashed, plunging them into information darkness.

  Finally, he got on. None of the sites he went to had been updated in days. All the pages were either inaccessible or dead. The Internet was starting to feel like a ghost town. Where were all the people in hiding? Where was the pushback?