by Roberts, EM
Parker stayed in his room for another day, hoping the man would wander off somewhere long enough for him to escape. He couldn’t be so lucky. For some reason, the agent always seemed to come back to Parker’s door. He would stand there like a lost puppy, but instead of whimpering, he would grunt and moan. Parker didn’t know if the man could smell him or if some semblance of his memory remained. Either way, he knew he had to get out of the bunker. He couldn’t stay in that room forever.
Spielman was a big man. He was probably 225 lbs. of pure muscle. The government didn’t hire weaklings to protect its leader. When Parker opened the door, the man lunged for him, hunger in his eyes and actions. What worked in Parker’s favor was his quickness and agility. In a move straight out of the movies, Parker slid between the man’s legs, stood, and kicked him in the back. The agent had fallen to one knee. Taking advantage of this, Parker kicked him again. Falling to the floor, Spielman was in a primed position for Parker to sit on his back and hold him down long enough to take the agent’s weapon from his holster. But, with a renewed strength, probably from his hunger, the agent had thrown Parker from his back.
Scrambling up and towering over him, Spielman had attempted once again to make Parker his evening meal. This time, however, Parker had the weapon. He fired it once, and the bullet struck the man in the neck, chunks of blood and tissue splattering the hallway. This didn’t slow him down; in fact, the agent seemed more determined than ever. Parker fired again, the bullet striking the man’s shoulder. The third bullet finally hit its mark, resulting in the mess of blood and gore he was now staring into.
Parker shook his head to clear the memory of the event. He’d taken a liking to Spielman and knew the man had a wife and two children. The entire time they’d been in the bunker, Spielman had talked about how worried he was for them and had shown Parker pictures of them. Parker honestly hoped the two of them would make it out alive and Spielman would be reunited with his family. The odds had been against them. He was sorry for Spielman’s death, but Parker was glad it he who was alive. He would have traded anything, however, to take the place of his own wife and daughter.
He looked around the small room. He was in a bunker 500 feet below the Capitol building. A few rooms down the hall lay the remains of his wife and only child. They’d had to be put down earlier in the week. His heart was broken, but he had to carry on. He had to numb himself to the pain because he had to try and salvage what was left of the world. He knew he didn’t have much time. The satellite phone call earlier confirmed it. The United Nations was determined to take control of the situation. They would send in bombs to all the major cities closest to the coastlines. Washington, D.C. was on that list. For the first time in its history, other than Pearl Harbor, the United States would be the victim of a military strike. He supposed this outbreak was giving outside forces the excuse to try and take control of one of the most powerful nations in the world.
He reached down and grabbed the HK MP5 off the floor. Spielman had explained and shown him how to work the assault rifle, but he hadn’t actually ever shot one. He just hoped he could remember the instructions. He would need both it and the handgun. He knew he had to leave the city, and before he did, he needed to make a detour to the Oval Office. He had an envelope to obtain, one he’d forgotten until this whole thing started. Now, it was all he could think about.
The first leg of the trip wouldn’t be so bad. The agent had cleared the halls and bunker of the Infected. It was the White house he was worried about. The Oval Office was located in the West Wing of the White House, whereas the passage to the PEOC bunker opened up in the East Wing near the Garden Room. He literally had to cross the entire White house. He knew there would be Infected roaming the halls; he just wasn’t sure of the number. There were various hidden passages he could take, but he would still have to be in the open some of the time.
His biggest trouble came when he emerged from a hidden door in the press briefing room. The hallway to the Oval Office near the cabinet room was full of creatures, one he recognized as a Senator from Ohio. He estimated there to be at least twenty creatures. He wanted to use the gun, but he was afraid the noise would attract even more of them. He wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe, he should just forgo the envelope. He didn’t even know if the contents were real or not. But, if there was a chance, though, he had to do it. Maybe he could wait them out. No, he’d tried that with Spielman, and it hadn’t worked.
The choice was taken from his hands when he heard a man’s scream coming from the cabinet room. The creatures, drawn to the sound, suddenly piled into the room. He could hear the man screaming and moaning for help. Parker took off at a run. He glanced briefly into the room as he passed by. The man was being torn to bits, his flesh and blood staining the conference table and dripping to the floor. The creatures greedily chewed bits of skin, arm, leg, and intestine. Parker stopped, reached in, grabbed the door, and shut it. The creatures didn’t have much hand-eye coordination, so hopefully that would hold them long enough.
Parker made his way into the Oval Office and shut the door. Thank God, the room was clear. He sprinted to the massive desk, slid open the bottom right drawer, and pulled the small envelope free. He glanced around the room. He’d made such a big deal of redecorating the room when he’d taken office. He’d wanted to obliterate any signs of the previous president. How childish of him, he thought. The dark blues and reds of the room seemed ominous now instead of inviting.
He pocketed the envelope and ran back down the hall to the Press Room, flinching as he heard pounding against the door leading to the cabinet room. He knew it was only a matter of time before the creatures broke through. From there, he made his way back to the bunker. He was gasping for air from his trip and vowed he wouldn’t let himself get this out of shape ever again.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he grabbed a duffle bag from the small kitchenette and filled it with MREs. The military meals weren’t gourmet, but they packed easily and took up very little space. He made his way around the bunker scavenging the dead bodies for weapons. There was very little ammunition left for the MP5. He gathered a couple of the Sig Sauer handguns--he only needed one for each hand. He did take all of the spare clips and bullets from each weapon which incidentally gave him a small arsenal.
Weighted down by the pack, he made his way down the hall to a single exit door. The door led to another long corridor. This place was a maze. He was once again winded by the time he came to the end of that hallway. He pulled one of the Sigs from his bag and steeled himself for what lay beyond the door. He cautiously opened the door. It led into a parking garage which contained several vehicles. He tried the first one--locked. He had no idea where keys would be. He’d never had to use this secret escape.
All the vehicles were locked and missing keys. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Shouldn’t the vehicles be easily accessed and ready to go at a moment’s notice since this was an escape route? Who was going to steal a vehicle from an underground bunker that only top government officials had access to? This didn’t make since to him, but over the last couple of years, he’d come into contact with a lot of things that didn’t make sense. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to go about hotwiring a car. That wasn’t a requirement for his job. Yeah, he was pretty much screwed on the vehicle front. He imagined the streets outside to be a nightmare. He looked around, noticing the garage door. Beside it was a regular door marked exit. He walked over, opened the door, and stepped out into a new world.
Chapter 2: The Second Great Awakening
Ella quickly walked up, held the gun to the man’s head, and pulled the trigger. Brain matter and bone splattered into the wind, some of it flying back and hitting her in the face. She didn’t flinch at the soft, squishy feel of it. She didn’t wipe it off, either. At this point, she didn’t care, and blood and gore were second nature to her by now. Emotionlessly, she turned to another of the creatures and put a bullet in its head. Its body dropped to the ground and lay still. When a hand grabbe
d her arm, she turned, her gun ready.
‘What are you doing out here? This is foolish and reckless.” Parker Wallace, former President of the United States stated more than asked, gun in hand and a grim look on his face.
“I just felt like it. Someone’s got to do it. We can’t just hide in our own little word and hope they’ll go away. It’s been nine months, and there are just as many now as there have ever been,” she snapped, aiming at and killing another creature.
Parker raised his weapon and aimed at the next undead human. It was a pitiful specimen, and he was sorry for the person who’d been reduced to this. He could tell it’d been a woman once upon a time from the streaks of long, matted hair and the sagging breasts. One shriveled nipple peaked through a hole in the shirt, and the woman’s jeans were stained with dirt, mud, and blood. Her teeth were yellow, cracked, and partially missing, and the flesh on her nose and lower jaw had started to peel and decay. His bullet hit her in the forehead taking a chunk out of her face and propelling her backwards into the middle of the street to join the other bodies in their macabre poses.
“It’s just bullshit is what it is,” Ella gritted out, her eyes flashing fire. Parker thought she’d never looked more beautiful in that minute with her red-blonde hair blowing in the wind and her tall, statuesque body encased in tight jeans and a white tank top. The July heat had cause perspiration to gather in a small pool in the hollow of her neck, trickling down into the valley between her breasts. She made him think things he had no business thinking. He cleared his throat and began:
“Yeah, it is a shitty world, and we’ve all lost somebody we love, but what can we do? We can either take an easy way out and bite a bullet, or we can fight. I’m not going to stand here and tell you everything’s going to be okay. That’s a load of bullshit, and we both know it. I can tell you your dad’s made a pot of his famous chicken and dumplings, and he said if you don’t get home to eat, he’s kicking your butt.”
Ella laughed. Her father was the absolute greatest man in the world. He was a seventy three year old farmer who could do anything. He could probably work circles around both Parker and herself, to be honest. He ran the Outpost on their farm with an iron but firm hand. Everyone he met loved and respected him. She’d better suck up and head back.
This morning she’d awakened, and the darkness had engulfed her. It was doing that more and more often lately. The whole question of why she was spared and what life was all about in this new world was becoming more and more a burden for her. She and the others just seemed to be existing and fighting every day against an unending enemy. Today, the whole thing had made her angry as in a boiling, striking out angry. With the anger came the desire to hurt. Hence, her trip to the local, infected hot zone.
“Yeah, I don’t want to miss his chicken and dumplings. I’ll have to watch out for Carlos, though. That scrawny kid can eat enough for three people. I don’t know where he puts it.”
The two of them walked back in silence. If someone had told Ella a year ago she’d become friends with the President of the United States and be sharing dinner with him every night, she would’ve laughed. She hadn’t particularly cared for the man when he was running the country. She didn’t agree with his politics, and he’d seemed aloof and standoffish. Since meeting him, however, she’d learned he was a fan of Eminem, loved junk food, and had a good, kind heart. Taking the politics out of the mix had shown her he truly was a decent person.
He was also very attractive. Having a white father and a black mother had given him a creamy caramel colored complexion. When he’d arrived at the outpost, his dark hair had been almost to his shoulders, and he’d been sporting a beard and mustache. He’d been unsuccessfully trying to hide his identity. About a month ago, Roe had convinced him to let her cut his hair. She’d done a good job, giving him a short and stylish look. He’d shaved the beard and mustache almost immediately after his arrival complaining of its scratchiness. His clothes were simple and not very presidential. Like her, he was dressed for Tennessee’s July heat. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a white t-shirt, and work boots. A pair of gloves hung out of his back pocket, indicating he’d been working on the farm.
She climbed into the ATV Parker had left at the edge of town. Taylor’s Creek, Tennessee, her hometown, was now a shell of its former self. Once a busy but small town, it currently housed empty buildings and rotting corpses. There were only three survivors left from the town. Her father, Roe-her best friend, and herself. There’d been another until a couple of months ago. Jackie Kincaid, a burly country boy, had survived the first outbreaks only to fall prey to a second wave of the infection. She’d had to kill him with the very gun she now carried.
That’d been a bad week at the outpost. It’d started with the realization there was a serial killer in their midst. Griffin, a man her father had taken in, had been traveling the country killing people and deeming them unfit to live in the aftermath of the outbreaks. He’d almost killed Ella and had slit Roe’s throat. But, Roe, being the trooper she was, survived and now had a nasty little scar to show for the episode. It seemed to Ella there was usually two cases when it came to religion: people like her father who were good Christians and let people make their own choices, and people like Griff who deemed themselves: judge, jury, and executioner.
The day after Griff’s death, Jackie came down with the infection. Six months after the initial outbreaks, the survivors thought this was a fear they could put behind them. That wasn’t the case. Jackie was the first new victim. Next, it had been Austin, much to the detriment of his girlfriend, Ava. The strong, burly construction worker had begged Ella to kill him. Parker, however, stepped in. He’d witnessed Ella having to deal with Jackie, and he promised Austin when he turned, he would do the deed. And, Parker had.
Ava had stumbled around like the walking dead for the next couple of months. She’d managed her chores and ate when meals were served, but the death of Austin had also killed something inside of Ava. Yesterday, Ella had found her body hanging from a rafter in the barn. A note was pinned on her shirt that read:
Theo, Ella, and the rest of you guys,
I am so sorry I have left you to clean up my mess.
I can’t carry on this way. I just don’t think life is worth
living anymore. I’m not doing this because of my love
for Austin. I’m doing this because I don’t see a future
for humanity. I hope where I’m going is better than
this, and I truly hope the rest of you survive this thing.
Love,
Ava.
Ella had cut down the woman’s body and taken her into the house. Her father had said a prayer over Ava even though Ella knew he believed a self-murderer would not go to heaven. They had buried Ava in the small cemetery beside Austin among the other graves of various loved ones who’d succumbed to this plague.
Now, there were only seven people left at the outpost: Ella’s father and her best friend Roe, Parker and Izzy, the young woman he’d rescued on his travels, a young Hispanic man named Carlos, and Margie, a fifty year old scrawny widow who’d been rescued by Carlos. Margie and Roe both weren’t very adept at handling weapons. They, more or less, took care of things around the house. Anytime, there’d been a need for scouting or going outside the outpost, Ella, Parker, Izzy or Carlos took care of it. Her father was adept at weapons, but at 73 years old, Ella refused to allow him to go very far. She’d lost her mother, and she didn’t want to lose her father.
She walked through the door, washed up at the counter, and sat at the foot of the table. Her father always sat at one end and she at the other. It was just a thing that’d developed over the months. Parker always sat on her right or left, and Roe would take the other side. Sometimes, it almost seemed like they were jealous of each other, and took pains vying for her attention. She didn’t know why because she certainly wasn’t that special or entertaining. In fact, she considered herself to be boring.
“Ella, so I was thinking we
should treat ourselves to some of that fancy stuff I took from the department store and have a spa day,” Roe stated after Ella’s father said the dinner prayer. Theo Johnson always started dinner with a prayer of Thanks. And shortly after, Roe would start the evening’s discussion.
“Is this your way of saying I look like crap? Because I don’t care that I look like crap. The Infected don’t care what their meal looks like. Why don’t you bug Izzy?” Ella smiled at the young woman with dark black hair who was seated on the other side of Parker. Izzy had sported black and green hair when she’d first arrived, but the color hadn’t been permanent and had faded over time. She’d confiscated several boxes of black dye from the local pharmacy and stayed with that color. Ella thought the girl was adorable. She’d developed a tan from working outdoors and the lime green shirt she was wearing set off her hair and face. Ella thought it was sad that Izzy was missing out on what should be an exciting time in her life. There were no dates, no parties, and no phone calls to boys to be had anymore. Now, there was only one goal: learn how to use a weapon and survive.
“She has bugged me! Last night, she painted my toenails pink, for God’s sakes! Awww, I’m sorry, Grandpa Theo, I’ll try to watch my mouth. Anyway, she painted them pink, with black and white zebra stripes!” Izzy exclaimed. Ella knew Roe wouldn’t have been able to paint Izzy’s toes that color without Izzy wanting it. Izzy was a tough young girl, and she spoke her mind. She could also be kind and considerate, though. Ella thought of her as a younger sister even though she’d only known her three months.
“Well, I like toes that color,” Carlos piped up from the end of the table where he sat beside Ella’s father. Every day, his English pronunciation was getting better and better thanks to everyone’s tutelage. They’d all become friends and looked out for each other.