Detour: A Post-Apocalyptic Horror Story

by G. Michael Hopf

  “When I found it, word somehow got out, and the local authorities decided they wanted to seize it due to its historical significance. I had to grease some hands—you have to love Latin countries, graft and bribery are ways of doing business—but I got it back, and now it’s right here,” she said, tapping the top of the box.

  “That was it?” he asked, confused, thinking the story would be fraught with agony, pain, something more than bribing a few people.

  “Does spending two nights in a Buenos Aires jail sound fun? Or that I was groped but before making the final deal. Then to top it all off, they wanted to sell each one by themselves. In the end I stole the other two and got out of the country before I could be arrested again.”

  “Then I do owe you for your troubles. I’m sorry that happened to you, and I’m grateful that you worked so hard to get it,” he said.

  The waiter returned with their meals and set them down. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, and I’ll take the check now,” James replied, anxious to get his hands on the box.

  The two ate their meals. They kept the conversation to small talk until they were finished.

  “I assume you have a way to check your account online?” James asked.

  “Has the money gone through?” Natalie asked.

  “I suggest you check,” James said, grinning.

  Natalie snatched her phone from her handbag and went directly to an app for a bank in Switzerland she had for deals such as these. She logged in and waited. Seconds later on her screen she saw the number they had agreed upon. “It’s there.”

  “It is. Now the box,” James said, leaning forward.

  She pushed the box over.

  James grabbed it and held it as if he were holding the most precious thing in the world.

  Natalie smiled. It was satisfying to have a job come to an end and a happy client. “I suppose you’ll want to get it home and tucked into whatever display case you have.”

  “I do have a nice place for it,” he said as his hand caressed the top of the box.

  She scooted out of the booth and said, “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

  James looked up and said, “I’ll be in touch soon, I suppose. I have some other items from that era I’m looking for.”

  “You know how to reach me,” Natalie said.

  James got out of the booth with the box cradled in his hands. “Goodbye, Natalie,” he said and walked off.

  GREENWICH, CONNECTICUT

  James rushed to his basement without uttering a word to his wife, Tiffany. He unlocked a heavy door, flipped on a few lights, and entered the large space. The room was immense. It spanned the length and width of the main house footprint. Along the walls stood display cases and shelves, all full of items, large and small. This was more a museum than anything else. To an average person they’d nod and look but would find many of the items distasteful or more fitting in a real museum, the reason being James’ collection wasn’t just any odd, priceless or unique items; it was World War Two memorabilia, specifically artifacts from Nazi Germany and some of Adolf Hitler’s personal effects.

  His collection started not long after discovering who his birth parents were. On his eighteenth birthday, the people he thought were his parents didn’t give him a car or a paid trip to somewhere fun; no, they sat him down and gave him the news that he had been adopted. This was where his journey for all things Nazi had begun. Using what little information he had been given, he ended up finding out that his birth parents were from Germany and both had died in the fire bombings of Dresden in 1945. He had miraculously survived the attack and had been sent to an orphanage, where he was promptly adopted by an American family and brought to live in New Hampshire.

  After discovering his true identity and lineage, he came to find out that his birth father was a ranking member in the Nazi party and had at one time been a close confidant to Hitler himself. Fascinated, he wanted to know more. This fascination turned into obsession as he began to collect whatever artifacts he could get his hands on. He kept his hobby and enthusiasm with Nazi Germany primarily to himself, but over the years he’d found a group of others who shared his appreciation. These weren’t skinheads or neo-Nazis; he found those types repugnant. Instead he chose to surround himself with what he called intellectuals, these were people who appreciated the old regime and could defend or debate its archaic and evil policies aptly by applying science and data. He grew fond of his group of friends, many of them being invited to his house so he could share with them the items he had found and purchased.

  His collection exploded when his business became highly successful, enabling him to buy rarer and sometimes elusive items. What ultimately led him to being in possession of the vials started when he had acquired the journals of Dr. Clauberg at an auction. Few people had ever heard of the Nazi doctor; his notoriety had never reached the levels of some, specifically Dr. Mengele. However, James was a student of all things Nazi Germany and had come across Clauberg’s name while doing some sourced research. So when he had heard that Clauberg’s journals were up for auction, he went to go get them, no matter the price. After securing the journals, he pored over them, reading every word. Clauberg had kept meticulous notes and referenced the vials in a postscript dated January 1945. That was it for James. If the vials still existed, he wanted them. They were one of a kind, a find that for him was priceless. He sought out a person who could track them down, which led to Natalie. The rest was history.

  He darted for a small case in the far corner of the basement. He set the box on a table next to it, removed a set of keys from his pocket, and unlocked the glass door. He opened it and gave a thermostat a glance to ensure the temperature was where it needed to be. If he was going to preserve the contents of the vials, he would have to keep them stored in a climate-controlled and refrigerated case. Using his connections, he had had a man retrofit a wine refrigerator with glass shelves and added UV protection to the thick glass door. On the center shelf inside, he had made a cradle for the vials. This would protect them yet beautifully display the vials.

  Filled with excitement that his moment had come, he unlocked the box and carefully removed the first vial. He looked at it closely, taking in every detail no matter how small. He imagined Clauberg holding the vial. Oh, the joy he felt holding something that a man like Clauberg once touched.

  He set the first vial inside the cradle, then took the second and repeated what he did with the first. He took the third in his hand and examined it. He held it upside down, watching the blood flow.The next best thing would be to touch it, but he knew that would ruin his rare find.

  “James, what do you have there?” Tiffany called out from the doorway.

  Startled, James dropped the vial. It fell to the hardwood floor and smashed into hundreds of pieces. The blood splattered on the display case and his pants. “Damn it!”

  “Oh no,” Tiffany said, coming to his aid.

  He crouched down and looked at the shattered glass on the floor, tears coming to his eyes.

  Tiffany came up behind him and touched his shoulder. “Let me help.”

  He shrugged her hand off his shoulder and snapped, “Look at what you did!”

  “Me? I didn’t do anything,” she said, defending herself.

  “You came in here unannounced and gave me a fright; now this most precious item is destroyed!” he bellowed.

  “Is that blood?” she asked.

  He whipped his head back and yelled, “Leave, go, get out of here!”

  Placing her hands on her hips, she said, “Sometimes I hate you, you know that?”

  “Leave now!” he cried out in anger, the sight of the destroyed vial bringing him to tears.

  Doing as he asked, she turned and stormed off and went back upstairs.

  James knelt and stared at the blood and glass. He thought about what he could do. Maybe he could scoop it up and place it in another vessel. He looked around but saw nothing. Distraught, he came to the real
ization that this vial was gone for good. No matter what he did, the value of it was zero, but he did have two more, he thought.

  He recalled wanting to touch the blood, and now he could. If he had to throw this away, he’d at least get some value from the accident. He reached down with his index finger and touched the cool thick blood. He raised his hand and stared at it. He put his other fingers together and began to rub the blood between his fingertips. He lowered his other hand so he could get more blood. When he touched it, a sliver of glass cut his finger.

  “Ouch,” he said and recoiled. He looked at the finger. The blood of Mother and his blood were mixing. A tinge of fear ran through him. Had he just become contaminated? He recalled reading in Clauberg’s journals about how the blood came to be and the experiments. Would he become like the woman?

  His fear grew. He stood up and ran to the bathroom. There he turned on the faucet and ran his cut finger under the running water. Using a bar of soap, he began to feverishly wash the cut and his entire hand.

  After spending minutes washing, he stopped. He still felt fine; according to the journals, he would start to display symptoms. Maybe the blood was so old the chemical compounds from the serum were degraded and basically inert. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror above the sink and said, “You’re a damn fool.”

  He toweled off his hands, blood slowly oozing from the cut. He opened the medicine cabinet, found antibiotic ointment and dabbed a small amount on, then placed a Band-Aid over the cut. “There, all better,” he said out loud.

  He exited the bathroom and looked over at the refrigerated display to see the door was open. He walked over, closed and locked it. He glanced at the floor and shrugged. “I’ll clean you up tomorrow,” he said, a tone of disgust in his voice. What had begun as one of the most exciting evenings of his life had ended terribly. Tired and ready for bed, he headed up the stairs to go to sleep.

  ***

  James woke abruptly, his stomach was churning, and his body ached horribly. He glanced at the clock and saw he’d been asleep for just over three hours. His head was spinning, and the urge to urinate was overwhelming. He climbed out of bed and headed to the bathroom. As he took the last step inside the bathroom, a surge of adrenaline hit him. “Whoa,” he said out loud, shocked by the rush; then another bolt of adrenaline raced through his body, this time more intense. “Oh no.” Fear rippled through him, as he’d never felt anything like that before, and he knew it had to do with the blood. His fear turned to panic after the third surge, this one topping the other two. An immeasurable thirst suddenly came over him.

  He stepped out of the bathroom and walked to the kitchen, heading directly for the refrigerator. He pulled the handle on the refrigerator so hard he nearly broke it. With the refrigerator open, the smells and aromas from everything hit him; it was as if his sense of smell was heightened. A ravenous hunger suddenly appeared. However, the only thing he desired was meat…raw and bloody meat. He tore through the lower drawers until he found a packet of ground beef. He ripped it open and began to shove it into his mouth. On the top shelf he saw a gallon of milk. He tore the top off and began to guzzle, but it wasn’t enough. His hunger only grew.

  Blood began to drip from his face and onto his arms, chest and legs. He touched it, curious as to what was bleeding. He raced to the closest mirror and saw his nose was bleeding. The blood gave off a scent, something he’d never smelled before. He wiped his nose with his hand then licked the blood from it. It was then that he found the taste of blood to be intoxicating.

  “James, what are you doing?” Tiffany asked.

  His eyes widened when he heard her. He spun around and stared.

  “Honey, are you alright? You’re bleeding,” she said, walking towards him.

  He tried to speak but found it hard to make out a word. It was as if he’d forgotten how to.

  She walked up close and examined him. “Sweetheart, are you hurt? You’re bleeding badly from your nose.”

  All he could see were the veins in her neck pulsating, the blood coursing through. His hunger had reached epic proportions, and all he could think about was feeding on her.

  “Let me get you cleaned up,” she said, taking his hand.

  The touch of her hand felt almost erotic in a way. His senses were at a level unknown to him; touch, smell, hearing and taste were all elevated.

  She tried to move him, but he stood frozen to the spot, his dilated eyes staring at her.

  “James, you’re scaring me,” she said.

  He heard the name James but now couldn’t recall who that was or who she was. It was as if his memory was being replaced with a primal desire and hunger to kill and eat.

  “Why are you looking at me that way?” she said, letting go of his hand and stepping back.

  Before she could take another step, his instincts kicked in. He grabbed her, drew her close, and bit into her neck as a vampire would with an open mouth. He pulled back and tore away a large chunk of flesh from her throat.

  Blood spurted from the wound. She gasped and tried again to pull away but found his grip too tight.

  Again he brought her in and bit down, this time going deeper into the same spot.

  She wailed in pain before fainting.

  Giving in to his hunger, he fed on her, biting different parts and ripping away the flesh. He’d chew but mainly swallowed. Her blood dripped down from his mouth, covering his torso. When he had his fill, he left what remained of her on the floor, surrounded by a pool of blood and flesh.

  Outside, he heard a car drive up slowly. It was the newspaper being delivered.

  He ran to a large window that overlooked the street. Staring out at the streetlights, he was amazed by what he saw. It was as if he’d never seen it before.

  The driver tossed a paper and sped off.

  Needing to be set free and explore, he did what felt natural. Using his newfound strength, he leapt through the window. With a thud, he landed on his feet. Like a wild animal, he shook off the glass and peered down the street, looking for the rear lights of the deliveryman. Seeing the car slow two houses down, James sprinted towards him. He reached him quickly and grabbed the driver’s left arm. The man fought back and got his arm free but not before James had bitten him.

  The driver hit the accelerator and sped off before James could do further damage. Looking at the bleeding wound on his arm, the driver headed towards the closest hospital.

  Angered by his inability to get the driver, James looked around and headed towards the house in front of him.

  When the sun rose six hours later, James had killed eighteen people and wounded another twenty-three before being gunned down by police.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH

  MAY 30, 2020

  Kevin was finding it hard to focus on cooking with the television in the living room blaring nonstop about a virus or sickness that was spreading, coupled with sudden outbreaks of violence in many cities.

  “Honey, can you turn that down?” Kevin hollered, his attention on the blade of his knife as it slid through a juicy beefsteak tomato.

  “Kev, you need to come see this!” Megan cried out. “They say it’s getting worse, like the government might start calling for evacuations of Kansas City, even Los Angeles. You should see some of the footage.”

  “I don’t have time. Plus you need to remember the news isn’t the news anymore, it’s entertainment, and their business model is structured around advertising. They get you clicking and waiting through the ads on TV by having sensational stuff.”

  Megan was curled up on the couch, her legs pulled in tight, her eyes fixed on the prerecorded footage of a suspected infected person attacking others outside a hospital. “Oh my God! Kev, please come see this! This is just like what I saw on my way home from work today.”

  “I said I can’t, unless you don’t want my world-famous caprese,” Kevin said, pulling a ball of fresh mozzarella from the refrigerator.

  “Jesus, what was that?
” Megan screamed from the other room. She jumped up from her comfortable nest and ran to the kitchen. “No, Kev, you need to see this. It’s just how I described what I saw earlier today.”

  Frustrated, Kevin put the knife down and said, “If I go and take a look, will you promise you won’t bother me again, so I can finish dinner?”

  “Promise, now come,” Megan said, grabbing his arm and dragging him from the kitchen. She pulled him to the couch and turned up the television volume. “They’re going to replay it. Just be patient.”

  Kevin stood, his arms crossed and fingers tapping. “I’m waiting.”

  She nudged him and said, “Be patient.”

  The news replayed the clip of a man attacking others at the entrance of a hospital before being shot down by police.

  “That was it?” Kevin asked, not impressed.

  “They say the man came in ’cause he’d been bitten by a person who attacked him hours earlier. Did you see that? It’s like he has rabies or something,” Megan said.

  “Are you saying these people are all infected with rabies? I think this is all a bunch of BS. The media needs you glued to the television so they can sell ad space. Remember, Meg, I’m in advertising sales; this is what I do.”

  “Maybe they’re some sort of zombies,” Megan blurted out.

  “Zombies? Really? Okay, that’s enough television for one night,” Kevin said, picking up the remote and turning off the television.

  “No!” Megan protested.

  “Meg, I’m making our special dinner, I took off work to do this, and you’re in here watching nonsense and saying zombies or people with rabies are attacking other people in the street. Come into the kitchen with me, open a bottle of wine, and let’s enjoy the night,” Kevin said, taking her arm and coaxing her towards the kitchen.

  Her annoyance with him melted away as she remembered the night was to celebrate their being together for a year. “You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just that stuff is scary. The news is saying…plus I know what I saw.”