The Last Bastion (Book 1): The Last Bastion

by Callahan, K. W.

  As the youngsters faded from view, Charla dusted herself off, shaking her head angrily. What nerve. What parents let their children out to do such things? Then she thought about her own adolescence and reconsidered. Maybe the trick wasn’t that bad, especially considering some of the things she’d done at that age.

  Still, the event had been enough to rattle her, completely negating the effects of her cigarette.

  Therefore, Charla decided to head home, trudging, somewhat begrudgingly back across the bridge, pondering her experience. And as she walked, she decided that what had happened had been a good thing. Being faced with potential demise at the hands of the Carchar Syndrome had jarred something inside her – a heightened appreciation for the life she was living. Her argument with Wendell seemed insignificant compared to what she had thought was a life or death experience.

  The closer Charla got to home, the more she tried to view her return in a positive light. And by the time she’d reached the front door of their condo, her demeanor had done a one-eighty compared to the way in which she’d left.

  She stormed her way inside their condo, slamming the door behind her in much the same way she’d exited earlier. She shed her jacket, letting it drop onto the floor, and then strode into the second bedroom that Wendell had converted to an office. The walls were lined with shelves full of massive tomes. Books and piles of papers to grade were stacked atop the desk where Wendell sat looking forlorn in the glow of his emerald-green-glass-shaded desk lamp.

  He didn’t turn in his swivel chair to face her, but Charla didn’t let this deter her. She gripped one corner of the chair and swung it, along with Wendell, forcefully around to face her.

  “I know you have something in your mind about what’s going on with Chris. And I know that when you get something in your mind, even if it’s not true, you tend to dwell on it until you make it true. But I’m here to tell you straight out that it’s not true. Take it or leave it. When you saw me in the hallway, I was simply asking for a cigarette so I had something to calm me down on my walk. You see, I don’t deal with problems like you do. I don’t clam up and dwell on them. I like to get them out in the open and vent. I love you, plain and simple. And I’m not going to let something like this start interfering with what is a pretty damn good life we’ve got going here.”

  She leaned in and kissed him hard. At first, Wendell didn’t kiss back, but after he realized that Charla was going to force the issue, he did. Charla pushed Wendell’s knees apart and knelt before him, still leaning up to continue kissing him.

  “There,” she pulled back and away from him. “Are you happy? The big successful woman with the great career is on her knees before you, the lowly school teacher,” she grinned up at him.

  Wendell couldn’t help but laugh. “Come here,” he pulled her up from her knelt position to sit on his lap. “I love you, you know that?”

  “And I love you. So don’t worry about Chris. If I wanted someone like Chris, I could have gotten him before you came along. And while someone like that might be a fun toy to play with occasionally, that doesn’t necessarily make for the best partner in the game of life. A few good romps in the sack can fill a couple hours each week. A good relationship can fill a lifetime.”

  “You should have been a teacher,” Wendell smiled at her.

  They kissed again, and Charla wrapped her arms tight around Wendell. He returned the favor.

  “I love you,” Wendell nodded, feeling better now. “Just make sure you aren’t playing with that ‘fun toy’ as you put it, down the hall,” he reminded her.

  “I won’t,” Charla laughed. “Cross my heart.”

  Chapter 13

  By the end of the second week of December, the Chicagoland area was feeling the strain of the Carchar Syndrome. And many other major cities across the country and around the world were feeling its effects as well.

  By this point in the evolution of the syndrome, most people had realized that this wasn’t like any zombie movie they’d ever seen. The people carrying the virus, or whatever it was that made them the way they were once infected, weren’t slow-moving, half-rotted corpses. And over the past few weeks, more had been learned about the carriers.

  Unlike the standard zombie movie, it was unnecessary to shoot, stab or otherwise penetrate the skull of Carchar carriers to kill them, although such an act certainly worked. If the infected lost enough blood or took a well-placed bullet to the heart or abdomen or some other vital area, it would put them down. If they didn’t eat for an extended period, they were hit by a car, fell out of a window, sat in the freezing cold, or were lit on fire it could kill them just as it would have before they were infected.

  And while this made them more human-like than standard zombie fare, one thing was for sure, once they had the syndrome, they were changed, and they no longer exhibited mental or emotional human-like qualities. Even though they might maintain a human resemblance in most of their physical characteristics, they were far from their former selves. They often kept their mouths open, hideous fangs barred for all to see as they found it difficult to close their mouths over the extended razor-sharp protuberances that had replaced their front teeth. They lost their self-control and acted instinctually. Early after infection, they still exhibited some level of basic reasoning skills, but the virus eventually overwhelmed this capacity, dulling their mental state, heightening their animal instincts to roam free, and intensifying their desire to feed on fresh meat, the most attractive of which was human.

  In the earlier stages, the Carchar Syndrome itself seemed focused mostly on overwhelming its host, taking over its body and using it as a vessel. It pushed that host to feed in order to strengthen and energize that vessel. Then the host body could be directed to fulfill the syndrome’s main purpose – to procreate.

  With the strengthening phase complete, and once the host had consumed enough to keep it operating for several more days, the Carchar Syndrome would then direct it not to kill for food but to multiply, spreading itself through bitten transmission as many times as possible. And as long as the host carrier continued to feed, it would stay alive. This enabled it to spread the syndrome until the host was killed by an outside act or it was infected with another disease or virus to which the host body eventually succumbed.

  As Chicago continued through the holidays, its population was finding it difficult to take much joy in the season. Instead, talk around the office water cooler and the majority of the nightly news was focused on the exponential spread of the Carchar Syndrome and the failure of local, state, and federal agencies to get any sort of handle on it.

  Having grown too large and inefficient, these agencies were buckling under the brunt of the widespread Carchar attacks. It quickly became apparent that in recent years, the agencies through which these branches of government wielded power had become far too focused on controlling human populations than helping them. In past occasions, when a new flu strain or virus arose, the ability to spread instant awareness to a vast portion of the population through media and social media was the typical first step in defending against the spread of such threats. And typically, this was enough.

  But not this time.

  This time, the government’s urgings, led largely by the CDC, didn’t have the necessary effect. The Carchar Syndrome wasn’t an airborne virus or similar communicable disease like the flu. Hand washing wasn’t enough. You couldn’t stay in bed for a few days and get over the Carchar Syndrome. And going to the hospital didn’t help. In fact, going to the hospital only resulted in the patient being imprisoned against their will and facing the possibility of testing being conducted on them. Therefore, many people who had been infected through bites were deciding to suffer in the confines of their own home and hope for the best.

  Warnings from the government fell upon what not long ago had been the reasonably responsible ears of law-abiding citizens. But what government officials hadn’t planned for was for the ears of those carrying the Carchar Syndrome not to be listening.
Rather, those ears were already out roaming the streets of Chicago, looking for fresh meat or fresh hosts – or a little of each.

  * * *

  “Personally, I think we’re pretty well set up here,” Patrick Trove shrugged nonchalantly as he swiveled back and forth on a clubhouse barstool.

  “That’s because you’ve never cooked for twenty people,” his father eyed him from across the bar.

  “But I’ve helped you before.”

  “Ha!” his father couldn’t stifle a boisterous bellow. “Do what?! Eat the food?!”

  “Well…I mean, I’ve helped you carry the groceries inside,” Patrick’s mouth turned down at the corners in his meek attempt to defend himself.

  “Well then, you know just how much food a group this size can go through,” his mother added. “So while it might seem like we’ve got plenty of supplies, they can go fast. What are we going to do if suddenly we find the streets of Brookfield swarmed with rabid Carchar carriers?” Michael eyed his son seriously.

  “That’s what we bought our extra ammo for,” Juan joked.

  “We’ve been through that,” Michael gave him a look, shaking his head. “We don’t want to go shooting people willy-nilly if we don’t absolutely have to…even if they’re infected.”

  “So we just button up our homes, hunker down, and ride it out with the supplies we have on hand,” Josh offered.

  “But what if the electricity goes off and we don’t have power?” Ms. Mary asked.

  “And what about water? If the power goes out and we don’t have water, we’re really up crap creek,” Victoria Hines said. “Remember when they were doing that work up the street last year and they had to shut the water off for two days?”

  “That sucked big time,” Andrew Franko interjected.

  “Language,” his mother emphasized, giving the teen a withering glare.

  “What? All I said was that it sucked.”

  His mother tilted her head and gave him a pursed-lip, wide-eyed, “Watch it mister!” look, and Andrew clammed up.

  “That was a pain in the butt,” Margaret Simpson nodded. “Even when we had advanced warning that we were going to be without water, just not being able to shower or flush the toilets regularly for two days was very eye opening.”

  “Well, we have extra bottled water,” Josh said. “Plenty of it. And we have generators and extra fuel too.”

  “But remember, getting that stuff distributed or operable can leave us exposed outside,” Michael pointed out. “Generators are in garages. Most of that extra water is over at Ms. Mary’s. And the last thing we want to be doing during the zombie apocalypse is making multiple trips for things outside our homes. Each time we leave, we open ourselves, and potentially our families, up to the possibility of being attacked by someone infected with the Carchar Syndrome. Plus, not all of us are as well trained in self-defense tactics or handling a gun,” he shot a look at Ms. Mary and then at Julia Justak.

  “So what are you suggesting?” Christine Franko asked. “We can’t just hide away in our homes all the time,” she walked over to pop a mini pretzel into her mouth from a wood bowl set on the Simpson bar.

  “If it gets much worse, we might not have a choice,” Suzana Mendoza said. “And at this point, most of us certainly have the opportunity to hunker down. My company has closed for the holidays. There’s no word on when we’re going to re-open. Last I heard, I got a text saying they’ll let us know around New Years. Same with Juan’s work.”

  “And the schools let out early for holiday break,” Victoria Hines nodded. “Even Monte is getting some time off. He’s due in tomorrow and isn’t scheduled to head out again until the second week of January. A multi-week break for him is unheard of. I’m just praying they get a handle on this thing soon, otherwise none of us are going to have jobs to go back to.”

  “So Michael, what are you thinking? I know you’ve got something going in that mind of yours,” Josh grinned at the Blender patriarch.

  “Really, I wish I had a plan. If it were up to me, I’d haul everyone out to that land my buddy has in the country. Thing is, I think it would be a real pain in the rear end. It’d be cramped, cold, and dirty. It’d be tolerable if we did it for a week or two and things got better while we were away…if they came up with a cure or something. I mean, it’d be kind of like one of those places you pay to go and rough it, see how the pioneers lived. It wouldn’t necessarily be fun, but it’d teach us all a heck of a lot about just how good we really have it compared to our ancestors. But what happens if we get out there and this thing lingers for another few months before things totally fall apart? Then we’ve used up our cash of supplies and are stuck out in the middle of nowhere in the midst of what’s looking to be a pretty harsh winter. And while we’re a good team, and we all get along, something like that can test even the closest of families.”

  “Yeah, I don’t want to end up like the Donner Party or something,” Andrew interjected. “Plus, it’s Christmas break. I want to hang out with my friends, not go sit in some crummy cabin for three weeks.”

  “You won’t be seeing your friends anyway,” his mother reminded him. “Not with this Carchar thing running rampant.”

  “Aww Mom,” he moaned.

  “Nope,” she cut him short. “I don’t want to hear it. You can play video games with Patrick or find something to do around the house. I’ll even give you your Christmas presents early. I don’t care. But this virus thing, or whatever it is, is out of control. I’m not going to risk our lives carting you around to see your friends.”

  Andrew sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping, but he stayed silent, knowing that his mother was right.

  “I think the best thing we can do right now, is just sit tight and stay vigilant,” Josh Justak said. “I think Michael is right. If we cut and run right now, we could be jumping the gun. Things are bad downtown, but the suburbs are holding their own. I’ve only heard of one incident in Brookfield so far, and that was at the train station…someone getting off the train from downtown.”

  “I agree,” Michael nodded. “It’s going to be a delicate balancing act. I don’t want to jump the gun either, but I also don’t want to wait too long and find ourselves trapped in Chicago if the crap really starts hitting the fan. For now, though, I think sticking close to home and watching out for one another like we usually do is probably our best course of action. Also, whenever possible, I don’t think we should go out alone. And when we do go out, we should be armed and extremely cautious.”

  “What about Ms. Mary, or Julia or Victoria who aren’t as familiar with firearms or don’t live with someone who is?” Juan asked.

  “Then I think it’s time to learn,” Michael said sternly. “I called the range the other day and they’re booked for the foreseeable future. But I have an idea to get around that.”

  * * *

  The end of the third week of December saw general public services around the Chicagoland area begin grinding to a halt due to Carchar Syndrome-related issues.

  The number of reported cases had grown to over ten thousand and there were thousands, if not tens of thousands more cases going unreported. Hospitals had been forced to close their doors to new patients, barely able to handle the influx of patients they already had. The National Guard had been called in to help set up camps around the city in which to house new cases. The camps served more like prisons for captive Carchar carriers than offering any real assistance to those afflicted with the terrible syndrome.

  Schools not already closed for holiday break were closed due to Carchar concerns. National Guard units not assigned to the Carchar camps assisted local law enforcement in trying to round up roaming carriers. But it seemed like for every carrier that was caught and hauled off to an isolation camp, three more took its place. Making the job even more difficult was that police officers and soldiers were often bitten in the act of trying to subdue those carrying the syndrome. This meant that they willingly had to subject themselves to being placed in the same cam
ps that those they were trying to catch were being detained. When faced with such a predicament, and knowing what the end result would inevitably be, sometimes the law enforcement personnel simply took their own lives. Other times, they kept quiet about a bite, which never ended well. And it often resulted in infections of their co-workers or the people closest to them.

  This situation pinpointed another acute bureaucratic roadblock involving the government’s handling of the syndrome situation. As the Carchar carriers devolved, were they people or were they beasts? And if they were beasts, then when exactly in the transition process could they be considered as such? Was it when their teeth changed? Was it once they began craving fresh meat? Or was it only once they tried to attack their first victim?

  Law enforcement personnel were finding it a hard question to answer. This was making an already extremely difficult job of maintaining some semblance of law and order, even harder. Not only were these people being tasked with humanely capturing and detaining Carchar carriers, but they were being asked to arrest the people involved in the killing of Carchar carriers since such acts were still considered crimes and had to be properly investigated. This only added to the chaos that was beginning to envelop the city.

  Not only were hospitals overwhelmed, but police stations and jails were filled to capacity with people awaiting hearings related to a litany of Carchar-related shootings. Most of these people were claiming self-defense. Their lawyers argued that their clients’ shooting, injuring or killing of Carchar carriers was justified because there was no way to escape danger but to defend themselves with violent force. But the law hadn’t kept up with the spread of this new and vicious disease. It had gotten so bad in certain areas that police were simply taking reports and issuing people with citations for court dates. Then they’d release them on their own recognizance because there was no longer room to house them in their jails.