by T. W. Brown
“Simpson here,” he said by way of a greeting.
“Kenny?” a familiar voice said from the other end.
“Ma?” He stuck a finger in his other ear to drown out the background noise as much as possible.
“Kenny, there is something wrong.”
Mary Simpson was eighty-seven and still as sharp as a whip. She had stunned Ken when she had refused his offer to have her move in after his dad had died. Instead, she had sold the house and shopped around until she found a retirement community that suited her tastes. After she’d moved in, Ken had visited the manager, conspicuous in his blue uniform. He’d made a few not-so-subtle hints about how things might not go well for the property manager if his mom was not treated right.
“What is it, Ma?” he asked as he watched a pair of middle-aged men duke it out over a case of baby formula.
“Some people came in during dinner and started attacking folks. They were acting like wild animals.”
Ken felt his stomach tighten. He dreaded the answer to his next question. “Were you bit, Ma?”
“Just a little scratch. That nice gentleman, Mr. Holden? You remember him, the one with the ponytail—”
“How bad, Ma?” Ken hated cutting his mother off, but he was worried.
“Like I said, just a scratch. Barely broke the skin. But that poor Mr. Holden…” Mary Simpson’s voice faded, and Ken heard the sounds of his mother starting to cry. The last time he’d heard such a thing from her was at his father’s funeral.
“Ma, I want you to stay inside. I will get over there as soon as I can. Lock everything up, use the dead bolt and don’t open the door for anybody. I have a key and will let myself in when I arrive.” Who was he kidding? He knew with almost absolute certainty that his mother was already a goner.
“Okay, Kenny.” That simple response made Ken nervous. His mother hated being fussed over, and it was not like her to be so agreeable; especially when it came to him telling her what to do.
“I want you to take one of your blue pills, Ma. Then go to your room, shut the door, and lie down.”
The assisted living center where his mom lived was a long two-story complex with a big rec room and cafeteria as the center hub for the five buildings that stretched away like giant spokes. His mother was on the second floor. That would make her as safe as she could be, or at least allow her some peace.
He was about to say something else when the line went dead. He looked at his phone, fully expecting the battery to be dead. However, that was not the case. And when he looked up, he saw a few other people pulling phones from their pockets or purses and looking at them with the same expressions of betrayal. He tried to call the number back a few times, but it was useless.
Almost to compound his frustration, the line actually rang once. There was a moment of silence, and then a click as the call was disconnected.
“Crap,” he muttered. “This is happening faster than I thought.”
He made his last stop on the beverage aisle. The small bottles of water were gone, but some of the one gallon containers were still there. He grabbed a few and then was hit with an idea. He hurried to the cleaning aisle and found what he was looking for. He snagged a pair of filtered water pitchers as well as several boxes of the replaceable filters.
He was about to head over to the home and garden center when he skidded to a halt. Jerking the cart around, he headed up the mostly untouched pet supply aisle. He grabbed three forty pound bags and wedged them in under his cart. As an afterthought, he tossed in a box of dog biscuits.
He paused just for a second at the electronics department. Unlike the idiots, he found a battery operated radio that would charge using his truck’s adapter outlet. He had to duck once as a man yanked a display model large screen television from the shelf. Then he scooped regular batteries of all sizes into his cart.
After a stop in the home and garden and then the camping section, he grabbed a comforter and draped it over his cart and then tied it down to keep all his items in place.
He exited the store feeling just a shade of guilt. He was now officially a looter. Still, he knew what he had seen, and he had an idea of what might be going on. Of course the tabloid shows had been screaming this for almost a week as those first reports had started to trickle in. But then it had been like a cartoon snowball. It started small but grew exponentially in a short time. He had not been a fan of such things, but he had seen that old black and white movie, Night of the Living Dead back when he was in high school.
He was putting everything in the back of his pickup when he heard the sound of footsteps coming up from behind him in a hurry. He had a good idea of what he would see even before he turned around.
It Begins: Rose Tinnes
Rose Tinnes followed the winding road as it took her deep into Washington Park. She loved her afternoon runs even more now that she had shed almost two hundred pounds of useless fat: her husband…make that ex-husband, Frank. The last straw had been when she caught him following her in his car.
Frank had been certain that her running was nothing more than a ruse to hide the fact that she was having an affair. He had said that it provided the perfect alibi when she came home drenched in sweat. Maybe if he’d gotten his fat ass off the couch on occasion, he would understand that a person can sweat if they actually performed some sort of physical activity that did not involve holding the controller to an Xbox.
At almost six feet tall, Rose was a slender young woman. Twenty-six years old in a week, she was in the best shape of her life; at least physically. The divorce had taken some serious emotional tolls on her, but she knew she would recover from that in no time. Her shoulder-length hair was brown, but got just a shade lighter in the summer to where she could pass for sandy blond. Her athletic figure had been a source of disappointment when she was younger and many of her girlfriends were starting to look more feminine, but now she was almost grateful that she had never moved past a 34A cup size. Breasts were a pain when it came to running, much less when she was conquering one of the many obstacle course running events that she had become addicted to this past year. Besides, it kept men’s eyes on her face; unless they were fans of long legs and tight buns.
Running on long leads just to her left and right were her babies; a pair of Border Collies. The male was named Imp. He was a black and white shorthaired dog that lived to chase balls, Frisbees, and anything else that could roll or fly. Imp was overly social and seemed to believe that the entire world was there to be his plaything. However, he was an aloof dog when it came to giving or receiving any sort of affection beyond some polite petting and the very occasional belly rub. He was simply geared to be doing something active from the moment that his eyes opened each day.
Circe was a long-haired red and white that went against all conventional descriptions of a Border Collie when it came to behavior. She was a snuggler and a cuddler. Every evening, she would retire to the bedroom around seven or so where she would await Rose’s eventual arrival. She was not interested in chasing toys. However, anytime that Rose went to visit her sister on her and her husband’s hundred acre farm out in Sandy, Circe loved herding the goats.
Rose’s sister Violet—her mother had loved flowers a bit too much, causing most people to quip that it was a good thing that she’d never given birth to a boy—had plans for slowly weaning her husband and two children from anything commercially produced. They were always preaching the virtues of organic. As far as Rose was concerned, an apple was an apple. In any case, Violet obtained a small herd of a dozen or so goats and used them for milk, cheese, and who knew what else. She had them in a fenced pasture that offered plenty of room for the little animals to frolic and graze.
The first time Rose had taken Circe (who she had for almost a year before she bought Imp) to her sister’s place, she had not even given it any thought when she opened the door to get out of the car. In a flash, Circe had bolted and leapt the split-rail wooden fence that bordered the goat pasture. The dog had gone into h
erding mode instantly. In a matter of seconds (or at least that is how it seemed that first time) the entire herd of goats had been brought in close and kept in place in one corner of the large pasture.
“When did you teach her that?” Violet gasped with obvious awe.
“Umm…never,” Rose had answered weakly at first, thinking that her sister was going to pitch a fit over her precious goats being disturbed or some such hippie nonsense.
“She is a natural,” Violet gushed.
Rose had made it a point to bring the dogs over to visit her sister on a regular basis after that day. It had also been a bridge that brought her and Violet closer.
The two girls had never been very close. Partially because Violet was eight years older and saw Rose as little more than a nuisance while growing up. Rose, being the sensitive one, had internalized her resentment for years. Over the span of their life, a fairly solid wall had been erected.
For the longest time, their only interaction came when their mother had everybody over for the assorted seasonal holidays. For them to actually build a bond over goats and a Border Collie was odd, but the two would sit on the fence and watch Circe perform what came so naturally. Over time, Rose even learned the names of the goats and began to see their individual personalities.
It was Violet who told Rose that she might have made a mistake and settled when marrying Frank Crampton. Rose had sat silently on the fence and listened that day to her sister’s concerns. When she got home that night, it was as if the blinders had been opened and light had flooded the room to show her the error of her ways. Still, she had not been ready to give up just yet. She thought that perhaps it was the few extra pounds that she had gained since marriage. Not that she was what anybody could consider fat, but in her eyes, she could see every single pound.
That had started her renewed interest in running. It took almost no time for Rose to recall how much she loved running. However, when a friend introduced her to her first obstacle course race, Rose had poured herself into it with everything she had. Her dream was to compete professionally within a year or so. She had told Frank over dinner one night.
Frank had laughed.
That single moment had been the beginning of the end of her marriage. Now she was feeling better than she had in years. Her sister had even come to her first race of the season last week where she had finished first of all the women racers. Violet had been so proud of her and made no secret to everybody they passed that her sister had won the race. While it had been a bit on the embarrassing side, Rose could not help but feel delighted by this display. She had made her sister proud. That confirmed that she was on the right path.
“I think you should start doing whatever you need to do to be part of the professional circuit,” Violet said with stern seriousness as Rose stood under the hose to rinse off a majority of the mud from the course.
That statement of encouragement had been the catalyst. Rose had logged in and registered for the competitive heat of every race in Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and Northern California. If she could place high, she might be able to gain a sponsor or two before long. But if that was going to happen, she would need to up her training regimen.
Her earbuds were pumping some nice classical as she pushed herself just a bit harder when she reached the steepest hill of her run. Some folks might like to jam the hard stuff when they ran, but Rose found that classical took her away from the world and almost made her forget that she was running.
Imp and Circe trotted along almost as a reminder that she was not as fast as she might think. She was almost certain that the look she received periodically from Circe was an “Is that as fast as you can go?” sort of look. Meanwhile, Imp was getting better at not suddenly stopping to make his mark on every shrub, tree, and street sign that they passed.
She was a bit too immersed in her music, which is why she did not notice that Imp had started to swing wide as they approached the upcoming corner. She did not hear the low rumble of a growl building in his throat. Instead, she was being swept along by Piano Concerto No. 21 - Elvira Madigan.
She came to the sharp switchback turn, only vaguely aware that she was hitting the toughest part of her trek. It was sheer reflex that allowed her to leap just in the nick of time to avoid the figure sprawled across the narrow road. That was also when Imp and Circe reacted. Circe scuttled to the side of her master, ears flat on her head and tail tucked in tight to her body.
Imp was an entirely different story. He began barking furiously, teeth barred and hair standing up around his neck almost to the point of resembling the mane of a lion. His tail was straight up and he hunched low as if ready to spring at the downed body.
Her hands swiped at the thin cords, yanking the earphones free. Out of habit, she had already hit the button that paused her run tracking app. She hated nothing more than being timed while she stood waiting to cross a street; it completely screwed up her average per-mile pace.
“Hey?” she called softly.
She took a tentative step forward and realized that the dark shadow on the road was from a slowly growing pool of blood. As this realization struck, Imp lunged to put himself between her and this injured person.
Plucking her phone free from the armband she wore, Rose quickly called 9-1-1. After a few seconds, as the signal bounced its way to a tower, there was the blessed sound of ringing. After over a dozen rings, Rose glanced at her display to ensure she had dialed correctly.
“You have reached the City of Portland Emergency Dispatch Center…all lines are currently busy. We are sorry, but due to a high volume of calls, all operators are currently assisting other callers. Please do not hang up. You will be answered in the order that you were received,” the computerized voice droned.
Rose locked the phone so that she would remain on the line and then stuffed it into the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt. Imp was growing louder by the minute as he snarled and barked at the body. The figure twitched once and then started to move. This caused Rose to take an involuntary step back, but it also caused Imp to retreat and switch from the incessant barking to a lip curl and growl that was unlike anything that she had ever heard from the young Border Collie.
“Imp!” Rose hissed, regaining her composure and pulling both dogs’ leashes in tighter so that they were at her side. Circe instantly took her ‘sit’ position, but Imp stayed on his feet, crouched low and looking ready to spring at any moment.
The person pushed up with both hands, and that was when Rose knew that something was terribly wrong. The person’s left hand, the one closest to her, was missing three fingers. And by the looks, they had been taken very recently and with an incredible degree of violence. Then, the man turned his head her direction.
Rose gasped at the same instant that Imp lunged. The dog was strong enough to cause her to stumble forward, but she quickly regained her footing and backed away in a hurry, dragging the agitated dog along with her.
The man was…wrong. That was the best way that she could explain it to herself. His eyes were filmed with a thick and foul looking white that was shot through with black tracers. At first, her mind was trying to rationalize it by saying that perhaps the person had seriously bad cataracts. However, the nasty rip and gaping wound where his throat belonged was throwing all guesses out the window.
Rose had heard something from her sister Violet about a sickness or some such thing that was going around. However, with the departure of Frank, she had lost the big screen television. In all honesty, she hadn’t missed it. She spent her evenings with music and a good book. As far as she was concerned, television was a drain on time that she could not afford now that she was training.
Something Violet had said suddenly rang in her mind. ‘They say that people are acting crazy, attacking each other and even biting. It is like some twisted horror movie in some places, and there are even a few locations that have supposedly gone dark. No word coming out of them in a while now. Parts of China, Japan…all silent for the past few days.’
This person’s throat injury certainly could have come from a bite. It was nasty and jagged. What did not make any sense was how this man was getting to his feet. He should not be able to draw breath. If he wasn’t actually drowning on his own blood, then he still should not be getting any air into his lungs. She could see the ugly ribbed tube that was the larynx. It was mangled and torn, and therefore, this person should be dead.
Then the smell hit her. How she had missed it up to this point had to be due to shock. The stench was unlike anything she had ever experienced. As if catching up, her gorge began to rise as well.
Covering her mouth, Rose continued to back up as the man slowly made it all the way to his feet. He took an unsteady step in her direction and raised his hands as if to reach for her. The mouth opened and a harsh wheezing sound escaped.
“That can’t be,” Rose breathed as she backed up another step, bringing Imp and Circe along with her.
She was still backing away when the ferns alongside the road and to her left began to rustle. A figure emerged that looked even worse than the man she had in front of her. This one had a flap of meat dangling where the left cheek should be. She could see the bloody teeth through the ugly hole. To make this one even more improbable, the left arm had been ripped away right at the elbow joint.
Turning on her heel and giving both leashes a good yank, Rose took off at a sprint. She was halfway up the hill when the oddest thought hit her. She tried to brush it away, but her mind refused to let go.
Early on, after she had taken to running, she had entered in a fun run just before Halloween. In this event, individuals were dressed in rags and made up to look hideous; the object had been to reach the finish line without having the flag worn at the waist torn away by one of the “zombies” that sprinkled the course. Adding more fun to the event, if your flag was snagged, then you were now one of the so-called infected.