by David Rogers
In their midst, she glimpsed a gray haired man wearing a suit that she supposed was the governor; he was being hustled along the corridor as she heard voices, mostly male, shouting angrily and commandingly for people to move aside. Other voices were shouting questions that were ignored as the group kept moving.
The ring of troopers burst through the doors, and sunlight flooded the image. A moment later, the camera operator reached the doors and stepped to one side, then forward to the edge of the steps. The image stabilized as he stopped moving, and got away from the press of pushing and shoving people following the governor Jessica could see more people, most of them reporters by the microphones, recorders, and cameras she saw them holding, rushing after the governor and being held back by the rearmost state police.
As the governor and his cordon of officers crossed the street, the camera remained where it was. The governor disappeared into the parking deck that served the capitol, as the camera panned up just in time to catch a police helicopter coming in for a landing on the helipad on the top of the parking deck. Jessica waited, watching as two people got out of the aircraft.
After a moment, she realized they looked odd, then blinked as the camera zoomed its focus in closer to the helipad. They were wearing what looked like riot gear, heavy helmets with full face visors, and bulky body armor. Despite the gear, they moved quickly as they ran away from the helicopter and vanished down the steps to the helipad.
Jessica continued watching, and about half a minute later saw them reappear with the governor between them. Each officer had one of the governor’s arms, and they ran him over to the waiting aircraft. As they helped him into one of the helicopter’s seats, Jessica heard screaming and shouting over the distant noise of the helicopter’s engine and blades.
The camera jostled around for a few moments, swinging slightly, then restabilized and centered again on the helicopter. Jessica could see the pilot glancing over his shoulder as the two riot armored men got back in. The moment both doors were closed, the pilot looked forward and the aircraft lifted off. The camera tracked it for a few seconds, as it flew up into the sky, then the image swung down and to the left quickly enough to give Jessica a moment’s queasiness.
When the view stabilized, she was looking down the street in front of the Capitol building. The main administrative center for the state government could be seen in the background of the image, a pair of tall office buildings that locals called the Twin Towers. But what drew Jessica’s eye, immediately, was the uneven crowd of people she saw coming closer. The camera zoomed in again, and Jessica drew a sharp breath of alarm.
The people all looked just like the students at the schools. Indeed, some of them had Georgia State University apparel on, and others backpacks around their shoulders. They moved with the same shambling, uncoordinated gait, had the same empty, expressionless looks on their faces. The mass, it looked to be more than fifty people, was approaching the capitol. As she watched, she saw a pair of people darting closer even as everyone else in frame seemed to be backing off. The pair were media people, a cameraman and on-air reporter clutching a microphone.
Jessica held her breath as they moved right to the approaching crowd of victims. The reporter seemed to be calling to the people, waving the microphone at them in broad, sweeping movements. There was no response, other than the closest victims almost immediately changing the course of their forward progress to angle directly to the pair of reporters.
After maybe ten seconds, the reporter seemed to give up, and swung around to face the camera. The man holding the camera started walking backwards as the reporter began walking forward, and the microphone came up to his mouth. This continued for perhaps another ten seconds, as the reporter spoke into his microphone.
Then Jessica drew a sharp breath, as she saw one of the victims getting close to the reporter. The cameraman saw it too, and she saw him reach out a hand toward his colleague, making an urgent motion. Rather than move, the reporter glanced over his shoulder. As he did so, the victim’s flexing fingers made contact with the reporter’s shoulder.
Jessica’s hand flew to her mouth as the reporter was pulled over backwards, stumbling to the ground. The victim went down with him, and she saw the head lowering over the reporter’s body. The cameraman abandoned all pretense of covering the scene, letting the camera fall from his shoulder into one hand as he stepped forward and grabbed the reporter’s ankle, pulling. The reporter slid a few feet, but the victim remained hunched over him. She could see the reporter struggling against the victim.
A few moments later, as two more victims reached the reporter on the ground, Jessica saw the cameraman drop the camera to the street and put his other hand on his coworker’s ankle. The man heaved, and the reporter slid out from beneath the victim above him.
Jessica saw blood on the reporter’s chest, and he was yelling something as he beat frantically at the victim with both hands. The cameraman ran backwards maybe a dozen steps, dragging the reporter by the foot with both hands. He didn’t stop until they were about ten feet from the leading edge of the crowd.
Then he bent down and got the reporter to his feet, pulling one of the man’s arms around his own shoulders. Stumbling, the reporter was led away, leaning heavily on his cameraman. As they came closer, Jessica watched as the WSB camera operator tracked the pair of media. She saw the blood was coming from the reporter’s upper chest, where his shirt was sporting a jagged hole. A spread red stain was rapidly soaking the front of the man’s shirt, and by the time they reached the front steps of the capitol his head was lolling weakly.
Jessica heard more shouting, as did whoever was shooting the footage, because the image swung sharply to the right. She saw about ten state troopers gathered in the street just beyond the capitol steps. As the camera came to them, they began throwing things down the street. The camera held them for a few seconds, as they each threw something, then tracked left to show smoking canisters bouncing on the street in front of and in the midst of the approaching crowd of victims.
Whatever it was, and Jessica thought it was probably tear gas or some such, it didn’t seem to bother the victims at all. They continued their shambling, shuffling progress; moving closer to the now scattering group of people in front of the capitol building.
Some people were running down the street, away from the crowd. Others were pushing back inside the capitol. A few were running across the street and disappearing into the parking deck. Jessica watched as the WSB camera operator held their position, capturing the scene with broad pans that took in as much as possible, until the leading edge of the approaching victims were only a dozen feet away.
At that point the camera backed up, holding focus, until the image jerked sharply. The view swung crazily, and Jessica was able to figure out a moment later the operator had taken the camera off his or her shoulder, and was inside the building.
The view switched, and she was looking at the WSB anchor desk again. The male anchor cleared his throat, and when he began speaking, his voice was steady and professional again. “Again, that footage was shot only minutes ago at the Capitol Building downtown. We don’t yet know what the status is of the reporter who was injured, nor do we yet know where the governor is being taken by State Police. However, we have new information that’s just come in from the CDC. Erin?”
The female anchor faced the camera as the image changed to a tight shot of her. “The CDC has just issued an update on the situation through fax and on their website. As we understand it, this was sent to every medical facility in the country, not just here in Georgia, and is also being transmitted to emergency responders.”
The image shifted to the right, and a text box appeared above her shoulder. Erin looked down at a piece of paper in her hand and began reading. “The CDC has determined that victims of this disease are exhibiting both aggression and a lack of comprehension of their actions. Victims are identifiable by a lack of coordination and fine motor control and unresponsiveness to verbal or visual sti
muli.
“In all cases, they seem to be hyper aggressive to anyone near them. Many are inflicting injuries, some of them very serious and life threatening injuries, to those who attempt to aid them. The CDC is urging anyone coming into contact with victims of this disease to move away, immediately. Do not try to assist them, do not try to restrain them. Contact emergency responders.”
* * * * *
Peter
Peter made sure the garage door was down and closed fully before he went into the house. It seemed strange and barren, which he told himself was silly. He’d only been gone a little while.
“But Amy will be gone forever.” a voice whispered in the back of his head.
Abruptly the enormity of it seemed to materialize on his shoulders as one massive weight. He wasn’t prepared for it, for the surge of emotion and pain that he could no longer hold back, and dropped to his knees with a wail. Peter felt the unmanly tears rolling down his cheeks and didn’t care. He cried harder, hammering his fists on the clean linoleum titles of the kitchen’s floor.
“Goddamnit!” he shouted. “Motherfucker! Why? Why? Why?”
No answer came. Peter brought his fists down over and over, screaming, as the tidal wave of agony rolled out. He could barely breathe, his sobs were coming so thick and fast, but he didn’t care. Passing out would be a blessing. He didn’t even realize he had moved on to knocking his head against the floor until a sharp pain, accompanied by a serious wave of dizziness, sent him sprawling over on his side.
When he finally got control of himself, Peter rolled onto his back to catch his breath. The unaccustomed feeling of tears on his face embarrassed him, a little, but he shrugged it off. Thirty-three years was worth a few tears. Even if he did have to shed them in private. He’d never really considered the possibility of Amy’s loss. He had always assumed he’d go first.
He was ashamed to face what he had been blithely assuming would be her burden to bear. Now that he knew, he regretted every risk and every bit of absence. He could have spent that time with her, and instead he’d been off here and there, across some ocean or another, or on the other side of the country. Leaving her to deal with his absence, leaving her with the possibility of his never coming back.
It was not fair. Then or now.
Eventually he managed to get himself off the kitchen floor. The bag of groceries was still on the counter where he’d left it. It had been there for, what, a couple of hours or something now. He didn’t even try to decide if the milk and meat were spoiled or not. It was pretty far down the list of things he gave a shit about right now.
The bag went into the garbage can without a second thought. He carefully made sure the lid was all the way down, just the way Amy preferred it to be, then looked in the refrigerator. The twelve pack of the one vice he was still allowed was on the bottom shelf, and he took a can with him before going into the living room.
Turning on the television, he settled back in his recliner and popped the top on the Coke while he waited for the fifteen year old picture tube to warm up. The soda was cold and sweet as he took a long drink. When it hit his mouth he realized how thirsty he was and tipped head and can alike back eagerly.
The last couple of mouthfuls were gurgling out as the television finally decided it could stop being decorative. The sound came up first, and the screen slowly began changing from uniform black to a lighter shade, then towards gray, then individual colors. He put the can down on the table next to the chair and lifted the remote again. He flicked over to CNN using the numbers on the remote, then thumbed the volume control a few times while the screen finished sorting itself out.
“–ill trying to get a statement from the President or at least a member of his cabinet.” Peter heard an unfamiliar reporter saying. “Those members of Congress who have issued statements or spoken with members of the press are asking more questions than they’re answering. No one in Washington seems to have any information, and frankly, people are getting a little desperate for some.”
The screen finally resolved into something coherent. He saw one of the nighttime anchors sitting behind a desk. The backdrop was one of those new computer generated ones the big news channels had fallen in love with over the last couple of years. Peter didn’t see the point, news was news. What was the point of trying to dress it up in fancy clothes. But he barely even acknowledged his mental tisk over the practice.
Instead, he was studying the screen. The backdrop right now was showing a map of the continental United States, with shades of red and orange and yellow splashed across it. From what he could tell, nearly all the colored patches corresponded to a major city or metropolitan area. The caption above it read ‘Outbreak in America’.
The bottom of the screen had the usual scroll of text, but instead of stock prices or something else he didn’t care about there were what looked like city names and numbers. After a moment he realized they had to be some sort of a casualty count, and frowned, barely listening as the anchor continued lamenting how they were having difficulty getting anyone at the Federal level to issue a statement.
If the numbers were indeed a count or estimate of . . . well he assumed they were concerned with sick people at the moment, then they were bad. Really bad. Off the top of his head he wouldn’t want to have to try and pass any sort of test on geographical census data, but if there really were two million people in New York who had been afflicted by this zombie disease, then that was bad. That had to be a significant percentage of the city’s population. And seventy thousand in Orlando? He knew that was a huge piece of the total citizen count there, even allowing for whatever tourists might be at the nearby theme parks.
Peter tuned his ears back into the anchor, realized the man was still blathering about what they didn’t know, and frowned. Changing channels, he tried Fox News, but they were basically doing the same thing as CNN–complaining about the lack of response from senior administration officials and running the same kind of graphics and counts just in a slightly different format. Peter tried one of the local stations, hoping to find some actual news. He needed to know what was going on.
WXIA had similar text scroll filling the bottom of their feed. The image was of downtown, right next to the capital he realized after a few seconds when the caption on the video registered with him. ‘Governor evacuates capitol’ He turned the volume up further as he saw a helicopter with state police markings lifting off, and the camera tracked along with it for a few moments before swinging down to frame a street full of people who looked barely able to walk as they slowly staggered toward the camera.
A reporter approached, trying to ask the sick people questions. Peter watched as he let himself get too close to the approaching horde and was brought down. When teeth sank into the man’s shoulder, Peter cursed. “Fucking idiot.” He watched as the cameraman teamed up with the idiotic reporter left off trying to cover the scene and helped his colleague away from the zombies.
“Again, that was the scene less than an hour ago at the capitol downtown.” one of the news anchors said as the feed switched back to the news desk. “Since shortly after getting airborne, the governor has taken the extraordinary step of asking the population of downtown Atlanta to evacuate. Atlanta and Fulton police and fire are currently involved in this effort, and are asking anyone needing assistance to please contact nine-one-one.”
Peter frowned, pursing his lips in a silent whistle. That was a lot of people . . . he frowned again. The news seemed to anticipate the line of his thoughts, or perhaps it was just the most obvious place for the flow of information to go next. Regardless, he saw a map of metro Atlanta replace the anchors. And not the usual cutesy type of graphic they would normally throw up during a typical newscast’s traffic report.
It took him only a moment to recognize it as being drawn directly from the Georgia Navigator website. Peter often considered the network of traffic cameras that enabled a real-time view of what was happening on the area’s interstates the best of the legacy left to the cit
y following the 1996 Olympics. It wasn’t as picturesque as the parks and tourist spots with their plaques, but it was a whole lot more useful.
As the anchors’ voiceover continued, Peter shook his head at the information on the screen. All three – technically four – interstates leading out of the heart of the city were showing blockages, many blockages. Some insert videos appeared in the corners of the screen and began cycling through various cameras. He had to squint to make out the labels on each, but it didn’t really matter.
They all showed a similar scene; highway lanes that should have been filled with flowing traffic instead depicted cars lined up motionless behind tangled masses of vehicles turned sideways or off their wheels. Some of the video revealed people on foot, moving along the shoulders of the roads, even between the stationary vehicles. While Peter admired their initiative in getting themselves away from danger however they had to, he knew ultimately the abandoned cars were only going to make an already disastrous circumstance worse.
Abruptly he rose from the chair and headed for the bedroom he’d shared with his wife. Perversely, his half of the closet was more neatly organized and laid out than hers. Part of that was that he had less in his half, even accounting for the uniforms and associated items he’d retained despite his having retired. But most of it was long habit. Once you got into a good one, it could be hard to break.
Forcing himself to ignore the dresses and shawls on the other side, Peter pulled a set of neatly folded utilities off the back shelf and tossed them on the bed. He emptied his jeans pockets out onto the bed as well, then paused and cursed. His phone, he’d dropped his phone at the hospital and left without finding it. Annoyed, he checked his pockets again to make sure they were empty, then sat down and stripped off his clothing.