by Joseph Souza
He collected his .357 Magnum and Saiga, and headed out. If those two cops caught him out on the road, he’d have to tell them the truth about the virus—that it was far worse than any Chinese flu. He locked the door behind him and made his way to the car.
By the time he reached the center of town, he remembered to his dismay that he’d forgotten to remove the corpses from the trunk. Maybe he could find a hidden spot to dump them before he arrived. Crowds of people had taken to the streets in search of assistance. Many appeared lethargic and lifeless, the first signs that the illness had set in. He could plainly see that the smallpox virus was spreading, and there was nothing he or anyone else could do. He had only enough medical supplies for himself and his family, and there was no way to acquire any more now that the island had gone to hell.
The people on the street staggered about, raising their hands up and begging him for help. Their agonized expressions made him feel guilty, and he said a prayer for each one as he passed, hoping that they might survive this ordeal. His experience told him the harsh reality of smallpox. Those people afflicted by the major case typically died an excruciatingly painful death. The blisters covering their skin would eventually become so hideous and overwhelming that it created a hard shell that separated from the body like the well-cooked skin of a Thanksgiving turkey.
He sped down the side street and raced toward Versa’s house. Once he arrived, he parked, ran up the stairs, and entered through the front door. Blood was spattered along the walls, and the bodies of three men lay dead along the pine floor. Versa sat facing him, rocking in her chair, blood covering her face and dress. She had an odd smile on her face, and as soon as she saw him enter, she lifted up her rifle and pointed it at him.
“What did you do here, Versa?”
“I warned those assholes to leave me alone, but they didn’t listen. I only gave them one warning.”
“Oh, Versa, you shouldn’t have,” he said, staring at the three bloodied corpses. “Come back to the house with me, and we can help each other out.”
“You take another step, Colonel, and you’ll end up just like the other garbage on the floor.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“You think I’m kidding?”
“At least give me back my Glock.”
“Why the hell should I?”
“If you stay here in this house, Versa, there’s a good chance you might become infected, and when you do, it will be the worst sickness you’ve ever experienced. You’ll need medical help.”
“I’ll take my chances with Mr. Remington, thank you.” She patted the rifle and smiled.
“I wouldn’t count on surviving this ordeal when the mobs start breaking down your door.”
“Rather die here in my own home than take my chances out there with all the crazies running around on this island. I can protect myself, Colonel, but thanks all the same. Home sweet home.”
“Suit yourself, Versa. I’m going to leave now, but I wish you the best,” he said, holding his hands up. “I’m going to reach into my pocket very slowly and leave some ammo here for you to use.”
“Leave it on the table.”
“I’m only trying to help. I’m not the enemy here, Versa.”
“Everyone’s my enemy. It was you outsiders who brought this sickness to my island. We wouldn’t even be in this mess if you assholes had stayed away in the first place.”
“Okay, I’m going now.”
“Good riddance. I got a lot of work to do dragging these scumbags out of my house. Then I got to clean up this living room and make it livable again. I’ll be sending you a bill for my cleaning services.”
“Whatever.”
“These scumbags didn’t think I knew how to shoot. Little did they know that I used to be a member of the Cooke’s Island Rod and Gun Club until all those mainlanders started moving here and taking over the place.”
“Stay inside and you might survive, Versa. I wish you all the best.”
“Don’t worry about me. You worry about yourself and your own family. That’s the problem with this world; everyone is so worried about everyone else these days.”
Tag sprinted out the door, never happier than to be out of that haunted house with its maudlin, hostile owner. He had no doubt she would die. Dozens of people waited for him outside, milling about his car and trying to get inside it. They looked sickly and dehydrated. Some of the parents had small kids in their arms, desperate to get them help. They begged for food and medical assistance. Unfortunately, there weren’t any medical facilities on the island. They needed water and medicine. One of the fathers seized Tag by the collar and started shouting desperately in his ear, spraying spittle and shaking him until Tag pushed him away.
The crowd surrounded his car and poured inside, looking for anything that might be of value. He prayed they wouldn’t pop the trunk and discover the bodies. One of the men lifted a baseball bat and smashed in the car’s windows. Tag couldn’t believe his eyes. The crowd had become so enraged that the others fed off it and joined in, managing to work themselves into a frenzy. Some of the men rocked the car back and forth until they tipped it over. All over the street the mob started breaking into people’s houses, dragging them out and throwing them on the lawn. Displaced families fled for their lives. Those people that resisted eventually succumbed to the angry throng. The diseased busted windows and smashed in doors until they gained entry.
Tag heard gunshots going off in the distance. Where were they coming from? Then he saw the mob popping the latch and breaking into the trunk of the BMW and pulling out the three corpses, looking for anything of value, leaving the wrapped bodies sprawled out over the pavement.
People wanted medicine, food and weapons to protect themselves and their family from the disease as well as from other people. He broke away from the crowd and started on foot back toward his home. Someone tackled him from behind and tried to drag him down. He swung a fist, cracking the longhaired guy in the head. The man went down easily and stayed there, the progression of his illness affecting his stamina and strength. Tag could see that the man had a fever. A white foam started to bubble from his mouth, evidence of the first signs of the pox contagion. A large welt appeared on the man’s temple where he’d struck him. It turned almost unnaturally bright red as if sunburned. Not a good sign. The guy rolled onto his side and vomited, releasing millions of virus spores onto the pavement. Tag wished he could stay and help these people, but the situation was far too dangerous for that. Monica and Taylor lay sick at home, and he knew he had to get back as soon as possible.
He pushed his way through the crowd. It seemed as if everyone on the island had spilled onto the street. Some people were trying to control the unruly mob and bring forth a semblance of order, but the situation had gotten too out of hand. Only a large, armed contingent of police or military could control these desperate people. Their angry shouts and threats drowned out every sane voice in the crowd. Making matters worse, it was one of the hottest and most humid days of the summer.
Still feeling weak from his own run-in with the pox, Tag jogged as fast as he could. The situation in the center of town had deteriorated to the point of utter chaos. He would have to fight his way through the mob, many of whom were searching for any supplies they could get their hands on. Fights were breaking out everywhere. He gripped the handle of his Magnum and sprinted down the center of the street, pushing and shoving people out of his way.
A large, bearded man came out of the crowd, sprinting toward him with a two-by-four in hand. Had the pox caused these people to lose their sense of decency? Tag ducked at the last second, and the man cracked a young woman in the temple. She collapsed to the street in a lifeless heap. Blood poured from the wound on her head, but he had no time to go over and help her because the bearded man continued to pursue him, screaming at the top of his lungs. The man raised the board over his head and brought it down as hard as he could. Tag tucked his chin and performed a perfectly executed Gramby roll, a compl
icated wrestling maneuver he’d perfected in high school to win the state championship. The board cracked the pavement just behind his legs. He rolled onto his ankles and up to his feet, and positioned himself into a shooter’s position. Taking aim, he shot the bearded guy in the thigh before the man could deliver another blow. The man collapsed to the street, writhing in pain and gripping his bloody pant leg, screeching maniacally. Tag backed away, watching the man projectile vomit onto the painted yellow line dividing Main Street.
The crazed mob trampled over the injured girl. He thought for a second about making his way back to her, but the push of the diseased carried him back and away from the unconscious victim.
He had to put his family ahead of everything else. Others rushed over to him, screaming and yelling frantically, but as soon as he raised the Magnum, they backed off. The extreme heat and crazed mob mentality had tipped the normally civil island into anarchy. As he sprinted through the crowd he saw some of the motorcycle gang members, still in their leather jackets, battling it out. A group of them had traveled over for the day, hoping to drink all night before taking the last ferry back to where their Harleys were parked.
Another madman rushed him, and Tag cracked the guy on the side of the head with the butt of his Magnum. The man collapsed to the ground and convulsed violently. A burly guy just ahead of him pulled out a knife, looking ready to thrust it into another man’s belly. Tag aimed the Magnum and shot him in the hand, and the knife fell to the ground, but the potential victim quickly picked up the knife and stabbed his attacker in the throat. A jettison of blood gushed up like an uncapped fire hose.
Tag realized that he couldn’t save anyone in this crazy situation. By the time he made it to the end of the street, he was completely exhausted. Sweat discharged from every pore on his body, and he felt lightheaded. He turned the street corner and staggered down the hill, struggling to catch his breath. His chest burned, and his lungs labored to take in oxygen. A few desperate people staggered up the hill and toward the center of town, searching for anyone or anything that could be of help. He pushed past them and continued on, trying to block out the pain coursing through his body. He felt so sick that at one point he thought he might collapse from the exertion. Salty tears spilled into his eyes, blurring his vision and causing his eyes to sting. The combination of sunlight and sweat lingered in his eyes, burning the fine membrane. He lifted his head, stared out at his vague surroundings, and jogged on the balls of his feet, trying to maintain an even but steady pace like the one he used to finish the Boston Marathon five years ago, rubbery legs and all.
They lumbered up to him, the sick and needy, begging, pleading and crying out for help. He continued to push them away, single-minded in his determination to get home and feeling no remorse for his actions. Using his forearms, he wiped away the perspiration pouring into his eyes. His left knee buckled, and he almost fell, but somehow he managed to keep his balance. At the bottom of the hill he turned onto his street and picked up the pace, his breathing deep and labored as he broke into a halfhearted sprint. About a hundred yards from his home, he saw a group of people huddled in front of his driveway and staring up at the second floor. His senses came alive, and he sprinted the last leg.
The mob shouted up at his house and threw rocks against the exterior. He pulled up to the group and saw two bodies sprawled on the lawn. Blood poured out of the bullet wounds in their heads. These weren’t the bodies of the dead bikers in his house. No, these were fresh corpses, and judging by the looks of them, they’d recently been shot. Gazing up at the second floor, he saw his daughter in the open window, pointing the rifle down at the crowd. He waved his arms in the air and called out her name. She lowered the gun and stared at him in confusion. Just by looking at her he could tell she was sick and barely able to prop herself up.
“I’m warning you not to take another step,” she said.
“Taylor, it’s me. Your father!” he yelled, feeling the crowd’s wrath turning against him.
“Who are you?”
“It’s me, your dad.” The fever made her delusional.
“D-Dad?”
“Yeah, Taylor, your father.”
He saw two men sprinting toward him. He swiveled and pointed the Magnum directly at them, and the men stopped and backed away. Someone else came at him from the side. Tag turned, but before he could pull the trigger, the guy’s head exploded in a mist of blood.
“Next person makes a move, they’ll end up dead,” Taylor warned.
Tag looked up in shock.
“Sorry, Dad, I didn’t realize it was you.”
“It’s okay, hon. I’m going to move toward the front door now. Just don’t shoot.”
The crowd shouted and pelted him with rocks and stones.
“You’re a bunch of killers!” a man in the crowd yelled. “You have a working generator, food and a roof over your head. You have a moral responsibility to help us. We’re sick and hungry and have little children to care for.”
Tag turned to face them once he reached his doorstep.
“Go down to the beach, where it’s safe and less crowded. There’s fewer people down there. The ocean will cool your fever down, and you’ll stand a better chance of getting some rest without fear of attack. The virus causing your illness should run its course in a matter of days. Then you can get off this island and receive some medical assistance.”
“We have sick mothers and kids!” the guy exclaimed, pointing to the dozen kids sprawled out on the side of the road.
The sight of those kids broke his heart.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I don’t have enough medicine to treat everyone. Do as instructed, and you should be okay until the authorities arrive and administer the proper care.”
He felt absolutely terrible about leaving these people to fend for themselves. A stone pelted him in the back as he made his way inside. A few rocks soared through the threshold and rolled along the hardwood floor. He quickly shut the door behind him and heard the sound of rocks hitting the wood and glass.
After securing the lock and deadbolt, he ran upstairs and retrieved the rifle from his daughter. Taylor collapsed onto the carpet, sobbing, the consequence of her actions now weighing heavily on her conscience. Watery mucus leaked out the side of her mouth and nose.
“I killed those men, Dad. I didn’t want to, but they were trying to break in and hurt me and Mom.”
“It’s okay, hon. You did the right thing.”
“I didn’t want to happen what happened before with those biker thugs and risk Mom getting killed—or worse.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“In one of the bedrooms, making sure they don’t come in through the back.”
The rocks and sticks pelting the house and bouncing off the glass did no damage to the polycarbonate material he’d installed a few summers ago. He was glad he’d installed them when he did. Now the entire house was practically impenetrable, though he knew that an enterprising criminal could always find a way inside if properly motivated. Peering out the window, he saw the leader of the group walk across his lawn and shake a fist up at him. Tag picked up the rifle and aimed it at the man’s head.
“You’re going to regret this. When things return to normal, we’ll come back here and take our revenge.”
“Maybe I will regret it, but for right now my top priority is protecting my family.”
“We know where you live!” someone else screamed. “You’re a dead man!”
“Is that a threat?”
“Call it what you will, pal, but this ain’t going to end nicely if you keep all these supplies to yourself while we’re out here dying.”
“Take my advice and head down to the beach. This virus is going to get a whole lot worse as the days pass. Listen, you’re going to need the cold salt water to help fight the infection and keep your temperature down.”
“What are you some kind of doctor or something?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
&nbs
p; “What the hell is going on here on this island, mister? Me and my family came over here to see a fricken art show and instead we walked into a living hell.”
“We’ve been hit by a biological attack.”
“For real?”
“For real. You’ve no doubt contracted a form of smallpox that may be survivable as long as you do exactly as I tell you. But if you try to break into my house, you’ll end up dead like those other three poor souls,” Tag said, pointing the barrel of the rifle at the corpses. “As you can see, we’re not bluffing.”
“Jesus! Isn’t smallpox deadly?”
“It can be, depending on what action you take. Your best odds are to do as I say and go down to the beach. I’ll come down and check up on your people if things start to get worse. And they will get worse in a hurry if you don’t get the hell off my property.”
The man conferred with some of the others.
“The relatives of the dead would like to take away the bodies.”
“Leave them. Their blood may be infected with an even deadlier virus. We’ll give them a proper burial when things return to normal,” Tag said. “And one other thing. Tell your people that under no circumstances should they use their cellphones.”
“But we need to talk to our families back home,” the guy argued.
“Trust me, don’t do it. It could be the difference between life and death.”
The man walked back to the crowd. Parents picked up their children and shuffled sadly back down the road, many of them crying and wailing in agony. Tag’s heart went out to them. He wished he could help, but taking them in would put his family in jeopardy. Once the last person disappeared from sight, he dashed into the second bedroom and found his wife propped up against the window, barely conscious and gripping the rifle. She had no idea how to use the weapon, refusing to have anything to do with guns.