The Reaper Virus

by Nathan Barnes

  I willed myself to sit up. There were two ventilation windows located in the upper corner of each side. The window overlooking the point of the fence I hopped over last night was blocked by a mountain of boxes. However, the opening on the other side was left unobstructed. Dim light filtered in from the area, revealing signs that my loved ones had been here. There were makeshift bedding areas, toys for the kids and the long box for our artificial Christmas tree turned over as a table. They were up there. Why weren’t they still?

  A torn piece of cardboard had been placed on the center of the substitute table, and it caught my eye. I shuffled myself across the floor and around the rectangular hole where the ladder should be, my hands shaking with anxiety. It felt like I’d been lost in the desert and this scrap of paper was the only glass of water for miles. The irregular corrugated shape trembled in my grip. Something was written on it but I couldn’t make it out through the blurriness of my vision. I furiously rubbed both eyes to clear them.

  Several frustrating seconds later I began to decipher the note scribbled in blue crayon. The writing was obviously done in a hurry. I knew immediately that it was written by Maddox.

  It read: “We can’t wait anymore. Love you, Daddy. You are stronger than the monsters.”

  After the note was the boy’s meticulously printed signature all in capital letters but with the first letter larger than the rest.

  I clutched the cardboard scrap against my chest as if it were a life preserver. Through all my frantic thoughts I knew that I must leave this place. The note was all the convincing I needed that they were alive somewhere. Hellacious memories of the things I experienced to reach home bombarded my mind. The burning obsession I formed with reaching Sarah, Maddox, and Calise regained its urgency. An army of the dead couldn’t stop me before and it sure as hell wouldn’t stop me now.

  When the world started falling apart Sarah and I planned on taking the kids to my parents’ farm in Carroll County. It was separated from civilization enough to likely be safe. In the original plan I was to get home from work and we were to leave a day or so later. They may not have been able to wait for me, but I was certain Sarah would have followed the original plan. The real question was how was I going to get there with them?

  I composed myself enough to stand. There was a bottle of water with some peanut butter sandwich crackers near the makeshift table. I devoured the snack like it was my last meal. Soon my vision became less blurry and I felt more stable. Dehydration and hunger contributed to my fragile state. That, combined with the mental turmoil of this morning and events leading up to it, nearly killed me. Pain radiated from every inch of my body. Ignoring this agony became easier now that I had a clear mission.

  The wooden rungs of the ladder creaked as my aching bulk eased down them. The incessant droning from the hungry horde outside filled the house. Steadily I crept up to the window in Maddox’s room. No banging was coming from that end of the property so it would the best place to attempt surveillance. I plucked out the corner staples that held up the light blocking blanket. The boy’s sticker plastered toy box was only a few feet from the window. I went to move it and winced as every loud plaything imaginable rattled. Paranoia has a way of notoriously amplifying any sounds, and this time was hardly an exception. It was doubtful that any of the creatures could hear the racket but it felt like I’d just sounded the dinner bell. In a panic I lifted the entire toy chest in order to move it the remaining foot. Immediately, I suffered the wrath of previous injuries and fell over. The chest was barely above the carpet fringe so it didn’t make a sound when I dropped it. I collapsed face down aside it and blacked out.

  When I came to there was a red stain where my face had landed on the carpet. Everything throbbed in agony. I pushed myself up and the pain reached a climax. For a moment I thought consciousness would escape me once again. Instead, it was like my brain had switched off physical feeling. Drops of crimson escaped my dry lips, followed by the unmistakable taste of metal. The reality shaking sense of living a nightmare was prevalent. Once I managed to get to my feet I took a deep breath. It was then that I felt a total separation from this place and even my own body. I’d fought through Hell to reach this house but now it meant nothing. All meaning left the property prior to my arrival. Personal connection to this building and acknowledgement of my injuries evaporated under the weight of this new purpose. Such a severed connection to feeling couldn’t possibly occur in any logical existence; this degree of catatonic removal was a far cry even for dreams.

  “This is madness…” I whispered to the empty room.

  There wasn’t time to question my personal unraveling. I stepped atop the toy chest feeling as limber as a teenager. Peering against the cold wall my pupils constricted defensively under the surge of natural light. Distant movement caught my attention. It reminded me of looking into a forest during a winter’s dusk. Vertical shapes listed about like they were battling a persistent breeze. A few seconds later I was able to observe the true gravity of my predicament. Ghouls flocked to the cul-de-sac. The creatures that originally pursued me had created enough noise to ring the dinner bell for every rotting predator around. Now there were dozens of them shambling towards the driveway. Motionless corpses that fell under the wrath of my nine millimeter pistol acted like speed bumps to the approaching horde. Looking out the window also served as confirmation that my family had indeed left. If they hadn’t, one car would be in the driveway since the other now sat in forced abandonment on the second level of a dead city’s parking deck. The only occupants of the gradual sloped pavement parking were the undead. Most of them were attracted to the porch area but I knew that even at my physical best, I’d never be able to run past them. I moved away from the window, sitting hard on the toy chest. How the fuck could I get past them all?

  I walked back into the living room. The wall shook violently. Even though the door was completely impassible, thanks to being obstructed by furniture, it rocked with the rest of the foundation. There were dozens of fists clawing from the outside. The zombies were acting like water behind a dam. I was certain that when the house inevitably showed its first sign of vulnerability that the festering waters would flow through. Then, like an electric shock, the simplicity of a solution surged my brain from desperate woe to murderously conniving.

  Most of the house was dark from the blocked windows. I was able to navigate it effortlessly thanks to a mental map perfected over the years. Within seconds I was back in the bedroom. If Sarah really thought I was going to make it home she would have left one of the two guns we owned. I threw open the closest and lunged toward its right corner, finding a hard plastic case containing a Maverick twelve gauge shotgun.

  “I love you too, baby,” I said, comforted by the sign of faith.

  Soon I had an inventory of my supplies spread across our queen mattress. The shotgun had three boxes of slugs totaling seventy-five shells. My nightstand was permanently stocked with a decent flashlight. These, combined with the ever faithful Kukri, and I felt like I had a fighting chance of at least escaping my cul-de-sac. I loaded everything into an old backpack that had been collecting dust in my closet. After a stop in the kitchen to load up on a few bottles of water and snacks I was ready. The last thing I needed was the keys for the shed padlock hanging in a key box at the kitchen entrance.

  When I reached for the ring of two identical keys I noticed that they danced on the small hook. The entire house was vibrating from the increasing assault of undead. There had to be dozens of them gathered around the front of the porch now. Back in the bedroom I tucked the shotgun under my arm and left the rest of my supplies inside. Crawling back through the trapdoor I quickly felt vulnerable without my blade. I knew though that if there were any zombies in the backyard that the Maverick would make short work of them, but using the gun would draw a lot of premature attention.

  The padlock on the shed was cold even through my work gloves. It took some serious fiddling with the tiny key to get the mechanism to release. C
lutter greeted me inside the shed. Scraps of wood were everywhere from the sloppy job I’d done on boarding up the back windows. Thankfully, I’d spent a lot more time securing the front of the house. If I hadn’t then I wouldn’t have the luxury of being casually outside. I took hold of the metal ladder roped to the ceiling. It yanked free, crashing to the clutter beneath it. I wrenched at the noise I was creating.

  “Easy does it,” I grumbled aloud, “it doesn’t matter if they know you’re here now.”

  Once the ladder was outside and propped against the rear fence bordering our neighbors’ yard, I quickly scaled up it to look over. The yard was completely barren with no activity around the house. Our house was at the end of a cul-de-sac that backed up to another neighborhood’s cul-de-sac. The two neighborhoods connected eventually, but it would take easily ten minutes to reach the house behind us by road. Most of the infected presence appeared to be on our end of the street. I’d started feeling dreadfully confident that I was the only living soul left in the entire area. That reality aside, it would have been easy enough to slip over the fence and escape. However, I needed to make sure the zombies would have their attention elsewhere when I had to loop around and pass the same area I crashed my bike last night.

  Back at the shed, I ignored the mess to reach for my targets sitting atop a shelf. It was a bit of a struggle to drag the pair of two-gallon gasoline jugs back to the bedroom window. One of them was about three-quarters full with month old gas. I’d filled the second canister when world events began to turn sour. A loud thud vibrated the wall when the filled drums fell inside. I paid it no mind and walked over to the back deck. Banging from the other side of the property echoed like a hungry cacophony. Time was running out and I knew it. Pondering the insanity of my plan only added to the unreal feeling of the day.

  Sarah and Maddox evidently pulled the boards from the stairs, so I had to climb atop the wooden railing. I set the twelve gauge down on the deck to use both hands. When I released my grip on it, I noticed a spot just beyond it was colorful. Crayon had been used to sketch a sweet little butterfly onto the wood plank. The artwork was signed carefully with, “Calise”, in six different shades. A tear trickled down my cheek but it was joined with a smile. I could picture my little princess sitting patiently while her mom and brother worked on destroying the stairwell. I fiddled with our propane grill, longing for the little one that sat here days before. The canister wasn’t empty but for the life of me I couldn’t recall how much was inside. It clanged loudly when I threw it off the deck then rolled closer to our bedroom window. I followed it down and heaved it through the opening just like the gas cans.

  The propane tank took up most of the nightstand. I had to maneuver myself past it, fearing that if it fell over the gas cans would be crushed. Once inside, I saw that the partly used can spilled a bit. Foul tasting fumes greeted me the moment I made it in. Gas pooled slightly over the same spot I’d originally landed on earlier that morning. Looking down at the spill, I simply shrugged and righted the now half-filled container. Sarah would have unleashed the full fury of her marital scorn if she saw what I was doing to the bedroom.

  “If she only knew…” I muttered in response to my internal monologue.

  I dropped my filled backpack out the window and moved the partly spilled can just past the door to our bedroom. Then I dragged the propane tank into the living room and positioned it against the wall. It took up the same area I would have sat to watch television; that was, if the couch wasn’t barricaded against the front door. Opposite to the dirty white tank, I could hear the wooden planks creak and crack against their securing screws. It was amazing that my fortifications had lasted that long. I’d be happy if the boarded windows lasted just a bit longer.

  Walking back down the hall I paused at each doorway to look around. This house had protected us for many years. We moved in when Sarah was pregnant. It was good to the two of us then, and before the world ended it was still good to the four of us. But the house looked so different now. Everything was so dark and disheveled that I knew my home was already gone. All that stood now was a tool, a weapon, which could help me find them. There had never been a time that I felt so focused on a goal while simultaneously questioning reality.

  The partially filled gasoline tank emptied easily in Maddox’s room. I splashed it sporadically onto the walls and furniture. There was just enough left in the can to coat the bed and floor in Sarah’s and my bedroom with the dangerous fluid. I attempted to leave a clear path for me to walk, but the fumes in such an enclosed space made caution futile. Numbness set in under my left arm where the shotgun was tucked. It remained there while I toiled about trying to spread gas over the maximum area possible.

  Maintaining a controlled spill of the full can proved difficult. At first, I spilled so much in Calise’s room that I worried there wouldn’t be enough for the kitchen. While working a combustible path down the hall I reached into the bathroom and removed two towels, draping them both over my left shoulder away from the gas. Moving on, it was the propane tank and the immediate area around it that got the most thorough soaking. I didn’t pour any around the windows; but it was hard not to. Hearing the ravenous creatures right on the other side of the wall made the thought of emptying every drop there a tempting notion. Gasoline tainted all but the front windows and a broken path back to the bedroom exit.

  I threw the empty can to the side. It clattered along causing an instantaneous increase in volume from the monsters. The scene around me effortlessly redefined terror. However, I gave my work an approving nod then smirked. While moving to open the side table drawer nearest to the propane tank, I noticed tingling in my fingertips. Gas had moistened both gloves during the reckless hosing. The pair may be ruined but they may have some use to me yet. Fumes tickled both eyes when I draped the work gloves over my right shoulder. Inside the drawer, my bare hand found the long stick lighter that Sarah always kept there for her scented candles.

  A loud snapping sound shot my attention to the front. The wood was starting to splinter. I knew if there was ever a time to enact this criminally insane plan, it was now. Circulation returned to my side seconds after the shotgun returned to its proper place. I stood upright and filled my lungs with noxious air, the gasoline vapors making me dizzy. Then I let the breath out in the loudest scream I could muster.

  I stepped screaming over the gas trails towards the faltering windows. The Maverick’s stock became a drum stick that I banged against everything within reach. Outside, the dead seethed with delight. Their droning was equivalent to colonies of Africanized bees stirred into a rage. My nonsensical hollering turned into a tirade against the apocalyptic circumstances.

  “I will NOT bow to this. You fuckers can go back to Hell! I don’t care if you’ve made me abandon friends, or abandon what is right and wrong, or even abandon myself… I WILL NOT abandon them!”

  My shouting combined with the tainted air made my throat feel like I’d just exhaled sand. Visible cracks formed in the boards over the windows. The leftmost window shattered after the continuous barrage of vibration.

  I moved right in front of the window and pressed the barrel of the twelve gauge fire breather directly against the boards. Pressure from holding it there with my body weight reminded me of obvious injury within my core. Ravenous impacts jostled the gunstock. With my free hand I pulled one of the towels, wrapping it around the barrel. My hope was to isolate the muzzle blast from the explosive vapors permeating the air, knowing that if I failed, this hellacious nightmare would come to a fiery conclusion.

  I could see a glimpse of rotting jaws snapping through a growing fracture. I closed my eyes and tugged my finger against the trigger twice. The wood splintered away from the devastating blasts. A wet slap of munitions tearing through flesh broke through the chorus of moans. My head pulsed in objection to the deafening boom. Light immediately beamed through the large hole I made, telling me that whatever was on the other side suffered the full wrath of the shotgun slugs.
r />   I jumped back, nearly losing my balance over the line of gas soaked carpet. Even my traumatized ears recoiled from the flood of sounds that poured into the breached dam. Then the light blinked out as suddenly as it appeared. An arm speared through the opening. Whatever clothing once covered the appendage was long since gone. Mottled gray skin highlighted by black veins tore upon the splintered hole. Rather than blood, the ghoul leaked gelatinous muck from its new injury. The wood began to cave; I had precious seconds before the dead surged inward.

  Moving as quickly as I could, I set up the same arrangement on the second window. It was difficult to concentrate through the dizzying fumes. Through my peripheral vision I saw movement from the other window. I looked over and saw one of the zombies hanging halfway inside. The creature wore a soiled black jacket with a black and gold football logo stitched onto the sleeve. I recognized him immediately as my deadbeat neighbor from across the street. Gore caked a face highlighted with jet-black eyes. He flashed jagged teeth inside a rabid mouth. I fired the gun twice once again then exhaled, relieved the vapors hadn’t ignited. Before the opening could be filled I sent a high kick into the face of my undead neighbor. It was unfortunate I wasn’t able to enjoy the satisfaction of connecting my boot with the bastard’s nose.

  Then I ran. Without looking back, I ran. Echoes from the failed fortifications thundered behind me. Gasoline sloshed under my boots as I rapidly advanced down the hallway. I could hear the dead tripping over one another as they began pouring into the house. The sheer insanity of the circumstances added to the questioning of reality that bombarded my thoughts. Any hesitation would mean certain death. A shambling, ravenous stampede began to funnel in my direction.

  By the time I reached the bedroom door it was clear I’d underestimated the voracity of the infected. In the moment of panic I thought to close the flimsy door. The hollow wooden obstruction wouldn’t stop them for more than a few seconds. Those precious few seconds would have to do, because I had no intention of being in the room when they did force their way into my former sleeping sanctuary. If I hadn’t put my pack outside I’m sure it would have been forgotten in the intense flight.