After a few days of not receiving adrenalin I feel it wearing off, but I remember everything that happens. Kind of an adrenalin hangover I guess. I walk the streets of New York City with all the other infected for days. Attacks are plentiful among our own kind as there are no Healthies except, according to Maslow, on Manhattan Island. Every day, I go to the dock and stare out at it hungrily across the water. But today is different. Today I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Buffet.” a voice groans into my ear. I can hear the dryness in Bob’s voice. He hasn’t fed in a while. I turn around and see what must amount to a few thousand of armed infected, many wearing war paint made from the blood of Healthies.
“Help us attack” Bob says. I smile and nod. I am just hungry enough to take him up on that.
“Lead us.” He moans. Music to my ears. I don’t trust him, but the enemy of my enemy... You know the rest.
9
Attack on Manhattan
Virus is defined as “The causative agent of an infectious disease”. It is also defined as “an infectious agent that is unable to grow or reproduce outside a host cell”. I have been thinking about this as of late. Wrath, as a virus, kills and takes over the individual animal, a human, this is true. But it then mutates the entire animal into a multi-celled representation of the virus itself. In a sense I, we, are the ”causative agents of an infectious disease” aren’t we? We are Wrath embodied. Wrath found a way to transmit itself using the host, or former host, and destroy anything that might be able to eradicate it. Civilization, organized scientific communities, think-tanks; all gone by Wrath’s hand. It’s a whole new generation of virus, an evolutionary progression... No, an EXPRESSION, of the outbreak itself. Am I nothing more than a virus? Isn’t that what the Healthies think of us? Just walking corpses that eat them and spread disease. No wonder they loathe us. Is there no way to convince them otherwise? Maybe they deserve our pity. They are scared animals, after all. But they are people and they should have compassion for the sick and dying. Many of them probably care more for a dog or cat than for us. To Hell with them, and to Hell with “society”...
It is a long way across the water to Manhattan. The bridges we can see, have been destroyed. There are boats, but none large enough to transport thousands of us. Then after a while, it hits me. We don’t need to breathe. I find a long pole and put it in the water to check the depth at the pier. It is a drop. We are too clumsy as a whole to swim, and walking underwater seems nearly impossible. I managed in the tunnel to Norfolk, but that was different. There were cars and trucks to hold onto, and I was trapped and had no choice. We wouldn’t be able to see in this muck, or smell. Currents would push us around unless we weighed ourselves down at the feet. While navigating this would be possible for the smartest of us, it is too much of a task for so many of the “followers”.
We have to find another way.
I think for a while and wonder if Bob and I drove a boat with as many on board as possible and the rest of us hung off the edge, or on to each other, wouldn’t that work? I could pull us all through the water with a powerful enough boat. We could be under water while being pulled for as long as necessary.
I share the idea with Bob and we get to work.
I search the docks for hours and finally I find a tugboat that we can use. Tugboats are powerful enough to pull heavy ships so this one should have no trouble pulling us. Then I remember I don’t know much about boats. In the mean time, Bob has been showing the group how to hold on to each other and form a mass chain, and the majority understand. We will not get them all, probably much less than half, but we will have the smartest of the group. Natural selection perhaps? Back inside the tug’s cabin, as I stare uselessly at the controls I feel someone behind me. It is an infected man with strangely perfect jet black hair, but missing his whole lower jaw, his tongue just hanging there. In his eyes I see deep regret but no fear. He pushes me aside and starts the boat. In a short while Bob leads the others to the boat and they slowly board holding their ends of three “chains” of infected, and we head out toward Manhattan; the three chains slowly dropping off the pier into the water. Many let loose immediately. We circle around and retrieve as many as we can.
There are many floating, empty boats and even a few ships in the water. There is also debris everywhere, and more bodies than I can count. Many more of our people drop off to grab at the floating bodies. A few times, we circle back and try to pick folks up, but his is useless. It is a long trip made longer. Then we push up against a smaller boat and begin to move it out of the way. As we move it, a large explosion rings out. Did the boat blow up? What happened? We look for attackers as we duck down. Then I look in the water and see them. Mines. The channel has been mined and we are right smack in the middle of them.
The only thing we can do is head toward smaller boats and debris and push them ahead of us to sweep the mines. This works several times, better than expected in fact, as they hit the mines we would have hit, and explode. As we approach shore, our luck eventually runs out and we hit a mine. The boat rises up out of the water and we are dumped in. As luck would have it there is so much debris most of us can crawl through it to shore. We hear many explosions as many of us aren’t lucky enough to avoid mines. I can’t really tell but our numbers seem to be only a few hundred now. It is very dark on the dock, so we regroup inside a warehouse.
Everyone is scared and I sense a Frenzy is about to take hold. Also, I expected a fight to get onshore--and by the look on Bob’s face, he did as well. Then we hear them. We look outside and see Hummers and large trucks. Healthies have come to strike. But when they get out we notice that they are obviously infected. Has there been a takeover? Are we organized? Then the dogs are let loose and tear into us like they always do. I hate dogs now.
Those of us that survive this attack are thrown into the trucks. Strangely, every single one of our captors is infected and they all seem smart, not just some, all of them. The trip is a little too long and Frenzy hits our truck. I am immersed in screams and attack. I fight off my own people and just as I am about to begin to feed on them, the truck stops and the doors are opened. Lights shine into our eyes as we are led out. We are in a large empty space and I turn to see a large picture painted on a tall building. I know that face. It’s a 7 story portrait of my old friend, the zombie killer himself, Dimitri Maslow. Then I hear his voice.
“Couldn’t stay away, could you Madden. You know our secret now. This is the true Xanadu of the infected. Most of us are on a steady intake of our milk of paradise, adrenalin. Doesn’t take much once you’re juiced to stay up and smart. We only gave you enough to do what we wanted you to.
He then leans in and whispers, “And as you know I am not infected... But don’t tell anyone.” He smiles and winks as I feel the butt of a rifle hit me in the jaw. That’s the last thing I remember for a while.
I wake up in an office. Maslow is sitting behind a desk.
“Good morning Mr. Madden, did you have a nice nap?” He says cheerily.
I ask what is going on, and he begins to explain.
“Mr. Madden, Het, I don’t like the living, the Healthies as you call them. They saw disaster in all of this and I saw opportunity. I am the king of New York because I followed a plan. I did infiltrate the world of the undead, your world, and began to understand and live among you. I ate what they ate, killed what they killed, and soon blended in nicely. First through hypnosis by the good Doctor, then it came naturally. I followed the herd, journaling every aspect of the way you people lived. There is an alpha in every group, did you know that? Frenzy is caused by close proximity of approximately 50 or more of you for greater than 20 minutes. Every one of you is sentient. Just at different levels. I have not discovered why some are left more incapacitated than others. Age plays a factor, and I suspect genetics does as well. You don’t have to sleep, but when you do you all dream. Many daydream and live in several realities. One thing is for sure, you all go mad eventually. This can’t be stopped. The virus
doesn’t ruin your mind, it makes you mad. Then the madness ruins the mind. A slight difference, but an important one.
After traveling all over the East Coast, I came upon your friend Bob, and before long he had told me so much about you. I took his wallet and saw his GenCap id. He unfortunately seemed too far gone to get any information out of through hypnosis. But he was still very useful. I got a rough idea of where you were headed and stalked you. I wanted the cure and I knew you had it in you. I wanted your kind gone! But not all gone... There has to be balance for a while so I can live comfortably here on the island. I will release your antiviral on the mainland and kill your kind off. The doctor and I just need to do more tests and find the best method, and we already have some ideas. I will keep my group safe here and they will continue to serve me.
I know what you are thinking... You are wondering about food. We keep humans in the many jails here as well. We gathered up quite a few and have enough to last a very long time. Plus, they reproduce, believe it or not. Ahh, a delicacy, but I digress. When they are gone, my servants will eventually die. But I, too, will long gone by then. As the dead die, I will regain contact with government in the north, take credit for the downfall of the dead, and be a hero. I will rule the world as I give my cure to all lands. Statues will be erected of me by all the souls of this world!
I have to interrupt and ask “Wait, if you aren’t infected then why do you eat Healthies?”
“Excellent question, excellent. Why? Because I am a sick son of a bitch, Mr. Madden. As sick as they come. I have killed and eaten people my whole life. Long before any of you were born, in fact. Unfortunately Mr. Madden you are too smart for my own good. I can’t have you around ruining things, but I do admire you. That is why I have to break you and create an ally. I have done this hundreds of times to your kind.”
He points to the back of the room. Two of his men are standing next to a coffin. Oh my God... I try and make it to the door but two more of them grab me. Kicking and fighting they put me inside it. The lid is sealed and I feel I am being moved. I am so scared I can’t move or speak. My worst fear, our worst fear, I realize. The unknown and not being able to move and being interred like a dead body.
After a long while movement stops. I am dropped down and I hear dirt hitting the top of the coffin. I am being buried alive. I listen to each shovel full of dirt hit the lid above me. I am losing my mind to the cadence of my burial. I can’t stand it anymore, not being able to move. I can’t breathe it seems, even though I no longer need to. It is so tight I can’t even turn over. I start to kick and scream and try to get out but I am powerless. I lay there and, tired, I begin to dream.
So real, these dreams. I remember my life. I remember my family. My son is young and smiling at me and laughing. We are sitting down watching TV and I can feel him next to me. He smells like the chlorine from the pool. He gets up to get a drink and I grab him from behind and bite into his neck. I throw him down and eat him alive. I have many dreams like this as my captivity goes on for what seems like weeks. I stare into the dark until I dream again. An endless cycle of fear and pain and unbearable confinement. But now I awake to scratching sounds.
I can’t tell whether I am still dreaming or not. The scratching gets louder, so loud it is deafening. Then I see the first one. Its head pokes through a hole scratched in the coffin. It is a rat, I think. It squeezes into my crypt and several more follow. They smell me and seem to be looking for food. I don’t appear to be on the menu until I realize they are gnawing on me. The lid is thin from their scratching so I now claw my way out of my coffin and climb out of the hole.
It was barely two feet underground, no wonder they smelled me. I try to escape, but there are too many. Then as quickly as they came, they are gone and everything goes completely silent. Before I can think, I feel the concussion of a large explosion and hear the sound of jet planes. The Healthies are attacking the island. I slowly make my way back inside the building and see Maslow standing there. The floor is on fire all around him and a large piece of meat is missing from his side, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His hands, feet, and head are cut deeply. I shout his name. He looks at me, smiling. Then he notices the gaping, and non-bleeding hole in his torso.
Realization floods over his body. He is dead and has been for a long time. But I think he knew that deep down. Many people live in denial. It is a powerful thing. I am on him in an instant. I tear his heart out and then rip his head off. I notice it remains alive, unable to speak with no air passing over his vocal chords, but still mouthing words. He mouths “elevator down.” I don’t know what I want to do with him yet so I put his head in an old backpack I find by the door and hang it from my shoulder. I head to the elevator.
I still hear the planes attack as the elevator door closes. I feel the car move down. The doors open to a hall. A sign says TRAINS RIGHT. Trains? I follow a hallway away from the island. I notice how new it looks and realize this isn’t the public train. This is something different. This is something that was built to survive anything. Infected animals line the hall but do not attack. We finally arrive at a station and a train is there. The doors open and I get on. The doors shut and the acceleration is unbelievable, but I am underground, so I can’t tell how fast I am going. An hour, maybe less passes and the train stops. I read WASHINGTON D.C. through the window.
Are you kidding me? An underground train between D.C. and NYC? It seems impossible but soon isn’t hard to believe, I mean, I am a walking dead man after all, and that reality sunk in.
And I am now home.
I get to street level and hail a cab. What is going on? The infected driver asks where I am headed. I give him my address and he explains that the virus was only temporary and everyone that survived is turning back to normal.
“Even your family, Het.” he says. I realize I never told him my name. When I ask him, he says “You’re famous, Het. You saved the world, don’t you remember? You perfected the cure and saved your son. He loves you Het. That is forever.”
I am very confused as we pull up to my home and my son, young again, runs out to see me. I hug him tightly. He pulls back, looks into my eyes and says “We choose our own destiny from the very beginning and nothing is as it seems. This is the real world, don’t be blinded by rage. Please don’t leave me, Daddy, please don’t hurt me. I am always here, you just have to find me.” I start to cry and then suddenly I hear the coffin lid open and see Bob reach down to pull me out. I wasn’t even underground.
I don’t know what is real any more so I just shake my head and climb up to the surface. He puts a hand on each of my shoulders, looks me in the eye, and groans “Broken”. I realize that I am more confused than broken, but can’t really tell what the difference between them is. I also know that Bob is working with Maslow, and so am I until I can figure out what is going on. Bob mumbles “Eat”. Sounds good...
10
Hand That Feeds Me
Life without a friend is like death without a witness.
-Spanish proverb
Companionship is something even we, the Damned, crave. It is easy for me to hate. And I can quench the hatred I have for the Healthies by eating and killing them. But love is a different story. I haven’t had anyone I can call a friend since Michelle died... I miss her, but I miss my family more. I miss my son. I miss my friends from before all this. Now I only have enemies and worse enemies. This is a problem because it draws me into wanting to be part of Maslow’s sick cult. I know his mission is to kill us all, but I need a friend. Maybe I have been broken, but I can’t help myself.
When Bob and I get back Maslow has a fat Healthy, a man, tied up waiting for us at a table. There is a woman, an infected woman, sitting at the table. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her. Bob walks off and leaves us alone. She isn’t very alert, but there is a sweetness, a tenderness, about her. She slowly speaks “Hello. Het. I’m. Gena”. I know she works for Maslow, but I am so lonely and tired that it doesn’t matter. I walk over to her and kis
s her cheek and sit down. It is nice to have company, nice not to feel rage.
I take my time and really enjoy this meal. For some reason I don’t go into a Frenzy. I calmly devour and kill this man and relaxingly enjoy his screams, like music feeding my soul, as I eat. We both do. I stroke her hair and talk to her. I don’t know if she understands but I tell her about my family, my son, anything I can remember. It seems like we talk for hours as she sits and smiles and touches my hand. I think she understands. Out of the corner of my eye I see Maslow walking up to us. She squeezes my hand and I can see fear in her eye. She is terrified of him.
“How do you like my gift to you, Mr. Madden?” I keep calm.
“Not bad at all Mr. Maslow, not bad at all.” I say.
“You will notice that she still has her figure, and very limited deterioration.” He adds proudly. “Of course she has been disciplined into submission. I want you to have her.”
“Thank you”. I say as he leaves, looking at Gena. She looks me in the eyes and begins to speak slowly. I ask her several times what’s wrong.
“Maslow hurts us.” Us?
“Who else besides you? Do you understand me?” I ask.
Het Madden, A Zombie Perspective: Book One: WRATH 2012 (Volume 1) Page 9