by L. T. Ryan
“What about the rehab?” Sean asked.
“You’ll be here about four weeks, Sean. One for rest, three for rehabilitation, then you’ll be on your way home. Any other questions?”
Sean shook his head and said nothing.
“Very well, then. The nurses will be in early to prep you. The next time you see me, you’ll have a brand new leg.”
Sean hadn’t gotten used to the idea of having no leg yet, so having a brand new one seemed more exciting to the doctor than to himself. He smiled anyway and thanked the man.
Sleep came fast, thanks to the drugs the nurse gave him after Dr. Kaufmann left. He was restless though, as visions of the facility in Nigeria plagued him, both in his sleep and the waking states in between. What was truth and what was fiction? The lines were blurred. The problem was that he could see the events with such clarity. The eyes of the woman in the hall hovered above him, staring down at him with that pleading gaze, begging him to put an end to her misery. Nonsense, he told himself. Those visions were the things of science fiction and there was no way any of that had happened. He had to accept the account provided by Kemp. There was no other logical explanation. Except when it came to Turk. He’d known Turk almost as long as he’d been a PJ. They’d served side by side on several rescue and recovery missions. Dreams could not have provided him with so many past memories.
Could they?
Two nurses entered the room at six a.m. He was wide awake and greeted them with a smile. They wheeled Sean into a room for surgery prep where he was given a brief explanation of what would happen throughout the day. He paid little attention to them, feeling that he knew all he needed to know. He was getting a new leg, plain and simple.
They anesthetized him prior to taking him to the operating room. Moments before fading into a deep sleep, Sean wondered if they’d told his wife that he wouldn’t be joining her for breakfast.
When Sean came to, his leg hurt like hell. Almost as bad as having his femur sawed through. He grimaced and blinked his eyes open. It took several attempts to clear his vision. He heard voices in the room. They started off sounding muffled, like he was underwater and someone was trying to talk to him. After a moment, his ears cleared and he made out the sound of his wife talking to someone with a German accent. Sean turned his head. His wife and daughter were on one side of the bed, Dr. Kaufmann on the other.
“Welcome back, Sean,” Kaufmann said. “I was telling your wife how successful the surgery was.”
Sean’s throat felt dry and scratchy, he nodded his response.
“You’ll need to rest for a week,” Kaufmann said. “Then we’ll begin your rehabilitation.”
A week turned into two, which turned into a month. Before he knew it, Sean was back home with Kathy and Emma. Together, they settled into a life that held little resemblance to the life he’d led as a PJ.
Twenty-Two
Sean swung his legs over the edge of his bed and reached down with his hand until he found his everyday use titanium prosthetic foot and leg. His eyes scanned his nightstand and settled in on his digital alarm clock. Eleven a.m. “Christ,” he muttered, as he attached his prosthesis to the permanent titanium rod that had bonded with his femur years earlier. He still remarked that what the doctor had told him all those years ago had come true. He had almost all of the same sensations with his titanium leg as the one made of flesh and bone that he had lost in Nigeria. He could even feel the ground beneath his feet, and could tell when he moved from soft to hard ground. A cold tile floor could send chills up his leg and throughout his entire body. A walk through hot sand registered with both his left foot and right foot equally, and he’d find himself scurrying to get to a spot where the beach was damp.
The first year home had been rough. Sean missed the action and excitement of his job, as well as the camaraderie he shared with his fellow PJs and other members of the Special Forces community. But that had been the easy part to manage.
The nightmares that centered on the facility and the distraught beings inside persisted five to six nights a week. Sean slept very little during that first year, and he became so belligerent that Kathy threatened to take Emma and leave. That prompted him to dial the number on the otherwise blank yellow paper he’d received in the German hospital, stuck in the back of his retirement folder. He had no idea who the man was that answered, only that he helped Sean in a way that he imagined no counselor could. He told the man everything he remembered about the facility. Over time, the nightmares subsided, until he had them once or twice a month at most. These days, the dreams occurred less often, and Sean had almost accepted as fact that he’d stepped on an IED.
But doubts had lingered. Enough so that Sean devoted a portion of the money the government had given him to building a twelve hundred square foot bunker under the house they bought in the mountains of southeastern Virginia, south of Roanoke, fifteen miles or so east of I-81.
He and Kathy had fought over moving at first. They had a home and friends in Virginia Beach. She had a life there. But Sean’s life there was dead. All he saw were memories of Jules. No matter how convincing they’d been in telling him that Jules death had been a result of an explosion, Sean could never shake a recurring vision of him aiming a gun at Jules and pulling the trigger.
Kathy agreed to move, and they settled into their new environment. She found work in the city, and Sean caught on as a volunteer with the Fire Department. Two or three days a week he would hang out at the firehouse and help clean the trucks, store gear and help with general repairs. When there was a call, he’d ride with the firefighters and assist in various ways depending on the situation. His training as a PJ prepared him for almost anything, and they found him an asset to have around.
Sean made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. He poured a cup of warm coffee and scrambled a few eggs for breakfast. Before he could sit down to eat, his cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen and saw that it was Kathy calling.
“Hey, Babe,” Sean said. “How’s Seattle?”
“I got a line-up of conferences you wouldn’t believe,” she said.
“You’re probably right,” he said, hoping that she wouldn’t go into detail.
Kathy laughed. “Did Emma get off to school okay?”
Sean glanced toward the front door and saw that his daughter’s backpack was not hanging from its hook. He didn’t want to admit that he had slept past his alarm and missed his daughter leaving for the bus. “Yeah, she’s at school.”
“Okay. Well, three days then I’m back home. Think you can handle it?”
“The fridge is stocked with frozen dinners,” Sean said. “I think we’re good.”
“You sure? I could always get Barb to come over and make a meal for you.”
Barb was short for Barbara Whaley, Kathy’s best friend. The woman was single and forty and attractive. She spent most weekend nights at Sean’s house, hanging out with him and his wife.
“Nah,” Sean said. “I don’t want to be a hassle. We’ll be okay.”
They finished their conversation then Sean returned to his breakfast, deciding to move into the living room so he could watch TV. He flipped through the local channels with the sound muted. It didn’t take him long to realize that something had happened. Every station was broadcasting a news report thirty minutes too early. He set his fork on the plate of half-eaten eggs and got up as he unmuted the television.
“Officials are saying that the pandemic is confined at this time. There have been no reports in the U.S. as of yet,” the woman said. “Travel to and from the following regions has been restricted.” The reporter went on to list most of Africa, the Middle East and western Asia. The picture changed to still images of sick people in third world countries. “Signs include flu like symptoms: fever, aches and pains, chills, hot flashes, nausea,” the list went on and Sean knew every symptom before the woman said it.
Sean rubbed his eyes, not sure he was really seeing what was being shown on TV. He hustled to the kitchen a
nd grabbed his cell phone. He pulled up Kathy’s number and was about to call her when the reporter said something that caught his eye.
“We’re getting a report from Tangier, Morocco, of…” The reporter’s face went white. “I… Cut to the tape.”
A live feed took over the screen. It blinked and froze every few seconds like it was being broadcast via cell phone or webcam. Despite the bad feed, Sean made out the bodies of the afflicted as they shuffled through the dirty city street. At times, four or five of them would converge on someone too stupid to stay out of their way. They’d tear the person apart, limb by limb, and feast on the body.
Sean’s phone rang. He muted the TV and answered without looking at the caller ID.
“Babe,” he said. “You watching this?”
“I’m not your babe.”
He recognized the voice. It was dark and deep and commanding.
“But I take it you’re watching the same thing I am.”
“Yeah,” Sean said. “Who is this?”
“You know who this is.”
“I know it sounds a lot like someone I was told didn’t exist.” Sean rose. “And if that someone did exist, and they stayed away from me for eight years while I fought daily to convince myself that I wasn’t fucking insane, well, then that someone better stay far away from me. I may be missing a leg, but I can still kick anyone’s ass. I’m stocked with weapons and have no reservations about using them.”
“Good, you’re going to need to.” There was a pause. The man continued. “I’m sorry about that, Sean. They told me that if I reached out to you, they’d take my family. After twenty years as a SEAL, they had a lot on me. What was I to do? Look, Ryder, that shit we saw was real. I knew it was only a matter of time before those things made it far enough for it to turn into a pandemic. Now it’s happened. That’s why I’m reaching out to you. Do you hear me, Sean? The friggin’ apocalypse is here.”
Sean fell onto his couch. Could this really be happening?
“You there, Ryder?”
“Where are you, Turk?”
“Near Charleston, South Carolina. I got a set up here, a bunker and a compound. It’s all heavily fortified. I got a select group of people that will be staying here. Some family, a couple guys from the old SEAL team and their families. I want you to come out here. Bring your family. The way I see it, we’ve got about twelve hours before breakouts start happening in the U.S. That’s when all hell will break loose.”
Sean felt his head spin. Two versions of reality competed for space in his brain. The nightmares and images that he’d fought so hard to repress were now the truth that he had to accept and recall in frightening detail. But first he had to organize his family and his things if they were going to make it to Charleston in time.
“Where are you, Sean?” Turk asked.
“Near Roanoke, Virginia.”
“So about six hours. You need to get moving now. Roads are going to start getting clogged as word of this gets out.”
“Kathy’s across the country. She’s in Seattle. I can’t leave without her.”
“Shit,” Turk said. “See if you can get her on a plane to Charleston. I can have someone meet her at the airport and bring her here. Will that work?”
“Yeah,” Sean said.
“Okay.” Turk gave Sean coordinates to the location of the compound. “And look, Sean, if things go south, you go underground and you stay there for at least three weeks. That’s the minimum. You got somewhere you can go?”
“Yeah, I built a place here on my land. It’s stocked. We can survive there for months.” He walked to the window and parted the blinds with this thumb and forefinger. “Turk, why three weeks?”
“I figure that’s about the global lifespan of this virus. After that it blows itself out. But, as you probably remember, it can be transferred through bodily fluids. So once you come out, you be careful.”
“How do you know this?”
“The tunnel.”
“Say again?”
“When I was helping you out of that hell hole, we had to go through this long ass tunnel. I kept you talking. You told me everything some scientist named Knapp told you.”
“Knapp,” Sean repeated. It started to come back to him.
“I got other people to call, Sean. You’re the first one I reached out to. Get moving.”
“Okay,” Sean said.
He hung up the phone, rose, opened the front door, grabbed his keys and walked out to his truck.
By the time he reached his daughter’s school, the parking lot was full of concerned parents. He hopped the curb and parked in the grass, making sure to leave himself a way out should others do the same.
He pulled out his cell and dialed Kathy’s number. The call went to voicemail.
“Hey, Babe,” he said. “I know you’re in a meeting now, but once you get this message I want you to head straight to the airport and get on a plane to Charleston, South Carolina, okay? Don’t come home. Don’t wait for anyone. Don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. Don’t even go back to your hotel. Straight to the airport, Kathy. Call me as soon as you have your flight information.”
He hung up and stuffed the phone in his pocket. He worried that the tone of his message might frighten his wife, and wondered if he should call her back and leave a more reassuring message for her.
“Dad,” he heard Emma yelling.
He scanned the mass of people crowded around the school’s entrance and saw his daughter heading toward him. Sean rounded the front of his truck and opened the passenger door for her.
As he ushered her in, she asked, “What’s going on, Dad?”
Sean slammed her door, cut across the front of the truck and hopped in behind the wheel.
“Dad?”
He turned his head and looked his daughter in the eye. He reached for her hand, held it firmly in his.
“The apocalypse.”
ABANDONED HOPE
One
Addison Bowen clutched her pillow and pulled it tight across her face, hoping to drown out the noise. On the one hand, having a stoner roommate who tended bar and didn’t get home until five in the morning was great. Carla slept all day long and left right after waking. The two women rarely saw each other. But on mornings like this, when the woman got home especially late, smoked too much and found herself amped, Addison wanted to strangle Carla.
“Twenty to life, twenty to life, twenty to life,” Addison muttered to herself. The mantra worked every time. She had to use it too often, though.
It’d been dark when she woke up to the sounds of Carla “owning mobs” twenty minutes ago. The woman couldn’t keep quiet when she fought virtual opponents. Now, a slice of light penetrated through the long open sliver where her drapes met, casting a long thin finger across her bed. She sat up, grabbed her cell and checked the time. Six forty in the morning. She didn’t have to be in class until eleven. Perhaps she’d leave the television on a death metal station and turn the volume up to max on her way out.
She rolled over, reached down and grabbed a pair of shorts off the floor. A victorious yell erupted from the other room. Make that two yells, Addison realized. The other voice was deeper, that of a man. Who, though? With Carla, it could have been any number of guys, and most likely one Addison had never met. And one she didn’t care to let see her in a white tank top. So, in addition to the shorts, when she stood, she grabbed a thin flannel button-up and slipped it on, buttoning the middle three buttons.
Easier than putting on a bra, she figured.
The apartment she shared with Carla had two master suites. Addison thought the label was a bit over the top, but she did have her own bathroom, and that had been the deciding factor to move in despite the feeling in her gut that told her not to when Carla mentioned Addison would be the fifth roommate the woman had in eighteen months.
She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. It did little to muffle the sounds of virtual carnage coming from the living room. She flush
ed the toilet and turned on the faucet to drown out the noise. Finally, she thought, a little peace and quiet.
Only it wasn’t.
She freed her hair from a ponytail and ran a brush through it. The first quarter-inch of her roots were dark again. She tugged on the vanity. The mirrored door swung open. She found the box of wine-red hair dye. It was empty. She made a mental note to pick up some more on her way from class to work. She’d go right by the drug store anyway.
Steam coated the bottom of the mirror. She cut the hot water. For two minutes, she stood motionless, killing time while staring at her reflection. The longer she could wait in there, the better the chance the two stoners would be asleep when she went into her room. Addison didn’t want to wait, though. The longer she stood still, the angrier she became.
She pulled her hair back and wrapped a rubber band around it. She stormed out of the bathroom, through her bedroom and into the hallway. The noise must have risen a hundred decibels. A few steps later she stood in the opening where Carla and her friend could see her if they looked over. The carpet under her feet felt worn and beaten in the spot. Addison cleared her throat.
Neither of them looked over at her. They were engrossed in the game they were playing. On the coffee table in front of them, stood a three-foot purple glass bong. Wispy smoke drifted from the top and rose like a serpent into the air. The heavy odor of marijuana pervaded. Addison wondered how long it would be until she developed a contact buzz. Considering she did not partake, it might happen sooner rather than later.
She glanced toward the flat screen television. What she saw on the screen looked like something out of an episode of Sailor Moon. Only, the two female characters controlled by the two potheads on the couch held chainsaws, which they used to mow down hordes of the undead. Addison looked back at the heavy-lidded pair on the couch and cleared her throat again.