The place was silent and seemingly deserted, but he walked forward with his gun out and began checking the entire building, room by room. It wasn't until he hit the second floor that he stopped. The smell of rotting flesh was thick in the air and he covered his nose with his free hand. It made him gag and he doubled over, throwing up hard. He wished that he had eaten before he left. Throwing up on an empty stomach left him feeling dizzy and weak. After leaving a revolting stain of bile on the carpet, he continued up the stairs and found the source of the smell. A woman's body lay on the bed with a knife by her side, throat sliced messily. Blood had soaked through the sheets and pillow, having now faded to a dark blackish color.
On the nightstand was a journal. He picked it up before going back downstairs. No survivors there. He sat down on the living room couch and paged through the journal. Most of it was filled with the inane nonsense that journals typically are full of, the boring ramblings about day to day life. Skipping to the section dated the day of the outbreak, he stopped and read.
June 13 I saw a man get killed today. Outside of the grocery store, a tall, thin man attacked a shorter, stockier man, and the two fought to the death. The stockier man got his skull bashed on the pavement, and the tall man ripped out his throat with his teeth. I'd never seen such brutality before, not even on television. The tall man then turned to the growing crowd, and started attacking others before being subdued by a pair of police officers. I ran home at this point, in tears.
I don't know what this country is coming to, honestly. It pains me to see people treat each other this way. I don't think I'll ever shake the image of that man with his jaws closed over the other's throat, and the screaming, oh god, the terrible screaming. The scream was cut loose mid cry, and raised to a deafeningly high pitch before being cut out entirely.
Drinking is the only thing I've been able to do since then. Three gin and tonics later, and I still can't rest. I just keep thinking of that poor man. Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to forget about it, but I think it will take longer than that.
June 14 There was rioting by the hospital today. I barely escaped with my life. So much for my regular checkup. It seems that whatever caused that man from yesterday to be violent is contagious, and has spread far and wide. The radio talks of an outbreak, some infection that leaves its poor victims mindlessly violent and bloodthirsty. I'm afraid to leave my house.
June 15 Well, it's over now. The phones are dead, and the power went out. I'm too scared to even light a candle, for fear that it will attract those monsters outside. Cooped up in this
miserable house, I can't stand it. I still can't believe I fought so hard for this damned house in the divorce. Should have let the bastard keep it, then I wouldn't be in this mess. He's probably sitting in his dive apartment right now, hundreds of miles away from here, smoking and having a good laugh at the predicament I'm in. The bastard. I'm beginning to think this isn't isolated just to here. Sure, we're a smaller town, but who's to say where this infection started, and if it's just here, or if it's all over. I'd be willing to bet that the whole country is doomed. It figures.
June 17 A man came pounding on my door today, screaming for help. I was too afraid to open the door, and watched out the window as he ran off, getting tackled in the street and ripped to shreds by the hungry mob that followed him.
I'm disgusted with myself. I might have saved his life, and instead I just let him die. Does that make me any better than those who killed him?
I've decided to leave my door unlocked. If another human being can find shelter here, so be it. I won't let another innocent person (or guilty person, for that matter), die when they could be saved. And if leaving my door unlocked gets me killed, oh well. I'm ready to die.
June 19 I'd kill for a drink right now. Anything to quiet the horrible thoughts racing through my head. Never thought I'd run out of alcohol, not in this house. My well-stocked liquor cabinet is completely empty, just when I could use it most. I've barely eaten in days, just done nothing but drink myself to sleep, and when I wake up, I just drink some more. But no longer. Now I have nothing.
I've decided to die. I'm going to slice my own throat open, and end this miserable charade. Wish me luck in the afterlife.
June 21 I just couldn't do it. It's not that I'm afraid of dying, I'm not, but the fear of the pain is in me, and I can't bring myself to do it. I might try again tonight. God, I'd kill for a drink. It'd make things so much easier.
The journal ended there, and Clive closed the pages. He could never imagine losing hope like that, but he supposed some people just couldn't handle things. With a heavy feeling in his belly, he stood up and left the house, shutting the door quietly behind him. He couldn't let himself get distracted like that again, not with poor Alice still out there. He would find her, and he wouldn't stop until she was safe.
Chapter Thirty Five
Time To Go
Isaac woke up with a splitting headache. He rubbed his temples gently, but nothing seemed to help. His leg, however, felt strangely fine. Everyone else was still asleep, so he took the opportunity to inspect the wound.
His thigh was caked in dried blood and the gash was turning a strange purplish color. The infection seemed to be working faster than he thought. He couldn't risk turning into one of them, not around the boys and poor Eileen, or even Clive, the newcomer. He hesitated and looked around. Clive was missing.
It took him a moment, before realizing that he must have left to find the other survivors he left behind. Maybe he would find them, but he doubted it. His thoughts quickly returned to his own predicament and he decided that like Clive, it would be best if he just vanished as well. No painful goodbyes.
Sneaking quietly out the door, he paused to look at his friends one last time, before leaving. They looked so peaceful, sleeping like little children. He hated leaving like he was, but turned and silently closed the door behind him.
The sun was covered by a thick mass of rain clouds, that left the sky dim and dismal. What a day to die. He laughed to himself and climbed down the ladder. For a long time he stood at the bottom and pondered over his decision of where to go.
To some extent, he figured it didn't matter, but he wanted to be someplace well away from where he was, so that the boys would never find his body. Eventually he decided that if he was going to die, he'd best have a drink first. To the bar, then.
There were only a few bars in town, but the closest was the Geronimo. He'd never been there before, but after all, booze was booze and it didn't matter where he got it from. The walk would be somewhat long, almost a mile, but he had all the time in the world.
So he walked along at a leisurely pace, enjoying the crisp, cool air. Every sensation seemed so brilliant, every shade of color so vivid. He appreciated everything so much more, knowing that it might be the last time he'd see them. Even the light sprinkle of rain that started felt good against his skin, and he tilted his head back, letting the cool water wash over his face.
He smiled, for what felt like the first and the last time, and continued his walk in the rain. As he approached puddles, he skipped into them, splashing the water like a child at play. He laughed as he did so and soon his shoes were soaked through to the socks. His feet were getting cold, but he didn't care. As he passed by an abandoned house, an infected man came stumbling out from the back yard and approached him with a hobbling run. Isaac stood still and watched. He was not afraid and he'd never stopped before to really watch them. So this was what he would become.
The curiosity finally gave way to a sort of misplaced anger. He cocked his fist back and waited. The man moved with a crippled gait and soon staggered into range of Isaac's long arms. He flung his fist into its face hard and felt teeth give way. The infected man staggered back from the blow and then continued its advance. Isaac didn't wait for it to reach him this time and instead charged, tackling the man, and he began to pound on its head furiously, smashing it repeatedly into the pavement. All of his anger at losing the fight to the in
fection spilled forth and he continued battering the infected body until it was long past dead. Finally he calmed down and stood up. He'd never felt such violent feelings before and he quickly found himself disgusted with his actions.
Needing the drink more than ever, he took off at a run and soon reached the Geronimo. The front doors were barred, as well as the alleyway entrance, but the fire escape ladder was down so he climbed up. The place seemed too well-protected to be abandoned, so he called out a loud “hello”, and waited for a response. None came.
The bar was emptier than he thought it would be, but there was still enough liquor for him. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and started drinking. His eyes were transfixed on a homemade glass crucifix, which he assumed had been made after the outbreak. There were no signs of what happened to the previous occupant and he began to worry that maybe the owner was out on a food run or something and would be back soon. Not that he was afraid of possibly being shot, but he didn't want to risk scaring off a fellow survivor, especially from his own safe house.
So he grabbed the fullest bottle of whiskey he could find and went back to the upstairs apartment. Grabbing a handful of stale crackers, he climbed back down the ladder and started walking aimlessly down the street, eager to put more distance between him and the boys.
The thought of the boys filled him with grief and he felt a stab of regret at not saying goodbye. He almost turned around, but decided against it and took another swig in between mouthfuls of crackers. His ease with his impending death had faded and now weighed heavily on him. Brooding intensely, he continued ambling on, feeling the alcohol slowly work its way through his system. Exhaustion accompanied it and he stopped in a nearby alleyway to lay down. The exposure didn't bother him. He was already a dead man, and he slept soundly.
John stirred from his sleep and sat up. He immediately noticed the absence of Isaac and Clive, and went to wake up Paul and Eileen.
“What's wrong?”
“Isaac and Clive are missing.”
Paul bolted up and looked around. “Where are they?”
“I don't know, they just weren't here when I awoke.” Paul stood up and walked to the door. “Did you check the roof yet? Maybe they went out for some fresh air.”
“No, let's go look.” Eileen remained behind, wrapped up in her blanket, an expression of worry on her face. The two brothers climbed the steps up to the rooftop and looked around. Nobody was there.
“ Let's check the other apartments. Maybe they were inspecting the area. I'll take the first and second floor, and you take the third and fourth.”
John nodded and the two split up, searching the rooms, calling out for their missing friends. After a fruitless hunt, they returned to Eileen. She stared at John with questioning eyes and he merely shrugged.
“I don't know. They seemed to have left the building.”
“Great. What'll we do?” Paul spoke up. “There's nothing we can do. No point in searching for them, they could be anywhere in town. I'm guessing that Clive went to look for those other survivors, but I can't imagine Isaac would have abandoned us to join the search. I don't understand. They didn't even take any of the guns.”
The three sat in silence and a long time passed before anyone said anything. An hour trickled by. They ate a meager breakfast, too worried to enjoy their food. They played cards, more to pass the time than out of sheer enjoyment for the game. Another hour passed. Still no sign of Isaac or Clive.
“I don't think they're coming back.”
“Don't say that, Paul. Isaac wouldn't just leave us like this. He'll be back, I guarantee it.” Eileen slumped over and threw down her cards. “I think Paul's right. They might not come back. Maybe they're dead.”
“They can't be. Isaac's far too good at surviving to die that easily.” “ The infection has no mercy. Even Isaac would die, alone and unarmed, if he got attacked.”
Another silence fell over them and they stared at the door, hoping that at any moment Isaac would walk in triumphantly, wearing that kindly smile that came to him so easily. They waited a long time.
Chapter Thirty Six
Not Dead
Vincent and Jim crept down the dark
corridors, muscles tense and ready for anything. So far they had encountered no signs of life and a constant fear gripped them tightly. Vincent had been sure that the last of the prisoners had died off, but his certainty slipped with every passing step. They reached an intersection and paused.
“Which way?” Jim whispered.
“Straight ahead, and to the right at the next turn. That'll take us straight to the cafeteria.” He nodded and they continued on, clutching their rifles tightly. The weight of the weapons were reassuring and instilled in them a strange calm. With the easing of their tension, they picked up their pace and began to feel a little safer. So far, so good.
They entered the cafeteria and walked into the back behind the serving station. Several large burlap sacks of rice sat in the storage room and they emptied these out on the floor, filling them full of large cans of food.
“How about we treat ourselves to some hot food?” “ Seriously? I'd kill for a real meal. Cook us up something nice and we'll bring back the leftovers for Tom.”
Vincent fired up the grill and dropped some frozen chicken patties on it. The savory aroma soon filled the room. Both men salivated hungrily. Weeks of mostly canned food was tiring and unpleasant; the prospect of fresher food, even of such low quality, was tantalizing. They ate the chicken patties, smothering them in barbecue sauce, and sat back to relax. “Let's rest and digest for a minute, before we head back.”
Vincent frowned. “What about Tom?” “ Shit, I almost forgot about him.” Jim stood up and grabbed one of the sacks of food. “Bring him the leftover chicken.”
They exited the cafeteria and froze. A gunshot echoed down the halls.
“Tom!” They rushed back, swinging their rifles back and forth as they ran. When they reached Tom's body Jim fell to his knees, clutching his friend tightly. Tom's left eye was nothing more than an empty socket, the blast going right through to the back of his skull. Jim threw back his head and screamed. Vincent stood nervously, darting his eyes back and forth, watching both ends of the hallway carefully.
Jim looked up at Vincent, his cheeks tearstained and red. “Who did this?”
Vincent swallowed hard. “I think maybe Harry is still alive.”
Jim stood up and growled. “That fucker is dead. Where would he be?” “ He could be anywhere. Maybe we should just leave and not risk it. We have what we came for. Revenge will get us nowhere.”
Jim scowled at Vincent and yelled. “You fucking coward! We can't just let Tom die this way, and not do something about it. I'm going after him.”
Vincent slumped his shoulders and sighed. “Wait. If we're going to do this, let's do it right. We go together, and do not split up under any circumstances. We'll start at Death Row, and scour the place until we find that fat bastard. Then we leave, alright? I don't want to linger here any longer than necessary.”
“Fine.” Jim's face was a mask of anger and he followed Vincent down the darkened hallway.
They walked in silence and found Death Row abandoned. Vincent took a moment to collect his thoughts before turning back around and heading for the nearest Cell Block. Cell by cell, they searched for any sign of life, determined to snuff it out. The prisoners were all dead, and the light soon faded even further.
“We need a light. We can't do this in the dark, and sunset will arrive soon.”
“Where can we find a flashlight?” “ I've got a better idea. Let's see if the emergency power is still active. If so, let's just turn on all the lights.”
“Sure. Where's the control panel?” “ Should be one near the warden's office. Let's back out and head there.”
They followed the corridor down to the empty office and found a control panel filled with labeled switches. Vincent began flipping them one by one and the lights flickered on. Just as the li
ght turned on, they heard a gunshot in the distance. They stood frozen and stared at the doorway.
“Harry?” Vincent shrugged his shoulders. “It sounded pretty far off. Might be him, but it could possibly be another survivor.”
“Well, we need to be extra careful then.” Vincent nodded and they started heading back for the next Cell Block. With the lights on, the search went quicker, and they soon found the area empty, except for the scattered corpses, and torn bedding. The medical ward was their next stop and they covered their noses. The stench of rotting flesh was thick in the air and they tried their hardest not to gag. “We might as well grab some medicine while we're in here.”
Jim agreed and they entered the small pharmacy, loading up a bag with assorted painkillers and antibiotics. Once the bag was full, Vincent slung it over his shoulder and they headed for the exit.
“Where to now?”
Vincent shrugged. “Back to the cafeteria, I suppose.”
“Alright, let's make this quick. That bastard needs to die.” The cafeteria was also empty and they started heading back out the way they came, when the click of a gun stopped them dead in their tracks.
“Welcome back, Vincent.” The two men leaped behind a table, just as a bullet whizzed past them. They flipped the table over for cover and Jim grit his teeth. “Cover me.”
Vincent shook his head. “Don't do it. It's too risky. We'll wait for the right moment.”
“Fuck that, he's dying now.”
“Come out, come out, wherever you are...” Harry called out. Jim growled and stood up, spraying fire chaotically at his attacker. Harry ducked behind the stove and laughed loudly. “You missed me!”
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