by TW Brown
Grady thumbed the button again and turned the volume down as a talking head appeared on the screen and began to speak as an image appeared over his right shoulder of what looked to be helicopter footage of a riot in downtown.
“They ain’t gonna cop to this until it’s too late,” the man said with a tired sigh. He shook his head and turned back to me. “That’s why I’m heading out…tonight. And I would suggest you do the same.”
“Where are you headed?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Out of the city.”
I guess that was as good of an idea as any. Still, despite all I’d seen, I wasn’t exactly ready to abandon everything and run for the hills.
“I wouldn’t hold off for too long,” Grady said as if he could read my thoughts.
I sat silently for a moment. Grady gave me a sad look and then disappeared into his kitchen. I heard the sounds of pots and pans being thrown about. Actually, it literally sounded like he was throwing them around the room.
My eyes returned to the television and I saw that they were rolling footage of what looked like one of those more upscale apartment complexes. An entire three-story building containing several units was a raging inferno and there was not a single fire truck in the picture. The reporter was well down the parking lot from the building and the camera kept scanning the scene. I pushed myself up from the couch and knelt in front of the TV, bumping up the volume just enough so that I could hear what the reporter was saying.
“…over an hour now, and there has still been no response by the local fire department. Even more telling is the complete lack of any police presence. While we have seen a few cars zip past with lights and sometimes even sirens blaring, not one has bothered to stop here as the Lakeside Apartments continue to burn…”
I turned the volume back down and stuck my head in the kitchen to see Grady on his knees under the sink. He was tossing things out over his shoulders for the most part. Occasionally he would set something down beside where he knelt.
“Take care of yourself, Grady,” I called.
He banged his head coming out from underneath and I winced. He moved around until he was seated on the kitchen floor with his legs out in front and he rested his back against the cupboard doors to the right of the open cabinet he’d been ransacking—for lack of a better description.
“I’d tell you to do the same, Evan. But I see a look in your eyes that tells me I might be wasting my breath.” I cocked my head at him and raised an eyebrow in what I hoped would be seen as an invitation to elaborate. “That pretty little gal of yours is gone, and you don’t see what else there might be worth fightin’ for. And I can tell you this…a fight is a comin’ and it ain’t one nobody is ready to take on.”
That all seemed a bit over-dramatic for somebody as laid back as Grady. Not too many folks were as easy going…especially in these days where everything moved at light speed and constantly threatened to sweep you off your feet if you stayed put for too long. For just a moment, I thought he was finished with what he’d been saying; then he resumed his micro-lecture. “That gal wouldn’t want you to just roll over, and I gots me a feeling that is exactly what you’ll be tempted to do. If not now, then soon. And often.”
I was pondering his statement when an explosion sounded from frighteningly close by. I ran for the front door and threw it open. A chemical smell filled the night air and I turned to the left towards what I knew to be Foster Road. A roiling cloud of black smoke and flames reached achingly skyward.
“The Space Age,” Grady’s voice came from just behind me.
That was the closest gas station, and one that I’d probably stopped at a couple hundred times in the past few years. I wasn’t sure how it had started or what had managed to get past all the safety measures and such built in at most modern gas stations. I knew there were supposed to be kill switches or something to prevent such a thing from happening. I did know one thing for sure, and it was Grady who voiced those thoughts out loud.
“Wind is blowin’ this way, and ain’t no firemen coming to put it out any time soon. This little neighborhood is toast.”
3
The Punch in the Gut
I’d almost been afraid of what I would find when I walked in the front door. Carl had been true to his word in that he’d disposed of the body. What he hadn’t bothered to do was tidy up afterwards. A nasty, dark smear ran from our hallway to the side door that opened out into the little covered awning over the head of the driveway.
My curiosity got the best of me and I found myself following the trail. I stepped back outside and marched like a lemming to its doom as I approached the metal shed where our bicycles and all our yard tools were stored. Pulling the aluminum door open, the stench of hot death roiled out and went up my nose in a rush of foul unpleasantness that had me fighting back the urge to be sick.
I slammed the shed closed and returned inside. I could hear the occasional sounds of cars honking their horns or people shouting. That was mixed in with sporadic gunfire and I must have just stood in the middle of my living room…our living room…for what seemed like forever but was likely just a few minutes.
I could feel a bout of hysterics trying to build and made every effort to force it down. Maybe a time would come that I could allow that, but if the dam broke now, I might not ever be able to repair it. I would sit here in my living room as the flames from that gas station fire engulfed me, the house, and put an end to it all. I had to tell myself that such an outcome was not acceptable.
I walked into the kitchen and looked around. If I was leaving for good, then what was tops on my priority list of ‘must have’ items? My eyes drifted to the wall beyond our tiny kitchen table. They came to rest on a framed picture of me and Steph taken at Timberline Lodge. That photograph had been my favorite picture of her. It captured her most perfect smile, she had rosy cheeks from the cold and her eyes sparkled. The white background of the snow-covered lodge set off her dark hair seamlessly. I grabbed it and tucked it under my arm.
Food and all that would probably be easier to find than things like clothes and other items. I headed down the dark hallway to our room, doing my best to ignore the dark trail that ran the length. When I reached the bedroom door, I paused.
Had I been imagining things? I could’ve sworn that I heard something. Whatever it was had a deep resonance to it. I froze, standing stock still, every nerve in my body seeming to thrum with electricity. I was rewarded seconds later when I heard the sound again; this time certain that it had come from my room.
That was when I realized I wasn’t carrying a weapon. Whether this was the honest-to-goodness zombie apocalypse or not, being without a weapon right now was foolish.
The problem existed in the fact that the remedy was in our bedroom closet on the top shelf, behind all kinds of crap. I was about to take a very stupid risk when a voice in my head reminded me of the variety of tools in our shed.
I hurried to it as quiet as possible. Opening the door to outside was a reminder that I needed to act with haste. The fire was spreading. I was seeing little orange embers drifting to the ground as nearby trees had now become part of the conflagration. I held my breath as I opened the shed once more and was thankful that I’d been so insistent about everything being put in its place. A hand axe hung above the multi-drawered tool box and I grabbed it.
Heading back inside, I froze for just a moment when the sound of one of those terrible screams cut through all the other general racket that seemed to be growing louder and more discordant with each passing minute.
I headed back up the hall and stopped at my door once more. Forcing myself to try and calm down just a bit, I held my breath and listened for that sound. I was rewarded almost immediately as the low resonance drifted to my ears.
Being as careful and as quiet as possible, I pushed the door open slowly. Despite the time that had passed and the fact that the body had been moved outside, the bedroom had a foul stench that made my nose wrinkle. Dark stains were on the w
alls and the once pristinely white bed was a sight out of a horror movie.
Curled up in the middle of it was a huge dark shape. The sound I’d heard came again from the dark form and I felt my body slump as I recognized the sounds of snoring that Chewie was so famous for.
“Hey, girl,” I whispered.
The massive head lifted very slowly and craned around to regard me. When the head tilted to the side and a low rumble came from deep in the chest of my Newfoundland, I froze.
Did dogs turn? I wondered briefly.
I reached over and flicked on the light switch for the room and instantly regretted it. The dark stains were much more terrible in the light. Chewie sort of crawled towards the foot of the bed and I was able to see strips of cloth wrapped around and secured to the small bit of tail that remained.
I walked over and was greeted by Chewie rising up and slathering my face with her huge, sloppy tongue. That was the one thing we’d been warned about when we first looked into getting a Newfoundland; they are sorta famous for their drool. Chewie was no exception. I remembered many nights when she would sit just a few feet from the dinner table and stare at me and Steph as we ate. There would literally be a puddle of drool at her feet as she regarded us hopefully, waiting for the tidbits that she knew were sure to come.
“How you doin’, girl?” I said in a hoarse whisper as I knelt down and grabbed her huge head in my hands and put my forehead to hers. She tilted up and gave me another lick on the face as if to say, I’ve been better, but I am sure glad that you’re home.
As much as I wished that I could simply flop down onto the floor and hug my dog, I needed to get it in gear. I would not be able to load much, but I could at least grab a few things before getting out of here ahead of the approaching fire. I gave Chewie a pat on the head and walked into the kitchen. When I passed through the living room, I switched on the television.
“…have lost that feed,” the reporter was saying. I paused to get a look and was a little surprised by what I saw.
One thing about the people on television news that you could usually count on was an immaculate appearance. Their hair was always neat and their clothes were clean. The man staring into the camera was none of those things. His washed-out features led me to believe that he hadn’t gone to the make-up chair. I could see stubble beginning to darken his jaw, and his hair looked like he’d been running a marathon before sitting at the desk. It was plastered to his forehead, and with the advent of HD, I had no trouble seeing the sweat trickling down his temples.
“We here at Channel Eight wish to send our hopes and prayers to field reporter Michele Takimi and her cameraman, Steve Herns.” He sat up straight and leaned forward as if he might be straining to read something. After a few seconds, he gave a nod.
“We have been told that our duty here is now at an end. This network will be switching to the Emergency Broadcasting Network in just a moment. As we do, I want to wish you all the best and hope that we will overcome this terrible event. God bless the people of this state, the United States, and the rest of the world.”
There was a moment where the man just continued to stare into the camera, and then the screen filled with a symbol noting that the Emergency Broadcasting Network was now active and that a message was forthcoming.
I headed into the kitchen and grabbed the large plastic container that we kept our empty soda cans in so we could collect the deposit. It felt strange when I tipped the container and let the cans spill across the floor. After wiping out the inside, I went to the cupboard and tossed in all the dry and canned foods. Sadly, the container was less than half full when I finished.
An idea struck me and I rushed back out to that horrible shed once more. Our large cooler that we used for camping was sitting in the corner. I had to step over the dead zombie to do so, and that made me pause for a few heartbeats as I gathered my nerve and triple-checked to make sure it was truly dead-dead. I snagged it and turned to go back inside the house.
The smell hit me first, even stronger than that put off by the body already on the floor here in the shed. I’d been to focused on my task and ignoring my surroundings. If I wanted any chance at survival, I needed to get my head on straight.
Standing in the doorway and blocking my exit was a dark figure. The beehive hairdo told me it was our neighbor at the head of the cul-de-sac.
I stepped back and almost tripped over the dead body already littering the floor. The dark form advanced and let loose a low moan that I heard echoed from not too far away. That meant I had even less time than I’d thought.
In the movies, people usually have no trouble flipping that switch that turns them into some sort of badass zombie killer. In that moment, I wished I could find that switch. Twice I batted the reaching hands aside, unable to put the axe I held in my hand into play.
I felt a cold dead hand brush my cheek at the same time my back found the wall of the shed. That was apparently what it took to flip the switch. I raised my arm and brought the axe down hard right in the middle of my funky-haired neighbor’s forehead. When she fell, the axe pulled free and I stood there over the body for an indeterminate amount of time. I might have prayed for forgiveness…honestly, I couldn’t say. My brain was getting fuzzy, but eventually I collected the cooler that I had obviously dropped at some point and headed back to the house.
My gaze drifted to my right and I saw that Grady had left at some point. His house remained open, but the truck and trailer in the driveway were gone.
“Good luck,” I whispered.
Up the street I could see a few forms moving along. The fire over on Foster was drawing closer, and the flickering light was casting everything in dancing shadows that amped up the creepy factor.
I went inside, determined to be loaded and on the move within the half hour. Chewie was waiting at the door. The fact that she wasn’t jumping and barking at all the strange activity was evidence to me of how much her tail injury must be hurting.
“I’ll take care of us, girl,” I said as I passed by and gave her a pat that was probably more for my own reassurance than hers.
As I passed the television, I noticed that somebody was talking. I paused to listen despite the fact that the voice in my head was urging me to hurry and get out of here.
A man in a rumpled suit came to a podium. The American flag hung on one side. The man wiped his hand down his face and then looked up at the camera.
“My fellow Americans, we are currently dealing with a situation that is unprecedented. As I address you, the president and several key members of the cabinet are en route on Air Force One to a secure location. They will be working endlessly with the CDC until a solution to this strange epidemic is found. We ask that you please heed the announcements from your state and local officials as we take the steps to stem this horrific tragedy that is being suffered around the world.
“In a moment, your local emergency broadcasting systems will inform you of what to do. Afterwards, the president will address the country. God bless America, and the rest of the world, as we can hopefully come together and resolve this crisis.”
There was an instant as the man gathered whatever he had brought to the podium where the camera lingered on his face. Just like the local reporter I’d seen a few moments ago, I saw the sweat running down in rivers. This guy was just as afraid as everybody else.
The screen returned to the EBS test signal. The ticker informed me that an announcement from the local network would be carrying region-specific information in one moment. Time felt sluggish, but at last there was a camera shot of a large desk. The Oregon state flag was on one side, the American flag on the other. A gray-haired man in a suit sat behind the desk with a few sheets of paper. He seemed surprised by something and then looked up at the camera.
“People of the Portland-metro and surrounding areas, we are facing something that is unique in our history. There is a terrible virus or contagion that is sweeping through not only our city, but the world. As reports flood in from aro
und the world, the symptoms are consistent.
“This is what we know for certain. Those infected are currently described as hostile and displaying violent, cannibalistic characteristics. The CDC has confirmed that this disease is communicable. There is no known prevention other than to avoid contact at all costs.
“Local hospitals have ceased accepting victims of attack. You are directed to bring any person bitten but still alive to stations set up by the police and National Guard. Currently in the Portland-metro area the following locations are set up as monitoring sites: The Rose Quarter, PGE Park, Roosevelt High School, Beaverton High School, Gresham High School, Tigard High School, Forest Grove High School, and Franklin High School. Be advised that more sites are planned, and that those who must use the Rose Quarter or PGE Park will be directed to a FEMA-run emergency shelter where they will be asked to provide information on the person or persons they delivered. At each high school, that information will be obtained at a designated checkpoint established in the vicinity. There will be signs clearly designating routes to take. Also, be advised that you should only use the Rose Quarter and PGE Park if you’re in the immediate vicinity.”
I had to admit, that last bit made perfect sense. While some people might actually feel better in one of those larger facilities, an influx of people heading downtown would create a nightmarish gridlock.