Planet of the Dead

by Thomas S. Flowers

  Walter held up his arms. "Floyd, what's going on?" he whispered hotly, wanting to direct the agent back out the door, remembering they were not alone by a sudden flash of a camera behind him. "Did something happen to the President?"

  Floyd Bennet opened his mouth as if to say something. Salvia drooled out in strings on his chin, drooping down and touching his suit.

  "Floyd?"

  The agent lunged and speared Walter, knocking him down to the floor. Around him, shouting erupted, now filled with actual visual terror. Screams and yelling. Pleading with someone on the security detail to come and help.

  Jason Kelly and Joe Peters and Sarah Evan stared, frozen with their mouths agape.

  Walter wondered, just for a moment as he held Agent Floyd Bennet back, trying to push him off him, trying to keep those gnashing teeth that stunk of gaseous spoiled milk from his throat, which was the greater sin, inaction or misinformation?

  With that, Floyd batted away Walter's arms and thrust his sour smelling teeth, biting down on his throat, sinking in and chewing, pulling away flesh and sinew in a jet of crimson blood.

  Walter screamed, hitching his pelvis, clamping a bloodied hand over his gushing wound.

  The reporters around him pushed back more frantically now, knocking into each other, fighting over who got to the exit first.

  Deputy Press Secretary Walter Friendly reached out with a numbing hand for help, but found none.

  Polk

  Part 1

  Shoreacres,

  Texas.

  What a situation to be in. No job. No home. No steady source of income, other than what Veterans Affairs offered in benefits, deposited into her meager bank account every month as compensation for her disability. Hell, it was more than what some made working shit hours flipping burgers, she ought not complain. Still...the disability check didn't satisfy the way getting paid normally did. Even the word, disability, felt like an affront. Ashley Polk, before the war, had never been known as one to take a handout. Her mother had bailed on her and her dad before she could even walk. Polk didn't have many good recollections of her, so perhaps there was no big loss there. And her father, dad, he worked two jobs to keep her and his other five kids fed, clothed, and sheltered. There wasn't much time for anything else. But one thing he had impressed upon her was that anything worth having was worth working hard for. His legacy of self-sacrifice and duty was part of the reason why she'd signed up for the Army. She wanted to prove her worth and she wanted to work hard for what she wanted. And she had...until she got hurt and now nothing seemed right anymore.

  Regardless, she still took the check, didn't she? Deposited into her bank account on the first of the month. And what Polk didn't spend on booze, she spent on junk parts from Home Depot and that antique place out on Westheimer Road, Knickerbocker Tools & Trinkets.

  Jonny had asked her more than once, "Why do you build those things? What are they?"

  It was a borderline question a therapist would ask, that is, what are they to her? These prosthetic contraptions fitted for her amputated arm. What are they indeed.

  Perhaps--weapons?

  Extensions?

  That's what they are, right? Filling in that missing void. That empty space that once held flesh and bone and tissue and a very rad tattoo of a mouse floating in an apple martini glass.

  The idea for the design she had gotten from watching those movies of hers, namely Evil Dead 2. Even her name, Ashley, was the same as the one-liner hero Ash Williams. To date, she had yet to mimic the chainsaw prosthetic Ash toted around in the movies. Though she had come up with her own original design. Her favorite due to its simplicity, a three-foot steel spike attached to a harness that could be securely fastened to her bicep for maximum support.

  Simple, but absolutely very lethal looking.

  Polk could hear her VA appointed shrink now.

  "What's the purpose of this 'spike?' To protect yourself?"

  Maybe.

  "From what?"

  Dunno.

  "Do you think perhaps you feel they help make you whole?"

  They keep my mind busy.

  They keep me sober; or, less drunk.

  Hey, at least her hobbies didn't involve shooting up heroin like some fallen forgotten soldiers, not that Polk would ever allow herself to sink so slow. And besides that, she hated needles.

  "You're not forgotten, Ashley." Her therapist's voice again.

  What did she know? Civilians. It's not about the world forgetting soldiers, its soldiers forgetting themselves, who they were...before the war. Finding out who they are now.

  Never Forgotten, the slogan says.

  Who am I?

  "Do you think the 'spike' is representational of something sexual, maybe, your assertion for control, for dominance?" the shrink had asked.

  And that had been their last session.

  Two months and counting now.

  Sexual? Why does it have to be a pseudo-penis, why can't it just be what it is, a really awesome looking metal spike that could do some really gnarly damage? Don't tell me Freudianism is making a comeback. Truth be told, I'm much more of a Jungian kinda girl.

  Polk stood up from the couch, stretching her arm and stub. Working her toes into the thick carpeted rug, she shook away her thoughts and memories of failed counseling. On the TV, the News was playing. Some briefing at the White House. Frowning, she looked for the remote on the coffee table.

  "Blah, blah. Same bullshit, different day." She turned off the TV, the image of some Deputy Press Secretary Walter Friendly vanished, leaving behind a black screen.

  She started for the kitchen, finding it empty, aside from the plates and smell of bacon lingering in the air. The coffee pot was on and for that she whispered, "Thank Christ." Pouring a cup, Polk glanced around. Where is everyone? she wondered and then remembered something about her roommates having lunch at Karen's parents' house, which was strangely enough in the same neighborhood.

  With her steaming mug in hand, Polk walked around looking up at the framed couple and family photographs hung on the walls, the little ceramic vases on small circular glass tables, and some sort of potpourri doohickey, sputtering mists of lavender every so often. She took a sip of joe, snickering. Never in a million years did she ever imagine Jonny settling in middle-class America. All this décor was without a doubt Karen's doing. And to be fair, their living arrangement wasn't exactly what you'd call the norm. Unwed, not even engaged, and a second woman living in the house.

  What would the neighbors think?

  More snickering.

  Not that Karen had anything to worry about. Jonny was her friend, nothing more. Old Army buddies, battles. And besides, Jonny wasn't her type.

  Jonny ought to be the one worrying.

  Karen was--Polk bit her lip, picturing her best friend's girlfriend--perfect.

  Cliché, maybe. And it would never happen, and she knew that. Not in a million years or longer. But still...if only she were as lucky as Jonny, to find someone who looked after you, someone who knew you and all the crap you've endured. Someone to keep you safe from yourself.

  That's what I need, I need a Karen.

  A Karen to remind me that Iraq is over.

  Remind me that Route Tampa was nothing more than sand.

  Tell me I'm more than just my wounds.

  Not that she would ever find her own Karen, or so she believed. Her love-life had sizzled out after the war. Most of her dates, the few she'd had since getting home, lasted no more than a greeting and a drink. People like to think disabilities and amputations don't bother them, but they do. It always boils down to appearances.

  Exhaling loudly, Polk went into the kitchen to refill her mug. Pocketing a pack of smokes and a lighter, she went out the back door onto the porch.

  Outside, the sun was nearly above her in the early afternoon, late morning hour. Already the heat of the day was swampy. Glancing at the pool down below the porch out in the yard, she thought how nice it would feel to take a dip. But
then she remembered her coffee and cigarettes.

  Sitting down in one of the four porch chairs, Polk rested her mug between her legs as she fished out her cigarettes. Pinching the butt with her teeth, she lit her smoke. She took a couple of drags and then balanced it on the edge of her seat. Reaching for her mug, she took a few sips, set the coffee back down, and repeated the process.

  Sun rays broke through the canopy of tall pines that surrounded Jonny and Karen's house. The warm beam of light brushed her gnarled stump. Beneath the warped flesh, her nerves danced against the sudden heat, forcing her attention.

  Exhaling smoke, Polk wondered if she had any clean socks.

  Tires screamed somewhere, breaking the typical silence of the neighborhood.

  Polk jerked, dropping her cigarette. "Shit," she said, glancing down at the glowing butt.

  Crackling echoed in the distance, like fireworks.

  She looked back up, staring out over the decently sized backyard, like a small forest, thick with pine and spruce and oak.

  "Were those...?" she whispered.

  She strained to hear, but there was nothing else.

  Just dogs barking nearby, two houses down maybe.

  And shouting now.

  Screams, a woman.

  More crackling, the unmistakable report of gun shots.

  Polk jumped from her seat, standing. Her coffee mug fell and shattered at the wood of the porch. She didn't notice. Her focus was around her, the sounds that seem to continue and grow with each passing second, flooding over the once always serene silence of Shoreacres.

  Silvio

  Part 1

  Seoul,

  South Korea.

  Silvio sniffed around the apartment. It wasn't normal for his master to be gone for such a long time. How long had it been? He'd slept. And he'd eaten. And he'd slept some more. He finished off what remained in his bowl; his bowl was never empty. Master hadn't been home to refill his bowl. The man's cologne hardly noticeable anymore. It had been too long. And now with the banging on the door, the bothersome noise made the dog more upset.

  Nudging the empty bowl with his nose, Silvio sniffed the air, wondering if there was anything left out...somewhere. He trotted into the kitchen, keeping his dark brown nose as close to the floor as he could. Breathing in deep, even now it was becoming harder and harder to pick up the scent of his master's socks, that sort of tangy smell that reminded him of worn out shoes from the runners at the park his master took him to regularly.

  Near the trash can, the dog picked up something greasy.

  Whimpering, he looked around the apartment, thinking maybe his master was hiding, playing a game on him. But no. There was no one here.

  His stomach growling, Silvio hitched up on his hind legs and tipped over the trash can with his front paws. Wrappers and glass bottles clanked out on the tile floor. Nudging away what he didn't want, he found the source of the smell. A square box with chunks of leftover bread crust.

  Chewing, Silvio made quick work of the crust.

  Trotting back out, he went to the bathroom and lapped water from the toilet bowl.

  The banging on the door resumed.

  Licking some of the water that had splashed on his snout, Silvio went out back into the hallway, looking at the door. He sniffed at the edges and recoiled, not liking what he found. A sort of foul stench, potent and thick, worse than the dead squirrels he'd sometimes find outside where he peed. This was worse, and not the way the hallway outside the door normally smelt. Outside, from the other people, usually came a vinegary smell of herbs and vegetables. This wasn't that. This was--

  Another heavy thud, followed by a lonesome kind of moan.

  Silvio whimpered and ran back to his master's bed.

  Under the covers, he poked his head out, watching to see if anyone would come in, whining with each heavy thud against the door.

  And then he heard more sounds, at first coming from above, the sound that had driven his master away. Outside the window now too. Screeching, crashing sounds. Loud, very loud.

  Too curious not to look, Silvio crawled out from the blankets and went back into the kitchen. The banging on the door had stopped. He glanced at it, the stink was still there. Whoever was causing the noise must still be there standing on the other side.

  Satisfied the banging wouldn't resume, Silvio trotted into the living room. Jumping up on the couch, he peered out the window. Outside, there was the usual large tree, his tree too, his marked tree. The street below was there too with the sidewalk that led to the park he liked to be taken to. Normally there wasn't much going on. Mild traffic. People walking. Laughing. Talking. Not like what he was seeing. There were too many vehicles on the road moving way too fast. Honking and crashing into each other. Too many people, not walking, running, running faster than those runners at the park. But there were some people walking, shambling between the wrecked cars. The people running were running away from them, running from the oddly stumbling people.

  Silvio watched, mesmerized by the strangeness of what he was seeing.

  He watched, whimpering slightly at the sound of screams, the running people being hurt by the walking people. Hurt by the wrecking vehicles and loud thunder coming from smoking cars.

  At the door, the banging resumed. Harder and heavier, the moaning growing in desperation to get inside. Wood cracked. Silvio turned away from the window and the screaming and loud thunder. From the couch, he watched from the living room as the door burst open and in stumbled his master, stomach open and insides exposed, trailing behind like some bizarre strings of wet red rope.

  Jonny

  Part 3

  La Porte,

  Texas.

  They drove to the Urgent Care on Spencer and Canada Drive. Idling, Jonny looked over at a large crowd banging on the blackened-out windows, frowning. This wasn't good: the clinic didn't seem to be open; or worse, not letting people in. The prerecorded voice on the phone when Karen had dialed 911 said to come here, one of a handful of clinics in the area. Spencer was the closest. He revved the Jeep's engine, biting his lip, clenching down with white knuckles on the steering wheel. This wasn't right. The clinic ought to be open. Why else send people here? Unless...unless they didn't know, unless no one knew what the hell was going on, not those in charge- especially not those in charge.

  "Are they closed? That doesn't make any sense. What about those people over there, maybe there's a line or something? Should we ask, see if we can get Kristy help?" Karen leaned toward Jonny, looking out the driver's side window.

  Jonny glanced back at the mob, his gaze following a rather large man, tall with a ratty t-shirt cut off at the armpits, and large work boots. He stood above the others, his fists cracking the glass of the clinic door as he pounded and shouted a string of obscenities. An odd flow of anger and pleading, something to do with a sick wife at home, how they had promised help.

  "This isn't good," Jonny said, not taking his eyes off the large angry man. "We need to go somewhere else, try another clinic."

  Kristy moaned. She was laid out across the back-bench seat, curled up in a ball, shivering. Karen reached back and touched her forehead gently.

  "She's burning up." Karen took away her hand, looking back at Jonny and then back to her sister. Her gaze tracing down to the wrapped bandage on her leg where her father had apparently scratched her. Even with the bandage, the swelling and discoloration was apparent. Her skin had drained, looking paler by the minute. Eyes yellowed and obviously irritated.

  Jonny glanced back at Kristy. "Maybe we should try the clinic over in Webster, didn't the recording mention Clear Lake Medical Center was open? It's a bigger facility. There has to be someone there that can help."

  Karen nodded. "Let's--"

  Glass shattered. Jonny and Karen both turned and stared out through the driver's side window. The large man with the cut off sleeves had kicked in the Urgent Care's glass door. Waves of the rioters and looters rushed forward, pushing, crowding to get inside. Two men, lookin
g as if they hadn't slept in days, swung at each other. Another woman pushed an elderly looking man as she ran toward the opening.

  Shifting into drive, Jonny pulled the Jeep out of the parking lot, giving the looters a wide berth. Straightening back on Spencer, he accelerated well past the speed limit, ignoring Karen's muttered protest. Looking up in the rearview mirror, he could see more and more people rushing into the Urgent Care. The large man in the cut off shirt and work boots was running out carrying a case of something, medical supplies if Jonny had to guess. The tall man was shouting at someone, a smaller man blocking his way. The smaller man, dressed in slacks and an untucked button-up and loose tie pulled out something that glimmered like metal in the late afternoon sunlight.

  Jonny held his breath, pushing down harder on the gas pedal.

  Behind them, echoing horribly into the sunny cloudless sky, the unmistakable crackle of a gun report. Followed quickly by the screams of the leftover looters.

  Jonny didn't look back. He turned right on Canada and headed southeast toward Fairmount. He had to swerve more than once to dodge some asshole coming too close in his lane. Passing a grocery store he tried not to slow down, but glanced at what looked to be a hundred or more parked haphazardly, filling the parking lot, raiding the place, filling carts with jugs of water and boxes of food. Amazed at what he was seeing, he started to drift. Someone behind him honked, speeding around him. He glanced back to the store in time to see an old woman darting across the parking lot carrying several plastic cases of Depends. He would have chuckled on any normal day, at such unusualness. At such uncontrolled panic.

  He would have laughed.

  But not today.

  Not after what he saw at the Urgent Care.

  Why did the radio say to go there?

  Why don't we know what's going on?

  One person says a Super Flu.

  Another a chemical spill.

  Misinformation?

  Miscommunication?

  Or the usual government fuckup.