by Rand, Thonas
The crazed woman got across the street and into a neighbor’s front yard. The man got out of his car—it was John Mandall—he was very confused, “Mom?” he called out to her, but she was already over a high fence that she scaled as fast as an Olympian . . . too fast.
“Mom!” he yelled, but she was gone.
He was about to run after her when he heard a commotion come from the house she had run out of. He though he heard breaking glass, maybe a window. John was torn on what to do, but made a decision as he pulled a .45 automatic pistol from his car. He loaded it and headed to the house.
As he walked, he recalled what he saw about his mother that bothered him the most—her eyes.
Lightning struck in the distance, illuminating his dark path for just a moment.
He looked back for any trace of his mother, but there was nothing.
Lightning struck again and he saw the quick memory of her eyes as if they were right in his face—they were bloodshot, but that wasn’t what burned his mind. It was their color. They were milky and the veins had expanded in starburst ruptures of a greenish, yellow substance. Her pupils were such a dark red, that they were almost black.
Unnatural…
Lightening struck once more…
Inhuman…
He proceeded toward the house with his gun.
His steps were quick, but careful on the cobblestone driveway. He checked every corner and shadow as he moved toward the front double-door. It was open but looked awkward. John got closer and saw why—somehow, his mother had busted one of the doors out—which bothered him immensely because the front doors of the house where he grew up opened inward.
“What the hell?” he said under his breath.
The top door hinge was broken clean off in splintered wood; the bottom hinge was still attached, leaving the door tilted in his path. He squeezed through the narrow opening, checking the foyer first. It was clear.
Inside the house, John aimed his pistol ahead of him and took a tactical stance. It was quiet and the foyer light was off. He reached for the light switch, but nothing happened when he flipped it. Down the hall he could see the entrance to the kitchen; one dim light was on, so it must be an oven light. A flickering white light danced off John’s face from the right and he turned to investigate. A large flat screen TV was on in the living room—no one was there, just the muted, pepper-filled static screen.
John snapped his gun upward at a sudden disturbance upstairs—something was toppled over and hit the floor hard—followed by breaking glass. He moved down the hall toward the stairs, his hands cuffed tightly around his weapon and his taut arms shifting his aim left and right in quick cuts, ready for any possible foe. Even though it was dark in the house, the green, glowing night sights on his pistol allowed him to acquire any target. He moved up the two-tiered flight of stairs quietly. Stopping at the second floor landing, he checked the hallway; no one was there. He decided to go left. The first door he got to was a bathroom, empty. One door remained at the end of the hall. There was another door, but he knew it was a linen closet.
He reached the door and it was closed. He took hold of the knob and opened it with a rush, scanning his gun everywhere. The bedroom was empty, just a slept-in bed with disheveled sheets—
CRASH!
A sudden eruption of more breaking glass reported behind John and he spun around, his weapon at the ready. He moved down the hall toward the disturbance. He could tell it had come from the last door so he passed the others rapidly. Reaching the closed door he heard something growl inside, the throaty sounds slowly trailing away. John stepped back and kicked the door in. He swept his gun across the room and the first thing that caught his eyes were the window curtains blowing inward through broken glass. No one was in the teenage decorated room. He rushed to the window and looked out into the night for any signs. Nothing, until he noticed something past the edge of the window, through a jagged piece of glass. He saw a figure move slightly. He looked intently, and as his eyes adjusted to focus on the person some seventy feet away.
A boy, small in stature.
John didn’t understand what the boy was doing, especially where he was perched. Lightning flashed and illuminated the area, revealing the boy, who was squatting on top of the wooden fence in the backyard.
“Tommy?” John murmured.
The boy looked like a bird of prey as he stared up at the lightning filigreed sky. He cocked his head in strange motions, as if his eyes were locked in position like an owl.
“Tommy!” John shouted, but thunder rolled and covered his voice.
The boy looked back at the house and lightning struck again…
John saw his eyes—
They were just like his mother’s when he saw her in the driveway.
The boy jumped off the fence and ran away, moving fast—strangely fast—and all he left behind was a twisted bawl…
“Tommy!” but he was gone.
John turned to leave and, as he did, lightning flickered the room into white, and for the first time since he’d entered it, he saw its condition . . . It was a shambles, torn apart as if some wild animal had destroyed it. Everything made of glass was broken and there were scratch marks all over the walls.
There were also fresh blood splatters everywhere.
“Jesus,” he exhaled.
He left and in the hallway, he saw blood all over the walls and carpet. Even though he was a veteran of two wars and countless covert missions for his country, he had trouble trying to control his panic. He stuck to his training and proceeded back down the stairs with his .45 leading the way.
He passed the kitchen and proceeded down the hall to a back room in the house that had long served as a den. He stopped at the door. His eyes scanned the den with military precision. The room was large, adorned with fine wood and antique lighting. A big mahogany desk was the centerpiece at the rear of the room. John approached cautiously, his gaze concentrated on the desk’s tall leather chair that was presently positioned in the corner of the room by a window. The chair was cast in shadow, but John could see that someone was sitting in it—the person’s legs and hands, one holding a drink, were visible—John kept his aim on him.
“Thomas, is that you?” John asked.
The person in the chair didn’t respond, instead, taking a drink from his full rock glass, finishing half of the amber-colored liquid that had an expensive shine.
“What’re you doing here, John?” he asked in a strained voice.
“You called me, don’t you remember?”
The man thought, “Did I? No, I don’t remember doing that.”
John was upset at his nonchalance and his anger materialized in the form of wrinkles in his face deepening, “What the hell happened here? What happened to Mom and Tommy?” John asked and he hadn’t lowered his weapon.
“I guess I should start at the beginning.”
John snapped, “Fuck the beginning!” he shouted and took a couple steps closer to guarantee his aim, “What happened to my mother and brother? Tell me, you bastard!”
He said nothing as he finished his drink.
The man leaned forward to grab the liquor decanter off the corner of his desk and John saw his face…
DAY 1:
PIEDMONT, ARIZONA
THE OLD MAN WALKED TOWARD THEM SLOWLY, ALMOST TRIPPING TWICE. He tried to shout at them, but he was actually talking as loud as he could since he was so weak. The generals couldn’t hear him clearly, but he grew louder as he drew near. The soldiers wasted no time and converged on the old man in a defensive posture.
“Hold your fire,” the white general ordered.
“You government people did this!” the old chief said.
“What’s that, old timer?” the black general asked.
“You did this!” he barked.
“Sir, we’re here to help. We need you to be calm and put down the weapon,” the white general said.
The old man didn’t do what was asked of him and kept walking toward th
em with his jagged machete. “You did this! You killed my town and all my friends!”
“Sir, please, we’re here to help you. Put down the machete,” the black general asked sincerely.
He limped closer to them, within fifteen feet, and started to swing the machete at them, but he was so weak that he wasn’t even cutting the air.
“Drop the weapon!” a soldier shouted.
“You bastards killed my town!” he said as he swung and hit nothing.
“Sir, try to calm yourself,” the black general said.
Suddenly, the old man cried out in pain, let go of the machete, and grabbed his face in agony. He dropped to his knees, and his body began to convulse in a seizure.
“Everybody step back,” the white general ordered.
They all withdrew as the old man writhed in pain, his mouth salivating so much that it was a constant ooze of liquid. The seizure stopped, and the old man removed his hands from his face to reveal bloodshot eyes that were wider than humanly possible and filled with rage. The frail old man got to his feet in one hop, howled in a twisted screech, and immediately ran to attack the generals.
“Stop!” one soldier shouted, but he didn’t and they fired.
The gunfire struck his chest; killing him instantly, and he dropped to the ground face first and slid a couple feet in the dirt from momentum.
“Jesus!” the black general said in disbelief.
The soldiers checked his body to make sure he was dead.
Because of the distraction, none of them saw the other person that came out of a building behind them. It was a big, crazed man—300 pounds worth—and he charged straight at them silently, forty feet away and closing fast.
“What do you think happened in this town?” the black general asked.
Before the white general could answer—
“Watcher, behind you!” Arrow One shouted over the radio.
Arrow One fired a silent shot that hit the big man in the back, but it didn’t kill him, and he kept on going. The generals turned just as the crazed man clothesline tackled the white general. He was thrown back and crashed, face first, into the grill of a Humvee—cracking his face shield—but didn’t break it. He fell hard to the ground, and the mad man jumped on top of him, grabbed hold of his helmet, and tried to bite through his splintered face shield. The general watched in shock as the mad beast tried to gnaw through the thick plastic inches from his face with rotten teeth and a discolored tongue that smeared bacteria-filled saliva everywhere. The man growled like a rabid dog and was about to rip the general’s helmet off, when one of the soldiers fired his weapon at the big madman, hitting him on the side of his ribs, killing him, and saving the general.
The soldiers pulled the corpse off the general and helped him up.
“Are you okay?” the black general asked.
The white general looked at his suit, checking its integrity. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Your suit looks intact,” the black general said.
And they stood there, in the completely forgotten, dead town.
“Uh-huh,” the white man answered as he wiped his face shield with a towel from his pocket.
“So, where was I?” the black man said. “Oh yeah, what do you think happened in this town?”
The white man was confused, “What do you mean, General Stone?”
General Stone smiled, “I’ll tell you what happened here . . . Project Bully is a complete success!”
“Oh,” the white general said, his thoughts elsewhere.
“’Oh?’ That’s all you can say, General Mandall? In less than seven hours, your virus destroyed this place; these people ripped each other to shreds!”
“A success, I’m very pleased. Now I’d like to get back to the facility,” Mandall said.
“Of course,” Stone answered, and then noticed the damage on Mandall’s helmet. “Your face shield is cracked.”
“I know.”
“Did any of his saliva get inside your helmet?”
“I don’t think so, but that’s why I want to get back to the facility . . . to find out.”
Stone looked closely at Mandall’s face shield. “It doesn’t look like any did, so I’m not gonna worry about it.”
“Wrong, General Stone,” Mandall said. “Upon returning to base, if I discover that my face shield is compromised, I will go through the contamination protocols, just like any other soldier. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.”
Mandall knew what that meant for him. “Good. Let’s finish here and leave.”
Stone turned to the soldiers, “Let’s move out!”
The soldiers kept a safe perimeter as Mandall and Stone returned to their Humvee. Once inside, the soldiers got back in their vehicles and they left Piedmont.
It was a ghost town now, covered in bodies and caked in dust from the wake of the departing vehicles…
General Stone used his radio, “Paperboy, this is Watcher, how copy? Over.”
A reply came through, “This is Paperboy, Watcher. Send your traffic, over.”
“Paperboy, our run is complete. You have a go to make delivery, is that understood? Over.”
“Copy that, Watcher. Inbound to clear site, over.”
“How long to complete delivery, Paperboy? Over.”
“Watcher, location will be removed and terrain will appear untouched in three hours, over.”
“Outstanding, Paperboy, Watcher out.” Stone put down the radio and thought, “No one will miss this place.”
General Mandall sat there looking out the window. What crossed his vision didn’t matter because he wasn’t actually looking at anything with his eyes. He was lost in the vision of his mind. He recalled what he said to Stone just a couple minutes earlier—
“Upon returning to base, if I discover that my face shield is compromised, then I will go through the contamination protocols, just like any other soldier. Do I make myself clear?”
He knew what would happen to him once they got back to the ‘facility’. He would be separated from the group, taken to an isolation cell, and asked to remove his suit so it can be examined. After they discover the fracture in his face shield, they will have him strip naked so every single square inch of his body can be scrutinized for scratch or bite marks. It won’t matter that he doesn’t have any; they’ll do it because his face shield was compromised and that’s the protocol for such an event in a hazardous viral situation. He knew the protocols perfectly because he wrote them. After the physical examination is complete, they’ll wash him down and scrub his body with a disinfectant solution several times over.
He also knew that when the examination period is over, the medical protocols will commence. He’ll be relocated to medical isolation and the blood work phase begins. Technicians will draw a sample of his blood for evaluation and scientists will do a thorough job of going over every single molecule of it. If the blood tests positive for any foreign agents—specifically the virus he created—they will administer a regiment of injections with the cure for the virus. If his system doesn’t respond to the treatments, then he will be terminated immediately and his body will be vaporized. If the test comes back negative and his blood is normal—then he will be escorted to a holding cell and kept there in quarantine for fourteen days. During the fourteen days, they will take blood samples from him for continued tests every four hours—every day and every night.
This is what he saw in his mind and the reason for this, is was what happened in the town of Piedmont just a few minutes ago…
• • •
His mind raced back to those events and he could see himself lying on the ground, the mad beast trying to gnaw through his face shield. He remembered the rotten teeth and discolored tongue and, most importantly, the saliva smeared all over.
That’s when it happened—
Some of the madman’s saliva made its way through the crack in the thick plastic, not much, not even a quarter of a milliliter. A micro-drop for
med on the inside of the face shield and the impacts of the beast’s head against the helmet knocked it loose—
The tiny drop traveled down toward Mandall’s face and landed right in the center of his left eye, it disappeared with the flutter of his eyelid.
It was in his body…
DAY 18:
DEN of THE BEAST
GENERAL THOMAS MANDALL WAS THE DIRECTOR OF THE ARMY’S TOP-SECRET BIORESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT FACILITY. He leaned forward and grabbed the decanter filled with the dark alcohol off his desk. As he poured himself another drink—John got a good look at his face and cringed—the general’s face was extremely sweaty and his skin was very gray and dead looking. His eyes were milky and dark red in the center, but his left eye was different. That was the infection’s entry point and that eye was completely reddish black. The whole eye was dark and the skin around it had black veins trailing from it, like a spider web, going up into his scalp, back into his ear, and down to his neck. It was a horrifying viral tattoo. He trembled badly. He could barely hold his rock glass and he spilled more liquor than he filled. General Mandall placed the decanter back on the desk and took a drink, but a severe respiratory cough grabbed hold of him and he almost dropped the glass.
“What happened to you?” John asked.
“I am…my own victim.”
“What’re you talking about? Where’s the cure? I know you have it here, there’s still time to save my mother and Tommy! Where is it?”
“There is no cure for this.”
“What the fuck do you mean no cure?” John shouted.
“Hubris,” the general said calmly. “Have you ever heard that term, son?”
“Don’t call me that,” John said bitterly.
“You can’t change who you are.”
John moved closer, five feet from him with his gun almost in the General’s gray face.
“Where’s the cure?”