by Mark Tufo
She was looking at me with panic in her eyes. My stomach was in full on tilt mode. My idea (see how I didn’t say plan) was to go out the skylight in the bathroom and onto the roof. Although from there I had no idea what we were going to do. It was twenty feet down to my yard, which was frozen solid. It would be akin to landing on cement. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
“What about the dogs?” Travis asked.
“Gonna have to shove them in the laundry basket and lower them down to the yard.”
“The both of them?” he asked.
“It’s gonna be tight but we have no choice,” I told him.
I grabbed the sheets and began to tie them together. When I was fairly certain it would hold I tied it to the handles of the basket. This time I was confident enough to go with “plan”. I’d lower them down and they’d be able to get out when the basket went onto its side. Travis and Tracy got out on the roof. I was hefting up a very pissed off Bulldog basket and had it about halfway out when I heard in rapid succession the collapse of another two beams. And there were now zombies at our bedroom door. The hits they keep on a-coming! (Use your favorite DJ voice.)
It’s Christmas Eve, and I wish all of you that are still hanging on a very Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays.
Getting down off the roof wasn’t quite as bad as I had anticipated. The scariest part was when one of the handles on the Bully basket let go, cantilevering them off to the side. Not sure if they cared or not—probably asleep. I hated using the pups as test dummies but it wasn’t like they would be lowering us down. I knew the tied together sheets could hold at least the combined weights of the dogs, somewhere in the 130-pound range. Tracy was easily under that so she was up next.
“Run to the car when you get down,” I told her.
“Okay, give me the keys,” she replied.
Pretty sure the expression on my face gave it away. “You don’t have them?” She phrased it as a question but it really was never in doubt.
“First things first,” I told her when another series of wood splintering sounds resounded from inside the house. “Go toward the street. Travis and I will be right behind you.”
Henry and Riley were out of the basket and looking back up at the house. I wanted to yell at them to scram but I didn’t want to be a zombie early warning detector.
“Take the dogs with you,” I told her.
“Henry won’t leave until you’re there and Riley won’t go without him.”
“Fine. Just go to the street.”
I gave Tracy a fast demonstration on a quick rope decent I’d learned in the Marine Corps. It really revolved around the one fact of getting down and away from the rope as fast as possible so you didn’t get your ass shot. It usually came with rope burns if you didn’t have gloves so we all were going to have red palms tonight. I could only hope that was our biggest problem for later.
She was down and heading out the driveway before I could even begin to churn up some stomach juice.
“You’re next,” I told Travis.
“You sure about this?” he asked, looking over the roofline.
I had a smart ass answer all lined up for him, but the caving in of the center roofline was all the impetus he needed. He was down faster than his mother if that was possible. Then I got my answer.
“Fuck! My hands!” he yelled.
“No swearing!” Tracy yelled from the woods by the side of the roadway.
I was next and I was having the same doubts as the boy, plus I had an additional thirty pounds of added desk weight. (You know, the kind you accumulate by eating peanut butter laden snacks as you type at your workstation.) I would later blame the sheet giving way due to the added ammo I was carrying in my pockets.
I was halfway down when I felt the sensation of free falling, or for you truly optimistic, “short flight”. I thudded to the ground solidly. This was punctuated by the rapid firing of guns—luckily not mine. Zombies were bearing down and I didn’t have time to lament the air getting knocked out of me. I’d once been blindsided by an opposing lineman in high school. I felt that same daze-like quality at this very moment, but I didn’t have the luxury of taking the next play off at the sideline.
I stood up and wobbled mightily. Zombies were literally falling by my feet.
“Dad, move your ass!” Travis was screaming.
I just about had those little stupid cartoon birdies swirling around my head. I headed toward the sound of Travis’ yelling, zombies close on my heels. I saw Tracy jumping up and down waving her arms. She was facing away so I didn’t know what the hell she was doing. I’d find out soon enough as I sped down towards her.
Travis waited until I got flush with him before he turned and followed. I could hear a car or something fast approaching. Now I knew what Tracy was doing. She was trying to flag them down. Would they stop? Would I if the roles were reversed? I could hear the engine revving as if in answer. And then just as suddenly I heard tires sliding on gravel.
“Son of a bitch,” I breathed out.
Only in Maine. If we had the misfortune of living in New York they probably would have given us the finger as they sped past.
“Get in!” A grizzled old man yelled out the open passenger side window.
Tracy hopped into the back bed as Travis, who had long since passed me, was getting in.
“Might want to pick it up, Dad!” he yelled.
“Yeah and you might want to kiss my ass,” I grumbled.
The truck was starting to pull away just as I got my first foot into the truck. I would have been left in the dust if Tracy hadn’t grabbed my sweatshirt. It was close until Travis helped. I felt a zombie hand scrape down my back and then we were off.
“Holy fuck,” I said as I leaned back. Zombies were almost abreast of us and we were still building speed.
When I caught my breath, I thanked our savior.
“Name’s Jed,” he said, sticking one hand through the middle glass that separated the cab from the bed.
Tracy looked at me. No fucking way, she mouthed.
I could only agree. Life imitates art and all that shit, I get it, but Jed is a fictional character in a book that saved Michael Talbot’s ass a couple of times. Looks like I’ve found my own.
“Where you headed?” he shouted as he swung the truck to the left in a valiant but failed effort to avoid a zombie.
The resultant mist of bone and blood that shot over our heads reminded me of the cherry Pop-Tart I’d eaten a couple of days ago. “Headed to my dad’s in Belfast!” I shouted over the roaring wind.
He looked back, longer than he should have. “Belfast is gone, son,” he said slowly. He didn’t offer a clearer explanation. “I’ve got relatives on Foster Island, that’s where I’m headed.”
He paused. Not sure what he wanted from us. I was still trying to wrap my head around my grief.
“You folks look like deer in the crosshairs. Do you want to come with me?”
I looked over toward Tracy. I didn’t have an answer. I mean, it’s always easy to think up one when I’m sitting at my desk sipping coffee maybe eating a Devil Dog or two. But my house had just been destroyed and I had no idea where the rest of my family was. I needed some time to think.
I apparently took too long; Tracy was all about making sure her son was safe. “We’ll gladly take your offer.”
The truck came to a stop and we all piled into the cab. I don’t remember much on that four-hour drive. There was some traffic, some fighting and more zombies. I was lost, emotionally and spiritually, and hell, even physically since I had no fucking clue where Foster Island was.
When we finally did reach Jed’s destination, there were greetings abound. I didn’t much care to stay in the house for small talk so I went out onto the deck to watch as the sun went down. I was unsure if it would ever rise again.
When I was confident I had sufficiently frozen my body and thereby my brain so I didn’t have to think anymore, I went back in. The clock had just turned t
o midnight and two thousand, twelve years ago baby Jesus was born.
Season One, Episode 1 of This Plague of Days
Robert Chazz Chute
Here we sit in The Last Café
“Viruses are zombies,” Dr. Sutr said. “They are classifiable neither as living nor dead. When given the opportunity, they reproduce using a host. Their molecules form complex structures but they need hosts to reproduce. Nucleic acids, proteins — ”
The Skype connection froze for a moment before the doctor understood he was being interrupted. “—preciate your summary, doctor.” Two men in uniform and one woman in a suit, each with their own screen, regarded him with impatience.
“The virus has grown more…opportunistic. What fooled us early on was the varied rate of infection and lethality. I suspect individual variance in liver enzymes accounts — ”
The woman cleared her throat and Sutr lost his place in the notes he’d prepared for this meeting. She sighed as he fumbled with his iPad. He had too many notes and not enough time. The woman sighed and tapped a stylus on her desk. “I’m meeting with him soon, doctor. I need the bullet, please. What do I tell him?”
Sutr removed his glasses and closed his eyes. This was too important to stammer and stutter through. Finding the correct words had never mattered more. He took a deep breath but kept his eyes closed and pretended he was speaking intimately with his beloved Manisha. His wife’s name meant “wisdom” and she shared her name with the goddess of the mind. He needed her and her namesake now. “My team and I…” He took another deep breath. “The virus has jumped.”
The admiral in dress whites spoke, which automatically muted Dr. Sutr’s microphone. “First it was bats, then birds, then migratory birds, then pigs and cows. What animal do we warn the WHO about now? What animal do the Chinese have to slaughter next to keep the cap on this thing? A vaccine won’t help billions of Chinese peasants if they starve to death first.”
“I’m very aware of the stakes, sir, but the virus has jumped to humans. I asked my contact at Google to watch the key words. The epidemiological mapping of the spread is already lighting up in Japan, Malaysia, Chechnya and I have confirmation it’s in parts of the Middle East, I’m afraid.”
“What’s your next step, doctor?” the woman asked.
Sutr opened his eyes. “I’ve sent my team home. They should be with their families now. As should we all.”
The man in the green uniform, a four-star general, leaned closer to his camera, filling Sutr’s screen. “This is no time to give up the fight, doctor. We’ve got a world to save from your…what did you call it? Zombie virus?”
“Pardon me, General. It was a clumsy metaphor. My point was that viruses are dead things and I can’t kill the dead. I’m afraid we lost containment. I suspect we must have lost control sometime in the last two to three weeks. Perhaps less. Maybe more. There are too many variables. This virus is a tricky one. Something…new.”
The general paled. “Are you saying this disease was engineered?”
For the first time, Sutr showed irritation toward his inquisitors. “I don’t know! I told you, there are too many variables. The loss of containment could have been sabotage or someone on my team made a mistake. Maybe they were too afraid to admit their mistake. It’s possible I made a mistake and I did not recognize it as such! I’ve identified the virus signature, but the work will have to be taken up by someone else. In my opinion, we need a miracle. As a virologist who has worked with Ebola, my faith in miracles is absent. Nature doesn't know mercy or luck. That hope was beaten out of me in Africa.”
The admiral cut in, “Look, you’re already headed for the Nobel by identifying the virus. There’s time before it reaches our shores. We have to hope — ” but the woman in the suit held up a hand and he fell silent.
“We do appreciate the complexity of the challenge before us, Dr. Sutr. That’s why we need you. You’re further along in the research than the other labs.” The woman looked conciliatory now and her voice took on a new, soothing note. “We’re very anxious to have you continue.”
Dr. Sutr stiffened. “I’ve already composed and sent an email for the lab network. You’ll have the entire data dump. I've made extra notes so your teams won't waste time with what hasn't worked. Dan, at CDC, and Sinjin-Smythe, at Cambridge, will coordinate my latest data to the other nodes. Good luck with it.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You were vague about the virus gaining traction in parts of the Middle East. Have you on site confirmation, doctor?”
“Yes. I’ve seen the virus’s work in person. Here in Dubai, in my own house. Tarun, my baby boy, died last night. My wife, Manisha, followed to see where he went early this morning.”
“We’re so sorry for your loss, Julian,” the woman said. “Are you infected?”
“I have no doubt I will die soon.”
“How long have you got, son?” the admiral said. “You’ve said the infection gradient and lethality is so variable…you could keep working. We could defeat this thing.”
“Defeat death? I don’t have that kind of time. Don’t be afraid, though. I am an atheist…but…” His voice and gaze drifted away for a moment and it was clear to all assembled he spoke to himself more than his audience. “When I was a student, I found myself alone in a cadaver lab once. Seventeen bodies, each one in some state of dissection. I held a human heart there for the first time, still so muscular and strong for a dead thing. The illiotibial band is strong, too, like a fibrous, white leather strap…such awe-inspiring complexity in the human body. And so many damnable things to go wrong.”
“Julian?” The woman’s voice was almost a whisper, as if she were afraid to startle him from a deep sleep.
“Forgive me,” the virologist said. “It is not the bodies that make us prisons of sadness. We will burn and bury the bodies or Nature will claim its prizes. It is those terrible reminders of what was and what could have been that will rob us of hope. That will infuse us with such fury and sadness that, for most? There is no room for anything else. Many good people will do bad and bad men will do evil. Without hope and spires, what are aspirations for? Our losses will make us wretched again. My son’s unused baby booties. That is what drives me to this wretchedness.”
“Doctor, you swore an oath and we, the living, still need you.” The general’s voice shook.
Julian Sutr’s voice came firm and steady. “General, Admiral…Madam Secretary. It’s entirely possible that I brought it home to them. My wife and child are dead by the virus that bears my name. I should have been an obstetrician like my mother. She brought life into the world…” A tear slipped down the doctor’s cheek. He cleared his throat. “The human race has seen this before. There will be survivors. They’ll have to be strong. First, they will have to weather the storm. Whoever writes this history and to whomever shall read it…tell them to let go of their expectations of how things should be. Another Dark Age is coming. If we hold on to what we’ve lost, we’ll never be strong enough to grasp what comes next. I know I’m too weak for the trials to come.”
“What is next?” the admiral asked.
The doctor gave him the amused smile of a fighter relieved to be retired from fighting. “I expect blacksmithery will be the first science to make a comeback. Perhaps in a few decades. Maybe fewer. You people ask me what you should tell him. Go to your briefing. Tell him that, in all likelihood, he is the last President of the United States.”
The general and admiral startled and looked away from their screens, but the woman’s eyes were steady on the doctor. “Do you have the fever yet, Julian?”
“Oh, I won’t wait. I have to go looking for Manisha and Tarun.” Dr. Julian Sutr picked up the Sig Sauer P220 from his desk, placed the muzzle under his chin and pulled the trigger.
Invisible, whimsical and losing our way
The moon lit the boy’s face as he peered over the fence into the next yard. Jaimie Spencer watched the couple on the lawn chair. The chair’s squeak had drawn hi
m closer, curious. He wasn’t allowed in the neighbor’s yard, but moon shadows amid thick hedge leaves concealed him. A woman he’d never seen before sat in the older man’s lap. The man, Mr. Sotherby, lay still beneath her. Jaimie could not see the man’s face, but there was something grim about him, as if the couple were reluctant joggers in a cold wind. A cool hand slipped to the back of the boy’s neck. Without looking, Jaimie knew it was his sister, Anna.
“Ears,” she whispered, “You’re being creepy again.”
The woman froze and turned her head. The couple whispered to each other, too. Sotherby’s voice was insistent. Hers was afraid.
Anna guided her little brother away from the hedge line. Anna did not speak again until she and Jaimie stood by their own back door. “Mr. Sotherby has brought home another one of his flight attendant friends. You shouldn’t spy on them. It’s wrong.”
Jaimie did not look at Anna directly. He never met her eyes and he rarely spoke. Her brother cocked his head slightly to one side. That questioning gesture was a rare bit of Jaimie’s body language that few outside the family could read easily. Anna told Jaimie that when he cocked his head that way, he looked like Fetcher, the cocker spaniel they’d once had. In every picture they owned of that pet, the spaniel’s head was tipped slightly sideways, perplexed by the camera. Jaimie thought the entire breed must cock their heads slightly sideways, hence their name. The boy loved when language was precise and logical. He was often disappointed.
“Mr. Sotherby brings home his friends. Remember Mr. Sotherby’s a pilot? He gives rides to lots of people, Ears. He was just giving her a ride. That woman you saw thought she was part of a couple, but they were really just coupling.”
Couple: a noun and a verb. Jaimie had read these words in his dictionary. Overlaps of meanings and terms irritated him. He wondered if his sister was trying to bother him. Anna often called him Ears when she was angry with him, though sometimes she called him that when she gave him a hug. More confusion and imprecision.