Elixr Plague (Episode 3): Pandemic

by Richardson, Marcus

  “We can’t stay here,” he whispered.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Ward muttered, checking the magazine in his rifle. “You got transport?”

  Seneca nodded. “Yeah, but it’s back across the river. Fuckin’ bridges are like parking lots.”

  “More like graveyards,” Ward replied, getting to his feet. Bits of glass and spent casings tinkled to the ground as he stood. He reached out a bloody-smeared hand and hauled Seneca to his feet. “What’s the plan, boss?”

  Seneca looked around the darkened, shattered house. “We load up what we can—food, ammo, water—and hump it. We’re only a handful of blocks from the river. We follow that north to the bridge I crossed, get my Jeep, and get the fuck out of this town.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” said Ward, grimacing. “Got a lot of shit here, you know? I hate to think those lazy bastards across the street can just come back and take it tomorrow when we’re gone…”

  “Well, maybe they’re already dead,” said Seneca, pausing to hear a particularly loud groan drift in through the busted window. “And they’re out there waiting for us right now.”

  “I don’t know which is better…at least the zekes move slow and don’t shoot back.”

  Seneca shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, but the townies don’t eat your face, either, so they got that goin’ for ‘em.”

  They moved into Ward’s storage room just off the remains of the kitchen, and using a flashlight held in Seneca’s hand to shield extraneous light, loaded up their packs with MREs and food supplies. Ward muttered and cursed about leaving his stockpile the entire time.

  “If I had just one more month, I could have finalized the sale on some land I had my eye on, west of here…God damn it, I could have been living in my bug out cabin all along.” He paused to look at Seneca, an MRE in one hand, using it to point. “I mean, you know I wouldn’t stay in an undefended house like this during a shit storm if I had half the chance.”

  Seneca smirked. The zombie apocalypse was raining hell all around them and Ward was worried about his reputation. “I know,” he replied, stuffing a prepackaged army surplus meal into his pack and already feeling his intestines cramp at the thought of eating that…food.

  They loaded up every available pocket and pouch on their bags, tactical vests, and pants with ammo and magazines for their rifles and pistols. “Just like old times, huh?” Seneca said, stretching his back under the load.

  “Fuckin’ a, bubba,” Ward grunted. “I tell you what, I ain’t as young as we were back in the day…don’t count on me running with all this shit on my back.”

  “Well, I’m not as stupid as I once was, either,” Seneca replied. He hefted his rifle and checked the magazine. “This isn’t recon or anti-terror. We’re strictly escape and evade, brother. I want to stay as quiet as possible, but if we need to, we’re gonna plow the fuckin’ road.”

  “Now you’re talkin’!” Ward replied with a grin. In the dim light of Seneca’s muted flashlight, Ward looked more like a demon than a man, even more scary than the undead out in the street. Not for the first time in his life, Seneca was thankful Ward was on his side.

  “Let’s get this dog and pony show on the road, soldier,” Seneca said, moving toward the front door. “Check the street.”

  “On it,” Ward replied, glass crunching under his boots as he moved to the living room window. “I got three zekes out there…just standing there like they’re drunk or something,” he whispered.

  Seneca looked out the broken window to the left of the front door. “Coast is clear over here…come on, let’s do this.” He opened the door with a slight creak and waited. No reaction from the living or the dead. With a jerk of his head, he took point and moved down the concrete steps along the sidewalk to the street. He heard Ward’s boots behind him and didn’t stop, but turned and fast walked down the street to the north with his rifle up, only stopping behind a sedan in the middle of the road.

  “See anything?” Seneca whispered.

  “Just those zekes back there by my place,” Ward murmured.

  Seneca arched an eyebrow. “Zekes?”

  Ward shrugged. “What? I just can’t bring myself to call them zombies, you know? But they are freaks…so…zekes.”

  Seneca grunted and peered around the corner of the car. “Zekes it is. We got four of ‘em, all shuffling away from us to the north.”

  “Wanna take ‘em out from here?”

  Seneca turned back to glare at Ward in the dim moonlight. His face was a grisly mix of face paint and dried blood. “And wake every asshole in this town? Not to mention draw the rest of those things right down on top of us? Hell no.” He thought for a moment. “We’re gonna bum rush ‘em.”

  “Say again?” Ward asked, shifting his grip on his rifle. He looked around, checking behind them.

  “They’re not looking at us and they’re clumsy as fuck. We run into ‘em from behind and knock ‘em down,” Seneca explained, jerking his rifle forward like a hockey player cross-checking an opponent. “By the time they climb to their feet again, we’ll be halfway to the river.”

  Ward snorted. “Sounds fun, I’m in.”

  Seneca nodded and turned back to the targets, about twenty yards down the street and shuffling along without a care in the world. “Okay, watch our six. When we get close, you take the left, I’ll take right, and we’ll run right into ‘em and bowl these stupid bastards over. Ready?”

  “Steady,” replied Ward, tensing to get up.

  “Go,” muttered Seneca, lurching to his feet under the weight of his ruck and plodding as quietly as he could down the street. He didn’t bother checking over his shoulder, Ward was too much a professional to not be doing exactly what Seneca had ordered, shuffling quiet as ghost behind him and watching their rear to make sure no one—and no thing—snuck up on them while they commenced their attack.

  7

  Collapse

  Viking Museum

  Sault Ste. Maire, Michigan

  Darren whistled as he walked through the darkened, half-completed exhibits at the base of the Tower of History, dripping water and mud from his boots and clothes. The curators had left in a hurry, as evidenced from the discarded pamphlets and the empty cash register scattered on the floor of the lobby. Though it wasn’t officially open yet, the displays were impressive, considering how fast they’d been thrown together. He figured when it was ready to open, they’d have to build an addition onto the base of the tower to fit everything, unless some of it was destined to go up to the upper level, at the top of the 210 foot tower.

  Thunder rumbled, loud still through thick concrete walls of the Tower. It was proving to be a hell of a storm outside.

  “Found the lights!” Brandon called, as overhead fluorescents came to life, bathing the world in soft white light.

  “Still not getting a signal,” complained Amanda, holding up her phone. “What the hell, man?” She turned and saw the elevator. “I’m going up top to see if I can get a signal.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Brandon replied, walking back toward the group from the electrical panel.

  “Well, we can’t sit here soaking wet and blind,” Amanda shot back. “Anyone coming with me?”

  Darren moved into the other rooms, letting the argument fade into background noise. His inebriated mind was still trying to piece together the chain of events that caused Sault Ste. Marie to lose its collective mind out there in the streets. He ran a hand through his hair as he walked, glancing at the displays chronicling the early Catholic missionaries from the 1600s and 1700s.

  Darren paused, looking at a painting but not really seeing it in the dim light. None of them had cell phone signals. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d checked his phone…he guessed it had been around the time they’d left the bar. They couldn’t call for an Uber or even check in with the professor. They couldn’t check the internet to see what was going on, either. It was such an unusual feeling, being totally cut off…there was alw
ays a way to communicate.

  “Hey, there’s a radio in here!” Brandon called from somewhere deeper in the museum. The sound of rushing footsteps followed Darren as he ran back to the others.

  “Nice,” he said, stepping into a little room labeled ‘Do Not Enter,’ right behind the main cashier/registration desk.

  Amanda appeared when the elevator dinged and the doors opened at the far end of the room. “No signal up there either…but it’s a hell of a view. This storm is something else.”

  Brandon sat on an upturned box with a small radio balanced precariously on a wooden shipping crate. “Can someone find the lights in here?” He used the flashlight app on his phone to illuminate the room and radio.

  “Do they—” began Darren.

  “Ssssh!” Amanda, Carl, and Brandon all hissed in unison as the radio crackled to life.

  “…repeat, the situation is extremely dangerous here. As people evacuate the Northwest Suburbs, the National Guard has completely cordoned off downtown Chicago—and Midway and O’Hare airports—blocking all access to and from the Windy City. The Department of Homeland Security is working with private industry to get internet and communications back online, but the official word we’re hearing here, Jim, is that they don’t know why there’s a blackout in the first place.”

  “I find that interesting, Nateel,” a much clearer voice—Jim—said. “Seems to me, DHS is the only group out there—besides the industry themselves…or maybe hackers—who could institute such a complete, multi-spectrum blackout of communications and internet in a major city like this…don’t you think?”

  “Regardless of who did what and why, the results are the same, Jim: there are millions of people effectively trapped in Chicago now, without any means of accessing information or letting loved ones—or emergency services—know of their situation. It’s an absolute travesty. I don’t know if you can tell in the studio, but out here, there is a constant noise, the sounds of thousands of frightened people and the police sirens, it’s almost overwhelming,” she said, practically yelling. “Add to that, the news that people are dying in New York because of the mysterious illness, and a very real sense of panic is quickly taking root here.”

  Horns honked in the background. For a second, Darren couldn’t tell if they were on the radio or outside in the streets. He looked around and saw Amanda, Brandon, and Carl, their faces glowing in the light of Amanda’s phone, staring at the radio with the same open-mouthed expression of shock. Static erupted on the channel and vanished a moment later.

  “…absolute pandemonium as people just outside the quarantine are evacuating, fearing that authorities will pull back and trap them inside a new quarantine area. There are triage areas and health checkpoints at strategic locations outside the Loop, but it’s creating traffic like I’ve never seen, and I’ve worked this town for fifteen years. There are reports of looting and assaults, though we personally—”

  A crash and screaming drowned out the reporter, followed quickly by two loud POP sounds that Darren immediately took for gunshots.

  “Nateel! Nateel, are you there?” demanded the desk anchor. “Was that gunfire?”

  After a few more seconds of indistinguishable shouts and the sounds of a microphone being carried or bumped into things, the reporter came back. “Okay—okay we’re okay, Jim. Everyone’s cool—okay? Everyone just stay cool. We’re not looking for trouble, okay? We’re just reporters.”

  Darren looked at Brandon, who shrugged. He couldn’t tell if the reporter was talking to Jim or the people on the street.

  “No, no we’re not telling the cops anything. In fact, could we interview you?”

  After some more scuffling, a new voice emerged, slightly too loud for the radio’s speaker. “Yeah—yeah, baby girl, my name uh, Bobby D. Yeah, Bobby D, that’s me.”

  Someone laughed in the background.

  The reporter cleared her throat and carried on, though Darren’s palms moistened, listening to how her voice tightened with anxiety or fear. “So, um, Mr. D—”

  “Nah, girl, you call me Big D.”

  “Oh—um, okay, Mr. Big D—”

  More laughter in the background. More glass breaking.

  “It appears that you’re taking advantage of the chaos—”

  “Damn straight, girl, we rollin’ on this here phat cheddah before some other fools do. Ain’t no cops in sight—ain’t nothin’ they can do no way, no how, you feel me?”

  “Aren’t you afraid of the sickness rumored to be in this area? The Elixr Syndrome? Most people are evacuating the city and suburbs if they can—”

  “Naw, two things baby girl: one,” Bobby D said, his voice dripping with confidence and bravado, “where we gonna go? Ain’t got no cars and no money neither…not like HoJo’s gonna give me and my crew free rooms, you dig?” he asked over the sound of raucous laughter in the background. “Two—shut the hell up! I’m givin’ an interview here. This some serious shit y’all!” Big D cleared his throat. “I apologize for the behavior of my compatriots…now, what was I sayin? Oh yeah, two: all that talk ‘bout some virus and shit just more lies. Look, lotta people scared—ain’t no doubt about it, these scary times, yeah? But they stupid, see? You run, you leave all this cheddah behind. Where the sense in that? It’s mine, now, dog. Mine,” he said, the last word very loud and distorted, like he’d leaned into the mic too close. Laughter erupted behind him as a few others chimed in.

  “Damn straight! We own this shit, now!”

  “Wooo!”

  “Big D in da howwwse!”

  “So here’s what I’m thinking, baby girl,” Bobby D said again, his voice a crass attempt to lay on the charm, low and soft. “Why don’t you and me…go find a little place—”

  A distant shout, barely audible over the radio tickled Darren’s ears. Bobby D stopped talking for a second.

  “Mr. D,” began the reporter, her voice wavering.

  “Hang on, hang on, girl…what is that fool…mother fu—yo! The fuck you think you doin’ over there? This here—”

  POP, POP-POP.

  Nateel screamed, the microphone distorted, and the sounds of several weapons going off ringed against the walls of the little pantry as the small radio struggled to broadcast the loud noises. Chaos erupted over the airwaves as different men shouted, the reporter screamed again, and more gunshots rang out.

  “Come on, Nateel, we gotta go! Come on!” a new voice said.

  “Oh, God…oh, God…” the reporter muttered, her voice distant.

  “Jesus, God—she’s been shot,” a third voice said. “Quick, put pressure on it, we gotta stop the bleeding,” he said over Nateel’s moaning.

  “Nateel! It’s Jim, what’s going on?”

  “Jim, this is Harvey, call the cops—”

  “Fuck the cops, fuck the disease, and fuck you!” Bobby D roared in the background.

  “Whoa, wait a minute—” began Harvey.

  Several more shots rang out and Nateel’s screaming was cut off abruptly. After several seconds of silence, the feed was cut and the anchor cleared his throat.

  “Nateel…? Harvey…? Anyone…?” Jim breathed, his voice quivering.

  Brandon switched off the radio.

  “Holy shit,” Amanda breathed.

  Carl got up and ran from the room. Darren heard him retching down the hall. He didn’t make it to the restroom.

  Amanda rubbed her face and sat back, leaning against the pantry wall. “What the hell was that?” she asked, looking at Darren with glistening, wide eyes.

  Darren sighed. “That was the beginning of the new dark ages.”

  8

  Run and Gun

  St. Charles, Illinois

  Seneca crouch-walked forward, feeling all the while that someone was watching. Rifle up, he kept the red dot sight on the back of the zeke’s head and crept closer. The group of zombies didn’t so much as flinch. As he drew within five yards or so, his boot found a piece of paper on the ground and made a soft crinkle sound. The
rear zombie on the right stopped and looked around, not realizing the sound came from behind.

  Seneca motioned with his left hand for Ward to peel off, then adjusted the rifle to port arms and picked up speed. He crashed into the stopped zombie with a grunt and the monster exhaled nastiness and fell in a slobbering, flailing mess. He stepped over the mindless ghoul and smashed the stock of his rifle into the lower spine of the next one, following that with his right shoulder. The combination worked, and he was past the targets in a heartbeat, now both writhing and moaning on the ground, unable to quickly get to their feet, just as he’d suspected.

  A glance told him Ward had similar success, and they regrouped before racing down the street as fast as their heavy packs would allow. They didn’t stop until they reached the next cross street, then Seneca pulled them over behind the corner of a burned-out house.

  “What’s up?” breathed Ward.

  Seneca took a moment to catch his breath. “Something isn’t right.”

  Ward looked around. “Damn, I wish I had me some NODs right about now.”

  Seneca shifted the weight on his feet and peer around the house. Ward was right—some night optical/observation devices would be worth their weight in gold in the coming days and weeks. He couldn’t tell if the zekes could see any better than people at night, though their hearing might be a tad better.

  He closed his eyes and relied on his hearing for a moment. At first, he only heard his own heartbeat thudding in his ears, then Ward’s attempt to cover the fact that he was breathing harder than he should—were he twenty years younger. After another few seconds, Seneca relaxed and picked up a gentle breeze rustling the drying leaves in the trees that arched over the street, and the whisper of leaves that had already fallen as they were carried along the gutters and through the street. The raspy sound continued unabated as the leaves went on their nighttime journey through the deserted streets.