by S. Ganley
Sliding into the driver’s seat, he popped the car into gear and drove clear of the parking lot. Once he rounded the front of the building he stopped for a minute when he saw the crowd of zombies that was moving in and out of the shattered glass front of the main lobby. By now there were many more revived bodies up and moving around in that area, he saw the uniforms of several of his fellow officers mixed in with their ranks. As much as he hated seeing his friends and comrades in that condition, there was little he could do for them. He took the turn to take them back out onto the main drive and headed off to the outskirts of town.
Chapter 16
The reports now flooding the crisis center all conveyed a similar message, things were spiraling out of control very fast. The term zombie was being used collectively by medical facilities across the world and even General Page had been ready to concede the point based on his own information from military commanders in the field. Hospitals, medical centers and clinics throughout the United States were starting to close their doors against the flood of sick rushing in. Many facilities reported loosing irreplaceable staff after being attacked and bitten by reanimated corpses. It was becoming a standard procedure to instantly incinerate anyone dying of a flu related sickness as quickly as possible after they passed. Information varied, but the average turnaround time from death to reanimation was from two to four hours, a handful of facilities had recorded incidents with a reanimation time of a single hour while others noted as many as eight hours before any such activity was observed. All available data did point to the fact that a bite from a zombie was by far the quickest manner in which victims were doomed to death and reanimation. While the virus itself had been deemed to have a mortality rate in the mid to high 90% range, each individual varied a great deal in how their bodies dealt with infection. Some reports had victims succumbing within hours while others had thus far held out in excess of forty eight hours or longer and were responding to some degree to traditional treatments of their symptoms.
Dr. Woods and the experts at the CDC had just about given up any chance of discovering a cure for this outbreak. With the loss of their sole immune survivor from Browns Mills with the original strain of the virus, their odds of getting this outbreak under control were quickly reaching zero. What they were now finding was that the samples they were receiving of infected tissue contained such differing variations of the virus with only one point of RNA remaining consistent. The leading theory that Dr. Woods was now starting to support was that the virus was actually capable of protecting itself by mutating as it spread through the population. These mutations prevented the creation of a single effective vaccine or overall cure against it. The only medically viable solution was to find someone who was immune to the original strain of the virus where it was first introduced into the population in and around south central New Jersey. The prospect of finding someone exposed to the original strain who was also immune was proving impossible. After the checkpoints surrounding the area fell in the wake of the first waves of zombies that had begun branching out to the surrounding areas in search of food, any survivors in the area also made their own break through the collapsed checkpoints. Those survivors, if any, had probably moved far and wide from their homes and were in hiding from not only the threat of the zombie menace, but possibly a fear of authorities as well, after feeling as though they were abandoned following the onset of the infection around their homes. Most efforts were now centered on taking a more proactive approach to exterminating any suspected reanimated and in some areas of the country even those considered close to death as a result of the flu were being put down to ensure they didn't come back as undead.
Standard orders for law enforcement and military personnel were for head shots for any recently deceased person they came across. This was also the standard level of force being authorized for anyone exhibiting signs of reanimation such as unprovoked aggression, clouded eyes and yellowed skin color. Other symptoms such as abnormal displays of strength, body odor symbolic of decomposition and the ability to absorb injuries beyond the capability of a living human were added to the list of universally recognized signs that you were facing a zombie.
One of Dr. Martin's specialties was in sociological research and he had been spending a great deal of time gathering profile data from multiple sources on observations of how zombies were reportedly behaving either by themselves or in groups. His findings had helped Dr. Woods put together addendum's to the medical profile he was assembling and distributing to authorities across the globe for dissemination to response teams, military personnel and news sources to include in the information they were providing the public.
General Page informed Dr. Woods and the other members of the crisis team that the Vice President and his staff had now safely landed and been moved into position at the underground facility code named Project Greek Island built underneath the four star Greenbrier hotel in Greenbrier County, West Virginia. The facility had been built in the 1950's as a secret fallout shelter designated for the highest ranking members of the US Government to seek refuge in the event of a nuclear war. Located far from any valuable military targets or population centers it was felt that it was safely outside of the projected impact zones of a nuclear strike against the United States and would also be reasonably protected from fallout in the worst hit areas along the east coast. The facility had been deactivated years ago and the entire complex sealed shut but left intact. After discovering that every other potential relocation center designated for the President and his cabinet to seek refuge in an emergency had to some degree been exposed to infection from staff manning those locations, the Greenbrier bunker was thus considered to be the best possible option. Since it had been sealed shut after its deactivation there was no threat of exposure from infected staff. Landing Air Force One at an airport thirty miles south of the hotel, the entire entourage was moved by military helicopter to the complex which had been secured ahead of time by a team of Special Forces troops. It would take at least several more hours until they had the Greenbrier facility completely up and running, in the meantime General Page would continue his efforts with directing the response to this crisis until transferring all responsibility back to the Vice Presidents staff. The General confided in Dr. Woods that his own staff was now down to half of their capabilities as more of his people succumbed to the illness, he felt that his own condition was quickly reaching the point where it would necessary for him to voluntarily step down and pass the reigns to the next ranking officer who had not yet reached a terminal stage of the illness.
#
Garrett had just gotten out of the shower and was starting to get himself ready for work, a pot of coffee was brewing and he was putting together a bag lunch for later that day. He was anxious to get through this first week on the job, being the new guy on the block was not something he looked forward to and once he learned the ropes and met a few people he would start feeling much more comfortable with the job. He'd planned to leave a little early just to get a feel for the traffic flowing into the Seven Corners area where he would be commuting every morning for now on. With schools and government offices closed he doubted that he would truly get a sense of traffic on that first drive until things started back to normal, but at least he could scope out convenient places to stop for coffee and gas along the way. He had just finished buttoning up his shirt and was about to loop his tie over his neck when someone started beating against his front door as if they were trying to break it down. It was seldom that he had visitors to his townhouse, the occasional kid selling this or that for a school related promotion was about his only unexpected guest, never had he had someone approach his house this early in the morning and beat so hard on his door. His first thought was that Carlos or one his pot smoking roommates had gotten confused and was knocking on the wrong door. That would be a mistake that Garrett would make sure was not repeated.
Storming down the stairs with his temper about to reach the boiling point he did not yell out as his visitor continu
ed pounding on the door, instead he yanked the door open in one sudden movement and stepped into the doorway ready to send a punch flying if he recognized one of his less desirable neighbors standing there with glassy eyes and a stupid look on their face. The sight that greeted him instead was one he was not even remotely prepared for. It was a neighbor that had been beating on his door, but it was not Carlos or one of his friends, instead it was a man from another townhouse just across the parking lot. Garrett thought his name was Steve as they had shared some chatter about favorite sports teams once or twice when their paths had crossed in the neighborhood. The man was red faced and out of breath, still dressed in a pair of pajama bottoms and an oversize t-shirt that Garrett immediately noted had a tear across the right side and was coated with a streak of running blood from a nasty wound that he could see on the side of the man's ribcage.
"Help, please man, you've got to help me, my wife and son, something is really wrong with them. I can’t get through to 911 and don't know what to do." Tears were running freely down his face and each sentence came out followed by a spray of spittle.
Taking a step backwards into the foyer of his home, Garrett was caught off guard by the man’s disheveled look and his frantic and pleading cries for help. If there was one thing that would galvanize Garrett into helping someone in need, it was when their children were suffering in some form or fashion. He thought that the couple had a boy who was maybe about eight or nine, he had seen the little blond haired kid ridding a scooter on occasion up and down the sidewalks in front of their town homes.
Garrett put both of his hands on the man's shoulders and held him steady as he tried to get him to focus for a moment.
Keeping his voice below a shout but still firm enough to command his attention he asked, "Steve, what happened? What's wrong with your family?"
Steve was muttering know, disjointed and meaningless half sentences. Garrett pieced together that his wife and son had been sick all night and that he had stayed up taking care of them. At some point in the early morning hours he fell asleep in their den. He woke up a short time ago to the screams of his wife and son, when he went up to his sons room to check on them, they had both been covered in piss and shit and were snarling like wild animals. He had tried to talk to them, but it was like they didn't recognize him. His son had jumped on him and bit him across the side before he had a chance to do anything. The boy had been much stronger than Steve had ever imagined and the bite was not just a little nip, he had dug his whole face into Steve's side and torn loose a deep patch of flesh. While he was tangled up with his boy, his wife had also tried to take a bite out of his leg but he managed to kick her in the face and she fell backwards just as he got loose of his son. He had slammed the door shut on the two of them and pushed a dresser in front it to keep them inside while he had tried several times to call for help. He said that all of the emergency lines were continually busy and that he couldn't even get through with direct call to the police or fire stations. The whole time he was calling for help his wife and son were beating against the door trying to get out while moaning like some kind of demons. Panicked and not knowing where else to turn he had noticed the lights on inside Garrett's house and in an act of desperation he had run across the street to seek whatever help he could find.
The first thing Garrett thought to do was to try calling 911 on his own cell phone, for the first time in his life he actually heard a busy tone over the emergency line interrupted after a few seconds by a recording telling him that all circuits were busy and for him to try his call again later.
"Shit" he mumbled as he hung his phone up, the poor guy’s pleading and tearful eyes told Garrett that he had to do something. Just standing there in his front doorway was not going to help, "let’s go, maybe together we can get them under control and try to help them."
He grabbed Steve by the arm and was helping to lead him back across the parking lot when he doubled over and fell to his knees retching and coughing violently. Garrett had to step back out of the way to avoid the splash of projectile vomit that shot like a cannon out of his mouth. As disturbing as this sight was Garrett noticed that his vomit was heavily coated with dark crimson blood. Garrett was contemplating his next move when the distinctive sound of smashing glass from across the street caught his attention. Garrett could hardly believe his eyes at the spectacle he was seeing. Steve’s townhouse was just across the parking lot and two houses to the left of Garrett’s own front door. Each of house had been designed a little different for variety, but a few things remained consistent from one to the next, in this case was the overhang of the front porch that was made into a gentle steeple slope stretching about five feet in either direction from the center of each porch. The overhanging roof was directly underneath the bedroom window of what would most often be a spare bedroom for each unit. The window above the porch roof at Steve's house had been completely broken, not just the glass but the entire wooden frame was just hitting the ground all around the porch in a shower of splintered wood of crushed glass. The source of the damage was now perched like a gargoyle on the top of the eave above the porch. Garrett watched in stunned fascination as Steve's wife leapt from her roost on top of the roof and hit the ground in a not at all gracious tumble. The only reason Garrett even knew it was Steve's wife was that she had come from his house, other than that she was almost completely unrecognizable from the friendly and well-mannered soccer mom that he had seen a few times in the past loading their son in the family minivan for a Saturday afternoon at a local park or whatever it was that kids that age did these days. What he was seeing now was a savage beast of a woman whose face was contorted into a terrifying snarl with her teeth bared and snapping like a wild animal. Even from across the parking lot Garrett was able to see the discolored skin and deathly eyes that added to the overall picture of someone who was completely out of their mind and clearly a threat to both of them. Following only a moment behind Steve's wife, Garrett watched as the son came tumbling out of the window. The boy had taken the leap from a different angle and instead of a partial landing on the overhang, he clipped the corner of it and landed with a loud and sickening thunk that caused Garrett to fight an impulse to join Steve in losing his lunch all over the sidewalk. The sound was bad enough by itself, but Garrett also was unfortunate enough to be standing in just the right spot to be able to see the kid as he hit the ground. The head smacked the edge of the very bottom of the concrete steps leading from their porch. It was like nothing he had ever witnessed before, even during his combat tours Garrett had never seen a head just simply explode in so many directions like that. The entire episode was over in less than a second but he had witnessed it in such vivid detail that it was almost as though he had the ability to see it from different angles. The lack of blood splatter accompanying the shower of destroyed brain was the one distinct oddity that he noticed. He had seen men shot directly in the head before and the one thing that was always similar with that type of wound was the massive amount of blood loss that resulted from a traumatic head wound. In this case the entire skull had literally exploded apart in a splash of brain, hair and bone fragments all across the front of the porch. What should have been a scene bathed in dark red was represented by only a tenth of what he would have expected in terms of blood loss. These disturbing observations were made in the span of a brief second and he didn't have the time to even begin to start piecing together the significance of what he was seeing. Steve's wife had regained her feet after her crash landing and was now starting to rush across the sidewalk towards the open parking lot separating them. The sight of her own son falling from the window and smashing his head like an overripe watermelon did not even register with her for an instant. Garrett thought for a second that at least Steve had still been bent low to the ground caught up in his own stomach issues. This had spared him the vision of seeing something that Garrett could never imagine any parent having to witness.
Given the situation with mother and son leaping from a second story win
dow like that, Garrett would have probably thought in any other circumstance that either the house was on fire or they were trying to escape some other imminent and life threatening peril. The one thing that convinced him that this was not a case of a mother and son desperately fleeing a more immediate hazard inside that house was the perverse and pure loathing visible on the face of Steve's wife as she started charging across the parking lot towards them. He knew without a doubt that her intent towards them was pure hostility in the most primal of ways, if she reached them, she was going to do all she could to rip them apart with her bare hands. Steve was still doubled over and in no condition to try and move or even help to talk his wife down. Garrett would either have to make a run for it and leave him to face his wife in this condition alone or stand his ground and try to fend her off. He glanced from side to side for anything that he could possible use as an improvised weapon, a garbage can lid, tree branch or even a child's toy left outside. There was nothing but cars and concrete anywhere within a reasonable distance and he realized he was going to have to go toe to toe with this crazed woman with just his own bare hands. He took two steps past Steve to place himself between the charging woman and her incapacitated husband, and planted his left foot behind him with his weight evenly distributed and ready to absorb the full impact of her head on charge and to do his best to keep her from reaching her husband and ripping him to shreds.
A flash of color moving fast across the parking lot and the sudden roar of a motor coming from his right caught his attention as a green truck accelerated rapidly around the corner into the parking lot in front of his apartment. Garrett thought that the driver must be crazy or blind, because as the truck straightened itself back out in between the lane of parked cars, the front bumped turned at an angle that now seemed to be purposely aimed at a point where it would intersect Steve's wife. He instinctively shouted out a warning to the woman, but whether she heard him or even understood was something he would never know. The truck slammed into her at close to thirty miles per hour, there was no indication that the driver had tried to either swerve out of the way or even hit the brakes, from the sound of the racing engine Garrett was convinced that if anything, the truck had continued to speed up even after striking the woman. Steve's wife disappeared from view as the truck sped past, Garrett had a fleeting glance of a flying tuft of dirty blond hair billowing out from the front of the truck as the vehicle crossed in front of him and then an instant later slammed into the rear quarter panel of a black Mustang tucked into the last parking spot on the next row of buildings. The impact of the crash turned the Mustang almost completely sideways as it was pushed by the heavier pickup truck onto and past the sidewalk where the passenger side folded up around the base of a solid concrete lamp post. The rear bed of the truck rose up off the ground several feet as the lamp post absorbed the impact but held fast and stopped both vehicles in their tracks. A loud snap was followed immediately by a hissing sound as a fog of hot steam began to escape from the side of the bent and twisted hood of the truck. Steve's wife was nowhere in sight and Garrett was certain that her crushed and mangled body must be wedged into the narrow space between the front of the truck and the smashed side of the Mustang. He was certain that the woman was dead, the impact of the truck alone had carried her fifty to sixy feet across the parking lot where she must have suffered the brunt of the collision between the two vehicles. He imagined that it was even possible that she had been cut in half at the waist given the height difference between the front bumper of the truck and where it had slammed into the lower sitting car.