“She only means well, Ali,” snapped Salvatore.
Great, thought Tyrell. Now he was caught between Marie’s two children arguing over guns. The whole topic just made him sick to his stomach. He thought about his dad, and how they used to fly kites on the beach. How they used to do homework together. How they used to wrestle in the living room. Then he thought of his father, dead, lunging at him like a rabid animal.
“We haven’t seen any of…them in two years,” said Alessandra.
Salvatore snickered. “That doesn’t mean they’re gone.”
Alessandra pursed her lips. “The police are cooperating with the CDC and the military. I heard Mom talking about it with Mr. Guarnucci. They’ll protect us.”
“Yeah, right. Like they did before. The CDC doesn’t know what they’re doing. The government is inept.”
Alessandra wagged a finger at her brother. “We’d be dead if it wasn’t for Chief Holbrook and the National Guard. All of us.”
Salvatore laughed at her faith in government. “They almost let the virus spread to the mainland.”
“Yeah, but they didn’t.”
“Blind luck. If it ever happened again, God forbid, I don’t think they’re prepared or equipped to stop it again.”
Alessandra threw her hands down at her sides, her palms slapping her legs, and turned on Salvatore. “Blind luck? What about Tyrell’s dad? What about our dad? Do they feel lucky?”
Salvatore put up his hands defensively. “Hey, that’s not what I meant.”
Alessandra stared her brother down, undeterred. “What about the hundreds of people who lost their lives? Were they lucky? They were torn apart like fresh meat, eaten alive by the dead. Does that sound lucky to you?”
Marie, perhaps overhearing the contentious tones, re-emerged from the stock room. She looked at Tyrell, the expression on his face, and then her son. Alessandra looked pissed. “What’s going on here? What are you guys arguing about?”
Tyrell dropped his gaze to the floor. “I have to get some fresh air. I don’t feel so well.”
Marie shot Salvatore a dirty look, to which he replied, “What? What did I do?”
Head hanging low, Tyrell shuffled out of the store and walked down the boardwalk to the nearest public restroom, avoiding the small washroom Marie had in the back.
“You need to leave him alone,” said Alessandra. “The both of you.”
Marie glared at her son, and then her expression softened. “She’s right, Sal. No more talk about guns or the range. Got it?”
Salvatore nodded and then looked down at the ground. He had heard this debate many times before between residents of the Bay. He had heard it in his mother’s store, out at restaurants, and on local television. He even heard it in school, where his classmates mirrored their parents’ stance on the matter, regurgitating their reasoning.
New Jersey wasn’t exactly a gun-friendly state. However, Smuggler’s Bay wasn’t typical New Jersey. The business owners in town were mostly Republican and were pro-gun, even more so after the attack. Many of them kept guns in their homes. Some had always done so, while others were new converts. Others in town, like Tara, were Democrats espousing gun control. To them, the attack had little to no impact on this belief. However, there were fewer and fewer of them over the last two years.
*
Down the boardwalk, Tyrell slipped into the closest public restroom and stood in front of the sink. He opened the faucet and splashed cool water on his face. He remembered the summer after the storm. The town hadn’t fixed up the bathrooms yet. Instead, they had focused on repairing and replacing sections of damaged boardwalk.
His right hand trembled as it closed the faucet, cutting off the water. He decided right then and there that he was going to broach the subject with his mother, if only to put the topic to rest. He was getting tired of hearing about it at Marie’s store. She would either consider it, or he wasn’t going to go back to the store.
Emboldened by his conviction, he marched out of the bathroom and decided to apply for a job at whatever store or stand would have him. Not an official job, as he was too young, but maybe somewhere where he could help out.
He looked right and then left, and his eyes settled on Cantone’s Pizzeria. Vinnie was a nice guy. Maybe he’d let Tyrell wipe down tables or something.
He walked up the boardwalk to the pizzeria and saw Vinnie wiping down the kitchen area. His father, Marco, was in the back fiddling with the ancient air conditioning unit.
As Tyrell approached the stand, Vinnie looked up. When he saw him, he smiled. “Hey, Tyrell. Wassup?”
Tyrell thrust his hands into his shorts pockets and leaned up against the glass counter. “Hey, Vinnie. How’s it going?”
“It’s going. What can I do for you? It’s a little early for a slice.”
“Yeah, I mean, no. I don’t want a slice.”
“Oh? What’s going on?”
“Can I talk to you?”
Vinnie’s smile faded, and he started to look concerned. “Sure. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I just need to ask you a question.”
Vinnie waved him inside. “C’mon. We’ll grab a booth in the back. Step into my office.”
Tyrell entered the store and joined Vinnie, who stepped from behind the counter. Vinnie called to his father, “Dad, I need to talk to Tyrell for a minute.”
Marco looked up from his futile effort, looked at the expression on Tyrell’s face, and threw his hands up. “This damned thing is hopeless. Why couldn’t the storm take this damned antique? Then the insurance company could’ve gotten me a brand new one.”
Vinnie shook his head in disapproval. “Dad, we’re lucky we still have the shop.”
Marco looked at Tyrell and softened. Here he is, complaining about air conditioning, and this poor kid lost his dad. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He went up front by the registers and continued the chore of wiping everything down.
Vinnie went all the way to the back for privacy and slid into a booth. Tyrell slid in across from him, sitting with his hands folded.
“What’s on your mind?” asked Vinnie.
“Maybe I could help out.”
“Help out?”
“Yeah, you know, here.”
“You mean you want a job?”
“Kinda.”
Vinnie smiled, amused. “Aren’t you working for Marie Russo, helping her out in her store?”
“Yeah. But, she’s driving me crazy.”
Vinnie gestured to his father up front, who was already preparing the dough. “Yeah, well he’s no bargain to work with either. Besides, don’t you want to be with your friends, Sal and Ali?”
Tyrell hesitated, knowing it was rude to badmouth other adults behind their backs, but he felt comfortable confiding in Vinnie. Vinnie was a kid, like him. Kind of. “Mrs. Russo is driving me nuts about guns.”
Vinnie cracked another smile. “Yeah, she’s become a real gun nut. She thinks she’s Rambo.”
Tyrell scrunched up his nose. “Who’s Rambo?”
Vinnie shook his head. “Never mind. Continue.”
“Well, she wants my mom to learn how to shoot. Me, too. She said she’d teach me how to shoot a rifle.”
“That’s pretty hardcore. What does your mom think about that?”
“She talked with my mom about guns once. My mom hates guns.”
“Hmm. I’m surprised. Your mom was a bad ass when the attack happened. I heard she took out zombies with a replica sword.”
Tyrell looked down at the table. “She killed my dad.”
Vinnie leaned forward. “Hey, look at me.” Tyrell met Vinnie’s eyes. “Your mother had to do it to protect you. Besides, he wasn’t your dad anymore.” Vinnie thought of the pounding on the metal gates in the arcade and the moans of the dead. “He was a monster. Something evil that needed to be destroyed.”
Tyrell frowned. “He was still my dad.”
“Listen, if you want, I can talk to Marie for you. Ge
t her off your back.”
Tyrell’s expression brightened. “You’d do that for me?”
Vinnie put out his fist. “Anything for you, bro.”
Tyrell bumped it.
“Now you’d better get back to the store, or Marie will coming looking for you…guns blazing.”
Tyrell looked stunned, as if Marie hunting him down toting guns might have been a real possibility.
“Tyrell, I was joking about that last part.”
Tyrell exhaled in relief.
“Now scram.”
Tyrell jumped up and darted out of the pizzeria. He passed through the air conditioning of the pizzeria and into the bright light of the boardwalk when someone collided with him.
“I’m sorry,” Tyrell began to say, but his voice trailed off as he saw a little girl standing there with a devilish grin. It was an unnatural grin that contorted her face in a disconcerting way. It appeared that she had smeared lipstick or ketchup on her mouth. Her eyes were distant, yet alert, an unsettling contradiction.
The girl sounded like she was wheezing.
Tyrell took a step back. “Are you okay?”
The little girl didn’t answer.
Tyrell looked around, and she appeared unaccompanied by any adults. Her clothing was damp and covered in sand.
“Where are your parents?”
Still no response. Just that unnerving grin and the gravelly sound her breathing made.
“Okay…” Tyrell backed away slowly and turned to walk back to Marie’s store. After he took a few steps, he turned around, but the little girl was gone.
* * *
Chief Holbrook sat on a metal stool inside the morgue, watching Dr. Hickey lay out the remains of Morty Sandberg on the shiny metal table. Holbrook looked around. The whole room was metallic, except for the rubber hoses and glassware. It left him with a bad taste in his mouth.
“Okay,” said Dr. Hickey, grabbing a digital voice recorder. “The remains are covered in bite marks, consistent with a human bite radius. There are bites about the face, arms, legs, torso, and buttocks.” He shined a small flashlight at the head, illuminating the hole. “There is an open head injury; most of the brain tissue is missing.”
He took a long metal probe and began poking inside the skull. “Most of the frontal cortex is missing, part of the cerebellum remains. The brain stem appears mostly intact.”
He looked over at Holbrook, who was watching intently. “You okay, Chief?”
Holbrook’s expression was all business. “Don’t worry about me, Doc. Continue.”
Dr. Hickey nodded. “Initiating Protocol Z. The time is currently 9:53am. The body was discovered at approximately 8:20am.” He backed away from the table, sat on a metal stool, and watched the body like Holbrook.
The two watched the body together in silence, Holbrook with his hand on his gun. That was what Protocol Z was. Nothing fancy or high-tech. The Department of Health instructed town officials that if remains were found, they were to be taken back to the morgue, the trauma noted and catalogued, and observed for movement within four hours.
That was how long it took a deceased person to reanimate. Those bitten but still alive and otherwise healthy took twenty-four to seventy-two hours to reanimate. It took longer because first the person had to succumb to death first.
There would be a prodromal phase, during which there would be drastic personality changes and uncharacteristic behavior—irritability, verbal aggression, acting out, violence. Some would exhibit socially unacceptable bodily functions, others would consume their own tongues or digits, others would taunt others and engage in self-injurious behavior. Then, eventually, the body died. Within minutes, the body would reanimate.
“Doc, you’ve been to all the conferences.”
Dr. Hickey clasped his hands in his lap and nodded. “DOH, FEMA, Department of Emergency Management.”
“That’s right. Are there any theories on where the Z virus came from?”
“Well, they traced patient zero back to the dementia ward of a nursing home.”
“Sophia Russo.”
“Yes, that’s correct. The current thinking is that it’s some kind of opportunistic infection that attacks compromised brain tissue.”
Holbrook shook his head. “But it was transmitted to non-elderly, uncompromised brains.”
“Yes, but that’s not where it originated. The compromised brain riddled with the plaques that caused dementia was the first step, where it was allowed to incubate.”
Holbrook still had his hand on his gun. “It mutated?”
“Possibly. The life cycle is rapid, only a matter of minutes as it reproduces. It’s possible to have mutations between generations.”
“I’m sensing an ‘or’…”
Dr. Hickey sighed. “Or, it could have developed. Matured into what it became.”
“So where did it come from?”
“If the government knows, they’re not sharing it. Could be a naturally occurring pathogen, like Zica. It may even be a variant of Zica.”
“But we haven’t heard of Zica until recently.”
“It doesn’t mean it wasn’t out there prior,in one form or another, Chief. Symptoms and cause of death are similar. Acute polyneuropathy, Guillain-Barré syndrome. Only the Z virus works much faster and is much more lethal.”
“And it reanimates dead tissue,” added Holbrook.
“Yes, there’s that.”
Four hours passed without incident. There was nothing as much as a twitch from the remains. Dr. Hickey took several digital photos of the body. Holbrook’s stomach was grumbling.
“I’m calling it,” said Dr. Hickey. “Half past noon. No positive indicators of reanimation.”
Holbrook stood and stretched, his hand now away from his gun. “So, that’s it? This wasn’t a zombie attack?”
Dr. Hickey stood over the remains, thinking. “That’s one possibility. The other is that there might not have been enough of the brain left to allow reanimation.”
“So we could still have a zombie roaming around Smuggler’s Bay.”
“Or a few. Or several.”
“Jesus, Doc.”
“I’ll call it in to the DOH and treat the remains.” That meant sterilization.
Holbrook put his cap back on. “I’ll need a few pics to show Morty’s daughter. I’ve got the entire force searching for the missing granddaughter, April.”
“Do you think she was…?”
“No evidence one way or the other yet. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“I’ll load the pics up and send you a few,” said Hickey. “You’ll have it by the time you get to the Morty’s house.”
“Thanks, Doc.” Holbrook left the sterile, metallic room and the morgue building. He slid into his car and turned the ignition. He paused for a moment.
He hated this part, informing people that their loved ones were deceased. After the attack, it became a full-time job for a month or so. What was worse was that the treatment of the remains after Protocol Z was sterilization and eventual cremation, so there was no closure for the individual’s loved ones. No body to bury, no saying goodbye. Only a few digital pictures.
He put the car in gear and drove away. On his way, he jumped on the radio. “This is Chief Holbrook. We may have a possible Contagion Z Scenario, Phase One. I want everyone on high alert, Code Orange.”
* * *
Nancy looked on as her ride operators filed into the gated pier, reporting to their stations after clocking in. They had received their assignments and took their stations, and the dormant rides sprung to life on Blackbeard’s Pier.
Mike walked up next to her. “So, are you attending the town events committee meeting tonight?”
“Damned straight I am. I don’t like the direction this town is going. It’s bad enough that we turned into zombie central, but now they’re talking about a rave. A damned rave.”
“I don’t know,” Mike said with a shrug. “Maybe a rave isn’t such a bad thing. It’ll
bring more youth to the Bay.”
“Jesus, Mike! Do you hear yourself…Do you even know what a rave is?”
“I don’t know. It sounds like a big party on the beach with music. Like a bigger version of the bonfire.”
“It’s nothing like the bonfire,” Nancy snapped. “It’s that weird electronic music and teenagers doing drugs and having sex. We don’t want more teenagers. We want families.”
“When did you become such a prude, Nance?”
“It’ll be nothing but trouble for the Bay, and these teens won’t be feeding any money into the businesses.”
Mike put his hands on his hips. “Ah, and so we come to your real objection. You won’t make any money off this event.”
“That’s beside the point,” insisted Nancy. “That sort of thing is not us. It’s not what the town is about.”
“I don’t know. It might not be so bad.”
“Which is why you’re managing the pier and I’m going to the meeting.”
Mike pointed an admonishing finger. “Now you behave yourself, Nancy. Remember what happened at the last meeting?”
She pointed a finger back, stabbing Mike in the chest. “You don’t tell me what to do, mister. And I was right about those drug addicts filling the motels.” She stalked off in consternation, but not without shouting over her shoulder, “I’ll see you at the bonfire. Make sure you put on a nice shirt.”
Mike shrugged his shoulders. “I thought all my shirts were nice.”
Nancy waved a dismissive hand and disappeared into the arcade.
Mike’s attention was drawn towards a little girl crying, clutching her arm. She was being comforted by her mother, who was looking around, searching the crowd with an angry expression on her face.
* * *
Chief Holbrook pulled up to Morty’s house in his cruiser and parked in front. He remembered something Morty told him a couple of days ago, about his daughter visiting from Bergen County. He stepped out, scanning the premises. There were lights on.
He drew a deep sigh and moseyed on up to the front door. He rang the doorbell and waited.
Marney opened the front door. She looked surprised to see him. “Chief Holbrook! What a surprise!”
The Creeping Dead: Book 2 Page 5