Scavengers

by Christopher Fulbright

  Thomas realized arguing was futile and, shaking his head, turned his car around as instructed.

  “Your mother isn’t going to be pleased about this.”

  “Are we going home?” Selah said, crayon gripped tightly in her hand.

  “Ssh, just a minute, honey. Let me call Mommy.” He used speed dial, calling Dejah at home. She picked up immediately.

  “Thomas? Is that you? Is Selah okay?”

  “Yeah, hey, listen. We just tried to get through the blockade and the soldiers made us turn around.”

  “What? I can barely hear you. You’re breaking up.”

  “I’m out in the middle of nowhere, bad reception,” and then louder, “They won’t let us through the blockade. The soldiers made us turn around. We have to go back to Mom and Dad’s.”

  “Why? I mean, did they tell you for how long?” Dejah’s voice rose in pitch; panic welled in her words.

  “No. The soldier said that information hadn’t been made available yet.”

  “Great.”

  “Hey, we’ll call you when we know something.” Thomas turned onto the road leading to his parents’ house.

  “No, call me tonight. Have Selah call, okay?” Dejah almost pleaded.

  “Yeah, okay. Bye.” He ended the call before she could say anything else.

  * * *

  Hoover drove over the rutty dirt road leading to Burt’s house, or Burt’s Country Club, as they jokingly referred to it. More than one wife had tried her damnedest to pry Burt’s mansion out of his clutches, but in the end, he was still firmly rooted out here in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

  Hoover honked as he approached the circle drive. The dirt road ramped onto pebbled concrete. Burt thought by keeping the road that branched from the farm road unpaved, trespassers would assume there was some white trash trailer out here and leave him alone. It worked. He rarely had anyone come down the road that wasn’t supposed to be there.

  Hoover honked again, pulling up in front of the old plantation style house.

  “That’s funny. Where are the Boys?” Hoover slammed the bucket of lead he called a truck into park and opened his creaking door, looking for Burt’s dogs, otherwise known as the Boys. “Here, Boy, here Boy!” Both dogs were actually named Boy. Made things easier for Burt to keep straight he’d said. Damned if he knew where they’d gotten off to.

  Nothing but crickets in the grass.

  Hoover got out his phone and fiddled with it for a minute. Matty asked him to snap a photo of Burt and send it back. He pressed a button, taking a photo of the dirt. Yep, that’s it.

  He approached the front door. It was open a crack. Maybe Burt had just gone back inside. Hoover rang the doorbell, certain the chimes would bring Burt’s two Rottweilers in a rush of black fur — out the door and around him in a flurry of barks — but, only the chimes and silence greeted him.

  “Hey, Burt? You in there?” Hoover pushed on the door and hesitantly peered around the edge. He hoped Burt wasn’t walking around in his birthday suit or something. “Here Boy, here Boy!”

  The door swung open at his touch. Hoover stared into the marble-floored foyer, the sounds of some old Kenny Rogers song playing on the radio somewhere in the house. He entered, closing the door behind him. “Burt? It’s Hoov. Matty sent me to check on you.”

  He walked through the carpeted hall into the kitchen — and froze.

  Burt sat on the kitchen floor surrounded by a heap of pulpy meat. The two dogs lay belly up on either side of Burt’s legs, their abdomens spilled in a pile of gore, blood pooled over the yellow-gold tile. Hoover looked from the dog carcasses to Burt’s anguished face. He was stuffing handfuls of intestines, long and looping, into his mouth and chomping on the squeaky gut like it was spicy sausage from the Grandma’s Special Breakfast Platter at the Cracker Barrel.

  Burt looked at Hoover with a blank trance-like stare. His arms were dripping blood from his fingers to his armpits. The white oxford, usually heavily starched and crisp, was mangled, shredded, the fabric wet and deep red.

  “Burt? Buddy?”

  He was positively gray: the color of old campfire ash. His eyes were sunk into his skull like decapitated heads the Viet Cong left sticking on pikes outside of villages back in Vietnam.

  “Burt?” Hoover’s hand trembled violently as he raised his phone. He steadied it as best as he could while he punched the camera button. A burst of light flashed, followed by the whir-and-click sounds. Hoover looked at the phone and hit the necessary keys to send the photo to Matt.

  Burt made a noise that sounded like a cross between a gargle and a grunt and lurched from his dog meat feast on the floor to a precarious standing position. He started toward Hoover, who instinctively backed toward the hall to the front door.

  “Hey, buddy, looks like you’re not feeling too—”

  Burt lunged and tackled Hoover with the strength of ten twenty-year-old men. Burt’s fingernails had grown into ragged talon-like projections, the skin around the nail bed pulled back like that of a corpse. Bits of stringy dog meat clung to his teeth and his breath was pure decay.

  Hoover fought Burt with every ounce of strength in his body, but Hoover was no match for him. Burt sank his teeth into Hoover’s shoulder and tore a chunk of meat from the bone, denim shirt and all.

  “Burt!” Hoover shouted, but followed his cry with a gurgle as Burt plunged his mouth into his neck, tearing the wrinkled flesh away and ripping his throat out in a spray of crimson that peppered the paneling, curtains, and plush carpet.

  CHAPTER 6

  Dr. Matthew Robbins slumped in an uncomfortable plastic chair in the staff break room of the Hunt County Memorial Hospital. Exhausted and jittery from too much coffee, his hand reached to a breast pocket for a phantom pack of cigarettes that hadn’t been there for three years. He sighed. He sat glassy-eyed before the decade-old television, tuned to a Dallas-area news broadcast.

  Reporters had no shortage of interviews with teachers and administrators from Dallas area schools — shut down due to the flu epidemic. After the teachers, students, and even school janitors were bombarded with questions, the cameras panned to yet more reporters interviewing harried doctors and nurses in hospitals and clinics. They were seeing patients with symptoms just like those he and his staff had been treating all day and into the night. The illness so far was similar to various strains of influenza, except for a touch of delirium in some cases and a slight grayish discoloration of the skin. Preliminary lab results showed antibodies produced in massive immune responses, but so far it didn’t appear they were having a significant effect on the antigen, whatever it was. A virus…but what kind? The regular flu vaccine did nothing to stem the tide of the outbreak. They’d tried it simply for lack of anything better, especially in light of the initial symptoms. On TV, an elderly doctor who’d been called in to help exhausted staff at a suburban family practice office droned on while Robbins fell asleep, face down on the table, slouched in the chair, his cup of Joe precariously clutched in a limp hand.

  His mind was a blur of the moans of the sick, tortured expressions from family members who would later show up again sick themselves, and the ever-present scent of vomit and antiseptics. Even as he drifted into slumber, his dream-self filled out another chart, another chart, and another chart in a never-ending nightmare that served to mimic his reality. Robbins fitfully snored, willing himself to a better dream, only to find his brain suddenly joining a couple pieces of the puzzle.

  Robbins opened his eyes and sat up straight. On the table beneath his cup of half finished coffee lay the Wednesday edition of the local paper. Splashed on the front page was the big story about Friday night’s football game between Greenville Christian Academy and Millward Christian High School. Normally the private schools didn’t get their fair share of coverage, but this had been a slow week in the small town, so the big defeat made it to the main page. Scanning the article, his mind was abuzz with a timeline of Friday night’s events. From the end of the football game, to t
he time of the explosion, and the estimated travel time for the Millward football team leaving Greenville and proceeding westward toward Dallas, Robbins calculated that the Millward team cleared the county line before the military locked down the county. He hadn’t heard anything about the visiting team getting stuck in Greenville.

  He reached for the phone, with a base and a receiver and square buttons you pushed to dial. It was mustard yellow, the kind of phone you rented from the phone company on a monthly basis way back when: a dinosaur. He flipped open the tattered copy of the slim Hunt County phone book and looked up the number of the Greenville Christian Academy. Punching in the number, he stared at the photo on the front page. The phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Uh, yes, hello. This is Dr. Matthew Robbins. I’m head of emergency medicine at Hunt County Memorial Hospital. I was wondering if you could tell me if the Millward Christian High School football team made it safely out of Hunt County Friday night?”

  “Uhm, well … yeah, as far as I know.” The man on the line seemed a bit flummoxed. “I mean, we never heard anything to the contrary. I’m sure the team would have returned to our school if they were held up by the lockdown.”

  “Is there any way you could confirm this for me? It’s important.”

  “I could call the school.”

  “That would be very helpful. Could you call me back right away with the answer?”

  “Sure. Let me write down your number.”

  “It’s 903-555-9870, extension 629. Dr. Robbins. I’ll be here waiting. And, thank you.” Robbins hung the receiver into the cradle. The news was still broadcasting the flu story. The phone rang minutes later. “Hello? Dr. Robbins speaking.”

  “Dr. Robbins? This is Louis Herrera, from Greenville Christian Academy. I called Millward Christian High School and spoke with their principal. The team made it home safely Friday night.”

  “Oh, good. That’s what I needed to know.”

  “Well, it’s not all good news, sadly. Most of the team has been hospitalized or worse. Two of the boys are in some kind of coma.”

  Robbins frowned. “Related to the viral outbreak?”

  “They think so,” Louis said. “Is there anything else I can do for you today, doctor?”

  “No, no. You’ve been a tremendous help. Thank you very much.”

  “Goodbye, doctor. If we can be of any more help, just let us know,” Louis said and hung up.

  Robbins leaned back in the chair as he mentally ran through the events of the past five days.

  Coma.

  They hadn’t seen that here at Memorial. Yet. What if the terrorists didn’t just blow up that plane? What if they released something into the air along with the missile or whatever the hell they used? He couldn’t help thinking that the symptoms they were seeing could be the result of some sort of biological agent.

  If those Millward boys were anywhere near the explosion on their way out of the county, it stood to reason that they were among the first exposed to the viral hazard — and carried it out before the lockdown occurred. That would explain how the illness migrated through Rockwall County and into Dallas — and why the illness spread like wildfire throughout the schools.

  “Son of a bitch,” Robbins muttered.

  That would mean the government knew about the biological agent and sent the military into the county at an unprecedented speed to shut down the roadways to contain whatever the hell it was — but the Millward boys made it out, so that didn’t happen in time. Robbins ran a hand through his hair.

  This is all speculation, he thought.

  But very plausible.

  He needed answers. He needed to know what the hell he was up against and how to fight it. The virus had a forty-eight hour incubation period before patients began exhibiting symptoms. It had been five days since the explosion. If two Millward boys were in comas, he figured he could expect similar developments on some level here shortly. He wondered if there were any dead throughout the city or county that had gone unreported. There were lots of elderly citizens living alone in trailers in the rural parts. As was usually the case with something like this, some folks got it worse than others. Where some people like himself didn’t get sick at all, some people had just gone from sick to worse, while still others went from sick to dead in a matter of hours.

  “Dr. Robbins,” a voice stated through the overhead speaker. “Please report to the ER. Dr. Robbins, please report to the ER.”

  Robbins pushed his chair away and stood. He stretched, downed the last swallow of cold coffee, and tossed the cup into the trash. He walked past the front desk in the emergency room. “Hey, Yolanda, if you get a minute, can you call Kammie and see how she’s doing? If I call her, she’ll get worried that I’m going all parental on her.”

  “Sure, doctor.”

  Robbins picked up the waiting clipboard and headed for the emergency room.

  CHAPTER 7

  Dejah sat on the edge of the bed in the master bedroom, dialing Thomas’s phone again. The automated message from Verizon came on the line: “The wireless customer you are calling is not available. Please hang up and try your call again at a later time.” The robot rattled off some numeric code as Dejah balled her fist and resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall.

  It’s your only lifeline to Selah. And much as it’d be nice, bashing your phone into the wall won’t transfer pain to Thomas in any way, shape, or form.

  With a heavy sigh she dropped the phone onto the bed and focused on the television atop their dresser. The scenes she saw there didn’t seem real: an apocalypse film reality that had been transferred to the news, another Wellesian War of the Worlds. Her eyes saw the reports, the evidence of complete and sudden epidemic on the streets and highways she’d driven for years, and yet it somehow didn’t register as reality except that her heart rate was through the roof. Her mind was denying it, but her endocrine system was already working overtime to deal with it; that and her fear of what was going on with Selah, and her anger at Thomas’s shit attitude during his phone call Monday morning, the last time she’d spoken with him.

  On the news played the horror flick vision of a gas-masked reporter on the corner of Cooper Street and Park Row, across from Arlington High School and just up the hill from University of Texas at Arlington. All around him lay a traffic nightmare. Emergency vehicle sirens rang in the background. The circular drive of the high school was packed with cars, a few people milled around a small band of men who’d joined forces to push cars off the main driveway.

  “As you can see here,” the reporter droned, muffled by his mask, “people are literally passing out in their vehicles. Some need medical attention and some appear to be dying or – as awful as it seems – are dead already. Emergency crews here in Arlington are working overtime, but with the sudden explosion of the epidemic, all people can do here at the school is gather their children and try to get out of the parking lot, never mind down the road. If we pan over the road here—”

  The camera shook. The tone of the newscast had lost much of its rigid formality in the heat of the seriousness of this event, whatever it was — the plague, the apocalypse, Armageddon. The newsman could be heard saying “Jesus” under his breath, and the cameraman replying with a stronger oath when they panned around to show the hill leading down to the University of Texas at Arlington. The scene was more chaos. Cars were stalled on Cooper Street. It was as if some drivers had spontaneously lost all control of their vehicles, or themselves, and gone riding up onto the curbs into buildings along the side of the road, or careening into oncoming traffic. A couple of people could be seen wandering in a daze. Another person dragged a limp form out of a vehicle onto the ground. A tow truck with flashing yellow lights tried to haul cars out of the way to open a single lane on the six-lane street.

  “—you can see how widespread the problem is becoming. A reminder—” the camera shook as it struggled to get the newsman into view. “Do not go out of your house. The Department of
Homeland Security has recommended all residents stay indoors and avoid contact with any outside—oh my God!” The reporter screamed in shrill panic. The camera went down hard onto the pavement. There were the sounds of a scuffle and footsteps. A jet of blood spattered the camera lens. The view changed to the newsroom where already overworked news anchors tried to contact the field reporter.

  Dejah stood next to the television, transfixed by the scene, biting a knuckle without realizing it. She waited for the station to return to the reporter in Arlington, but the stunned anchors went on connecting with reporters in other parts of the metroplex as they frantically tried to reestablish contact with their downed cameraman.

  “Good God,” she whispered.

  A car horn blared outside. She hurried to the bedroom window.

  When she pulled open the white slats of the blinds, the gray day revealed a new tableau of horror in their suburban neighborhood. One car was stalled just down the road. Other vehicles were parked parallel. Across the street at the Revis’s house, what looked like an adult lay motionless on the front lawn. The person was face-up, short hair, gray sweatshirt, in blue jeans and black slippers. Most disturbing of all, four-year-old Carrie Revis rode her tricycle in a circle around the body.

  Is that Brian Revis? She watched little Carrie closely through the opening she’d made in the blinds. The girl went round and round, head down, intent on her circular path. Surely that’s a prop. They’re putting out Halloween decorations early. Right?

  Yeah, chick. This is all one big trick for Halloween. Ready for the treat, yet?

  Dejah adjusted her angle to look up the street and see who was laying on the horn. She couldn’t see far enough. Taking a final glance at the news, she left the bedroom and went to the front door. She paused, hand on the doorknob, the newsman’s warning to stay indoors echoing in her mind.