by Tripp Ellis
Isabella trailed after him, ravenous. Blood was dripping from her mouth, covering her chin.
The task force leader slowly took aim at her. He was the only member of the team left alive.
Earl took aim at him. “Don’t do it, mister.”
“Earl, I need you to trust me. Your sister’s infected.”
The man’s finger gripped tight around the trigger as Isabella drew closer. She was about to lunge for him. He was about to shoot her.
Earl was well aware of infection. He knew about the quarantine zone. It was all over the national news. You would’ve had to have been living in a cave not to know about the situation. Still, he never thought it would affect him. The idea that Isabella was now infected hadn’t really sunk in yet. He knew it. But he didn’t want to believe it. But he certainly wasn’t going to let this jackass shoot his sister. After all, this whole mess was his fault. It was actually the president’s fault. He was the one that ordered this whole thing.
Earl fired. Several bullets ripped through the air. The squad leader’s face exploded in a burst of blood. Chunks of brain and skull blasted out, painting the walls. Earl had never shot this well on the range.
Isabella turned to Earl and snarled. She looked like she had been possessed by a demon. In the foyer, the man whose throat Isabella had torn out was beginning to stir.
The rate of infection varied from person to person. Sometimes minutes. Sometimes hours. But this was something entirely new. This vaccine was supposed to have been a cure, but something obviously went wrong.
The vaccine was a modification of a man-made virus. A mutation of a mutation of a mutation. There was no telling what was going on with this thing. Or what the long-term effects would be. Or how contagious it was. Earl couldn’t spell genetic engineering, let alone fully comprehend why this was happening. But he was smart enough to know things were going to be bad—on a mass scale. Was the vaccine only infecting certain people? Or would it affect everyone who had been inoculated?
If these special Homeland units were going door to door, forcing this shit on everyone, the whole country would become a quarantine zone.
An infected goon in the foyer staggered to his feet. His eyes locked on Earl. His face looked sinister and hungry. And though nothing had physically changed, the way he snarled seemed to make his teeth look sharper. More deadly. Like a wolf, growling at its prey.
The menacing man crept closer, stalking Earl. So did Isabella.
Earl fired a flurry of rounds into the man’s chest. Blood sprayed out. But the man kept coming. Earl raised the weapon, aiming for the man’s head. Earl’s finger squeezed the trigger.
CLICK.
The magazine was empty.
“Shit.” Earl threw the weapon down. It clanked across the floor. He scurried to find another assault rifle. He pried one from the hands of a dead squad member.
The infected man tracked him and drew closer. Just as he was upon Earl, a burst of gunfire split his head open. Earl had managed to aim the weapon in time. The man collapsed and fell back onto the ground.
Earl exhaled with relief. But Isabella was drawing near. And she looked just as sinister. And just as hungry. She growled and snarled at him.
“Isabella, it’s me, Earl. Your brother.”
It didn’t register with her at all. There was only one thing the infected wanted. To feed on human flesh.
“You’re going to be okay. I’m gonna get you some help.”
She kept staggering toward him, her eyes fixed. Her face was now covered in blood.
“Stay back Bella. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Earl tried, but there was no reasoning with the infected. No one really knew what type of brain function the infected had. But reasoning and critical thinking weren’t their strong points. They seemed to have no memory of anything. They just moved from one moment to the next, like an addict searching for a fix.
Isabella lunged forward, tackling Earl. He fell back, slamming against the ground. Isabella pounced on top of him. She was stronger than he anticipated. She snapped her deadly teeth at him. He fought her off with the rifle.
Blood oozed down from her mouth, dripping on him. He knew from the news not to get blood or bodily fluids in his eyes or mouth.
He managed to kick her off of him. Then he sprung to his feet and took aim. Tears were streaming down his cheek. “Bella, please stay back.”
But she kept stalking him.
“Don’t make me do this.”
She ran for him. He swung the weapon like a baseball bat, cracking her in the jaw.
Isabella flopped to the ground. She pushed herself up and climbed to her feet. Her gaze focused back on Earl. Her jaw hung to the side, askew. It was clearly broken. But she didn’t seem to feel pain. She didn’t seem to care. She just wanted to feed. Even though she would have a hard time chewing.
Bella marched toward him. He batted her down again. But she shrugged it off and kept coming.
Earl’s face was red. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He was a complete mess. “Bella, please stop. I’m your brother. I love you, Bella.”
Bella didn’t give a shit. She lurched for him again.
CRACK.
A single shot ripped through her skull. A cloud of blood hung in the air for a second, then dissipated. Isabella dropped to her knees, then fell forward. Her face smacked the hardwood floor with a wet slap.
Earl screamed and cried. He slumped down to his knees, and his body jerked in sobs. He gasped for breath and sobbed some more.
This kind of thing was happening all across the country.
5
“Are you ready to get inoculated, Mr. President?” Dr. Pierce asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
The doctor charged the inoculation gun. It wasn’t all that different than a traditional handgun. It had a magazine that held vials of the vaccine. Another magazine held sterile needle tips that were automatically exchanged after each use.
The doctor placed the tip of the gun against the president’s deltoid. His finger wrapped around the trigger. In a few seconds, the president would be infected.
Susan Norton was on her cell phone. Her face was tense. She looked extremely concerned. She listened to a voice on the other end of the line for a moment. Then her face went pale. “Dr. Pierce,” she screamed. “Stop.”
Pierce pulled the needle tip away from the president’s skin. “What is it?”
She didn’t want to just yell it across the room. Several others had already been inoculated. The president was leaning against the Resolute Desk. An ornate, wood desk built from the timbers of the Arctic exploration ship Resolute—hence the name. It had been used by many presidents before, but Jackie Kennedy brought it into the Oval Office in 1961. It was on display in the Smithsonian for a bit, but was brought back by Jimmy Carter’s administration.
The desk had remained in the Oval Office since Clinton. It was made famous in the picture of John F. Kennedy Junior playing underneath the desk. The current president Johnson was determined to create an equally iconic photo in front of the desk. But that had yet to happen. If someone had a camera handy, this may have been that iconic moment. Though, even if someone had gotten a photo of the president about to be inoculated, or rather infected, there wasn’t going to be many people left in America to see it.
Norton marched to the president. “We have a situation, sir.”
“What type of situation?”
“There’s been reports of several… reactions.”
“What type of reactions?”
The doctor smiled, reassuringly. “A little dizziness and nausea is perfectly normal.”
“This is more than just nausea and dizziness,” Norton said.
“It can also cause cramping and muscle spasms,” Pierce said. “It’s a live, attenuated, virus. Much like the flu vaccine. But any reaction should pass momentarily.”
“It’s worse than that,” Susan said.
“Good God,” the presiden
t said. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying, are you?”
Susan nodded, somberly.
Steele watched all of this go down and grew extremely uncomfortable. Especially because he didn’t have a weapon.
The Chief of Staff doubled over in pain. He sat down on the couch, coughing. Sweat was beading on his four head. His skin was white as plaster.
Dr. Pierce stepped to him. He put a hand on his back. “This is perfectly normal. It should pass momentarily.” The doctor tried to smile. But he was concerned.
Within moments, George Shay was coughing up blood. It splattered on the fabric of the couch, and the carpet of the Oval Office. It was, perhaps, the first time in history any blood had been spilled in the office.
Dr. Pierce kneeled down to assist him.
George convulsed, then he flopped back on the couch, shaking.
“We need an ambulance, immediately,” Pierce yelled.
George lurched forward and bit into Dr. Pierce’s throat.
Pierce clutched his neck. Blood spurted through his fingers. He sank to his knees. The white carpet was dotted with blood.
The room filled with shrieks. George sprang to his feet, attacking anyone nearby. It was pure pandemonium. People were scampering about the room, looking for the exits.
Steele rushed to the Chief of Staff and snapped his neck. His body crumpled to the floor. But by that time Dr. Pierce was on his feet, lurching at any living thing. He grabbed ahold of one of the Secret Service men and bit into him. The man screamed in agony. Muscles and tendons ripped apart. Blood spewed everywhere.
The doctor pounced on the Secretary of State. His teeth dug into her flesh. She shrieked in terror. He chewed her flesh like it was a rare steak.
Steele raced to Pierce and snapped the doctor’s neck. The Secret Service agent that the doctor had bitten would turn soon. Steele grabbed the agent’s side arm. Then he double tapped him in the head. The agent’s skull exploded.
The other Secret Service agent was dazed. He drew his weapon on Steele.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
He fired several shots.
Steele dove to the ground, tumbling away. The bullets caught the Press Secretary in the neck. His blood coated the walls.
By that time, the Secretary of State was staggering toward the other Secret Service guy. The agent was standing by the east door. He didn’t know what to do. Should he shoot the Secretary of State? In that moment of hesitation, she lunged for him. Her teeth pierced his flesh like a razor.
Steele fired twice. A headshot to each of them. Their bodies sank to the floor. Steele then raced to the president cowering behind the Resolute Desk. He grabbed the leader of the free world by the arm. “Mr. President, we need to get you to safety.”
“The bunker,” Johnson stammered.
Delroy raced to the fallen Secret Service agent by the east door. He grabbed the agent’s Koenig Haas P277. It was chambered in .357 SIG. The agency had switched to the Koenig in 2027. It was a formidable weapon with a 17 round magazine.
Delroy pushed through the west door, edging into the hallway. It was pure chaos. Staffers were scurrying about, screaming. Infected were attacking anything that moved.
Steele pulled the president, and Chloe, to the door. Susan Norton stuck to them like glue. Parker followed behind.
The whole West Wing was swarming with infected. Steele didn’t have enough ammo to make it to the bunker.
“Get on that phone and halt American Shield,” the president commanded.
“Yes, sir,” Norton replied.
Delroy fired a couple of shots into the hallway, dropping infected that were lingering by the Cabinet Room.
“Conserve your ammo,” Steele said. “Fire only when necessary.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Delroy.
“Where’s the bunker,” Steele asked.
“Down the steps. There is an elevator that will take us to the Emergency Operations Center.”
“Has anyone in the EOC been vaccinated?” Steele asked.
The president shrugged.
Susan nodded.
“Then it’s useless. And we don’t have the firepower to secure it.”
Delroy fired off another few rounds as infected lurched toward them. “Don’t you have a weapons locker here?”
“In the EOC,” Johnson said.
Steele shook his head in disgust.
“This is the most secure office in the world,” Johnson said. “Never before in history has a weapon been discharged inside the Oval Office. It’s not like anyone expected this.”
“Marine One is on the south lawn,” Susan said.
“That’s essentially a Hughes & Kessler 848 combat aerial vehicle?” Steele said.
“Yes, with some executive modifications,” Susan said. “Can you fly one?”
“I can get it off the ground.”
“Good,” she smiled.
“Landing it might be a different story.”
“I’ll take my chances,” she said. “Mr. President?”
Johnson nodded. “Staying here is not an option.”
“Andrews says they are clear,” Susan said. “No sign of infection. We can be aboard Air Force One within 20 minutes, if all goes as planned.”
“Things never go as planned,” Steele said.
6
Earl marched toward Duke’s place, carrying an RK 709 assault rifle. He had gathered up all the spare magazines he could scavenge from the inoculation team. He had changed out of his clothes and put on an urban digital combat uniform. It wasn’t bullet resistant like the Special Forces Uniform. This was something he had picked up at Cooper’s Surplus Store for $10.
Earl was never in the military, but he took the whole militia thing seriously. Though, he and Duke were the only members. Ray Ray’s militia was a little larger. It consisted of Ray Ray, Clint, and Wayne. But, as far as Earl knew, they didn’t even have a uniform.
Earl had taken a tactical vest from one of the members of the inoculation team. He also grabbed a helmet, a bio-mask, and a couple of grenades.
The sky was deep blue, but there was a storm coming. He could see the front rolling in—one side crystal clear, the other grey and angry. It was one of those days where you could see the moon in broad daylight. A hazy orb floating in the sky. Beside it, he could see the gunmetal grey of the International Space Ring—250 miles into space.
Earl always wanted to go and see the Ring for himself. He had heard the views of Earth were incredible from the ISR. But space travel was only for the rich—and Earl was far from rich. When he was a boy, he wanted to be an astronaut. But math and science weren’t his strong points. He gave up on the idea by sixth grade, and focused on more down to earth pursuits—girls and trucks.
After he crossed the bridge, Earl followed the railroad track for a bit. Then he cut into a field of high grass. He heard the snarls of the infected and he stopped abruptly. He clicked the safety off and readied the weapon. His pulse skyrocketed. They couldn’t be more than 20 feet away.
As he stepped into a clearing, three infected were lurking around. They instantly took notice of Earl. He recognized them. It was Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright, and their daughter, Jordan. Before he had time to think, they were lurching toward him.
Jordan was 19—a year older than Earl. He had always had a little bit of a crush on her. Petite, sandy blond hair, and she always had a smile. But today she was snarling and drooling. Blood was dribbling down her chin—she had already gotten a taste of human flesh.
Earl took aim and fired a single shot into her forehead. The back of her skull blasted apart, and Jordan flopped to the ground. Two more pops took out her parents.
Earl stared at the bodies a moment, crestfallen. The Cartwright’s were good people.
The high grass behind him rustled. But Earl was so distracted he didn’t pay it much attention. He just kept staring at Jordan’s blank face. A snarl near his ear snapped him out of it.
Earl spun around as an infected man l
urched for him. It was Mr. Hodges. He lived over a mile away. Earl wondered if the whole town was already infected. He tried to deflect Hodges with the rifle. But Hodges had caught him off guard and off balance.
Earl tumbled backward, crashing to the ground. Hodges pounced on top of him, snapping his ferocious teeth. Earl kneed Hodges in the balls, but it didn’t have any effect—he kept trying to gnaw on Earl.
Hodges was older, maybe 50. And bigger. Earl was pinned down and having a hard time getting this creature off of him. Hodges’ tobacco stained teeth kept snapping at him, drawing ever closer. His breath smelled like a hideous mix of coffee, cigarettes, and cat shit. The infected went sour pretty quick.
Hodges’ grip slipped from the rifle. Earl managed to wrestle it free and crack Hodges in the face. He recoiled from the force of the impact. It threw him off balance enough for Earl to wiggle free. He scampered away and sprang to his feet. Then he drew the weapon down on Hodges’ fat head.
CRACK.
Hodges’ head burst like a pumpkin.
Blood splattered and peppered Earl’s clothes. He had small droplets of blood on his face that he wiped away with the back of his hand. He panicked a moment—he hoped none of the blood splatter got into his eyes.
He didn’t have much time to dwell on it. The field was already starting to gather more lurkers. They seemed to be coming from all directions—attracted by the sound of gunfire.
Earl took off running toward Duke’s. He hurtled the barbed wire fence, but caught his pants leg. The sharp talons ripped through, gouging into his inner thigh.
“Son-of-a-bitch!”
The deep scratch blossomed red and dripped blood down his leg. At least the spike didn’t catch his ballsack, he thought.
Earl ran through the trees. He wasn’t far from Duke’s now. A lurker stepped out from behind a tree trunk. Earl batted the thing in the head as he ran past. It looked like Mrs. Miller. But her face was covered in blood, obscuring her features. Earl didn’t stick around to find out who it was. He just kept running.
When he got to Duke’s trailer, it was shaking and rattling. He could hear the rusty springs of the couch still squeaking. Brandi Leigh was screaming in ecstasy. Earl hesitated before knocking on the door. He knew Duke was going to be pissed.