by Rose Francis
Steven had invited him out to a bar one night to play pool and had beaten him for the third straight time. Derek finally lost it.
Steven looked taken aback—no doubt, caught off guard by the sudden accusation—but damn it, Derek had held his tongue about his feelings for such a long time.
He would bet that Steven thought he never carried himself like he thought he was better than anybody, and that he only did what needed to be done when it was called for, but Derek saw past his brother’s false modesty; Steven was always trying to show him up.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Derek,” Steven said, his blue eyes cold.
“I heard all about you—you’re practically a legend now, right? All that bad-assness you showed over there in Syria. I bet you really think you’re something now.”
Steven didn’t respond at first. Then he said, “You clearly need to get something off your chest pretty desperately, so I’ll let you.”
“You’re not better than me, you know,” Derek blurted.
When Derek recalled the incident later, he realized that he had perhaps had a bit too much to drink—it was probably why his brother had been able to beat him at all those pool games, since Steven had barely finished one drink; Steven always had a way with restraint.
Steven remained silent, but he moved to put his pool cue in place, and then came over to him and led him toward the bar doors.
Even in his foggy brain, Derek understood that Steven was avoiding a scene. What a fucking gentleman.
When they got outside, the difference in air quality shocked Derek, but not enough to stop his intended rant.
“No matter what Mom or Dad may think, you are not better than me,” he repeated, pointing at his brother.
Steven finally reacted, letting out a breath. “Derek, it’s never been like that and you know it. Hell, I got you the job you have now, but they wouldn’t have kept you if you weren’t up to it. What more do you want from me? Don’t get mad at me ‘cause I’ve always had more ambition than you.”
“See right there? That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Are we seriously going to pretend that while I was preparing for life as an adult, you weren’t at home, cooking up half-baked ideas that you had no intention of following up on? I’ve been working since I was thirteen: volunteering at mechanic shops, and walking dogs for cash. What were you doing back then but playing Nintendo? I got to work pretty much right out of high school while you were on the couch watching trashy talk shows, and still trying to ‘figure it all out.’ You were tossing around the idea of using some of Mom’s money for community college, remember? And then you heard I was signing up for the military and decided to do so as well. Look, nobody said that you couldn’t do anything. It just always seemed like you decided not to—like you always needed a push from me somehow. I’ve felt that burden since we were kids, Derek. It’s hard for me to see it any other way when I’ve watched you my entire life.”
Derek’s sense of grievance had begun to fade. Maybe it was the cool, night air.
“Everyone’s not born like you, you know, but it doesn’t mean we’re not useful,” he had said quietly to Steven.
Steven sighed. “Again, you’ve lost me.”
“Not everyone’s born with some kind of specific purpose, or a sense of what that is. Only some of us are meant to have one-track lives, but all of us are worth something—jack of all trades, and the masters of one. Or none.”
“All right, Derek. You’re right.”
Derek felt like Steven was only humoring him and felt himself get angry again at the patronization, but it faded away once his brother led him back inside the bar, closed out their tab, and then steered them toward his car for the drive back to Steven’s apartment, where Steven was letting him stay instead of in some cold hotel.
Derek found himself getting fired up with purpose again as he continued his journey to safety.
As soon as he got to the compound and got better, he could go out there and save people, too. He could be a hero, too.
CHAPTER TWELVE: ORIENTATION
Serena watched the parade of light blue, puffy suits pass the door of her holding room. They all looked like they should be walking on a toxic moon.
The masks obscured features and sexes, and Serena had a hard time figuring out who was who, but she was looking for one face in particular. She needed an update, to be brought up to speed on the state of the world in general. And most of all, she needed to know when she could expect Steven’s return.
“Em!” Serena shouted at every person in a biohazard suit she saw pass by, hoping to hit the target sooner or later. Then one of the suited forms looked in her direction.
“Em!” Serena called out again, and when she examined the face, Serena was sure it was who she had been looking for.
The face looked slightly annoyed.
Serena took a guess as to her full name.
“Emily, please—I have a question. I need someone to talk to.”
Em entered the room but kept her distance.
“What is it?” she asked.
“What happened with Steven?”
Em looked wary.
Serena tried again. “He said that he’s immune, but yet he was Patient Zero for the outbreak. What happened? Can you tell me anything?”
Em’s face relaxed, and she seemed to be considering her request.
Was she not allowed to talk about it? It’s not like she would be giving away any secrets. Besides, Serena wondered, who the hell would she tell?
Em sighed. “The virus was created over at Fort Detrick,” she began, “and yes, Patient Zero was Steven. We wanted to control the incubation period, as well as make signs of the disease more obvious, so we engineered the virus down to all our desired traits—we’ve got a few different virus families in there. Anyway, we had already been running human trials when Steven volunteered, and he was a great candidate, having been vaccinated against a few important diseases, plus having some incredibly rare resistance to rabies. We, of course, hoped he wouldn’t die eventually like some of the others—we’re working on a vaccine, and we were hoping to run into the antibodies we needed.
“The short version: the infection sort of raged through him in fast motion. Steven is already strong. And smart. And ambidextrous. And the virus—well, it made him stronger than we anticipated. He had been restrained, but somehow, he lulled the doctor with him into a false state of security, lured him close enough to bite through his glove. Anyway, infection lasted less than twenty minutes before Steven’s body began to beat the virus, and within hours, all traces of it were completely gone. So we thought.”
Em looked embarrassed.
“We kept Steven for a while to observe, and then released him. Unfortunately, a screw-up took place in the transferring of the bitten staff member’s body. At first, we didn’t know the virus had gotten out. Once we realized what was happening initially, we thought that we had neutralized it when we took action, but a few infected soldiers escaped. That’s when we decided to pull everyone back and regroup.
“Panic is the worst, so we try to avoid it all costs. Panic shuts down logic, but we didn’t want to repeat the mistakes of the ‘89 ebola outbreak in Virginia, and that’s when we advised everyone to stay indoors and not open their doors to anyone. But of course, containment for the largest and the smallest organisms can be the most difficult—some people listened, some people didn’t, and all that some of those people did was make it easier for the virus to spread, instead of getting away from it.
“As for the infected, although the bodies of those they attack, subdue, kill, and eat don’t reanimate, anyone who is scratched or bitten or otherwise comes into contact with their fluids—saliva, pee, semen, and even tears—will then turn. Once turned, the infected don’t attack each other—at least, it takes a long hunger period for that to happen. The worst part is that they don’t die quickly from any of the diseases, a few of which, separately, have a high mortal
ity between them—rabies about ninety-nine percent, and ZEBOV—ebola—about ninety percent, for example. Their resistance and strength increases, and only severe damage to the head and brain will stop them dead.
“The good news is: the infected eventually die. The bad news is: they survive for about four to six weeks—more than enough time to infect others—so there is a constant supply of them. We have created the perfect disease.”
Em sounded both proud and sad. Then she sighed.
“There’s only so much you can tell from a helicopter, and we know that there are contingents of folks out there in safety bunkers and basements, and that’s why we sent out guys like Steven—we wanted an idea of what things looked like on the ground. We would like to find the survivors once this is over, and we know that some of them won’t survive the blasts.”
Serena had been listening, rapt—grateful that “the short version” went on for as long as it did. She saw it all playing out in her head like a movie.
Then she felt relieved and thankful. Part of the reason she was here today was because she had listened to that voice—the warning that had blasted through phones and televisions instructing everyone to stay inside or get inside quickly and not leave their houses.
“Assistance is on the way,” the weirdly robotic voice said, but assistance never came—at least, not as far as she saw.
Serena had witnessed some of what Em had talked about—some people defied orders and left to stock up, while some tried to leave the city, heading who knew where.
“I got a text from Steven,” Gregory had said at some point. “He said to listen to that message and stay inside—he’s coming for us.”
But help took too long.
They had heard screams and shouts from their apartment, and had looked down and watched a fellow from their apartment complex try to fight someone off—someone bent on biting into him.
They had seen him lose the battle, and saw the blood squirt from his neck. Then they saw the attacker start feasting on him.
They had looked at each other with rounded eyes. This can’t be real. Yet it was.
Was it airborne? they had wondered, and they kept their windows closed from then.
The first week or two had been quite chaotic, but eventually, a slow death settled, and it seemed that everyone had either died or gone into hiding. Serena knew it was a mix between the two, and as curious as she had been during the APC ride with Steven, she was glad to have been spared the sight of their surroundings as she and Steven made the journey to the compound.
She could only imagine how many bodies were around in various pieces, and the now-empty cars, smashed in, with perhaps the dried blood of a healthy person still on it, after he or she had been dragged out.
Serena wasn’t sure when exactly the chaos and mayhem stopped and the sort of deathly silence took over, but at some point, she and Gregory froze in panic when they suddenly heard footsteps outside in the hallway. They hadn’t heard such movement in a while.
Then they heard a knocking at their door.
They ignored it, both looking at each other and silently acknowledging an agreement.
“You’ve got to help me,” the voice said, but they knew better. They ignored the rips through their hearts with every plaintive “please,” knowing that letting that person in could mean certain death for them as well. They had lasted so long and yet…
Em’s voice broke through Serena’s thoughts.
“We’re not taking anything for granted, of course, but you exhibited none of the usual signs, and at least one ends up present—the eyes, the skin, and even the hair can give it away. Up close, we can even tell by the tongue. Like I said, we have a pretty good idea how it manifests itself; we’ve seen a lot of variations. And there is always a sign; we made sure of it.”
Then Em looked at her oddly, seeming to study her for a moment. She looked like she was considering asking her something, but was fighting a battle in herself.
“Did Steven hurt you out there?” she finally asked.
Serena felt taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“We have observed a lasting effect, even in immune persons. The virus induces severe aggression and cannibalism, amongst other things, but those who don’t end up succumbing to it—those like Steven—while they don’t end up turning on fellow humans and developing a taste for blood, they still end up a bit more on the aggressive side, a sequela of having been infected, however briefly. Have you observed any such personality changes in Steven?”
Serena wasn’t sure what to say. She felt like she would be betraying Steven if she responded in the affirmative, despite knowing that admitting the truth wasn’t a mark against him necessarily; it’s not like they would put him back in quarantine, would they?
Serena felt like Em’s eyes were staring into her soul—her penetrating blue-tipped orbs leaving no room to hide.
“He was a little more intense, yes,” Serena said, and Em’s mouth tightened into a line.
“How so?” she asked after a few seconds. Serena didn’t respond. “Look, it’s like the id comes alive again in either case, but instead of taking over in the immune, it is amplified a bit. Impulse control is reduced. When a desire hits—whether for food, water, or whatever—it hits hard.”
Serena suddenly realized just how hard it must have been for Steven traveling with her—how much he must have had to fight himself the whole time. And even when he gave in to his urges, she thought about the control he still managed to exercise.
She remembered the strain in his voice, and the signs of an inner battle all over his face.
I’m helping us out.
I’ll be really honest—I’m having a hard time here.
Get out of here, now!
He had been doing his damnedest to hold himself back and spare her, but in the end, he succumbed to biology.
“So now we’re back to the beginning,” Em said gently, her soft voice penetrating Serena’s flashbacks. “Did he hurt you?”
Serena shook her head vigorously, unable to speak. She was overwhelmed by the recent memories already starting to feel somewhat far away.
Em seemed to reluctantly accept her silent answer in the negative.
Then Serena considered mentioning the possibility of being pregnant to Em.
She decided against it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: SEARCH
The Morphs had to be burned, and the dead humans had to be burned—no question. No matter how many times he set a body on fire, Steven couldn’t help examining the features of the deceased for some sign of familiarity. He never forgot that he could end up incinerating an old army buddy or an ex-girlfriend. Maybe even his brother.
He had run into one person he had recognized on this trip so far: Mrs. Roberts—his high school English teacher. She was brown-haired and mousy and wore glasses. Some of the guys in his class had joked about her, wondering how she became a ‘Mrs.,’ and he had joined them in the laughter and ridicule.
“She’s totally not fuckable,” one of his classmates said, right before she entered class one day.
Steven remembered the look on her face as she came in, like she had been struck. She didn’t address what had been said, going straight for her desk and the beginning of the lesson as if she hadn’t heard the declaration, but Steven had the impression the unintended arrow had hit.
The brief look on her face haunted him thereafter—especially when he learned later that her husband had recently left her—this according to the girls on the dance team, whom he had overheard gossiping.
Mrs. Roberts was not mousy as a Morph however, and someone had put her down before—or perhaps after—she did some damage. She had the telltale signs of the disease on her skin, and whoever had killed her had managed quite a skillful shot to her head.
Still, if there was one thing becoming clear to him, it was that a mission such as his was useless. Steven knew that he had to figure out where pockets of survivors could be, fast, because bombing the land indeed ap
peared to be the best course of action—hidden survivors be damned.
Too many bodies needed burning; too many possible infected fluids remained around.
The county was a cesspool of infection.
Some of his old friends had talked about survival bunkers back in the old days, and he knew that many of them existed, most likely underground. But how many of them would survive bombings? He needed to give it one last push to try to find out where survivors were grouped, despite the empty landscape haunting him now more than ever.
He’d had hope before, but he now felt only one singular mission, one that hung behind his more noble one, one that was fairly stronger than his concern about the masses. Sure, he cared about preserving more members of the human race, but who was he kidding? Besides Serena, all Steven could think about was his brother. He needed closure, and it was mostly curiosity about his brother’s status that kept him going.
Was Derek dead or alive? And if alive, Steven wanted to find him and help him, because no matter how much he resented this aspect of their dynamic, he felt a strong obligation to, in some way, take care of Derek, or at least look out for him—even if from a distance, and regardless of how many times Derek had shown nothing but selfishness and ungratefulness in return.
Steven had often thought the universe had messed up somehow by getting their birth order wrong. For as long as he could remember, Steven felt like the older brother, despite Derek having almost two years on him.
In elementary school, it was Steven who had to come to Derek’s defense when he got picked on, and somehow, having his little brother jump in to defend him didn’t make things worse for Derek—Steven, to his own surprise, had scared the bullies off.
Derek didn’t display resentment then, but Steven sensed it a few times later in their lives.