Genesis

by Michael McCarthy

  “Please let us in,” Mary pleaded from the front porch, anxiously looking back over her shoulder at the small group of shit-eaters devouring the body of some unlucky person. One of the things looked up from its feast and sniffed the air, letting out a guttural grunt of some sort, as if to say ‘I see you over there,’ but then quickly turned his attention back to tearing what was left of the flesh off of the bones.

  William pulled the curtain back more and saw she had two young boys with her.

  A red flag went up inside his head, and the analytical brain searched for a reason why. His brain picked though the file stored in his mind with the speed and accuracy of a computer. He had studied the file for years, and he knew every detail like the back of his…

  Mary only had one son, Tommy. He would be seventeen, maybe eighteen now. She must have picked up a straggler on the way here.

  The red flag went down and was replaced in his mind by a yellow flag instead. William’s hand rested on the doorknob.

  “Are you infected?”

  William, of course, knew the answer before he asked it. It was obvious to him that she was infected. She had some of the signs. The eyes, the skin, everything pointed to infection, albeit early stage. And if she had it, then most likely the two boys did, too. The decent thing to do would be to put them out of their misery. Killing them would be the smart thing, too. When the newly-infected turn, they get ugly. Fast and dangerous – not like the undead who rise and are nice and slow.

  Still, even now, the rule of law needed to be followed.

  Especially now, the rule of law needed to be followed.

  Article Three, Section Seven of The Protocol One regulates the targeting of civilian objects, and before he put a bullet into the head of a non-combatant and drug her to the pile where he was feeding those things, he needed to hear by that person’s own admission that they were sick or infected and therefore not afforded protection under Article 51.

  However, odds and evidence both favored that she was infected, and William did not relish what he would have to do next. At least it would be quick. He was a professional after all.

  “I asked you a question. Are you infected?”

  Mary knew if she told him the truth he would never let her or the boys inside. Who was he anyway? She had never seen him before. He looked like some sort of cop.

  “Please, let the boys in.” Mary pleaded. How could they have made it this far on foot only to be stopped at the front door? Mary put her face right up to the glass in the door and looked William in the eye.

  “Please, let the boys in…”

  “I’m not going to ask you again. Are you infected?”

  It looked for a millisecond like Mary was about to answer, but instead of words, a stream of blood and vomit exited her mouth, hitting the glass and splattering in every direction. William reacted instinctually, stepping back and away from the door, pistol drawn, even though the glass partitioned him from any real danger. The blood and vomit she had spewed up did not contain the infection, and William knew that. It had been tested at the CDC in the early days and was slightly acidic, as you would expect stomach acid and blood to be, but other than that, mostly free of pathogens. The current theory in the scientific community was that the purpose of the vomit was to serve as an attractant for others. So now it was quite possible he would have a pack of those things eating on the front porch.

  William cautiously approached the window in the door and moved the curtain back. Mary was lying on the porch in a small pool of her own blood and vomit. The kids, whoever they were, were nowhere to be seen. Smart enough to know when to get away. If they weren’t infected, it was possible they could last a few days if they were smart enough.

  No one really knew for sure how the infection was spreading. Some of the outbreaks could be traced, but overall, the pathogen was not behaving like it should. This one was getting help from someone, or something. Again, not his job, but something he could not help ponder on a daily basis. What exactly was going on?

  Of course he thought he had some of answers, but he was smart enough and seasoned enough to know that was when he was at his most vulnerable. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. One missing fact could mean the difference between life and death. One missing fact could mean the difference between more revolutions around the sun with her rays hitting your face and warming your soul, or lying six feet underground being eaten by worms and slugs. And that’s if you were lucky enough to even get a burial. Most people these days just got their heads lopped off post-mortem and tossed into a fire.

  She was done for sure. Nothing he could do to help her. Except maybe lop her head off, and that was not in his mission protocol.

  A rumbling in his stomach told him what he could do.

  He could finish his apple.

  William took another bite of the apple and checked to make sure the front door was locked. He would not have to worry about them trying to break the glass for some time. There was still plenty to eat outside, and would be for several more hours. The things seemed to have no interest in the living as long as there was something newly dead to rip open and feast on. That simple fact alone had already saved him many times in the past, and whatever this was, it was still in the infantile days. William knew it was only going to get worse.

  The right side of William’s head was starting to pulse and throb; it must be a caffeine headache. William cursed Cooper under his breath. Not a coffee bean in the whole damn house that wasn’t tainted with vanilla flavoring, and William had his standards when it came to coffee. You had to respect the bean. Besides, he was smart enough to know the coffee supply was going to run out sooner than later, and he might as well suffer though the withdrawal now and get it over.

  William walked across the living room and set the apple core in an ashtray, then flipped the switch on the radio and sat back in the large, leather chair beside it while it warmed up. The house, built sometime right around the turn of the twentieth century, seemed to be in a slower state of time than the rest of the world. William could not find an electronic device in the house that dated post 1972, and the radio he just turned on was an RCA Victor 19K, built somewhere around 1920 most likely, and in perfect working condition. The house actually had a large collection of antique radios, and all of them seemed to work. There was nothing in the file to suggest it had any importance, but William took note anyway, and made himself a mental reminder to add that fact to the file when he returned to the Command Center. In particular, the large number of superhetrodyne receivers he had in his possession. Sometimes it was the little things that were the most relevant, and William made it a point to always make notes of anything odd. If he could not make something out of the clue, then maybe someone at some other point in the future might find it useful.

  The old radio had warmed up, and the Emergency Service Broadcast was coming in just barely through the crackle and static of the station.

  ‘…on the web at www.DHS.gov. This is not a test. This is an actual emergency. This message will repeat.’

  A high-pitched alert tone filled the room, and William grimaced. The headache was getting worse, probably from the lack of caffeine, and the last thing he needed was an ESB Alert Tone blaring. He adjusted the volume of the radio slightly lower.

  ‘This is an emergency broadcast from the United States Department of Homeland Security. This is not a test. This is an actual emergency.’

  Three short tones, followed by the same computerized voice again on the radio.

  ‘A quarantine order has been issued for range of this broadcast message. Remain where you are and shelter indoors until further notice. Unknown virus or possible biological terrorist attack. For shelter information specific to your area, tune to your local broadcast television station or visit us on the web at www.DHS.gov. This message will repeat.’

  Another alert tone and the message began to repeat, but this time the tone hurt his head. The headache was getting worse, and William rubbed his temples for relief
.

  That was a sound out back.

  William was on his feet, but a tad unstable, as a soreness and stiffness had suddenly overtaken his joints. Was he really getting that old? William dismissed it as his joints reacting to pressure falling before the approaching storm. And from the lightning he had watched earlier from the upstairs landing window, this storm was going to be a big one.

  William turned on his flashlight as he entered the kitchen. It went against everything he had been trained to do, and even went against his basic survival instincts; when investigating a mysterious sound in the dark, one should not announce their presence with a beam of light. But that was then, and this was now. The light actually served two purposes. First, if the sound happened to be made by one of those things finding its way into the house, they often froze up in bright lights, like a deer caught in the headlights. They sometimes stared fixated for just long enough to give you the advantage. And if it happened to be another human that made the noise, well then it simply alerted them to the fact that you were a human, and not one of those things.

  In the early days, before anyone understood about the decapitation thing, a lot of people were just shooting anything that moved in the dark. Which ended up killing a lot of humans, significantly increasing the population of the undead. A lot of people actually created their own problems in the start. The official protocol suggested that he even call out and identify himself, but that was something William could just not bring himself to do, monsters in the dark or not.

  The kitchen door was still secure.

  It must have been one of those things outside.

  For now, the interior of the house was still secure, which was a good thing because this headache was getting worse, and he was having trouble focusing his eyes. This was more than just a caffeine headache…was it a migraine? William had never actually had a migraine, but he had heard others talk of their debilitating pain, and if his luck was going to continue holding out like it had been for the past few days, then he supposed now was time for him to experience his first migraine.

  William checked to see that the kitchen door was locked. It still was. He then shined his flashlight onto the back porch and checked the exterior door to the house. It was still boarded up, nailed shut, secure. Even the glass panel was still intact. The sound must have come from outside, probably one of those things tipping over the trash. William checked his watch, still plenty of time.

  A flag went up inside his head, but why?

  Déjà vu.

  This felt familiar, but not.

  Red Flag.

  It was getting very hard to focus, and he was feeling dizzy.

  William switched off his light. Somehow he knew, he felt that this threat was different. Ignore the protocol. Go with your gut. His gut, it was churning and felt like it was on fire. What was going on? The intensity of the headache was unlike anything he had ever experienced, and he was having difficulty even focusing on the simplest of thoughts.

  William wasn’t really walking as much as he was stumbling towards the chair next to the radio in the living room, and he had just rounded the corner, when a momentary lapse in the headache allowed him to focus just long enough. Just long enough to understand he was in real danger.

  The emergency broadcast on the radio had stopped, and the voice had been replaced by another with a different message altogether. He had to focus. He had to hear what they were saying on the radio. William leaned against the mantel of the fireplace for support. He was almost to the chair.

  Almost…

  The pounding in William’s head was getting louder with each step of forward progress he made. The pulsating throb of the blood being pumped through his veins seemed to echo inside his head with each beat, building to a thunderous crescendo that caused him to stop in his tracks, frozen, like a deer in the headlight of a fast approaching car. Fate sealed. He should have known better.

  William collapsed to the floor. He was still conscious, but unable to move a muscle. William’s body gave one last rush of adrenaline, allowing him to clear his mind, but still not move his body. He could feel the pressure building inside his head again. It would go dark soon, and he knew it. William was paralyzed for a moment with fear…how could he be so stupid?

  Snow White.

  Why Snow White?

  When William was a young boy in the orphanage, one of the nuns, Sister Mary Margaret, would read Grimm’s Fairy Tales to the boys at night before bedtime. It was a welcomed break from the usual fare of bible stories, and William always looked forward to those nights more than anything he could ever remember looking forward to.

  His final thoughts would be of Snow White.

  Fitting.

  Comforting.

  Snow White had always been one of his favorite bedtime stories. He did expect his final life flashback to contain a bit more of Vietnam though….

  Fucking Snow White.

  This was NOT going to be his final thought.

  Then it hit him. It was a message.

  Fucking Snow White.

  Snow White.

  Poison apple.

  Son of a bitch.

  It was the apple.

  It was a God damn poison apple.

  The last thing William remembered…

  was how thirsty he…

  *Che awoke to find himself alone, naked and covered in filth.

  He could remember almost nothing of the night before, just a foggy recollection of various themes, nothing specific. Memory is a funny thing in humans, there one minute, and gone the next without much rhyme or reason at all. But this one had a reason; that much he could remember. He briefly wondered how many men and women had to make the ultimate sacrifice to get him to the mineshaft, but it didn’t matter. They knew the risks, just as he did. If Che was unsuccessful in his mission, they were all dead anyway.

  Che took a deep breath and pulled himself up off the ground. The air was cold, crisp, and clean smelling, but the familiar smell of death was also in the air. Che was no stranger to war, having spent his entire life in one war zone or another, and the smell of human fat burning was unlike any other smell he had ever encountered. Someone was burning a body nearby, and Che found that comforting. It meant we were still in the battle, even if we were losing the war.

  Che smiled when he saw the small brass lantern on the rock. It was from his first ocean-going sailboat, Far Point. He had not seen it in years, but it was unmistakable to him. He had sat many nights under that lantern smoking his pipe, playing cards, and studying navigational charts from distant shores that he had someday hoped to visit.

  Che remembered clearly the day that his friend Mark had come down to the dock and asked if he could take her out for a short sail around Point Loma to watch the sunset with some new girl he had met the night before. She was a farm girl from Nebraska and had never seen the ocean in real life. Mark had commented that if you really wanted to experience the ocean and all of its wonders, then you needed to experience it from a sailboat. One thing led to another, and Mark eventually boasted that he had access to a sailboat and would take her out the next night.

  Che knew he should have said no right then and there. Mark had never handled a sailboat this large before, but he promised he would just keep the engine on and basically drive out past the point, watch the sunset, then drive the boat right back to the dock.

  They had been overdue for many hours, and Che was just about ready to call the Coast Guard when the Coast Guard called looking for him. Far Point had been found smashed to pieces on the Pilon de Azucar, a small rock island that was part of the Coronado chain, approximately 15 miles south of the entrance to San Diego bay. No bodies were ever recovered, the theory from the Coast Guard being that apparently Mark and this gal had gone below deck to conjugate their ‘sailing’ trip and the auto-steer had either failed or been set to the wrong compass heading, and drove Far Point directly up onto the rocks.

  The island, even under the best of conditions, is very hard to land on
with the rocky shore most always being battered by the prevailing wind and waves. There would have been little chance of survival even if Mark attempted to land on purpose, let alone on accident, in the middle of the night.

  The lamp would have been on board, had Che not lent it to his other friend Pete just a few hours before to help him ‘set the mood’ on his small Tahiti Ketch for his own romantic rendezvous. It was the only thing he had left of his boat. It had been left with Cooper at the farm, and its presence in the mine could only mean one thing; Christopher had been here, and that meant everything was on schedule, and everything was going as planned.

  Che was the leader of the Resistance, but not the resistance against those things because Che knew it was useless to resist nature.

  Nature always wins.

  Nature always finds a way.

  Che was the leader of the Resistance against the people that unleashed them on the world. And if he were honest with himself, revenge would be a better word to describe his mission than resistance.

  Che sniffed the thin, black trail of smoke leaving the lantern and smiled. The lantern was burning human fat. Of course it is; Dr. Cooper like to re-purpose things, and no sense letting any resource be wasted. As he often liked to point out, that’s exactly the sort of thinking that got humans to this point in the first place.

  Che began to head to the entrance of the mineshaft. He moved slowly, with careful deliberation, knowing that every small sound inside the tunnel would be amplified like a speaker to the outside world. If things were going as planned and everything were on schedule, then that would mean right outside the entrance to the mine there should be several of those things for him to choose from.

  There was something scrawled on the wall just ahead. Che moved forward even more carefully—this was not part of the plan—until the light from the lantern finally revealed the words in chalk:

  Safe to drink.

  It was Christopher’s handwriting, not Cooper’s, which made sense, as Christopher would have been the only one respectful enough to not bring him clothes, and the mineshaft was empty, just as he had asked it to be.