“Did you double check your list?” George’s wife asked as he piled his luggage onto the conveyor belt at the airport.
“I’m all set, honey,” George said with a smile. “I got everything I need. I’ll call you as soon as I land. Don’t you worry about me.”
“Just checking,” she said as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss her husband goodbye. “I know that too many of these trips in a row can turn you into a zombie, so if you need me to express anything, let me know.”
“Thanks dear,” George said, kissing his wife back before getting into the slow moving security line.
Later that evening, George sat in his hotel room, dining on the most expensive steak that room service offered. Price was not an issue because the meal was going on his company’s expense account and George knew that no one was going to have a problem once they saw the signed contract he had just faxed to the main office. A few bucks for a meal was nothing compared to the multi-billion dollar deal George had just brokered with one of the country’s largest fuel oil companies.
After dinner, George began to feel uncharacteristically restless. Normally, he would watch television until he grew tired and fell asleep. As he flipped through the channels, nothing held his interest, not even his favorite game show. He decided, instead, to go for a walk, which was even more uncharacteristic for George, who never walked for leisure. He never walked anywhere unless he had no other option.
It was still pretty early in the evening and despite having rapidly grown to a large urban center, Williston was still relatively safe, so George had no need to fear for his safety. Yet still, as he left the hotel, which was located on the vibrant and busy main avenue of downtown, he felt a rising agitation that he couldn’t explain. He quickly turned onto one of the darker and quieter side streets. As he passed groups of young people clustered around the entrances to the bars and clubs that peppered the district he had entered, George’s stomach rumbled. True, he had just consumed a heavy meal, but George rationalized that walking was probably draining his energy. He turned another corner and began searching for a late night snack.
The next block offered several options in the form of pizza shops, curry places, gyro stands, and burgers joints, all of which were typically favorites, but George passed them all by. He was growing ravenous, yet nothing was appealing. His search took him out of the metro area, but George barely noticed as the shops, bars, and restaurants gave way to warehouses, industrial buildings, and the giant carcasses of old and broken drilling equipment. He was guided only by some inexplicable instinct that around the next corner, he would find what he was looking for.
“Hey buddy, are you lost or something?”
What George found around the next corner was a group of tough young men who appeared to be in the middle of breaking into a storage facility. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, George recognized that he had gotten himself into a dangerous situation and he should probably run, but he kept walking, spurred on by the increasing ache in his gut.
“Lost?” he parroted with a wide, glassy-eyed smile. “No, I’m not lost. I think found exactly what I was looking for.”
* * *
George awoke in his hotel room promptly at seven the next morning, feeling more refreshed than he had in a long time and unable to explain why. He recalled going for a walk the previous evening, but that was all. He wasn’t even sure how or when he got back to the hotel. As he looked in the mirror, he noticed that his eyes were bloodshot and his skin was a bit sallow. He chuckled. Clearly, he must have stopped off for a drink. Or several. After all, it was not the first time that George had ever awoken with no recollection of the night before. That he didn’t have a wicked hangover was simply amazing, but he wasn’t complaining.
Two hours later, George was back at the airport, half watching the news as he nursed a drink at the bar. He turned away with a shake of his head as the reporter spoke of gang related violence and the possibility of a contagious viral outbreak on the near west side. George didn’t want to listen to bad news, so he went over his proposal for his next client instead.
“First time going to Florida?”
George turned to the man in the first class seat next to him with a wide smile. After successfully winning yet another client, a large coal mining operation in West Virginia, he was now headed to Florida to meet with his last client.
“As a matter of fact, yes. Though I’ll only be in town one day, so I won’t get a chance to enjoy much of the scenery.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” the man asked. For decades, Florida had quite the reputation as the state with the craziest and most dangerous people, animals, plants, and weather.
“Not at all,” George replied with a dismissive chuckle. “People are crazy everywhere. Why, just yesterday, I was in North Dakota. You wouldn’t expect anything crazy to happen in such a nice, slow paced state, but all the news seemed to report was crazy people and violence. I’m sure Florida’s reputation is quite exaggerated.”
George was taken by private car to his hotel. His meeting with Botanifresh, the engineers behind the Forevorange, a genetically modified variety of oranges that never spoiled, was not until the following morning. After another indulgent victory dinner, George went for another after dinner walk and mentally patted himself on the back for keeping up with his new exercise routine. The night before, George had gone for yet another evening walk and had once again woken up refreshed, if not a little disoriented. He was becoming a regular fitness nut.
He decided to take a walk along the beach. Despite traveling for a living, George rarely traveled to coastal cities. Botanifresh had set him up in a hotel on South Beach, in a room that overlooked the water. As he passed late night beach goers, George once again found himself ravenously hungry. He thought briefly about turning back to the hotel and ordering takeout, but the idea wasn’t terribly appealing. Instead, he continued on, past the hotel’s property to a small, private beach where a party of young men and women were huddled together on beach blankets around a small fire. Here, George knew he would find what he was looking for.
* * *
George shouldered his carryon bag and jostled past the other weary travelers to where his wife’s Lexus waited in the loading zone. After stowing his bag in the trunk, he got into the car with a wide smile.
“Good trip? You look exhausted,” his wife commented, noting his pleased expression, but concerned about his appearance. His eyes were more bloodshot than usual and his skin seemed to have a dull, greenish hue.
“Great trip,” he said, giving his wife a brief peck on the cheek before fastening his seatbelts. “Three contracts in three days.”
“That’s great!” his wife beamed, mentally running through a list of all of the ways she could spend the bonus check.
George could already see his name on the Employee of the Month parking placard and was looking forward to a victory drink as soon as they got home. “But, yes, you were right, dear,” he said with an involuntary yawn, noting that his stomach was once again rumbling. “These back to back meetings are definitely turning me into a zombie.”
Act II
Survival
Apocalypse Later
Center for Disease Control Interdepartmental Communication
To: Darvis Richardson, Outbreak and Control Management Research
From: Jesse Turnbury, Public Relations
Dear Dr. Richardson,
Outbreak and Control has always maintained a policy of open information sharing, especially when it pertains to the health and safety of the population of our nation. That being said, this is the fourth request for information pertaining to the as of yet unnamed super virus that is making headlines. At the time of the first request, reports of the virus were isolated to northern Texas and southern Oklahoma. In the month since, reports of symptoms are coming in from as far away as Florida, West Virginia, and North Dakota. I’m afraid we may only be days away from a nationwide epidemic and quite frankly, this is unacceptable from a PR stand
point.
Without a factual statement from the CDC, news outlets have taken liberties with their own speculations. As you might have noticed, several reputable sources are speculating that the organization is attempting to cover up a chemical weapons attack. Several less reputable sources are once again jumping on the zombie bandwagon.
Please understand that the PR department has issued several statements denying both chemical weapons and the reanimation of the dead. However, I must stress that every day that passes in silence takes away the credibility of any statement which we may make in the future. I understand that the analysis may not have yet found the source of the outbreak, but any information that your department can release to us in PR would be greatly appreciated.
Furthermore, a list of potential preventative measures would also be appreciated, as we are now woefully behind in our own self-mandated policy of providing this information in a timely manner. I await you response.
Sincerely,
Jesse Turnbury
Public Relations Coordinator
To: Cora Garmen, Laboratory Five
From: Darvis Richardson, Outbreak and Control Management Research
Cora,
Hey girl, PR is breathing down my neck. I need a statement from your laboratory that does not contain, nor suggest in any way that we are dealing with zombies. This is a matter of national security and I need both you and your team to treat it as such. The virus is spreading and we are doing nothing to prevent it. Please give us something to work with and soon.
-Darvis
To: Darvis Richardson, Outbreak and Control Management Research
From: Cora Garmen, Laboratory Five
Dear Dr. Richardson,
If the previous five reports and corresponding surveillance video showing three of our top biochemists being attacked and subsequently succumbing to the virus have not convinced you that what we are dealing with are zombies created by exposure to drug contaminated space debris, then consider this my resignation. I refuse to put another one of my staffers’ lives on the line. I refuse to write another false death report and I most certainly refuse to lie to another one of my dead colleague’s families for the sake of covering up what the suits upstairs refuse to acknowledge as irrefutable truth!
Furthermore, Doctor, I would advise that any and all future communication between us please be kept on a professional level. The fact that we went on one, rather disastrous, date over a year ago does not give you the right to disrespectfully dismiss my status. You will address me by my proper title or you will not address me at all. Failure to do so will result in another complaint registered against you with Human Resources and I think you are well aware of what that means.
As for the public, since you won’t tell them the truth, tell them what you want. It won’t be the first time you’ve lied because the truth was too difficult to handle, will it? I have an idea. Why don’t you go ahead and blame this one on bird flu, just as you have the last four outbreaks that you refused to listen to me on? You won’t even need to write a report. You can just recycle the same false statement that you used every other time you have had a need to cover your incompetency.
If you need me, I’ll be in a bunker in an undisclosed location. Good luck with your cover up.
Sincerely,
Dr. Cora Garmen
Senior Epidemiologist, Laboratory Five
To: Jesse Turnbury, Public Relations
From: Darvis Richardson, Outbreak and Control Management Research
Dear Mr. Turnbury,
After months of research and careful consideration of all possible outcomes, O & C has determined that the outbreak is a highly contagious and drug resistant strain of the HPAI H5N1 bird flu. Unfortunately, the standard influenza prevention protocol appears to have little effect in stopping the virus from spreading. OCMR is in the process of setting up a network of patient intake centers in an effort to quarantine the virus. A list of intake locations is attached to this email. Please provide these locations in the form of a link from the home page of the website. As we continue to research the virus, I will continue to provide your department with updated information.
Thank you for your patience in this matter.
Dr. Darvis Richardson
Head of Epidemiology
Bird Flu
"I'm just saying, a shotgun to the head is classic. You can’t go wrong. It’s simple and effective."
"Dude, I keep telling you, a shotgun is too messy. You can't assume that the only way to get infected is a bite. The virus is probably in their blood."
"Do you even know how a gun works? Seriously, Chris, I'm reconsidering whether or not I want you on my team when the apocalypse happens."
Robin Olson and Chris York sat at a plastic picnic table under a shade tree, indulging in their favorite lunch hour activity: preparing for the hypothetical zombie apocalypse. It was their way of breaking up the monotony of the ten-hour workday. Robin and Chris both worked on the assembly line at Plasticorp, a company that manufactured the hard to open plastic packaging that electronics companies were fond of using to package their products. The work was tedious, the hours were long, and the job required absolutely no creative input from the young men, which made for an unpleasant combination at times. But Plasticorp was one of only a handful of decent paying jobs left in rural north Texas.
"Hey guys," Ryan Tiggs, another friend of the two men, dropped a greasy fast food bag on the table. "Y’all seen Conklin today? If you need solid proof that the zombie apocalypse is already going down, just take a look at that guy."
"Why? What's up with Conklin?" Chris asked with a furtive glance at the orange and white striped Whataburger bag that Ryan was rooting around in. His own bologna and cheese sandwich lost what little appeal it had when compared to the scent of fries and nearly a pound of meat. It wasn't Ryan's fault that Chris had mountains of student loan debt and a family to support, but it annoyed him nonetheless. Sure, with his bachelor’s degree in computer science, Chris could have easily gotten a better paying job and better benefits with one of the tech giants down in the Dallas area, but the near two hour drive kept him from applying. For Chris, the precious little time he was able to spend with his family trumped such luxuries as fast food.
"Dude's looking harsh,” Ryan said after washing down his sandwich with a swig of soda. “Harsher than usual, that is, and he's totally distracted. He sent like, twenty empty molds down the line and then he walked away from his station for about thirty minutes."
"Is that who did that?" Robin asked with a mouthful of Hot Pocket. "Man, I was the one who had to fix his mess! I figured it was one of the younger guys and they were probably nursing a hangover. Conklin’s probably just getting too old for this job. His reflexes ain’t what they used to be. Maybe he should be moved to sorting."
Chris nearly choked on his Dr. Pepper as Robin gave his opinion on their colleague’s competency. Sometimes it was easy to forget that he was nearly ten years older than Robin, but then at times like this, the age gap was painfully obvious. “Dude, he's forty five, that's not exactly retirement age. Maybe the guy's just got the flu or something."
"Man, I dunno," said Ryan, biting into his burger. "Seems like an awful lot of people been coming down with the so-called bird flu these days. I think they're hiding something."
"They are," Chris snorted. "They’re hiding the fact that we're treated like slaves and our health don't matter." He glanced angrily at the flyers posted all over the break area that announced free flu shots to all Plasticorp employees. From an outsider’s perspective, it looked like a great benefit, but Chris knew better. They were only offering the shots for two hours in the middle of the production shift and already, a memo was sent telling the workers that they were not to leave their stations due to increased workflow. This meant that the bulk of Plasticorp’s workforce, the ones who were put on notice if they dared take a sick day, would not be able to get a shot at all.
"I'm talking about the government, not t
his place," Ryan said in a low voice as he leaned in and gave the others a conspiratorial look of concern. "This ain't no flu, bro. Conk's got what looks like a nasty bite on his arm. He's trying to hide it under his shirtsleeve, but I saw it when he was washing his hands earlier. He's totally infected. I wouldn’t be surprised if he goes full on zombie by the end of shift. Seriously, guys, we need a plan."
The whistle blew, indicating that they had just five minutes until lunch was over. Talk of zombies was suspended as the guys rushed to get in a cigarette before they had to return to their stations. Chris tucked away half of his sandwich to eat on his second afternoon break. On his way back to his post, he saw Bobby Conklin lurking near the bathrooms, looking every bit as ill as Ryan had said.
The poor guy needs to be home, Chris thought angrily. Time off for anything less than lying unconscious in the hospital was frowned upon at Plasticorp. Jokingly making plans in the event of a zombie attack was one thing, but making jokes at the expense of a coworker who was obviously suffering wasn't cool. Chris made a mental note to ask his wife, who was a nurse, to schedule him an appointment at the clinic where she worked.
* * *
"So I managed to get a second date with Barbara."
"Oh? Does she have a thing for ugly guys?"
"Real funny, man. I'm not the prettiest, but at least I'm not Ryan ugly. Speaking of which, we're low on beer. Where is that loser?"
Going Green Page 3