One Blink From Oblivion

by Mark Curtis Bullock

  When the procedure is complete, the anonymous voice instructs Max to step through the next opening and get dressed. Max steps out into a larger tented room and finds a system of labeled shelves with scrubs in assorted sizes and colors. He locates his size in blue and proceeds to dress himself. A box of booties labeled ‘One Size Fits All’ sits on top of a shelf and Max dons a pair of those as well. Once dressed he proceeds through the final opening and finds that he is back in the open mall and looking at a half-dozen well-armed guardsmen.

  A small woman in a white smock with a clipboard and a pen approaches Max and systematically runs through her checklist of questions.

  “What was the nature of your exposure?”

  “Blood, I guess.” He responds.

  “How long ago was your first exposure and please try to be as precise as possible?”

  “I don’t know. A few hours maybe.”

  “Did you have any open wounds at the time of exposure?”

  “No.”

  “Have you suffered any injuries or open wounds since exposure?”

  “No, not that I know of.”

  “Have you ingested any bodily fluids of someone you now suspect may have been infected at the time?”

  “No I have not.”

  The small woman makes a final check mark on her clipboard and asks Max for his name.

  “Maximilian Mills,” he responds.

  She gives Max a look that says ‘I suspect that name is made up but I don’t care’. She then reaches into her pocket and pulls out a green wristband where upon she writes his name prior to snapping it onto his left wrist.

  “Put him in block C section 5.” She commands one of the heavily armed sentries.

  Just then, Max sees Vinny step out of the dressing stall to his left. Vinny looks his way and gives him raised eyebrows and a ‘what’s up’ nod.

  Max has time for one word before a soldier grabs his arm and forces him forward, “Quarantine,” he says plainly and turns to walk in the direction that the soldiers are herding him.

  He looks back over his shoulder hoping to catch a glimpse of Brooke but is disappointed. He does however see the small woman with her clipboard and a fresh set of guards step up to Vinny. As he’s led down the long main corridor of the open mall, he continues to look back whenever he can. He and two of the guards mount the escalator to the top floor and before he looses sight of Vinny he tries to catch a glimpse of what he’s been waiting for –the small woman is placing a band on Vinny’s wrist…

  ***

  Brooke sits on a fairly comfortable chair and stares at a wall full of ladies’ sneakers trying to take her mind off of the uncomfortable and embarrassing ordeal she had undergone an hour ago as she was stripped and publicly scrubbed. They had at least used female guards to do the washing but the small stalls provided little to no privacy and she could feel roving eyes studying her. At one point, she had glanced back and seen the pervert that had slapped her rear earlier. He wasn’t even trying to be discreet with his invasive stare. He even appeared to be shielding his crotch area from view with his rifle. The memory of this sends a shudder of anger and even a little shame through her. She blinks hard and forces herself out of the remembrance and back to present.

  Her stomach burbles sounds of contentment after dining on the MREs that the guardsmen had handed out to everyone -with the exception of the infected of course who were holding out for something a bit more organic. A decent meal had been a long time coming and her body was in desperate need of refueling when it was offered. Considering the nature and shelf life of a ‘meal ready to eat’, she was pleasantly surprised by the flavor. After mealtime was over, she was marshaled to this women’s shoe store for what she presumed would be an extended stay.

  She spies a pair of white running shoes on a display table that look as if they might be in her size. She stands and walks past several other ladies lying or sitting about, and hopes that none of them rat her out when they discern her intention. She stops at the table and gives a look around the dimly lit room for anyone giving her the hawk-eye. All good there, so she checks the gated and locked front door for guards and sees none. She grabs the shoes, tucks them under her left arm and does an about face. Brooke hurriedly reclaims her spot on the couch and turns her back to the front door to mask her loot. She holds the right shoe to the bottom of her left foot and is satisfied with the match. Without bothering to remove the booties, she slips her feet in quickly and ties both shoes tightly.

  Brooke looks up to gauge the reaction of the women around her and finds that several of them have taken her lead and are now searching for some shoes of their own. She feels a tinge of guilt being the first one in the shoe store to consider shoplifting a pair of shoes but the feeling quickly fades when she takes into account the gravity of the situation.

  After the decontamination procedure, she had been interviewed and fitted with a green bracelet. She was then ushered up the escalator to the second floor and placed in this female-only containment cell. Before the guard had closed the door, she asked him why people that were free of infection were being held. He told her she should be happy, that this was the safest place for them. The only way to stop the infection at this point was to keep the uninfected from being bitten. Brooke found the reasoning difficult to fault, but was angered at being held against her will none-the-less.

  She scans the room for a familiar or even just a friendly face. What she finds are various expressions of fear and fatigue. How many of these ladies had gone through ordeals similar to hers -or worse- this evening? She, Max and Vinny had been fortunate to pass through primarily low population areas. Residents of the valley must have dealt with a total nightmare up to this point. Canoga Park -where they now find themselves captive- is after all part of the city of Los Angeles. Taking that into consideration relieves a bit of her ire over being held captive. She considers that perhaps she’s better off not knowing what horrors lie outside this makeshift prison. With that thought, she stretches out on the couch, and feeling somewhat safe for the first time tonight she closes her eyes.

  ***

  After Vinny had explained the up-close and personal nature of his encounter with Lisa at the sheriff’s station the lady in the lab coat immediately fitted him with a yellow wristband. He was unaware of the significance at the time but had since put two and two together. He now lies on his back staring at a bank of mobile operating room lights. An I.V. is trickling an unidentifiable fluid directly into his vein that seems to be diminishing his senses. He turns his head to the left and through a kaleidoscope of haze, he can see other yellow-banded patients being escorted into the room. Some are being strapped to their gurneys and others –like he- are not.

  As soon as he had entered the room he new that he was to be a guinea pig and decided it best to just go with the flow. After all, they hadn’t given him much choice and it was better than running the streets and trying to survive. It all fit into his why should I care attitude that had served him well thus far in life. His lack of resistance and dislocated shoulder had probably contributed to the absence of restraints on his gurney, and he was certainly thankful for that. He does however find himself wishing for a longer gurney as his feet dangle off the end of the one that he currently occupies. He thinks about calling for a nurse and lodging a pseudo-complaint about the accommodations, but in his current state, he finds he is unable to formulate anything humorous or witty to say. ‘If you don’t have anything funny to say then don’t say anything’. This twist on the old idiom gives him a chuckle.

  He eyes the bag attached to his right arm hoping to find it nearing empty but is disappointed to see that it remains half-full. He wonders if it makes him a pessimist or an optimist in this case to think of the bag as half full and the thought hurts his head. With everything that’s going on outside he finds it disconcerting to not have full reign of his mental faculties. He glances at the back of his left hand where a small tube for repeated blood taking has been installed. He has a vague recol
lection of the nurse taking blood from him twice already. He found her quite pleasing to the eye as she sashayed about in her one-size-fits-all smock. He thought she had made an attempt to brush herself suggestively against him, but in retrospect that was probably the drugs talking –the drugs and maybe a bit of wishful thinking. He amazes himself with his ability to dwell on thoughts of the sexual kind even in a time such as this. He considers it a talent.

  That last self-examination leads his mind to thoughts of Brooke. ‘Where is she? How is she doing? Is she thinking about him? Most importantly, would he have a chance with her if Max weren’t in the picture?’

  ***

  Max crouches against the wall of a gutted mall shop. The space was apparently between tenants before the world went sideways, so the walls and floor are as barren as a salt flat. The ceiling is open and a widow’s web of water pipes and air vents are the only contrast to the emptiness of the room –aside from its inhabitants. No furniture is present, so men stand and lie about wherever they can find a vacant spot in the overcrowded room.

  Max sits, biding his time. Now that he has time to reflect, he’s trying not to dwell on the horror of the night’s events. He knows that no good can come from over-thinking what had to be done in the moment. He needs to keep his head clear and not lose sight of the tasks at hand. Step one is to find out if Big Mama was brought to this location. If she wasn’t, then next he must determine how he is going to get out so he can find his way back to her.

  A sudden snapshot of bits of Lisa’s head painting the cell walls -like watermelon covering the stage in a Gallagher concert- invades his thoughts of Big Mama. He shakes his head to dispel the ghostly visage only to have it replaced by another. This time Vanessa devours Brooke on the floor of the cabin while both the eater and the eaten stare directly into his eyes -one begging to be saved and the other daring him to try. Max shivers away the waking nightmare and shifts his attention to the various other detainees standing about. Some are in animated conversations about their night’s experiences while others murmur to themselves, apparently too far gone for any rational social contact.

  Max finds a thin balding man, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his head slung low and cupped in his hands, particularly intriguing. His body language tells Max that he has seen more than most of their cellmates, more than any single person should be asked to bear alone and yet his sanity remains. In him, Max feels a kindred spirit and decides that a lucid witness could provide him with the information he sought.

  “Excuse me sir,” Max speaks in the least threatening tone in his arsenal, “are you feeling okay?”

  The man neither stirs nor responds verbally.

  Max –undaunted by the thin man’s passive dismissal- repeats himself with a bit more volume and inflection, “Excuse me sir?”

  The thin man slowly drops his hands to his lap and lifts his head to reveal two red and extremely swollen eyes. His cupped palms had apparently been serving double duty as a tear reservoir and as a mask of his emotions. His cheeks are damp and nearly crimson in color. He regards Max somberly as if to say ‘can’t I just be left in peace’, but Max has no intention of complying. There’s something he needs to know and time is short.

  “Hey, you look like you’ve had just about as shitty a night as I have, and I know the last thing you want right now is to be talking to me but I’m hoping you can help me with some info.” Max holds his breath and waits for a reply from the thin man who continues to stare at him blankly.

  “I live up in the Chatsworth Hills but I was out of town when all this happened. I’ve got family up there. Do you know what happened to the people that lived in that area?”

  A smile so thin, that his lips all but disappear spreads across the man’s face and he answers –with a bit too much enthusiasm for the setting, “Well, hello neighbor. It’s quite a pleasure to meet you,” the man’s voice is low and sinews of lunacy tug at each word as he over enunciates them. “What a small world!” he exclaims with wide eyes and apparent sarcasm.

  Max is beginning to realize that he may have made a grievous error in rousing this man from his cocoon of despair. He raises his hand with the intent of cutting the man off and allowing him to return to his position of repose but a mercurial change in the thin man’s tone and expression as he takes a brief pause before continuing causes Max’s arm to wither back to his side.

  “Dead!” he exclaims loud enough to halt the conversation and turn the heads of many of the men standing nearby. “Everyone’s dead! Your family, my family, our pets, the fucking postman… they’re all dead,” the man’s voice and cadence of his speech –though harsher than before and without a note of derision- remain low and slow as though he is explaining the situation to an annoying child that has been repeating the same question for hours. “Those horrid creatures came from everywhere…nowhere and they bit and clawed and ripped and ate and drank and defiled every living thing they could see, smell or hear,” for the first time he looks directly into Max’s eyes, “what kind of monster could tear apart a puppy?”

  Max sits silently, unable to unlock from the man’s gaze like a cobra and its hypnotized prey.

  Still slow and methodical, “Do you know how much blood a body has in it? I never knew until today. The blood just kept coming like high tide. It never relented for a moment. Just wave after wave of blood spewing and splashing on the floor around the bed. The carpet soaked up so much that it just began to pool on the top, but through it all they just kept screaming!”

  Now tears begin to flow freely from the thin mans already red eyes and more people gather to listen, “Why couldn’t they just put them out of their misery? They’re just little girls, they never hurt anyone. Their eyes stared at me as I watched the last bit of life in them flicker out. Their eyes were asking me ‘why daddy… why didn’t you save us… why, why, why!?”

  The man blinks and his spell over Max is broken. Max drops his sightline to the floor between his feet and fights being sucked into the emotional vortex the thin man has created.

  “I hid there, under the bed until the soldiers came. A lot of the soldiers died but many of those things were set on fire or killed before they could escape. Some of the people that those things had attacked earlier got up and ran away too. The bodies that stayed down were thrown into trash trucks and brought here to be disposed of.”

  The man spat the last few words in obvious disgust and immediately his weeping overtook him for good. Max, in his mind’s eye, envisions the man’s small daughters being flung limply into the back of a refuse truck in a scene akin to the nightmarish black and white videos of concentration camp victims. An image of two men struggling to lift Big Mama’s sizeable girth into the rear of a city waste truck brings a cramp to Max’s belly and he shivers the thought away. Could it be that Big Mama has been reduced to nothing more than a smoldering pile of ash and a few stubborn bits of heart muscle? Or worse, could she be wandering the night in search of human blood to quench an untenable thirst?

  ***

  A loud rap on the storefront glass draws the awareness of those still awake.

  The thin man –apparently once again in control of his equanimity- looks up from the familiar perch of his hands and nods his red swollen face in the direction of the interruption and asks Max, “What do you think this is about?”

  Max turns to find Gilley’s friend (CPL Steward) standing on the other side of the glass and beckoning a particularly fearsome-looking detainee toward the door. The man in question stands about six-feet and seven-inches tall and is built like a side of beef. He’s bursting out of his grossly undersized scrubs and has torn the sleeves from his top to reveal a prison tattoo familiar to Max. The tattoo denotes his gang affiliation and years served –to date- behind bars. The beast of a man appears to have several other slightly smaller men orbiting around him –no doubt fellow members of his set.

  He approaches the door, which has been cracked open just enough to allow conversation and stands for a while as CPL
Steward engages him with whispers of dubious intent. Near the end of their conversation, the soldier points in Max’s direction. The behemoth turns and looks at Max for a moment. His incredible size gives him the illusion of moving in slow motion as he then turns back to the soldier and nods.

  Max doesn’t need to be a lip reader to know what’s going on. He watches the rest of the exchange with loathsome anticipation and hopes that the skin color he shares with the giant will be enough to give the man a brotherly pause. But, he knows better. To people like that, the only colors that matter are red and blue. Back in the day, both sides had tried many times to recruit Max. Being the son of a respected enforcer gave Max a preceding reputation that he had never asked for. These assumptions that people made about him had kept him out of some fights but gotten him into others. As for linking up with a local set, he always refused and was only spared from reprisals because everyone knew and feared his old man.

  As the conversation wraps, instead of B-lining toward Max the large man returns to his satellites and Max breathes a momentary sigh of relief… until he returns his gaze to CPL Steward who stands at the window, smiling ear to freckled ear in Max’s direction. The soldier pans his view back and forth between the group of men -that are now beginning to push their way through the crowd- and Max.

  Max springs to his feet and searches his mind for a way to avoid the inevitable. To survive a nearly supernatural night only to be beaten to death by a gang of uninfected thugs seems like a cruel irony. Before he can formulate a productive thought the group of four -or four and a half as it were- are upon him. The leader is an oak. His feet spread out beneath him like roots planted firmly in the earth anchoring two solid trunk-like legs that ripple with sinews of muscle beneath his inadequate pants. A towering torso of bulging mounds that seem to jump and jitter remotely and without provocation is welded to the mighty trunk beneath it. His arms erupt outward like redwood branches, able and ready to support the very sky with all of its stars should it choose to fall. His neck is a nearly non-existent segway of leathery hide stretched drum-taught over slithering veins between his mountainous shoulders and steroidal-oversized head. A single dimple in his right cheek and a set of surprisingly dynamic eyes are the only remnants of his true origin. He is as daunting a figure as any biter that Max has laid his eyes upon this evening.