Biohazard

by Tim Curran

  When the thing pulled away, Carl gunned us out of there.

  Something scratched against the roof and something else pounded the tail gate and made the Jeep shake. Then blood, very red and running, splattered over the windshield and Carl cleared it with the wipers. I saw one of those semi-human hog’s heads roll off the hood.

  Then we were back on the main road, racing through the mist.

  I never asked any of them why they didn’t try to come after me when I was trapped out there and I didn’t think I needed to. I knew why: they’d been paralyzed with fright.

  5

  Carl stayed well outside of Omaha, cutting north up to U.S. 30, and the farther we went the quieter it got in the Jeep. Even the small talk petered out after awhile.

  We drove on through the fog, moving slowly in case there were stalled cars or trucks on the road.

  Carl drove and drove and drove.

  The silence grew thicker, almost permanent.

  We drove for an hour and then stopped in a little town to gas up. I do not remember the name. It was dead, completely dead. A black silence echoed through the streets. The houses were gray and sagging, paint beginning to peel from their boards. The lawns were overgrown, weeds spouting up through cracks in the streets. The windows were all dusty and blank. Nothing had lived there in a long time. Mickey found a few skeletons in a little park across from the gas station where Carl did some siphoning.

  But that was it.

  We drove away.

  I slept for awhile and when I came awake, Mickey was sleeping with her head on my lap, her knees pulled up to her chin. I looked over at Carl and he smiled at me with a wicked grin. Mickey came awake and looked like she was ready to do what Carl had been insinuating.

  The fog was still pretty heavy.

  We rolled into another little town and the streets were deserted, burned-out houses to either side. Lots of wrecked cars, weedy lots, and shattered plate-glass windows.

  “Look,” Mickey said.

  I saw them: people. They were lined up on the streets as we passed, faces distorted from sores and growths, raw and rotting. Ulcers had eaten holes right through them. For every one that stood, a dozen more were sprawled on the pavement or rotting in the gutters. They were all hot with plague. They threw things at us that splattered against the Jeep. I want to think they were rotting tomatoes.

  We drove for a few more hours and then slowed down. I saw a town ahead.

  “Bitter Creek,” Carl said.

  6

  We didn’t go in the first night. We camped outside at a little roadside park. It was getting late and I don’t think anybody wanted to charge in there in the dark, especially without knowing what it was we were charging into. We built a fire and we ate and we sat around. Nobody said much.

  It was a nice night.

  The fog had lifted and the stars were bright. It could have been a sky ten years ago or anytime before Doomsday. The only telltale giveaway was an occasional flickering purple-blue corona at the horizon. Other than that it was perfect.

  I was thinking about Price and all the things he’d told me, how they all fit in with what I knew and what my dreams told me. I was sorry Price was dead. He hadn’t wanted to go out in the fog, but we had made the decision for him. Was that a portent of death? Probably not. Just a very wise man recognizing a fool idea when he saw one.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and all I could see were the faces of dead friends. Then that faded and I saw the cities to the east-lifeless, wind-blown, heaps of smoldering bones. Nothing but death to the east of the Mississippi now and nothing but death creeping slowly west. Iowa was dead now. So was Minnesota, Missouri, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and East Texas. Dead. Kansas was going to its grave and so were the Dakotas. Nebraska would fall next and I knew it.

  The Medusa was getting closer, moving faster and faster.

  I started to sweat and shake because like The Shape, I could feel it out there chewing westward town by town. I had some kind of vague psychic uplink with it and I could feel it getting closer, seeking me out on a hot wind of pestilence.

  “You okay, Nash?” Mickey said. “You look funny.”

  “He always looks funny,” Texas said.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I said.

  Nobody believed it and neither did I.

  I studied my posse each in turn.

  Good old Carl, always at my side. Just like Mickey said, my loyal watchdog. Texas Slim, perpetually amused by all around him. Mickey, eyes burning hot and salacious, always ready to please. Janie, her love grown cold, nursing secrets and resentments. And Morse, just crazy as crazy got, fooling with his camera. I think I was attached to them in one way or another and that’s why I wanted them gone.

  But I knew they wouldn’t leave.

  Because something was out there and they wanted to see it, too.

  7

  We walked into town that first day, armed to the teeth. I needed to see Bitter Creek up close and personal. I wanted to know what it looked like and felt like and smelled like.

  We found our first corpse within the hour.

  Some guy twisted up in the grass, a four-leafed clover tattooed on his right bicep. It hadn’t brought him any luck at all. He was slashed open, burnt, crushed…almost looked like he’d fallen out of a burning plane a half a mile up. But that wasn’t it. His death had been ugly and brutal, certainly, but it had nothing to do with planes because there were no more planes. Just like there were no more trains or baseball games or TV. Not much of anything, you came right down to it.

  Just the six of us.

  We were crouched in a cornfield, watching the little town below us in the valley. There was a sign ahead on the side of the road, its Day-Glo surface blasted with bullet holes. BITTER CREEK, it said. And beneath that: CLASS C BASKETBALL CHAMPS 1996.

  I wondered if Lucky had played basketball.

  I figured he hadn’t. He was so mangled and misused it was hard to tell if he was thirty or sixty, but with that tattoo, I figured he was some kind of tough. Guys with tattoos are always trying to tell the world something. But this guy? What was he saying? Not much. He looked like something you scraped off the bottom of your oven. But that tattoo was unscathed. Go figure.

  Carl said, “I figure this guy ran out of luck.”

  “Sure as hell,” Texas said.

  There were lots of things that could have killed the guy, but we all knew the Children had gotten him. When they got their hands on someone they always left them looking like this.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s go. Let’s find out what all this is about.”

  Morse took a couple pictures with his Nikon and nobody mentioned the fact.

  We cut back to the road and followed it towards town. We hadn’t gone too far when we came to yet another gruesome sight: scarecrows. A ring of scarecrows circled the town like a noose. Except, of course, they weren’t scarecrows exactly, but mummified human corpses that had been picked by birds, blown by the dry wind and baked in the sun. The crosses they’d been nailed to were very tall, maybe twenty feet, and they rose high above us like the masts of galleons.

  “Looks like a warning,” Carl said. “Something to scare outsiders off.”

  Morse got a few shots of them.

  “I don’t think it’s anything quite that simple,” Janie said, but would elaborate no more.

  She was becoming increasingly mysterious and mystical. But, all that aside, I had to agree with her. This was no warning. Not exactly. I was thinking more along the lines of an offering. I wondered if those poor bastards had even been dead when they were nailed to the crosses. I decided I didn’t want to know.

  I stood there, smoking a cigarette with Carl, staring up at them, senseless and transfixed

  “You boys might want to watch those cigarettes,” Texas Slim said. He pushed a boot down into the yellow grass. The grasses crunched, broke apart into tiny fragments. “Awful dry here. Awful dry. One dropped match or cigarette…”

  I could imagine
the place burning and it made me smile. Because even then, hovering at its perimeter, I knew it was nothing but a vile pesthole. It had the same atmosphere as a plague pit.

  “Be a shame,” Mickey said.

  The six of us rounded the crest of a hill and, stretched out below us, was Bitter Creek. It wasn’t much. Maybe it had held four or five thousand at one time, but that was before the bombs fell. Just another drop of a town in the puddle of Nebraska. A little place surrounded by cornfields.

  Mickey grabbed my arm as we started down. “Be careful,” she said. “We all need to be careful now.”

  I knew it, too.

  The town was just another graveyard, yet I knew it was special. Some how. Some way.

  “Where’s that facility that Price told you about?” Carl asked me. “The germ warfare place?”

  “Probably outside town somewhere. We’ll look for it tomorrow,” I told him, tuning into the psychic shortwave of the town and feeling its dead immensity settling into me. It was like putting your ear up to the wall of a tomb.

  No one said anything as we entered the city limits. There were no signs of anything alive. But there was a smell in the air: death. A putrescent blanket that covered us, suffocating us with its heat and heaviness.

  “Mmm, that air,” Carl said. “Nothing smells quite like Nebraska.”

  The streets were lined with rusting cars and debris, the gutters clogged with brown leaves and broken glass. The sun was high in the sky in a hazy, filmy pocket, reflecting off the filthy glass fronts of the main drag. All of which had white crosses painted on them. The military had done that in Youngstown, I remembered, when they cleared houses of plague bodies. But I didn’t think that’s what this was about. This was something even darker, something pagan at its roots, something more along the line of hex signs.

  A police car with flat tires and an imploded windshield stood watch on the outskirts. Behind the wheel there was a skeleton in soiled rags. A silver badge winked on its chest. It was not the only skeleton we saw. There were others sitting on benches, laying in the grass, even parked in chairs behind the windows of businesses. I rather doubt they had died in that state; someone had arranged them that way.

  “I smell something,” Mickey said.

  I was waiting for Texas or Carl to crack a joke about that, but no one spoke. I could smell something, too. Putrescence, surely, but this was something almost worse: the stench of disease and drainage, hospital dressings foul with seepage and gangrene.

  We came to something like a village green and it was crowded with people who were sitting or sprawled on the ground, huddled tightly together like beggars. Many of them were dead, but many were not. The living ones saw us, but did not speak.

  We kept our distance.

  “They’re full of the Fevers,” Texas said.

  There was no doubt of it. Faces were ulcerated, pocked with sores, cracked open like dry earth and running with bile. Eyes were blood-red and glazed. Limbs contorted. Bodies bursting with blood. They were coughing and sucking in rattling breaths. There had to a hundred or more and all of them burning hot with Ebola-X, plague, cholera, anthrax, diseases I could not begin to identify. They gathered in a pool of their own drainage and filth like people at an open air festival waiting for the first band to take the stage.

  I had to wonder who or what they were waiting for.

  “I’m thinking we shouldn’t linger,” Mickey said.

  We moved on.

  8

  We walked down those empty, leaf-blown streets of Bitter Creek and I knew we weren’t alone. We were being watched and it wasn’t by The Shape, even though I could feel my significant other getting nearer. It was funny, but I could actually feel it, feel The Shape out there-in my guts and along the back of my neck like a hand coming out of the darkness. You didn’t need to see it to know it was there. It wasn’t time for a selection, not for another week or more.

  But The Shape was active.

  We were in Bitter Creek.

  It had been waiting for this.

  But what I felt watching me was not The Shape. It could have been more of the infected like in that park. Because we’d already come across five or six other little communes like that, all of them dying or dead, but waiting. Just waiting.

  I didn’t think it was them, though. This was something else.

  I could feel it just fine. I didn’t know if the others could. There was someone out there. I just hoped that whoever it was, was human.

  “When are you going to tell us why we’re here?” Janie asked me. “When will the grand plan be revealed to the faithful?”

  I ignored the sarcasm. “When it’s revealed to me, that’s when.”

  The tension between us was almost unbearable now. Everyone was aware of it, but nobody was talking about it. Too much shit to deal with without all that fucking baggage that Janie and I had so carefully packed. Mickey felt the tension and sidled up right next to me, making sure a bare arm or bare leg was in contact with me. Skin to skin. There was alchemy in that and she knew it.

  I stood on a street corner, swallowing, feeling the town, sending out fingers of perception in every direction. Where was it? Where was the revelation? I knew it was here. I could feel it going up my spine like fingernails, coiling in my belly, filling my blood with electricity…where was it? When would it show itself?

  I reached out to that sphere of darkness in my brain which I acquainted with The Shape’s WiFi, but got nothing. The Shape was near, but very much offline.

  “Well, Nash?” Janie said. “Are we going to stand here while Mickey dry humps your leg or are we going to get to this already?”

  “Fuck you,” Mickey told her.

  “Wouldn’t put it past you,” Janie said.

  I started walking again.

  We came up to something like a town square. Lots of brick-fronted businesses with dusty windows, simple frame houses spread out beyond. The lawns were all yellow and overgrown, the streets plastered with wet leaves. A Mobil station, a video store, a bowling alley, a cafe…this could have been any of a thousand towns in the country. They were all laid out approximately the same…Main Street or Elm or whatever as a hub, everything else radiating out from it like the spokes of a bike tire. Same old, same old. Just another dismal little town filled with death. You could smell it in the air…a sharp, almost pungent yellow smell of age and decay and memory sucking into itself. The moldering, old smell of a library filled with rotting books…except it wasn’t the books that were rotting here.

  I saw more white crosses. They seemed to be in the windows of every business and every home.

  “What do you make of it?” I asked Texas.

  He shrugged. “Damned if I know. The cross, as I understand it, only exists for two purposes: to call something in or ward something else off.”

  I wondered what Specs would have made of it with that mind of his.

  As we walked, sensing the place, letting it fill us like poisoned blood, Janie kept looking at me. I pretended I wasn’t aware of it. But, eventually, I looked over at her and those blue eyes of hers were blazing. Hate? Anger? No, maybe something like disappointment. Something beyond disappointment. I didn’t know what it was. Not then. But it was coming. She was brooding something inside. Something she was going to share with me when the time came.

  But not before.

  We all had our guns out and we were feeling tense. There was a thickness in the air, the sense that although maybe we were the only ones wading through this particular stream, there were others watching us from the grassy banks, just biding their time, studying us.

  About that time, Mickey stopped. Stopped and cocked her head. “I feel…I feel like I’m being watched,” she said.

  Janie sucked in a breath. Maybe I did, too.

  “That’s just me,” Texas said. “I been watching your ass is all.”

  “Shut up,” she said.

  Mickey, as I’ve said, was intuitive as all hell…she could read people, she could read si
tuations. And she wasn’t liking this one at all.

  Morse, of course, seeing her standing there looking darkly beautiful and haunted like she did when she was sensing something, snapped a picture of her. Mickey didn’t even flinch. She’d had lots of pictures of her taken in the old days and she was a natural at it.

  We moved through the streets very slowly, trying to pick up on what was watching us. Outside a little drug store, we found two bodies. Children. They were curled up on the sidewalk, reduced to husks… just wiry and blackened, crumbling. When Carl nudged one with his boot, it fell apart like cigarette ash. I’d seen it before. Sometimes, the Children just decayed like isotopes, burned themselves up from the inside out.

  We kept moving.

  And still, those eyes watched us.

  “Nash,” Mickey said, gripping the Browning Hi-Power she carried in both hands like a cop on a shooting range, “I’m getting a real bad feeling here. There’s somebody watching us out there.”

  Even Carl didn’t have a smartass response for that.

  Morse scanned the streets with his telephoto lens, humming under his breath. Janie looked at me and I looked at her. Maybe I was going to take charge like a true leader, maybe I was about to rally my troops, but something happened.

  A door slammed.

  Slammed damn hard.

  We all jumped.

  Then we went after it. We cut down an alley and came out on another tree-lined street. Houses, buildings, and then a little ma and pa lunch counter at the end. I saw movement behind the plate glass windows and went after it. I went in first with my Beretta in my hands, ready to start busting caps. Inside, it was typical…flyspecked windows, a long counter, lots of empty tables. Everything dusty and wreathed with cobwebs. A cross on the glass.

  And a girl.

  She could have been eleven or twelve, I was thinking. She just sat there in a booth like she’d been waiting for us. She was out in the daytime, so I knew she wasn’t one of the Children.