by J. D. Demers
Chapter 2
Awakening
March 20th Morning
A muffled bang brought me out of my alcohol-induced coma the next morning. It took me a couple of seconds to remember where I was. I wasn’t that drunk the night before, but it was enough to give me a mild headache and make me feel a bit groggy.
I stood up and stretched. There was an odd smell in the air, like the time I had left raw chicken in the trash for two days. I heard cracks and pops outside as well. They weren’t close, but it sounded like someone was shooting off more fireworks in the distance like the night before. I guess I still hadn’t come to terms with the apocalypse that was stirring around me. It’s not like the sound of gunfire was unfamiliar.
I made my way to the kitchen to grab something cold to drink. The light was off when I opened the fridge and it wasn’t blowing cold air. The little bit of food that was inside still seemed cold, so I shut the door. The electricity must have gone out, and I knew from going through a few hurricanes that if I kept the refrigerator and freezer shut, I could save most of the goods for a few days. I thought perhaps the loud noise that woke me may have been a transformer blowing.
I started feeling butterflies in my stomach and I wasn’t sure why. I don’t believe in people being psychic or anything, but I do think the subconscious picks up on things our consciousness likes to ignore. Like when someone says, “I have a bad feeling about this”.
Other noises started making their way to my senses as my brain woke up. A car alarm could be heard along with the random bursts of what I started to think was gunfire. I walked toward the front door to see what was going on. News from the night before, along with all the pandemonium in the streets, started to push its way through the fog in my head as I opened the door and took a step outside.
The bright sun was piercing through sporadic clouds. It was still cool for a Florida spring, at around seventy-five degrees. By noon it was sure to be in the eighties. The weather was one of the many reasons why I chose to come back here after my time in the service. I hated snow.
The popping noises were more regular, mostly off in the distance. There was no mistaking it anymore. That was gunfire I heard, not fireworks. There was no more lying to myself. I had heard enough in the military to recognize it. The car alarm seemed to be coming from a couple of streets away. I smelled smoke, but didn’t see any plumes from where I was standing.
I heard another boom, like the one that woke me up. It came from down the road and, this time, was accompanied by a scream. It was an unnerving, horrific shriek. The noise came from the same direction of the bang, just a few houses away. The scream continued for nearly a minute before it was violently cut off, sending a shiver down my spine.
According to the news, people were rioting. Then, there was the random gunfire and screaming. I came to the conclusion that all the commotion I was hearing was due to looters in the area. People couldn’t find any more food at the stores and they were getting desperate. I started to panic, thinking our house could be next.
The first thought I had after I went back inside and locked the door was that I had to wake Dave up. He had guns to help defend the house and, well, he was better at this kind of stuff than I was.
I was nervous, scared, and could feel dread starting to creep up in my chest. Hollywood usually portrayed soldiers and veterans as fearless people of action. This isn’t a knock on service men and women. A uniform doesn’t make you a hero. It sure as hell didn’t make me one. Dave was a different story, though. Even though he was pretty ill, I was sure he would be ready to take on the world. After all, he had been preparing for a moment like this for the past two years.
I was worried Dave wouldn’t like my idea of holing up in the living room, waiting to see if anyone tried to break in. He would probably want to sit on the roof with one of his AR-15 rifles so he could give warning shots. Or worse, shots without warnings. I would be damned if I was going to go through this alone.
I opened Dave’s door. The smell hit me before I actually saw anything. That odor I was inhaling since I woke up was amplified a hundred times and I had to choke back to stop myself from throwing up.
Dave was lying on his stomach, his head lay facing toward me and his arm was slung over the bed. His skin was a rustic gray color and his eyes were partially open, blankly staring in my direction. They were heavily glazed over with purple veins covering the whites of his eyes. There was no question in my mind that he was dead. No more wheezing or coughing. No movement from his back to show he was still breathing.
I froze. I’m not sure how long I stood there, but it couldn’t have been over three minutes because I didn’t breathe the entire time.
A screech from a car not far off brought me out of shock. I exhaled and took a deep breath which made me gag. I wasn’t sure if I threw up because my best friend was dead or because I inhaled the noxious fumes of decay, but at least I turned around and didn’t have to look at his face staring at me.
I composed myself and took a second look. I had to make sure. I walked into the room holding my breath, wincing at the scene the whole time. There was vomit near his head and a damp stain on the sheets around his body.
Reaching down, I pulled his arm up and checked for a pulse. There wasn’t any need to because he was cold to the touch. Nevertheless, I didn’t feel a heartbeat. I thought it was weird that his body wasn’t stiff, though. I wasn’t an expert on how long it took for a dead body to harden up, but I thought for sure he had been dead long enough from the smell that filled the house.
Dropping his limp arm, I turned to go find my phone. Halfway to the couch I remembered I never took it out of my pocket after I tried to call my parents the night before.
I pulled my phone out and cursed. There was only fifteen percent battery left. I had received another message from Trinity, but ignored it and tried dialing 911. There was an instant beep. The call wasn’t even connecting which meant that, just like the electricity, the towers were not in operation.
I heard more gunfire, probably only a street away. Panic was starting to ensue. My best friend was dead in the other room, looters were running wild in the streets, and I couldn’t even call for an ambulance or the police.
I remembered one time when a hurricane was threatening our coast, Dave stocked up on some food and weapons, along with other survival gear. “Dave,” I said, “you’re being ridiculous. What a waste of money.”
“Christian, man, did you see what happened in New Orleans?” he said back. “Katrina fucked that city up. People were fighting over water. I even heard that some cops were looting. We are a bulls-eye for hurricanes. What are you going to do when 911 doesn’t answer?”
I rolled my eyes at him and called him nuts. Nuts... I felt like I was going nuts. Everything seemed so crazy. I would love to say my military training started to kick in at this point, but that would be a lie. I may have trained, but I hated it. I usually did my best to get out of it. I was what many would call a ‘sham artist’, always doing my best to get out of work. That is why I needed Dave.
Thinking about him wasn’t helping, nor was the smell coming from his room. I went back and, without looking at him, shut his door. The smell was still ripe in the house, but I would be damned if I would open any windows. My thinking was that open windows may just be an invitation to whoever was looting. I sat down on the couch and tried to calm down. It took a few moments, but I finally started breathing easier.
I remembered my sister had messaged me, so I checked the message. It was short and just said that mom wasn’t doing much better and dad was going to stay with her overnight at the hospital.
I wondered if my mother was going to die too. That thought, along with the rest of the nightmare I was going through, finally got to me. My chest started shaking, along with just about every part of my body. Then the tears came. I wasn’t balling like a baby, but it was a good, long cry that lasted five or so minutes.
Looking back over the message, thinking I might hav
e missed something, reminded me that my phone was dying. I had to charge it, but there was no power. I could always use my car, but that would mean going outside, and my balls were not that big yet. I thought about the looters outside and how I was defenseless. In a state like Florida, there was a good chance they would be armed. Desperate people did desperate things.
This is where my spinelessness really shined. There was a Glock 9mm sitting on Dave’s nightstand and I couldn’t get up the nerve to go into his room and get it. I was scared of a dead body, just like when I was in Afghanistan.
That’s when I heard the croaking moan from Dave’s room followed by a loud thump, like someone had just dropped a sack of potatoes on the floor.
My first thought was I was wrong. Dave must have had a faint heartbeat, and was just cold from being sick. I reassured myself, remembering that his body wasn’t stiff and was confident that I made a mistake. I got off the couch and headed to his room.
I could hear grunting, along with the slight commotion of someone trying to stand up. Right before I reached for the door handle, a second thought occurred to me. What if a looter broke in through his bedroom window? I shook the thought. Why do that when they can just barge through the front door. They had to know people couldn’t call the cops and they most certainly would have weapons.
I grabbed the handle and flung open the door just as Dave staggered to his feet. He was still pale as hell and didn’t look any better than when I left him lying in his bed. He stumbled to the side, bumping into his nightstand, and wrenched his head in my direction.
“My God Dave, are you okay?” was all I managed to get out before he started toward me. His arms were outstretched and his hands opened as if to grab onto me for support. His eyes were still glazed and riddled with those odd, purplish veins. I wasn’t sure if he truly saw me or was just coming toward my voice. His guttural moan started getting louder as he crashed into me, sending me back into our small hallway.
My back hit the bathroom door, and I heard a crack as the wood splintered and a pain shot up my spine. His right hand was locked on my shoulder, with his left arm swinging around, violently attempting to get a hold of me.
The grip he held was tremendous. I knew he was a strong SOB, but not like this. I could feel the skin on my shoulder start to give way under his hold, and it felt like my muscles were being torn apart.
I had my left forearm under his neck, which probably ended up saving my life. His teeth were chomping as his face got closer and closer to mine, like I was his breakfast. His breath smelled like rotten fish and I could see his teeth were coated in blackish, thick blood. It clicked in my brain that this wasn’t normal and I was in danger. I didn’t know what kind of danger, but it was enough to force me into action.
As strong as he was, he was surprisingly uncoordinated. Normally, Dave could whip my ass up and down the street. I guessed at the time that his being sick had made him a lumbering klutz.
I used his weight against him. He easily had thirty pounds on my skinny ass. Twisting, I tripped him up, sending him crashing face first into a small table in the hallway. A vase that had been his late grandmother’s shattered on impact.
The whole time I was screaming, “Dave, what the hell? What are you doing? Have you gone mad?” His only response was a snarling, guttural moan.
Unfortunately, the impact positioned him between me and the only exit. My door, which was right next to his, was still closed. Dave never quit moving toward me, even as he slammed to the floor. He was immediately reaching up at me again before he got up. I had no desire to get into another wrestling match with him, and I definitely wanted to avoid his death grip.
I jumped into his room, barely missing his hand grasping at my pant leg, and shut his door. Within seconds he was slowly, but methodically, pounding on it. At the time I was surprised he wasn’t trying the door knob. Even so, I quickly locked it.
It’s funny how things like doors didn’t mean much until after the Awakening. This is where I learned one of my first big lessons. Years before dear old grandma kicked the bucket, her dog chewed a big hole in the door and Dave replaced it when we moved in. Doors in the Sixties were much sturdier than the crap they made in our time. In my room, he may have never even cracked the wood, though I’m sure the door hinges would have given way eventually. But I wasn’t in my room. I was behind a flimsy piece of shit.
It was probably the third or fourth hit when the middle of the door splintered. The gap was only an inch or two wide, but it was enough for him to put his hand through. It only took a few seconds for him to rip a foot wide opening and stick his head through the hole.
His face must have taken some punishment when it hit the table and vase in the hallway. A flap of skin on his left cheek bone was dripping with dark red blood. His hands were also paying a price as they ripped at the razor sharp edges of the cheap wood, shredding the skin on his fingers.
I unconsciously backed up and fell onto Dave’s bed. My right hand was definitely in a spot that he had pissed in, and I’m sure I was sitting in his throw up. Of course, my brain refused to process any of that. I was more worried about my best friend trying to chomp on my face.
Pick it up a voice said in my head.
Pick what up? I mentally shouted back.
Dave’s relentless assault on the door didn’t waiver. He kept pulling on the wood, making the gap bigger. That was when time started to slow down. The door seemed about to give way to his attack, bending in the middle, and before I knew what I was doing, Dave’s Glock was in my hand. I must have taken it off his nightstand.
I screamed for him to stop, but he just kept coming. I knew it was only seconds before the door wouldn’t hold him back any longer. I had to do something. By this time, tears were streaming down my face out of fear and because I didn’t want to hurt Dave. My throat was hoarse from screaming. I knew what I was going to do and I already hated myself for it.
Shoot! The voice screamed.
I pulled the trigger and my head exploded from the concussion. Firing a gun indoors without ear protection was never a good idea.
I wasn’t aiming for his chest or head, just his arm. I only wanted to hurt him so he would stop. I hit him in the bicep. Unlike the movies, there wasn’t a huge spray of blood, but the 9mm did have a little power behind it. Dave jerked backwards and out of sight. It had only been a couple of seconds before his face appeared in the hole he had made.
He immediately started to rip and tear at the cheap wood, growling and snarling in rage. The whole door gave way and fell inward. He stumbled forward, nearly falling down as he broke through. He was still moving toward me when he regained his balance.
I fired again, this time hitting him in the stomach. But his momentum was too much, and he tackled me onto the bed.
With one hand gripping the gun, it didn’t leave me much room to wrestle with Dave. He seemed oblivious to the fact that I had fired another shot in his leg and he grappled with me, rolling both of us onto the floor. My free hand was stuck between our bodies and I had no way to stop him as his jaw opened and dove towards my face.
I moved my head to the side and his teeth found my shoulder instead. They broke through my shirt and tore skin and muscle. I screamed in pain as he tried to pull back with a chunk of my flesh in his mouth. That’s when another bang from the Glock echoed in the room, sending a wave of pain through my head. Dave slumped down, his full, motionless body pinning me to the floor.
I struggled and looked to my left. On his dresser was a splatter of blood with small pieces of flesh sliding down. I rolled him off of me and staggered up to my feet while waves of pain racked my brain from the reverberations of the gun blast.
Somehow, amidst the scuffle, I was able to position the gun just below his ear with enough of an angle to go through his head. He laid there on his chest with his jaw slack. There was a quarter size hole near his temple with a flap of skin and bone hanging by a thin strip of flesh.
There was no need to feel for a pul
se this time. That thought made me shiver. I wasn’t sure if he was really dead before or if I had imagined it.
Pain seared through me as my adrenaline started to wind down. I gripped my shoulder and backed out of the room. My mind was flooded with thoughts and emotions as I paced around the living room. There was too much going on in my head to think clearly.
I walked to the cupboard and grabbed my bottle of rum, shaking my head and cursing the whole way. The bottle was still half full. I took a long drink and almost coughed up half of it, but it seemed to bring me out of my rattled state.
I looked down at my phone and saw there was still no tower reception and my battery was down to nine percent. No help there. I couldn’t call 911. Even if I could, they were probably busy with a million other incidents throughout the city.
I took my shirt off and looked at my shoulder. Dave’s teeth really did a number on me. If I had let him munch on me for another second, I’d be missing half my shoulder muscle. The flesh was torn and ripped, and I could tell I needed stitches.
Even worse, the dark red blood that was dripping from Dave’s mouth surrounded my wound. Whatever that stuff was, I was sure it wasn’t good. I’m not sure how worried I was about infection at the time, but I remember the thought crossing my mind. Going to the hospital was out of the question, though. First, I knew they stopped accepting patients yesterday. Second, I didn’t really want to run outside and see whatever mayhem was going on in the world. I was scared. I thought about going to a FEMA camp, but I wasn’t sure which schools housed them.
Gritting my teeth and trying to ignore the pain, I dumped what was left of the rum on the open wound. To my surprise, it wasn’t any more painful than what I was already feeling.
I went to our bathroom and grabbed the closest thing to medical supplies that we had, which was a cheap ten dollar first aid kit you could pick up at any Walmart. I saw a bottle of peroxide right next to the kit and grabbed it as well. There was more than enough medical tape and gauze to do a quick patch-up of my wound, but I was sure it wasn’t going to be enough. I needed some real medical care, but I had to do something right then.