Parasite; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse

by Doug Ward

I sat beside the water's edge, thinking of Mel. It was all so unfair. I had pulled her from the roof and now she was gone. We had such little time after the dead took over the world. Our relationship had bloomed again, and now she was gone; taken from me by this cruel world, this world of the dead.

  Waves washed the shore, leaving small pools behind. I could see tiny life forms scurry about, trapped in these small, watery satellites. Wave upon wave washed up, giving brief windows of opportunity for the captive creatures to escape. I watched as some propelled themselves out, freeing themselves as the moment allowed. Other tiny creatures, for whatever reason, remained behind. They were content in their diminutive surroundings.

  I wondered at how much like humans they seemed; languishing in the familiar, simply unwilling or unable to leap at an opportunity when it presents itself. Melissa, and others I knew had died trying for the only opportunity that presented itself; survival.

  Many people were unable to accept this new world. My friends and I weren't those types of people. We had survived this parasitic invasion, dooming ourselves to a life of fear, constantly on the run. Living on a planet where nearly all technology was now rendered useless, we were thrown back into the dark ages.

  The only thing that kept us going was the need to live; to discover a way to rid ourselves of the undead population and to begin the rebuilding process.

  It's funny. In the natural world, the need to procreate and spread future generations of one’s species is the sole driving force of life. To spread offspring bearing one’s genetic code is the primary need, which gives purpose to every organism on our world.

  The human species was in trouble. Through some madman's manipulation of a parasite, we were on the brink of extinction. Man's intelligence was the mechanism of our demise. The parasite hadn't naturally evolved into this form. It hadn't randomly become an organism that animated the dead to spread its young through a bite. It had been created by one of us; a human, and a very sick one at that.

  The woman in the CDC lab had explained to me that they had received classified documents leading to a place near our present location, a site where a renowned biologist was conducting bizarre experiments. This place and person were what I needed to find.

  I needed to track this pandemic to its origins, to possibly find this person and find a way to undo what he had done.

  His name was Dr. Spaulding Fleming. He's the person we were searching for. His lab would, hopefully, hold the answers to what we were looking for. The paper suggested that he was operating somewhere in the area we now occupied.

  I heard the sound of one of the Hummers pulling down the gravel road. Loose stones pinged off the wheel wells as the vehicle neared the cottage. Hefting my twelve-gauge shotgun, I checked my revolver in its holster and went to greet them.

  The cottage was near the shore of Lake Erie. Set back enough to be safe from high water, it was also situated next to a trout stream. We had been supplementing our meals with fish for some time now.

  I knew about this cottage because Mel and I had looked into buying it a while back. We hadn't purchased it due to it being on a land lease. We'd heard stories about people losing their homes when the lease was terminated. The cottage was roomy enough for us all to stay in comfort but small enough for us to defend if the need arose.

  These cottages were seasonal, which means the water is shut off in the off-season, keeping the owners away. Although the season had just begun, I didn't feel like we were going to get many visitors in the near future (at least not the living kind). We had seen a helicopter in the distance a few times, although I don’t think it saw us.

  Having the great lake at our doorstep meant we also had a new form of transportation. We could travel by boat. We hadn't tried it yet, but we took the initiative to secure a newer fishing boat to facilitate scouting missions as well as a possible escape route.

  As I approached the Humvee, I noticed a few more blood spatters on the side. "I told you to wash and wax it!" I joked as Dean and Ben exited the military vehicle.

  "Sure ya did," Dean replied sarcastically while turning to empty the contents of their scavenging. "You want it to look nice while you're driving your date to the prom, right?"

  I watched as boxes of canned and dry goods were stacked beside the fender. My former neighbor tore open a box and tossed a small Mylar-wrapped package to me. Catching it, I looked at my prize in disgust.

  "A Twinkie?" I gasped. "If I eat any more of this crap..."

  Dean laughed, "Hey. At least, they're food."

  "And they'll never go bad," added Ben.

  "That's just an urban legend," I explained while unconsciously tearing the package open and taking a large bite. Between mouthfuls, I said, "They're made of unstabilized dairy products. My guess is they might last a month but could still be edible for some time afterward."

  Ben, having crossed to the other side of the car, snatched the box from Dean’s hands and pulled one of the snacks free. With a look of desperation, he tore into the treat moments after freeing it from its wrappings.

  "Better eat 'em while we can," he said between cake-coated teeth, immediately pulling another from the box.

  "Did you see anything interesting?" I asked Dean Walker.

  Watching Ben shove most of a Twinkie into his maw, he absently said, "Nothing. At least, not as interesting as this."

  "How about any undead?" I inquired in an attempt to draw his attention from Ben's feeding frenzy.

  "Zombies? Oh, we had to take care of two at the CVS. I hit a couple more on the way back here. Five, I guess."

  "That's not bad!" I replied. "I knew we'd be somewhat isolated out here."

  The cabin was located just north of Fairview, Pennsylvania. From our observances, the undead creatures weren't particularly fond of water. They would shuffle up to the water's edge, but they didn't seem to want to walk into it. Maybe it was the currents? The "Walkers", as Dean ironically called them, had enough trouble navigating dry, even land. Any waves in the water would most certainly cause them to pitch over and be caught adrift. This would minimize the potential of spreading their larvae to new hosts. They might have been unwilling to risk this outcome in favor of a dry land approach to propagating their species.

  The evening was winding down, the sun slipping closer to the horizon. Dean and I stood out near the water while Ben retired to the cabin to try to sleep off his sugary binge.

  "I hope everything's ok!" he voiced, a look of concern on his darkening features.

  "Me too," I agreed. "It's getting late."

  As our surroundings became darker, we moved inside. Ben expressed similar feelings over and over as we sat in the candle-lit building and waited.

  Chapter 2

  Drew