Or Scott.
I'm a terrible daughter and wannabe fiancee.
I reach for my cell phone and dial the number I know by heart. After five rings, it goes to voicemail. Mom's voice sounds cheery and full of her usual spunk. "Hey! I'm either not available, or I am, and I'm just ignoring your call. Either way, leave a message and I'll call you back. Maybe."
I hang up without leaving a message and dial Dad's number. Same thing. Dad's voice sounding all too familiar and absurdly normal...like the world isn't crumbling around us...like the dead are still dead, and not walking around biting people. I leave a message for him to call me back, then dial Scott's number.
It goes straight to voicemail.
"Scott. It's me. Call me when you can. Something bad is happening, so just....just call me, okay? Love you." Not sure what else to say, I end the call, and look at Daniel. He's pressing the END button on his phone, too.
"Jenna?" I ask.
He nods. "No answer, though. What about Scott?"
"Nothing. Not from Mom or Dad, either."
After that, we slip into a tense silence, watching news reports that grow increasingly bad, and wondering if our loved ones are safe or if they've already been absorbed into the throngs of the dead.
* * *
Daniel
The news reports aren't promising.
Channel 9 is broadcasting clips from various surveillance videos taken from large airports and federal buildings across the United States. There's no sound to go with the videos, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what's happening.
People are dying.
At the hands of people who already died.
The dead always seem slower, moving lazily on the tapes, almost limping after their intended targets. Whether the video was captured at a small municipal airport in the middle of nowhere, or the Pentagon, the sequence of events are nearly identical. The first victim is caught unaware; after all, it had been a normal day...they weren't expecting to get attacked by a walking corpse. It doesn't take long for those nearby to see what's happening and start running. Once they do, the videos become a flurry of activity and it's harder to tell who's alive and who's dead.
So I quit trying.
It's been several hours since the first attacks were reported. Several hours since I witnessed the attacks first-hand. Now, the news outlets are filming their own videos to supplement the silent surveillance tapes. The newer videos have sound, but I wish they didn't. The sound of people screaming as they run for their lives will haunt me long after the satellites fail.
And I truly believe it's only a matter of time before that happens.
Heather Voight, the prime-time news anchor for Channel 9, has joined Sarah behind the news desk. I'm not sure where Dave went. For some odd reason, I feel a little better now that Heather is onscreen. I've watched her deliver the news for years. She's always so cool and collected...just her presence has a calming effect on me now, like she's going to make everything alright by the end of her shift.
She looks down at the tablet in her hand. "Thank you, Sarah. We now have confirmed attacks across the state. We are urging viewers to remain indoors. Do not engage the dead. Authorities are unsure what led to the vast reanimation earlier today, but they are working to restore order, and find a solution as quickly as possible. Let's go back to Rachel at Central Medical for an update. Rachel, can you hear us?"
The camera switches to Rachel. She's standing in front of Central Medical's emergency center. Countless people...some dressed in scrubs, others in bloody clothes...walk in and out of the camera's frame. Rachel brings a hand to her ear, then after a brief pause, answers, "Thanks, Heather, Sarah. We are seeing an increase in traffic as more wounded are being brought to the emergency department. There have been several confirmed fatalities, but it's unclear at the moment if those were the result of a direct attack or unrelated events."
"Rachel, have you heard anything regarding a possible explanation for what's brought this about?"
Rachel shuffles the papers in her hand. "No. Medical personnel are focused on treating the victims, and because of the volume, there's not been a lot of time for conjecture. However, as you know, Central Medical has one of the best research facilities in the nation, so I imagine they will be racing to find an explanation and solution, as quickly as possible."
As soon as she says it, I find myself doubting there will be any quick or simple solution to this problem. Teams of doctors and scientists haven't been able to find a cure for cancer, and they've been studying it for years; how are we to believe they'll find a fast remedy for something we can't even explain? I grow nauseated as I think about the magnitude of what we're facing, and what the next few days might bring.
I glance at Chloe. She's scared. It's obvious in the way she's biting her fingernails and fidgeting in her seat. I'm scared too, but I can't show her that I am. She has to think I'm strong. She has to believe I have everything under control.
Even if I don't.
Chapter Four
Chloe
It's 11:30 PM.
Day One of the Apocalypse is almost behind us.
"I can barely hold my eyes open," I say, rubbing my eyes.
Daniel grunts, but says nothing. He hasn't taken his eyes off the television since we got home nine hours ago. The Chief of Police has held two press conferences; each time, he seems a little more frantic, and more adamant that people get indoors and stay there. During the first press conference, he warned everyone not to go near anyone who seemed "off" because they could be "one of them", and you don't want "one of them" biting you. They have a knack for tearing into major arteries. Victims are bleeding out before help can arrive.
At the end of each conference, he assured us his team is working to bring order back to the city, but I don't believe him. While his words promise otherwise, his expression admits it'll be a long time before things go back to normal. If ever.
"Do you think it's safe to sleep?" I ask. "I don't know how much longer I can stay awake."
Daniel shrugs. "I think this might be the last quiet night we have for a while. If what the news is saying is true."
I don't ask what he means by that. It's overwhelming, and I'm already a simmering blend of worried, scared, and exhausted. I feel like I could have a mental breakdown any minute, and it's only growing more likely with each hour that passes with no word from our parents or Scott.
I rub my neck, trying to massage away the tension. "Are you going to try to sleep?" I ask Daniel. "You look exhausted, too. We can take turns sleeping, if you want, so someone is always keeping an eye on things."
"You go ahead, I'll stay here. I can doze on the couch if I need to."
I stand and stretch, trying to work the knots out of my back and shoulders. "I'm going to go grab a pillow and blanket and come back in here. I'll curl up on the recliner. I don't want to be in separate rooms tonight."
He nods. "Sounds good. Any luck reaching Mom and Dad?"
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. I can feel my bottom lip tremble and my eyes mist over, but I'm too scared to cry. I feel completely cold inside, like terror moved in and froze every other emotion within my body.
He looks at me when I don't answer. "We'll try again tomorrow, okay? In the meantime, let's try to relax. There's not much else we can do right now, anyway. They're still asking everyone to stay indoors," he adds, nodding toward the television.
The Chief of Police is back on the screen, delivering another update to the press. He's holding a bloody towel against his temple, and his lower lip is busted. "Things are escalating more quickly than we expected. Please...please, stay in your homes until further notice."
All pretense of being calm and in control is gone. I think that scares me more than anything else I've seen today. As the press conference concludes, Heather Voight comes back on, assuring viewers she will "remain on air throughout the night as things progress."
I walk to my bedroom. Everything looks so n
ormal, like my room expected a typical ending to another boring day in the town of Everly. My covers are still rumpled from last night; dresser drawers are still pulled out, and pairs of jeans spill over the sides, as if saying wear me, wear me!; random pairs of shoes are still scattered across the floor, waiting to be worn again; and, little piles of discarded clothes still litter the floor.
I manage a small smile. I miss the days when me being a slob was the biggest problem I had.
A book laying on the nightstand catches my eye. My Bible. It's the color of a ripe plum, and my name is stitched in gold on the front cover. It's one of the more modern translations, with sturdy, thick gold-lined pages. Mom gave it to me on my 18th birthday. I was just about to leave for college, and she thought I might need something to keep me grounded while I was away. I packed it, of course...I had to...but the only time I opened it was when I needed it for an Old Testament class. It could pass for brand-new; only the thin layer of dust on its cover betrays my spiritual laziness.
Truthfully, I've never read it...not cover to cover. I thought it was outdated, despite the newer translation, and filled with a language I barely understood. Now, facing a nightmare I can't explain, it seems comforting...like my entire future might be protected within its pages. I pick it up and tuck it under my arm, then yank the heavy blanket and pillow off the bed and walk back to the living room to help Daniel keep watch until tomorrow morning.
I'll pray the boogeyman keeps his distance tonight.
Chapter Five
Daniel
We survived day one.
Now it's Sunday morning, and we're sitting on the couch, watching the news and hoping we can say the same thing again tomorrow. And the day after that.
Chloe stretches and says, "Turn it to the national news. See if they're reporting anything new."
I do as she asks, and a minute later we see a row of stern panelists discussing the horrific turn of events, and arguing over whether it constitutes being labeled a viral epidemic.
"Harry, we have had reports of attacks in all major cities. If that's not an epidemic, I don't know what is."
"I understand that, Brenda. I'm simply saying the Center for Disease Control has not labeled it as such yet."
"Yet being the keyword, Harry. Mark my words...by the end of the day, we'll be reading a prepared statement from the CDC Director. And it's not going to be good news."
"I sincerely hope you're wrong, Brenda."
The lady sighs, dropping the tough act for a moment. "Me too, Harry. Me too."
Chloe picks up the phone and calls Scott. Again. I don't have the heart to tell her he would have already answered, if he could. It's been nearly 24 hours since the dead made their debut in Everly. I've seen what they do to those who don't, or can't, escape. I was able to contact a colleague late yesterday, but other than that my calls have gone unanswered. After a while, I quit calling people, and just assumed the worst.
Chloe, ever the optimist, isn't ready to give up, but I can tell she's getting frustrated.
"Dang it! Why won't he answer?" she says, tossing the phone onto the couch.
She runs a shaky hand through her disheveled hair.
"Have you tried Mom and Dad again?"
She wipes a tear from her cheek, and shakes her head. "I can't get anyone to answer. Not Scott....not Mom and Dad. No one."
"I got Allen on the phone yesterday," I remind her. "So, it's not the phones." I take a deep breath and release it slowly. "We just have to keep trying them until the signal dies."
"Do you think that will really happen?'
I nod, "Eventually. If the news reports are right. This thing is nationwide now." A shiver runs through me. "I don't know how long our infrastructure will last once there's no one left to monitor it."
Chloe picks up the phone and dials a number. A minute later she leaves another message for our parents.
"Mom. Dad. It's Chloe. I'm with Daniel at the house. We're safe. Please call us and let us know you're okay."
This is all so surreal.
I honestly never thought I would witness the end of the world. But yesterday, there it was...the end. Or the beginning of the end. Man, I don't even know what it is. The news reports yesterday afternoon treated it like an anomaly, something only happening in the larger metropolitan areas. Today, the news agencies admitted it seems to be affecting all areas, large and small, throughout the United States.
I look at the television. Heather Voight is back on, imploring viewers to be careful.
"The dead are considered extremely dangerous."
and,
"Major highways are hazardous, and should be avoided, if at all possible. Many of them have become gridlocked as more and more people try to evacuate the city."
and,
"If you have food and supplies, stay in your home until help arrives. If you do not have adequate supplies, or if you are stranded, make your way to the nearest emergency shelter."
"When did they set up emergency shelters?" Chloe asks.
I shush her, and lean closer to the television, so I can hear better.
"There are now fully-equipped shelters operating in each of the major cities in North Carolina. Those looking for missing or lost persons should check the shelters and hospitals first. All the wounded are being taken to either of those places, depending on proximity."
I mute the television. "That's it. Maybe Mom and Dad went to an emergency shelter in Asheville."
She shrugs, but I notice a faint glimmer of hope stirring in her eyes. "But, wouldn't they have still been able to call? I'm going to try them again," she says, reaching for the phone.
I hear the voices of neighbors outside, preparing to evacuate their homes. Where they plan to go, I have no idea. Maybe they have family in another city. Maybe they heard about the shelters, and decided they'd have a better chance of surviving at one of them. Chloe and I haven't started packing yet. I'm not convinced it's safe to leave the house. The news is broadcasting videos of massive traffic jams and increasing instances of crime, like robbery, looting, and murder.
And that's not counting the dead things running around killing people.
I'm shocked viewers haven't called in to complain about the increasingly graphic scenes playing on the screen behind the news anchors. But since most viewers are probably dead, I guess it doesn't really matter.
* * *
Chloe
I'm holding the plum-colored Bible in my hands, thinking.
Not knowing where to look first, I open its stiff pages to the Book of Psalms. Seems like a good place to start. I thumb through the chapters, reading the first few lines of each chapter until I come across the 18th Psalm.
The cords of death surrounded me. The floods of ungodliness made me afraid. 5 The cords of Sheol were around me. The snares of death came on me.
Pretty accurate so far.
I continue reading until I get to verse 16. Tears fill my eyes, but I don't dare let them fall, afraid I might bring unwanted attention my way...maybe from Death himself...which is silly, but I worry about it anyway. I take a deep breath and read the Psalm again. Then a third time.
It's funny how the words I always thought sounded so ancient and foreign suddenly make so much sense.
Chapter Six
Chloe
We've been barricaded in the house for three days. Daniel and I started rationing our food yesterday, once it became clear there would not be a swift conclusion to this thing that had gone so terribly wrong.
The thing.
You know...the thing where the dead aren't really dead, and as an added bonus they eat you if they catch you.
Yeah, that thing.
There's still not a lot of concrete information. We know what is happening, but not why or how. There are theories, sure, but nothing that seems plausible. One news outlet is spinning theories of possible biological warfare from the Russians, while another postulates a mutated strain of Ebola engineered in North Korean labs.
I don't
believe any of their theories are correct. After all, it's only been 3 days. It's still so new, I doubt anyone has a clue what really caused the devastation we witnessed at Hannah’s Cafe, or the devastation we're still witnessing on television, thanks to the satellite feeds. They're all just guessing. The only thing keeping Daniel and me from turning the television off are the snippets of live video the networks play in between the endless monologues and ongoing debates. The video feeds shed more light on the situation than anything the media personnel could ever say.
The videos say we're screwed.
Totally and completely screwed.
They show haunting images of snarled traffic jams; people being attacked while running for their lives; the smoking hulls of planes resting on top of houses and interstates; bodies lying in the streets, partially devoured; and worse, a staggering imbalance between the living and the dead.
They outnumber us now.
Daniel and I have taken to calling them Revs...short for Revenants...because saying the word zombie out loud sounds ridiculous. I never thought I'd find myself thumbing through the thesaurus, searching for synonyms for the dead-come-back-to-life. When I stumbled across the word revenant I knew that was it. Somehow, they all returned, albeit different and much more feral than they were before they died. So they became the Revenants and we became the Remnants; the leftovers of the human race...proof that humans really did exist before half of us became monsters.
The news anchors who've been telling us to remain calm look a little more frazzled with each day that passes. Worse, they’re disappearing, their numbers shrinking as more people become infected with whatever it is that's spreading like wildfire throughout the States. I haven't seen Dave since the first day of the attacks, and Sarah didn't come back on air this morning. Today, only Heather Voight remains; sitting behind the Channel 9 news desk like the lone survivor of journalism. Her eyes are hollow, haunted by all she's seen, and lost, over the past few days...colleagues, friends, family....all sacrificed for the sake of reporting the news.
Revenants Page 3