A sampling of a story Im finishing up for the third volume of my series, Survivors of the Apocalypse The storys title is Full House The only other characteristics he was able to define were their ability to take any number of bullets passing through their bodies; while just a single round through their head would leave them lying on the floor, dying. They also seemed to have some sort of gestalt or hive mind because if they came across a living person they very quickly inundated that person with their numbers. Each of them biting, ripping and tearing at the person’s body until the victim either quit moving, entirely, or was finally torn to shreds. The final item he’d made note of during their enforced break from normality was that there weren’t any undead without some sort of bite mark; even if it wasn’t readily visible there was always one somewhere on the body. From what he’d seen previously this told him that, far from being a mystical or divine creation, these creatures sprang from a very human source and that the mode of transmission, for whatever disease this was, was body fluids. As it was with virtually all of the STD’s he’d learned to deal with as a corrections officer. So, theoretically at least, this meant that there were actually three modes of transmission for the disease: 1) Direct infection by a bite 2) Indirect infection, through an exchange of body fluids. Not as likely as the first one, but still possible. 3) Indirect infection from blood or spit hitting the mouth, eyes or the interior of the nose … or even an open wound. All those classes on infection and wound management weren’t so useless after all. All it took was an Apocalypse to make them matter. As Jake spent his days acquiring what information he could about the new scourge crossing the continent; his new found partner, Dana Marie Eberling, former attorney and full time clairvoyant, spent her days with the simpler tasks associated with keeping themselves alive. She’d fixed a bed for him by putting a set of bed linens on the sofa she’d kept in her ‘waiting room.’ They’d never broached the subject of sleeping arrangements but her solution to the question seemed acceptable to the pair of them. The death of his family … despite the necessity of it … was still a painful memory for him. Something she wasn’t willing to intrude on; she very clearly understood the need for a period of grieving and so, gave him whatever space he felt he needed. Right now, what he needed was to quantify and somehow define what had killed them. This day though, the third day of their retreat found her packing their gear. He’d gone to the roof that morning as had been his habit with one of her extra journals in hand, it was getting towards noon and she was pretty certain he’d want to move away from their present location before they lost the light. At present they still had electricity but both of them knew it was only a matter of time before the electrical systems failed entirely. They couldn’t afford to be trapped in the city when that happened. Hearing his footsteps coming back down from the roof hatch she put the pack basket and her backpack by the door; then took their lunch from the oven where she’d put it to keep it warm. Natural gas was another utility they were likely to lose for a time. So she’d prepared a ‘fancy’ lunch for the two of them, something to recall in the harder times to come. He didn’t say a word as he sat down at the table, he just kept looking at the journal and then back at the lunch. She could see him attempting to reconcile his new reality with the life he’d known for over a decade. This is the first time he’d had the time to consider what’s next; the first time he’s had the time to let himself feel the pain that’s been buried while he kept busy. At length, he just sat there, staring. “Jake?” He continued to stare at the lunch in front of him, she wondered if he was thinking, or shutting down from the stress. “Jake?” Still no movement “Jake, I need to know if you’re OK?” Slowly, he raises his eyes to meet hers, she didn’t have to be clairvoyant to see the pain, it was plainly written across his face. He slowly spreads his hands in a questioning gesture, “Why me?” Dana slowly sat down on the opposite side of the table. She’d been waiting for this moment and there wasn’t any easy way for her to explain things to him. But they were going to need to finish his working through all this in order for him to be able to function. She places her hands where he can reach them if he needs to and asks, “What do you mean, ‘Why you’?” “Why was I saved, why is it that I’m necessary to what’s going to happen next, why did my family have to die?” The anguish in his voice is clear and a tear trickles down his cheek. He makes no move to wipe it away. Her voice is soft, gentle, she’s aware that he’s in severe pain but she needs for him to understand how little she knew about any of it. “Jake … I don’t know the ‘why’ of any of this, any more than you do … when I get information … it doesn’t always come with explanations. What I can tell you though, is that I was offered the chance to help you save your family and it didn’t work.” Jake moans and buries his face in his large hands, “Ohhh, god ….” Dana slaps the table with both hands and shouts, “Jake!” He stops and looks at her dully as she continues, her voice still soft but insistent, “Jake, would you have wanted for Sofia to be one of those creatures? Would you have wanted for Jessie to become a zombie?” His answer is soft, but unlike the iron in her voice, his is the voice of one of the damned, “No.” “Then remember this, you were given two chances to save them. Two chances, Jake, and maybe you missed the first but in the end you managed to save them by being as much the hero as any man can be in that sort of situation …” His voice is still the voice of the lost, “Heroes save lives … not take them …” Jakes head sinks down; his eyes close as his voice trails off to a whisper.
Posted on: Tue, 25 Mar 2014 14:21:20 +0000
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