The Broken and the Dead (Book 1)

              The end of the world: horror stories told to send chills down children’s spines as they huddle under a blanket, holding flashlights to illuminate their faces.  Movies and books ad nauseum; zombies, disease, war, the four horsemen of the apocalypse. We were awash in it. ‘Preppers’ planned for it, preachers taught it, and politicians used it. But for all that, no one was really ready for it. My name is John Isaac Williams Jr., but almost everyone calls me Johnny, and I was certainly not ready, nor were my parents or the police or the government, none of us. But there was one man that helped me survive it. In fact, he helped a lot of people survive.

              Before I tell you his story and mine there are a couple of things I want to get straight. First, I won’t lie, I may not remember everything correctly or at all, but I won’t lie. Second, days are not necessarily days, it’s more like a way to keep things in order. Third, since all this went down I have learned a lot about what happened to other people and I’ve do my best to represent what happened to them. Lastly, there are no heroes in this story, with one notable exception, I’ll tell you right now that the hero isn’t me and it sure as Hell wasn’t Tucker. Now, if we have those things straight, quit interrupting, and let me tell the story.

              Old Man Tucker lived at the end of our cul-de-sac, more accurately, his house backed up to our street. It was a tiny 1950s style ranch house with green mold on the shingles and a miniature forest growing in sagging gutters. I think the house was grey, but it was hard to tell. The front door was a bright red, but in all the time I was there, I never saw it open. Not once. Old Man Tucker always entered through the kitchen door, hidden behind a pathetic screened in porch with a flimsy door that banged loudly, just like a gun, every time he left or returned. Most people thought the house should be condemned, and foremost was the homeowner’s association president, Mr. Franks. For several years they tried to get rid of him, but his house was not IN our association, it just backed up to it. They had meetings about it: home values and bad influences were discussed in detail. They had a party when someone found out Old Man Tucker was renting. Then I thought the Franks were going to explode when they found out that Old Man Tucker’s son was the one that owned it.

              Old Man Tucker was big, about 6 feet tall and close to 300 pounds. He had one of those beer bellies, but he wasn’t all fat. He had short, powerful arms and a thick, broad chest.  His hair was grey and thin, almost wispy where he wasn’t bald and his moustache was long and it hid his upper lip. His eyes were tiny, close set and so dark they almost looked black under his bushy eyebrows. He rarely spoke to anyone and kept to himself. This was enough for the kids and even some of the adults to start spreading rumors about him. Some said he was a retired Mafia hit man others thought he was on parole from a life spent in prison or a mental institution. Around Halloween the stories revolved around murders (and his probable cannibalism). He had a son, right? Where was his wife huh?  That was proof enough for us.

              This is how Old Man Tucker got what my dad called his “fan club”. It was my little sister’s birthday. Lucy had just turned 5 and got what she had talked about for months. A new bike, it was pink, with pink and white trim and even pink training wheels. She went crazy over it, running around in circles around it pointing out the features over and over again. You know, like wheels, the chrome bell, the seat et cetera.  So while my parents were getting the barbeque ready I went down the street to play with my best friend, Billy Driscol. Lucy climbed on her bike and started heading our way, ringing her bell. The bike leaned on one training wheel then the other, side to side. There must have been something in the way the bike moved or the ringing of the bell or just all that pink, but Toro, the Franks’ pure bred Cane Corso decided to put a stop to all that. He charged after Lucy, his nails clicking on the sidewalk. We heard Lucy’s shrill scream and we turned to her, but we were frozen in place. She was too far away and Toro was too fast. He ran into the bike, his massive jaws snapping at Lucy. She went flying and Toro scrambled over the bike growling like something from Jurassic Park. So, here was Lucy, a petite five year old, against a 120 pound dog that was like a pit bull on steroids. Duh.

              Then he was there, Old Man Tucker. He snatched Lucy up and hefted her high on his left shoulder. Toro charged them. Then Old Man Tucker did something that most people denied, but I saw it. It really happened. Old Man Tucker tossed Lucy to the grass, yelled at her to run, and when Toro jumped at him he shoved his left arm into the dog’s mouth. He grabbed Toro by the throat with his other hand and he lifted the dog high into the air, his feet flailing, nails scratching Old Man Tuckers chest as he tried to get free. It was like watching Frankenstein and the Wolfman fighting it out. There was blood running down Old Man Tuckers arm then the dog started to whine, his eyes started to bulge out. I swear I think Toro knew he was going to die. That was when Mr. and Mrs. Franks ran out of their house. They started screaming at the Old Man. “TUCKER! RELEASE OUR DOG!!” and a bunch of other things including some swearing. Old Man Tucker took two steps to build momentum and threw the dog like an old teddy bear. Toro had enough and he went scrambling all the way home, whining and yelping his way through the Franks’ doggie door. The rest of the neighbors came out to watch the fun and two police cars showed up. Mrs. Franks was demanding they arrest Old Man Tucker, but it was hard for them since Mr. Franks was screaming at Old Man Tucker so loudly the cops couldn’t ask any questions. Then Old Man Tucker started towards Mr. Franks, who was back peddling so fast he tripped and landed on his butt in the grass. The cops stepped between them and proceeded to surround Old Man Tucker who didn’t look like he was in much of a mood to debate. Billy leaned over to me and whispered that the cops were calling for back up. It didn’t seem fair to me, one old fat man against four young cops with guns, what did they need back up for? Were they afraid Old Man Tucker was going to bleed on them or something?

That was when Mom showed up. Dad said later that she was “madder than a wet hen” and while I have never seen a wet hen, I figured that they must be pretty mad because Mom sure was. She stormed across the street, carrying Lucy on one hip, my sister’s eyes red from crying and her teddy bear- “Ronald”- in her arms. My Mom told the cops in no uncertain terms what had happened and that they had no reason to arrest Mr. Tucker. Things calmed down a bit and one of the cops went over to the Franks’ and explained to them that if Mr. Tucker decided to press charges against
them
for not controlling a “dangerous animal” then they would have to pursue it. Mr. Franks turned purple, which I though was hilarious. At the same time, one of the other cops asked Old Man Tucker if he wanted a ride to the hospital, to which he just shook his head no. I guess the cop told Old Man Tucker he could go and without a word he turned and started back home. Old Man Tucker and I made eye contact, just for a second, and he really didn’t look angry or even scared. He just looked sad and very alone.

              The next day I came in for lunch and Mom was taking a pie out of the oven to cool. I asked her what kind it was and she said “Strawberry-apple Rhubarb.”

“What is that” I asked?

“It’s kind of an old fashioned kind of pie I guess.” she said.

But when I asked if I could try it, Lucy who was sitting on the counter next to it said

“NO! This is for Mr. Tucker.”

“Who is that?” I started to say but then I figured out she meant Old Man Tucker so I just nodded. Lucy carefully wrote “Thank You” in purple ink on a pink note card and together Mom and Lucy went to deliver it. I guess Old Man Tucker wasn’t home or at least he didn’t come to the door, Mom and Lucy left the gift on a little garden table by the kitchen door. 

“Gee, strangle one dog and you get a pie!” Billy lamented when I told him about it.

“Well if you strangle THAT dog I’m sure Mom will bake you one too!” I replied.

“No thanks” Billy said, “I would have to be alive to eat it.”

We both laughed at that. 

The next day at our front door was the pie plate, clean and washed with a note it in for Lucy. All it said was “You are very welcome”. Lucy was still scared of Old Man Tucker but if she was around we had to say “Mr. Tucker” or she would go nuts, asking how many big dogs did
I
rescue her from? Stuff like that. So even Billy and the rest of the guys indulged Lucy and if she was there we all called him “Mr. Tucker.” You know, like, “Mr. Tucker the psycho, Mr. Tucker the cannibal, Mr. Tucker the fugitive” type things.  Little did we know that the seeds of destruction had already been sown and in just a few short weeks we would get to see the end of the world first hand and Old Man Tucker was going to become very important to a lot of us.

              We now know that the spawn were released high in the atmosphere months before and that they filtered down over all the continents. They only lived a day in the air and any that didn’t find a host just died. About one in five humans were either not exposed or there was something in their biology that killed the spawn. Whatever the magic trait was it tended to run in families. The spawn that found a host infected it but it turned out that only about half of the infected, about 40 percent of humans were suitable for incubation. What about the other 40 percent? What happened to those humans infected but unsuitable? Those spawn incubated as well but into nothing more than a suicide pill. The day the swarm took over, the defective hosts died (or rather, were killed) by the spawn that infected them. You see, the spawn got into the blood stream through the lungs, from there into the brain. They implanting themselves near the cerebral cortex at the back of the skull. For months they grew, unseen, asymptomatic, microscopic wiring nearly indistinguishable from human nerve tissue. Integrating themselves into their host’s bodies.

The invaders merged into the host’s brain and spinal cord, first taking control of the body, and then it spread its tendrils into the rest of the brain. You would think that some doctor somewhere would have noticed something on a MRI or in a physical; something, but as far as I know not one did. The hospitals were full of people who didn’t change or die on the day. They got to be torn to pieces later by those that did. Apparently infected people enjoyed great health during incubation. Why? Who knows? Maybe it was a way to stay hidden; maybe to make better monsters? No one alive today knows for sure.

All the spawn matured at almost the same time, within 24 hours of each other, taking over and erasing their host’s persona, their feelings, memories, fears, and loves. All that made them human was gone: a parasitic frontal lobotomy. The infected but unsuitable died in the same 24 hour period that the chosen ones were taken over. Where the spawn was located allowed them to just shut down the host human: their lungs quit working, their hearts stopped beating. It was over in moments. If the invader did not kill the host physically, they did so psychologically.

In 24 hours almost 80 percent of humanity ceased to exist. Almost six billion people were erased in one way or the other. At first the possessed swarm was clumsy, like the zombies in the movies and in fact the shot to the head seemed to work pretty well, but they were dangerous, fearless, and would tear a person to shreds. They killed to eat, sure, and they would eat anything they could catch, but what they wanted most was to eliminate their ecological competition: mankind. In the next 24 to 48 hours the invader would gain proficiency controlling their host and in the following weeks, the body they controlled would become tougher, faster, stronger and more dangerous than we thought possible.

Day 1

Like I said, we didn’t know about the spawn or the subsequent evolutions yet. I first heard about any of this was on a Sunday. My source was Billy Driscol, who I relied upon for all my important information, true or not. He said he had gotten up early in the hope he could convince his mother to make pancakes for him before church. He had been sitting at their breakfast bar and his mother was happily mixing the quick mix, chatting away about something or other but the TV was on in the other room. Billy’s dad didn’t go to church but he loved to get up, drink coffee, read the newspaper and watch the Sunday morning talking heads. There was an alert buzzer and a mechanical voice announced that a mysterious illness was appearing, that it was in all 50 states and that if someone in your family became lethargic, or if their eyes appeared weepy, or if they became unresponsive to questions, you were to contact the nearest medical services immediately. Billy managed to interrupt his mother long enough to find out what ‘lethargic’ meant.

Of course I didn’t find out any of this until after church and I had actually noticed some of the people in the pew seemed “lethargic,” even more than usual. In Sunday school I noticed that Kelly Robertson and her brother Kevin both seemed unable to keep their heads off the table in spite of the thrilling experience of gluing pasta shells on the outside of milk cartons cut to look like wishing wells. I couldn’t figure out what pasta and Jesus had in common either, but at least I could stay awake. So when we got home and had lunch Billy and I got together to play and we exchanged our information. Billy was a “heathen Methodist” as my dad liked to say (he thought it was funny) but he had seen several people showing those symptoms and it looked like his preacher was crying the whole time but just said his allergies were acting up.  So Billy and I did what every young man would do at such a time: We built a fort out of dead branches in the forest near our development. As far as forts go it was a really good one, we started with a Bradford pear tree that had fallen the previous fall, breaking off all the smaller branches from one side created the interior. We wove the smaller branches vertically through the remaining exterior ones. We spent hours dragging other branches to create two sides of the triangle. We even made a partial roof out of some dry pampas grass. It was the best fort we had ever made. It was the last time Billy and I were free to be kids.