Threnody (Book 1) (16 page)

An element of panic set in as he realized he was trapped behind the SUV and did not know John’s location. Sliding to the ground with his back against the truck, he caught a glimpse of something brown flying through the air. 
Was that a bird?
Aside from the vulture in the car, Reams thought it odd he had not seen any other birds recently. At that moment the ‘bird’ took a downward turn toward the ground, where it impacted, exploding loudly into a thousand pieces of glass.  Another came flying up out of the ditch, and this time, Reams could clearly make out the unmistakable silhouette of a brown glass bottle.  Its flight ended exactly the same as its predecessor.  Reams stole a quick glance through the windows of the SUV and saw that while the revs were not moving away from the fence, they were all turning toward the new sound that happened to be in the opposite direction of his location. 

John’s head popped up from within the ditch and he frantically waved for Reams to move.  Seconds later, Reams was sliding down the bank into the shallow ditch next to John.  The big man nearly collided with the half full 12-pack carton of empty Budweiser bottles at the bottom of the ditch.  The two men sat there for a moment, catching their breath, before silently crawling past the abominations loping about in the parking lot.

When the two men were well beyond the lot, John told Reams about how he got his chance to move when the noise Reams made drew the attention of the revs.

Reams, in turn, filled John in on his scuffle with Blue Hair, leaving out some of the more gruesome details he himself was trying to forget.  He showed John his neck and was relieved to get confirmation that there was no break in the skin.  In fact, there wasn’t much evidence it even happened except for a very subtle bruise where the incisors would have been. 

After walking about a mile, they came to the intersection with Hood Street.  An intense feeling swept through John – equal parts dread and excitement – as he thought of finally reaching Rebecca and Ava.

Reams noticed a change in his friend’s movement and demeanor, and urged John to keep calm and control his emotions.  He reminded him of how many times they had almost been killed already, even when they were supposedly operating with clear, focused minds.

The homes in John’s neighborhood were fairly well spaced, with most set back away from the road.  They saw a couple of houses with the front door left wide open. Various items including a television, computer, and stereo equipment were strewn across the lawn of one house, as if the former occupants had been packing and discovered that they lacked the room for the items now deemed nonessential.  Farther up the driveway as it curved around the side of the house, a body lay motionless under a basketball goal.  One could almost imagine the person simply grew tired and laid down to rest were it not for the dark pool of congealed blood around the body that shattered this fantasy, leaving a far more sinister reality in its wake.  The men had not yet encountered any infected on Hood Street as they neared 1406.  Reams pointed out a man that clearly looked infected standing in front of a large window inside a house across the street.  A low thud rhythmically resonated as the rev repeatedly walked into the window bumping his head, completely oblivious to the translucent barrier before him.

When they stepped onto the front yard of John’s once peaceful home, the iniquity that greeted the two men defied description.  As they approached, terror threatened to asphyxiate John as he noticed the front door was slightly ajar.  In a near sprint, he vaulted up the small flight of stairs and onto the landing of his front porch in a single leap.  Instantly, he skidded to a stop as several things assaulted his senses simultaneously.  His wife’s car could be seen through the windows in the garage door, though he heard no sound coming from within the domicile.  Instinctively, he started to call for his wife and daughter, but stopped short.  As he noticed several bloody handprints lining the left side of the doorframe, his blood froze in his veins and his words hung in his throat before tumbling into the abyss that was his sinking heart. 

“No, no, no, no,” John began muttering frantically as he quickly edged forward and across the threshold of the front door.  The handprints seemed to slide down the door where they coalesced into a sort of demonic, bloody slug trail that he followed cautiously across the darkened foyer.  His foot bumped into something that gave slightly with the contact.  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realized with disgust that the thing he ran into was a dead man wearing a bloodied and tattered UPS uniform. The dread that had been building within him now secured a complete stranglehold on his throat, making it seem as though all of the air had been instantly sucked out of the room.  John’s vision blurred as his mind spun violently around every detail he was taking in.

Stumbling toward the kitchen, he thought he might collapse at any moment.  As he pushed through the swinging door, it stopped about three quarters of the way open as if someone left something behind it.  The door recoiled back and collided with John as he attempted to cross the threshold between the rooms.  The impact knocked John off-balance, and he lost his footing as he slipped on something wet as he tried to recover.

John lunged forward through the doorway in order to keep from falling, and as he did, he caught sight of the door’s impediment.  His gaze drifted past the bloody, lifeless heap on the floor, and though the person was almost unrecognizable due to the extensive facial injuries, the blood-soaked blonde hair and clothes immediately told John he was looking at the lifeless body of his beautiful wife, Rebecca.  John noticed a chunk of flesh missing from the space between her right thumb and index finger, and saw the unmistakable indentions of human teeth around the wound.  Her face was a mess of scratches and deep gouges, as though she had been mauled by a large feline.  Lastly, he noticed that the final blow was from the large kitchen knife protruding from her left orbit. It was one of the Wusthof knives he purchased for her just before leaving on his medical trip, after she repeatedly complained about not having proper cooking utensils with which to use.

Stepping backward into the cabinet, John knocked an empty glass into another before it plummeted to the ground, shattering with a tremendous crash.  Despite his shock, he was able to keep enough presence of mind to watch for any movement or sound in reply to the noise.  He was relieved when there was none.  With an overwhelming sense of impending regurgitation sweeping through his body, John lamented that a peaceful death seemed to be such a fleeting commodity these days.  Indeed, death at all, was becoming hard to come by.  After a brief moment, the tide of emotions within him swelled beyond capacity, and John let out a bellowing sob.  He hunched over as vomit sprayed across the kitchen floor.

As sad as he was to find his wife like this, he was thankful not to have found her like one of them…a revenant.  Again, John thought about how much had changed in the world that such a horrible, gruesome death was now something to be thankful for—even hoped for.  He knew there were now definitely worse things than death.

With his back pressed against the cabinets, John slowly sank to the floor as the sobs continued to rack his body like the convulsive spasms of an epileptic fit.  Tears flowed from his eyes like a river after breeching its levee. Reams entered the kitchen and found John in a crumpled heap on the floor next to his wife’s body.  After taking in the horrendous scene, Reams respectfully tried to help John to his feet. The mourning man wrenched away, slipped out of Reams’ grip, and flailed back to the floor like a child in the throes of a temper tantrum.  Reams understood his pain and lowered his head as he stepped out of the room to allow John to get his emotions out in whatever way he needed to.

After a while the room fell silent, causing alarm to climb in Reams’ mind.  Just as suddenly, the room erupted into laughter as Reams watched John slide in the blood and vomitus marring the floor as he struggled to his feet.  Fearing the shock of losing his family had caused the man to lose his mind, Reams moved forward to support him.  John’s gaze was on a trail of small bloody footprints leading away from the bloody, ruined body and out the back door of the house.  This time Reams spoke with rising concern in his voice, “John, buddy?  You okay?  We need to make sure the rest of this place is clear if we are going to stay a while.” 

In garbled words drenched in tears and mucous, John exclaimed, “She’s alive!”  He continued to make his way to the back door. 

Now certain John’s sanity was gone, Reams interjected, “John, she’s dead.  I’m sorry.”

Undeterred, John continued toward the back door.

Reams again spoke up, “John, stop.  Wait.”  Grabbing his shoulder, Reams spun John around and was startled to see a smile on his face, despite the red-rimmed, tear-stained eyes inches above.  “John,” Reams began, but was cut off as John spoke.

“My daughter, Reams. She’s alive,” said John emphatically.

“What? How can you be sure? John, realistically…” Reams was saying when John again interrupted.

“The shoes.  She was wearing shoes.”  Ream’s confusion was now plainly etched across his face as he stared back at his friend.  John continued, “She hates shoes.  She almost never wore them.  Even when we would leave the house she always had them off before she even got to the car.  The footprints were made by a little girl, and she was wearing shoes,” John stated still smiling as though he just unlocked the secret of life.  “The footprints aren’t smudged and are closely spaced, so they were likely made by a little girl who was walking – not running.  And there are no other footprints to indicate she was being chased or pursued.”

Reams gently shook his head as the two men locked eyes.  “John, listen to me.  I truly hope your little girl is safe, I do.  But you have to at least accept the possibility that the same shit-storm you see all around us found her, too.  Now, I will stick with you and help you look for her, but I need to know that you are still the same guy I left the airport with.  I need to know you at least acknowledge the possibility that things are not as you are seeing them right now.  You understand, John?”

John lowered his head slightly, but the subtle smile never left his previously forlorn face.  “I understand perfectly, Reams.  Now can we go find my little girl?” 

Chapter 16

October 5, 2015

Reams quickly searched the house and found no dangers lurking within. John stayed in the kitchen where he sat speaking softly to his wife.  Reams did not intrude or interrupt as he realized this was about as personal and intimate a conversation as a man could ever have.  Once he was satisfied they were safe for the time, Reams sank into the couch in the living room.  The mental, physical, and emotional exhaustion that had been in relentless pursuit of the two men since they met finally caught up with him, colliding hard with his still form, and sending the big man into a deep slumber.

Mere moments later the mutilated forms of the UPS man and John’s wife slowly began to scratch and claw their way across the room toward Reams’ sleeping form, leaving a foul, cupric trail of death in their wake.  Upon reaching Reams, the UPS man wasted no time sinking its rank, carious teeth into his plentiful right ankle.  Feeling the pain, Reams tried to scream and fight, but found he was unable to do either.  He briefly wondered if this was sleep paralysis like his cousin with narcolepsy had once described to him.  Rebecca, on the other hand, dragged her mangled body onto the couch, and slowly snaked her way toward his supple neck.  A smell like that of chitterlings, tonsil stones, and liver failure emanated from her rapacious maw as Reams unsuccessfully tried to recoil away from her.  She was so close that her groaning hiss seemed deafening in his ear.  Contrary to the warm, humid, sweet-smelling breath one would eagerly anticipate when a beautiful woman whispers in your ear, the cool, dry, insalubrious air that wafted over Reams’ face felt like a faint breeze forced from the stagnant bowels of an unperturbed cave leading straight to Hell.

At that moment, Reams caught sight of John standing across the room, and was relieved to see his friend had arrived to help him at last.  Though John did not appear injured, his skin color was sallow in the low light of the room.  As he stepped forward, he opened his mouth to speak.  Terror flooded through Reams as he saw blood dripping from John’s grinning mouth.  He continued to advance and in a clearly minatory tone, John said, “Slow down there, honey, there’s enough meat on this one for everybody.” 

Reams’ massive right arm shot out, violently smashing a floor lamp into the wall and causing the drywall underneath to collapse.  Simultaneously, he kicked out hard with his right leg and again felt searing pain erupt just above his ankle.  Certain that the UPS man was now gnawing on his leg like a chicken bone, he continued to flail wildly.  He could not see John’s wife, and he wondered if he succeeded in knocking her away as he scanned his surroundings to find her. He no longer saw John though he could hear his voice and knew he must still be advancing on him.  Interestingly, John’s voice no longer seemed to carry the same malice it had moments before, but instead, sounded somewhat alarmed.  A hand clamped down on Reams’ right shoulder, and a strong, reflexive swing sent the owner of the hand flying into the wall with the same apparent ease as the floor lamp.

Gasping for breath, John mumbled, “Reams, what the hell!  Calm down, you were just dreaming!  There’s no one here! You’re safe!”

Reams’ ragged breathing slowed as his senses reoriented and his true surroundings materialized around him.  John lay crumpled against the baseboard moaning, certain Reams had broken a rib or two.  Reams anxiously rubbed the skin of his neck and examined the large bruise forming on his shin where it struck the coffee table.  Finally convinced it had indeed all been a nightmare, he moved to help John onto the couch.  Reams was surprised to see how much darker the room was now compared to when he sat down on the couch moments ago.  He was even more surprised when John informed him that ‘moments ago’ was actually nearly seven hours ago.

As Reams’ mind begrudgingly reacquainted itself with the details of John’s house and their situation, he noticed several other significant changes aside from the ambient light.  Perhaps the most striking were the changes he saw in John himself.  The man before him bore little resemblance to the friend he had last seen as an emotional wreck on the bloody kitchen floor next to the body of his dead wife only hours ago.  John had bathed, put on clean clothes, and even managed a shave and a haircut, resulting in an unimaginable physical transformation. More dramatic still were the changes Reams noticed in his actions and demeanor, now remarkably calm, deliberate, and focused.  It was almost as if his lavation had penetrated to the depths his soul, purging the pain and anguish there as it had the grime and gore from his skin.

“John, what’s going on?” said Reams with a note of concern still resonating in his voice.  Noticing the packed bags and the weapons sitting proudly against the chair like presents left by Santa Claus, he added, “You’ve been busy.”

* * *

After sitting next to his wife for what seemed like hours, John went into the backyard and quietly dug her grave next to the grave he had dug last year for their dog, Boxer, who was hit by a car.  He found a 4 x 6 photograph of his family from a much happier time when they were at the beach a few years back.  He placed it under her arms, which he folded across her chest.  The striking disparity between the smiling, loving woman in the photograph, and the brutally murdered woman lying before him, was too much to endure.  He again broke into nearly uncontrollable sobs.  After several minutes the tears began to subside, replaced with a sense of acceptance and understanding, as well as a resolve to find the little girl who smiled so beautifully at her parents in the picture.  He wrapped a sheet over his wife’s small frame and gently laid her in the grave.  After replacing the dirt, he fashioned a simple wooden cross and placed a large rock with his wife’s name written in black paint at the head of the grave.  He gathered several roses from his neighbor’s flowerbed and placed them on the grave.  Lastly, he wedged another picture of his now shattered family between the cross and the stone.  A single tear rolled down his cheek as he said a short prayer for his wife, his daughter, and the world before returning inside.

For the next couple of hours John tried to remove all evidence of what happened to his wife.  After scrubbing the blood from the kitchen floor, he wrapped the UPS man in the rug he was laying on, and dragged him into the woods behind his house; he did not possess the strength the dig another grave.  He then wrote a note that he placed on the kitchen counter.  It read:

‘Ava, I am alive and searching for you.  I am with a new friend, Reams.  We will check the house for you everyday possible at 6:00 P.M. I miss you so much.  See you soon.  We will find you. I love you!  Your daddy, John.’

With the note finished, John sank back against the counter and slid to the floor – exhausted.  He tried in earnest to think about all that had happened but could not wrap his mind around its totality.  The emotional and psychological stress was far too great for even the most stalwart individual, so he tried to lapse into the more comfortable and manageable scientific aspects.  This brought on a bleary, half-hearted smirk as he tried to think of
any
possible explanation science could offer. 
There was nothing comfortable or manageable about any of this.

Based on his understanding of the human body and its potential ailments, as well as what Lin San had told him, he thought that an infectious agent was the most logical explanation.  Still, it seemed highly improbable, as there was no apparent way that many of the walking abominations he witnessed should be upright at all. 
What kind of plague simultaneously decimates its host while forcing it, or at least some version of it, to persist?  Unlike every other known human pathogen, this thing does not seem to completely incapacitate its host, but rather commandeers it—compelling it to do its bidding which is only self-propagation.  It uses its host as an active vector, thereby removing the element of random chance that exists in the transmission of most infectious diseases such as influenza.  It is the perfect pathogen.

John knew of pathogens that did similar things in other animal species, so it was not too great a stretch to imagine such a disease occurring in humans.
  Nothing else has ever had the potential to wipe out an entire species by essentially replacing it with a horrid, infectious version of the original.
  With an uneasy shiver, John shook his head slightly to free himself from the icy grasp of these thoughts.  Legs wobbly and mind dogged, John slowly climbed back to his feet.

Though there was no electricity with which to heat water, John was thankful that the water was still running.  He stripped off his filthy clothes, turned on the shower, and climbed into the icy water.  Feeling certain he might go into cardiac arrest due to the shock of the frigid temperature, John lathered his hair and body, rinsed, and toweled off. 

Shivering uncontrollably as he stood in front of the mirror, he noticed he looked much older.  He always dismissed the notion that stressful events somehow aged someone but now he could see it was true.  The cut on his head, largely forgotten, looked surprisingly healthy with no signs of infection. His disheveled hair hung past his ears making him think back to something his former krav maga instructor once told him.  ‘Hair has no place in a fight.  Hair is for beauty, and fighting is not beautiful.  In a fight, hair is just one more thing that your opponent can use to control you.’  While John’s hair was not that long per se, it was certainly long enough for someone – or
something –
to grab a handful.  After staring at the man he barely recognized in the mirror, he searched the cabinets and shelves for several necessary items.

As he finished, John splashed the freezing water onto his head and gazed into the mirror again.  His pale, freshly shorn face and scalp gleamed back at him.  Locks of hair littered the floor all around the sink upon which the scissors and razor sat.  While he certainly looked different, John thought it suited the man staring back at him in the mirror.  Dejectedly, he walked to the adjacent bedroom to find some clean clothes.

With the renewed vigor afforded by the shower, he proceeded to gather supplies for the next leg of their journey.  John still believed their best chance of survival was with Al; his friend certainly possessed the necessary gear and knowledge.  Though John was far from a diehard survivalist, one could not befriend a guy like Al Forrester without acquiring at least a little paranoid self-preservation.  If Al’s house was like a big box retail superstore, then John’s house was like a neighborhood corner gas station—one that didn’t sell much at that.  You certainly weren’t likely to leave with everything you need, but you could get by in a pinch.
A pinch describes this situation rather mildly.

John first located a couple of bags and emptied out their contents.  They were backpacks that had mostly been used to shuttle unnecessary items to and from work.  Papers, records, mail, pens, and all manner of other ‘useless’ things from the past came pouring out.  Both packs were of high quality and in good condition.  John always tried to subscribe to the mantra of ‘buy it once and buy it right,’ or at least the ‘buy it right’ part.  One pack was a coyote brown sling bag that could be accessed while being worn simply by rotating the bag to the front.  The other was a slightly larger, more traditional backpack style pack with many pockets for compartmentalizing items.  John chose the sling bag for himself and began filling both packs with the staples of survival.  They each had a compartment for a water bladder, and John had three such bladders from an earlier time in his life when he had been active in mountain biking.  He rinsed all three and filled them completely before stowing one in his pack and two in Reams’ larger pack.  Next, he found a box of MREs and a small folding stove with fuel tabs that Al gave him a couple of years ago, when he learned that John had not taken such ‘measures’ for himself.  John chuckled softly to himself as he often did when Al started talking about ‘measures’ for this and ‘measures’ for that.  He divided the MREs and placed one in an outside pocket of each bag before stowing the rest in the bottom of the packs.

Next, John’s mind shifted to protection.  He owned three firearms but lamented that Al had his AR-15, as he was in the process of upgrading it for him.  The ‘upgrades’ were prompted by several instances of misfeeding he experienced during some range time a couple of months ago. 

This left his handgun – a .40 S&W Glock 23 – and his 12-gauge shotgun – a Mossberg 500.  Al had already modified both of these guns.  The Glock was fitted with a tritium rear sight and a fiber-optic front sight to allow maximal sight visibility in all lighting conditions.  Additionally, replacing the trigger connector had lowered the weight of the trigger pull. He polished the internal trigger components to provide a smoother overall pull. Al also installed an extended slide and magazine release to facilitate faster weapon manipulation.

The Mossberg underwent a more dramatic transformation.  Al replaced the barrel with a slightly longer barrel and magazine tube to increase its capacity from six shots to eight.  The fixed stock was replaced with a collapsible, synthetic stock with pistol grip as well as a synthetic, lighted forend.  Lastly, he added a rear ghost ring sight and a tritium front sight, both of which greatly improved sight visualization in all lighting conditions as well.

After retrieving the weapons from the safe and checking to ensure they were both functioning properly, John gathered the ammunition and accessories for each.  He loaded three magazines for the Glock with fourteen rounds each rather than the maximum fifteen.  The twenty additional .40 S&W rounds were stowed in an outside pocket of his pack.  He cursed himself for not getting to the store to replenish his supply of ammunition after his last session at the gun range.  With a firm push, he inserted one of the magazines into the Glock and cycled the slide.  He watched as a .40 caliber cartridge was pushed out of the magazine and into the weapon’s chamber before securing the weapon in a holster.  The two extra magazines went into a double magazine pouch.