Story
Had it really already been two weeks?
Samuel gropped his wrist for his watch, pressing one of the buttons on the side of its face to hear a mechanical voice rattle off "1:21 PM - July 26th"
"Well, I'll be damned." He mumbled sleepily to no one, rubbing the last remenents of dust from his eyes before standing up. Bones cracked beneath his weight and muscles, still yet to receive the memo from his brain, unwillingly pulled into an uncomfortable stretch that made a dizziness sweep over him but passed almost instantly. Carefully, he shuffled around the living room table and into the kitchen, his ears pricked, on high alert for any movement in the house.
Tentatively, he called. "Mom?"
But no answer followed. "Dad?"
This call, too, remained unanswered.
A long shot, he had reasoned silently to himself, but a letdown all the same.
They truly hadn't returned yet.
The cold floor tiles in the kitchen, which had once felt familiar beneath his feet, now felt odd, a thin layer of sticky something clinging to the top most layer of stone. To anyone else, this was a minor inconvienence at best, Samuel knew this. But it wasn't the feeling that bothered him the most (despite his being barefoot): it was how alien it felt. His mother had kept a spotless house: every other day, it felt like, she had dusted, mopped, swept and kept the most pristine house one could imagine and in a matter of only two weeks, fourteen long and lonely days, it had become...different.
Perhaps not unrecognizable but not like home.
It took Samuel almost a quarter of an hour to find something edible in the kitchen, one sniff test after another. Most of the smells, particularly those in the refigerator, made his stomach turn despite his fleeing hope that keeping it closed might preserve some cold air (it hadn't) and the freezer - well, that was practically toxic waste after the electricity had gone. But the pantry might be safe. The ability to smell didn't lend itself well to pantry goods: dented and rusted edged cans and boxes of unrecognizable food stuffs that were normally leftover cake mixes forgotten in back over other, more desirable flavors. And although carrot cake would be like a gift from God over molded bits of bread and limp vegetables that oozed a repugnant sulfur scent, he had oven (or even ingredients) to cludge together. A box of pasta - it sounded like pasta, anyways - rattled as it slid off of the shelf and hit his feet, a single flutter of hope springing to life in Samuel's cramping stomach that was now roaring in discontent. And although the smell test was an easy win, the taste test had him choking and spitting so heartily that he could feel the bile rise into his throat. Once Samuel had tamped down the acid back into his stomach, he slammed the worthless pasta box into the trash, frustration overwhelming him at last.
"Fucking moths." He hissed, feeling more like a spoiled brat than ever. If his dad could see his tantrum now...
'War means rations. Rations mean you eat what you can. Start being picky now and you won't survive, devil dog.'
Samuel let the anger pass between his lips in a slow sigh, a sense of calm settling, albeit uneasily, over him as the minutes ticked by. He knew his dad - that somewhere, in all of that meticulous planning, he must have stored something in this house. Additional food, money, something that would be of use. But Samuel didn't know his parents' bedroom, the garage, any part of the house really, well enough to blindly go in search of something that may not even be there. Samuel couldn't even be sure that he didn't take it all with him when he bailed and knowing his dad, it would be locked up tighter than Fort Knox anyways, locked in a bulletproof, dynamite resistant safe with eighteen booby traps to keep thieves out.
It's just the kind of guy he was.
'Is.'
Past tense.
That was never a welcome thought.
Ten minutes later, after a far-too-easy battle between pride and hunger, a pot of water with small steamy wisps curling above its brim, bubbled on a makeshift stove. Pasta and insects mixed in a watery bath of starch and Samuel waited, every so often fishing out a noodle to taste it's consistency until it was done. Slopping it into a bowl, he waited until it cooled and carefully, rubbing each piece of pasta between his fingers (to make sure it was actually pasta), he chewed and swallowed the meal until only the dregs of insect parts and pasta residue remained. It was during this literal struggle meal, chewing up inconsistantly cooked bits of bland, unsauced pasta, that he considered what to do next. And regardless of how many times he tried to usher the thought to the back of his mind, there was only one answer that fulfilled each question he asked himself. Abandon it all.
During his packing, as he filled an old gym sack with only the most necassary items, lighters, matches, pocket knife, bandages, clothes, etc - Samuel didn't dwell on his plan. Planning, at this point, seemed pointless on what he knew was practically a suicide mission. There was no planning in the world, by marine or government, that could make this idea seem like a good, sane one dreamt up by a rational person. But it was all he had left: so Samuel packed. He raided every square inch of his house, from the cabinets to drawers and everything between to make sure that he had it all because he would never step foot in this house again - at least not the way it was. Fingers lingered longer on each thing they touched, the tips molding into the furniture, the walls and the door handles as though trying to imprint himself on them, leaving a little of his soul behind to remind whomever stepped into this house next: this used to be somebody's home. A family's home. His touch found marks in the wood he had forgotten about years before, gashes deeper than the memories themselves, of his height as he grew from a boy into a man right in this very spot, his mom gently coaxing him down to make sure the mark was true.
A sound in the far distance broke him out of his reverie and back to reality, a fierce battleground where the two things crashed into one another, unable to exist together in whatever the landscape of the world had become. Whether it was bombs, gunfire or something else, Samuel couldn't be sure by sound alone and his sight, well...it wouldn't do him any favors. Regardless, the sound had reminded him of something important, something he had almost forgotten: a weapon. The garage fit the bill as the best place to go, given that guns wouldn't be much use if he needed to aim but even this plethora of tools left him underwhelmed. Most of the them were good in a pinch but left too much space open for...whatever was out there. Short handles and plastic pieces made for disasters just waiting to happen until his boot, now steel-toed and heavy (courtesy of his dad, a birthday gift when he turned twenty) kicked something against the wall and it fell, with a clatter, to the concrete below. He grasped the something between his hands, feeling it from shaft to point as realization hit him: a crowbar!
Samuel smiled to himself as the crowbar whooshed through the air, a comfortable feeling he was used to given his dad's medieval training regime had called for it over a year before. A weight seemed to settle in his stomach as that memory cast a shadow over his mind: how he had spent weeks, months, even, poking fun at his dad.
'It's like you think the world's going to end.'
'You never know.' is all he would say, tight-lipped and focused.
Crowbar in hand, bag slung over his shoulder, note on the counter in case of his mom or dad's return, Samuel stood at the front door, hand grasping the latch firmly but unsure. Glancing back at the house (as though he could really see any of it), he took one final breath of his life before and stepped out into life as he would now know it.
Into the Chaos
Exhaustion had already begun to overtake Samuel's senses, though the day (was it day?) had just begun. Nine days he had been out here: nine. And each one felt more impossible than the one before it. Samuel had known what he was signing up for: a fight followed by inevitable safety; after all, the government should be close by. But what he found instead, after stepping outside those doors, was an eerily silent world. Los Angeles was a thriving metropolis. No matter where one might live within the city, whether beyond the city lines or into its heart, noise was a fact of life. Noise meant business, business meant opportunity and opportunity meant that there were always those willing and passionate enough to chase their good fortunes here. They were a melting pot of, not only the United States but the world itself but suddenly, it was though the sound had been shut off. Where there had once been bumper locked cars Ventura Freeway and through to the 5 honking at one another, there were now massive car lots with vehicles, deceased and motionless, piled up on the highways like junkyards. Where Rodeo Drive was once filled to the bursting point with celebrities and wealthy socialites alike, eating brunch and swapping stories, had now gone dark and deserted, trash and glass littering the streets from ransacked businesses and overloaded trash recepticles. There were no planes overhead nor the wail of sirens: the world had gone catatonic.
Thirty minutes out on his first day of exploration was all it took for Samuel to realize how wrong things were. But it wasn't the quiet that created that impact: it was the smell. Decay like he had never smelled before assaulted him in full force, a mix of rotting meat that had been dumped into open sewage that made his stomach knot and nearly brought him to his knees retching was his first clue. Santa Monica Boulevard was filled with one vehicle after another, each containing what had to have been raw meat. Samuel tried to make sense of where he was going but the smell had made him light-headed and disoriented - just as a hand grabbed him. But the hand was wrong - all wrong.
Half of it felt like old fabric, worn and stretched and the other was pure bone.
Instictively, Samuel had pushed the body away as roughly as he could and spoke openly. "What do you want?"
But the response was inhuman. A gurgle, a growl and then it launched itself, full force at him again.
It was determined to win.
And that had been his first experience with them: the zombies, he had called them, for lack of a better term. Without seeing them, he wasn't 100% certain that's what they were but he had since battled enough of them to know for sure: they definately weren't human anymore.
The creatures, once human, were odd. The zombies had personalities, at least, that's what he liked to imagine them as - for, again, lack of a better term. Some of them were fearful and may attack in hopes of scoring a much needed feast (did they even eat?) but, when attacked, may run. Others may be more quiet, take a careful approach but would run and try their luck another day. Some were vicious, violent even and despite repeated attacks across their torso and face, they refused to yield to him. These, Samuel had decided, were his least favorite. The way in which he had to kill them...it was barbaric and made his body shake just thinking about it. Many he tried to leave alive - those that wouldn't come back fighting - but the relentless ones proved impossible to result in anything but their own deaths. Quickly, it became apparent to Samuel, that this was going to be the fight of his life and if he wanted to find his parents, he would have to do what was necassary.
It was during the times of exploration, not fighting, that he would wonder silently to himself: what would he even say to his parents when he saw them? Would they be angry at him for leaving? Or simply overjoyed to see him?
Or completely horrified by what he had done to get there? Samuel didn't want to imagine, couldn't imagine, his mother's soft honey-sweet voice, coated in disappointment and fear as she repeated his story to herself in horror at what Samuel had done to get to them.
"They were people..." She'd cry, tears streaming down her face silently as her voice broke.
But were they? Samuel didn't know anymore.
Was he being callous? Smart?
How were others surviving?
Samuel felt his nose throb painfully as he thought back on what his first encounter with a living person had been like, three days into his journey.
It was a warmer day than he had anticipated, sweat and dirt collecting on his forehead and leaking into his eyes as Samuel wandered aimlessly in search of something recognizable, some sembalance of humanity as he had remembered it. Calling out, he had deduced the first day, was dangerous and not only invited the living towards him but also the dead. It was the first time Samuel had to run, rather than fight, in order to escape a small hoarde, at least ten strong. As he came up a street which felt open and wide, he heard, only a few yards or so in front of him, the shuffling of chipped concrete on the road. Samuel's voice died in his throat as he tried to speak, realizing what had happened only moments ago; instead, he waited for the thing to make its first move.
And it wasted no time.
An arm collided suddenly with Samuel's nose and jaw, knocking him back onto the ground and flat onto his back. The air in his lungs was pushed out of him with such force that he thought they must have been punctured, deflated like a balloon. But it was just the impact.
Hands suddenly began groping all over his body, fingers tightening around the strap of his backpack in a death grip that caused Samuel to react without hesitation. He held his backpack strong, the single piece of a life raft used to keep him afloat and refused to yield.
"Letitgo!" Samuel mumbled, still laying on the ground, blood soaking the front of his shirt from his nose as he scuffled with the stranger.
"You. bastard." A man's voice growled, scratchy and hoarse as he swung a kick at Samuel's head, which he narrowly avoided. "Just give me the damned stuff."
Another swing gave Samuel his chance: he grabbed the man's leg with both of his arms and twisted it beneath him, finally bringing the assaliant to the ground. The two wrestled furiously back and forth, each gaining and then losing the upper hand until the man had crawled just out of Samuel's reach, hands and knees shifting the gravel beneath and took off, empty-handed as he had come.
Pure rage surged in Samuel as his nose pulsed once again and his temptation to go after the man, give him just an ounce of the trouble he had shown Samuel, would be all too-easy. But it was thoughts of his mom that made him reconsider.
These were desperate times.
That man was probably kind and honest at some point. But who knew what he had gone through since all of his happened? Who knew what he had to do to survive?
The rage began to die away in Samuel, who rose rather shakily from his encounter but was back on his feet.
Desperation made people do stupid things.
The sun was up already up today: Samuel knew because the heat radiated warmth that his skin ate up greedily following a restless night's sleep. His breakfast? A can of cold beans he had managed to pick up during a raid of a corner store, forgotten on the floor beneath mountains of trash and splintered wood that the store had become since the outbreak. It wasn't bad - all things considered - but meal times were stressful: they were also time for planning. And after nine miserable days out here, Samuel wasn't sure where else to go or what else he could do.
Turning around was no longer an option: he couldn't find his way home if he tried and help wasn't likely to just turn up with directions or a sherpa on lend. And there had been no sign of his parents or any government outfit they were part of anywhere that he had found. Even police, search and rescue, fire rescue or EMTs seemed to be MIA as sirens remained only the call of desperate civilians hoping for rescue but drawing only the dead ever closer.
Should he just stay where he was? Hold up in one of the businesses in hopes that he would be found by the right people?
Samuel let the last few drops of sweet liquid from the bean can drain into his mouth as he steeled himself to push forward even without a particular destination in mind. Surely, he thought, if kept at it long enough, there might be at least one sane survivor or government agency left that could help him locate his parents. So, undeterred by his seemingly hopeless mission, Samuel pushed on.
Hours ticked by, only passed by waves of hoards that would seemingly appear out of nowhere, fight before fleeing and then suddenly disappear, and hours of silence would replace the action. He wandered until his legs became sore, would stop to rest on the curb of of some unknown street before continuing on with crowbar in hand. It was as he turned the next street that he heard something unusual that made his legs freeze: footsteps.
Plural.
There were multiple people - all walking in the same direction - all trying to tread lightly. Zombies, at least the ones he had run across in the past, didn't go out of their way to be quiet. They lumbered around on thick, trunk-like legs and drunkenly stumbled into things, unbothered by the sounds they made as they stepped one lazy foot in front of the other. But this...this wasn't right.
Carefully, Samuel listened and felt as though they might be speaking but the words were inaudible and still too distant to be sure and rarely, even the zombies tried to mimic something that sounded close to speech.
Could they...be smart enough to set traps?
A lump had formed in Samuel's throat and his mouth had gone dry, the skin of his lips peeling away from one another painfully as he breathed in quiet, calming bursts through his mouth. He inched closer, crouching low on his feet as he stealthily closed in on the voices who were definately speaking but were they friendly?
Just as Samuel took one final step forward, he could hear a piece of glass crunch beneath his toes, echoing off the buildings in what had been a relatively dead silence. A flurry of movement suggested that the noise had not gone unnoticed and before Samuel could back his way out of danger, the footsteps closed in and surrounded him.
"These things know how to use weapons? Holy shit!" The voice was that of a younger boy, maybe thirteen at their youngest or eighteen at the oldest. It was a little shrill, a mild note of concern in his voice.
A long, tired sigh followed this exclamation. "What have I told you about thinkin' before you speak, Omega Six?"
"I'm just saying, it-"
But the older man's voice, more gravelly and age-worn voice cut across him. "Drop your weapon and show us your hands, if you're human."
Samuel scowled at the order; another thief. And he wasn't about to get on the other side of an assault again. He gripped his crowbar tighter in protest.
"I won't repeat myself again. Drop your weapon and show us your hands or we'll have to shoot."
"Ted, I don't think it's alive. Look at all the blood on it..." The younger voice said again, definate panic showing in his voice.
Another disgruntled snort. "Alpha Two. How many times do I gotta say it?"
"Shut up guys. I think it's gonna try to talk." This voice was another new one, yet another male's voice but with an accent that Samuel could only describe as smooth. The letters seem to roll into one another in a way that typical American accents didn't.
Samuel held up his hands, slowly but surely and let the crowbar clatter to the ground. A white flag; the surrender they wanted.
"Oh shit, he's human! Awesome, we found an-"
"What's wrong with your eyes?" The older man, Ted, interrupted yet again, his voice still hard and tired. "Does the light hurt them?"
Finally, Samuel spoke. "No, I-"
"Then open your eyes."
"Ted, I think he's-"
"He could've been freshly bit, just starting the change, David." His voice turned it's attention back to Samuel. "Open your eyes."
Fuck.
This wouldn't be easy to explain.
"I was born blind. I was not bit." Samuel explained evenly, opening one of his eyes and then the other to a chorus of almost hushed gasps. "My eyes are naturally blue and the-"
"Pull off your shirt. We'll check you for bites." Ted barked and Samuel just smiled, impatience growing.
"I'm not taking off my clothes for you, sorry. Show isn't free." Samuel combatted stubbornly, a small chuckle coming from somewhere in the crowd.
A gun readied, closer to Samuel than before. "We just have to make sure you ain't bit."
Samuel's smirk didn't falter. "I ain't bit." He mimicked the slight drawl of the accent in a humerous way. "I'm blind. I told you. My eyes are naturally blue and I've just devel-"
A small agreement made its way around the circle, the whispered "Now" enough to give Samuel the warning he needed to scoop up his crowbar and start swinging unapologeticlly. The crowbar made contact repeatedly though Samuel wasn't sure with what until the younger guy's voice, David's, reacted with an "Owwwww! Damn Ted, he got me!"
It was utter chaos, hands grabbing his arms and legs and immobilizing him completely until he was hog-tied and being carried, unwillingly, away from his weapon. He cursed, spit and attempted to bite anyone he could reach but, by this point, they knew to stay clear.
"Should we check him here?" The smooth, unidentified male voice asked to his left.
"Nah, just throw him in the back. Don't think we're gonna find anyone else 'round here so he ain't gonna hurt nothin' but himself in there."
Samuel was suddenly tossed uncermonially through the air and landed with a painful thud on cold metal that made his already sore body ache.
"We'll check him when we get back to the Colony." "Damn Ted, this really hurts..."
Their voices became faint as they closed the doors, the metal ground of whatever he was laying on lurching as they piled in elsewhere, just beyond where Samuel could hear. Muffled voices joked, laughed and complained all the way to wherever they were going and now, Samuel could only hope he was safe.
Whatever the Colony was, it had to be better than 'out there', right?
story
Plot
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention warned us: this one would be big. The virus was already spreading like wildfire through the bird population, with droves dying so quickly that there was little time left to study them in life. They would flutter about in their cages, eyes aflame with pain before writhing at the bottom, hopelessly lost. There were cataclysmic predictions; it would spread to another species, pigs perhaps, and from there, it had the possibility to infect the human DNA. It seemed like the whisper of a rumor; could this virus really spread species to species like that? Questions flew in from all directions as workers, terrified, shared the news with people they shouldn’t have. When the news broke, it was a media firestorm. How many would be affected? They couldn't say. Where it would strike? They didn't know. When it would happen? They weren't sure.
But, as it would, this wasn’t enough information. Frustrated with the very few facts and taunted with haunting images of dead animals, we moved on. As the months crept into years, crippling debt gripped the United States - while a revolving door of politicians swore to cut spending wherever possible. A bursting education bubble landed young men and women with no home to occupy, while homes sat abandoned - no buyers. The idea of some 'superbug outbreak' had been dubbed a 'scare tactic to sell vaccines', and in a last-ditch effort to save what was left of the fractured US economy, the CDC's funding plummeted. All US study of the mysterious “bird flu” fell onto foreign shoulders, and the topic wouldn’t be brought up again. The cautious warning of a deadly epidemic was quickly forgotten among the American people, many of whom were unaware that it had already taken a foothold in the rural United States.
A man from Utah first approached his doctor with strange symptoms that appeared out of nowhere: excessive thirst, confusion, dizziness and a mild fever to name a few. But the doctor summed it up to be nothing more than a small flu, writing a quick prescription for antibiotics before sending him on his way. In a few days time, he would be better - the doctor guaranteed it. Despite the doctor's promise, the symptoms only worsened and the antibiotics seemed to have little effect. With no answers, no money, and a family to raise - the man chose to tough it out. His family watched in agony as their brother, husband and friend seemed to change right before their eyes: almost six weeks after his initial visit, the man would be headed back to see the doctors but this time, he'd be in the emergency room. Eyes glazed over milky white, muscles spasming beneath his skin and a fever that had reached a fatal point - it was clear that his time had already begun ticking down. The nurses circled him, trying to hold back his flailing body while doctors attempted to sedate him but the man refused to give up the fight. He snapped at the doctors and howled like an animal until finally, he fell lip in their arms and laid dead on a gurney. The family, distraught and confused over his loss, demanded an autopsy but there were no answers to be found on his corpse. The simplest explanation seemed to be the easiest to swallow: some sort of undisclosed infection that resulted in meningitis.
And he was only the beginning. Patient Zero had been harboring a virus, picked up from livestock, that would soon spread across the nation.
Cases began to trickle in slowly across the United States, each of them slightly different than the one before. The anomaly seemed unrelated, and now without a federal database of emerging viruses to track the spread; state by state the cases were handled differently. All wrong. It would take three vital months, along with a number of cases throughout Europe and Russia, before the dwindling CDC realized that the cases were connected. An epidemic was on their hands...and quite frankly, it was already too late.
With five of their best deployed to some of the most active places for infection in the United States, the CDC was hard at work...but there was still one problem. No one had lived through the disease. It seemed impossible to study, a ravenous virus that disappeared upon death. They needed living subjects, but the time for that had not come just yet.
To make matters worse, the virus displayed differently from person to person. Just when a case were almost cracked as being the “mystery virus”, it turned out to be a case of severe internal infection or mental disorder. The families of the dead could only provide details to the CDC, symptoms and strange behavior that they had exhibited before they died and on that alone, they sent word to top officials. Word traveled up the ranks and finally, albeit too late, a last-ditch effort had been put into place. Evacuations had finally been sprung on the people, kept in the dark - and the chaos of an unplanned and underprepared crisis unfolded.
As cases ravaged the unsuspecting U.S citizens, the military was deployed to keep the peace within the rising chaos. Furious that martial law had been established, many southern states rose against the very people sworn to protect them. Normal, everyday people were attacking each other in the street while others lost the ability to speak, see or even stand. People became terrified that they, or their families, could be next; many of whom refused to leave their homes per the military's request. And although more military were deployed to the cities daily, they, too, became overwhelmed by the sheer number of victims. Disaster relief was also short lived, supplies running out faster than anticipated while other workers abandoned their work all together in lieu of saving themselves.
It has been weeks since the outbreak started and people, no longer looking to the government or military for help, have begun to re-imagine the possibilities for escape. Some remain hunkered down in their homes, praying for rescue while others have emerged into a new, terrifying world unlike anything they could have imagined. But from the downfall of civilization as they know it, there's hope and they're cropping up all across California. Colonies are what they call themselves; small pockets of survivors that have banded together for their specific cause. Most seek survival in numbers, a few seek power in a world now run by anarchy while others look for a cure to the disease that plagues their country. But they all have one thing in common: they're all waiting for rescue.
plot
