Riding The Apocalypse Read online

  He went on for a while, talking about the virus and the need for everyone to get flu shots or some such. I must confess, once I heard the virus would be contained, I let my mind wander. Lest you judge, I wasn’t the only one to have this reaction. Senator Riley had not formerly declared his desire to be the Democratic Party’s presidential nominee, but the primaries were getting closer and he seemed to be on TV more and more, urging action for this and that, concerned about everyone’s welfare.

  But even though Senator Riley was a bit of a publicity hound, his rhetoric (and Democratic support in the federal government) rustled up hundreds of doctors and medical staff from the most elite hospitals in the United States and they were shipped down to Ground Zero post-haste. Problem solved, crisis averted, I went ahead and had that whiskey.

  Except two days later half of the medical staff and all of the doctors were on their way back. Apparently, the virus was much more widespread than first believed so the medical personnel were hastily transported back to the United States and quarantined at military bases for twenty-four hours. No one seemed ill.

  Just six hours after quarantine ended, one of the medical personnel began to show signs of infection, twelve hours later he died right here in the United States, at Stanford Hospital. Let’s call him Patient Zero, I can’t remember his name from the newscast.

  The Outbreak snowballed from there. I was drinking a Diet Coke and hoping my ex would call when the White House Press Secretary interrupted my afternoon’s television viewing. Apparently less than an hour after his death, while the patient lay motionless on his gurney in the hospital morgue, a mortician named Morty (I did not make that up, though would love to claim I did) was preparing the corpse for autopsy when an unprecedented chain of events occurred. Patient Zero’s body temperature began rising. Morty continued preparing for the postmortem examination of the supposedly deceased when suddenly the body twitched, jolted violently, then defecated on the gurney. This is very strange but not out of the realm of possibility as a dead body does sometimes discharge postmortem. As the undertaker feverishly dictated notes, the corpse suddenly opened its black eyes, saw Morty, and attacked. His screams were also duly recorded.

  The security guard happened to be glancing at the morgue’s monitor when he caught the action. He dropped his sandwich and immediately reported the unbelievable occurrence to the head of security. It gets chaotic from there, as conflicting details and patchy reports poured in, or so it was spun by the press secretary. This much is certain: after Patient Zero reanimated and partially consumed Morty, he limped out of the morgue and proceeded to try to bite anyone in sight. The news station was showing security camera footage of the newly awoken corpse roaming the hallways and attacking random passersby. The scene smacked of a bad horror movie.

  “Jesus,” I said aloud, reaching for my Diet Coke. Some security guard's head is gonna roll for that one I thought. Realizing the pun, I felt bad and proud of my joke at the same time.

  Then my phone rang, and I smiled when I saw the familiar number.

  “Remy, what’s up for tonight?” my ex-girlfriend asked. “You got a hot date?”

  “Nope, all the good programming has been bumped by this virus shit and my TiVo is empty,” I answered dryly. “You?”

  “I am heading over to an ex’s house for a booty call, assuming he is free for about twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”

  “I hate that phrase, booty ca—”

  “I know, Rem, that’s why I said it.”

  “Hey, are you watching this virus thingy coverage?” I asked, distracted by the TV in spite of myself.

  “Rem, can we just have a good time tonight? Work has been hell, all I’ve done for two weeks is deal with this thing. I’m in the field, remember? Tonight I just want to relax, watch a movie, and, you know, have consensual sex with someone who won’t send me flowers the next day. Can you do that for me, Rem?”

  “Sure, I think so, but does the thirty-six hours include dinner and foreplay, ’cause—”

  “See ya in a bit, Rem, shake me a Martini, dirty, extra olives. I will be there by five-thirty or so.”

  “You got it, bye,” I said as I headed to the pantry to see how much gin I had left. On the way I glanced at the TV.

  I watched bits and pieces as I jumped in the shower and performed my pre-mating ablutions. My ex was coming over, and I needed to be presentable. After the shower and pre-coital ritual, I walked into the living room, buttoning up my shirt while catching more of the broadcast.

  I reached for my second Diet Coke and turned on the stereo. “I think Sam Cooke will do nicely,” I said to myself as I scrolled through the MP3 catalog display. Then I grabbed the remote and turned off the television. “Enough of this.”

  Chapter 2

  “I have no idea what the hell to do right now.”

  I forced my heavy eyelids open, and looked at the alarm clock, 11:47 a.m.

  Mustering a tired smile, I briefly recalled last night’s activities, and understood why I slept so late. I rubbed the remaining sleep from my eyes, rolled to my right, and peered at my ex sleeping next to me. Once again, she was above the covers. She runs hot, and covers are only useful for her on cooler than average nights. Since we live in California, she sleeps above the covers almost all year round. I always found that to be sexy. Whatever she was wearing when she fell asleep would be on display for the rest of the night. It made a bathroom run in the middle of the night worth the effort, a relieved bladder plus the visual always put a smile on my face. This morning’s outfit consisted of a pair of white lace panties, and well, nothing else. I took a moment to take it in, kissed her matted hair, and headed to the kitchen for coffee.

  As I picked my way through the random pieces of clothing littering the house, I heard a siren outside that seemed fairly close, but soon grew faint, so I ignored it and made coffee. I headed back to my bedroom with two cups of coffee and a handful of biscotti in tow, then placed her cup on the nightstand by her side, walked around the bed to my side, put my coffee on the other nightstand, and laid down. Out of habit, I grabbed the remote, took a peek at my ex’s well sculpted backside, and flipped on the television.

  “Thanks for the coffee and stuff,” she said sleepily as she rolled over onto her back. “Hey, that’s the Surgeon Gener—”

  “Wait, listen,” I said as I turned up the volume.

  The Surgeon General’s press conference was just about to start and regular network programming was nowhere to be seen. Dr. Susan Higgins, known for her tough exterior, looked flustered and tired. With her blond hair and tiny frame she was quite attractive for an older woman, or any woman for that matter. But her composure and attractiveness soon faded as she began trying to explain the virus, symptoms, and the way it possibly spread. Soon she looked scared as hell, and that was disconcerting. I moved closer to my ex.

  “By most accounts the virus is spread through the bite of an infected individual. There seems to be a large concentration of contagions in the saliva of the infected and they seem driven to seek out the uninfected.” Higgins sounded as if she did not quite believe what she was saying.

  “Once a person has been bitten and infected, most patients usually expire within an hour, though some cases have been reported of death occurring after twenty-four hours or even longer, depending on treatment and other variables. However, none of the infected have recovered as of yet. They have all expired and there is no known cure,” Higgins said solemnly, pausing to take a deep breath. “Subsequent to what appears to be clinical death, it takes the body of the infected a matter of minutes to reanimate and aggressively begin seeking and trying to bite the uninfected. At this time, we are not sure if skin contact with blood, body fluids, or wounds of the infected would also result in infection.”

  We sipped our coffee and listened as she advised against any contact with the sick, and warned that anyone who does not disclose contact may potentially spread this virus. Those with reason to suspect their own infection were encouraged t
o seek out the nearest law enforcement representative who would escort them to quarantine facilities where medical aid would be provided. She urged cooperation and repeatedly stressed the urgency of the situation, any delay in seeking treatment could endanger countless others. Higgins closed by repeating the need for citizens to take immediate action if bitten or coming into direct contact with the infected. Dr. Higgins even hinted that failure to comply would be a criminal act, but did not give specifics.

  The Surgeon General then somewhat reluctantly opened the floor to questions, of which there were many. Higgins was being grilled about reports the virus was rapidly spreading throughout the United States when the TV crawler began to scroll.

  “There are some reports of people being infected in places where there were no patients from South America. Can you explain this?” one reporter asked.

  She clearly could not but bravely tried anyway. “Maybe someone was scratched during handling of the medical personnel brought back to the United States, perhaps ground personnel,” she theorized. She threw out a few more implausible scenarios before changing tacks. “Whatever the cause, people are now crossing borders to get away from the infection but they are likely only spreading it.” She indicated a map which showed the greatest concentration of cases in southwestern border states and at the five quarantine locations for the personnel returning from South America. But it was definitely not isolated to these regions.

  Higgins illustrated her point by citing other examples, including the anecdote of a teenage Candy Striper who had been bitten on the wrist in the immediate aftermath of the escape by Patient Zero. She subsequently vanished from the hospital, presumably returning home to Palo Alto. It is speculated she succumbed to the virus after leaving work, and later reanimated to spread the disease north and inland.

  A fresh barrage of intense questioning ensued; this was the most frantic and disordered press conference I had ever seen. Dr. Higgins tried to explain, contradict, or downplay a lot of things that certainly sounded crazy but I could tell she wasn’t sure what was truth and fiction. I started to wish she would just end the damn conference already.

  My ex and I both put down our coffee and spontaneously huddled together when the network crawler proclaimed, “The Outbreak Virus, which originated in the South American Country of Chile, has begun to spread rapidly across the principal metropolitan areas of the United States. Once infected, victims appear to expire within twenty-four hours. Within minutes of clinical death—although sometimes longer—the infected are reportedly regaining consciousness and engaging in violent cannibalistic attacks aimed exclusively at the uninfected.”

  “What the fuck did that scroll thing just say? Cannibalistic?”

  A list of places with confirmed cases of infection was now scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Many familiar American cities were passing before my increasingly distressed eyes. When I saw my own city it gave me that feeling you get when you’re leaning back on a chair a tad too far, and you just catch yourself before crashing. It jolted my core. This was not some disturbance in some foreign country with a spicy food name, it was here in the United States. And not tomorrow, or next week.

  Right fucking now.

  The station all of a sudden went black.

  I have this thing with my ex. Well, I am going to be honest, I have done this with most of my girlfriends over the years, at least all the ones who would let me. I love to watch TV in bed, and my preferred position when in female company is to rest my head just above her left breast as she lays on her back. I curl on my right side, then position my head so my line of sight to the TV is directly between her breasts. Now over the years, let’s just say, the TV has been less obscured by others compared to my ex. That day I was grateful for more than the obvious reason because they helped partially obscure what I was seeing. I huddled down further and changed from the black screen to another news station which was still broadcasting. I was trying to watch the coverage, but it was becoming increasingly difficult as the minutes passed. I could feel her warm breath as she gasped repeatedly, and felt my own head shift as she turned to the left, averting her eyes. We could not look away for long though. We were drawn to the images like rubberneckers to an automobile accident. It was so hard to believe what was unfolding on my TV was real and not some bad movie. It just couldn’t be real, could it? I edged back, closer to my ex’s left ear, her long, brown hair partially blocked my eyes and felt comforting against the side of my face.

  The camera must have been mounted on a tripod atop a news van or truck or something like that because the camera angle never moved. The cameraman was probably long gone.

  The unmanned camera was focused on the turnabout in front of Stanford Hospital. It was a wide shot, showing the entire loop of the drop-off area, a road up a small hill and back down the other side with a small lawn inside the cement loop. Grass covered the hill leading up to ambulance parking. It was actually pretty nice as hospitals go. Or would have been if not for what was unfolding.

  The scene was surreal. There was a crashed ambulance abandoned at an awkward angle, almost perpendicular to the glass doors atop the roundabout. The emergency vehicle had come to rest with the right bumper abutting the right innermost column, the lights were flashing silently and all the doors were opened and marked with reddish brown smears. The column which had halted its progress was one of four that supported the bright white awning sheltering the drop-off area. “EMERGENCY” was emblazoned across the top in bright red letters, completing the facade of the building.

  How literal.

  “Who the fuck was that?!” my ex screamed in my ear.

  Our heads collided together as I pulled her tightly to me. She screamed again as I buried my thumb into her right triceps muscle. I released her upper arm and watched the color return as I slid back down to my preferred position.

  “Who the fuck was that?!” I repeated. I again saw what appeared to be a pale gray man wearing a crimson red scarf stumble from behind the right side of the ambulance. Then he abruptly reversed his course, and stumbled out of sight behind the emergency vehicle, gone from the camera’s static view.

  Partially obscured by my ex’s left breast was another man, lurching slowly up the hill. His gait was odd, and he was covered in blood. I immediately thought of the Surgeon General’s warning—

  “Oh my God!” I shouted.

  The man with the scarf appeared again. He wandered from around the ambulance toward the camera. As he passed the emergency vehicle, the scarf left a bright red streak across the back of the van.

  It was not a scarf.

  What I had thought was a scarf was actually the man’s right arm, or what was left of it. The arm had somehow been nearly severed at the elbow, and was flailing alongside his body with no bone to hold the flesh in place. The blood was a darker crimson than I imagined it would be. I was amazed at the almost purple appearance of his ripped skin and exposed sinews. His movements were coltish as he stumbled then turned again toward the camera. He promptly tripped again as his left foot dragged across the red-painted cement curb. The monster rolled awkwardly down the small grassy hill, staying in view the entire time. Had it not been such a terrifying scene, it would be comical. The one armed man did not even attempt to break his fall, and rolled down the bank. Near the end he tumbled into another monster who was limping up the same bloodstained grass hill and together they barreled toward the bottom. The dark red bloodstains contrasted starkly against the vibrant green of the well-manicured front lawn. It was like a fucked up, horrific Christmas card. I will never again look at green and red together in the traditional way.

  I actually winced as he and the bloody stump hit the grass over and over, gaining speed, but he didn’t seem to notice. I cannot explain how strange it was to see someone crashing like that and making no attempt to mitigate the impact, or shield his severed appendage, flailing and slapping against the soil. It was seriously messed up.

  Just then I saw a flash of movement that tor
e my eyes from the one-armed man. A woman came running out of the emergency room’s double doors at an amazing clip. Moving quickly, at first glance she appeared unhurt, though her screaming was gut wrenching. I reluctantly removed my hand from my ex’s side and fumbled for the remote. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as her high-pitched shrill caused me to bite my lip so hard I felt the warmth of blood and the taste of iron in between my teeth.

  Muted.

  “Stop! Not that way!” My ex and I shouted at the television as the woman hurled herself down the hill directly at the two bloody men trying to stand up at the bottom. She obviously could not see them from the crest of the hill, probably because they were not yet upright. The monsters had worn an opaque red patch in the middle of the grass as they fumbled against each other, trying to gain purchase on the matted lawn. She spotted them just as the two men got to their feet, stopped dead in her tracks less than ten feet away. The woman changed course, as nimble as a child who just heard an ice cream truck, and disappeared to the right of the camera shot.

  “Why are they still broadcasting this?” my ex whimpered.

  I quickly flipped the channel, not wanting to traumatize her further but unable to turn it off. I looked for a news anchor to make some sense of what we were seeing.

  Flip…

  More of the same. I stopped on the third channel just in time to see a police officer rushing into a panicked crowd in front of City Hall. He struck a man in the back who was attacking a screaming woman on the street. The man turned, revealing his ghostlike complexion and jet black eyes, similar to the men we had just seen on the hospital lawn. The attacker opened his mouth, revealed his bloodstained teeth, then bit the officer on the right side of his neck. The blood spewed out of the officer’s jugular with such force it temporarily blinded the attacker with dark red blood. The monster was not intelligent enough to rub his eyes clear, and lost track of his catch as the officer broke free. The cop took just two steps before the loss of blood caused him to meet his Waterloo. But before he even hit the pavement he was savaged by another infected bystander, who, if he could have rationalized, would have had difficulty believing his luck. The original biter joined in the feast as soon as he stumbled onto it. Within seconds, three more joined the buffet. The camera began to shake so much it was no longer possible to see what was happening.