Binary System

   He relaxes in a futuristic-looking black metallic motorized wheelchair. The medical apparatus, he designed and built. The seat and armrest both made from luxurious black Italian leather. The device with its high side rails. Complete with a rounded rear compartment. Similar to a car trunk. The hybrid chair looks like a sleek, elegant love child. Of a golf cart and motorized wheelchair. And who could blame him? After all, his medical prognosis. Was that he'd stay in a wheelchair. The rest of his life. But not if he had anything to say about it. And a man of his status always did have something to say. His bright blue eyes stared straight ahead. He is distracted, his trembling hand absently stroking his chin. Filling his field of vision is a square glass shower like enclosure. He admires the glass case. As if it were a work of art or rare jewel up for auction. Modesty not becoming the partially paralyzed man. His mind races about with the speed of a supercomputer.  It pauses the multitude of calculations and extrapolations briefly. Just long enough to let his ego pass by. Like a parade for a visiting monarch. Thinking to himself. “It is a work of science, not art.” He sees before him, his reflection. Jet-black hair styled neatly atop his head. Handsome, clean-shaven face contoured with worry lines. His eyes follow the reflected image down. He takes in the mobile prison to which he is confined. The motorized wheelchair hybrid helps him. It concealed the unsightlier aspects of his condition. All the medical supplies that are necessary for a person with paraplegia. To make through the day alive. Oxygen tanks, medication vails, IV, and a Foley bag. Vanity had driven him to create the chair. It also fueled his manic work on the back and leg braces suspended in the glass enclosure.

    Lost in thought the muted noise in the small sterile chrome lab doesn’t even register. Richard’s eyes caress the black polycarbonate equipment. That hangs from shiny metal filaments before him. The medical devices inside the enclosure hang suspended in a bluish pink bubble of Nonthermal Plasma. The colors flow over the surface of the thrumming plasma bubble. It moves in hypnotic undulating waves fluctuating in erratic ribbons. Like the Northern Lights in the cold Arctic night sky. The black composite pieces of the leg braces. He has constructed to store up the energy generated from the Plasma surrounding them. “So close,” he thinks to himself. The literal pursuit of his ability to walk. His single all-consuming goal of the last two decades. Well, within his reach. “Dr. Douglas.” A soft male voice tinged with equal parts of concern and urgency. Richard Douglas spins around.
The wheelchair pivots as if it’s gliding at the sound of his name. The motion of the chair is smooth and fluid. His mind controls it via two tiny control modules implanted just behind each of his ears. Barely regarding the neatly dressed bald black man in front of him. With the annoyed eye of a big brother. More than the disapproving eye of an employer. Richard speaks, “Marcus, must you disrupt me when I am thinking?” Richard asks his caretaker for the past ten years. “I am sorry, Richard, but I did call you twice.” Marcus smiles, nervously as he speaks. “And for the record, if I waited for you to stop thinking.” Marcus continues undeterred. “The world would be overrun with zombies.” Richard rolls his eyes with contempt. Taking both the verbal slight and the use of “that word.” Both men meet each other’s gaze with raised eyebrows. Marcus’ mouth forms a slight smile at the corners before finishing. “The White House Chief of Staff called on behalf of the President.” Stepping closer Marcus continues. “There will be a team sent to escort us to a waiting military helicopter. The closest place they could land. Turns out is a mile from here in the park. From there, we will be flying to The President’s command bunker in D.C.”

    As with most things that he finds this trivial. Richard rolls his eyes. With a frustrated sigh, he speaks. “All this for such a minor pandemic.” Marcus bristles. His stance is becoming tense and defensive. “Doctor, that is such a heartless statement, even for you.” Richard holds up one hand. His gesture signals the end of the discussion before it had even begun. Richard knew full well that the death toll in the U.S. Had already surpassed a million lost souls. To this yet unnamed and unknown pathogen. Globally, he knew the death toll had recently surpassed a billion. “Yes, it was a heartless assessment of the pandemic.” He conceded. “But Marcus, that is because of science. It is not about the heart. Nor is it based on emotions. It is solidly rooted in scientifically verifiable and proven facts only.” The fact that humanity is currently facing extinction. At a previously unfathomable rate. Is lost on a man whose emotions he willingly sacrificed decades ago. Richard Douglas had replaced his feelings with the sterility of intellect and shallowness of ego. Richard had cleaned out that part of his psyche. Like a parent converting an adult child’s bedroom into extra storage space.

    He sighs loudly. Then stiffly moves his right hand up to rub the bridge of his nose. Richard feels as though he lives in a world. Where from an intellectual standpoint. He must continually go back for everyone else. In a frustrating effort to help the rest of humanity keep up with him. Like a child shuffling along behind an annoyed parent. “I solved this problem last night before bed.” Speaking slowly as if to an elementary school science class. Richard Douglas continues. “The files, binders, and thumb drives from my room.” He says this as if it should instantly instill confidence in the neatly dressed, timid middle-aged black man.
Standing indignantly in front of his wheelchair. “Did you put them in the black attaché́ case yet?” Richard continues. Marcus nods approvingly. Crossing his arms over his thin chest. “And did you inform them of what I require to formulate and deliver the cure as I requested Marcus?” “Yes, Richard, I did.” The lean man answers sheepishly. “I have loaded the essentials in the van. And the attaché́ ‘case is on the hallway end table by the door. “Well then,” Richard begins with an arrogant smile. “I’ve calculated withstanding military, emergency, and governmental resources. This nonsense of the “dead rising.” Richard finishes the last sentence. Punctuating “dead rising.” With the universally recognized douchebag hand gesture of “air quotation” marks. “Will be but a distant stain on our collective memories. In less than ninety days.” Richard whirls his chair back around to face the glowing glass partition containing his leg braces. “I will assume they have agreed to my provision to have a team secure these?” Pointing his finger at the medical supports braces. Richard continues, “I want them brought to me within a week as well?” Before Marcus can answer, Richard, catches a glance at his reflection in the glass. The man standing behind him fidgets with nervous energy. Like a current of fear is overcharging his body. “Oh, what now, Marcus?” Richard says the chair is spinning around silently once more.

    Marcus motions with his hands. Towards a small television embedded in the lab’s chrome wall. As if he is introducing his date to a disapproving father. “It has gotten worse since last night, Dr. Richard.” Marcus’ words don’t do the global situation playing on the television screen justice. The scenes of chaos and carnage from across the world. Flood into the small lab from the television screen. A disheveled weary blonde male reporter is talking. But with the television muted, his words are lost to the pair of men. However, the term “zombie” keeps appearing across the bottom of the screen. In much the same manner, an urgent weather report does. Richard sees the word, and it ratchets up the sense of frustration he feels. The common man is always desperately clinging to their arcane old ways. Humanity has a deep-seated fear of confronting the unknown. The scene broadcasting from the television is one of horror. It shows random people or groups of people attacking each other. Some appear to be injured, walking with a slack-jawed sluggish gait. Other people seem to be fighting off these sick looking individuals. Richard watches with little to no interest as a pack of these people. Pull a screaming man from an overturned car. They begin to tear at the man’s flesh with their teeth and hands. They open their victim up like a pinata feasting on his entrails. With a thought, Richard turns the television off. The implants behind his ears. Give him control over every automated system in the house. Richard blinks his eyes once. He presses a button on the armrest of his chair. And when he opens his eyes again. There is a green HUD display cast from his wheelchair. Floating before him is a map of the continental United States. “Damn that was unaccounted for ...” Richard says. In what is most assuredly and unusual display of emotions for him. The source of his surprise is evident to Marcus. The number of red dots indicating reported outbreaks on the map has grown exponentially since last night. His pride leads to anger. Even more than the death of countless thousands of people. The simple fact that even with his vast intellect. Nature had found a way to slip an unaccounted-for variable past him. “Son of a bitch,” Richard says whistling to himself. “The pathogen and the infection jumped the Mississippi faster than I accounted for.” “Richard I....” Marcus starts before Richard cuts him off mid-sentence. “There ...” He says, blinking the HUD away. He doesn’t even acknowledge the fear in his companions’ eyes. “I have accounted for a few more variables. With the supplies at the President’s bunker. The remaining military, civilian law enforcement, CDC personnel, and remaining government agencies.” Richard nods to Marcus. A small gesture, an almost regal display of emotion. He is taking the effort to reassure the man. He continues, “Resolving this situation, down to the last infected. Still refusing to use the media base colloquialism “zombie.” In approximately six-months at the most. Unless we do not receive any assistance from any of our international Allies, here at home, we are  looking at eight months and two weeks.”

   The sound of an elaborate chime echoes across the small pristine lab. “Ah ...” Marcus gasps in relief. “That must be our escort team, Richard.” His mood brightens considerably. At the thought of armed soldiers protecting them. Versus basing his faith on Richard’s detached intellect. Relief is evident on the man’s flushed face. Marcus turns gracefully on his heels. Marcus moves for the small door on the opposite side of the lab. “I’ll go and pull the van around Richard,” Marcus calls over his shoulder. “Finally,” With only a thought, Richard commands his wheelchair to spin about. He allows his mind to run free. His goals in life are not nearly as altruistic as the world believes. His driving force since the day of the accident. Was to walk again to have that physical posture to match that of his brilliant mind. Richard Douglas’ brain is free to roam. Unlike his broken body. And that brain knocks down equations at a rate that would make a room full of computer mainframes blush. When he initially had come up with the idea of the braces. He had envisioned them storing energy from the nonthermal Plasma fitted to his legs and spine. The devices would supercharge the damaged and broken nerve pathways from the brain, down the spine, through nerves and synaptic relays, and into his extremities. They would recharge their energy using the nonthermal plasma generator as needed.

  For him, it would yield another medical breakthrough, another Nobel prize, more money than he could ever hope to spend. Finally, freeing him from this wretched chair. From somewhere behind him. A soft thump draws him from his thoughts. Richard catches a glance at the clock on his chair’s digital display. There among his vital signs and various other health-related info. The red numbers illuminated against the black LED display. It had been several minutes since Marcus went to answer the door. A groan of displeasure rambles around in Richard’s throat. With a dismissive thought, he commands the motorized wheelchair forward. He is mentally steering it towards the door which his aide had exited.

   “Marcus ...” Richard bellows. As the door softly opens, drawing aside into a recess in the wall. “What is taking you and those damn grunts so long ...” Richard snaps. His words trail off from a lion’s roar. To the familiar inaudible squeak of a field mouse. All in the space of a nanosecond. The wheelchair glides effortlessly through the door. Four human forms occupy the once pristine hallway two large male soldiers, one black and one a white with pale skin. Together with a woman dressed in a military nurse’s uniform. The fourth person buried underneath the other three hunched over forms. With only his legs visible from Richard’s vantage point. Is Marcus a man whom he viewed as an employee. Right up until the minute, he realized his friend was dead. All three of the figures dressed in military fatigues look up, simultaneously locking their milky white eyes on him. They move almost in unison like a single-celled organism. Their undead slack faces masks of dripping crimson blood from the chin down. The eyes that glare up at him. Are a sickly puss colored shade of white. The three figures are casually chewing on various sized chunks of flesh. Torn from Marcus’s prone body. A pinched wheeze sneaks past Richard’s now painfully dry lips. The sound is almost a reflex and completely involuntary. But it is enough to stir the three. Now they move with a purpose. The three reanimated corpses slowly climb to their feet. Gone is the dull, disinterested slack-jawed demeanor. The lazy facade replaced with purposed filled rigid necrotic stride. As the three clumsily make it to their feet. Discarding the cooling morsels of humanity torn from poor Marcus. Like a child who has dropped their treat on the floor. Only to be offered a fresh one from mommy or daddy.

   “Infected...” The word drips from his lips. In the same manner, the blood falls from the chin of the three individuals. The three infected stumbles toward Richard. The scientist and scholar inside him. Still, stubbornly refuses to say the word “zombie.” But Richard Douglas’s mind screams the name. The way a drowning swimmer cries, “help.” Bouncing off one another, they come for him. All the while, using the constant tug of gravity. They plod in the direction of the tantalizing human before them. Richard’s chair takes off in reverse with a jolt. So sudden is the movement that he momentarily forgets his neural implants. For the moment, they have just saved his life. He thought, “I need to back up,” and the chair responded. Unfortunately, with no direction, the chair slams into the wall. Grating across the mechanical lab door’s track. The doctor gripped by panic an emotional state is so rare to him. His mind flies off on a tangent, settling itself on a memory. Frozen moments are flashing like sequential still photographs in slow motion. A car accident from his childhood.  The same one that had stolen his ability to walk plays on repeat.

  The chair swings wildly. As its rear wheels command, it to move without any directional controls. Richard steadies himself feebly, depressing a button on his chair’s armrest. The thin metal door to the lab. Shudders across its damaged track. Then first of the infected bodies. That of the giant black soldier hits the closing door with all the force of a linebacker. The thin metal door warps outward at the leading edge. Just as Richard’s chair lurches backward crashing into the glass enclosure containing his life’s work. Tiny jagged shards of glass rain down around him. The shards fleck his exposed skin like angry hornets. His eyes flick back to the doorway.

   The pounding on the entryway begins. Richard realizes it won’t hold for long. In its damaged state, it will not close securely. The door is emitting a piercing mechanical whine. As it furiously grinds its gears in vain. Richard takes a moment to breathe. Steadying the only weapon he posses, his mind. Around him, he sees his precious spine and leg braces. They lie scattered on the chair, floor, and bottom of the demolished case. He hears the sounds of the infected in the hall. Rise above the squealing of the door. Somewhere outside in the distance. An explosion rattles the house. The shuttering wall gives the undead soldier enough leeway. To surge forward, warping the door even more. Now the blood-caked broken arms of the ghouls come into view. In his mind, Richard sees his long-dead mother. She’s soothing him rubbing his head and wiping tears from his face. It hurt her to see him bullied. “Go into your bubble,” she would tell him. “You’re safe there, and no one will hurt you.” Richard had always secretly hated it when she said that. Because in his bubble, he couldn’t fight back only hide. Suddenly gunfire from outside his home, followed by shrill agonizing screams. “My bubble,” he mumbles. Richard’s head quickly scans his current location. He sees the thin titanium and platinum alloy filaments draped across his chair. These filaments that served as a conductive pathway for nonthermal Plasma to supply the charge for his braces. One strand draped across the back of his chair. Pulsating pink and bluish light of the Plasma. Dances across the filament. Like tiny slithering snakes made of energy. “Raise front and rear IV poles.” The poles extend upward, lifting the metallic threads with them. A grating mechanical screech signals the doors motors burning out. Now the only thing was holding back the infected is the flimsy structural integrity of the door. Richard continues his calculations. To ignite the Plasma in the filaments even as he watches the struggle in the doorway. “To ignite the plasma, I need electricity and a concentrated inert gas,” his mind races. The problem of the gas is solved first. He has an oxygen canister embedded in his wheelchair’s front panel. From a recessed panel on his wheelchair’s armrest, a square compartment pops open. Slowly the chair’s milk carton sized power cell raises. Exposing the black and red battery terminals on it’s top. The door finally gives buckling inward under the undead onslaught.

   The living dead tumble into the room. The pale soldier first, then the female nurse. A new addition lands atop the squirming bodies. The tattered bloodied walking corpse of his loyal aide. “No.” He stops himself, mid-thought. “my friend.” The large black soldier batters through the crowd. Richard can now see a bandage covering his entire massive forearm. From the wrist to his elbow. “Damn it, I warned them.” Richard grimaces. “Anyone who sustains a bite wound. Has to be put down by destroying the brain.” Every classified document on this pathogen. He had in his possession stated that was the only effective means of dealing with the contagion. This pathogen had a one hundred percent infection and mortality rate. With unsteady hands, Richard raises a passive piece of filament. He has one chance to connect the lead to the battery terminals. The infected giant climbers to his feet. With all the style of a drunk frat boy. The infected soldier draws a bead on the paraplegic man. And crosses the room arms outstretched. His jaws are working in a chewing motion. Ready to tear into living flesh. With both of his hands moving at the speed of a malfunctioning carnival prize crane. Dr. Richard Douglas takes the calculated risk of merely dropping the filaments across the battery terminals. The lumbering dead man increases his awkward pace, driven by base cannibalistic instinct alone. “Vent oxygen tank,” his mind screams. As the wires land on the terminals.

   The infected soldier lunges forward. Arms outstretched a snarl etched on his bloodied face. A nanosecond later, Richard Douglas. His hybrid wheelchair becomes wholly encapsulated in a perfect sphere of pure energy. The shambling undead soldier falls face-first on the exterior angry yellow and orange thermal plasma field. The infected soldier’s body vaporizes up to his waist. Flesh and bone vanish in a wisp of pinkish smoke. The Plasma’s exterior shell is generating a localized temperature. That is almost as hot as the surface of the Sun. Richard breathes an exasperated sigh of relief. He and his wheelchair are now safely enclosed in the world’s most lethal hamster ball. He steals a breath for himself. “Son of a bitch, it worked,” Richard chuckles. The moment not lost on him as he delights in the most comfortable place on Earth. His massive ego. The infected in the room with him have managed to get themselves to their feet. They come for him ignorant of his protective shield. Driven by insatiable hunger, self-preservation lost to them. No different than a mosquito landing on a human’s arm in the summer. All they know is a bottomless need. The undead soldiers crash upon the impenetrable barrier. Their bodies are vaporized or left as twitching masses of cauterized smoldering flesh on the lab’s floor. Through the trailing pink smoke, he is afforded one final heartbreaking look at Marcus. The man has been torn open. His body drips entrails and unidentifiable pieces of human meat. He has the appearance of a hollowed-out look of a discarded lobster shell. But his translucent sickly white eyes. They lock on to Richard’s and for the briefest moment. Something passed between them. Is it sorrow, guilt, the acknowledgment kinship, or hunger? Richard will never know. His friend’s face and body dissolve before his eyes into a thin veil of swirling smoke. The man in the wheelchair turns away from the sight before him.  The realization that he can no longer detach himself from his emotions. It weighs on his soul like a spiritual intervention.

   He clears his throat. The sound bounces around the inside of the sphere. It Comes back to his ears as a high pitched metallic echo. He is hesitant about giving the wheelchair the command to move forward. Instead, he mentally commands the chair to “power off and back on.” The plasma field vanishes momentarily. The chair rest in a smoking black recess gouged into the once pristine white marled floor. In the blink of an eye, the shied is back up surrounding the wheelchair. He issues the command to move forward. The motorized wheelchair responds to the order. It is running on the inner side of the plasma shell. As if it were business as usual. He makes his way through the lab doorway. Richard and his scientific salvation singe the door frame and archway. “If it weren’t for the nature of the situation.” He thinks aloud, “this would almost be funny. At the end of the hallway, He can see sunlight and smoke. A subdued haze pours in the open doorway carried on a stiff breeze. There through the haze, Richard sees his black attaché’ case containing his life’s work and the solution. To humanity’s current apocalyptic situation. The wheelchair stops as close to the end table as he dares. He doesn’t want to risk vaporizing the case and its precious contents. He cranes his neck to glance around with as much mobility as his current situation allows. He clicks the off switch on the wheelchair. The protective incendiary force field disabled. In one motion, he drags the case onto his lap with his left hand. Then reactivates his wheelchair’s newly created shield. Next up, Richard plots the fastest course to the park using his HUD display. The vast expanse of trees. An oasis of green in the center of the concrete city. Located up the street from his home but the world outside his door. Sounds to be in the throes of an uncontrolled seizure. He moves to start the wheelchair up. Not being able to recall the last time. That he went anywhere under his own “power.”

   “Scan all military communications within a mile.” He says to the HUD display on the chair’s right armrest. “One band found.” A robotic voice responds. The frequency now displayed in the form of a red LED graph. With a yellow line oscillating down the center. “Patch me in, please.” A second line appears and after several seconds. It mimics the first line perfectly. Static fills his ears as he speaks. “This is Dr. Richard Douglas over.” Seconds past by, and a man comes on, accompanied by a burst of static. “Dr. Douglas, this is Crew Chief Rivera.” There is gunfire in the background.

    Panicked shouts are coming through the static, making it hard to hear the man. “We sent a team for you but can’t reach them. Are you en route over?” Richard waits to ensure the line is clear. “Crew Chief Rivera,” he begins. “Your team is down along with my aide as well. I am on my way to you. Please don’t leave over.” “Dr. Douglas,” Chief Rivera is screaming now. “You are unable to walk, and wheelchair-bound are you not over?” “Even in the damn zombie apocalypse,” Richard mutters to himself. “Chief Rivera, that is correct. And yet I will be at your location in approximately thirteen minutes over?” “How over?” The soldier on the other end of the radio asks the obvious question. Richard commands the wheelchair to move forward. At its top speed, a blistering fifteen miles per hour. “Don’t worry about how Chief Rivera. Leave that to me. You have your helicopter prepped and ready to leave over and out.” His mammoth ego had returned The way a migratory bird returns to its perch. Richard cuts the connection as he breaks through the smoky haze.

    The plasma ball carves a smoldering black groove into the pavement. Everywhere the thermal plasma field touches the asphalt. Richard maneuvers the wheelchairs sitting cradled in its protective shield. The lethal contraption maneuvers in a wide arc. Around the two HUMVEEs parked crossways in his driveway. From around the bumper of the second drab olive-colored vehicle. A mob of zombies stumbles out to greet him. They are all soldiers, “were soldiers,” he notices. Almost a dozen of them their uniforms bloodied. Their bodies are torn and broken. While he is reluctant to use the word “zombie.” The state of their bodies. Combined with the nature of the wounds, he can see don’t lie. He sees a female soldier whose body at a glance. Shows signs three fatal injuries.

  There would be no way if she were “infected.” She could survive the catastrophic injuries marking her body. Richard attempts in vain to put distance between himself and his pursuers. But to no avail, they begin to pounce on him. Their dull eyes only see a living human. Yet utterly ignorant of the plasma field. The dead throw themselves at Richard. Everything that meets the Plasma filed turns to vapor on contact. Heads, torsos, and limbs vanish, leaving burnt hunks of quivering viscera in his wake. He pushes on now safe in the knowledge that his hastily rigged contraption.

   Could survive an assault from the undead. Out onto the street just past the decorative front gates. New York is in the death throes of chaos. Everywhere he looks, he sees the dead, dying, and undead. Bodies litter the ground. Buildings burn even as people seek refuge inside them. The horrible situation before them forcing people to make an unimaginable choice. Be devoured alive or burned to death. He shakes himself out of a trance. Like a drunkard waking to find his house burning around him. Forward, he pushes the wheelchair towards his awaiting escape from this hell. As he goes, he catches the attention of the living and zombies alike. Both opposing groups shocked at the sight of the man in his wheelchair. An angry yellowish-orange ball of Plasma encapsulating him. He merrily bounces along through the zombie apocalypse.

    One man stops cold dumbstruck. In his hand, a pistol dangles limply by his side. The man’s mouth hangs open in an almost comical “o” of astonishment. Momentarily lost, he does not see the recently reanimated policewoman. Until she takes a deep bite from his exposed neck, he screams. Richard cannot hear inside his plasma bubble. The pain on the man’s contorted face is evident. Even as his blood coats the dead officer’s face. Without warning, several more zombies pile on the man. They are drawn to the feeding frenzy by his agonized screams. Richard moves through the chaos. The same way he has moved through life protected by his bubble of intellectual superiority. He had lived in the world but emotionally quarantined from it. Richard moves on, weaving his wheelchair and its forcefield. In and out of traffic, up on the sidewalk. He whizzes around the living wherever possible. The mangled infected throw themselves at him. Like the proverbial lemmings. They come at him. Yet the wheelchair and its ball of death. Slice through the assault without slowing. So relentless is their mindless attack. He trails pinkish-white wispy smoke from the top of the glowing plasma bubble as he comes down off the curb. The park is visible in the distance through all the smoke. The infected mender and stumble around in packs looking for any signs of life. He deftly maneuvers the wheelchair into the street. Ready to cross the last busy intersection before his destination. His eyes narrow, and his sole focus becomes navigating a treacherous tangle of wrecked of vehicles. That form a daunting barrier separating him from his salvation. Richard Douglas does not see the police SWAT van. It bears down upon him. The police officer driving the van is distracted. The small Hispanic officer battered and bloody from the day’s events. Currently locked in a life and death struggle. With his recently resurrected partner of the last six years. Movement out of the side of his eye. Draws Richard’s attention towards the scene as it unfolds.

  Instinctively Richard throws his hands up defensively. The two-ton armored vehicle careens sideways into the intersection. The armored truck hits Richard and his fantastic zombie-proof wheelchair broadside. From his impenetrable bubble of energy. Richard awaits the impact. Arms up shielding himself the way he did as a child. To survive multiple beatings from bullies too numerous to recall. But the crash never comes. Richard uncovers his face to see the truck now split in half, sliding in opposites directions from him. The ends of each section still glowing cherry red. From where the Plasma field had cleaved them in two. The back half erupts in a bright orange flame. Flames spew from its ruptured fuel tank in a broad peacock tail of fire. The zombies together with the living burn consumed by the blaze. Some figures caught in the napalm-like explosion go down at once. They are overwhelmed by the flames flailing, batting helplessly at the fierce fire. Others show no reaction as the fire engulfs them. Before him on display in one vividly colored exhibition. He mumbles to himself. “The great dichotomy of the living versus zombies.” In a slightly bemused tone, he finishes. “There I said, zombie. I hope the world is happy now.” He mentally prods the chair forward. Only making it a few feet before he comes to a complete stop.

   He sees small form down by the bumper of a parked yellow cab. A girl is huddled near the rear wheel well. Richard Douglas feels the vertigo-inducing sensation. Of his whole life unraveling. A dam of pinned up emotions bursts. Like a twig in a raging torrent, sweeping his heart away.  The single-minded drive to restore his ability to walk. His money, influence power, and prestige. All his foolish pursuits now nullified by a sudden single realization. His eyes focus on the adorable little ebony-skinned girl. Sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest. She is wearing a dirty pink and yellow dress. She hides from the sight of the dead. Above her on the sidewalk. From under a frenzied mass of the undead. The lone shoeless brown foot of a woman. Barely visible to Richard on the curb. It’s the only thing he can see. Other than the pack of zombies atop the rest of the prone figure. The child is crying big wet tears streaking her smooth cheeks. She is so beautiful that she seems out of place trapped in all this hell that surrounds her. So innocent does this tiny little girl of maybe six appears to him. That Richard thinks for a moment, that if he can get to her. And hold her aloft for the world around him to see. The chaos of this day would cease instantly. The world itself would stave off the apocalypse. For the sole purpose of making this tiny little girl happy. Richard knows in his heart that her smile would be positively radiant. Never in his life had he even thought about being a father. In all his life, he could not remember having the desire to be around children. Because for all his life, Richard Douglas’ experience and its pursuits have been about one thing himself. The last time Richard remembered being around an actual child. He was the child. Yet as he sits still amid the collapse of New York City. Not just one city but the entirety of human civilization. Unbeknownst to him, Richard and his Plasma shielded wheelchair. Have glided up as close as he dared to the child. His neural implants are controlling the chair, tapping into the very core of his subconscious. “I have to save her.” plays on repeat in his mind. With a trembling hand, he presses down the power button on his chair. The sounds of the city besieged him from all directions. But he ignores them. “Hi, sweetheart ...” He says, voice cracking slightly. The girl flinches backward. “No ... No,” he cautions softly. So as not to scare the child and alert the zombies milling around. “I’m ok, I’m not sick, and I’m not going to hurt you.” He adds, extending a feeble hand. “What’s your name,” He asks? “Cassandra,” The little girl under the car whispers. “Ah...” he smiles. “You were named after one of the most beautiful princesses of Troy.” He says hand still extended. “And blessed with the ability to see the future, but no one believed her.” She nods her tiny head. Her long braids are bouncing as she does. “My daddy picked my name,” Cassandra explained from her sheltered spot under the cab. Richard’s smile broadens at the sound of her voice. It was soft and musical, almost like a bird. He thought to himself. “Most excellent,” Richard whispers back. “Casandra, sweetheart, please come with me, and I’ll take you somewhere safe.” The small child shakes her head “no” quietly. “Mommy and daddy say I shouldn’t go with strangers” She scolds him. “I want my mommy.” The child cries out, looking toward the curb and the sounds of grunting coming from that direction. “Shh … shh.” He tries in vain to silence the child’s wailing. “Your parents were right, Cassandra.” He looks about nervously. “But this is different, honey, please…” His words cut off as a zombie begins to crawl under the cab. It’s snarling desiccated face scaring the little girl. “Please, Cassandra ... come to me.” He stammers as more of the dead seek the source of the crying under the cab. First one, then three, then more crawl under the taxi. They claw the air reaching for the frightened child. A bloodied mangled hand brushes across her elbow. Cassandra erupts into hysterics. She bolts from under the besieged cab on all fours with the speed that only a terrified child can achieve. Richard is now aware that the dead have encircled him and the child. They press in from all around. “Hurry …” he urges Cassandra to him. The child leaps into his lap as the circle of decaying flesh tightens around them.

   
   Richard folds Cassandra in one arm. And with the other depresses the button powering his shield. Fast as his shaking hand will allow. The Thermal Plasma materializes as if out of nowhere. Richard Douglas and little Cassandra saved by the magic of science. From the horrifying death of being consumed alive. The dead wash over the shield in an infected wave. By the dozen, they meet their end as vaporized particulates. “Cassandra’s wails fill the inside of the protective force field. Her face buried in his chest. He clutches her to him as he mentally commands the chair to move. An awkward bump signals that there is a rather severe problem. Followed by the growling of a zombie. He looks behind him as half a zombie corpse flips into the view. It’s the first zombie to crawl under the cab after Cassandra. The mangled top half of a small thin man now caught inside the bubble with them. Flipping over their heads and bumping slowly under the wheelchair. Like a battered rug in a clothes dryer. Stringy chunks of shredded blackened pink entrails. “Shit!’ he exclaims. Using the rarest bit of profanity, he has allowed himself. Richard manages to hit the button as the corpse bumps under the chair. The Plasma filed drops away. The top half of the zombie is propelled some twenty feet in front of them. An audible crunch echoes as the partially devoured corpse. Smacks the unforgiving concrete of New York curb. “So sorry,” he utters breathlessly to the sobbing child. Reactivating the shield, Richard moves the wheelchair onward.

   With no regard for anything or anyone in his path. He slices through the trunk of an overturned car. Before rolling upon on the curb again. An Asian man tugs a woman by the hand. The couple is fleeing a hungry pack of the dead. Narrowly avoid being vaporized themselves. The crowd of dead chasing them is nowhere near as lucky. Richard plows into them. Vaporizing a baker’s dozen of the recently deceased. Off to his right, he can see a big black helicopter in the park. A perimeter of soldiers keeping the living dead at bay. One soldier fires a massive minigun. Which is aimed menacingly out the open side door of the fuselage. He chews up swaths of encroaching zombies with the weapon. Richard guides his chair. Slicing through a section of the thick slate grey cement wall surrounding the park. He rolls to a stop before the stunned soldiers. “I am Richard Douglas.” He shouts, dropping the shield. Trying to be heard above the massive Blackhawk’s rotors. A soldier runs to him, flipping his visor up. Absently slinging his rifle over his medium built frame. The name “Rivera” stenciled in yellow on his black flight suit. “Dr. Richard Douglas, I presume.” Richard nods his head. The sound of gunfire rising above the rotor wash of the helicopter. “Where is everyone else?” Rivera shouts. A short shake of the head from Richard. Let’s the Crew Chief know there is no one else. Rivera stands up and surveys the scene. The reanimated dead converge from all sides. The occasional random living human. Interspersed between the horde of zombies. They run screaming and waving. Begging and pleading to be allowed aboard the airship. But to no avail, the humans don’t stand a chance. They are pulled down by the legion of undead. The Crew Chief waves a finger in the air. Then clicks his throat mic. “Wheels up in one minute,” he commands. Richard hands Cassandra to Rivera. The girl lets out a scream of protest and reaches for the doctor. “Sir, New York is lost. We are falling back to D.C., And no one informed me there were any children.” Rivera shouts into his ear, leaning down. “There weren’t,” Richard answers weakly. “I Stopped and rescued her,” he yells, desperate to be heard. “Ok, let’s get you and her aboard, sir.” Rivera offers the child to a soldier already on board the helicopter. He then motions for two soldiers to join him. As they move to lift him from the chair. Amid a shrinking circle of the dead. “No,” Richard catches Rivera’s hand. With as much strength as he can muster. He pulls the black attaché’ from under his footrest on the wheelchair. Rivera looks down, following Richard’s hands. His eyes go wide at the sight of the case. Its black leather exterior stippled with streaks of fresh blood. Richard summons his strength pulling Rivera closer. “One of them got me,” He says almost as if he’s in confessional. “When I saved her. Its top half was in the shield with us.” Rivera looks down eyes going wide. “I have no feeling in my legs, Rivera. So, I didn’t know.” Offering up almost apologetically. Rivera nods slowly. “Look, Rivera.” Richard goes on in the man’s ear. “Promise me you will get this to the President. And tell him that everything entitled to me is now hers.” He motions to Cassandra crying in the big soldier’s arms. She reaches for Richard, her tiny fingers clasping the air. “I want her in that bunker and protected understood?” Rivera raises some but doesn’t stand up totally. “Yes sir, I do, doctor” Richard smiles. “Everything I have done and will do. Will earn her all the privileges meant for me.” Richard sees the teeming masses of “Zombies” coming for them, and he smiles. “Tell them to follow all the protocols and formulas to the letter. And protect Cassandra with your life. Do you understand Rivera?” “Yes, I do” The crew chief shouts his response. “Can’t we save you, sir? Since you have the plans for a cure. “Rivera shouts motioning his men to fall back. Richard’s smile fades. At that moment, he sees firsthand. The bitter fruit of a life spent devoid of emotions. Devoid of happiness and true love. “I can feel the pathogen coursing through my body.” He shouts, his voice growing weaker. As the pathogen sets up shop in his brain. Then manically starts reprogramming his body. Like a mad scientist.” It’s too late for me; I can feel it.” With his free hand, he pushes the attaché’ to Rivera. “Chief, get out of here.” Richard waves the man off. “Tell the President I’m going to solve your New York problem for you.” Rivera looks puzzled. “Rivera, I’m going to overload the Thermal Plasma field around me. In thirty minutes or so.” Richard pauses to allow a wave of nausea to pass. “The resulting implosion will vaporize everything within sixteen point three miles. Of where we are currently standing. Leaving a half-mile deep eight-mile-wide crater in its wake. By my humble estimate neutralizing approximately two point four million zombies. And another five hundred thousand uninfected humans.” His words hang in the air.

    A burst roars from the minigun on board the helicopter. The loud sound a stark reminder of the current situation. High-velocity rounds shred concrete, grass, trees, and bodies alike. A vast swath of the park shredded to confetti. As if God himself has snapped his fingers. Tearing the very fabric of the section of ground apart. Rivera whistles softy, and the numbers he has just heard Richard rattle off. With the calm of a sociopathic supervillain monologuing his evil plans. Chatter fills Rivera’s ear, “Sir, we have to go now.” A woman’s voice crackles from his com. “Godspeed sir,” River snaps off a salute. “We’ll get this info where it needs to go, and Cassandra will be safe. I promise you.” and with that, the Crew Chief trots back to the Blackhawk.

     The magnificent war machine lifts effortlessly into the air. Richard Douglas depresses the button on his chair's armrest one last time. “Maximize battery output to full capacity.” He commands his wheelchair. This time the Thermal Plasma field spreads to covering him. In a three-hundred-foot glowing orange and red-colored ball of Plasma. To anyone left alive in New York. The meticulously clothed, elegantly handsome man in the wheelchair. Would appear to be sitting inside a very lifelike pulsating model of the Sun. In the center of the buzzing energy field, Dr. Richard Douglas sits calmly. His eyes closed and lost within himself. He tracks the infection flowing through his own body. Mentally taking notes, he dictates them to his chair’s onboard computer. Which remotely uploads the data to his computers back at home. Then relays the information to a tiny computer in the attaché case. A broiling fever washes over him. His last thoughts go to Cassandra. He smiles to himself. “Don’t worry, Cassandra.” He dictates. “This time, when you tell them about the future. They will listen.” With a flash brighter than the noonday sun. Richard Douglas, Manhattan, The Bronx, Queens, the westernmost quarter of Long Island, and Newark New Jersey. All cease to exist, leaving behind a blackened smoldering crater. 

View from the Top

She hears incessant moaning rising up from below. The sound slowly forcing violent waves of nausea up from the pit of her stomach. Sitting atop the roof of her besieged home hurt and alone. Desperately she fights back an impending deluge of tears. “Gone," She whispers referring to her family. A lost husband, teenage son and a set of preteen twins. Black smoke billows around her like an acrid veil. It trails from her neighbor’s burning house. Wafting across, her face burning, her eyes. The woman rocks back and forth cradling her blooding knee. She had kicked out the attic window to gain access to the roof. Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had. A coughing fit seizes her. The choking smoke forcing her to lay flat against the roof. What greets her is a clear view of a cloudless sky. The sounds around her do not match the peace and tranquility of the sky above. It’s like seeing a beautiful serene painting while trapped in a nightmare. Sirens blare out from all manner of emergency vehicles. Screams and gunshots meld themselves together. Carrying on the breeze like dead leaves. Over everything, the moaning reigns supreme. The undead surrounds her home. From all sides, they call out for her flesh. On the way home from work she heard the tornado sirens wailing. Paying them no mind and thinking the sirens were just a test, she drove onward. Those precious minutes she had wasted. Had cost her everything she held dear. “Hey, lady you alive up there?” She sits up hearing a man’s voice call out. Cautiously scooting to the edge and peering down. The distant man’s voice is reduced to a muted echo. There below she sees her husband. Nameless among the moaning hungry horde. Stephen had died protecting her and the kids. His beautiful blue eyes clouded over in death. Reduced to vile off white puss colored orbs in their sockets. The right side of his neck torn down to the bone. A tiny helpless sob catches in her throat.

“Yes... Yes, my name is Darlene,” she screams back. The voice comes from a middle-aged man. Perched high up in the cab of a huge rusty red pickup truck. The zombies on the outer ring of the pack. Slowly begin to shamble towards the man in the truck. Which idles growling like a snoring bear at the end the sloped driveway. “Well, Darlene,” He says ducking back into the truck’s cab. “Stay there I’m going to pull up as close as I can.” The rusty red truck sitting on the obnoxiously high muddy tires. Lurches forward slowly gaining momentum as it pushes through the zombies. Darlene leaps to her feet. Attempting in vain to cover her face from the billowing smoke. That dances around her like a malevolent spirit. “Okay,” She answers him. Pain creeping up from her injured knee. A small pool of blood now coats the shingles beneath where she had been sitting. Taking an overly cautious step back, Darlene unwittingly loses her footing. Unable to steady herself, she pitches forward, and gravity does the rest. She falls into the waiting undead arms of her recently deceased husband. The dead man greets her with one final embrace. There amid the coalescing mass of walking corpses. It is not an embrace of love. Like the gentle ones, they had shared together. It is a malevolent embrace fueled by an insatiable hunger. This communal embrace is shared by all within the horde. By any who can clamber close enough to grab a piece of the woman’s body. Darlene is alive when the first teeth break her skin. Her screams drowned out the sound of the big red pickup. Its lone panicked stricken occupant behind the wheel. The man beats a hasty retreat. Crushing meandering zombies as he drives away. All thoughts of chivalry having vanished. Like the unfortunate woman who had fallen from the roof.

Resist

Resist

   Her senses told her that she is indeed awake. Yet, she knows that her eyes are still closed. She floats in that realm. The one that straddles the line between the light of the world. Versus the darkness of the void. Yet her ears tell her that the world around her is alive. The sounds of the city drift into her muted semiconscious existence. She hears sirens from emergency vehicles. The sounds warble about on the breeze. She realizes that her body is swaying rhythmically as if she’s being carried. Someone nearby breathes heavily from exertion. Their breath coming in hurried gasps. As if they are carrying something heavy as they walk. The soundless void of unconsciousness threatens to pull her back down into the darkness. Shaking her head to clear the cobwebs. Now consciously fighting back against the fuzz seeded within her brain. The young woman feels her memories returning. Going back replaying what she knows. The upscale bar downtown, her and her girlfriends drinking … a lot. The evening plays back in her shattered mind. There was a creepy guy they noticed across the bar. The cadence of the breathing around her changes. She feels herself being shifted about. Then the soft metallic jingle of keys causes her mind to race. The young woman’s eyes pop open. Terror drives rivers of icy fear into her heart. Her vision is hampered by black mesh cloth. “I’m in a bag of some sort.” Her mind yells the terrifying fact as a warning.

   A door opens somewhere near her then shuts quickly. It is then that she realizes the sounds from outside have been muted once more. “I'm inside now.” She tells herself on the verge of hysterics. “Now it's just us.” She hears a male’s mousy voice whisper in a hushed almost gleeful tone. “The creepy bastard from the bar.” Her mind drudges up the memory out of the alcohol muted subconscious of her mind. The thought rears up as if trying to free itself from a bubbling tar pit. “I went into the mouth of the alley to smoke…” She traces back the events. Like walking down, a long dark foreboding hallway. Knowing that somewhere in the shadows dangers is waiting to take her. “He spoke to me, I turned around ….” In her mind, she searches for clues. Like watching an old detective show on TV. A show that has been interrupted by static during a piviot moment in the story. “His hand was a blur of movement. Then everything in her world went black.” There she’s all caught up on the show now. But she knows she not going to like the ending. From outside the bag the keys jingle again. She feels herself being lowered down. A new sensation greets her. As her body comes to rest on something hard. A floor perhaps one that is not carpeted. In the outside world, a door is being unlocked. But inside her mind, her father speaks to her. “Virginia, honey…” she can see him now. Dressed in his pristine blue police uniform. He strokes her blonde hair. Kneeling his lanky frame down to her eye level. “Sweetie just because you are short. Does not mean you can’t be tough. It doesn’t mean anything” he told her. Gently placing a kiss on her forehead and wiping her tears away. The next day he enrolled her in a karate class. It was run by one of old his partners Marvin. A huge black man who had become like a second father to her. All throughout the years of her training that followed.

            

      A foul smell filters down into the bag. Accompanied by a cool breeze. Hearing the creak of a rusty door hinge squealing. The putrid odor is mixed with the dank musty smell one finds in a damp basement. Except this basement is filled with dampness and rotting meat. If she had listened to the two greatest men to influence her life. She knows beyond a shadow of a doubt. That she would not be in this life-threatening predicament. None of that matters to Virginia now. With all the subtly she can muster. Laying on the floor in what must be a gym back of some sort. She flexes her feet and hands. Becoming keenly aware that she is not bound. Her hands and feet are free much to her relief. She is indeed small in stature. The young woman knows this fact. But what she lacks in size. Virginia makes up in ferocity. A soft moan from somewhere below catches her attention. It is immediately followed by another and then joined by several more. “Now for the new girl.” She hears the male’s voice. Up from below comes the sound of feet dragging across a floor. The sound of a light switch being flicks echoes around her. She pushes all that back as she feels a body near her. From outside the sack, there’s a tug. Followed by the sound of the bag’s zipper being pulled down. Virginia has closed her eyes once more. She waits coiled, tension rippling through her muscles. But her breathing is slow and easy. And when the man reaches for her. Believing her to still be unconscious from the blow to her head. She strikes the moment his fingers brush her arm. Much the same way a Venus flytrap is triggered by its unsuspecting prey. The scream of anger tears itself from her throat. It startles the kneeling man. He is caught off guard by his “victim.” Driving the palm of her right hand under his chin. His head snaps back from the teeth-rattling force of the blow. Her attack is coordinated and relentless. Just like Marvin taught her. “Don’t stop until your attacker is incapacitated or yields.” Her small left hand delivers a coordinated precise strike to the man’s exposed throat. Virginia leaps up from the bag on the floor snarling. Without pausing, she grabs the hair on both sides of the creepers head. Pulling the stunned man’s head forward. The tiny young woman delivers three lightning quick knee strikes. Each blow decimating her attacker’s face. The first blow ruptures his bottom lip. The second sends the man’s two front teeth skittering across the hardwood floor. And the third audibly crushes his nose. With a flailing hand, the kneeling man interrupts the barrage of blows. By forcefully shoving Virginia violently backward. He stands cackling in a sinister rage. “You bitch ... you broke my nothse.” The last word comes out comically from his destroyed face. However, there is nothing funny about the man’s rage. Nor does she find his size to be a joke. She sees that carrying her tiny hundred- and twenty-pound frame. Would be like a child cradling a teddy bear to this stocky man.  Pausing briefly, she steadies herself for his charge. The alcohol and blow to her head taking their combined toll on her movements.

      

      A moan come through the open door behind the man. This time the sound is louder and more menacing than before. Her attacker turns towards the sound. The light from the door cascading over his damaged and bloodied face. But she can still see the confusion etched upon the man’s face as he speaks. “Jennifer … Deborah …. Sss Samantha ... Annn … Angela. What are you doing?” He stammers. Calling out these seemingly random female names. Speaking the way, one does when greeting old friends. Whom you haven’t seen in years. The bloodied man stands there enraptured. As if he’d successfully extracted these women’s names from the “recently deleted” bin of his mind. Virginia moves in to take full advantage of the creeper’s distraction. She pauses mid-step. A grimy grey hand appears. Silently slithering around the man’s broad shoulders. The putrid limb moves like sensual lover’s caress. A fear so palpable washes over Virginia. In her mind’s eye, she watches as her own soul. Leaps from her rigid and immobile body. And takes off running down the darkened hallway. Before vaulting out the front window of the house. “I …I don’t understand.” The creeper utters breathlessly. The hand and arm that come into view. The appendage is a sickly pale grey greenish shade. Rotting sores of blackish decay cover the limb. “Did you all come back to be with me.” He says hope tinging his voice. A ragged smile touching the corner of his split and swollen lips. She can’t see what’s coming up the stairs. But the moans have risen to an eerie crescendo. They seem to come from a multitude of hoarse throats. “I’m sorry I hurt you all.” He offers an apology to the unseen entities coming up from the basement. Several more hands clamp on to the man. Virginia is forced to cover her nose. Using her tiny bruised hand in a vain attempt to ward off the stench. That now fills the hallway. Without warning the head of a woman lashes out. She clamps her teeth down on the creeper’s jaw. It takes all Virginia’s fortitude not to vomit. As the woman’s face comes into view. She looks as if she is rotting away. Large sections of her face have decomposed down through to the white bone beneath. Her eyes are glazed over white jellied orbs.

     The Creeper begins to scream. A high-pitched shrill sound one never expects to hear from a man. The woman shakes her head the way a shark does. Prying loose a chunk of flesh and chewing. With all the vigor of a dog with a stole morsel of food. A second woman’s head appears. This time latching on to the man’s throat. The scream turns into gurgles of “I’m sorry.” As more heads latch on to the creeper. He sways drunkenly in place. Trying in vain to fight off the mob of decaying women attacking him. “Move now …” Virginia hears her daddy screaming in her mind. She launches herself at the man in the hallway. With all the force she can muster. The tiny woman rams her assailant. He falls forward into the basement down several wooden stairs. Taking his throng of cannibal admirers with him. She pauses in the dim light. The tangle of limbs comes to rest at the bottom of the stairs. A dozen rotting sickly colored women grab at the creeper now. They tear at him with decayed fingers and broken yellowed teeth. Opening him up like a pinata filled with delicious raw meat. His screams grow fainter from under the pile of bodies. As his body spasms uncountably. She sees more figures coming around to join in on the attack. One woman her body showing signs of a savage beating. Stops staring up at her with glassy white dead fish eyes. Virginia gasps as the woman steps over the squirming mass. She whirls about slamming the door and twisting an old deadbolt into place. Virginia wills her rubbery legs to move. “Time to see if, I can’t catch my soul.” She thinks aloud. Now finding herself sprinting through a living room devoid of furniture. All around her the walls are covered. With neatly cut meticulously place newspaper articles. “The Duffle Bag Killer strikes again.” A bold headline proclaims from the front page of the local paper. As she whirls about the room desperately taking in the macabre scene. She sees women’s pictures in the articles on the wall. The most recent article pinned neatly on the wall closest to the door. Steals the breath from her lungs. It’s the girl, she saw staring up from the bottom of the stairs. The one who looked at her as if she were a meal. The screams from downstairs have ceased now. She hears the first bump on the door behind her. Virginia runs from the house into the chaos of the night. Sirens wails, fires burn, gunshots echo, screams carry by. And everywhere people are frantically running about. Virginia utters a single tiny cry standing on the small porch. Realizing the reality of her situation. Which has gone from bad to hell on earth. In only a few short moments. She leaps off the stairs and straight into the apocalypse. 

Going Green

  “Police are cautioning all residents to stay in their homes.” The golden-haired newscaster on the small television tells his viewing audience. “If you must evacuate your home please head to one the designated military safe zones.” News anchor continues shuffling papers in his hands. The thin man in the room slowly moves away from the TV. He tiptoes on the balls of his feets to the window of his darkened home. Drawing back the curtain with two very shaky fingers. He scans the street out front of his single level ranch home. The man is treated to an up close and personal view of the mayhem on the street. From next door screams of agony erupt like an exploding geyser. He sees his neighbor Al clinging desperately to a small silver chain link fence. On his back, a man rides him to the ground. The bloodied figure bites down on Al’s exposed neck. Even as Al’s wails reach their crescendo. The man greedily tears away chunks of flesh from his helpless victim. The man in the house watches “the infected people” as the newscaster had called them. They converge on Al; his shrieks only seem to draw more of them out of the shadows. A bloody hand slaps the window before him. Its followed by a bloodcurdling moan. The man falls backwards cartwheeling over his tattered green couch. “Come on Brody gets together.” The man prods himself up as the window crashes inward. Brody as a self-professed pacifist. Did not have anything that, he could remotely use as a weapon. He moved through the tiny house past the kitchen counter. The sound of glass shattering comes from all around him. Brody snags his cars keys not looking back. Cautiously he opens his back door. “All clear” he sighs opening the door wider. 

  He sees his sleek black electric car sitting in its charging port. Brody unhooks his automobile from its charging station. He’s diligently attempting to be quiet. Well as quiet as his jittery nerves will allow. He smiles to himself as he gets in tiny car. With an experienced twist of his wrist, the car hums to life. The dashboard readout shows “full charge” in green. A mangled hand slaps the car’s trunk. To his horror it was his zombie friend from earlier. Except now the zombie was an even more ghastly sight. Jagged shards of glass jut out the ambling zombie at odd angles. Now the undead walking corpse has brought company. Zombies pour from his house like angry bees leaving a hive. Brody throws the car in reverse. He mows the undead under as he goes. Bodies pelt the car from every direction. He does not look up until he finds himself in the street. Driving away in a panic without looking back. He turns a corner to see an overrun gas station. The slaughter laid out before him is horrific. As the dead feast on the living. Yet amid all this carnage more cars continue to pull into the chaos of the gas station. The zombies beset anything living tearing warm human bodies apart with teeth and hands. Most of these vehicle’s occupants don’t last more than a few fleeting seconds. Before they are drug screaming from their cars and devoured. “Go green” Brody finds himself chuckling as he negotiates around the horror. “Where was that safe zone again?” He asks himself. Gleefully tapping the directions in on the car’s glowing GPS display. “Two hundred two miles to safety,” he says joyfully. He finds the open road. Taking time to breathe Brody slides a CD of classical music into the dash. Then he kicks the a/c up to drive some of the humidity from the sticky hot night. Driving through the night, he passes truck stops and gas stations along the way. Hours pass by Brody’s tired dry eyes. He ignores the slaughter all around him from the safety of his car. Finally, Brody sees a road sign up ahead as the Sun began to rise in the East. In the distance, he sees big floodlights beating back the darkness. The military had drawn a line in the sand. They held the undead at bay as sure as the light held back the darkness. “Made it” Brody whispered to himself with a satisfied grin. In darkness up ahead, shadows begin to emerge. Not by ones and twos but by the dozen. 

    A double chime dings out in the car’s comfortable interior. The once green battery display light was now a faint sliver of red. It now blinked an ominous “Low Battery.” Like dramatic music playing in a horror movie. As the killer closes in on his victim. “Please no,” Brody whined. His shiny black car loses power. It begins to coast to a stop. Coming to rest at the rear phalanx of a massive throng of walking corpses. The zombies take notice of the car that has come to rest in their midst. Slowly they press in from all sides. A final fluttering of the headlights like delicate moth wings tearing. Suddenly he’s plunged into absolute darkness. The weight of hundreds of decayed bodies buffet the car as if it were a tiny boat. Caught in the merciless savage winds of a typhoon. Brody slinks down to the floor curling up with tears in his eyes. The zombies are not fooled by his vanishing act. The onslaught continues until the windows of the car shatter. The dead slither into the car. The way maggots do on an animals mangled carcass left on the side of the road. Their moaning rising like the morning sun. Brody’s first howl of pain comes as a zombie bites down on his exposed arm. “No, get away.” He pleads to the moaning undead slithering over him. Brody’s wails of agony go unheard. The undead have their fill of his flesh. As they wash over the car in one final diseased surge of hunger.

The Rental

  “We were making pretty good time Laura. Until we got redirected by the GPS” He says to his wife. Looking at the GPS app pulled up on his phone. He gives it the disdainful glance of a spouse. Forced to take back an adulterous partner. The woman riding in the passenger seat sits back. Having just turned the satellite radio to the seventies station. “Well, James like I told you.” She uncaps a bottle of soda taking a swig. “I just didn’t want to be in some backwoods town when the sun went down.” He chuckles as the shiny sleek grey minivan speeds down the interstate. He had fallen in love like most folks with a rental car. This was pure automotive heaven compared to his ten-year-old minivan sitting at home. They had rented this beauty to drive from Illinois to Alabama for their daughter’s wedding. Now they were heading home. Midnight was approaching as they came upon Nashville. South, I-65 was bordered by thick dense forest on either side of the road. On the east side of the road in the distance. The city lights sparkled like multi-colored jewels laid out on pristine black velvet. Nashville was separated from I-65 by several miles of trees and open fields. Where the land sloped gently down to the city. “Anybody hungry?” Laura calls back to their children. She opens a blue cooler as a chorus of “I am” and “me” erupt from the back seat. “Jordan,” Laura says passing two sandwiches to their teenage son. “Pass those back to Joslin and Jalen.” The boy does as instructed handing food back to his giggling younger sisters. “I just want an apple mom.” Their oldest Susan blurts from the seat behind Laura. The minivan begins to decelerate quickly. “Why are we slowing?” Laura turns bracing herself against the dashboard. “Ugh, I think we are coming up on some night road construction.” He sighs through gritted teeth. Ahead of them, a line of red brake lights stretching out like a string of Christmas lights. They go from cruising to a complete stop in less than a minute. The cars on the Interstate now idle bumper to bumper. He shuts off the car in frustration. Staring in disbelief James sees the once green route traced out on his phone’s GPS app. Now blinking the dark red of delay and gridlock. The dense dark forest dances with glimmering red shadows cast off by the multitude of brake lights.

   Without warning and intense ball of flames shoots into the night sky over Nashville. The entire family whips their heads in the direction of the blast almost in unison. A greasy black cloud of smoke billows up against the night sky like an oil stain on a black shirt. “What the ….” James shouts as his younger daughters’ yelp in terror. The minivan rocks softly as the blast waves reach them with a muted “boom.” “Good Lord …” Jordan begins from behind his father. “Look at all the emergency lights.” Below them, scattered about the cityscape strobing lights materialize out of the distant inky darkness. As if they have been summoned by magic. In the blink of an eye with the speed of someone tossing a match in a puddle of gas. Three more rapid-fire explosions dot the city’s beautiful skyline. Below them in the distance. The city of Nashville is infected with pockets of ravenous yellow flames. They are drawn back to the here and now by a slap on the van’s windshield. All at once everyone in the van screams in horror. A bloodied man the skin on his face in tatters. Slaps the window on Laura’s side of the van. The woman unclasps her seatbelt and in one panicked motion leaps into her husband’s lap. James lets his gaze settle on the blood-soaked man. Suddenly baring his teeth. The man snarls like a rabid animal. A brackish thick foamy rivulet of saliva pours from his mouth. In the rear of the van, the younger girls begin to wail for their mother. The man slaps the passenger side window with a bloodied palm. He pounds the window repeatedly. Leaving behind an abstract portrait of bloody smears. On the once pristine window. Behind the man, a second man appears. Having exited an idling big rig in the next lane. “Hey, buddy …” is all the hefty truck driver gets out. The man pounding on the window snaps to as if touched by a cattle prod. Roaring the bloodied man pounces on the burly man, driving the trucker to the ground. A scream, unlike anything anyone in the van has ever heard a human make. Echoes across the night sky as the man atop the trucker. Tears away a large portion of the trucker’s right cheek with his teeth.

  A new wave of screams bounces around the interior of the minivan. Punctuated by an eight-year-old Joslin. Who hollers “zombie” at the top of her lungs. James finds his mind following a disjointed fractured path. It briefly goes back to his wife scolding him. After allowing their baby girl to watch him play a zombie-themed video game. As his eyes focus pulling away from the past and back to the present. His heart leaps hard enough in his chest to cause him physical pain. Across the road from where they sit. Dozens upon dozens of figures are staggering from the pitch-black woods. This shuffling, wailing mass of figures plunge onto the asphalt of I-65 in waves. Attacking anything living like fire ants consuming all in their path. People caught outside their cars are defenseless against the onslaught. Soon the family is surrounded by screams and chaos on all sides. These crazed people, he refuses to admit they are possibly the undead. As his eight-year-old has insinuated. They cover the road breaking in vehicles. The dead work attacking with an uncoordinated frenzy. It requires no thinking just pure primal instinct. As one helpless person after another is dragged from their vehicle. Then brutally torn to shreds by gnashing teeth and filthy clawing fingers. While yet others die screaming. As these monstrous beings’ pile into their vehicles to get at their warm flesh. With his wife still on his lap, James sees his teenage daughter in the rear of the van. A woman with a savage neck wound. Is clawing at the window screeching as she attempts to get at the girl. Jalen terrified at the woman’s face and with tears running down her cheeks. She presses her jacket up to the window covering the woman’s face. Attempting to his from the woman outside. “Dadddddd” Jalen calls. Before James can move, he watches the woman outside the van loose interest in his daughter. Instead, the ragged woman moans turning away. She shuffles away two cars over to a woman who is standing on the roof of her car. The blonde woman on top of the car is surrounded. She cradles a tiny yapping dog in her arms. The agitated crowd of zombies besieges the car on all sides as the woman cries for help. They begin to rock the car. This causes the woman and her dog to topple head first into the hungry crowd below. “Cover the windows,” James yells as he makes eye contact with a pack of crazed figures headed their way.

  He grabs the windshield sun cover the rental car company had provided from the center console. The metallic green cover is emblazoned with the company’s orange swoosh logo. It unfurls like an umbrella as he jams it into place with second to spare. The Lawson family demolishes the contents of the car. Frantically covering the windows obscuring their attacker's view. Two dozen sets of bloodied hands began to pound on the rental’s exterior. They use everything from Laura’s formal pink dress to their pillows and covers. Soon the interior of the car in cast into a deep black claustrophobic darkness. The pounding slowly ceases as the moans drift away fading into the night. The family is huddled in the center of the van doors locked. From the middle of the pile, someone starts praying softly. They compress themselves in together. From somewhere close by a massive engine revs. This is followed by the unmistakable sounds of a semi truck’s engine dropping into gear. The massive truck comes to life. With only their ears to tell the story. The horrendous shriek of metal rending rings out. The van jostles as it’s pushed sideways. Someone whimpers inside the van. “It's ok, it's ok” James soothes his family wrapped in his arms. Outside the world descends into chaos. The sound of the diesel battering ram carrying into the distance. The night goes by slowly. Serenading the terrified family with a soundtrack of screams, sirens, gunshots, moans, and explosions. All the sounds one would associate the world falling to its knees.

 Tense hours pass by like years in the van. A thin shaft of sunlight cast across the roof of the rental awakens James. He pulls away from his family and positions himself to peek out the window. In the door’s armrest, he sees his phone. He grabs it tapping the screen to wake the device up. The GPS app is still running. It shows the road to home is still impassable. It advises a U-turn as the northbound lanes are free. Operating on muscle memory alone, his thumb refreshes the GPS app. He sees a text message from twenty minutes ago. It's his newlywed daughter back in Illinois, Kayla. “Dad, Bob and I have been trying to call you guys. News is talking about zombies and outbreaks like all over the south. Turn around come back here. Praying you guys are safe call me please.” He can see a few zombies walking aimlessly about through the slit. The road before them is dead figuratively and literally. Something large has plowed a clear path in the next lane over. The other side of the I-65 leading back north is open and clear. The line of his daughter’s text resonates in his mind. “Turn around …” “Wake up” he whispers to his family. Cranking the engine up. The van starts with a smooth growl. James rips the window screen down. As he steers the car over debris in the road. Plunging the now dented grey gore covered minivan into the soft grassy median.  Directly before him, he can see Nashville. Wicked black tendrils of smoke waft upwards from the dying city. The smoke threatening to obscure the brilliant early morning sun. He runs over two filthy figures crouched in the high grass tearing at something meaty and pink. Once he hits the open road on the opposite side, he guns the engine. The only obstacles he can see are rogue packs of zombies scattered about. The dead meander on legs stiffened by rigor and injuries. The van passes them by with ease. “What are we doing?” Laura asks panic still etched across her beautiful brown features. He hands her his phone without speaking. Eyes locked on the road passing a green sign reading “Illinois 150 miles.”

Limitations

Limitations

       “Hey, Ms. Ye I’m done for the evening.” The young Asian woman nods “Thank you, Mr. Smith ….” The black man’s bald head seems to hang in the space between the classroom’s partially open door. “No problem I’ll be waiting by the door down in the east hallway to walk you to your car?” She reaches for the silver forearm crutches propped against her desk. The crutches were as much a part of her glasses were. She had used them since she was a child thanks to a genetic birth defect “I would appreciate that very much” She responds. With that, the man disappears from the door. The sound of his massive engineer’s key ring echoes down the deserted hallway. The sound of his keys reminded her of sleigh bells at Christmas. She is vaguely aware of the noise bouncing off the shatterproof opaque windows of the school building. “There are sure a lot of sirens tonight.” She thinks to herself that it is not out of the ordinary for this part of town. Fawn was miffed at herself for staying at work so late again. She slides her forearms into the cuffs with ease. As her hands grasp the black handles, she hears a scream carry down the hall to her ears. A horrible and hollow sound. The echo cascading down the hallway towards her. “Mr. Smith” She calls out struggling to her feet. Fawn wrestles the door to her classroom open. Down at the end of the hall in a cone of light, she can see the engineer laying on the white tiled floor. A figure kneels over him their face down near him. She assumes giving first aid to the engineer.

    She hobbles towards figures on her feeble legs the crutches supporting most of her weight. A rhythmic clapping of the crutches on the weathered tile floor. Signals her approach. “Mr. Smith” She fumbles breathlessly nearing the scene. Blood pools underneath the figure hunched above the big black man in the grimy engineer’s uniform. The young male leaning over Mr. Smith whirls about. Blood covers his face from the chin down. Huge goblets drop off, his chin. They land in the widening crimson puddle at his feet. “Oh God” She cries staggering back until she hits a wall sliding down. Fawn Ye vaguely recognizes the boy from around the school. He climbs awkwardly to his feet. With sickly spoiled milk colored locking on to her. Drunkenly he sways in place. With a deep moan, he starts making his way towards her.  Arms outstretched blood caked fingers working like arthritic spiders. Fawn raises up a crutch defensively as the boy falls forward mouth open. His clumsy momentum carries him downward. He hits the apparatus face first. His full weight drives the aluminum crutch through his eye socket. Fawn screams out as the boy goes limp. She dumps him to the side yanking her crutch free. Fawn fights to her feet steadying herself. From behind her, comes a deep powerful moan. Fawn turns on her crutches to see Mr. Smith his neck torn open the wound rimmed with sticky congealing blood. “Mister ….” She says hopefully but to no avail. 


   The large man lurches for her his eyes now white and dead. Fawn can see the metal windowless exit doors just behind him. Cursing her lame legs Fawn acts out of instinct. She plants her crutches bracing herself. Fawn Ye kicks out with all the strength both her crippled legs can muster. Her legs have just enough force to drive the heavy man backward. She tumbles to the floor watching Mr. Smith fall back in the opposite direction. Just as he hits the door, his key ring clatters to the floor and then he is gone. Fawn begins to commando crawl for the open door. She moves through the warm gummy blood on the floor. Reaching up for the door, her hands trembling uncontrollably. She takes a brief look outside. Stumbling dark shapes swarm the parking lot. Fawn yanks the door closed as Mr. Smith sits up. She feels the door shake in her hands. Thunderous pounding from the other side rattles the door in its frame. Without thinking, Fawn flips a crutch around jamming it through the handles of the door as a brace. The assault from the outside continues. After several breathless minutes, Fawn finds one of the keys that lock the door. As pounding coming from the other side grows louder. Fawn limps backward turning around holding onto the wall for support. On palsied legs, she wobbles unsteadily looking into the empty darkness alone. 

All Things Zombie: Chronology of the Apocalypse by Shannon Walters et al.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01CBTQ8MQ/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_udp_awd_i3T5wbVWANS9H


The Chronology of the Apocalypse is a new anthology. It is brought to you by the fine folks over at ATZ (All Things Zombie). The zombie themed anthology follows the zombie apocalypse from its unknown beginning to its bitter end.

  Featuring and all new story me entitled "The Monitor." One man gets to watch the zombie apocalypse unfold from his comfy office at work!


Check it out!