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.