'Buried'

It's Fiction Friday so here's a short story. I got the idea for this one, several times over the course of a few months, after reading the Sunday paper.

A lot of my stories come with a warning, and rightfully so. This one isn't that bad but it's a bit graphic here and there. Not for everyone.

Buried
written by Alan Green

Bobo stands next to the patch of dirt, his stance wide, blue eyes gleaming, looking serious. The storm had blown dead leaves away exposing a rectangular section of bare ground about seven by three feet. Yeah, it was curious. I didn't know what to think. Of course, that shape was eerie, but who goes there, mentally I mean? Who thinks stuff like that? Then, there was the way Bobo stood. Tense, his intelligent eyes trying to communicate something important. He is so smart. Really, it shakes me up sometimes. This was one of those times, for sure. That first time.

I had gotten Bobo from the pound. I just didn't like the idea of going to a pet shop. Wanted to rescue an animal, I guess. He had been brought in a few weeks earlier by someone who was moving to Europe and couldn't keep a dog any longer, and was scheduled to be put down the next day. Nobody had taken him, I guess, because he was scruffy. Short fur of black, dull aqua, silver, and burgundy that had darker patches here and there and was naturally dirty looking. A squat animal, thickly muscled with a large head, he was pure mutt with no discernible lineage. Like the dog in that 'Road Warrior' movie. Besides being homely, he didn't make a good first impression. He just lay there, on his side, like he was asleep but with his eyes open. He didn't sell himself as a prospective pet very well, seemed resigned to his fate.

But, those eyes. He pinned me with them. Intense, knowing, and made more captivating, almost disturbing really, by their deep iceberg color. Made you feel he could read your thoughts. When he sat up the guy from the pound said, 'He likes you. He usually just lays there.'

I squatted close to the wire mesh. 'What's his name?' I said. 'Bobo,' the guy answered. 'Hi Bobo.' His ears perked. I put my hand up and he sniffed, eying me. The guy opened the door. I reached in and stroked him. He put his paw in my hand. I thought it was noteworthy he could shake hands. A silly thing, but it seemed meaningful at the time. He stared at me. I swear it was like he was waiting for me to make a decision. Almost impatient. 'Are you taking me or not,' he seemed to say. Those eyes... Almost human. I took him.

Standing next to that patch of dirt, he was waiting for a decision again. I knelt, stroked his head, and looked at the ground. The hole hadn't been dug recently but nothing had grown over, either. And that shape -- a fairly good rectangle. Those dimensions -- seven by three. Bobo sniffed the earth and mewled, worried. He put his paw on my arm, growling low.

Okay, fine. I'll probably feel like a fool, I thought, but what the hell. I got a stick and starting digging. I hadn't gotten six inches before I uncovered a dried-up hand, its skin turned to a papery leather. I jerked back as soon as I recognized what it was, stood up, caught my breath. Bobo barked and backed away stiffly, his tail straight. He shot me a hard look. 'I told you it was important.'

The police arrived within a few minutes of the 911 call. Ten minutes later, three more cars arrived. An officer ran yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter. They asked questions. Bobo sat by my side panting, content, watching. He was always paying attention. A detective, William, arrived. We talked for a while. Nice guy. You could tell he'd seen a lot. I had nothing of value to offer. He took my information even though a uniformed officer had already done that. 'We'll be in touch,' he told me.

On the way home I stopped and picked up dinner. Bobo stayed in the car. He knew he couldn't go in the grocery store. I bought a steak, a pepper, onion, portobello, fresh garlic, a nice Chianti.

I separated Bobo's serving from mine before adding spices, mixed in some plain chopped-up pasta, and set it aside to cool while I finished cooking. Bobo watched every move, licked his chops, eyes wide and full of hope. We ate watching TV, as usual, but I kept glancing over. He looked the same but didn't seem the same. He seemed smarter, like a dog on a mission.

The discovery was covered by all the local stations. William made one of those generic noncommittal statements. A few weeks later the news said the body was that of a girl that had been reported missing years ago. Analysis of DNA evidence made it clear she was the victim of a serial killer who had been convicted and was serving a life term. With this body, the new total of known victims was fourteen. The killer said there were more but wouldn't help police locate their graves. He claimed to remember where each was but wasn't inclined to be of assistance.

I was curious so I looked him up online. He killed women because his mother had liked his two younger sisters better than him. She bought them new school clothes but made him wear the same stuff every year until he looked bad and that made him feel stupid. The three of them made fun of him. He didn't have friends. Other kids taunted him at school so he quit. When he turned eighteen his mother told him that if he was going to stay he would have to move under the house because she and the girls couldn't stand the sight or smell of him. They didn't have a finished basement but the space under the house offered protection from the elements. He lived like that for years while his sisters finished high school then went off to college in new clothes and new cars. One day they came home for Christmas break and found their mother raped and stabbed on the kitchen floor. Her head was in the microwave, fully cooked.

I checked my e-mail. William had sent me a thank-you note. He said the discovery of the body helped bring closure to the family. I e-mailed back thanking him for his professionalism in a difficult job.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's Sunday. That's the day I take Bobo out someplace special for a walk instead of the park up the street. I park in a lot overlooking the entire area -- a shallow valley with a picturesque river -- a great spot for a walk and a little adventure. A favorite spot in the summer the place is deserted this early on a cold, rainy, late-winter day. We head down the path, Bobo's tail wagging wildly. Nearer the water's edge he leaves the path and runs down to the river. I throw his ball and he dives in, swimming like a pro. I walk on expecting him to catch up. I get maybe fifty feet before I realize he hasn't rejoined me. Looking back I can just make out his shape through the brush. He is sitting on the muddy shore.

When I get closer I see he is soaking wet, his ball between his front paws, looking back and forth between me and something a few feet to his side. I call but he just sits there. He barks once, an edgy sound. I move to the edge of the path and can just make out the object next to him. A crumpled blanket in the water, right next to the bank. I make my way down and when I get close enough I realize there is something under the blanket, bobbing in the water. Holding a tree I lean out over the mud. It's a kid's blanket with yellow ducks and tiny elephants. Bobo growls cautiously. Daintily, I pull up the corner. There is a body.

This one was a young boy, seven years old, who had been reported days earlier as missing by his mother after she left him asleep in the car while she shopped at a local mall. The police said there were discrepancies in the mother's story that were cause for concern and, as she had been convicted of child abuse some years ago, was considered a suspect in the disappearance. The mother's family was split. Some thought she had something to do with the disappearance citing suspicious things the boy had said at various family gatherings, while others vociferously defended her, claiming the rest of the family was 'jealous of her good looks and would say anything to undermine her life'.

Police obtained a search warrant on the basis of a random comment the mother had made to the press. 'You get down to that river and you search,' she demanded. She had said this two days before the boy's body was discovered. William was on TV again. He announced that, as a result of the search a photograph of the boy had been found. It showed the child, his neck deeply bruised, apparently dead and was taken on the bank of a river. In fact, after cursory analysis, it was determined the photograph was made on the exact spot the body was discovered. The mother was taken into custody and charged with murder. Later, it was revealed that other items recovered connected the mother to the crime scene, including shoes caked with a certain dried mud that had been kept in a plastic bag in the back of a closet, perfectly preserving the evidence.

The coroner's report indicated the boy had been strangled, his throat crushed. However, it was clear he had survived for several minutes after the assault. In that time blood gathered in the throat and was drawn into the lungs as the boy struggled for breath. The walls of the air passageway swelled in reaction to trauma and pinched closed making breathing more difficult. None of this, the coroner pointed out during testimony, would have been possible had the boy died immediately. The prosecution pointed out that, had the mother sought medical care for the boy after the initial attack, she might have saved his life, but instead elected to take a picture of her dying son as a keepsake then leave him in the cold water to die. This, they claimed, indicated she had a callous disregard for human life which warranted the most severe punishment. The point was reiterated during the sentencing phase.

During the trial the mother sought empathy saying she had done it because she didn't want the father to get custody of the child in the divorce proceedings which were ongoing at the time. She called him a 'scoundrel' who couldn't be trusted to raise a kid correctly. She thought, given the father's drug use, criminal background, and how he regularly beat her, he would raise the boy to be a thug.

When I read this in the paper it made sense. Once, I had a Guinea pig. She had a litter and I would watch her care for the babies. Pressing my face close to the habitat, I would tap the plastic tubing and click my tongue. I guess I stressed her out because she ate one of the piglets as it tried to crawl away. It screamed the whole time she gnawed, starting with its butt and finishing with its head. I guess killing your baby is an instinctual reflex, under the right conditions. Then again, we aren't rodents.

The mother was sentenced to life in prison.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I would look at Bobo a lot while we watched TV. What he had done had helped people, that's for sure. It made me feel good to have had a part in it. I found myself wondering whether there was something else at work, though. Some force. I mean, what are the odds of us finding those bodies? One, maybe, but two? There had to be something else at work here. Fate, destiny, a cosmic consciousness, something, guiding us.

Or, maybe Bobo was a person reincarnated in the body of a dog. He could have been a master detective whose life's work was unfinished so he came back to complete his assignment. But, why as a dog? Because they have a better sense of smell?

I test him: 'Bobo. What's two plus two?' He looks at me. I over enunciate and speak slowly in case his ability to understand human speech has become dull between incarnations. He cocks his head in an effort to comprehend. 'What's the square root of nine?' He lays his head back on the floor, watches TV, his eyes following the motion. Maybe he didn't speak English. Maybe he was a Chinese detective. I could hire an interpreter. Of course, that would create its own complications.

I marvel at my stupidity and go back to watching TV. It's mindless -- perfect, all things considered.

Bobo (I shouldn't take credit) found the next body in the middle of summer in a mountainside park. We were on a trail about halfway up one of the smaller hills when he took off running. I figured he was chasing squirrel or rabbit, but when he didn't rejoin me, I went back. Calling, I heard him bark, down a slope. He was a few yards off the unpaved access road that parallels the trail in fairly thick underbrush sitting next to the driver's side of a car which had run off the road. It sounds corny, but a chill ran up my spine. Out of habit, I suppose, I approached the car carefully so as not to disturb fragile evidence. It had crashed into a tree, but not too hard. The driver was slumped over the wheel. I tapped the window but he didn't move. Looking closer I saw he had a bullet hole in his forehead. I called William (he had given me his direct number). After the usual questions Bobo and I went home.

This case was one the strangest. I couldn't believe each new revelation I read in the paper. The guy in the car, I'll call him Joe, was shot by a jealous husband, we'll call him Lou. Lou owns a business. He comes in after office hours and finds Joe and his wife (Lou's wife, not Joe's), who was the office manager, talking in a way that, to Lou, meant something was up. The wife admitted during the trial that she and Joe had a relationship, but insisted it wasn't intimate. She said she would have had a sexual thing with Joe, seeing how she and Lou had been discussing divorce for a while and she figured the marriage was over anyway, except Joe was borderline retarded and she didn't feel right about it. 'He was forty on the outside but only, like, fourteen on the inside,' she testified. So, they were just friends. Well, Lou didn't see it that way. The business had been losing money and he thought his wife and Joe were bleeding him dry in order to finance running off together, though he could never explain what that was based on, saying sheepishly in court, 'It was just a hunch.'

So, Lou gets mad and levels accusations. They argue. Both Joe and the wife tell Lou he's crazy. Lou fires Joe, then, as Joe is leaving Lou tells him to wait a minute, goes in the back for his revolver, returns and shoots Joe in the face. Lou and his wife have a screaming match for a couple hours while Joe sits in a chair dead, staring at them. Over the course of the argument, the wife becomes impressed by the fact Joe was jealous enough to shoot a man he thought she was having an affair with. To her, this was a sign the marriage might still be salvageable. Lou, for his part, was touched by how his wife was still interested in him despite the fact he had just killed a man. They realize they were still in love, make up, and decide to give the marriage another go.

They load Joe into his car and Lou drives him out to the mountainside park with his wife following in a company car. They arrange Joe in the driver's seat, point his car down the hill, and release the brake. The car crashed into the tree doing about twenty -- not fast enough, really, to cause a bullet hole to appear in Joe's forehead. As an accident it was suspicious even on casual review.

Over a beer, William told me that when he questioned Lou and his wife, routine considering they were the victim's employers, they made up some ridiculous story about how Joe was upset when he left work and said something about meeting some guy he owed money to and was frightened cause this guy was tough and was, Joe thought, probably a dangerous criminal. They continuously interrupted each other with suddenly remembered details that began 'Oh, yeah, and then he...!' and ended with the other saying, 'Yeah, that's right!' nodding their head. William shook his head and rolled his eyes. 'Fuck,' he said. 'You see a lotta crazy shit in this line of work but I could hardly believe what I was hearing.' All I could do was gaze into my glass slack-jawed and say 'no shit' every now and then.

Lou and his wife's fingerprints were all over the interior of Joe's car. Ballistics matched the bullet in Joe's head to Lou's revolver. Though Lou and his wife cleaned the office, there was a lot of blood splatter hidden behind furniture and in crevices like around window sills, even a couple flecks of Joe's skin, and a shard of his skull. Witnesses testified they saw Lou and his wife put a heavy object that looked like 'a body wrapped in carpet' into the trunk of Joe's car. The carpet itself was found in a storage room, loaded with evidence. The keys to Joe's car were found in Lou's desk. The GPS system in Lou's company car indicated a round-trip to the mountainside park where Joe's body was found. And, as if that weren't enough, there was the sobbing confession upon subsequent questioning that, according to William, went 'on and on'.

Lou got twenty-five years for manslaughter while his wife got twelve for, you know, all the stuff she did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dream. I've had it so many times I know when I'm in it. It's first light. The woods somewhere. Light rain, cool. I'm looking at Bobo. He's sitting next to a patch of fresh dirt. Behind him are several more. They go back into the woods as far as you can see. All about the size of a grave. Bobo turns to look at me. His eyes are more blue than normal. Almost lit up, like a neon sign. He snarls. It's the ugliest thing I've ever seen. He stands and takes a step and I realize he isn't looking at me but something behind me. His lip curls, baring large teeth, and he growls, low and serious. Behind me, very close, I hear the unmistakable sound of the hammer of a revolver being cocked and think 'I hope they take care of Bobo'. It's a ridiculous notion, I know, even while still dreaming.

My hair is wet. It's sweat but it may as well be the rain from the dream. It takes a moment to get my bearings. I pull the covers off to cool down. My tee-shirt is damp. My breathing slows, evens out. As usual, Bobo is there, looking up at me. 'Hi, boy.' I tap the bed and he jumps up, lays beside me. I wrap my right arm around him and extend my left hand into the sunlight streaming through the window onto the bed, enjoying the warmth and crispness of clean sheets. Bobo snuggles his nose under my ear. His tail taps my leg softly a while, then stops.

It's Sunday. I'm glad. Glad I don't have to go to work. Glad I have a job in this economy. Glad it's our special day. Don't know where we're going this time. Didn't plan it this week. Hope we don't find another body, but if we do I guess I'd be glad then, too. In a way.

We'll go get the paper at the corner shop. That way Bobo can get his first pee in and won't be uncomfortable while I make breakfast and read the news. Really, though, I'm not looking forward to it. I used to love reading the paper, especially on Sunday, but not so much anymore.

I pet Bobo, getting sleepy in the sun's warmth. I have to chuckle at the notion he is a person reborn in the body of a dog. The stupid things we think of... My eyes closed I say, 'Bobo. What's the square root of nine?' No response. I half whisper, 'What's two plus two?'

As I drift off Bobo's tail taps my leg three times then, after a moment, once more.

A Science Fiction Short Story

Here's a sci-fi short story.

Birth

written by
Alan Green

Part I


It was dark.

Sleep Cycle. Bugsy's section, Alpha 1, was blacked out. No electricity was allocated for lights with the exception of ten minutes Personal Illumination Time, affectionately called PIT. Bugsy's compartment, however, was not completely dark. It never was. The blinking red LED indicated the door was locked. The green-orange light shining through a dirty plastic cover informed the Occupant CO2 levels were within an acceptable range. The tiny blue light floating in blackness meant the ventilation system (VENT SYS) was working properly.

Bugsy had extra Light Ration, as did the others assigned to the ICT, (Insect Clearing Team aka Bug Zappers, Beetle Burners, and Roach Rippers). It was one of the perks, but he was in no mood to use it. Staring into darkness was soothing. It made it easier for him to pretend he was in another place, another time.

The constant thrumming helped lull his senses as well. The sound was produced by giant rotating blades of the VENT SYS which, along with a series of pumping stations, pulled air down from the surface, circulating it to every Occupant. It was the incessant sha-shumm-da sha-shumm-da that reverberated everywhere. It was known as The Heartbeat.

Bugsy's facility, US-UHHF-1702 (United States - Underground Human Habitation Facility - Number 1702), officially known as New South Chicago but called 'The Burrow' by most, was one of the last subterranean living facilities constructed before the Migration Project ended in 2325.

The Burrow was a vertically oriented cylinder, a hundred yards in diameter, extending one hundred and fifty levels into the Earth. As such, elevators were the favored mode of transport, stairways being utilized only for trips of one or two levels. Since there was no day or night the rigmarole of activity never diminished. A sudden high-pitched whir of a passing elevator would interrupt conversations, streams of consciousness, or tenuous slumber, then just as suddenly its screeching would fade and The Heartbeat, the backdrop to all goings on, would return.

It was a bubbling muffled complex compacted cacophonous cottony-soft clangor comprised of a thousand distant frenzied yelps and whispers, a million stomping footfalls, endless door slams, non-stop gear turnings, ceaseless equipment chugs, continual pipe rattlings, and the perpetual hum of surging electricity. On occasion, even a minor earthquake would add to the rumble. It was the facility's audible fingerprint -- the first thing known upon waking, and the last thing known before sleep.

Bugsy preferred it. Liked it better than music. The persistent dull thudding would press on his mind creating a pleasant sort of senselessness in which directed thought subsided, allowing cherished apparitions the space to roam. It was an aural narcotic that created a portal into the past. Once the drug wove itself into Bugsy's mind, facility noises changed into beautiful singing tones. Sounds from a life on the surface. A life before the Earth was scorched by UV storms, before ice caps melted, before the desolation of Z-Virus, before nuclear accidents and attacks, before strange jungles of tall purple and blue plants teeming with hordes of giant insects replaced wheat fields, city parks, and forests. A life that now only existed in the interstices of memory.

Once he managed to quiet his mind and catch hold of the elusive delirium, the squeal of an elevator would mold itself into his daughter's voice calling, urging him to hurry to the playground. The blare of a fire alarm would transfigure itself into his wife's gentle sweet voice announcing dinner. Random clangs and thuds were the happy barks of the family's dog. In this altered state even smells changed. Foul air became the fresh scent of approaching spring rain.

For Bugsy it held more allure than other diversions. Bars and clubs on the lower levels were lurid and depressing. He wasn't much of a drinker and snorting grunge left him with splitting headaches. He much preferred spending down time in his Living Unit, the lights off, staring into darkness, reliving a life bygone.

Tonight, though, he found no solace in excursions of the imagination. He lay in his bunk wide awake, waiting for the alarm, listening to The Heartbeat, breathing thick air, feeling droplets of condensation gather on the hairs of his nostrils. He worried about the work that had to be done. Killing bugs. A nasty job but one that came with advantages. Bugsy couldn't complain about those.

One of the perks was a Living Unit at the top of the facility. Section Alpha. A desirable thing because, simply, it was closer to the surface and, therefore, the air was better. Despite that, the air was still heavy and moist and resisted being drawn into the body. Bugsy found it uncomfortable at times, but was glad he wasn't on a lower level.

In some facilities, the first ones built, the lowest levels had such poor air circulation that deaths were common. Design was revised and new facilities boasted better ventilation and utilized basements only for storage and machinery. Other measures were taken to guard against O2-related mishaps. Each Living Unit was equipped with a small oxygen tank in the event of VENT SYS failure. However, tanks leaked over time and were often empty when needed. Automated sensors were installed to detect high levels of CO2 (as well as low levels of oxygen). However, most of these failed after a few years and were never replaced or repaired due to the expense. While there was a certain amount of protest, facility life is not, strictly speaking, democratic and CA (Central Administration) determined that Vent Teams, which they pointed out, were highly trained in both VENT SYS repair and first aid, offered an adequate response. The need for sensors ceased to be a subject for debate. Vent Teams were posted on every third or fourth level, however they were notoriously slow, sometimes taking ten or fifteen minutes to get to an affected area once the alarm was sounded, the lag being worse when the local elevator was out of order. These factors conspired to make survival of a VENT SYS failure unlikely and the death rate from hypoxia continued to be high, even in the newest facilities.

The signs and symptoms of hypoxia progress in an orderly fashion. First, there is headache, sometimes nausea, an inability to concentrate, then shortness of breath and, often, a sort of cheap high caused by too little oxygen in the brain. Many of these indications were things most Occupants lived with much of the time, hence were usually ignored. Next, the victim becomes sleepy. In day-to-day facility life, drowsiness is an affliction of epidemic proportion and generally goes unnoticed, so, as a symptom is of value only in the most pedantic sense. Next, if no action was taken, the victim fell asleep and his or her skin turned blue. What happened next depended on the amount of time it took for a Vent Team to get to the scene. If they arrived in, say, five minutes, the victim might well be revived. If it took ten minutes or more the victim would be discovered unconscious and taken to the nearest Med Level where, generally, they would lapse into a coma. If discovered dead, they would be taken to the morgue and prepped for disposal.

During the Surface Era, a coma was preferable, at least preferable to dying, as appropriate medical care was widely available, and with a small measure of luck a comatose patient might recover. In the Subterranean Era Med Teams lacked the resources for care of comatose patients. The few doctors a facility was lucky to have were perpetually overworked. Around-the-clock treatment of a comatose patient could last for weeks or even months and the rate of survival was very low. In most cases, if a patient did manage to emerge from this state he or she could no longer contribute any useful function.

Considering all the factors it was deemed that any comatose Occupant, whether their condition was due to hypoxia, alcohol abuse, getting beat up, or snorting grunge or grime or whatever concoction was going around, would be taken to the surface by a Disposal Team and left behind, alive though unconscious. What happened next depended on the current Weather Cycle. If dust hurricanes prevailed, the body would be blown away by a wall of wind thick with pebbles and dirt, tossed and rolled for miles until the parts were no longer congruous. The remaining bits would be pushed and scraped until everything, including bone, was ground into dust, becoming one with the hurricane. In a Growth Cycle, the body would be left in the jungles of neon colored plants where giant bugs would find them. After a day or two nothing would be left. In a Burn Cycle the body would be taken some distance from the facility entrance and left to fry in UV radiation. With the same result.

Keeping a cadaver within the Facility for more than a few days was impractical. Neither electricity nor refrigerant needed for storage could be diverted. Cremation was not viable as no Facility could afford to allocate the resources necessary. Conventional burial was too risky. A Burial Team on the surface might become disoriented in a dust storm and end up wandering aimlessly in the wrong direction until their O2 supply ran out. Or, if particularly unlucky, they might be surrounded by a hunting expedition of bugs.

Even if the body was successfully interred, a marble headstone would be worn smooth by the first windstorm. It was true that fortified steel could withstand a hundred years of blowing dust and sand, but this material was in high demand and far too precious to be squandered on grave markers, especially considering that, without a Surface Suit, no one would dare venture topside to read such a marker until the next period of Climate Stabilization, which was not expected, even by the most optimistic climatologists, for at least a thousand years.

It was currently Growth Cycle. A slow giant storm akin to a cyclone (except without high winds) was centered over Kansas, turning slowly counter-clockwise, making a complete revolution once a week, churning warm moist air from the Gulf of Mexico, distributing rain to the entire central United States.

The formation, like all new weather patterns, was obstinate. It lingered, hovering stationary over the same spot on the globe for several weeks, a phenomenon previously known to occur only on a few distant planets and large moons. It would rain most nights, all night, and be very warm most days. The sun was barely visible in the dirty haze that had become the sky. In fact, the sun and sky appeared fused into one thing, orange in the brightest part, green toward the horizons, and a sickly grayed-down mauve at the edges, even at high noon.

In locations where there wasn't Growth Cycle, it was Burn Cycle. Ultraviolet radiation bombarded the surface of the Earth, and fire swirled for days or weeks. When there was nothing left to burn the soil baked, and anything that intended to survive had to burrow deep. The windstorms created by Burn Cycle would, in turn, lead to the pebble hurricanes of Dust Cycle in which churned up smoke and ash was carried around the planet. This haze of organic material would collide with a cyclone and mix with the moisture there. The resulting rains would fertilize soil already rich with the remains of insects and plants which had perished in the last Burn Cycle the region had suffered, and once again, Growth Cycle would begin.

The ground was richer than anything ever known and weird life sprung up from it with frightening speed. A brilliantly colored alien jungle could grow a hundred feet, laterally as well as vertically, within a day or two. These new plants were mutations. Their seeds, carried by winds for thousands of miles, were exposed to radiation both from space that found its way through weakened strata of atmospheric defense, and nuclear meltdowns that spewed smoke around the clock. Most species died, but some survived to become rooted abominations.

Beneath unsightly colored broad leaves, in gloomy shade, were giant mushrooms, mostly poisonous. Under the mushrooms was yellow and brown moss and beneath that a layer of viscous clay -- the waste products of the ecosystem.

Insects occupied every level of the jungle and enjoyed eating the plants. Over great periods of time a tit-for-tat battle of adaptation ensued. The plants created defenses. Pollen became caustic. Skin grew as tough as leather and in some cases was like tree bark. Juices were corrosive. Insects made counter moves, growing steely sharp mandibles that sliced through thick outer layers, and mouth parts which were immune to toxic liquor.

As time went on, bugs began eating not only plants but each other. So, further adaptations were needed. Shells grew thick. Venom was concocted which blinded, made the blood boil, or paralyzed the victim so it could be devoured at leisure. The warfare continued and only the most grotesque, queer, and bizarre prevailed.

Insects and plants were all that could acclimate quickly enough to the violent new weather patterns and onslaught of radiation. No higher forms of life, birds for instance, existed though there were rumors of humans who dwelled in caves and suffered from a strange malady.

The beetles were the worst. Some were the size of a car battery. Many were larger, as big as a medium sized dog. Territorial and aggressive, they represented the greatest threat to people who went topside. A large beetle, if disturbed, could chew through a surface suit in seconds, through a leg bone in a minute or two. They always traveled alone.

The small beetles, about the width of a deck of cards, were just as voracious and moved in groups as large as a dozen. Some beetles were tiny, barely visible, traveled in swarms of thousands or millions and, if inhaled, would eat away at the lungs. All were to be avoided.

Leaving a body in such an environment to be consumed by weather or insects was perhaps a barbaric practice by Surface Era standards. However, this was the Subterranean Era. What Surface Disposal lacked in humaneness it made up for in efficient utilitarianism, a commodity highly valued by the Doctrine of Facility Life. So, despite the severe nature, it remained the only practical method to process the deceased.

Even the smallest Facility was home to half a million people and, with that many, there were several deaths each day. The last Disposal Team, coming back from topside, reported a concentration of bugs, mostly large beetles, on the northwest ventilation intake grill. Currently, their report read, the bugs blocked about thirty percent of one vent. Left unchecked there would be total blockage within a week.

With the latest outbreak of pneumonia, brought on by an especially virulent new strain of Toxo-influenza, the death rate had quadrupled and the bugs had doubled in numbers, size and shell thickness. All of which made it more dangerous for one man to attempt to clear them. Going topside alone was never a good idea, but with the crawler population at a peak, there was a better than average chance of attack. While the bug population had increased, the number of bug zappers assigned to Northwest VIS (Ventilation Intake Sector) remained the same. One. Bugsy. That was why he lay awake in his bunk staring into darkness. Sleep always eluded Bugsy the night before a bug bake.

The fluorescent main light stuttered to life. The sight was never different. The same exposed pipes, video monitor, stainless steel mirror above a dirty sink, computer and work area, dents and scratches where they always had been. A soft feminine voice announces, 'The time is six a.m. You are scheduled to zap bugs this morn'-- 'Alarm off,' Bugsy says, stopping the synth-voice. He sits up with a groan, massages the back of his neck. There was time for a cup of coffee and maybe a donut before going topside. He takes a shower, gets dressed, unlocks the door and leaves.





Part II will be posted soon

Digging for Gangsters

Digging for Gangsters

written by
Alan Green

Part I

I own my own business. Corey's Day Trips. I'm Corey. I take people into the desert around Las Vegas to dig for buried gangsters. You know. Starting with Bugsy Siegel and his crew, through the fifties and sixties, and maybe some of the seventies, gangsters ran Vegas, pissed each other off, killed one another, and buried the bodies in the desert.

Back then it was the glory days for the mob. They lived like kings. Nobody messed with them. They had it all. But, they had short fuses and spouted off at the mouth, and that got them into a lot of trouble, fast. A bunch of them would be out at a bar or restaurant, having a good time, spending money like it grew on trees, boasting about this thing or that, one upping each other, and, sure as hell, before long, somebody would say something somebody else found offensive. It could be anything. Something dumb about a girlfriend, someone's shoes, the color of someone's new car, not knowing someone had bought a new car, what someone was drinking, the suggestion that one baseball team was better than another. You name it. And, the next thing you know there's an argument. Whoever was right or wrong, it was always the guy who had less clout that apologized. It was expected. The pecking order had to be respected. If not, then things escalated. And if it got past a certain point there was no turning back.

And, it didn't have to be a rude comment either. Not what you or I would call rude, at least. Not in that crowd. A guy could say anything that rubbed the wrong guy the wrong way and the next thing he knows he wakes up in the trunk of a Cadillac with a lump on his head, tied up and gagged, being driven away from the city in the middle of the night. He was 'a package', and was on his way to be whacked. Offed. Taken care of. Whatever. Call it what you want.

When they got to the location, the boys would dig the hole if it wasn't already dug, get the guy out of the trunk, put him next to the hole on his knees so there wasn't any doubt as to what was going to happen. (Not that there could have been. I mean, you weren't riding in the trunk because there wasn't enough room in the car). Then, the guy that had been offended would deliver a speech that made it clear he had won the encounter, was the better man, and how all this would have been unnecessary had an apology been offered (seeing how he's so understanding and forgiving) then kick the guy into the hole. Two shots in the chest, one in the head (more, several on occasion, if the guy was still pissed off, which was the case a lot of the time, though that was considered poor form. I mean, how many times do you got to shoot a guy in the head?) Then, they'd cover the poor sap up, go home, have breakfast, bullshit like nothing had happened, then go to bed.

Most of the guys buried in the desert are mobsters, but some worked in construction, restaurant supply, hotel supply, casino supply, were regular joes that had racked up too much debt, a bartender who didn't remember a guy's favorite drink, a waiter that fucked up an order, politicians who wouldn't play ball (or decided to stop playing ball), cops who wouldn't take payola, cops who did take payola but didn't deliver, any poor schlub who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever. Any guy that pissed off the wrong guy got taken care of. The desert is filled with them.

The good thing though, at least for me, is most of these guys are buried between thirty and fifty miles outside Vegas. See. The plan was, always, to drive at least a hundred miles into the desert to do the thing but, these guys, they all had real short attention spans, were real impatient (it was a hallmark trait of being a mobster), and once they had driven maybe half an hour or forty-five minutes in a straight line through blackness and the featureless landscape they were bored to tears and had to pull off the road. They couldn't take it anymore so they planted the guy right there, instead of a hundred miles out.

The other good thing was the guys doing the digging were in terrible shape. There were soft as dough. They smoked, drank, ate too much pasta with too much meat sauce and too much bread dipped in olive oil. They hadn't exercised in decades. Hell, they didn't know the meaning of the word. So digging wasn't exactly a thing they looked forward to, or were capable of doing too much of. They'd get maybe three, three-and-a-half feet and they were drenched in sweat. They'd be short of breath and couldn't hardly see straight anymore, like they were having a heart attack or something. So, they'd look at the hole, look at each other, ask whether it was deep enough, nod, then get the guy out of the trunk. Also, a lot of times, they didn't get out there until real late and the sun would start coming up right in the middle of planting a guy. So, these graves tended to be real shallow. Six feet, hell. Some of those bodies were barely covered.

That pretty much sets the scene. You figure five or ten bodies a week for, what, ten or twenty years from the 50s and 60s, and maybe some of the 70s. That's a lot of problems buried in a lot of holes, all about three feet deep, all in a strip of desert about ten miles wide, in a circle with a radius of about fifty miles around Las Vegas. A giant O of buried thugs. All you got to do is find them.

And that's where I come in. That's what people do when they go out with me on Corey's Day Trips. They search for buried gangsters (wise guys, made men, soldiers, goodfellas, whatever, call them what you want) in the desert.




Part II will go up soon. (I promise)

Light Part II

This story will be published in three to five parts (I'm not sure yet as they're not written yet). Toward the end it will get extremely graphic. Most people will find some passages difficult to read. Some will stop reading altogether.

If such content will bother or offend you, please do not read 'Light'.

Part I

Light

written by
Alan Green
.

Part II


On the way home I almost ran a red light. Stared at it until I was just about in the intersection. Had to stand on the brakes. Kept staring, through the rainy windshield, wipers going back and forth, until it turned green.

My hands trembled so bad trying to unlock the front door I had to take a deep breath before I could make the key go in. Drop the ice cream on the counter and head straight for the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I couldn't see a spot in the middle of my forehead. No red dot. I rubbed my forehead in case there were tiny bits of dirt or something covering the dot, stood on tiptoes to get closer to the light fixture, leaned toward the mirror. My eyes were almost crossed I was so close. Nothing.

Go back to the kitchen. The ice cream was soft. Just the way I like it. Put it in the freezer. Sweet wasn't what I was looking for anymore. I wanted something with kick. Needed it.

My favorite is bourbon. It's got backbone. I crack a bottle of Jefferson's Reserve. Fifteen year old smooth-ass liquor. Pour a slug into a juice glass (I'm not at the stage in life where you own shot glasses) and shuffle to the living room, downing half before I plop on the couch. Even across the tongue, sharp in the back of the throat, toasty all the way down. Backbone.

Fire up the laptop. Do a web search for 'third eye'. Got nothing I didn't already know. Psychic center, place you concentrate on when meditating, one of the chakras. Et cetera. The reference to it as a 'doorway to the consciousness' stopped me. That creeped me out. Was the dot a doorway? Did it allow me to see into people's souls? I was filled with questions. Couldn't think. I shut the laptop.

The 'Alien' anthology. Forgot about that. No thanks. The thought of watching a movie about a monster growing inside you was a bad joke at this point. I pulled the quilt off the back of the couch, got wrapped up. Sat there, in the dark, drinking. Thinking. Asking. The same questions over and over. Got no answers.

I woke up. Didn't know what time it was. Glass of water. Kitchen clock says three. Go to bed. The next day I get ready for the appointment with my neurologist. He's a nice guy. We chat sometimes. He tells me what the squiggles on the PET or CT mean. Smart.

Should I tell him? I wonder while getting dressed (compulsively checking my forehead every time I look in the mirror). I could have put my jeans on backwards and wouldn't have noticed. But, I watched my face like a hawk.

I decided to tell Neal. That's my neurologist. Don't know his last name. But, what if it leads to some kind of psych eval? A write-up. That's all I needed. Could mean I wouldn't qualify to participate in the protocol anymore. They'd cut me loose.

Maybe I did need help, though. You know? Maybe I could do with some therapy. But, what would I tell the therapist? 'I'm seeing red dots in people's heads?' It's not like he would have any way of dealing with that, or any experience with it. They'd think I was nuts. Decide to keep the idea on the back burner for now and head out the door.

Neal is in his sixties. Married, grown kids. Still, though, he flirts with me. In a nice way. Not ham-fisted like most younger guys. Subtle. I like it. Makes you wonder where it might go. He stares at the PET imagery. 'How do you feel?' he says.

'What?' I'm a little stunned, eyes too wide. Was he seeing something weird in the scan? Was there a blob of emitted positrons that screamed 'This chick is crazy! Put her in a lock down!' He looks at me. 'Good,' I say. 'Why? Something wrong?'

'No. Looks great,' he says. I exhale. 'You know,' he says, 'researchers around the world are following this. Your progress, I mean. The results are almost too good. Two months and no seizures. That's a record, huh.'

'Totally. I can't remember the last time I went two months without a spill.' I flash a big fake smile.

'If this works -- I mean, it looks like it will -- you'll be famous. A lot of people will be helped. Millions' He pauses for effect, then, dramatically, but in a cool way, 'A cure for epilepsy. Just think.' His smile is beautiful, reassuring.

I couldn't tell him. Couldn't. A cure for epilepsy... No way I could jeopardize that. Meant too much. "Millions," he had said. Way too important. I don't say a thing about the dots.

My plastic smile was beginning to hurt. I shake hands with Neal, then, for the first time, he hugs me. 'See you next week,' he says. You betcha.

I saw three more people with red dots on the way home. Was glad to get inside and lock the door. Collapsed on the couch. What if a by-product of the procedure was insanity? I laughed. "Good news! You're cured of epilepsy, but now you're crazy!" I notice I've finished my first shot of bourbon. Didn't remember pouring it.

But, I didn't feel insane. It wasn't a 'crazy' feeling thing. It was real. It felt real. I know. That's exactly what crazy people say. Well, not all of them. Some schizophrenics know the voices in their heads are an illusion. Delusion. They know it. They want help. Some don't, but some do. A lot do. Most do. Right?

That got me nowhere. Was I one of the ones that knew they were nuts? Or, one of the ones that didn't? No help.

But, seeing the dots was just a new ability. That's all. To sense...things. An enhancement. Not crazy. 

I stayed home as much as possible over the next few days. Finally, I grew a pair and came to a decision. If I was going to tell someone I had to know what I was dealing with, and, if I wasn't going to tell anyone I needed to know what I was dealing with. So, I went to the mall for some people/dot-watching. To get a handle on it.

I sat by the fountain near the food court. Around seven out of ten people had a red dot. Seventy percent. Just like that. I looked for patterns. What kind of people were they? How did they dress? Did they look affluent, educated, trashy? No. Average. Couldn't be more average. One guy wearing sweat pants and a tee-shirt. A thirty-something chick with super high-maintenance hair, a cashmere sweater, and killer pumps. An old lady (her husband didn't have one). No pattern I could find.

Just when I was coming to terms with it, starting to feel a little at ease, getting a grip, this one red dot, a youngish guy who looked like he was always in a hurry, changed direction all the sudden and came toward me, walking real fast. When he passed I tensed up, felt rushed. What the hell. Why would I be tense? What was I in a rush for?

A man with greasy hair whose clothes might have come from the lost and found at a laundromat passes. I feel -- the best word I can think of is -- lazy. Maybe, that's not right. Maybe adrift is better. Like my life is pointless. Then, his body odor hits and snaps me out of it.

I couldn't believe it. Now, not only was I seeing dots, but I was feeling things. Emotions. I was sensing what these people were about. A fat guy makes me want to eat. A fifty-something woman with a droopy face wearing her dress crooked makes me feel edgy, anxious. A little boy passes, dragging his mom in tow. I follow his gaze to the toy store. I want to go in and buy a bunch of toys and play all day.

Great. Just. Fucking. Great.

One second I'd be pissed, the next nervous, ill at ease. Pudgy guy with a silly comb-over -- I'm insecure about my looks, wonder what people think of me. Nice trim dude in a tailored suit strides by -- I'm all about making money. It went like that. One after another. I could sense them. What their lives were about. How they carry themselves inside. I hold others in contempt, want to have sex, feel tired, skittish, sad, mad, glad. You name it. I sat there for a couple more hours until I couldn't take it anymore.

Back at home, looking in the mirror, I couldn't see anything in my forehead. I even tried looking through a magnifying glass. Didn't work. Made me feel stupid, not to mention look like an idiot.

Wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, all the lights off, I'd flash a crazy smile thinking of it. Just when I had started to come to terms with seeing lights, I begin to feel other people's stuff, emotions. As far as tackling my new, let's call it "a condition", I was back to square one. My thought process was circular. The questions were new, but pretty much the same as before. The answers were pretty much shit, which was pretty much what they were before. I pour another drink. (A bottle was by my side a lot of the time now).

If this was happening there were two choices: I was crazy, or, it was a special (I hated to think in terms of 'magic') thing that I should learn about. Embrace. So, which was it? If I was crazy I wasn't aware of it and wasn't likely to become aware of it. If it was some new ability, a new sense that enabled me to perceive things in people, then, to hell with it, my life had changed, for better or worse, like it or not. Like I said -- I was back to square one.

So. Do nothing or embrace it? I went to bed. Had to get an early start the next day.

At the mall, at the fountain next to the food court, I watched dots go by. Picked up their feelings. Studied the process. Tried to acclimate myself. Find a pattern. It got kind of routine to tell the truth. One red dot after another, each person feeling regular stuff. Apathy, chronically worried, skeptical, optimistic. You know. Regular. Normal. When they walked by, got within a few feet, I felt them. Sensed their emotions. Their mental orientation. Whatever you want to call it. I knew what they were about.

I see this one guy coming. Weird looking. Chubby greasy face, off balance expression, high-waters, shirt with a hole, one shoe untied. He got close. I waited for the impression. What was this guy feeling? Nothing. I felt nothing.

I looked at his dot. It wasn't red. It was purple.

The next chapter will be posted soon

.

Light

This story will be published in three to five parts (I'm not sure yet as they're not written yet). Toward the end it will get extremely graphic. Most people will find some passages difficult to read. Some will stop reading altogether.

If such content will bother or offend you, please do not read 'Light'.

Light
.

written by
Alan Green

Part I

I'm recovering from surgery. Brain surgery. No. I'm not stupid. They didn't cut out a huge chunk. Just a tiny chunk. About the size of an eraser on the end of a pencil. But. The good news. They replaced that chunk. With a tiny sliver of a rat's brain. A sliver taken from a part of the brain, the rat's brain, responsible for controlling motor function. I forget the name. And, that gets me to my problem, my sickness. The reason I needed surgery. I had epileptic seizures. Bad ones. Really bad. The docs said I'd likely die from one within a few years. Great.

They procedure is experimental. They really didn't know what would happen. But, hey. If you're slated to die 'within a few years', why not. What they do is insert a catheter through a small hole they drill in the skull, guide the tube using realtime PET imaging (or, it might be CT, I forget that too). They worm the catheter around until the end in near the spot to be excised. Then, they snake an optical filament through the tube and fire up an RF (radio frequency) emitter on the end of the filament and ablate the offending tissue. Then, they vacuum up the goo with a really tiny hose, and insert the afore mentioned rat brain tissue, bathe it in anti-rejection and AP (assimilation promotion) drugs, and sew you up. Badda-bing, badda-boom.

Simple. Hell, I could have done it if I had good instructions.

So, here I am, the first human, the first girl (I'm twenty-six if you're interested. My name is Chloe.), to have this done. I feel fine. At my first scheduled post-surgical examination everybody was real cheerful, but it was a kinda forced. You could tell they all had their fingers crossed. But, the next day, I hadn't had a seizure, and when I went down to the fifth floor for another exam everybody had big beautiful smiles. They watched me walk across the room like I was a rock star, or something. One and a half days, no seizure. They liked that. Liked it a lot.

A couple weeks go by, still no seizures. I moved out of the hospital to my apartment. Well, it's not mine. It's provided and paid for by the university medical center -- that's where the protocol is being conducted. EP-TI-4755-001. Experimental Protocol, Tissue Implant 4755. I'm 001. (You can write your own 007 joke). Anyway, since it's a federally subsidized protocol, all the participants get a free ride -- everything is paid for. It's the law. And, as the protocol calls for the subject (me) to live very close to medical personnel and facilities, I get an apartment on campus rent free. Cable, wifi, even a stipend for food and expenses. I even get to use one of the university's cars.

What the hell. I should get that stuff paid for. Had to quit my job for this. That's another thing. I can't work for twelve months after the surgery. To keep environmental factors, like stress, and thinking a lot, to a minimum. So, In my downtime I surf the web, or watch blu-ray movies on my killer fifty-two inch plasma TV (that your tax dollars bought). Sometimes, I'll do the History Channel thing, or watch that channel that only runs biographies -- what's that called? Every now and then I'll watch a game or something. I can watch football for maybe ten minutes before I zone out. Sometimes, I read. I got a stack of books (yeah, your taxes bought those too).

That's my life. I take it easy. And, why not enjoy myself? I asked one of the nurses how much a study like this cost. She said 'millions', even 'tens of millions'. Okay. It's their dime. They dick around with my brain, I watch TV, read the latest bestsellers, eat gourmet ice cream. In exchange for all that sumptuous living, I show up for my check ups, AP injection, PET scan, almost every day. Sometimes, up to four or five hours a day. Other days, it's just a blood draw or something simple. I forget the last time I had a whole day to myself without having to go to the clinic or hospital. Whatever. It's worth it.

Being seizure-free is fucking great. I'm loving it. I don't have to worry about having a spill, that's what I call them, in the middle of the mall, or wherever. One time, I was picking up some dry cleaning and fell to the floor doubled up, making these weird moaning sounds. The Korean woman behind the counter screams, eyes bulging. She called 911. By the time the EMTs got there it had passed. I was sitting against the giant plate glass window sipping Oolong and explaining to the Korean woman what had happened. She said, with a silly laugh, that in the old country (she's a transplant) an attack like that might be taken as a sign of demonic possession. Sheesh. How 'old country' can you get.

One seizure was so bad. One of my incisors got stuck on the inside the lower teeth and, when my jaw snapped to the side, the tooth was knocked right out. Okay, I was a kid and it was a loose baby tooth, but still. It hurt. I was at school at the time and the other kids thought it was cool. 'Chloe, that was so cool!', they'd say. I even earned cred with the boys. Not bad. They quit making fun of me for a while.

So. A couple months went by. After the surgery, I mean. Not one episode. The docs are talking 'preliminary success'. They're happy. Can't blame them. If this works they'll be famous. Millions would benefit. It would be a landmark event. Look good on the resume. I guess I'd be happy, too.

Anyway, one night I load up the new 'Alien' blu-ray box set. Anthology... Watch the first few minutes to see how much better the picture is. Wow. What a difference. Didn't know movies could look that good. And, the sound. So clear. Makes the movie much creepier. Didn't know sound could do that. I pause it and go to the fridge. No ice cream. Could. Not. Believe. It. I was out for a couple hours getting stocked up for tonight. That's a bad thing. You're not supposed to be out of 'the subject's assigned living quarters' for that long. In case they need to reach you, don't you know. Going out of town? Forget it. It's all in the stack of stuff you have to sign before you can take part in the...you get the picture.

I had gone to the bookstore for the latest translated Euro murder thriller. I love those. I stopped for a three-dollar latte and some people watching. (Anything to avoid going back to the apartment). Then, I swung over to the electronics store for a flash drive and the 'Alien' Anthology. Then, the grocery store for some frozen dinners (yes, I do those). Figured I had everything you need for several hours of horror movie watching. Forgot the damn ice cream. Have a frozen pizza, you say. Don't want one. Want sugar.

Back to the grocery store. Jump back in the university's car (with the dorky U logo on the side). I'm in the ice cream aisle. Butter pecan or peach? Which is right for the monster-growing-inside-you genre? I grab butter pecan and head for the check out. Then, I see her. This lady, maybe sixty, a little stooped, silver curls, but sharp eyes. I look at her as she examines an apple. When she glances at me, she smiles. I smile too, but it fades when I see the spot of light in the middle of her forehead. The tiniest red dot. I mean, it's teeny, but it glows really strong. A deep, brilliant red. She goes back to her apples. I'm still looking back at her, and almost run into a stack of bananas. Did I? No. No way. Girl, go home and watch horror movies -- you're in the mood for it. Seeing things.

It's late. There's nobody in line. I set my purchase on the belt, get my card (well, the university's card). 'How you doing?' the girl says.

I swipe my card, 'Fine, thanks.'

'Four fifty. You want a bag?'

I punch the PIN number. 'No,' I say, looking at her for the first time. There it was. Right between her eyes. A teeny tiny red dot. Glowing, with sort of a fog around it. Until she looks at me. The fog disappears and the light becomes pure, bright, shining right into my eyes, first the left, then the right.

'You said you didn't need a bag, right?' she says.

I'm slack-jawed. 'No...yes, I said that.'

She glances at the ice cream sitting there in front of me. 'Did you want something else?'

I pick it up. The cold brings me back to reality. 'Sorry,' I manage. 'Tired.'

She grins. 'That's okay. I get that way.' The light grows brighter with her emotion, hitting my eyes in quick succession. Left, right, left, right. Then, it settles, seeming to shine into the middle of my own forehead. 'Have a good night.'

'You too,' I say out of reflex, and leave.


Part II

The next chapter will be posted soon.

.

The Vaccine

Chapter 1: The Fortress

Z

Written by
Alan Green

Book I
Z-Vac

Chapter 2
Vaccine

First things first, make sure nobody else is here. He flashes the penlight around the room.

Furnishings are strictly utilitarian. Desk with computer and tattered office chair, research studies stacked on concrete floor, small cot, hotplate, microwave, freezer.

In the only other piece of furniture, a cushioned easy chair, sits a man. Older, thin white hair, wearing a white lab coat, eyes closed. Russell levels the pistol.

'Sorry. The door was unlocked. It's getting dark. I need a place for the night.' No response. 'Cold at night this time of year.' The man doesn't move. Russell takes a step, eyes steady, keeping him pinned with the light. 'I can trade for it. I have goods. Sir? Are you all right?'

It's becoming clear the man isn't asleep, but Russell can't sure yet. He takes another step. If you're sick I can help.' If you're dead there's nothing I can do, Russell thinks as he closes.

'I'm a doctor.' A little white lie couldn't do any harm. Having quit during his third year at Johns Hopkins School of Medicine made it close enough. He was more of a doctor than most people saw in ten years these days. Since the collapse health care consisted of rudimentary first aid, health insurance was hoping you didn't get sick.

Russell stands over the man. On the coat is a name tag: Doc. 'Doc?' He places the muzzle against the man's temple and pushes. The man leans over in the chair coming to a stop on its arm, eyes still closed. Russell leans close. No pulse, cool skin, a fine coat of dust on the face. Dead. No rigor mortis. Fresh, less than twenty-four hours.

On the desk is a kerosene lantern. Russell lights it, turning the wick high. Warm light fills the room, which looks the same fully lit as it did in the penlight's thin beam. No personal effects, no color, no life. Russell holsters the pistol, covers the man with a sheet taken from a cardboard box marked 'Bedding'. 'Sorry, pal.'

A buzzing behind him, he whirls, his hand landing on the butt of the pistol. The freezer has kicked in, its compressor humming. Amused, he goes to it, lifts the lid. Stacks of frozen dinners. Just what he needed. Open carton, poke holes, pop lasagna in microwave, press 'Popcorn' and 'Start'.

He takes a large flashlight off the charging unit and heads out the back door. In the back yard there are two sheds. Inside the larger one are large steel vats topped with piping, valves, and digital thermometers that measure tenths of degrees. Each vat sits atop a heating unit and is connected by shiny steel tubes to canisters of viscous fluid. An electron microscope and two optical scopes on a desk in the corner. Beakers, stacks of Petri dishes, incubators with forced-draft circulation, centrifuge, sterilization devices, saline solution. Freezer full of vacuum packed egg protein. Shelves and drawers stuffed with expected accoutrement: 99% alcohol, tongs, tweezers, clips, swabs, notepads filled with timings and temperatures next to corresponding dates. A vaccine production facility.

He leaves, makes his way across the rocky backyard to the smaller shed, opens the door. A generator purrs, fed air through a snorkel in the ceiling. Flex tubing dispenses exhaust to the outside. Several cans of gasoline. He tops off the tank and leaves. When he closes the door, soundproofing silences the rumble of the genny's engine -- a necessary precaution with infected around.

He peels back wrapping paper, cuts lasagna, still frozen in the middle, into pieces and returns it to the microwave, presses 'Popcorn' again. He was looking forward to eating, but that smell... What's causing it? Can't be the man's body -- too fresh. Russell scans the room. Cages of rats. Test animals, maybe dead a week. He takes the cages out back, covers them with a tarp.

Washes his hands. The microwave beeps. He retrieves dinner. Nice. Booze, your choice. Nice. Whiskey, Gin, Vodka? Scotch will do. Single malt, five years old. Rare these days. Smooth. Nice.

He sits at the desk and digs in. The note on the keyboard reads 'Please play the video'. He chews, sips Scotch. 'I can do that.'

He wiggles the mouse, the screen comes to life. On the computer screen only one icon, a video player. 'Movie time,' he whispers. Click.

The video starts. It's the man in the chair. Blue eyes burn with intelligence, as if he knows a secret. They hold his audience, but his demeanor is sickly. He says:

My name is Walter Timman. I am a scientist. A researcher. Whoever you are, thank you for playing this. Please help yourself to anything you need. I hope my modest home meets your needs. Stay as long as you see fit.

I've been sick for a long time. I expect to die very soon. That's why I'm recording this.

As you may have noticed this is not only a place of shelter it is a research facility. For the last ten years I have worked, away from the distractions of society, or what's left of it, to find a cure for the horrible plague so many millions suffer from. 'Great Plague' as people call it. I am very happy to say that I have found an answer. A vaccine. The average person would call it...a 'Zombie vaccine'. I don't approve of such names, but that's another matter. I have found the Z-Vac.

Timman leans back, something of a showman, to let this sink in.

I hope you're the right person for what I propose. I pray you are. Many travelers today would have no part of it. They're desperate, half-crazed, many of them. They would simply take what they need and move on. I hope you're not that kind. I'm offering you a chance to do something more important and meaningful than most could dream of accomplishing. It won't be easy, but, as a traveler I'm sure you're well acquainted with the vicissitudes of the open road.

He pauses, grins.

Yes, it will be difficult. However, the results of my research must be made known to the scientific community around the world. There is no uplink out here in the desert, so the data must be hand-delivered. I have--

Russell stops the video, slack jawed, drains the Scotch, gets up, pours another. 'No fucking way,' with a chuckle. Back to the desk, hits play.

--conducted extensive lab and animal tests--

There is insert video of Timman administering the vaccine to rats, and a dog, a short-hair mutt.

--but not human tests. Yet. I regret not living long enough to test the vaccine using myself as the first human subject.

Several hundred doses of the vaccine are in the case to your right, on the floor under the desk. Please take it, along with the data next to the computer, to The International Center for Health Studies in San Francisco. To my daughter, Elise Timman.

His eyes fill with pride and regret.

She is the head of the I.R.D. I'm sorry. Acronyms. No way to talk to people. She is the lead geneticist of the Immunology Research Division. Quite a success, my little girl. I'm very proud. I guess you can tell.

Elise. Take my notes and the samples that have been delivered to you and replicate my results. I don't know how many times I told you that as a child... 'The first step in research is to replicate results'. Once you've done that and see that the virus works in animal tests, move on to human testing. Then, if the results are good, start manufacturing the vaccine on a wide scale. Send it out to the world.

He leans close to the camera, fills with emotion.

Elise, I hope this might make up for my not being there when you were growing up. We can't change the past, but perhaps we can put those feelings behind us. As father and daughter we were not close, but as scientists we have been of like mind. I have found the answer. Millions may be saved. Society rebuilt. It will be a new start.

Timman regains a professional bearing, sits upright, looks directly into the camera another moment, then the image goes black.

Inside the case are thirty vials of clear liquid seated in a styrofoam block packed around the edges with dry ice. He reaches through the evaporating carbon dioxide, pulls a vial, eyes it. Could this really be it? Could one researcher have found what the best scientists in the world had failed to find in thirty years? Russell gazes into the liquid. Timman could be a nutcase, or this could be the foundation of a new world. He replaces the vial, closes the lid with a puff of frozen air, snaps the metal clasps.

Leaning back in the chair, he looks at Dr. Timman's body. 'Doc', he says raising his glass, 'I accept your proposition.' He drains the Scotch, eying the old man.

He drags himself out of the chair, gets another drink, peruses the collection of audio tapes on the shelf. Old cassette-type. Mostly rock from the 1970s. Probably when Timman was a young stud, if that was ever the case. Russell selects a promising tape, puts it in the old machine, presses 'Play'. Beast of Burden, The Rolling Stones. Nice.

Russell lays on the cot, finishes the drink, listens to the music. That was a great group. The Stones. He wishes he could have seen them in concert.

Timman in the easy chair, draped with a sheet. The lantern's light warm and low. The music droning. The warmth, booze, and food relax him. He closes his eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marie LaBeque had wanted to be a neurologist since she was twelve. That was when her sister Becky, four years younger, was diagnosed with Acquired Epileptiform Aphasia, also known as Landau-Kleffner Syndrome.

Becky started having trouble saying certain words when she was seven. Lots of kids, mouth full of new teeth, have trouble saying big words. Nothing was thought of it. At her eighth birthday party she had quite a bit of trouble. A couple times kids laughed. It was attributed to the excitement and gobs of sugary cake and ice cream. Barely noticed. After the party, when everyone had gone, Becky went to her mom, crying.

'What's wrong,' mom asked. Becky's face puckered, she points to her mouth. Alarmed, mom asks her to open her mouth. Indignant, Becky pushes her away, making a strange noise. 'What is it!' mom demands. 'Honey!' she yells for dad. 'Becky, tell me what's wrong.'

Becky could only point at her mouth, eyes red and swollen from a private bout of crying. Dad comes in, terrified at once. 'What is it!' Mom shushes him. 'Honey, calm down. You have to tell us what happened,' she urged.

Becky opens her mouth, issuing a garbled mewling. Dad kneels. 'Are you choking?' Becky shakes her head. 'Did you bite something? Hurt your teeth?' She shakes her head. 'Honey, please. Calm down and tell us what happened.'

With visible effort Becky speaks three sounds that are incomprehensible. Mom and dad exchange frightened looks. Becky tries again, one word at a time. 'Aaay! C-c-c-caahnt! T-ta-uulk!' she manages before succumbing to panicked sobs.

For the next three weeks Marie sat in waiting areas of various specialists, flipping through magazines, glancing at doctors and nurses who passed. She admired them. Their bearing, economy of movement, sober aware expressions. They looked competent even when doing mundane things. She was thankful they were trying to help Becky.

At the conference the doctor told Marie and her family Landau-Kleffner responded in varying degrees to treatment. Some children recovered much of their ability to speak, others did not.  Becky and mom and dad listened intently but Marie could not take anymore. Her eyes wandered to the diplomas and certificates on the wall. She felt helpless. What could she do?

The next day Marie and Becky went to the library. Marie said she was going to learn as much as she could about Becky's problem. Together they would find a cure. They checked out all the books they could find that might help. Anatomy, great doctors in history, a book about Marie Curie, which both Becky and her sister liked for the physicist's first name.

Back home Marie poured over the material. Becky pretended to be interested for a couple hours to be polite then went off to play. Marie read them all front to back. They were woefully inadequate. Too basic. She asked her parents where she could find books that dealt with medicine from a scientific perspective. They told her she was just a little girl, she shouldn't worry about such matters. Let the doctors worry about it. They were trained professionals. They'll cure Becky. 'I'm going to be a doctor,' Marie replied. 'There is no cure for Acquired Epileptiform Aphasia,' she told them with the bearing of a trial lawyer. 'So being a trained professional has nothing to do with it. What's needed is a treatment. I'm going to find one. I need proper materials to study if I'm going to do that.' Mom and dad stare at her, slack-jawed. They referred her to Johns Hopkins. She wouldn't be able to check out books, they told her, since she wasn't a student, but it was an excellent resource. The school was one of the most respected in the country, they assured her. 'Let's go,' Marie said. Now? Now.

They took her to the Welch Medical Library of Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine. A ten-minute drive. A librarian located a few books that might help. Mom and dad left Marie in a study area, agreeing to pick her up in a couple hours.

It was summer. School was out. Marie canceled tennis and violin lessons so she could spend more time studying. Her parents objected. Those lessons were important. For her future. 'This is what I'm doing. This is my future. I'm not going to be a tennis star or concert violinist. I'm going to be a neurologist and genetic researcher,' came the reply. 'I'm going to find a treatment for Becky's condition.' They didn't argue.

Marie's favorite study carrel was in a corner next to a window on the third floor. She liked the spot because there was a giant oak tree just outside. In the afternoon sunlight would pour through the window and she would take a break for a few minutes and watch squirrels scamper and birds come and go, then go back to reading.

At first, every sentence was an obstacle. Most of Marie's time was spent looking up words. Ten, twenty a day. She became frustrated when she realized she was looking up words more than once. She wrote down definitions, looking up words contained therein which she didn't know.

She made flash-cards with technical terms on one side, the definitions on the other. She reviewed them incessantly. On the way home in the car, at dinner, while the family watched TV, while brushing her teeth. One day mom glanced over at a stop light, thinks the dedication is adorable, cute. 'What did you learn today?' she asks with a sing-song voice. 'Viral binding between capsid proteins. Vulnerable receptor sites on cellular surfaces,' Marie answers flatly, without looking up from the cards. A honk from behind jolts mom from a stupor. The light is green. She takes a deep breath, drives.

Marie became known as 'The Library Girl'. Staff brought her medical journals and research bulletins that had been digitized into the library's collection and would be discarded otherwise. Marie took them home, read them cover to cover.

Her parents waited for it to pass. Weeks of reading became months of research. She was on a mission. It was her calling. It was no passing mood.

A couple years went by. Marie was perhaps the only teenage girl in the world with a comprehensive neurological library in her room. Becky's condition worsened until she could not thank Marie with words anymore, so she simply hugged her every night before going to bed. Marie kissed Becky and her Teddy bear goodnight.

When Marie was sixteen she took the GED, returning a perfect score, which allowed her to start pre-med at Johns Hopkins the next semester, where as was usual, she returned perfect grades. She enrolled as a regular student the next year with enough advanced placement credits to get her out most of the fundamental classes.

Her study habits did not change. She read constantly, making notes and following up on them. She reviewed clinical studies, sometimes contacting doctors and researchers who conducted them to ask about specific results.

She studied at her seat in the few minutes before class, on the bus, while eating.

That was how Russell first saw her. In the cafeteria, eating a soupy spaghetti while reading an obscure article in the Journal of Cellular and Molecular Medicine. She lifted a forkful of pasta, all the spaghetti spooled off, she didn't notice until she put the empty fork in her mouth, her eyes following the text of the journal. She retwirled the fork mindlessly, while reading, getting nothing to stick to the tines for maybe a minute before committing her full attention to having lunch. To Russell, she was too cute.

He finally asked her out. A movie on a Friday night. The pull between them was palpable. They stood too close. Their fingers touched over shared popcorn seemingly of their own accord. Slippery butter. The first kiss came while walking from the theater. They were waiting for the light to change. Nobody was around so she slipped her arm through his. He turned, and without the usual awkwardness, they kissed.

After a few dates he spent the night. The bonding was emotional. Intense.

She had the larger apartment so he spent most evenings there. Sauntering conversation wove its way through lingering dinners. Dishes were left for the morning. Evenings spent on the couch or in bed. Within months they realized they were to be together always. For the rest of their lives. Less than a year after meeting Marie, Russell proposed. She accepted and they moved in at the start of the next quarter.

It was the happiest Russell had ever been. They clicked without working at it. Neither had shared a space with even a roommate, let alone lived with a lover. It added a sense of adventure. Newness.

At night they studied, she more than him. She had better grades, but, as Russell was fond of pointing out, she wanted to be a researcher while he was going into practice. She needed excellent grades, he needed good grades. They cuddled on the couch. The TV on, but not watched. Then to bed and the slow burn of passion that filled waking moments, sleeping moments spent in each other's arms. Russell would get up first, well before dawn, cook breakfast. Marie studied while eating, he caught up on news.

Nights, she volunteered at the medical center. She is working there now. Helping an infected patient into bed. He is advanced, mentally addled, one of the violent ones, usually handled with help, but nobody told Marie. She isn't even wearing a mask. She puts her hand on his shoulder, his face contorts with rage and he spits, hitting the center of the face. She reels, he advances, she holds him back. He bites her arm. She screams, pushing him away, cradling her arm. He falls, hitting his head on the bed frame, sits there staring, already having forgotten the event. The Charge Nurse arrives first, applying a gauze to the wound.

Russell stands there, does nothing. It's the same every time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He wakes with a gasp. Dark. The lantern very low. Silence. Then a click. He jumps. The cassette player auto-reverses. 'Hotel California' by The Eagles. Russell catches his breath, shaken by the nightmare and amused by the music. He was, after all, staying in a hotel of sorts. In the middle of the desert. Under the music, though, is another sound. Something on the tape? The technology was ancient. The equipment probably out of adjustment. An acoustic rumble maybe. No. A growl. He is sure. His eyes widen, hand falls to the pistol on the pillow. Another growl. An infected animal? This time he is able to place it. From under his head. He scrambles to his feet, whirls, levels the automatic at the bed.

His jacket is draped over the back of the chair. He reaches, eyes on the bed, gets the penlight, clicks it on. Squats, pistol held low, parallel to the floor, flashlight aligned with the barrel. A short-haired mutt, curled in the corner, eyes wide, teeth bared, voice defiant. The one from Timman's video, survivor of vaccine animal tests.

'Hey boy,' Russell's index finger slides down the side of the weapon coming to rest lightly on the trigger. The dog growls bravely, defending its territory, but it's clear he's scared, probably starving. The thing is, infected animals snarl the same way. Just shoot it. Something in the dog's eyes stops him.

'Hungry, pal?'

Russell moves to the desk, staying low, eyes on the dog. Switching the pistol to his left hand, penlight to his mouth, he feels the top of the desk finding the lantern, and turns the wick up. The room brightens. He feels the top of the desk for the left-over lasagna, putting his fingers right in the pasta. He juggles gun, light, and plate of pasta.

'Here you go boy,' he says offering the dog the food, pushing the plate on the floor to the edge of the bed. The dog stares at Russell.

'Come on, pal. Don't make me come in there after you,' smooching to the dog. He moves back, still squatting, and waits. 'I know it's not much, but you're starving. Gimme a break.' He bends to see the dog. 'Buddy?'

The dog licks his chops and whimpers. 'Come on.' Russell coaxes, fingers tapping the floor. The dog crawls out, stands next to the food, eyes the man. You could always tell an infected animal by the way it ate. Slow and mindless, without enjoyment. The dog looks at the food, then at Russell. 'Go ahead, buddy,' his finger sliding inside the trigger housing again. The dog nibbles, slow at first, then with enthusiasm, eyes flashing guilt and gratitude. Not infected. Russell smiles, holsters the forty-five. 'Guess you're not sick.'

He gets a bowl of water, puts more food in the microwave. Beef teriyaki ought to do the trick.

He holds out his hand, the mutt sniffs, then licks it. It's one part Russell Terrier, two or three parts anybody's guess. Pure bred dogs didn't exist anymore except as an extravagance for the extremely rich. 'You're part Russell, aren't you? My name is Russell,' he makes a big deal of the silly coincidence. 'You're a Russell, I'm a Russell.' The dog stares at him warily.

Minutes later they're both eating beef swimming in caramelized soy sauce with veggies over chalky rice, but now the dog isn't eying the man. 'They're going to want to have a look at you, buddy. Hope you like having blood drawn. You're a first.' He looks at Timman, under the sheet in the easy chair. 'Nice work.'

Pale gray light in the window. The tape auto-reverses again. Russell takes a shower, then goes out to the back to dig a grave. With a shovel from the genny shack, he digs through a couple inches of pebbles and rocks before hitting bigger rocks. A few feet away warning signs indicate mine locations. One has tipped over. He decides not to try another spot, goes back inside.

He packs for the road, loading supplies onto a wheeled lab cart. Looks at Timman under the sheet. 'Sorry, buddy. Too rocky to bury you. Not to mention the mines. It's winter. At this altitude you'll just dry out. Smell won't be too bad,' he says stacking frozen dinners in dry ice. He brings two gas cans from the genny shack, puts them in the lower shelf of the cart. Takes liquor, some for drinking, most for barter. Frozen loose tobacco, bottles of drinking water, a can of motor oil, a battery powered drill, nuts and bolts, a small flat piece of plexiglass shelving from the lab, a roll of tape, tweezers, four rolls of gauze, scissors, alcohol, the old man's razors, toothpaste and brushes. He pockets the data disks next to the computer.

'I'll be right back dog.' He pushes the cart out closing the door behind him, zigs and zags his way down the walkway to the trail, parks the cart then goes back into the house. 'Okay. Let's go.' He picks the dog up, cradles him under one arm. Sees the Scotch. 'Almost forgot this,' he says grabbing the bottle. 'Say goodbye to your old home.' Russell leaves without closing the door, sets the dog down next to the cart.

As soon as the his feet hit the ground the dog runs into the house. Russell yells, 'No!' Too late, the dog is almost on the walkway. Russell dives behind the cart, hands over head. The bottle of Scotch sails through the air, lands in soft sand with a puff of dust. Nothing. He peeks. The dog navigates the zig-zags perfectly, without touching a tripwire, trots into the house. 'God damn it,' he whispers.

'Dog!' He gets up, brushing dust off himself, goes into the house.

The dog is sitting at Timman's feet looking back and forth between his former and current owners. 'He's gone, pal.' Russell goes over, picks the dog up. He pulls the sheet back from Timman's face. 'See?' Russell pauses. 'Dog?' He puts the dog close to the dead man's face. It sniffs then licks. 'Dead, buddy' Russell says. He looks for signs of comprehension from the animal. Silly thing to do. 'Dog?'

'You need a name.' Russell takes the name tag off Timman's lab coat, goes to the chest of drawers, finds a red bandanna, ties it around the dog's neck, pins the tag to the bandanna. 'There. You're Doc now.' They exchange looks. 'Doc the dog. Okay? That's you.' He sets the dog down. Doc mouths the bandanna then accepts its presence, looking up at Russell for approval. 'Good boy, Doc.'

Russell goes to the door, looks back. 'You're going to have to make a decision.' He waits. 'Coming?' Doc looks at the dead man then trots to Russell. They leave, Russell closes the door. Down the zig-zag walkway, Russell watching Doc's every step. The dog makes each turn perfectly, though his tail brushes a wire once, stopping Russell's breath. They get to the trail, Russell loops a leash through the bandanna, tying Doc to the cart. 'Wait here,' with a pat to the head.

After all these decades Claymore mines were still the most effective anti-personnel weapon. Front Toward Enemy was the terribly direct instruction. Times called for specialized skills and Russell had learned how to handle the 'People Poppers' as they were called. He disconnects wires and battery packs from triggers and collects his new, now inert, perimeter guards, wraps each and packs them.

He picks up the Scotch, stows it. Unclips the leash from Doc's bandanna. 'Come on,' he says, rolling the unsteady load down the trail. Doc takes a last look at the corrugated house then follows Russell.

He needed to fashion a riding area for Doc. A converted saddlebag was the only answer. Russell had seen ones that were commercially made. They consisted of modified saddlebags with a windshield and hard cover or netting to make sure the dog or cat or whatever didn't blow away at highway speeds. With the battery operated drill, Russell makes holes in the front of the left side saddlebag, bolts the plexiglass shelving on forming a workable windshield. He removes the plastic lid, lines the bottom with a blanket, and affixes heavy netting over the top, leaving a few inches space at the front so the dog could pop his head up and have a look around.

He transfers supplies from the cart to the bike. It's rigged to carry extra supplies over long hauls. There's plenty room, the load fairly secure, but he figures it might be best to stay under eighty for a while. Russell tops off the gas tank. He places Doc inside his new jump seat. The dog sniffs around and settles quietly. 'Enjoy the ride. Don't jump out.'

Russell puts sunglasses on, starts the Gold Wing, takes the road gently, slowly accelerates. Doc sticks his head up sniffing something in the desert and barks, tongue flopping in the wind, smiling ear to ear. Russell works through the gears, popping into fifth and settling down on a comfortable seventy-five.

The morning sun warm on their backs, Russell and Doc head west.

Chapter 3 will be posted soon

The Fortress

Prologue

Z

Book 1
Z-Vac

Written By
Alan Green

Chapter 1
The Fortress

The setting sun shone bright in Russell Martin's face as he rides the Honda Gold Wing west on U.S. 6 across Nevada, through the New Northern Mojave Desert, toward California, the Pacific, and a new life. Wind whips overgrown blond hair, works its way around sunglasses and stings pale blue eyes. He smiles, loves it out here. No need to weave through a maze of abandoned cars. This far out every scrap of usable material was carted away soon enough. Not like cities where busted vehicles were left in the middle of highways to decay, creating a dangerous obstacle course. In the desert Russell could enjoy riding the way he had in saner times, before the world economy disintegrated, before half the population became disenfranchised, jobless, homeless, insane, or terminally ill with what was popularly called Z-Virus. Before his world, everyone's world, fell to pieces.

The desert had other advantages. An almost complete lack of vegetation made hiding impossible. Anything, threat or otherwise, could be spotted in the distance. Nonetheless, out of habit, he checked the rear-view every few seconds, scanned constantly.

The clock reads four-thirty. It would be dark soon. He needed a safe place to spend the night. The small plateau held promise. There were boulders at the base of these outcroppings behind which one could camp unseen. He didn't look forward to another night outside. It was winter. In the desert the days were warm enough, but nights were brutally cold, though that kept the infected away, which in turn made it easier to sleep. A trade off of sorts. He twists the throttle, within seconds doing more than a hundred. No time to waste.

The sign reads: Food, Water, Shelter. Uninfected only. MAKE SURE NOTHING FOLLOWS YOU!

Welcome surprise. He had seen many like this on his way from the east coast. Makeshift rest stops were tucked away here and there, offering a safe place to sleep, supplies. Their signage usually a mix of heedful welcome and stern admonition. They never failed to amuse.

The price of a night's stay was traded goods. Money had no value outside heavily populated areas. Russell had penicillin, aspirin, even morphine and syringes. All valuable since the collapse.

He parks the bike out of sight, shoulders a twelve-gauge, checks his forty-fives, rounds in both chambers, and heads up the path next to the sign, taking it slow, checking every hiding place, shotgun muzzle leading the way. In a half-hour he comes to a clearing. Small building. Nothing special. A simple corrugated house, shed in back, yard full of rocks.

Signs dot the perimeter. BURIED LIVE MINES, they warn, with arrows pointing left and right at stony gravel on either side. A common courtesy. Lines of Claymores, their wiring marked with red flags tied every few feet. Another sign: TRIPWIRES AT YOUR FEET. Above the door, on sun-bleached plywood: 'THE FORTRESS'.

STAY ON THE WALKWAY. He did, stepping over loose gravel to keep quiet, following the zig-zag path to the door (straight paths were too easy for the infected to follow). He slings the shotgun, draws an automatic, taps the barrel on the door.

'Hello. Saw the signs. Looking for a place to sleep.' No answer. 'I have goods to trade.'

There was a ritual when checking into a rest stop for the night. First, one had to make it clear he or she wasn't sick. This had been established as the simple sentences Russell had already spoken were beyond the ability of the infected. Getting to the front door without tripping a mine was also unfeasible (they couldn't read warning signs).

Sometimes, the proprietor would ask questions to make sure. If a prospective visitor's answers were incorrect, or even too slow, the snappy retort would be a shotgun blast through the door. Nobody could afford to take chances. After formalities and a succinct nervous greeting, negotiations were made, goods transferred, and a polite if somewhat brittle invitation was offered. This time, however, there was only silence.

'I'm not infected. I have goods to trade. Medicines.' Russell imagines twitchy holdouts pointing guns at the door. He steps to the side and leans close to listen. No reply. 'Are you injured or sick?' He realizes how silly the question is. If someone was badly injured or so sick they couldn't answer the door they probably couldn't answer the question. With no other course of action left he slowly reaches out, grasps the knob, turns. Unlocked. Controlling his breathing he pushes the door open.

The smell of death hits him. He flinches and grimaces as a reflex even though, emotionally, he had long since become numbed to the offense. He inhales deeply to clear his head and opens the door wide. Dark, silent. Eyes wide, he reaches in, flips the light switch, which does nothing. He points his penlight. Dust floats in its narrow beam.

The sun has almost set. He had to go back down in near darkness and set up camp blind, eat dinner out of a can. It was probably the smart thing to do. He decided against it and steps inside.



Chapter 2, 'Vaccine'