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'

Area 51 and the Dead Cow in the Middle of the Road

It's looking like I'll be back to blogging pretty soon. I know I've said that a few times but it's firming up. Very much miss it and look forward to getting back.

Here's part I of a short story. I'm planning to convert it to a screenplay and shoot it as a movie, hopefully this summer.

I want to shoot this because it only has a few characters, takes place in the desert, and doesn't require a lot of props or effects. Costs should be pretty low. I haven't directed a shoot before and I'd like to keep complications and shooting days to a minimum for the first outing.

Parts II and III will probably go up over the weekend.

Hope you like it.

Area 51 and the Dead Cow in the Middle of the Road

By Alan Green

Part I

Wanna hear a story? I know what you're thinking. If some old coot in a hole-in-the-wall bar out in the middle of nowhere -- in the middle of the desert of Nevada, no less -- asks you if you want to hear a story, then maybe you'd just better say 'no' and leave it at that. I wouldn't blame you. But, I got a great story to tell -- well, maybe 'great' ain't the word, but it's pretty good at the least -- and if you buy me a beer...or two, I'll tell it. Now, wait. Before you answer -- I know what you're thinking. Well, prolly I do. You're thinking, 'What kind of story would this scraggly old geezer have to tell'? I know, I know. You figure it wouldn't have a kernel of truth and be filled with all kind of exaggerating and maybe even some hyperbole -- but, you'd be wrong. In fact, I can prove what I have to say is true. Well, pretty much prove it -- I guess 'proof' can be faked, everybody knows that. But, I promise you this: if you buy me a beer I'll tell you one entertaining story and -- I'll be able to show you proof that what I told you is true. Whether you believe the proof, well, that's up to you. Welp, that's my offer. Take me up on it? Wait! -- I'll set things up better so they got more structure. You buy me a beer, just one beer, and I'll tell you the first part of the story, and if you don't think it's worth another beer to hear more, welp, that'll be that. If you do, you can buy another round and I'll tell you more. Like that, till the end. That way you're not in too deep up front -- won't feel too scammed if my story's a dud. Deal? Alrighty, sir! That's just fine. Yep! Just fine! Lemme call the bartender on over here. Two beers right here if you would, kind sir!

Thank you! Mmm...good suds. Mmm... I surely love a nice cold beer on a hot evening like this one is. I thank you much. Mmm... I'll get right to my story. You like spooky stories? Yeah? Good, cause this one's kinda spooky -- not in a, whatta you call, bloody slasher kinda way -- this is more of a psychological, creepy story -- plays with your mind. But, still fun though, like a good old-fashioned horror movie. Like them old movies we used to see as kids, you know. Although, there are some elements of gore in it, I'm warning you. Hope that don't bother you. No? Well, all right then. Mmm...good beer.

This here is a story about the incident. 'The Incident' me and Joe call it -- Joe, that's the guy the incident happened to -- he's the one who the story's about. Not me. Happened to a fella named Joe. Joe first told me this story a few years back and I remember like it was yesterday. (He told me a hundred times if he told me once). Anyway, this story is about what me and Joe refer to as 'The Incident'. Happened out in the desert, just a short distance from where we are right now. Happened right next to that secret base in the desert the government has -- you know? Area 51. I see you've heard of it. Most folks have. Most folk don't put no stock in all them stories about Area 51 that you're always hearing, like how they got all them spaceships stored out there, and them autopsies they supposedly done on them aliens -- little green men from outer space. Well, I ain't saying any of them stories is true and I ain't saying they ain't true, I'm just saying that's where this incident, this here story, took place -- out there by Area 51, and, that it might possibly, just might, have something to do with the events that transpired.

Well, the incident in question happened on a hot day -- like most are in the desert, I guess. Joe was out splitting blacktop -- that's what we call it when you paint the lines -- those broken white, or sometimes yellow, lines? -- down the middle of the road. That's what Joe was doing that day -- same thing he'd been doing for, oh, how long has it been? Forty years...no, forty-five, at least. Lord, is that how long I've known ole Joe? Guess so. That's a long time. We've been best friends all that time, too. Good friends -- people say they was 'best' friends but they don't really mean it, but me and Joe was. Hasn't been a time when we weren't. I was a year behind Joe in high school. He was a pretty good fellow back then -- well, I mean he hadn't got all angry at everything back then like he would later on -- you'll see what I mean once I get going with this story. Anyway, Joe was normal back in high school. Regular. Not too smart, not too dumb. Regular, like me. Happy.

Anyway, back then, like I said, Joe was a pretty happy guy. See, he had been dating this girl, Delores...can't remember her last name. But, don't matter. Him and Delores were the classic high school sweethearts -- the kind of couple they write songs about -- and they planned to get married right after graduation and start a family. They even got engaged -- most kids don't bother with that -- in fact they tend to keep it a secret till it's too late to stop them. You know what I mean. Anyway, Joe just seemed pretty comfortable in his own skin -- easy-going -- back then while he and Delores were a going concern. Makes sense -- she was a pretty girl -- one of the prettiest at our school. Why shouldn't Joe enjoy dating a girl like that? Why shouldn't he like to be seen with her? You'd see 'em coming down the hall, her arm in the crook of his elbow, holding on to him, and him walking tall trying not to smile real big like a fool, you just knew they was good for each other and Joe was as proud as a man could be. People would sorta move out of the happy couple's way when they walked past, so they could stay side by side like that, pretty as a picture.

Well, that was when they was together. When Joe was by himself he was sorta cocky about dating such a pretty girl, and being engaged. He didn't just walk tall, he kinda strutted everywhere he went. Rubbed some of the other fellas the wrong way, and, after a while those guys would shoot Joe a narrow look when they passed him in the hall. Well, sure enough, between those fellas felling like Joe was being arrogant about dating Delores and Joe's somewhat uppity nature -- one day there was a fight. Not one of them shoving matches like what you see mostly in high school -- you know, where the kids get all red-faced challenging each other and use cuss words that don't really come natural to them yet. This was a real fight -- punches were thrown. Joe lost one of his front teeth. Made him look kinda slow. He always hated that. He had the sort of face that, well, it didn't look too academic to start with, if you know what i mean, and that missing front tooth sure didn't make Joe look any smarter.

Anyway, things were different between Joe and Delores after that. They just didn't have that spark. You could see it. Some of us sorta could tell what was coming, and, sure enough, a coupla months after the fight Delores broke off the engagement and stopped seeing Joe. Well, he wasn't the same after that. He sorta dragged his feet and kept his eyes down, and when he walked past you in the hall he'd keep real close to the edge of the hall, right next to the lockers, and he'd pass you right by without saying a word. I guess that's when ole Joe first started carrying a chip on his shoulder. (It stayed there his whole life -- up until the incident that is. After that he was a pretty happy fella once again. I'll get to that momentarily, though).

Anyway, after Delores broke up with him, Joe up and quit high school. Said he didn't believe in it no more. Said 'Spending your day earning a wage beat the hell out of sitting in a dumb class any day'. That's what he'd say. Every chance he got. But, I knew it was because the break up. I knew he couldn't stand going to that school no more, what with being whupped in a fight and losing his girl. Everybody did. Just too much for a man's pride to bear -- especially at that age. Yeah, we all knew.

After he dropped outta high school Joe went to work at this local burger joint. Small place that was owned by a friend of Joe's dad -- that's really the only reason he got hired. Joe worked there a coupla years, hating every minute of it. Used to try and hide in the back when me and some of our pals came by on a Friday night. Sometimes we'd talk to him through the little hole in the window where you placed your orders, tell a few stupid jokes, yammer on, trying to let him know we was still friends. Later after he'd get off work we'd meet up someplace, usually out in somebody's field, and have us a few beers and smoke some cigarettes. Talk shit. You know, normal stuff.

I graduated and got a job at the DOT -- Department of Transportation -- and was able to get Joe on at the Division of Highways. He was glad he could stop flipping those burgers, I'll tell you. Took to his new job pretty well. He had a truck and spent all day out fixing traffic lights or them lights at railroad crossings. He'd change the bulbs or other such work. Sometimes, he'd adjust the timing settings for the lights at intersections according to what some traffic engineer had figured out -- so the traffic would flow right. Joe loved it cause it was 'real work' and it wasn't in an office or, heaven forbid, a burger flipping grill, where the boss was always looking over your shoulder. Joe says, 'They're just waiting for you to screw up so they can ream you'. That was his attitude back then. Defensive. Guess I can't blame him.

Mmm...good beer. Welp, ole Joe was doing fine. Had become pretty much a go-to guy the Division of Highways -- got sent all over this part of Nevada. Pay was good, especially for a single guy that lived the way Joe did -- simple. He bought himself a place out in the desert where property's real cheap. He saved up a lot of money, too. Didn't have nothing to spend it on. Didn't date, not hardly. About all he spent money on was his TV -- regular at first, back in the day with rabbit ears and all, then cable, then what you call high definition plasma. That, and and a constant supply of tall cans of Budweiser. That's all he spent his money on. Like I said, 'simple'.

Well, just when it looked like Joe might be getting on the right track he suffers a set-back. Got caught driving on the job with a open container. Now, I knew Joe would keep a few beers in his pack up under the seat but, hell, I figured he'd never be so stupid as to drink one while driving. I mean, I thought he was downing a couple with lunch, maybe on a break. Not that that would make it right, I suppose. But, what was I supposed to do? Turn him in? Hell no! Anyway, Joe's headed out to this interstate interchange to install one of them traffic monitors -- you know? The kind with that tubing that lays across the road and counts every time a car goes by? Yeah, those. Welp. Joe's headed out and misses a stop sign while making a right turn. Dumb. Cop pulls him over. Just doing his job, really. Yep...cop smelled the beer, and all that cop had to do was crane his neck a little and he saw that beer can wedged in between Joe's hip and the center console.

Well, luckily, Joe only had the one beer -- he had drunk the other two with lunch, but that had been a few hours earlier. And, that's what saved him. He'd thrown those two cans out and had just cracked the one he had left -- was a Friday afternoon and he wanted to get started on the weekend before returning his truck at five, which was just about half an hour or so. Can't blame him, I guess -- I get me an early start right around five or so, but it don't matter whether it's Friday cause I been retired for some time! Mmm...

Anyway, Joe passes the, what are they called? Those tests? The Field sobriety test. That's right. He passed it -- easy. Said it weren't nothing. Nothing at all. All that leaning back and touching the tip of your finger to the tip of your nose, and whatnot. Hell, Joe prolly coulda passed one of them after four, maybe even five tall Buds -- he's built up a immunity of sorts to alcohol over the years. Guess I have, too, come to think of it -- truth be told. So, Joe -- he passed the test so the cop couldn't write him up for no DUI, especially since Joe had just cracked that last tall boy and there weren't but one sip taken. Hell, the cop couldn't even have proved a sip had been taken, so the cop, he just gives ole Joe a ticket and has him pour the remainder of that beer out right there in the gutter. So, Joe's pouring out that beer onto the hot pavement, and Joe says that dumb ass cop says to him, honest truth -- 'If I see you take even one sip of that beer I'm writing you up for DUI'. What the hell? Joe's pouring the beer out into the gutter and he's supposed to take a sip of it. Joe always says, when he tells the story -- and he told me a hundred times if he told me once -- 'If I'd a leaned over and taken a sip of that damn beer as I was pouring it into the gutter -- right in front of that cop -- after he'd given me a ticket for having an open container -- I'd a deserved a ticket for being a dumb ass!' Ain't that the truth. Can you imagine? -- taking a sip of a beer that a cop done told you to pour out -- while you're pouring it? I always agreed with Joe on that point: that was one dumb ass thing for that cop to say. One dumb ass thing for sure. Mmm...

Joe says he was so mad at himself because he'd been driving his truck for thirty some-odd years, the whole time with a sixer of tall cans of Bud under the seat, and not once had he even come close to failing to come to a complete stop at a stop sign. Hell, Joe says he was so mad at himself in the first place for not coming to a complete stop at that stop sign, and, so mad at that cop in the second place for saying such a dumb ass thing, that he (Joe that is) almost did take a sip of that beer while he was pouring it out into the gutter just to spite that stupid ass cop. Says he almost did lean over and take a sip outta that stream of foamy beer coming outta that can before it hit the gutter. Ha! Can you imagine?! Joe says it woulda been worth it -- in a way. Always makes me laugh -- that part. Lean over and take a sip from that stream of beer... Love the way Joe tells that part. Can't help it, laugh each time. Can you imagine? Mmm...good beer.

Well, I'll tell you who wasn't laughing -- that was Joe's boss, that's who. Come that following Monday morning, Joe's supervisor finds out about the ticket. Now, you can't drive a truck for the State Division of Highways if you had a moving violation. You see? So, as soon as Joe's supervisor gets the news he calls Joe into his office and tells him he's got a choice: start splitting blacktop or leave. Well, somebody's got to do it, Joe says. And with all the roads, there's always some stretch of highway that needs them broken lines painted. That was the deal they offered. Take it or leave it, they said. Nothing could be done. Hell, Joe was lucky he was offered that much. If he'd gotten a DUI instead of a plain ole ticket for a open container he wouldn't be able to drive nothing for them Highway Boys. No, sir! But, there's a loophole...of sorts: if you get a, what they call 'Class 1' infraction you can still qualify to drive, or operate, certain types of vehicles or machinery, but not a regular State truck. But, if you got a 'Class 2' or worse, well, you can't drive nor operate nothing for the Division of Highways. Welp, open container is a 'Class 1' infraction so, just because of that and because Joe had been such a good employee, he got a second chance. So, Joe decided to lay down them broken lines because he knew that, if kept his record clean for a period of five years, he'd be eligible to get his truck back.

And, that's how Joe ended up painting them broken white lines (sometimes yellow lines) down the middle of state highways in Nevada. One of the worst jobs in the whole Division. But, what was he supposed to do? Couldn't say no. Besides, he figured he could keep his nose clean for five years. Hell, any idiot could do that, Joe says. And, that's what he decided he'd do.

He didn't stop drinking on the job. Oh, no! He kept right on stashing tall Buds under the seat just like always, and he kept right on drinking 'em -- even while splitting that blacktop. Oh, yeah! He didn't care. He said, 'Those damn line-painting rigs move so slow you couldn't hit a damn thing if there was a cash prize for doing it'! Hell, I laugh at that every time. Not, that I condone that sorta thing, mind you. Nope. But, he had a point. See, they only gave Joe the 'out-of-the-way' jobs. Out of populated areas. I mean, it weren't a secret that he enjoyed himself quite a few beers. But, the Division couldn't prove anything, and sure wasn't going to pull no surprise inspection to see if they could find his stash. I mean, you just don't do that sorta thing. How could you look a man in the eye if you did? I mean, it ain't like Joe was selling drugs, or anything. Right? Plus, with him driving one of them slow-ass line-painting rigs in the middle of nowhere, nobody really cared anyway. So, the Division, they was happy just giving ole Joe assignments out in the desert, where he couldn't possibly hurt nobody -- and, he couldn't -- not out there. Between crawling along at fifteen miles an hour -- that's how fast those rigs can go with the rollers down painting them lines -- and working roads that was out in the desert where, sometimes, you don't see another car all day, sometimes for a coupla days! Yeah! There's some roads out here that don't get used sometimes for two days and nights! Well, Joe wasn't likely to have another infraction, if you see what I mean.

And, that's how it went for a few years -- I'd say at least four years, or so. Until a coupla years ago -- when 'The Incident' happened. And, here's what happened. One day, Joe gets this assignment way out -- way out in the middle of no damn where. He and his driver head out early in the morning -- it takes two people minimum to split a blacktop. See, one guy, Joe's partner (I forget his name) drives the truck which is towing the trailer that's carrying the line-painting rig out to the location, and the other guy, Joe in this case, he's the one that actually paints them lines with that rig. So, Joe's partner drives them both out to the starting point and Joe backs that rig off the trailer and then Joe's partner drives the truck and the trailer off -- with the understanding that he'd pick ole Joe up at the end of the line and take the whole kit and kaboodle back to the shop at the end of the day.

So, they get out there -- State Route 375 was the job site that day -- and, Joe takes his pack with his lunch (which was a bag of Ruffles barbecue potato chips) and his sixer of tall cans of Bud, and he fires up the line-painting rig and backs it off the end of that trailer and his driver waves and leaves. So, now Joe's out there all alone -- which he liked just fine.

Now, it's important you understand, SR 375 ain't just any stretch of road. Naw! No, sir. First of all there ain't nothing out there. That highway runs from Crystal Springs up north to Warm Springs (down south). Just almost exactly one hundred miles through the flattest, most barren desert in Nevada. And...it also happens to run right past a part of that secret government installation, Area 51. That's right! Right past where they say they got all them aliens and their spaceships. Same place. The 'Extraterrestrial Highway' is what us locals call SR 375. And, we call it that cause there's been lots of strange stuff seen out thata way. Lots. Lights in the sky, some say. Some say they seen ships in the sky, like big silver metal cigars, zooming by real low, not making a sound, then just turning in a way no plane can turn and flying away. Zoom! Gone in a coupla seconds. Yep! That's what folks say. Sure, some are old coots like me -- booze hounds that live way out away from people, prolly a little crazy. Not that I'm crazy, mind you, but I sure am a old coot, that's for sure. But, some people that say they seen strange stuff out there on that highway, they're regular folks -- young, college educated, city folk, people you could believe when they say they saw something. I guess that don't prove nothing, anyhow. But, that's what people say.

Anyway, Joe hated that stretch of SR 375 because it went past that secret base -- Area 51. If he had known he was gonna paint lines out there that day he might have called in sick and let some other schlub do it. See, Joe's real superstitious. He don't like black cats, the number thirteen, any of that stuff. And, not only is he superstitious, hell, he even claimed to have heard strange howls at night from time to time. Out near his house -- he lives right out in the desert, like I said. Says them sounds ain't right -- natural. Well, there's a lotta creatures out there, coyotes mostly, I says to him. 'These ain't no coyotes', Joe say, making sure I can see that he means what he's saying. Well, I just let it go. Hell, I figured he was just yammering on. That is, until one day I went out to his place for a few burgers and beers -- we do that maybe coupla times a month -- and I seen this bunch of garlic up on the wall next to the door -- Joe calls it a wreath. A whole bunch of it -- whole cloves of garlic -- all bundled together in a big circle. He said he kept it there so no supernatural beings could get in his house while he slept. 'No supernatural beings!', I says. Couldn't hardly believe my ears. Like what? I ventured. He just shrugs. Well, I figured he meant like vampires or werewolves or something so I says, 'Joe, there ain't no such a thing out here -- nor anywhere for that matter', that's what I said. Well, he just looked me right in the eye real level and calm but didn't say anything. Back then, I kinda rolled my eyes, took a good swig of my beer and asked about the burgers being done or not on the grill. Well sir, that was the way I was -- back then. But, now, after the incident, I ain't so sure. I had thought he might of been yammering on at one time, but not so much since I seen how serious he took it, what with all that garlic next to the door -- and not since I seen that video tape. No, sir. I reckon just because I ain't seen nor experienced a thing ain't no reason for me to judge too harshly those that say they have.

Mmm...that's a good beer. Anyway, I guess I mentioned that video enough times I ought to explain it some. See, Delores -- that was Joe's girl back in high school, the one that married that fella she met in college -- she and her husband, I don't know his name, sent Joe a video camera one year for his birthday.
Well, at first, Joe had a mind to just throw that camera away, he was so indignant at getting such a gift from Delores and her husband, especially as they hadn't really been in touch much at all since she got married. Why she sent Joe that camera I'll never know -- guess she was trying to patch things up. Anyway, Joe had a mind to throw it out but instead he got himself a better idea -- at least that's what he thought. He was gonna make a video of a day at work -- that is, what he seen painting lines all day -- from his point of view. Don't that beat all! He told me that video would be so boring it would make Delores and her husband feel...well, Joe didn't know, not exactly, but it seemed like a good joke to him at the time. So, Joe took the video camera with him to make his mind-numbing movie.

Well, as it happened, Joe's birthday was right before the incident, just a coupla days before, and, so, in a way it was real lucky for him that Delores and her husband sent that camera when they did cause otherwise I don't reckon Joe woulda had no camera, video nor otherwise, with him the day of the incident, and I don't figure he woulda gotten no record of what happened to back up his story. And, that woulda been a damn shame! -- as you'll see once I get to the good part. If Joe hadn't had that video camera and made a movie of what happened out there, well, I reckon he'd be pissing into the wind if he tried to get anybody to believe him. Oh, I woulda humored him I suppose, at least some, to be polite. But, hell, he couldn't get nobody else to even listen -- all things considered.

Anyway, the driver of the truck and trailer drops Joe and the line-painting rig off right outside of Warm Springs where US 6 and the north end of SR 375 meet, and he says he'll pick Joe up outside Crystal Springs, where the south end of 375 hits SR 318, and then he takes off, leaving Joe out there all alone to paint them lines -- almost exactly one hundred miles of them between Warm Springs and Crystal Springs -- all in one day, and all by himself. Well, not counting a lunch, that's almost seven hours of line-painting if you're doing fifteen miles an hour -- way I figure it. Well, Joe don't mind. You might think he woulda seeing as he was such a hot-head back them, but he don't. He had his barbecue Ruffles potato chips and his tall Buds, and no boss looking over his shoulder, and so...he's a happy camper. He goes to work.

So, there's ole Joe, driving that rig, laying down those broken white lines -- well, I guess the line-painting rig is doing all the work, but Joe's keeps her centered nice. And, every now and then he'd have a coupla chips and wipe the orangey powder -- you know -- on the leg of his cover-alls. (You could always tell what flavor of chip Joe had for lunch) -- if his cover-all leg was just greasy it had been plain potato chips, but if the cover-all leg was all orangey and greasy, it had been barbecue chips that day. 'Why use a napkin', Joe would say, 'when you got a perfectly good pair of cover-alls to wipe your hands on'. Myself, I couldn't take it -- having my pants all greasy and orangey like that all day -- especially out in the hot sun -- would make me uncomfortable. Mmm...good beer. Anyway, Joe was driving that painter, painting them lines and eating them chips, and he would wash it all down from time to time with a swig of beer. Like I said, he was a happy camper.

Welp, according to the Division of Highway's policy, once it gets to a certain temperature, you got to stay hydrated. It's policy, don't bother asking. If you don't drink enough water and you have a heat stroke or something, they'll write you up with a disciplinary action -- all official. Get enough of those and you might get your pay docked. Have that happen a coupla times and you might get suspended. Like that. Don't bother asking.

So, you got to drink a minimum amount of water per hour -- according to policy. Anyway, as you prolly figured by now, Joe ain't the kind to follow policy too close -- especially policy that says something as 'stupid as "you got to drink water"' -- his words, not mine. That and the fact he ain't gone a day without drinking at least a sixer of Bud -- not for the last thirty, maybe forty years -- that's why Joe just ignores the policy and drinks beer all day. Hell, he don't get drunk -- a little happy maybe, but not drunk. Plus, there ain't nobody out there to run into anyway. Why, these roads out here -- you could watch 'em all day and not see a single car go by. Joe used to say it was a damn waste of taxpayer's money to build roads out in the middle of the desert in the first place, and it sure as hell added insult to injury to pay someone to split 'em with broken white lines once every ten years or so. 'Like people don't have sense enough to stay on their side of the road unless it's split by them lines', Joe would say. He used to get bent out of shape pretty bad about that. Of course, Joe would get bent out of shape pretty bad over most anything back then -- not so much now, after the incident. But, back then he did. Yessir!

Mmm...good. So, Joe's splitting that lonely stretch of two-lane road, not twenty miles from where we are now, and he's gone maybe a quarter-mile when he comes up to 'The Fence'. Now, everybody around here knows what The Fence is. It's a double fence really: two ten-foot high hurricane fences, each one topped with razor-wire. And, them fences are watched by cameras placed every coupla hundred yards or so. It's the fence that goes around Area 51 -- all the way around. Real ominous looking, like what you might expect to see at a prison or something.

And, as if that fence wasn't scary enough they got these signs. Every coupla hundred yards or so there's a big yellow sign with black print. 'KEEP OUT. NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW'. Yeah! I know. Not too subtle. Joe and me, we always joked the signs read: 'Tress passers will be violated'. I know, it's a dumb joke -- play on words. But, it goes with the territory seeing how all them folks claimed they was abducted...and probed, and such on board them spaceships. 'Tress passers will be violated' -- by space aliens. I know...dumb. But, Joe and me -- we always laughed -- dumb though it may be. Mmm...good. Good beer. This one's almost done. So, you make the call. You think this here story's worth hearing more of? Yeah?! Well, that's great. Bartender! Another round here.

Thank you much. Mmm...love a fresh beer -- got more pop. I'm glad you're liking the story so far. I know it gets off to kind of a slow start but it gets going after a while. Mmm...good. Anyway, them 'no trespassing' signs... Every damn coupla hundred yards -- the entire length of that fence. Forty, maybe fifty miles along that stretch of SR 375. Joe was always bothered by them signs. Said they affected him somehow -- gave him the creeps. Joe says they reminded him of the secrecy of what they was doing -- or supposedly doing -- in Area 51. Real hands-off stuff...supposedly -- you know what I mean. Said they, each one of them signs, made him think of aliens ships and autopsies. It seemed like, to Joe, every coupla hundred yards there was a sign that said 'ALIEN BODIES INSIDE. CRASHED ALIEN SPACESHIPS KEPT HERE. KEEP OUT'. And them signs keep coming. As soon as the effect of the last one wears off, here come the next. ALIENS IN HERE. STAY OUT! Over and over. Sorta like Chinese water torture.

Not only that. It wasn't just the signs. It was the surveillance cameras. You see, each one of them signs had a camera right above it. Well, not just a camera, but one of those domes, you know? -- the kind with a round metal case and a dome of tinted glass over it? The kind you see in department stores and such. Well, inside each one of them domed cases there's three cameras. One facing either way and one facing straight out at the road -- so they got all the angles covered. Those cameras used to give ole Joe the heebie-jeebies. He said he hated the effing government types watching him come and go. Said it wasn't any of their business watching a public road. Of course, if you tried to explain to him they wasn't watching the road, not really, they was watching for people trying to get over that fence -- or whatever criminal activity that might be going on -- Joe wouldn't have any of it. 'Fuck that' he'd say -- you'll excuse me -- his words. Well, I always just let it go. Anyway, Joe says that every time he passed one of them signs, he'd read it, even though it said the same thing as the last one -- couldn't help himself, he said -- and that would make him think of the little green men and the autopsies and spaceships and such, all over again. And he'd look at the camera above the sign, watching him come and go, and it seemed to him like he was going in slow-motion when what he wanted to do was to speed up. Can you beat that?! He says, after crawling past them signs and cameras for a few miles real slow on that line-painting rig out there in the middle of nowhere in that heat, it about made him lose it -- go a little nuts, you know? Me too -- makes me laugh, too. Every time I think about it. Funniest thing. Mmm...

Welp, anyway, Joe's crawling along and looking at each one of them signs and cameras as he passes them, and sweltering in that hard black plastic seat they got on them line-painters -- just like the ones in the back of police cars, you know -- and he's broiling, and sweating, and drinking tall cans of Bud to stay cool, not eating too many barbecue chips cause it's too damn hot, so the pant leg of his cover-alls ain't too orangey -- not yet. And it goes like that for a coupla hours -- take a sip of beer, read a 'ALIEN IN HERE' sign and look at the camera go by in slow-motion, getting all creeped out, then, as soon as he's passed the sign he calms down a little (with the help of another sip of beer), then he passes another sign and it starts up all over.

Well, Joe's finishing up his second or maybe third tall can of suds when he thinks he sees something up ahead in the blur zone. 'Blur zone' -- that's on the horizon on a hot day. See, the heat rising up from the ground is so fierce you get those ripples -- you know. And, the sky is so plain out here -- it's a real clear blue sky, not hazy like you get in the city -- that when you mix the two you get nothing but blur. Just sort of a wavy gray-blue. You can't see nothing but a blur. 'The Blur Zone'. Starts up about ten in the morning, and keeps going till the sun sets. And, it's worse if you're headed south -- which Joe was, toward Crystal Springs you'll remember -- and you're looking into the glare of the sun. So, all in all, Joe was having a hard time seeing what was up the road.

Anyway, he sees something in that heat ripple maybe four or five hundred yards on. Just a blob at first. Grayish-brown sorta thing in the middle of the road. 'What the fuck' Joe says right out loud. He used to do that -- cuss right out loud on account of he didn't care what people thought or who he might offend. Don't do that no more, though -- not since the incident. Anyway, Joe empties that beer real quick, drinks it down, and crushes the can and stuffs it in his bag up under the seat, you know, in case that blob up ahead is a State Troller making random pull-overs. Joe sure as hell didn't need another mark on his driving record. Anyway, after a bit he's getting closer and now he can tell it ain't no car, regular or police, and it ain't no accident neither. It's just some kind of lump, big one, right in the middle of the black top. And that's when Joe's temper starts a boiling over some. See...whatever the thing is, it's right in the middle of the road. That means it's right where ole Joe is planning to paint them lines. Get it? Yeah! Joe's gonna have to deal with the situation one way or the other in order to get his day's work done. Oh, boy -- let me tell you, that's the kind of thing Joe hates...well, hated -- he gets along okay now. But, back then Joe had a pretty short fuse. Anything out of the ordinary or anything that would cause him extra work would set his clock to ticking.

Welp, anyway, just for a second, during a break in the heat ripple, Joe thinks he sees what looks like a cow. When he told me that the first time I just had to laugh. I mean...a cow? In the middle of the road? Out in the desert? Mmm...good...good beer. You got to admit that sounds pretty funny. Mmm... Well, anyway, Joe says after just a second or two the heat ripples come up and again and since he's looking south into all that glare all he can see is that blob again, maybe a hundred-fifty yards up. Funny thing, though. As soon as Joe thought he saw a cow his tempered got dialed way down. He wasn't worried about no State Trollers nor accidents no more, and thinking it was a cow was just such a funny thing it put him in a pretty good mood again, so he just gets him another beer out of his pack under the seat, pops it, and gulps back a good swallow. Right about then, Joe lifts them rollers -- they're what apply the paint to the road, you know -- and he puts that rig into normal driving gear, and gives her some gas -- gets up to about thirty, I guess -- so he can get up there and see what kind of predicament he had to deal with.

Well, Joe gets up closer and sure enough, it is a cow. He hadn't been seeing things after all. Right there in the middle of the effing road. A big dead, bloated cow.


Part II can be read here:

http://moovyboovy.blogspot.com/2010/05/area-51-and-dead-cow-in-middle-of-road_09.html