Live from the Scene of Death
Copyright © 2012 Nick Curry
Part 1: Chicago’s Gone Viral
A viral outbreak is causing overflow in hospitals and health clinics, warranting the dispatch of several National Guard members to set up medical treatment facilities.
The first report of this virus came yesterday evening, when an ER patient was being treated for injuries sustained in a low-speed accident. Others involved in the accident were diagnosed while being treated for minor injuries. Since the initial diagnosis, reports have surfaced of similar symptoms in hospitals across the city and raising the attention of individuals.
“Our first concern is safety—we don’t want whatever this is spreading any further than it has already,” said Terrence Dawkins, spokesman for the Center for Disease Control. “At this point, there is no cause for concern.”
Early reports indicate symptoms of this virus are flu-like, including fever, vomiting, and in some cases hallucinations and seizures. With no clear determination on how the virus is transmitted, all persons who think they may have been exposed to the virus in the greater Chicago area are advised to seek aid. Treatment facilities have been established in areas of Chicago. The facilities are free of charge and are accepting patients immediately.
By Jordan Martin
That’s my byline from four weeks ago, though I blame my editor for the terrible headline. Looking back, I’d like to toss in one small edit; the last line should read “Get out while you still can.” The first patient I mentioned became suddenly rabid and violent within a few hours of the paper being distributed, injuring several hospital staff members. He even killed a few before being shot by the police. Interestingly enough, patient zero was a doctor, himself.
Other infected people followed suit with symptoms, escalating up to violence and cannibalism.
Like any good virus, it didn’t stop with patient zero, though. It swept up thousands in just a few days, overrunning the city in the blink of an eye. I stuck to this story as close as I could, watching in absolute fascination as the virus took new victims every day.
Pardon my seeming sadism; believe me, I saw my share of stomach churning grotesqueries, but I can’t afford to have a filter. I intend to report as I see, hoping whatever I chronicle lives past me.
A week before the outbreak, I was dropping my wife Chloe off at the airport for her flight to Washington DC—she was going out for a week to cover some political pundit's newfound power as he found his seat in congress; representative Jake Murdock. I’m playing it down as much as I can. In sincerity, I was jealous; she’d been hand-picked to do a piece on the President’s little brother. We kissed and said goodbye, sure we'd see each other in just a few short days.
As it usually does, life had different plans. Her pundit fell ill (not that kind, just a cold) and had to delay her interview until he was in good enough health. She saw the sights, sent some pictures, and called every night. We never talked long, just caught up on the day. Three days before she was supposed to get on a plane back to me in Chicago, patient zero emerged. She got as far as Ohio, but then the city and the army started shutting down all mass transit. I asked around the posted guard units, but no one seemed to know exactly what was happening. I was even forcibly removed on more than one occasion.
Still, I clung to my little laptop, typing away at my next stories, under no impression the situation wouldn't resolve itself. It had every time before, so what made this time so different?
Within two weeks of patient zero, I found myself typing things I couldn't believe. Reanimated corpses terrorize citizens. Reports of infection surfacing in most every major city in America; then reports came from international sources. Then some reports stopped coming.
Power grids remained active for as long as I stayed in the city. Once the infection started to come inward from suburbs, the military posts began to weaken. Panicked citizens (myself included) fled whatever direction they could go, away from the people-on-the-menu tendencies of the now-dead populus marching about the streets.
I managed to hitch a ride in the back of a truck with a few other survivors, but that didn't last long. The group I was with ended up cornered in a small house off the interstate in south-central Iowa when we tried to stay the night—some escaped to the truck, driving it into the dark horizon. One other person was left behind with me. He fought bravely, but slipped down the stairs in our escape.
That moment was the real eye-opener for me. I watched as the dead fell upon him, gnashing into his skin and pulling his organs from his stomach. I wanted with all my heart to save this man, but I had no choice. I bolted outside and picked up a bike from the side of the house.
Even here and now, if I close my eyes hard enough, I can still hear him screaming. For a time, I'd wondered if my chances were better staying in Chicago.
I pressed on, forging my own way through the wreckage north of Des Moines until I came across an unfortunate individual, locked inside a truck situated a block away from a gas station. He was infected, and the dull light in his eyes showed that he had nearly succumb. I was ready for a fight, but he still had the strength to speak. Through his fevered mumblings, he offered a trade: his keys for a quick death. He knelt before me, facing away. I told him I'd count to three, but buried my bat in the back of his skull at two. To date, he's the only living thing I've ever killed.
To my great fortune, he'd managed to siphon a few tanks worth of gas into the canisters he had in the bed of the truck. A quick run through the gas station filled my backpack with enough water and junk food to last me for a few days. Luckier still, there was a phone charger in the truck, and my phone still showed a signal. I routed a course to my childhood home, south of North Platte, Nebraska.
When I passed north of Council Bluffs and Omaha, my phone blinked to life with alerts of missed calls and messages. I stopped the truck and punched in Chloe's number. I got through, but only long enough to tell her where I was headed: my dad’s farm. I called every time I found a signal after that, but could never connect a call. Worse still, I had no way of telling if it was my connection or hers that was failing.
It's been days since I last heard her voice.
Between military blockades and raids, the back roads were the only way to travel—I even found highways in Nebraska I’d never heard of. I passed south under I-80 at North Platte, weaving through droves of infected in the city limits. I had glanced at my phone once I broke through to the south, only to see the notification light blink once before the battery gave out—I had forgot to plug my phone in the night before, which meant it just lay dying on the seat for the hours I drove. In panic and disbelief, my foot slid off the accelerator.
I scooped up my charger cable, and fiddled with it until it popped snugly into the charging port. I squeezed down on the power button, watching the screen glow to life, flashing with animations and words. I felt my spirits lift for a moment, but not before I felt the car shake from the rumble strips. I slammed on my brakes, but it was too late. My truck careened off the road and into the ditch.
Luck found me once more though, for when I finally roused, I was still alive. I even found my phone on the floorboards of my little truck, still hooked on the charger. It was almost dark out now, but I couldn’t tell if the sun was rising or setting. My right leg and my back were lighting up my senses with pain, but not enough to keep me in my place.
I tried to start the truck, but it only sputtered. I wrenched the door open and tugged on my phone to disconnect it and bring it along. The tip of the charger snapped off in the port of my phone, and I swore out loud. The small wedge of green on the battery indicator let me know I had a few hours, absolute max, even if I kept my screen off for
most of it. There was no signal in southwest Nebraska, either.
I stumbled up the hill, still feeling woozy from the impact. I checked back at my truck, noting the direction it faced so I could continue the direction I had been heading. I’d made it around a small bend in the road and came across a familiar sight: my old neighbor’s grove. Then, just as sudden as my crash, I realized I had left my backpack in my truck. I halted, pivoted, and doubled back to the ditch.
Only I never made it all the way back. Sacrificing detail for safety, I have to admit I didn’t count them all—there looked to be about two dozen infected gathered around my truck. One of the infected happened to look my direction, grunting loud against the collective rasp in the crowd. At this, I turned and ran as best as I could.
My hobbles paid off, though, and I reached Jenkis’ shelterbelt grove. I shakily climbed over a makeshift fence at the end of the driveway and ambled as far as I could, but my legs would carry me no further. I eventually gave out, collapsing at a stone well some distance up the driveway.
No matter how deep of breaths I gulped from the stench-ridden air, it wasn’t enough to satisfy my exhausted body. My pursuers gathered momentarily before pancaking the fence, storming toward me. The creaking of a large screen door on Jenkis’ house made me jump. A massive hulk of a man walked out, lumbering toward me. With the sun beaming directly behind him, I caught only a glimpse of his face. It was Harry Jenkis, my dad’s neighbor, toting an assault rifle.
I was able to spit out some amount of words, enough to convince him I wasn’t with the group that followed me. The high-powered gun looked awkward in the hands of a man with carpenter overalls, but he peppered the crowd masterfully. Sprays of red and chunks of skin and bone flew in every direction, plopping down body after body of the now twice-dead crowd.
Presently, I find myself alive, though exhausted and battered, atop Harry Jenkis’ tallest barn in his grove, swaying my phone from left to right and stumbling across the roof. The early morning sunrise didn’t help except to let me know I’d been out from the accident most of the night. My battery insisted it was at the end of its rope. I persisted, gritting my teeth and swearing under my breath. Suddenly, I had a signal. The northeast corner of the barn offered enough clearance to pull one bar of magnificent, absolutely-worth-it-all signal.
I flipped open my applications, scouring the icons for the one that could send my GPS location to Chloe. The moment I found it, I gasped and held my breath, subconsciously yearning that this would somehow make the battery last just that much longer. The loading ring circled a thousand times, blinking a small cross-hair GPS locator icon. A large red X appeared. I pressed “Search Again” on the cracked screen, spreading the web of breaks in the glass further. The circle spun on.
Green check mark.
If I’d had the time, I’d have leapt in the air. I resolved to celebrate later and instead selected “Send,” and flicked through my contacts to the letter C. Cara, Carol, Cedric…
A glaring LOW BATTERY message appeared. I dismissed the notification, and clicked Chloe’s contact listing. The phone blinked a loading screen, then presented with “Send your location to Chloe Martin?” and “Confirm” or “Cancel.” I clicked confirm, and watched as my 3G icon lit with up and down arrows. The loading circle began once more, and I couldn’t hold back my glee. Then my phone died.
I sat down, feeling more defeat than I’d felt since most of the world died in front of me. I stared at my phone and it stared back at me in my own distorted reflection on the broken screen. The hours without sleep rimmed black around my eyes. The days without food appeared in my sunken, pale cheeks. My weeks of negligent hygiene were apparent on my ragtag chinstrap of a beard.
Chloe would nag me to shave this matted mess.
I leaned back on the roof with a thud, looking up at the dawn sky. I’d just sent my last futile attempt to find my wife off into the same sky, and I was left here with nothing but hope that the message got through.