The Reaper Virus Page 15

  It wasn’t long before I could see a change in the road ahead. I stopped to catch my breath and evaluate the new development. There was an older model Dodge pickup missing a tailgate two car lengths up. I climbed aboard the truck to get a better vantage point. Fortunately the clunker was too old to have an alarm – any newer truck would have been blaring away with my fat ass climbing on it.

  It was the first time on my journey that I was flanked by trees on both sides. It was a small but peaceful piece of road. The tiny grouping of trees, east and west, provided a sense of false security as I looked to the road ahead. From what I could tell, the road completely ended three-quarters of a block up. Beyond it was a sloping ravine peppered by some small trees, bushes, rocks and crap I didn’t want to walk across. To the left was another street that provided an outlet for any cars. The fence for Hollywood Cemetery followed the gap seemingly without interruption.

  I was frustrated by the diversion, but was left with little recourse. Then my attention caught something else. In front of the final row of houses were bodies… enough bodies to raise an eyebrow. None of them looked to be moving. They were scattered around from the sidewalk to the street in no particular order. I wondered if it had something to do with the gunshot I heard a little while before. I wracked my brain trying to remember every detail of the sound that snapped me away from daydreaming earlier. Directionally it fit, but I only heard one shot, and there were easily a dozen bodies.

  I opted to sit in the truck bed and rest for a moment. Although I might not know what waited ahead of me, I wouldn’t handle it well in my current state. Ten minutes to sit, listen and rehydrate would do me a world of good.

  Chapter 15

  Passageway

  1327 hours:

  My break was a silent one, with few sounds beyond my breathing and gulping. Occasionally a distant reminder of chaos would break the peace of the moment. Holding still for a few minutes can do a world of good for the post-apocalyptic escape artist. I had finally caught my breath and retained some fluids. The bed of a truck had never been so comfortable. It took extreme willpower to not pass out on top of the leaves that had collected there.

  I wished that I had brought a different jacket. My uniform jacket had patches on it that made me look like law enforcement. Even though I know it was just my paranoia, the police appearance made me feel noticeable. Really, my active pulse was all I needed to be noticed.

  The area around the truck was clear. I dismounted the truck bed and took hesitant steps toward the array of bodies. This was a scenario where my recent desensitization to grisly sight proved useful.

  There wasn’t much point in counting them. As long as all remained “dead” I didn’t care how many of them littered the ground. The closer I got, the more disgusted I became. Corpses in unnatural final positions lay everywhere. The ones I could bring myself to look at directly showed obvious signs of cranial damage. Gore spattered near their bodies led me to believe that the re-fatal wounds came from a bullet or two.

  I stopped at the fringe of this hallowed ground. A foot beyond laid a female cadaver that was perfectly faced-down in her own spilled undead blood. Looking around, I confirmed there wasn’t any way to bypass the killing field. About two houses past the last bodies was the break in the road. Squinting, I could see the road pick up again after the ravine. That was good news. If need be, I could hike through the dip in the terrain and avoid any detours.

  On the other side of the dead woman I became overwhelmed by the sick game of “mine sweeper” I had to play. Slowly and carefully I started across the area of corpses. I tried to focus more on where I was putting my feet. Doing this kept me from looking at the violent crimes I was walking past. Hopefully, I’d detect any movement from them in my peripheral vision – God knows I wasn’t looking for it any other way.

  It all changed when I was about halfway through. The corpse to my left looked like it was in the middle of a stretch routine before working out. The zombie’s torso was twisted awkwardly so that his legs were down like he was on his back, but then twisted for him to be on his side. It twisted to face west, in the direction of the cemetery, towards me. I was spared looking into his face, because there wasn’t anything left. In fact, I only assume it was male in life because the clothing was fairly androgynous and the face was missing from hairline to chin. Behind the stomach churning wound was a blend of blackened innards that seeped from the gape like Jell-O in an overturned mold.

  The same moment my throat filled with vomit from looking too closely the abomination lurched forward. His position lost its awkwardness as the corpse violently flipped over to his stomach. The sudden movement startled me so much that I could have missed the crack from the rifle that caused it. A bullet impacted the zombie on his right shoulder, the one not pressed against the pavement, and its subsequent forced caused the body to turn. It was surprising that my pants leg didn’t get covered in organic mist from the wound. If that happened to a living creature I would have been coated in biological spray.

  My brain raced to process what had just happened. Wait... - even my thoughts sounded out of breath - That was a fucking gunshot! I threw my arms up in the air. The Kukri, in all its filthy glory, went right up over my head with my arms.

  “Don’t shoot!” Screaming was a bad idea. All the work I had done to remain incognito went to hell in a second, but when a rotting corpse moves towards you because of a bullet that was fired at you… well I don’t think I could be faulted for yelling. “I’m not one of them… I’m ALIVE.”

  I saw the pattern then. All the bodies were scattered in a way that indicated they had been moving towards that point in the street. That point being the one in front of a house that had someone alive barricaded inside. It just so happened that the person was armed and either was a great marksman or had a ton of ammunition.

  Frantically, I looked at the house, my pleading glances searching for someone to show that I wasn’t infected. The house’s third floor had a tiny window. Every other window and door was heavily boarded. Under normal circumstances the house would look like it was condemned, rather than defended. The small ovum shape of a window looked like maybe it was a vent for an attic or something. I thought I saw the glint of a rifle scope peek through the darkness within. The awning and flower planters beneath the window were littered with spent shell casings.

  “Please! I’m with the police!” I used my non-weaponized hand to point to the large patch on my jacket. Suddenly I didn’t feel so bad about not having a different jacket to wear. “I’m just trying to get home to my—”

  My desperate calls got cut short. The first shot that hit the corpse was my warning shot. The next was meant for my head. It cut through the air so close to my left ear that it popped from the disturbance in pressure. Pleading wasn’t going to work. This person was going to take me out - zombie or not. I threw caution to the wind and ran faster than I thought possible, each step wider than the next. I had to practically jump to avoid the corpses littered around.

  Another crack from the rifle echoed menacingly from the sniper’s nest. The round missed me and hit the wrought iron fence for Hollywood Cemetery. Its impact made a sound like a gong. Ricocheting, it went through the rear passenger side window of the white two-door Saturn parked a few feet ahead. I’d have been more pissed off that the person was still shooting at me even though I was running away if I wasn’t scared completely shitless.

  Adrenaline carried me through the bodies and to the guard rail for the ravine. I was in such a rush that I didn’t even notice the street detour to the left. At full speed I leapt over the rail and tumbled down the hill on the other side. It was a miracle I didn’t lose any of my things on the crash course down the hill. If I had hit one of the trees or other obstacles I would have probably killed myself. My momentum ceased after I had tumbled down a majority of the downward slope where a holly tree broke my fall.

  I hurt everywhere. The fear that one of them had followed me down the hill or that one was waitin
g for me at the bottom overcame any pain. Tiny pinpricks from my spiny leafed resting place kept my focus to the immediate area.

  I rolled out of the bush and leapt to my feet, the Kukri never leaving my grip. Trying to regain my balance, I pushed it against a tree and remained still long enough for my vision to stabilize. I frantically spun around looking for the undead that had to be waiting for me. Not scoping out an area before literally diving into it was just plain stupid. My inner pessimist was convinced that this ravine would become my grave.

  After an anxious moment, I finally exhaled. I was alone. Thank God the gunshots had stopped. An eerie peace covered this break in the road. Relief at the lack of immediate peril made room for the pain to be felt and boy did I ever feel it.

  My chest was filled with a dull ache. Sharp pangs made their way through the generalized pain with any deep breath. “Shit. I bet I cracked a rib or two,” I grumbled to myself. There were small abrasions over parts of my exposed skin that joined their stinging into a combined irritation.

  The world looked blurry and my eyes burned. I hadn’t released the Kukri from the safety of my fist since hopping the fence at Cary Street field. With a tender respect I inserted the blade into the dirt so that I could gather myself. I leaned against a tree and took off my pack to rummage through it. My eyes still stung. Even with the low temperatures I was sweating like it was July.

  Water had never tasted so divine. I found a semi-clean undershirt in my bag to wipe down with. It seemed unwise to clean myself off with anything that could be contaminated, like my sleeve or shirt. I took the shirt to my brow in hopes of restoring my sight. I was astonished when the shirt returned soaked in blood. Using my hand I searched every crack and crevice of my forehead. Everything I touched was numb and tingly from exposure to the biting winds. It didn’t take long to follow the slick of my blood to the gash above my left eyebrow.

  Trying not to think about the bacteria my “clean” shirt could be harboring, I used it to apply pressure to my forehead. I was more worried about the numbness in the area. The more I pressed, the more I felt the wound. After a couple of minutes I pulled the shirt back. It was soaked in my blood. How strange that I found my red blood comforting. God knows it was better than the black blood I’d been seeing so much of lately.

  I lightly touched the gash. It was deep – deep enough to be worried about. The contour of the wound could only be felt for a second before the area became slick with my seeping blood. I kept pressure on it with one hand while I rummaged through my bag with the other. Soon my hand found the familiar circle of the roll of duct tape. Needing both hands to MacGyver my way to a field dressing, I let the wound be. It dripped into my lap as I worked through the throbbing pain. The only weapon in my possession that hadn’t been used against the infected was a small multi-tool. I used it to cut a length of the shirt that wasn’t soaked in my blood.

  In the front pocket I found a small bottle of hand sanitizer. Behind it was a folded wad of paper towels I put in there a couple years ago when we went to my brother-in-law’s wedding in New Orleans. Being a sweaty bastard, I try to plan ahead and have something to dab moisture off my face. Lucky for me I had forgot about this one and never used it. I found the least-bloody part of my shirt turned gauze pad and attempted a thorough cleaning of the cut. Gritting my teeth I looked up and poured the hand sanitizer in the wound.

  “GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!” I howled through my grinding teeth.

  The necessary act made my face go from rotating sharp and dull pain to the feeling of taking a shower in napalm. Thirty fun seconds of excruciating pain later and I dabbed the area and covered it with the paper towels. I secured the pencil length, tightly folded section over my gash with a small amount of duct tape. Rushing to prevent the dressing from becoming drenched with blood, I wrapped the strip of cloth around my head and covered the injury. I pulled it tight enough to feel like an improperly fitting baseball hat. Since every hat I’ve ever worn has felt this way, I wasn’t concerned about it being too tight.

  Once the field dressing could stay on by itself, I topped the area around the cut with duct tape and wrapped some around the knot in the back for good measure. I have no doubt that I look ridiculous, but the jerry-rigged bandage seemed to stop the bleeding. The pounding of my head made the thought of downing a couple more painkillers appealing. I refrained both out of consideration for my stomach and the fear of any anti-coagulating properties that would affect my head wound. Finally confident that I wouldn’t hemorrhage from my forehead, I checked every part that hurt. This took a moment since all of me hurt. Aside from a few minor scratches and areas that would turn an array of colors later I was fine.

  I was still alone in the area. None of the infected had tried to make their way down the hill after me. If anyone knew I was here they didn’t bother to get to me. This was a luxury I had to exploit in preparing myself for the road ahead. After repacking my bag I tightened and secured everything for a stealthy journey. A nearby slab of concrete served as a welcomed seat. Sitting to rest and mentally review my plan felt like the greatest idea ever to my aching body.

  * * *

  1400 hours:

  In order to get over the water and onto Belle Isle I’d have to make it over the footbridge. The thought of crossing put another pit in my stomach. Every inch of the steel grated, suspended pedestrian bridge redefined a bottleneck situation.

  Composed as I’d ever be, I made my way over the rest of the expanse. It bordered a small basketball park lined with trees then gradually increased in elevation. Finally, I traversed the debris-strewn hill and back to the remainder of Cherry Street. At the guard rail I could see back to where the bullets were flying.

  One shambling figure moved in my general direction. Its head was slumped back and to the left, until it was jerked to the right. The zombie’s body followed the motion of its head and fell over. My confusion ended with the crack of a gunshot that finally found its way to my ears a second later. At least the sniper went back to aiming for the undead. Another creature rose from within the ranks of bullet-ridden corpses. For a moment I wondered if it had been lying there when I walked through. It was pointless to dwell; all that mattered now was the road ahead. The ghoul didn’t even get to a full standing position before the sniper put it down for good.

  Cherry Street only lasted another quarter of a block. That is where the road stopped and things were bound to get interesting. I was treated to the wide open view of the James River and a portion of the cityscape. Anarchy was all that waited to the east. Plumes of smoke rose from many of the high rise buildings. I could see glowing orange areas from the towering Dominion building. If several floors were burning there and no one stopped it… well I was pretty sure Richmond’s skyline would be changing in the near future.

  I wished there was some way to see the pedestrian bridge leading to Belle Isle from there. Even though I could see parts of the island and the river, the rest of my view was obstructed by the few buildings on Tredegar Street directly before the water. Lucky for me I could see a clear path to a better vantage point. A narrow dirt path cut through the bush line at the end of the pavement. Beyond this short expanse an incline of speckled gray gravel led to parallel railroad tracks.

  Richmond had been a railroad hub in the south for easily two hundred years. Amtrak and CSX rail used the lines often. Under any normal circumstances I wouldn’t walk on railroad tracks. Supposedly, the president shut down all rail travel when things started getting bad. Thus, using the tracks to get closer to the islands entrance shouldn’t be a problem.

  Compared to everything else I had traveled through, the train tracks looked wonderfully pristine. The most important detail was that they were completely vacant. I couldn’t see anything, standing or otherwise, in either direction. Any stretch not occupied by zombies was a welcomed one. I made my way over the dirt path and to the gravel line. One step on the stones made my stomach lurch. Tiptoeing over an inevitably loud surface made me feel like a teenager sneaking o
ut of the house again. It was difficult to keep my feet on the rail ties and steel beams. The short trip could have been fun if it wasn’t for the whole end of the world thing.

  Every step brought me closer to the Lee Bridge. From where I was I couldn’t see the pedestrian bridge hanging beneath it, but it felt comforting to know that it was near. My goal since leaving headquarters had been crossing the river. I felt giddy at knowing my passageway out of this wretched city was finally close. I didn’t even let my lack of a plan for after Belle Isle deter my anticipation.

  After two hundred playfully skipped feet down the rails I stopped dead in my tracks. Grief overcame my balance as I sat down hard on the cool steel railroad beam. My empty stare remained on the newly visible pedestrian bridge… something that was far from empty. The bridge was constructed to have a barred gate built into the framework that would be able to close off any access to the island. I had seen this many times in my visits. There had only been one time when the island was closed due to severe flooding that I witnessed the gate closed. From what I could remember, the gate was secured with chain and a padlock. This was factored into my decision to take the bridge. If I were to find it locked, I’d either break through it with the crowbar or climb around the damn thing.

  I never imagined that the gate would be closed with a dozen infected blocking the other side. There was no time for delay. I snapped out of it and did my best to evaluate the bridge logically. However, my good intentions couldn’t surpass the bleak reality of this newly illogical world. My confidence had increased with the practice I’d had during the last day with combating the undead. Gazing upon the edacious group bottlenecked beyond the gate I knew that no level of confidence would allow for survival. If there were only a few of them I might take the chance. Assuming I’d be able to breach the metal bars, my doing so would draw them all towards me. No matter how I looked at it, the pedestrian bridge was out of the question.