The Reaper Virus Read online

  A wave of nausea passed over me. Remnants of my crime remained on the murder weapon. The precious life saver that had served me so well in battling the undead still remained caked in Phil’s blood. I used the tainted bottle of water to loosen the dried coating. It took several minutes of scrubbing with the same shirt turned infected-blood-cleaning-rag to see the silver shimmer. The shirt was a soiled clump of evidence; I threw it to the river. Then I rinsed my beloved Kukri off once more, before propping it against the rail to dry. There was more to do before I could leave here. Daylight was returning quickly and I should be moving in minutes. The “chest warmer” lost any appeal after twenty minutes of use. It cooled and returned to being gross. I tightened its lid and set it atop the rail tie with the intention of disposal once I started walking. All the layers I wore lightened the pack and it became much more manageable.

  While shifting, my pant leg caught on a wooden splinter. The fabric pulled up slightly and revealed the layer of duct tape underneath. I ran my fingernails along the smooth contours of the area. After a second, I felt comforted by the bump of the plastic wrapped memory card. That night I recorded goodbye messages to everyone seemed like another life. My skin tingled to the touch. I doubt the tape on my forehead or shin would come off easily when all this was done. That trek through hell would leave me with deep scars – both inside and out.

  I’d been moving around like a disabled jackass for a while now… it was time to stand up. I slowly got to my feet. Internally I felt death would come from looking to the north or south. In reality all that would be seen in those directions was death. Every stiff joint made sure to remind me of their objection to traveling. I worked my arms through the straps and felt confident in their security. The Kukri stayed in its right gripped home. Its scabbard hung close enough for me to stow the weapon in an emergency. I painfully stretched back and confirmed the crowbar was at the ready.

  Following the tracks, my eyes looked behind me without glancing to the side. The landscape was illuminated well enough to see the end of the vacated bridge. In front of me I happily observed the same. Around the equivalent of a half block up the land embraced the tracks again. Gazing beyond the tree line I could see haze, but little else.

  It was so odd to look in a direction and know that safety lay somewhere beyond it. There were no words that could express how badly I wanted to be under a roof and in my own bed, but as I stared at the misty bridge’s end I felt only egregious fear. I could only compare it to standing on the crossroads between levels of hell. To my front was horror that could prevent me from reaching the ones I love. Behind was an urban wasteland that would harbor no peace.

  I began my trek along the bridge. Walking inside the gravel blanketed area between the parallel rails eliminated any temptation to look over the side. I’d never had a problem with heights; I just didn’t care to see what was beneath me. My morbid imaginative side was curious to look down at the water. However, seeing the James River from the banks cascading with death was an experience I’d like to forget. I doubted the view would be much better from above. It was hard to believe that only twenty-four hours before, I was venturing out into this pandemonium with Brad and Lance. Since then I’d been through things no one ever should. The gravity of having to watch Lance kill Brad was still blocked behind a protective mental wall. I just hoped that I was safe the moment I felt the full weight of what happened on Franklin Street. If I were to allow myself to feel it all then, I doubted I’d make it home.

  My eyes had witnessed so, so much death. Death walked everywhere now. Not just in those that succumbed to the Reaper virus, but in me. Each step I took carried a shadow of death. The black blood of the undead and Phil’s troubled life would never be washed from my hands. I refused to forget the faces of those I had turned my blade on. Those remorseful memories were the only things that separated me now from the reapers.

  I was about to toss my bathroom bottle aside when thirty feet from land something caught my attention. I don’t know what it was, but it caused me to glance left over my shoulder in the direction of the city. There was too much haze in the air to see any outlines of the buildings. All I could see was the billowing plumes of smoke rising from the landscape. It was good to be walking away from Richmond. If those fires continued, I doubted the city would last much longer. I looked at the smoky columns and felt like I was at a wake for a friend. In the movies these times of reverence always get the characters to say something meaningful.

  “This is pointless,” I said aloud to myself. “What’s the point of a eulogy in hell?”

  Something made me look down at the water. That familiar pit in my stomach returned with a vengeance. It was an abominable sight. Bodies traveled with the current like fallen autumn leaves. Each discolored corpse moved at the will of the rapids. They hit rocks, logs, the stone landings rising from the waves and each other. Some moved and others remained still human-shaped rafts. There was no regular interval at which they came. The ultimate horror came from trying to imagine how they ended up in the James to begin with. I wondered if I happened to look at a point when an unusual flood passed or if this was the normal amount. Once I recognized the splashing of zombies toppling the guard rail of the westerly Powhite Bridge my wondering lessened.

  I stared for a few minutes completely transfixed by the once human driftwood. Transfixed as I was, I didn’t dare look down to the area where Phil fell. No level of curiosity could tempt me with a chance sight of the man I killed. Fortunately, the river was so wide I would have to intentionally look in the area he landed to see it. So many happy memories came from this body of water. Why is it that those memories will be sullied by this last view? Now I’d never think of the James River as anything other than a flow of evil.

  Something closer pulled me away from my trance. There was a more distinct splashing sound that combined with a frustrated moan. I looked down and saw an infected male snagged on some debris. He saw me and started splashing around in frenzy. That one was fresher than the others. The creature was completely nude, injuries peppering his mottled skin. Its level of motion and awareness indicated that life left him recently. A rope was tangled around his arm. The current continued to carry him, but the rope would not release. This pushed him against the pile of debris and somehow secured him there permanently. He looked up and snarled a shattered smile.

  I knew I had to keep moving, but some part of this angered me. These infected creatures were so set in their desire to eat me that any details preventing the meal become a moot point. Even though he was a few stories down, naked, tangled and battered by the ungodly waves, that bastard was still trying to get to me.

  “Fuck off, you ugly shit!” I realized this was not my proudest moment, but I didn’t care. “You’re not going to eat me! You can’t even get out of there. Enjoy your Jacuzzi, you zombie asshole!” For whatever reason, I had been carrying the Gatorade bottle mostly filled with my urine. I switched hands and impetuously threw the bottle as hard as I could. It careened off the ledge and splashed next to the anchored beast.

  If someone had asked me last Thursday what I’d be doing this Thursday, I doubt my answer would have been – “throwing a bottle of my pee off a train bridge at a naked zombie.” I nervously laughed aloud. This decaying life was no better than complete insanity. My feet kept crunching away past the reach of the river. I didn’t look behind at the distancing bridge. There was no point in looking back any longer. The crimes and victims of Richmond were now part of my past. Looking back would only be chancing my own fate. Sarah and the kids were the only fate I should be focusing on now.

  * * *

  0838 hours:

  The last hour or so of walking were the most frighteningly peaceful I’d experienced in a week. I did my best to ignore the sporadic sounds of chaos that made their way to me. Occasionally I’d hear gunshots, distant screams, car alarms hinting at nearby paved deathtraps. I ignored them for the crunching sound of the gravel beneath my dirty black boots.

  In th
e post-apocalyptic world I’d been shown that peace could not last more than an hour. The ground shook. I froze and listened. My mind raced with possible causes for the tremor. There was only one time I felt anything like it, and that was during an actual earthquake. Back in my aborted college years I made few attempts at studying. My final attempt was cut short when the ground shook from one of Richmond’s rare minor earthquakes. I saw this as an omen that my time would be better spent at the billiard table.

  I stood petrified by what could be going on. Questions bombarded my confidence in a vain attempt to justify this development. Was it an undead horde so large that their stampede could shake the ground? Did God decide to wipe the Earth clean and start over? Did the Government activate some nuclear contingency plan attempting containment? Curse my imagination for making every attempt at unnerving me in this vulnerable place.

  Thirty seconds later I heard a shrieking, thunderous roar, ringing out tremendously from the northeast. My heart stopped at the foreign, echoing sound. After a moment of frantic contemplation I realized what the roar came from… the city. The Dominion Building must have collapsed. It had been burning for so long I couldn’t believe the tower still stood when I could see it. I’d never heard a twenty-two story building come crashing down before, but I was almost certain that was what had caused the boom. Immediately I thought back to when the Twin Towers fell and how everything around them reaped the devastation. The Richmond I grew up in died a few days ago… what had just happened only threw soil into its open grave.

  I looked up on the tracks to try and get a bearing on where the hell I might be. Ahead I could make out a bridge going over the rails. If memory served me correctly the overpass must have been Forest Hill Avenue. Assuming this was correct, a little ways past it would be the crossing with Jahnke Road. On my commute to work I would pass this railroad crossing on the nights I had time to drive through the ghetto instead of taking the toll road. The crossing was very open and near some older ranch house neighborhoods. Being close to neighborhoods wasn’t a big deal at all. In the hour I’d been on the post-river tracks I’d seen several houses peeking through the bordering tree line. Being close to them never worried me, because of the glorious fence line that had thus far made my walk a private one. I never looked closely at them. Part of me wanted to find other people that might be able to help me. Then the other side of me knew that I was only more likely to see suffering.

  That thought process gave my crippling depression a boost. All my life I’d sought to help people. Yesterday I saved a life. That life was probably the main reason I was alive to even contemplate this. By the end of the day I took the same life I had saved. I could try to rationalize this with the condemning evidence of his growing infection all I wanted… I still had to see the look in Phil’s eyes when I stabbed him. Thoughtful tangents had proven themselves to be a weakness I must eliminate.

  Focusing on the land ahead I tried to remember what awaited me. The houses were not a concern. The true concern was the elementary school that was less than a block off the tracks. Schools are designed to be secure. Desperate people trying to escape ravenous undead jaws will go anywhere that appears secure. It was very likely that people in the area could have attempted to seek refuge there. I’d witnessed firsthand that barricaded people draw the attention of hungry infected. The railroad crossing was wide open. I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the concealment the fenced in path had afforded me. If there was as much undead activity around the school as I suspected, then battle would be in my near future.

  My thinking break was all the rest I could afford. The walk had helped to limber up my traumatized body. An odd feeling of confidence washed over me. I furrowed my brow at the notion that I might actually be able to pull it off. After taking a much needed swig of water, I released the Kukri from my grip. I flexed and wiggled my fingers around knowing that very soon I would need to keep them on the weapon’s handle and needed them fully functioning.

  I cautiously approached the cavernous overhang of the Forest Hill Bridge. It was pitch black inside. The only redeeming factor was seeing this darkness end past the four overhanging lanes. I removed my LED flashlight from my pack, the same place it had been since I killed Phil. Clicking it on, I crept up to the fringe.

  The unnatural white beam swept back and forth searching for hidden danger. I held my breath, waiting to determine if I’d have to engage in battle before reaching the crossing. Confident the area was clear, I exhaled and pressed on. It wasn’t until birthing back into the subdued daylight that my heart stopped palpitating. However, it never fully returned to my typical hypertensive level. Anxiety rampantly wreaked havoc on my already battered person.

  After passing the bridge I could see a change up ahead. The rails continued, but the bordering trees gave way to a wider and wider berth. What was more trouble now was the visible obstruction on the tracks. Every foot of progress I made painted a clearer picture. From there, all I could be certain of was that the tracks were blocked.

  It took only a few more minutes of hiking before I could make out the obstacle ahead. Not even a quarter mile up the area opened wide to the crossing with Jahnke Road. The narrow two-lane road looked to be completely clogged. Cars were strewn in both directions. This wasn’t an unexpected development. Crossing a line of stalled vehicles was unnerving enough. More troublesome was that my view of the tracks beyond the crossing was totally obscured. I wouldn’t know what was waiting for me until I was actually there. Being a person who enjoys over preparation, that was an ulcer invoking situation.

  The trees thinned out as I approached the vehicular wall. I opted to change my tactic of sticking to the center of the tracks and hug the fence. The last thing I wanted was to waltz up to the danger that was probably waiting in the open. My steps slowed. It reminded me of when I was walking through the alley at Headquarters to the parking deck. I hadn’t even fully left the cover of the tree line when my stomach acid churned. Something was causing a ruckus on the other side of my cover. I peeked around the corner to the northeast. If memory served me correctly I should be able to see the tiny traffic circle at the entrance to the elementary school. Under normal circumstances I would have seen it. Instead I saw a wall of undead crowded around the loop. My heart sunk.

  “How am I going to get across without being seen?” I thought to myself while scratching at my bandaged head. It was impossible. I’d have to make a run for it. There wouldn’t be any room to use caution while crossing the traffic jam either. Whatever might be hiding on the other side would get to know my Kukri personally. After that I just had to run until they got me or I lost them.

  Nervous doesn’t quite cover the way I felt at that moment. I tried to steady my breath and prepare myself. Running and I have never made good bedfellows. My body was already so battered that I didn’t know how much exertion I’d be capable of. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Again I sought strength in seeing the ones I love. The Kukri moved in a circle as I loosened my wrist. “Now or never,” I grumbled through my grinding teeth.

  Chapter 21

  Good Samaritans

  1019 hours:

  I was seconds away from bolting out of my cover when something caught my eye. Amongst the outer layers of the eager horde was a figure moving in a noticeably human way. I stopped and stared in curious awe.

  A tall, lanky man in a navy hooded sweatshirt hobbled up to the crowd. He was carrying something big. I couldn’t tell what it was until he tripped slightly. This man was hauling a propane tank up to the zombies that surrounded the school.

  What in God’s name was he doing?

  I wanted to run and help the man just as much as I wanted to run away. A flash of the blood oozing from Phil’s chest as I stabbed him washed over my thoughts. Good Samaritans be damned… I couldn’t risk dealing with other people in my current state. For now I was stuck at this fence hugging the shadows, knowing full well that the man near me was moments away from being torn to shreds.

  The dead notice
d the meal approach. They collectively turned and began to converge on his position. He saw this and set the white barrel of explosive fuel down with a heavy metallic thud. That was when I saw that it wasn’t any ordinary propane tank.

  Silver duct tape ran along the side of the metal cylinder to the top valve. Then I noticed that the duct tape was securing something to the tank to form some kind of contraption. I wondered if I was watching a bomber preparing for destruction. If the man didn’t make a run for it soon then he’d end up being a suicide bomber.

  I quickly glanced around in search of something to shield myself if an explosion came. The man took a knee. I could see his hands shaking from my hiding place. He was fiddling with the rigging that topped the device. Then I heard music. Not just music, but Metallica! There was a speaker dock with an Mp3 player taped to the highest point of the white canister blaring music. Moans from the collected undead were now drowned out by the chords of electric guitar.

  He turned and ran. Some of the reapers had already begun to flank him. The man pulled out a pistol and fired at the lead attackers, felling two with head shots. Another in a club outfit took a round to the shoulder and was knocked off her feet. I watched the entire scene play out to the tune of “Master of Puppets”.

  “This can’t be real,” I whispered to myself. Nearby, the sound of a stray round hitting the fence reminded me that this was indeed very real.

  Then the method to this stranger’s madness became clear. The crowd surrounding the school flocked to the device. It didn’t matter to the creatures that this wasn’t a moving person they heard. All they knew was that something blared out the call of prey. In seconds the propane tank became covered by the agitated predators.