Prelude

Lost and for a time so is he. Breath rasps in and out as her lungs begin to fail.

Cold and so is she. Her hand is ice in his, a rigid claw that grips with the force of a newborn. Skin translucent, wisps of grey hair that struggle to rise as he strokes her arm. Bone thin, old, past her prime and yet barely in her fifth decade.

Hours spent by her side and for it her eyes opened but once. She stared past him at the ceiling as if it held less recrimination than his gaze. Milky and gone to smoke, at least the one on the left while the other is clear and the bluest blue he had ever seen. They pulled him in from the first, dug into his soul and now twenty two years later it continues to haunt.

The syringe is cool as he rolls it across the table top. He picks it up again to feel the weight of the world. Clear and languid, the liquid rests and is unassuming.

If it does what he asks, what he hopes, it will be her savior and perhaps his.

The brush of alcohol but she doesn’t stir. Then a stab and the deed is done. Just a waiting game now and for all the long months he has been away he will not leave her side until it works - or kills her.

It may be some time before the tumor shrinks the thing that looks like a balloon in her head. It grows daily as if pumped full of air so that the pressure must be immense.

The virus is 'programmed' to seek out the tumor and enter it. There it will begin eating the thing with a vengeance, his vengeance. Minutes are all it needs to start working, maybe days until she is coherent.

She sighs and her head stirs. He leans over and presses his lips to dry skin next to her pale lips. Then she is silent once again and he waits.

The light from the window paints landscapes across the blankets. Mountains made of knees, hips for land fall, waist a pool of lake water. Later, night slips in and the painting is reversed.

She stirs again and one eye drifts open. It is clear for the first time in as long as he can remember. The other is still milky and may never recover from the damage.

“Herb ...' just a whisper and he has to lean close.

“Ruth?”

“Herb, I feel strange like my blood is on fire.”

“It's okay my love.”

“It's not okay, it hurts. My head is exploding ...”

“It will be fine soon, you will feel better. I gave you a shot that is killing the tumor.”

“I don't think so Herb, I don't think so.” Her eye move back and forth as if trapped. Her head shakes and then her body shifts under the blanket. The dead eye turns and looks past him as if there is a spot on the wall.

Blood pours into the other one but beneath the surface of the cornea and within seconds it is crimson. Oh God a Stroke! He grabs his bag from the floor and paws through it as she starts to shake. She starts thrashing on the bed and foam bubbles from her mouth.

He flips the bag over her body and continues to look through it as he holds her down. He is sure he has Coumadin, but Aspirin will do as well, just in case, oh god - just in case. She thrashes and he can feel her heart beating through her chest. It rumbles pounds and then – to his horror slows down and shudders to a halt.

“Ruth, my god. RUTH!

“Herb.” she sighs then sits up in bed and sinks her teeth into his exposed neck. He screams, but not for long.

Dead and so is he.

Day 0 - Mike

The day started with a blast of rain that matched my dark mood, a teasing precursor to what would, much to my surprise, be one of the best days of my life. Bus so full I’m left standing in the aisle for the twenty minute ride to Seattle. A portly man who reeks of mothballs bouncing against me with every bump and turn. He carries an old style briefcase which keeps bashing into my knee. I want to slap the top of his shiny bald head and tell him to pay attention to his stuff but he has a pair of white ear buds pushed so deeply into his ears that they look like wires running into his head. I keep imagining they are electrodes and me with the control so I can zap him every time he touches me.

There is a woman standing behind me who looks pissed because none of the men offered her a seat. Probably because she is wearing a skirt that barely reaches mid-thigh and they want to stare at her legs, hell, pissed or not I wish could stare at them too, beats looking at a shiny head.

Headphones cup my ears but the morning show guys are just a drone. I don’t know what they are saying because other things weigh heavy on my mind. It is the third of July and it is the third anniversary of my son’s death.

I was haunted from the moment I opened my eyes, to the second I stepped into the shower. Then every movement afterwards was mechanical. I went at the morning like an automaton, convinced that if I just had some momentum going the rest of the day would fall into place.

A trip to Starbucks saw me staring slack jawed at the barista when she asked for my order. I knew she was talking but I had somehow zoned out. I snapped back to attention and blabbered that I wanted a latte, tall. Not my favorite drink but it was the first thing that popped into my mind.

I waited in line behind other customers and remembered a time when Andy had been with me. Mouth armed with a big grin for a cup of hot chocolate. He wanted extra whipped cream which made me stop and think of what Rita would say; only she wasn’t here so she never had to know.

He got his cup from the smiling woman and blushed at her “You going to work with Dad today?” then sipped at the pile of cream puffed on top. He got some on his nose which elicited another ‘ah’ from the girl. It was a greeting card moment, the kind of thing you see on TV and brush off as too melodramatic. Only it wasn’t, he was my son and he was beautiful.

We did spend the day together. I gave him a tour of the office and the press where we printed the tiny Seattle Metro Weekly newspaper. It wasn’t running at full tilt, it was just spitting out some of the middle sections like entertainment and want ads. He marveled at the machine, at how fast it worked, moving paper, pressing and folding. It was a good day, he kept me entertained when I broke away from writing and I kept him busy with our laptop when I was working on something.

The name is Mike Pierce, by the way. I used to be a reporter for one of the Seattle bigs but downsizing led to a lay off a year ago. I don’t blame the paper for the run of bad luck, hell I’m the first one to log into the PC in the morning so I don’t have to read a real paper.

The Metro Weekly has been good to me. I maintain a small section that focuses on some of the weirder life styles around Seattle. I meet interesting people like restaurant owners that put dollops of maple syrup in their martinis; to professional dominatrixes that run things we aren’t supposed to call brothels. I was assured over and over and OVER that no payment for sexual services is ever rendered. Instead think of it as a massage, a massage where a guy gets the shit beat out of him.

After zoning out at Starbucks, stumbling on the bus and then jumping off at the wrong stop, I knew I would have to walk a half mile. At least Mr. Mothball left the bus three stops ago.

The sun was making an appearance and the mugginess of July is just starting to settle over the city. The smell is pure Seattle. A breeze wafts off the waterfront, carrying with it the scent of sea water mixed with an undercurrent of piss and old booze from alleys along Second Avenue.

The traffic was moving right along, barely stopping at red lights before zipping up and down side streets. I approached Bell, a cross street I can take down to the waterfront. I’m still in a daze, thinking of the past, walking an all too familiar route in auto-pilot when a series of honks interrupts my reverie. I turn, expecting to see someone driving too slowly or asleep at a green light. All that caffeine tends to put people on edge, thanks to countless coffee stands in the city.

But they are making a fuss at a homeless man who is fighting with another guy dressed in a suit. The two are locked in combat, arms reaching for each other’s throats. They move around in a circle, neither giving ground like they are performing a waltz. The man in the suit has a red stain down one side of his jacket and is grunting as if in pain. I turn to help out then wonder what I would do. A car stops and a pair of younger men gets out.

Not my problem, I decide, and walk the rest of the way to work.

DAY 0 – Lester

“Oh my god, what is she wearing? It’s like a cross between a robe and a big ole cow.”

“Don’t know babe, she looks like a sleep walker to me.”

Angela's laying between two chairs with her legs poking out of a summer dress so she can soak up the summer sun. She studies the shambling figure through reflective sunglasses. A floppy pink hat shades the rest of her perky face even though the line of sunlight cuts her torso neatly in half.

The street has been quiet for a couple of hours. Neighbors used to poke their faces out of similar houses along Cole Avenue. They used to walk by with heads held high, aloof as if oblivious to the fact that they had renters such as Lester and Angela near their precious property value.

Then those fuckers in the trucks showed up, drove around yelling through bull horns about a gas leak, get out, go somewhere else, get a couple days clothes, the red cross are standing by, so are hotels - bring your credit card. Screwthat was Lester's opinion. There was no way he was leaving his rented house, his supply of weed and alcohol.

A quick call to his attorney informed him that they couldn't make him leave. “They can’t make you and don’t you let them fucking try it!” He could picture Jerry in his office walking around with that headset plastered to his ear while he screams about Lester’s rights. He gets worked up because he is a good lawyer, also because he does coke, which he buys from Lester, by the truck full.

So they stayed inside while the guys passed by in their trucks, green clothes that provide about as much camouflage as if they are dressed in bright red with  'Eat At Joe's' balloons over their heads.

Some of the people that looked like sleep walkers had been rounded up and that’s when Les knew something was not right in Dodge. Not right at all. Other men came. These were suited up in puffy white outfits sealed up like they expected a chemical attack at any moment. They patrolled the streets after the soldiers and rounded up a couple of the people who were acting strange. Les had just hit his bong for the second time when one of the walkers attacked a guy in a space suit. He was crazy, like a rabid dog, thrashing - trying to bite the guy. A soldier jumped out of a truck and shocked the guy with a Taser. He hit the ground like a brick then flopped around like a fish out of water.

But he was back on his feet in a half dozen heartbeat, and that's when Lester started giggling at the guys in white – the guys in green for that matter.

Two electric guns were used on the poor bastard and this laid him out for the count. They wrapped him in some kind of plastic that covered him from chest to toe. They put a hockey mask looking thing on the guy like he was Hannibal Lechter himself.

“There are guys that would pay big money to be tied up like that,” Les chuckles.

“That is sick, Les.” Angela frowns.

Lester and Angela were lying upstairs watching the action through slits in the blinds. This, or so he hoped, let them watch the action without being seen. They were lying side by side and she was kicking her legs up and down like a hyper kid that got into the chocolate chip cookies. She is also smiling from the weed, a big dopey grin that must reflect the one on his face.

The house was locked up tight and when they came to pound on his door he and Angela stayed silent except for the sound of the bong gurgling. They fought down giggles as they played grab ass on the guest bed.

A shot rang out crisp and loud, shattering the already screwed up morning with its retort. This would pretty much set the pace for the next two days of Lester's life.

He slid closer to the window – did they just shoot someone? And, sure enough, there is a man down in the street bleeding from a shot to the chest. Then the poor injured bastard struggled to his feet and one of the soldiers shot him in the head. Just stepped up with his M-16 and put a bullet in the guys brain pan like he was going for a walk in the park. Blood and gore exploded outward, splattering the street. The noise was gruesome, like a bowl of spaghetti dropped on the floor, and was somehow louder than the actual gunshot.

“... the fuck?” he muttered in shock. He stared as the men moved on but they left the guy in the street. That was yesterday, no one had returned to claim the body.

And now a couple of the walkers have come to make a social call.

Lester raises the rifle to his shoulder and looks into the scope. The figure leaps into view, head larger than life red from scalp to sternum with a red stain down her robe. She is not a small girl; her neck seems to merge from her chin into a steady flow of skin that marks the beginning of her chest. The white robe is covered in cow spots and blood. Lester can’t help but think of a slaughter house.

“This ain’t a damn gas leak. They are hiding something from us. All those soldiers here yesterday, driving up and down the road in their Humvees.” He lowers the gun and looks at Angela. “It’s bullshit, they are covering up whatever made these people sick,” and he says people because a few of them have wandered past the house. Some walking, some shambling, and some loping like dogs.

“Deader is missing an ear and part of her left arm,” he says in a cold voice. They escaped to the shade outside after sitting in the stifling house all morning. They went outside to sit in the shade but Angela moved her chairs closer to the edge of the porch to tan her legs.

Lester is in a shitty mood. After the power went out in the middle of the night, not that he heard it – just woke to a lack of fans, he started sweating from the humidity and had a hard time going back to sleep. Finally he split an Ambeon in half and washed it down with some lukewarm water. He would have taken a full one but didn’t want to be a zombie in the morning. So he woke up to sheets drenched in sweat, body awash in the stuff.

Then he tried to make coffee with hot water from the tap but it tasted like shit. He ran it until it was steaming, too. He even let the grounds sit in the water for a few minutes and then strained the mess through a coffee filter. Shit tasted like some weak ass tea. He contemplated boiling water in the fireplace but that would just heat the house and add to the misery. He dug out an old bottle of caffeine pills, instead, and chugged a couple.

“Deader?” Angela asks.

“Heard one of the soldier dudes call them that yesterday when they were in the yard looking around my house. I should sue the bastards for trespassing.”

“They were trying to help, Les. They were trying to evacuate everyone, including us.”

“Its bullshit babe, do you smell a gas leak? I sure as hell don't. Someone messed up and now these people are sick. We saw them execute one like he was a criminal. Do you really want those guys 'escorting' us off Queen Anne?” he puts a spin on the word ‘escort’ to show his contempt.

“I don't know Les. I'm scared, is all.”

“Don't be, babe, we got food, we got booze, we got weed and we got fucking guns and the guys with guns win.”

He watches her as she sighs and looks toward the end of the street which curves down the hill. The hill that leads downtown, the hill lined with trees and cars, other houses and the only exit out of the cul-de-sac.

“Do you think we can go to town tomorrow? I really need some new polish, I hate this shade, I just hate it,” she points at her feet while wiggling her toes.

“We are going to need food soon enough but I don’t think that’s such a good idea yet babe. I rather those soldiers not see us.”

She sighs heavily and looks toward the end of the road again. “If they see us now they might kick us out.”

“They can’t! Jerry said they can’t make us leave, they can just advise us that there is an emergency.”

“Don’t we have, like, a radio or something?”

“Got rid of it when we got the satellite,” he stands up for a stretch.

“When this is all over we should get a radio that runs on batteries or something. You know, for emergencies.”

“What the hell is this? If it ain’t an emergency I don’t know what is, babe.”

“I know, but we are safe, I mean it doesn’t feel like a real emergency. Hey, maybe we could get one of those wind up radios, they charge when you crank them.”

“Good call babe, it’ll be the first thing I buy when we get to a store. Meanwhile I have something you can crank on,” he reaches down and shifts his junk in his shorts.

“So,” she lets the syllable hang in the air as if considering it. “Are you saying that if I crank your cock, news will come out of you? Where will it come out of exactly?” She shoots him a full pearly white grin.

Lester takes his seat and reaches into the cooler. The ice melted off yesterday but the water in it is still reasonably cold. He extracts a beer, a micro brew with a red label. They are running out of the cheap stuff but he has been saving this one.

 “It’s not even noon, isn’t it too early to start?” Bubbles hit the back of his throat, rough and bitter. After the first swallow the rest goes down clean so he drains a quarter of the beer and lets out a long belch.

“Hand me a diet Pepsi.”

“Won’t taste good warm,” He says.

He pushes cans and bottles around until he locates one on the bottom. He pulls it out and pops the tab in one smooth motion before handing it to her. She smiles over the top and takes a few swallows then belches with the back of hand over her mouth.

“’Scuse me.”

Lester reaches over and pats her bare knee. He lets his hand linger sliding up her smooth leg.

“Oh look, here comes another one!” she jumps up excitedly like a little girl at an ice cream parlor. Lester glances to the side and watches the cloth fall down her legs covering her tanned skin.

A figure comes around the corner and stumbles over a body.  It’s another girl but this time dressed in a business suit that has a button down shirt. She would attract attention if it weren’t for the blood staining the white and black clothing. She seems to be missing part of her forehead and she is limping.

“Oh my god, is that Marlene?”

“Marlene, with the big fake boobs?”

“Is that how you remember our friends, by the size of their tits?”

“In her case it’s the only thing she has going for her. She is kind of a bitch. At least to me.”

“I think she is into women – well sometimes, she usually has a guy with her, though.”

“She’s into women? Damn, that’s hot.”

“Sicko.”

“What’s sick about it? Have you ever been with a woman?”

Angela puts her hands on her hips and swivels to meet his eye. He can’t tell if she is mad at the question. The shade of her hat droop over her eyes so they look half lidded. “No, and I don’t want to.”

They are quite for a moment and then she says “Why, do you want to see me with a woman?”

“Of course I do but only if she isn’t a deader.” Lester laughs aloud, sits back in his chair and clutches his stomach.

“Men, Jesus,” she sighs and then turns her attention back to the new deader. “I think it is Marlene. Hey Marlene!” Angela yells.

The woman continues to stagger towards the fence. She stumbles over the body of the dog they had to shoot yesterday because it was chewing on the ankle of the guy left to rot. It was worrying at the flesh like a bone left in its kennel. Big sucker too, Rottweiler, or so Lester thought.

Marlene recovers and does her mindless waltz towards their house, moo cow girl has turned to look at her but then she stumbles around in a full circle until she is staring at Angela again.

Lester raises the rifle and studies the other girl’s chest.

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Poor Marlene. Remember when we had that picnic last summer with her and that guy, what was his name?”

“I called him assclown, but I think his name was Chuck. All he did was talk about his stupid Mustang, like I can’t afford one of the new ones. Is she still with him?”

“Babe, she isn’t with anyone, she isn’t even with herself right now. Oh my god! Poor Marlene.”

“Should I take her out?”

“No! She used to be our friend.”

Your friend maybe.

Their friend, make that Angela’s friend, reaches the fence but keeps trying to walk forward like a retarded kid. The chain link fence forces her to stop but she swings her arms in their direction as if trying to reach the twenty or so feet. She bares her mouth in a horrid visage of broken teeth, tongue held on by a hunk of muscle, and a splatter of dried blood on her lips and chin. Her shirt hangs open but not enough for Lester to get a glimpse of those big boobs. Not that he wants too; her skin is the same shade as her swollen tongue, putrid grey.

A bag dangles from one shoulder as if she was on the way to the store.

“Is that her Coach purse?” Angela moves down the stairs.

“What?”

“That purse, it was her pride and joy. She told me once it cost a grand.”

“You fucking kidding me, for a bag?”

“Get it for me babe.” She pleads, and then studies him up and down her eyes promising him great things if he does. Great things that happen in bed.