Pandora: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse (6 page)

In Europe they were faring a little better but not much. The level of initial infection remained at about 30 percent, and the governments and ruling structures were more stable and less corrupt. But the efficiency of response varied from country to country, with Germany, France, the UK, Switzerland, and Belgium putting together a rapid response team, cobbled together from police, special forces, and elements of their militaries.

The majority of the rest of the countries, however, spent more time arguing over what to do than actually doing anything. With Europe’s borders as porous as they were, the ultimate result was inevitable. Fleeing refugees, both healthy and infected, crisscrossed national borders, and the resultant human bottlenecks hampered already-tenuous emergency operations. Because of policies in Catholic-dominated countries such as Spain, Italy, and Ireland—all of which refused to accept the idea of zombies—confusion ensued over what to do with the infected. They were, in fact, victims of a terrible illness, so one could not just shoot them, yet there was great difficulty in containing them in one place, however compliant they may have been. The concept of concentration camps had a very bad history in Europe, but no one could find another solution. Obviously, unlike their contemporaries on other continents, these countries felt a “Final Solution” was completely out of the question.

Russia and its former satellite countries were in dire straits. Between the rampant governmental corruption and the state of the military, things quickly went to hell in a hand basket. To make matters worse, the Kremlin’s iron-fist handling of its peoples led to various nationalistic,
fundamentalist, and jihadist uprisings throughout the former Soviet Empire. Competing paramilitary and terrorist armies used the pandemic not only to kill any zombies they found, but also to settle old scores with both real and imagined enemies. The region slipped into complete bedlam.

Africa was becoming a continent of armed camps. Various despots and warlords rounded up their personal armies and basically circled the wagons. Armed compounds formed around presidential palaces. Only soldiers, the politically connected, and dictators and their families remained safely inside. But even among themselves, anyone even remotely showing signs of infection was expediently eliminated and the body thrown over the walls. The people remaining outside were on their own. Between zombies, vengeance killings, and poor local sanitation and water sources, they didn’t fare well in this dangerous environment.

Those within the walled camps eventually came to realize that although they had thought to make sure the leader’s hidden wealth was saved and the army had ammunition, stocking enough food and water was more of an afterthought than part of the hastily conceived original plan. Arguments ensued, and dictators were usurped, and when they finally ventured out to find something to eat or drink, the vast army of flesh-eating ghouls found something to eat instead.

In the Americas, we had the fortune of being the last landmass to succumb to the virus. This gave us a brief but crucial heads up when it came to dealing with the mutated virus. The president, his cabinet, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff hurriedly met and hammered out a rushed agenda to try to contain this unimaginable, civilization-ending event. They decided to cull all the previous Pandora virus victims and gather them together. The activated National Guard was pressed into service, erecting camps of Quonset huts in designated areas to house the infected. The thinking was that if those infected did not die, they eventually would be returned home. If, instead, they died and reanimated as zombies, they would be executed and buried in mass graves already dug outside the gates of the quarantine camps. Perhaps because of the vast acceptance in popular culture of the word and idea of zombies, high officials knew (
or hoped they knew) that most civilians were more ready to accept this as a valid concept. The civilian roundup was to start the following morning, and although considered humane (at least compared to what was happening in some other countries), the idea didn’t appeal to everyone. The president was hoping the plan wouldn’t be announced until the last minute, but as with all political secrets, this one was quickly leaked to the press. And with the press being the press, this enterprise was released to the unbelieving public in the morning in widely various manners, from the underground press screaming of Nazis in the government to Fox News declaring this was the only logical way to protect our great nation.

The American people were polarized into two camps: those opposing having their loved ones taken away, never to be seen again, and those saying this was the only way we could assuredly contain this evil virus. The result was not pretty. This was the new world that Sean, Michael, Jack, and the rest of the human race woke up to.

7

S
ean woke up to a pounding at their front door. As he jumped from his bed, hearing someone else start down the stairs, he glanced at his alarm clock.
Six in the morning
, he thought grumpily.
Who the hell could that be?
He raced downstairs with Jack right behind him. Michael, already at the door, looked through the small glass window there before opening it.

On the front porch stood three police officers in Kevlar vests. Behind them was a National Guardsman, and parked at the curb was a desert-tan Humvee.

“Can I help you?” Mike said quizzically.

“Are you Brian Dunn?” asked the lead officer, glancing at Mike then taking in Sean and Jack standing behind.

“No,” replied Mike. “We took Brian to Saint Mary’s Hospital yesterday. I think he died there.”

The officer looked at a piece of paper that seemed to be a list, then back at the three housemates. “I need to see IDs from the three of you.”

The boys reached into their pockets and quickly showed their wallets. After checking their licenses, the officer looked up and stated sternly, “We’ll need to check the house to make sure Mr. Dunn isn’t on the premises.”

“I told you,” Mike huffed, “he’s not here.”

The three cops immediately changed their demeanor. While the lead officer gave Michael a hard stare, the other two lowered their hands to their holsters.

“Hey, it’s all right, officers,” Jack quickly inserted. “We understand.” He opened the door wide and, gently pulling Mike back, stood aside.

The three policemen entered and professionally split up, quickly searching the house from top to bottom. They even checked the basement. Not finding the person they had come for, they gave the boys fast smiles and rapidly left. The lead officer looked back at his list, pointed across the street, and the three, with a guardsman tagging behind, strode toward the opposite house.

Looking vaguely stunned, the three friends stepped onto the porch. Two large olive-drab trucks were idling farther down the street. They watched as the cops went to the Johnstons’ home across the street. The door opened as the officers stepped onto the porch.

Luther and Fran Johnston were a sixty-year-old couple who had lived there for twenty years. Both recently had been hospitalized with the Pandora virus. There was a brief conversation at the door, and then the three cops walked back down the porch with the couple in tow. Mr. Johnston had his arm around his wife, who was crying softly. The guardsman escorted them to the closest truck, and they got in, helped by the people already seated inside.

In the meantime the three cops crossed the lawn to the Russos’ house.

The Russos weren’t popular around the neighborhood. Joe was a nasty man who constantly was complaining about something or someone. Having a very short fuse, he always was working himself up about real or imagined slights against him. His wife, Gloria, was a brassy blonde with a chip on her shoulder who sauntered about the neighborhood as if she owned it. They had two daughters, both of whom had been ill recently.

As the three officers approached the family’s front stairs, the door opened. “Get off my property!” yelled an angry voice from inside the house.

Coming to an abrupt halt, the lead officer called out, “Sir, we’re here to check on—”

“I know why you’re here!” Joe Russo shouted, talking over the cop’s words. “You’re not taking anyone here. Turn your fucking asses around, and get the hell out of here.”

“We can’t do that, sir,” replied the officer. He and his companions had reached down and unsnapped their holsters.

“Then fuck you!” yelled Joe.

The door, which until now was open just a crack, opened wider, and the barrel of a rifle pointed out. As the three policemen reached for their weapons, and two other guardsmen came running over, unslinging theirs, the rifle barked out a shot. The bullet hit the lead officer in the chest, knocking him flat on his back. Immediately the other two cops and the two soldiers opened fire at the front door. A furious fusillade blew holes in the door. Another rifle shot rang out, and the four men continued to fire, all but blowing the door apart. They split up; one soldier moved to one side of the door, and one cop and the other soldier to the other side. The remaining cop bent down and grabbed the back of his fallen comrade’s vest and dragged him off to the side, behind a bush.

In that brief lull in the action, a woman’s voice called from the inside of the bullet-ridden doorway, “You shot my husband, you bastards. I’ll kill you!”

The officer crouching on the side of the driveway arched his arm and threw a flash-bang grenade into the vestibule. As it went off, they ran in after it, firing as they went. From inside the home came screams, shouts, and more gunfire. After five minutes there was a sudden silence.

Watching stunned were the three housemates and a couple of neighbors. Soon the three armed men reappeared, and shortly after that, a number of other police officers began to enter and leave the domain. An ambulance quickly came, and four body bags were taken out of the house and placed inside it.

As Sean walked a bit closer after the ambulance drove off, he heard one of the cops talking to another. “These guys just don’t get it,” the cop said, disgustedly shaking his head. “He had his two dead zombie daughters locked in their bedroom. What the fuck did he think he was going to do with them?” He spat on the ground. “People are just so damn stupid.”

Sean turned and joined his friends, and they went back into their house. As they were closing the front door, they heard more shooting from a few blocks away. They went into the kitchen, made coffee, and sat down to eat breakfast.

“I called Nicole late last night when she didn’t call back,” mumbled Jack as he mechanically ate some fruit. “She didn’t answer.” He looked up. “It went right to voice mail. I’m really afraid for her. If it’s this bad here, imagine what the big cities must be like. It’s got to be awful. I called again right before the police came, but it said her voice mail was full.”

The three ate the rest of their meal in uneasy silence. When they finished, Jack took his coffee into the living room to resume his television vigil. Mike returned to his room upstairs, while Sean took his coffee cup and walked over to stare out the big picture window in the living room. The Humvee and two trucks were gone, and for a moment, it seemed as if all this never had happened. He was about to turn away when he noticed a man walking down the middle of the road. As he watched, he took a closer look at this stranger. Walking with an uneven gait, he looked like someone who’d had way too much to drink and was trying to keep his decorum. There was a smear of blood on the sleeve of his shirt, which was halfway out of his pants, and his face had the unmistakable pallor of the dead. His eyes were milky, and his mouth was half open in a dullish expression. Sean stood there and watched the man pause for a second. He swayed to and fro, his head hanging slightly to one side, then resumed his trek down the center of the asphalt. Soon he disappeared behind the trees that lined the street.

Troubled by that unholy sight, Sean turned and dug out his cell phone from his jeans pocket. After dialing his parents’ number with his thumb, he put the phone up to his ear and waited for an answer.

“Hello?” It was his mother, Cecilia. He heard the television blaring loudly in the background. His father needed hearing aids but refused to get them, saying everyone just mumbled their words too much. So the television was always turned up all the way.

“Hi, Mom,” Sean said warmly. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” said his mother. “I’d put your father on, but he’s answering the door.”

“Is it the police?” Sean asked curiously.

“I guess so,” answered Cecilia. “Somebody was pounding at the door just now. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s one of the neighbors complaining about the television volume. Your father—”

Suddenly there was a banging and scuffling noise in the background. Sean heard his father shouting something.

“John? John?” his mother called out. “What’s wrong, John? Who’s at the door?” She put down the phone, and Sean heard her walking toward the front door from the kitchen. “John?”

Between the din from the television, the yelling of his parents, and the crashing sounds coming from the front of the house, Sean couldn’t tell what was happening. “Mom! Mom! Mom!” he shouted into his cell. The noise stopped, and he heard only a dial tone.

Jack stood up from the sofa. “What’s wrong?” he asked worriedly.

Sean already was running for the door. “It’s my parents,” he yelled over his shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

“Need me along?” Jack asked but found he was speaking to an empty room. He heard Sean’s car start and a squeal of tires down the drive. As he stared at the door, he thought,
This can’t be good
.

Sean was weaving through traffic, trying to reach his parents’ home. The distraught son was driving wild-eyed, saying, “Shit, shit, shit” over and over. Finally reaching the Sullivans’ house, he screeched to a stop and frantically exited his car. His parents’ front door was open, and he heard the television blaring from the house. Sean rushed up the steps. When he reached the open door, he stopped. “Dad?” he called hesitantly. “Mom?” Reaching out his hand, he pushed the door fully open. There was their hall table, overturned, with its bric-a-brac lying broken on the floor. He looked around as he stepped through the threshold and saw bright blood spattered on the wall. There were several smeared red hand-prints on the mirror, which hung skewed on the wall. Looking at himself
through the dripping prints gave him a macabre, evil, fun-house appearance. He looked down and saw a blood trail smeared across the entrance tiles that led into the living room. Shaking, Sean called out tremulously, “Dad?” He hesitantly eased into the room, and as he fully entered, he saw his father splayed out on the blood-soaked carpet. The end table was on its side; a coffee cup lay next to it, its dark-brown contents mixing with the bright blood that was flowing from his father’s throat. He saw where the arterial spray had arced across the ceiling as his father went down.