Pulse: Retaliation (Anisakis Nova Book 2) (22 page)

By Eloise J. Knapp

The dead are rising. People are dying. Civilization is collapsing.
When the end finally occurred, everything about it was cinematic. The dead came back and ate people, civilization collapsed, and no one could do a thing.
But Cyrus V. Sinclair couldn’t care less; he’s a sociopath.
Amidst the chaos, Cyrus sits back and contemplates the gore stained streets and screams of his fellow man with little more emotion than one of the walking corpses. With his cache of guns and MREs, he rather likes the idea of hunkering down in his Seattle apartment while the world ends outside.
All is well and good for Cyrus… until he meets up with Gabe, a belligerent annoyance, and the other inconvenient survivors who cramp his style and force him to re-evaluate his outlook on life. It’s Armageddon, and things will definitely get messy.

When it did happen, everything about it was cinematic. I’m sure people banded together and tried to save themselves from their untimely dooms. They found solace in a mall, a house, or bunker, just like in the movies. Desperation and pessimism just prevented them from seeing the film-like qualities of their actions.

I was sitting in my apartment, alone, when it happened. Downstairs I could hear the banging of pots and pans as people fixed dinner. Their kids were whining, but that wasn’t anything unusual.

Outside the sky was plagued with deep grey clouds, rain pouring. I left the window open so I could hear the softness of it.

A train whistled across town. A cop car, sirens blaring, sped past the front of my apartment building. I listened to its sound fade away, again leaving me with the noises of my home and of rain.

It happened all at once, taking the entire world by storm. It happened so quickly, people didn’t believe it was true. Denial just made the undead count rise alarmingly fast. People who accepted it were considered crazy by those who didn’t. In the end, I bet everyone wished they’d seen a few more Romero movies, maybe been a little less close minded.

If I were to try and tell you exactly how the whole zombie thing spread, I’d probably have to make up some stuff. No one knew if it was a disease or infection, or why it also made you turn when you died from non-Z related injuries. Oh, experts—especially religious experts—had a jolly good time with their theories, but no one truly knew what was going on. So, as I sat alone in my apartment, the chaos-inducing news of the zombies finally spread to Seattle, Washington.

People died then they came back. They ate other people. It’s a cliché way of putting it, but it’s the absolute truth.

There was only one person I knew who would accept the news as quickly as me—my long time friend Francis. He called early on with the latest update on the situation outside.

“You’re supposed to quarantine anyone who’s been bit, did you know that?”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“Boy, don’t you turn on the TV?”

“You know I don’t have a TV.”

The apocalypse
was
now, and since Frank and I were alike we both accepted that without much thought. I wasn’t sure what Frank’s plan was, but I got out my box of old Guns & Ammo for entertainment, barricaded my apartment door, and cracked open a can of sweetened condensed milk for the ride. (I’ve got a sweet tooth. Sue me.)

With my canned goods obscene in calories and a top-story view of Seattle, I watched people die. I watched stuff blow up, stuff break, and the zombies gain numbers for their undead ranks.

My name is Cyrus V. Sinclair, and I didn’t care.

I wasn’t going to leave.

I was going to leave.

Only days after the outbreak started, downtown Seattle was in a state of chaos and disrepair. From my window I watched people from all walks of life, all shapes and sizes, and of all colors get eaten by their fellow man. Some people thought zombie movies were graphic, but nothing was as stunning as watching the action in real life.

Really, I suppose everyone’s intestines tasted the same. Discrimination wasn’t an issue once you were a zombie.

A fully loaded military grade pack waited by the front door. When I packed it, I had intentions to leave. That was when rumors of the dead rising started. Now the dead
had
risen and I was still sitting in my apartment, hesitant to make a decision. Just one decision. But instead of deciding, I was thinking about the world outside.

I decided we were all doomed for sure, and maybe that’s why I hadn’t stepped outside of my apartment in almost two weeks. Before, there was a chance of survival; the military was still trying to get control of things, the electricity was always on, and most people were still acting like…like people. But once the lights started flickering and occasionally went out, casting the whole city into complete suppressive darkness, I knew it would be just me, myself, and I ‘til the end of days. My ferret, Pickle, was my only companion who would accompany me for the apocalypse. For days we shared comfortable silence, eating gummy bears and ferret food, watching the mass destruction of mankind unfold before us.

The monotonous days were broken up by phone calls from Frank. My cell vibrated on the kitchen counter. He spoke before I could even say hello.

“How bad is it there?”

I didn’t have a TV, internet, or interaction with other people, so my personal opinion was limited. “Not too bad. The power’s still on, plumbing works mostly, and apparently I get reception.”

Frank huffed. “Well, I’ll
tell
you how bad it is. The coast is overrun. No ships coming in or out. A man going east told me he saw freighters ramming into shore. Goes without saying everyone is killing each other, living or dead. Damn government said they’re taking appropriate measures.”

It was surprising how fast civilization fell apart. One minute we were haughty Americans, the next we were as bad off as every other human being on planet Earth. Despite the government’s claims they could save everyone, or they were taking “appropriate measures,” people went berserk and the world went straight to Hell.

“Doesn’t matter what everyone else is doing. I’m fine here,” I said.

“You’re still in the apartment? How long are you planning on staying there?”

How was I supposed to know? One minute I was ready to walk out the door, and the next I was ready to hole up in the apartment forever. “I don’t plan on staying here. I’ve been thinking about leaving.”

“Well, lucky for you, you don’t have to think about it anymore. I’m coming to get you.”

I masked a gasp with a choke. Keeping my voice level, I asked, “What are you talking about? I thought you were still in Little Rock?”

Frank, in few words, explained that I couldn’t take care of myself worth a damn and he was going to pick me up. His parents, survivalists like Francis, left him a cabin in the mountains which he’d been working on for the past year. That meant Frank had been in Washington for a year without coming to see me. I felt a little hurt, but didn’t mention it.

“I’m not the same teenager who showed up on your doorstep, Frank. I can handle myself.”

The static of the phone almost masked it, but I heard him snort in disbelief. “Never said you were. So you’re saying no to the cabin?”

I knew I wasn’t thinking it through, but pride overtook me. Frank was an honorable man, and he was only looking out for me. But I couldn’t stand the idea of someone thinking I couldn’t take care of myself. I just couldn’t.

“That’s right. I’ve got a plan and I’m sticking to it.”

“You’ve got a plan? You just said yo—”

The cell made a horrific high pitched squeal before going silent. No automated voice explained the phenomenon.

That was the last time I used a phone.

---

A few days after talking to Frank, I regretted my decision. His intention was noble and I shot him down. Our conversation was probably our last, and I acted like a complete ass. My pack was still resting by the door, and I visualized it mocking me for saying no. Then the bag reminded me of how I met Francis. I was sobered by the thought.

In 1993, when I was 16, my grandparents and I had just moved to Little Rock, Arkansas. At that point I was ‘just too far gone.’ The epitome of a no-good punk. Unwanted, I packed my few belongings and ran away. I wasn’t smart and didn’t know the area, so I unintentionally hiked up into the Ozarks.

I found myself on the property of Francis Jackson Bordeaux with a shotgun pointed at me. Frank was a Vietnam veteran with a mean case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Long story short, I lived with him for about a year until I moved onto another chapter of my life. I learned a lot from Francis J. Bordeaux, almost everything that mattered.

I thought about Frank’s personality, how when I lived with him and I said no, he took no as yes every time. A part of me believed, despite my harsh refusal, he was still coming to get me.

He was
, I decided. There was no way he’d changed enough
not
to come get me. That was when my plan was set; I would turtle up in my apartment until Frank came. Until then, it was the same old routine. Watch outside, maintain inside.

Frank opened my eyes to how bad things were in the city. Instead of just looking, I analyzed the situation. The entire city was clearly on its way to complete destruction. Looters took advantage of the turmoil and broke into every shop they could. Even the windows of the children’s toy store across the street were shattered, dollies and teddy bears strewn everywhere.

Despite not leaving the apartment (or maybe because of it), my body was still fresh and lithe. I hadn’t spent a single day running away from animated corpses or fighting my way through hordes of the living trying to escape to a different fate. At twenty-seven, I was as spry as any teenager, maybe even more so. (Undoubtedly, my laidback personality had something to do with it.)

As I walked through my two-bedroom one-bath residence, I took mental note of its state. The kitchen and dining room were both sparsely furnished. Someone would think an inhabitant was nonexistent. The short hallway and bedrooms were stark, void of any personal expression. The only signs of human existence were empty canned goods on the kitchen counter, an H&K PSG-1 towering among the empty bags of candy in the dining room, and a scatter of Frank Sinatra records resting on the living room floor with the record player.

There were many places I’m sure I could have gone to get some goods. There was a convenience store down the street that offered all the candy I could eat. (One might wonder how it’s possible for me to live on sugar. The answer was this: I don’t.) My bedroom overflowed with MRE’s (Meals Ready to Eat), the flavorful choice of the U.S. military. Although their flavor wasn’t as delicious as a roll of Life-Savers, it kept me running.

Call me crazy, but I knew some kind of apocalypse would happen in my lifetime. I wasn’t necessarily preparing for the undead, but stocking up on MREs over time seemed like a good idea anyway. Stockpiling gun after gun since I was sixteen? Well, that was just a hobby.

After moseying into the eating area, checking what I did have left food-wise, I went back to the balcony to assess the corpse situation. The spring air was impregnated with the stench of rotting flesh, a scent not unbearably unpleasant, and within that the electric undertone of a lightning storm soon to come. The street had emptied. I guessed the dead had better luck indoors, where people might still be hiding, so they went hunting inside.

A mom and pop grocery store stood across the street from my building, next to the book store. It looked thoroughly looted. Windows were nonexistent and rotting corpses lay on the ground. I figured there had to be some sweets still available in there, though. Who went for things like candy when the mindless dead were seeking them out? No one, of course, but I got grouchy without a good sugar fix. I was also bored and wanted to leave.

Even though the streets looked abandoned, there was no way the undead weren’t waiting in the shadows for lunch to come strolling by. I’d have to be cautious.

A simple backpack would suffice for raiding. It was big enough to hold a lot, but wouldn’t get too heavy and weigh me down. After a thorough search of my apartment, I dug up a crowbar to use as a silent melee weapon. I was taking my 9mm, not because I was trigger happy but because it was necessary. Despite my abundance of ammo, using the gun would only draw more attention. A gun shot was a dinner bell; one I didn’t want to ring.

Weeks had passed since I had last left the apartment. I wasn’t sure I could step out of it without being eaten alive by the pesky undead. But I had to try.

After unlocking the three deadbolts and removing the extra wooden plank across my door, I peeked out. The hallway was scattered with random junk and the walls were smeared with dried blood. Only one or two of the apartments were open. Down the hallway was an elevator next to emergency stairs. The elevator was partially closed, with half a corpse wedged between its doors. The door to the stairs was closed.

When I passed the open doors, I shut them as quietly as possible. I wasn’t sure if zombies could open doors, but it wouldn’t hurt to close them. One of the rooms revealed a man, an undead bag of skin and bones, who had apparently hanged himself early on. His throat was torn up, but he still tried to groan in relief at the sight of me. He swayed as he tried to come after me, overwhelmed that a meal finally stumbled his way. The rope was Kevlar, a material he’d often expressed fondness for. Between the quality of the rope and his barely existent weight, I wasn’t surprised he was still hanging.

His name was Rick Johnson, I remembered, as I stared at his face. Years ago, when I moved into the apartment, he tried desperately to invite me to dinner to meet his daughter. My lack of interest ended in a fight, after which we never spoke to one another again. That suited me just fine. 

I shut that door, writing Rick and that story off all together.

Except for a dull thudding noise behind Apartment 8’s door, the creaking of Hang-Man’s rope, everything was quiet. The silence was ominous, especially when I considered what horrors lay behind the closed doors. My mind ramped up with thoughts of ghouls eating themselves as a last resort, or just standing around in the rooms forever, or at least until someone came and killed them.

My luck held, and I made it down the flights of stairs without incident. The main and only entrance to the apartment wasn’t broken in any way, but why would it be? There wasn’t really anything to loot in here. Someone would have to be desperate to raid a low-class apartment building like mine.

Before I left the lobby downstairs, I studied the street from my new ground view. Paper and dark blood coated the sidewalks and the street. I could barely make out the asphalt from all the debris. There were body parts everywhere. Half a torso here, an arm there. One lower half still twitched, but since it couldn’t do me any harm, I didn’t care.

The carnage was interesting to look at—in a modern art kind of way—but I didn’t want to spend too much time surveying. This mission was a run in run out kind of deal. No matter how long I waited, or how hard I looked, they’d still be there.

Slowly, I pushed the door open and slipped through, glancing up and down the street. A single zombie stumbled out of a clothing boutique, but hadn’t noticed me yet.

His arms were gone, with only a few scraggly tendons and nerves left dangling from sockets. A hideous smashing of skin, bone, and muscle made up his face. I doubted he could even see, so I took advantage of his oblivion and made a dash across the street.

My boots slapped against the ground and echoed loudly. It couldn’t be prevented, but the noise made me cringe. Running was a zombie’s second favorite noise. It meant breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Maybe all three. (A Zs favorite noise was people screaming—that generally meant he got lucky.)

The grocery smelled foul before I even went inside. A thick scent bombarded me, choking me as it hit in waves. It wasn’t just the smell of rotting food. A body I had spotted earlier was slimy and covered in maggots. This one had been dead for a considerably long time and was extra gooey. (I never knew organs took on such bizarre colors when rotted.)

With my back pressed against the wall, I turned and peered through the corner of the broken window. I couldn’t spot any Zs above the short aisles, but they could be crawling or crouched too low for me to see. The whole place was the poster child of an apocalypse. Only a few items remained on the shelves. Rotting dairy products had turned green after falling from the refrigerators. There was a puddle of curdled green goop just beyond the doorway. I tried to breathe through my mouth and not acknowledge the stench.

Without thinking twice, I jogged into the store, stepping carefully as to avoid the wet patches on the ground. I shrugged my pack off and unzipped it, keen on shoving in as many goodies as possible. The candy section was practically untouched, save for a lone arm rotting near Snickers bars.