Authors: Matt Darst
In those bitten, direct infection of a pathogen seems the obvious answer, and the obvious answer is usually the right one. Heston subscribes to this theory, but there are other possibilities that have yet to be ruled out.
Superinfection, or reinfection, is well documented. A terrible disease called auto immune disease syndrome, or AIDS (or God’s Revenge, depending on who one asks), as historical now as the Black Death, the Plague of Galen, and the Spanish Flu, was triggered by a virus called HIV. The Centers for Disease Control confirmed that re-infection with a second strain of HIV after a primary infection could exacerbate the initial infection. Higher viral loads and viral escape result from re-infection, a possible explanation for why someone dies so quickly following a bite.
Wright understands. “So most of us may already be infected with one strain, the strain that causes us to return from the brink of a natural death, but a second strain passed through a bite might bring about that death more quickly.”
Heston nods. But he has another theory, something he calls the “Komodo Dragon Theory.” Here, the infection is again innate, but there is no proximal transmission. The Komodo dragon—the largest of the reptiles and a true dragon—kills its prey effectively, if not expeditiously. It bites its victims, but the bite itself is rarely immediately fatal. The dragon is not venomous, but it is extremely toxic. Its mouth is so full of bacteria a single bite will lead to infection. Untreated, the slightest nibble is fatal. Always. The dragon needs eat only once per month, so it has the luxury of patiently tracking goats or the occasional human through the jungle over days or weeks and eating the carrion.
Imagine a revenant, deep in the throes of decomposition, bacteria running rampant in its mouth. Imagine those bacteria are poisonous and drug-resistant, and they’ve been introduced into a human’s bloodstream through a ragged bite. Sepsis and death aren’t just likely, they’re assured. Imagine the inherent pathogen taking hold. Imagine the dead walking.
The relationship, the dance between bacterium and pathogen, may be even more complex. It may be symbiotic. The bacterium living in the host’s mouth and the pathogen may gain mutual advantage. If the pathogen causing necroanthrophagism is somehow intrinsic, perhaps it uses the bacteria as a trigger. Bacteria are passed to others via a bite, causing death (or something like death) and unleashing virulence.
“It is not so crazy,” says the former veterinarian. He remembers the aquarium in the wood-paneled waiting room of the animal hospital. It was designed to calm the frayed nerves of anguished pet owners. It was the home of a little orange clownfish. Safeguarded by a layer of mucus, it would hide among the tentacles of a poisonous anemone. In the wild, they protect each other from predators. The clown guards the anemone, chasing off hungry scavengers, and the anemone’s stingers shelter the clown from larger fish. Mutual advantage.
“And what benefit would the bacterium derive?” Wright wonders.
Heston has an idea. “Maybe behavioral changes caused by the pathogen, like masticating and biting, help transmit the bacteria. Maybe the pathogen keeps non-symbiotic bacteria in check by inhibiting their proliferation through competition. Or, maybe it attacks them outright.” But he is quick to point out, “There are lots of maybes.”
“So, if we’re already infected, how did we get it?”
“Again, I don’t know,” Heston says. “For instance, the disease could be airborne, infecting most people and hiding in the hypothalamus or in the nervous system like chicken pox or herpes.”
“So,” Wright concludes, “the disease might be biding its time, waiting for our immune system to grow weak, waiting for the early stages of death, to present itself.”
“It could, in theory. The process of reanimation might allow it to avoid competition from other pathogens, too. When a host dies, so do the pathogens within it. Maybe it is hardy enough to outlast them. This, too, might allow it to enter the brain, nullifying the barrier effect.” Heston nods to himself. This is an option he had not thought about before. “Again, a number of maybes. Unfortunately, there’s no way to prove or disprove any of these theories.”
“Strike three,” Wright mumbles.
But Heston is still talking. He’s frustrated. “There’s no known culture. So there’s no way to isolate the pathogen, no way to test blood or tissue. So we can’t even begin to treat or cure. And we never will as long as the church has its way.”
Oops. Heston realizes he’s said too much. He shouldn’t have said that last bit. He shouldn’t have criticized the church. The inquisitors use moles to ferret out independent thought. He should really be questioning Wright’s motives.
“But maybe we are simply witnessing God’s will,” Heston says, backing off. “I need not remind you God hasn’t been adverse to using the occasional plague to get His point across.”
Wright thinks Heston’s covering his ass. She’s right.
Heston doesn’t think it’s God’s will. But he also doesn’t believe the plague’s manifestation strictly supports Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest. Evolution is more than that, especially on a cellular level. Evolution can be driven by cooperation, interaction, and shared benefit, too. To paraphrase Carl Sagan, life populated the globe less through combat and more through networking. But he says nothing of this to Wright.
“You know,” Heston says, “the Church concluded this is not a medical event—”
Wright interrupts. “Please don’t play coy, Doctor. I’m not a spy. If I was, I would have stopped talking to you an hour ago.”
“Okay, I’ll accept that you’re not a spy,” Heston says. “But did you stop to wonder if I am?”
Chapter Nine: Shopping Mall or Shopping Maul?
After lunch, Wright takes point. She thinks about Dr. Heston and their talk. She knows moles. Hell, Captain Richard King was probably a mole. Heston, however, is not an operative. But she gets his point.
Being a little cautious, being safe, isn’t necessarily a negative. She needs to be a little less eager and show some patience.
Be smart
, she thinks.
Be safe
.
Despite her desire to trust Ian and Heston, the truth is the only person here she can truly trust is herself. She needs to remember that, especially with the others.
Be safe
.
Their conversation was anything but that. It didn’t just dance on the line of treason. It hurdled past it with all the grace and speed of a comet.
Still, be safe
.
But if she is so committed to safety, why has she led the group out of the woods? She hadn’t even noticed that she had steered the party back, back toward the highway. The signs warn that the mall is just an exit away.
Their lives are in her hands. They head back into the woods.
**
As the billboard states, the Kecksburg Mall has everything—food courts, sporting goods, lingerie, watches, leather purses, luggage, high-heeled shoes, jewelry, DVDs, cell phones, televisions, memorabilia, comics—yes, everything…
And nothing. Nothing necessary. Nothing justifying the risk.
Wright hopes none of her troupe saw the sign. Otherwise, she’ll get questions. Why don’t we go there? Won’t there be food? Might there be survivors?
She doesn’t have to rehearse her responses. They would come in rapid fire succession. No. No. Hell, no.
The mall will be crawling with them if, as Wright suspects, the creatures are driven by memory and habit. In her experience, there is something more than instinct that drives these monsters. Her experiences were horrifying…
Within a week of the plague, a fledgling militia, locals armed to the teeth, rescued her and her family. They blasted their way out of Oldham County, burning everything in their wake. They moved quickly toward Louisville, picking up other random survivors like ticks on a deer.
The Macaroni Grill sat a mile outside of the city. That’s where she saw the state troopers. Twenty or more of them, along with a few former customers, all “turned sour,” as one of the rednecks said, like bad milk. All of them victims of the contagion, all trying to tear their way into the restaurant.
The Macaroni Grill wasn’t exactly Zagat rated, but one rule exists in life and death: cops always know where to get good food. And they had returned to their favorite restaurant, obsessed with filling their bloating bellies, not with pasta or filet mignon, but with the employees and patrons who had locked themselves inside.
The fighting was short but brutal. The militia rescued ten people that afternoon. They lost four. A net gain of six, plus some revolvers, shotguns, and ammo.
There are no survivors to save in the mall. There can’t be. There are likely hundreds, if not thousands, of revenants in and around the shopping center. So they will stick to the trees, safe in the knowledge that they will never truly know.
**
Jolene Heston yearns for a spa day.
Her husband wants to pet his dogs again, a Blue Tick named Oscar and a Golden Retriever named Brooke.
Anne pines for her mother’s homemade ice cream.
Now Anne prods Jessica. It’s her turn to tell those gathered around the campfire what she misses the most.
Jessica’s answer is easy: toilet paper.
“Me, too! Me, too!” Ms. Heston chimes. She holds her hand above her head and gives Jessica an awkward high-five. They laugh.
Dr. Heston stokes the fire. He says he remembers a time in his life, a time when he was a bachelor prior to meeting his wife, when a roll of toilet paper would last more than a day, more than an hour.
Ms. Heston rolls her eyes. She says that if he doesn’t watch it, she’ll see to it he has all the toilet paper he could ever need. They continue laughing.
Dr. Heston wants to change the subject. He looks to Burt for help. “What about you? What do you long for?”
Burt doesn’t hesitate. He grieves for his Spiderman 129, wherein the web-slinger fights the Punisher. If it hadn’t been blown from the plane, he would have traded it to a clandestine dealer on Padre Island, known only by the uninspired moniker “The Dealer,” for DC Comic’s Superman number 10. Superman 10 is a real prize. Only 200 copies were printed back in 1939. The Dealer has two.
Van yawns. They are all tired of hearing Burt carp about Spiderman 129. “Anything else?” Van asks.
Yes. Burt also misses his collection of graphic novels.
“Graphic novels?” Van asks dubiously. “Don’t you mean comics? Albeit, really long comics?”
Burt cracks a smile. “I guess I do.”
“Why comics?” asks Anne.
For Burt, comics, as well as science fiction and fantasy, are an escape. “They let me transport myself to a place where there’s something better, more freedom…” Burt hesitates. That sounded critical. He shifts gears. “They’re also an inspiration. There are still good people willing to do good things in the world.”
Jessica asks, “Who is your favorite superhero?”
“Easy,” says Burt, “Superman. He’s the best.”
“What?” Van demands. “The Man of Steel?” His voice drips with sarcasm. “I mean, the tights are bad enough. But the whole Superman premise is pretty cheesy. Batman, at least, was more realistic.”
“They
are
called superheroes, after all,” Burt defends. “Comics aren’t meant to be entirely realistic.”
“Sure,” Van accepts, “but you can only suspend disbelief for so long. There should at least be some basic recognition of the laws of physics.”
“Plus, Superman’s kind of gay,” Dr. Heston chides.
“Neil!” Ms. Heston lectures, sternly.
“Well, he is,” Heston grumbles to himself.
Burt ignores Heston. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, he likes men,” Heston replies.
There’s snickering about the fire.
“No,” Burt groans. “I was talking to Van.”
Van clarifies. “Well, for instance, Superman is incredibly ripped. In all the cartoons—”
“Comics,” Burt corrects.
“Yeah, right, comics,” Van continues. “In all of the comics, Superman is huge, a mountain of muscle.”
A confused Burt says, “A lot of superheroes are muscular.”
Van says, “Right, but they’re muscular because they work out. Superman was born with superhuman strength, so answer this: how does he get that big? Nothing could provide enough resistance. Really, he shouldn’t be any bigger than, say…Ian.”
Ian shakes his head. Van is such an ass.
But he’s not done. “What’s that planet he’s from again? Klingon?”
“Krypton,” Burt replies, flatly.
“Yeah, right, Krypton. And the gravity’s, like, what? Ten times our own?”
Burt thinks it’s seventeen. Seventeen-point-eight, to be exact.
“Okay,” Van allows, “seventeen. That means he’s got to be doing three hours of curls twice a day using freight trains as weight just to put on muscle, right? Wrong. He’s not, because that’s too conspicuous. Plus, his schedule’s not going to allow for it. The guy’s fighting bad guys all over the world—”
“And some off-world,” Ian adds.
“Right!” Van persists, “outer space baddies, too. And then he’s got this job reporting on stocks and restaurant closings and crap at least a couple hours a day, assuming he’s not a shitty reporter.”
“But this guy’s not winning any Pulitzer,” Ian inserts.