The End: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (5 page)

The gunfire ended.

Taft, still on the ground next to the unmoving female corpse that had attacked him, sat wide-eyed and blood covered.

The one remaining soldier who had entered the room reached for his chest, taking away blood on his hand. With his bottom jaw hanging low, the man glanced at his blood-soaked extremity, fell to his knees, and then collapsed to the blood-soaked laboratory tile.

“I did
not
sign up for the crap,” Clay said.

Three men and one female zombie lay motionless on the floor. Taft and Clay stared at one another while the zombie still strapped to the toppled gurney moaned with excitement.

The zombie tied to the table now stared right at Clay as it cried out, the broken syringe still in its neck. In a fiery rage to get at him, blood and pus poured from its mouth. Clay reached up and fired two precise shots into the zombie’s head. A splatter of blood, black matted meat, and grey matter sprayed across the back of the silver gurney, making a loud pinging sound like two metal pipes colliding together. Its head jolted against it.

Taking a moment to look around the room at the carnage that had just taken place, Professor Taft stood to his feet, and attempted to regain his composure. “Why did this happened? This is a secure area and I have to approve new specimens to be brought here.” Taft removed the rubber gloves and his lab coat. “Are you hit or bitten, Clay?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Go find Gibbs, and get her ass down here right away. I am going to start cleaning up all of this shit.”

Clay holstered his weapon and disappeared out into the hallway.

Sorting through what still seemed salvageable amidst the broken glass and surgical tools that found their way to the floor, Taft couldn’t believe General Baker broke protocol.
That bag of wind for a general couldn’t keep his head on straight if it was screwed on
, he thought, knowing good and well he wouldn’t ever be caught dead saying something like that out loud.

With his back turned away from the five bodies that now littered his lab, Taft was too furious and irritated at the irrational mistakes of others to realize or hear the movement taking place behind him on the floor.

Michaels’ eyes opened, and his limbs began to rustle about with life. Dead, rotting, rancid life. The thing that was once Michaels slowly rose to its feet.

Taft cluelessly ranted to himself, while tinkering with the remains of his tattered workspace, and cleaning blood from his face and clothes at the sink in a corner of the room.

The decaying zombie, that was only moments ago human, lurched with outstretched arms toward the professor. Blood gushed from his torn ankle, spewed from its mouth, and several bullet holes in its chest and stomach. The quick loss of blood from the bite and shots left it looking pale and drained. Once it was only a few paces behind Taft, it let out a light, guttural moan.

Taft instantly knew that sound. The sound of dead life. A prickly ice sensation raced down his spine. He was afraid to turn around and face what waited behind him. The zombie lunged forward as Taft turned around to meet its milky-white gaze.

6

General Baker looked and played the part of being your typical military man of age, stature, and experience. He even had the scars to prove it. Seated in his elegant brown leather chair behind his exquisitely expensive desk, Baker slouched back, legs propped, and a half-smoked cigar steaming in his ashtray. A small glass of scotch complemented his smoke. The aromatic spirits lingered amidst his partially soaked mustache.

Photos of important men and events decorated the wall behind him. His Tallahassee office, actually rather small, still carried with it an overpowering sense of authority that commanded respect.

Rob Foster waited to report to the General for what seemed like an eternity of silence.

Despite the fact that Baker came across as a rather harsh and distasteful figure to his subordinates, he was in fact a diplomatic man by nature, and chose the right words to say and was eager to listen. Foster, still unsure as to which side of Baker he found more intimidating, waited for the General to respond to the report concerning Professor Taft and the dead soldiers. He knew Baker found Taft to be a prude little man who thought too highly of himself. Something Baker highly disliked and did not hesitate to share when in group settings.

“And where is Clay now, son?”

“In his quarters, sir. He was given a sedative to calm him.”

“And the others?”

“The dead are currently being properly disposed of, sir.”

“And Taft?”

“Well sir, he… he… was taken down to the holding cells for future testing, what’s left of him at least. Gibbs’ idea, sir.”

“We need to have all of the other—”

The phone suddenly rang, cutting the General off. He set down his glass and picked up the phone in front of him. “Yes… and their E.T.A?... I see…go ahead and patch me through.”

After a brief moment of awkward silence, Baker continued to speak into the phone. He kicked his feet off the table and retrieved his cigar. With a few puffs, the tip glowed like hot embers, smoke quickly clouded the space between them. The General hopped to his feet and barked out his demands, “Once you arrive, I want a full report on civilian status and threat level of the surrounding area… NO! … The number one objective is shutting that radio station down, civilians second. Do you understand, soldier? … Good.”

Baker slammed down the phone onto the receiver. After several deep puffs on his cigar and a massive swig finishing off the remainder of scotch, he sat back down. “The chopper is about twenty clicks away from the radio station. Once we hear back from them, we’ll decide the final course of action.”

Foster wished he understood more of the situation. The last thing he wanted to see was the military overreaction and innocent lives lost. He brought a hand to the side of his head and rubbed his temple.

The General leaned forward in his chair. “Look, Rob, our job is to keep this thing from spreading any farther than it already has, and to keep the rest of the country in the dark. I don’t like it any more than you, but those
are
our orders. I’m responsible for seeing that they are carried out.”

“But people have the right now know the truth, sir.”

“Oh, is that your opinion, Lieutenant? Well, you don’t get paid to have an opinion. None of us do. That’s the way it is. Now, back to business, and the reason I called you into my office to begin with.”

Baker took one last long drag from his cigar before smashing the end into the ashtray. With one exaggerated exhale, a large cloud of smoke thickened the growing haze.

Foster’s eyes began to water, but he held back from wiping them. He pulled out a folded piece of paper from his back pocket, and spread it out over the General’s desk. The paper showed a complex map of the northern coastline of Florida, as well as the southern parts of Alabama, and Georgia. Red X’s marked fortified locations and blockades already in place. It was Foster’s job as second-in-command of operations to secure the infected zone and restrict incoming and outgoing transport within its borders. A job that he was eager to take on, despite his experience, or the lack thereof.

Rob Foster made few friends in his fast ascension to First Class Lieutenant. Though young in age, he was more than qualified on paper to handle his position. He saw no reason to be disliked by his peers.

He had known General Baker for two years. He could tell Baker had grown quite attached to him since his transfer from Wisconsin. One time, the man said he saw a lot of himself in him. Rob was honored by that compliment. The General never neglected to keep up professional appearances despite favoritism.

Foster pointed to the map. “Over the last forty-eight hours, the unknown contagion seems to have spread as far west as Mobile, into Jacksonville, and into southern parts of Georgia. We have already disabled all forms communications for these areas, excluding the radio station en route. The entire eastern border of Mississippi has been on lockdown for the last thirty-two hours, along with all of southern Georgia, and Alabama. Orlando has yet to be infected, and military personnel from that district are currently posted from coastline to coastline on twenty-four-hour surveillance. In short, nothing can get in, and nothing can get out. The media are swarming us with questions. So far, they are accepting our answers and are refraining from exploiting the situation.”

“Casualties?” Baker asked.

“Estimated ninety-eight percent of the infected zone population, sir.”

“Impressive, Lieutenant. Impressive.”

Eyeing the outlines of Foster’s map, General Baker pulled another cigar from his shirt pocket, bit off one end, and spit it across the room. He then motioned for Rob to pour himself another glass of scotch as he lit the cigar. As he sat back in his chair and propped up his feet, partially on Foster’s map, Baker took repeated puffs on the cigar to help get it started.

While Rob made himself a drink, along with another for the General, Baker picked up the phone and dialed out. “Tell Dr. Gibbs that I will be meeting her in her office in fifteen minutes… I don’t care if she is or not, I will expect her to be there.”

Not quite in the gentlest of ways, the phone came crashing down yet again. “Now all we have to do is clear this mess out and things will be good as new,” Baker said and leaned back with a grin from ear to ear.

Bringing the drinks to the desk, and taking his place seated with arm reached out passing over a scotch-filled glass, Foster had a nasty gut feeling that something terrible was about to happen. Things weren’t quite over yet.

The calm before the storm
, he thought.

*

Meanwhile, only two doors down from the recent accident in Taft’s lab, Dr. Teresa Gibbs squinted into a microscope, examining the partial decomposition of gray decaying flesh—that of Professor Taft himself. Directly in front of her, only a few feet across the room, stood her esteemed colleague tied securely to the wall by the neck with a one-inch-thick chain. The metal pressed tightly into his skin to ensure no further mishaps might occur. His face was practically unrecognizable at first glance.

It had been a few minutes before Gibbs or anyone else had made it to the lab to see what the commotion was about. The creature that had once been Private Michaels had easily overpowered the thin, unfit professor.

Dr. Gibbs was not the easiest of people to pull away from her work, especially when potentially uncovering important discoveries. Clay had to practically drag her out of her office.

The majority of Taft’s scalp had been ripped clean off, leaving only the lower part of his face left holding any skin. Both eyes had been eaten out, along with parts of his tongue. His shirt and stomach had been ripped down the middle, revealing all of his internal organs had been pulled out by hand. Needless to say, he was a mess, and if it hadn’t been for the ID badge clipped to his shirt pocket, it would be impossible to guess his identity. After cleaning up the mess from the attack, most of the professor’s entrails had been disposed of with the remaining bodies. General Baker wouldn’t have allowed Dr. Gibbs to use one of his men as a test subject, therefore reluctantly, she shot Michaels on-sight before having the other men restrain Taft. The room stunk of iron and festering bowels. Taft’s blood-soaked body slowly stained the tile beneath him as he stood tied to the wall.

Dr. Gibbs steadily jotted down several notes while talking to herself and peering into the microscope. “I can’t believe I didn’t see this before. The molecular patterns are practically identical. If I’m right, this could mean only one thi—”

Two rapid, deep pounds shook her attention from the tissue sample and toward the door. Baker walked into the room, Foster no less than a step behind.

“I was told you were making your way down to see me. What do you want now?” Gibbs said as she returned her attention back to the microscope.

“Yes, we have orders to transfer you and your team to a new location outside of the containment zone. With us being smack dab in the middle of things, the higher ups find it best we move things north.”

“Everything we’ve learned so far is in this lab. We can’t just move to another location and continue where we left off. It might take weeks to set up a lab like we have. Besides, we’re right in the middle of the best source of specimens. Baker, have you thought of that?” Gibbs asked.

“Orders are orders, lady. I want you and what’s left of your team ready for evac in no less than forty-eight,” Baker said.

*

Foster stood off to the side while Baker and Gibbs had their debate. Standing next to the late Professor Taft was a bit unnerving. Foster couldn’t help but feel a wave of nausea at the stench of rot. And yet the other two arguing back and forth seemed unfazed by it.

Dr. Gibbs was an attractive woman, even in the stained white lab coat. Foster had thought about her on more than one occasion. What would she look like with the lab coat, and every other piece of clothing, tossed to the floor?

Her long, jet-black hair constantly draped over her left eye when she leaned over the table. Her light-blue eyes almost luminescent against the darkness of her hair. She was shorter than Foster but taller than the average woman. He had never seen her in anything other than her lab coat and work clothes. The huge white jacket consumed her petite frame and golden complexion, making her hands appear quite small. She was in her early 30s but looked an easy 25. Foster couldn’t keep his eyes off of her, even with the smell lingering in the room.