This story is actually an original. I have linked it to TWD because it fits into a similar genre of horror, however the characters and parts of the story are completely my own. I will make no references to anything Kirkman or AMC have published or presented and flow with my own events, characters and timelines. Enjoy.
Part one – Jack
I like to say that I am a likeable person as far as society goes. I've never had too hard a time making friends, just have a hard time making lasting friendships. I'm not all that trusting and so most of the time everyone else is talking, I'm mentally calling their bullshit. I mean, how many times in a conversation do you just think to yourself; "Well that's just a giant crock of shit?" Just look at this yahoo, all this talking about affordable healthcare and a bunch of other random bullshit. Who cares?
I'm more concerned with what the reporter is saying on the TV behind him than what he is saying anyway, but I can't make it out. The jukebox is blaring full blast, some sort of song about achy breaky hearts and the reporting is going on about something important but I can't hear it. Why do bars have televisions anyway? It isn't like they ever turn the music down long enough for you to hear what the fuck the people on it are saying. All I get is what is in the report topic behind her, something about a new strain of flu, something that is killing people. There's all the obligatory hand washing warnings, overcrowded hospitals, people wearing masks, and ambulance driver shots that follow these sort of public health warnings. Remember the H1N1? Turned out to be a glorified version of the flu that just got all of our panties in a wad, and was a giant waste of time for everyone except the company that makes that flu medicine. Good old USA, getting everyone all fired up for nothing.
"You know what I am sayin'?" The old guy asks as he smacks me on the arm, and I flinch into my beer. Why is it when people get drunk they think the person before them suddenly has become a punching bag? "Yeah I hear you. Drink your beer wouldya?" I say, tossing another few bucks on the bartop to pay for another round. There are only a handful of us in the bar, and Reg is always here. I think he lives here, or in the dumpster out back because even if you decided to come in at ten in the morning you'll find Reg sitting at the bar, drinking. I swear he doesn't even piss, he's too busy annoying you into buying him another round and then filling your head with all this political mumbo jumbo. At least he isn't going on about Jimmy Carter again.
I watch Reg turn to his beer and drain the mug because he knows I've just bought him another, and he has time to savor that before he's out and had to annoy someone else into getting him hammered. I sigh into my own beer, and look around. I've been coming to this place every Friday and Saturday for the last fifteen years and it doesn't look like it's changed much. Maybe that's why I like it? It's dark, and it's mostly a ghost town during the day. It's just like any bar, in the Northeast. Dark, dreary, with hot aging bartenders and lots of crevices for when it's full on a weekend. Someone got the bright idea of stapling bras on the ceiling from the looser female patrons. This would alright in my book, except most of the clientele that come into this place are almost fifty and half the size of a house. Some of these pieces of lingerie could probably haul some heavy duty artillery shells. Talk about tits the size of cannonballs, with the girth to cover it.
"Hey Jack?!" I hear and my attention is pulled further down the bar. Co-workers, I let them drag me here after work for two lousy beers every week, and then wonder why I even agreed to come. I hate these assholes. "Yeah what?," I call out, setting my warming beer on the bar to look over at them. This jackass is talking too loudly about random shit I just don't want to hear about. It's hard to pay attention to them when they look ridiculous as they do. Especially this guy. His names Jerry, and he has probably the world's hottest wife but he's a walking HR issue. If there's a girl at work with a mediocre butt, and a chest on her, he makes it painfully obvious that he's looking. "You know, Jeannie? Tell him! Tell him how big they are man, I mean wow. I'd like to motorboat those!" He does with gesture at his chest, like he's weighing melons with his hands and simulating a pair of big boobs. Sometimes I'd just like to knock him square in the jaw.
"Yeah, them and any other pair of tits you can find." I say, and am treated to hoots and guffaws of amusement. Jerry laughs too, and simply says. "I'm a tit man, what can I say? Right?! Right?!" Don't get me wrong, I like tits too but Jesus. I swear if you sit too close to this guy, you gotta go home to wash of the layer of slime. I've always been a committal sort of guy, as in if you make one you honor it. And this guy, who can go out and get a great woman and then sleaze around on her while I am still fishing for the right one? Well he's an ass. I just grin and act like I'm part of the crowd but I'm ready to go. It's almost five, and I'm tired, and the last thing I want to be doing in sitting in this depressing ass bar listening to Slime ball Jerry talk about new titties and what he wants to do with them. I've had enough.
"You leavin' handsome?," Asks Jess, the bartender as I grab up my coat to go. Reg seems to be sleeping in his beer, letting out a low hacking cough every so often. This is what you sound like when you smoke three packs a day for twenty years. I smile at Jess, I've known her for a while and I used to have a crush on her. Anymore, I think she just likes the attention of being flirted with and I'll oblige. I'm a nice guy after all. "Yeah, thinking about going to go grab a bite." I tell her, making it obvious to roll my eyes down in the direction of Jerry and the Three Stooges. "Be safe then sugar!" She says, as she pats me on the back. I slip my jacket on, because it's the height of October and even I get cold sometimes, and push open the door. The last thing I hear is the coughing of Reg as the bar's door swings closed, and I step out into the cool night air.
The bar faces a cornfield, like so many other places around here, because you can't live in any small town in Illinois without seeing cornfields. Sometimes when you're driving that's all you see, wall to wall corn. It's depressing, but its home. I've called this place home since I was born, and even though I have to drive almost an hour to get back and forth to work I wouldn't change it. It's quiet, rural, and the crime factor is pretty non-existent. Sometimes I don't lock my door when I go to bed, but only when I'm really feeling daring. I think the most crime this place has seen is when the teenager's steal change out of people's change compartment of their cars to buy themselves cigarette's.
Because it's so quiet here, I always park at home and then walk the twelve blocks to the Pete's, the bar I frequent. I trudge tiredly down Main Street in the direction of my house, passing nothing but old, tall houses as I do. People are arriving home from work, or the Market, and kids are picking up their toys from the yard. At five in October, the night becomes this sort of tawny gold color with purple streaks throughout, signaling that in about a half an hour it will be at least fifteen degrees cooler, and pitch dark. As I walk, I hear lots of coughing. It's the height of flu season, sure, but this seems excessive. I think only momentarily to the news report that I didn't get to hear. It's just the flu, no big deal. I can't help but have this gnawing feeling in my gut, as I pass, listening to the sound of phlegm being coughed up as I walk.
I pass a house that is three numbers down from my own, and I hear a coughing so deep that it sort of alarms me. Melissa, my neighbor is scarlet in the face as she gathers a few things from her minivan, and I almost stop to see if she needs help. She shuts the door before I have a chance, wheezing, and turns towards me. There's a weak wave given, before she's turned and is trudging toward the house slowly, hacking all the way.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up, hearing her go inside, and I have no idea why. I try to put it out of my mind as I walk slowly the remaining distance to my own house and up the steps. By the time I get the door open, and pick up the mail on the floor I forget. I neglect to turn on the television for the rest of the night as I settle into what I do best. I make dinner for myself, wash up, and I'm in bed before I know it. The sounds of coughing, they are the last thing on my mind as I drift off to sleep early.
It's the last good night's sleep I'll have for the next three months, because as I sleep the world outside me undergoes the most chaotic of metamorphoses, and the only warning I get is the muted News Report in a too loud bar. I like to think that if I had just been able to listen to that twenty minute blurb on the news about a flu, that maybe I would have been prepared. But the sad reality is when the world end's, no amount of preparation helps.