"I sat in the dark and thought: There's no big apocalypse. Just an endless procession of little ones." - Neil Gaiman, Signal to Noise
...
The city of Fairfield once stood proud as a beacon of hope and promise. It was a symbol of human possibilities – a testament to architecture and achievement; a hustling, bustling hub of commerce and brand new opportunities. Yet not even this grand metropolis of glass and steel could withstand the wretched infection. An unbridled chaos held the previously glamorous city tightly in its grip, and crushed it. Fairfield was nothing more than a deathtrap. A pit of death and violence.
Most professionals claimed it was a mutated case of human rabies. No one truly knew how it spread; whether it was airborne or caught through physical contact or even bodily fluids. If everyone was entirely honest, they didn't know if it was bacterial, viral or even fungal. All that people knew was that it was spreading. Fast. Only one in a thousand people were immune to the virus that everyone came to know as the 'Green Flu'.
The Green Flu was far beyond just a case of rabies. It was much, much worse.
Anyone infected with the new virus would lose their higher brain functions and control of their own actions. They would become savage and rampant bloodthirsty animals. At first, the infected host would begin to feel very sick, sometimes to the point of vomiting. After that it wasn't long before the infection progressed with an excessive fever, and the host would begin to shiver uncontrollably. Despite this, they'd begin to feel numb and cold, and their sense of touch would gradually recede. Cuts and scrapes would turn purple, blood would become a lumpy brownish color, and their skin would turn a terrible grey. Once the virus reached full strength, the host would lose complete control over their movements, often following a series of violent spasms and blood forming at the mouth. They became pale, bloody and manic versions of their old selves, slaves to the infection, with only one goal in mind: Spread the virus.
Even the immune were not safe from their relentless attacks. They'd completely lost their sense of self preservation; they were not afraid to rush a well defended barricade or attack a group of armed humans. If hundreds of them died in order to infect one host, or kill an immune, that was a victory for the virus. Following the widespread chaos and confusion of the rapid outbreak, riots erupted on the streets as the infected were quarantined, power lines were severed, and only emergency electrical equipment or anything generator-powered remained active.
There was strength in numbers. And the infected certainly had numbers.
...
Survival was something well known to the old Vietnam war veteran. William "Bill" Overbeck had holed himself up inside a small grocery shop. It took two eventful tours in Vietnam, a handful of medals, a knee full of shrapnel, and an honorable discharge before the unthinkable happened: Bill ran out of wars. But now an army of infected had declared war on humanity. After decades of aimless drifting and dead-end jobs, Bill finally had back the only thing he ever wanted: an enemy to fight. But this was never the enemy he wanted. Human opponents can think rationally, solve problems logically and form plans. If you can understand your enemy, you can defeat them.
But these things – the infected of this forsaken city – had no plans. They had no ideas, no rational thought. Their actions could not be predicted.
Bill sat in the depressing darkness of the barricaded shop, with dim dirty beams of light seeping through the cracks in the boarded up windows. He was slumped against a cold metal chair, puffing on a small cigarette offering a warm glowing light in the dark nothingness. Even in the dark, Bill constantly tinkered with his old rifle, his trusty M16A2, adjusting scopes and magazines, fiddling with stocks and wiping the barrel. He knew that gun better than anything else. At this point, he was merely stripping it down and building it up again. He had to keep his hands busy somehow.
As Bill sat there in the encompassing darkness, he listened intently to his old radio. After a few days' work, he'd managed to tune it to an emergency frequency that seemed to have heavy military usage. The radio's occasional static-pocked broadcasts painted a very bleak picture of the world outside of Bill's shop. The military had sealed off the roads at the city limits. Armed forces were moving from street to street, attempting to annihilate any infected in their way. They were cleansing the streets.
But they were losing numbers quickly. Perhaps the infected were cleansing them.
Without much warning of any kind, husky voices began talking over the radio. The sudden noise shook Bill from a lulling sleep, although he quickly began slipping back into it.
"Raven, this is Bison," said the radio, "You seen Team Rhino?"
"Negative, Bison," came another voice, with a sigh. "Rhino is MIA."
"The whole team?" There was a long silence, punctuated only by static. "Confirmed, Raven. Regroup at sector Charlie Five."
"Roger that," Another burst of static filled the gap. Bill continued puffing heavily on his cigarette. "Uhh, having trouble locating sector Charlie Five."
"Raven, Sector Charlie Five is at the corner of Harkin Street and Fifth. Repeat, Harkin Street and Fifth Avenue."
"Thanks, Bison. Raven out."
Bill awoke from a bored stupor. Harkin Street, he thought. His building was on Harkin Street, and as far as he could remember, Fifth Avenue was only a couple of blocks away. Something snapped within him, and told him that the time for sitting and dwindling food supplies away was over. It was time to move, and what better way to move than with the military.
Bill tossed his cigarette to the ground and stamped the dim glow from existence. He stood up shakily, cracking his back and adjusting his posture. There was no denying it. He was getting old. He scratched at his grey beard and removed his green beret. Wispy grey hairs fell across his face as he wiped away trickles of sweat hiding in his wrinkled forehead. The green army-style jacket that he'd worn those many years ago still fit him nicely. Under this, he wore a simple and now ragged cotton undershirt, stained with blood and sweat. On his legs, he'd opted for a pair of heavy green pants he'd once had specially made, padded and protected with Kevlar. His once-black combat boots were stained permanently brown. He had a dark leather satchel slung around his chest, carrying bullets, cigarettes and his warm and matured half-finished bottle of whiskey.
He coughed hard, dislodging some dark phlegm, and picked up the radio. He realized in that moment he hadn't yet tried to speak with the radio. He shook his head sternly, and cleared his throat.
"This is William Overbeck. I'm a veteran of the Green Beret Special Forces. I'm currently held up in Tom's Grocers near sector Charlie Five, requesting to meet with soldiers in the area, over." There was a short period of silence as Bill wondered whether that had actually worked, before the radio crackled into life.
"This is Raven. This channel is not for civilians."
Bill blinked, almost amused at how flatly he'd been rejected. He wasn't sure if 'Raven' was a unit name or just a ridiculous soldier's codename. He shook his head, and grunted. "I fought in Vietnam. I am armed and awaiting aid. I can fight."
"Vietnam?" chuckled the voice. Bill felt his eyebrows lower, scornfully. "Aren't you too old to be fighting, Overbeck?"
"I'm not too old to fight, son," said Bill, trying his hardest to stifle a cough as he spoke.
"Can't take the risk, Overbeck," said the radio, almost apologetically. "You could be infected."
"I'm as immune as they come, son!" Bill boomed, a pressure rising in his chest. "I'm old, I'm tired and there's infected on the damn streets! The world's gone to shit, if you haven't noticed," he said, raising the radio closer to his lips. "Let. Me. Help." There was a long pause. Bill sighed deeply as all that called back to him was static. Just as he was about to toss the radio to the floor, it crackled back to life.
"Can you confirm your immunity, Overbeck?" said the radio, slowly.
"I've got scratches, bites and all. No symptoms of any kind after three days. I'm immune, son."
After a long pause, the voice said: "We're on our way." His voice was labored and slow, as if he regretted saying it.
"Great," said Bill, with a small triumphant chuckle. "Let me know when you're here."
Bill stretched his legs and cracked his neck. Some more action, he thought. He laughed to himself. I must be crazy, I'm in no condition to fight.
...
For the first few days, Aldrich College, despite being in the heart of the city, had just about managed to trundle on safely through the chaos that had otherwise consumed Fairfield. After the first city riots, the entire campus had been sealed off, and with some military aid they'd been able to create a refuge for survivors in the area. All it had taken was one infected survivor to bring the entire campus down. That was several days ago. Now, the only survivors left on the overrun campus remained hidden, either shut away in remote classrooms or trapped in small rooms by infected.
Two students, James and Zoey, had stashed themselves away within a ransacked geography room. The room had been stuffed with boxes of various supplies during the brief military occupation, so it was very cramped and tight for space. With the windows boarded up, the room was in perpetual darkness with only a small amount of light punching through. Still, there were no infected in there. And they dared not go into the corridor. Last time they had, they'd almost met their end at the hands of a very angry, infected janitor.
"What's gonna happen, Zoey?" said James, a note of panic cracking in his voice.
"Don't worry," whispered Zoey, gently rubbing his arm. "The military's coming back, and the college will be clear again."
"Are the military even out there?" he croaked, his eyes widening. James was rocking back and forth on the spot, as if he was physically unable to hold back his fear. Zoey wasn't sure what, but something had just set him over the edge. "They're coming?" His voice was crackled and hoarse.
James and Zoey had spent a great deal of their college time holed up watching horror movies. Zoey had always been a bit of a horror movie buff, and had thoroughly enjoyed introducing him to each film individually. Although as she watched him rocking back and forth, his bloodshot eyes darting around the room for the slightest sign of danger, she regretted heightening his sense of fear. Being holed up with him now was actually quite similar to how they'd spent most of their time previously. The main difference being that this time they were living the horror movie. Zoey swallowed, still rubbing his arm, and forced a smile.
"Of course they are," she said, as calmly as she could. James continued rocking back and forth, staring right through her with his reddening eyes. "James, are you okay?"
"No, no I'm not okay!" yelped James, as if in pain. He pushed Zoey away and glared at her, suddenly quite threatening. "I'm freaking out! We're gonna die!"
"It's okay," Zoey stepped forwards and held him in a gentle hug. "We'll be fine. Help is coming."
"No they're not!" he snapped, pushing Zoey away once again.
"Easy now," said Zoey, lowering her voice to a whisper in the hopes that James might follow suit. "You'll attract the infected, we need to be quiet."
"I don't care!" James was now throwing his hands in the air wildly as he spoke, each word louder and more shrill than the last. "We're going to die anyway!"
"Don't say that," said Zoey, tentatively. "We'll make it. We just have to be-"
"No!" he yelled, pushing her chest and forcing her to stumble backwards a few paces. She hadn't even been that close to him this time, and his push was much fiercer. "This is your fault! You and your stupid films!" There was no point trying to calm him down now; Zoey could see that something had pushed him over the line, and it wasn't a line he could come back from. Zoey froze as she scanned his face. Aggression, bloodshot eyes, pale skin. He couldn't be… could he?
"James… Have you…" Zoey paused, watching his reaction closely. "…Have you been bitten?"
"I hate those films! They freak me out!" he screamed, dodging the question entirely. Before she could ask again, he swung his arm around and pounded his fist with an almighty thwack against her chest. Her knees buckled as he pushed her out of the way and clawed at the barricaded door, the only entrance to the room. "I'm getting out of here!"
James managed to burst his way out of the room before Zoey could get back to her feet to hold him back. She was just about to dash out and follow him when she saw him get tackled and mauled by multiple infected at the end of the corridor. They were ravenous.
Zoey took a step back and made sure not to be spotted. The creatures ripped and scraped at his shirt, clawing and gnawing their way into his chest cavity and mashing his lungs to pieces as blood began flowing from every new wound. Zoey watched, frozen with fear, her eyes glued to the shower of blood and intestines. She couldn't bear to look away, yet felt revolted at the sight. James screeched out a horrible and deafening retching sound from the depths of his frothing lungs as his body finally surrendered to the pain.
"Ah…" Zoey clapped her hands to her mouth, desperately holding in a scream. "Oh my God… James…"
Close the door, Zoey, she thought. Close the door!
Slowly - not fully aware of what just happened - she pulled the black door closed as the corpse feast continued. She locked it, thanked every god she could think of that James hadn't taken the key with him, and placed a wooden board against it. The infected might come knocking for seconds.
"Okay," she whispered to herself, clutching her stomach. "I just have to wait. Rescue will come. It has to."
Zoey sank to the ground, her back to the cold and unforgiving concrete wall. She would have been physically sick watching James get ripped apart, but she hadn't eaten in several days. There was simply nothing left inside her. She keeled over, wincing, desperately hungry, and squinted out of the window through a crack in the boards.
Infected roamed the campus freely. The entire city was in anarchy.
Maybe no help was coming after all.
Thanks for reading, team!
This is just the first chapter of a much longer fan fiction. It works its way towards the whole group (Francis, Louis, Zoey and Bill) coming together, and in all likelihood will run until they make their escape to safety or die trying. Who knows? Oh yeah, I do.
Please let me know what you think, and don't worry, Francis and Louis are yet to come!
