The Hunt Chronicles (Volume 1): Awakening (2 page)

“Hey,” she grunted.  “I was about to call you to tell you I was leaving.”

“But I’m here now,” I said smiling.

She half rolled her eyes. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were this bad,” I continued as sincere as I could pretend to be.

“It’s okay.  I’m not nearly as bad as my parents.  They’ve been in bed since last night.  My dad doesn’t even know I took his truck.”  She glanced up at one of the TVs hanging over the bar.  “It’s getting so bad now.”

I followed her eyes and casually observed what was on the screen.  The volume was down, but I could tell by the split screen on the news that the pandemonium was wide spread.  On one side it was displaying statistics, and the other was amateur footage of what seemed like a riot outside of a Walmart. 

“Yeah,” I agreed, though I didn’t know how bad it had been for the last few days.  “People were driving like lunatics when I left my house.”

“They’re all trying to get food.  I heard most of the stores are running low on stuff.  People are going crazy.”  She lowered her head and suppressed a cough.

“Running low on food?”  I asked, confused.

“Yeah,” Becky interjected.  “Where have you been?”

“Under a rock I guess,” I chided back.

“Most of the cargo and supply trucks stopped running yesterday,” Becky said, ignoring my comment.  “The truckers are staying home because they are either sick, taking care of loved ones, or are scared to catch this flu or whatever it is.  At least, that’s what the news is saying.”

“Christian,” Michelle interrupted as she raised her head, “I’m sorry, but I’m really not feeling it tonight.”

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed, but I could tell she felt like crap.  I had been striking out with her for a while, and just couldn’t seem to take the next step with her.  We smiled, said our goodbyes, and then she left.

The bar had almost completely emptied out now, except for me, Becky, and another guy at the other end of the long bar, seemingly passed out.

“You need help with that guy?” I asked, motioning toward the end of the bar.

“Naw,” she replied, rolling her eyes.  “That’s Ted.  He’s just had too much to drink.”

I peered back up at the television screen to see that one of the split screens had changed to a woman speaking on a podium.  Becky was still talking to me, but it was just noise in the background as I read the reports flashing at the bottom of the screen.

At this point, I guess it really hadn’t sunk in how bad things were getting.  Sure, I saw the ridiculous traffic and knew a lot of people were coming down with the flu, but the actual level of the crisis didn’t seem real to me until I read the bulletins racing across the television.

The first bulletin I remember said something about how New York and Atlanta were seeing the first deaths from the infection.  Another said that there were rumors that the First Lady was ill.  A source in the Department of Energy was reporting that the President had authorized safe shutdowns of the power grid, though the White House hadn’t confirmed it. 

Shutting down the power made sense.  No one wanted a Chernobyl-like incident from our nuclear facilities, and I did know from prior hurricanes that transformers were sensitive to power fluctuations. 

The news just kept flowing, reporting one bad thing after another.  Other countries around the world were stricken just like the U.S.  Reports of deaths were coming in across the globe.  China had whole cities they had lost contact with.  I started to feel a little anxiety and made a note to myself to call my sister back when I left the bar.  People were actually dying from this thing.  I was worried about my mother.

“Are you listening to me?” I heard Becky ask.

“I’m sorry, what?”  I realized she had been talking to me the whole time, and blushed in embarrassment.

She was moving around, haphazardly cleaning up the bar.

“I said I’m closing,” she replied without looking up at me.  “Kevin just called and said Brandon was getting pretty bad.  He wants to take him to one of those FEMA camps.”

“FEMA camps?” I asked as I stood up to pay my bill.

“You really have been under a rock,” she remarked as she bagged up the money from the register.  “They’ve set up mobile hospitals at a few of the schools around here.  Holmes and Palm Bay Hospital are filled and they aren’t taking any more patients.”

She looked at the twenty dollar bill I had in my hand. 

“I already closed out your tab.  Don’t worry about it,” she said, slamming the register drawer shut.

“Thanks.  Keep it for yourself then.”  I looked over at Ted still passed out at the bar.  “Sure you don’t need help with him?”

“Not like I can call him a cab.  He can crash here tonight.”

“Man,” I said, smiling, “I should have played drunk.  Half your kegs would be empty when you came in tomorrow.”

She gave me a fake smile, like most bartenders do when a customer says something corny, then motioned me out, locking the door behind me.

I looked out across the large shopping center’s parking lot.  It was mostly empty, but the main road was still fairly busy, although not as bad as before.  The night sky was overcast and I could see and hear aircraft, both helicopters and small planes, flying just beneath the clouds.  Single and twin engine planes were common.  Melbourne’s small airport was only a few miles north and was home to more than one flight school.

I pulled my phone out as I made my way to my car and dialed my sister, but the call didn’t make it through. 

I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.  I hated anxiety and usually only felt it when I was procrastinating about something that was important.  This time, though, it was different.  My mom was sick and at the hospital.  I no longer thought she had a simple cold.  The news said people were now dying from this epidemic and I was worried for her.

As I got into my car, I heard a screech behind me.  Turning around as I cranked the engine, I saw a truck pull up next to the Save-Some-More grocery store in the shopping center.  Two people jumped out and went to the front glass door.  They were carrying flashlights and one was carrying something long.  Before I knew it, they shattered the glass door.  When the alarm went off, the two jumped in surprise.

This thing
had
gotten bad.  Even with all the hurricanes that hit our city, there were rarely reports of looting.  People were getting desperate.  These two were definitely not average thieves.  I could tell they were nervous as they hid to see if anyone noticed what they were doing.  After a few moments they unlocked the door and made their way in. 

I sat there for a few minutes expecting the police to show up and surround the place, but they never came.  I watched them carry out box after box, and still nothing.  I was a little worried they might confront me, or even chase me if they saw me drive away, so I waited until they were back inside before I pulled away.

It took me twice as long to get home as it did to get to the bar.  There were a couple of car accidents with few emergency responders to direct traffic.  Getting over Highway 95 was the worst.  Cars were crammed over to the right or left trying to make their way onto the interstate. 

I witnessed a few fender benders, but no one seemed to stop or get out of their car.  The stress of the situation could be felt in the air and I felt like I was missing something.  Three days of being totally out of it and passed out on the couch had left an empty space between the norm of before and the chaos that was happening around me now.

I sent a text to my sister after a few more failed attempts to call her.  Even sending messages was difficult and it took a few tries before it went through.

Traffic was at a standstill as I approached the overpass that crossed Interstate 95.  A car pulled up next to me with its windows down.  The radio was playing loud enough for me to hear the disc jockey reading off news reports.  None of it sounded good.  He talked about how the National Guard and Reserves were being called up, but sources were telling them that less than twenty percent were reporting for duty.  More deaths were being reported across the country and top officials were being evacuated to secure locations.  Things seemed to be getting worse every minute.

Once I crossed the highway, the traffic heading west was lighter.  I drove to my neighborhood, watching while cars headed away from me back toward the interstate.  Driving down the roads near my house, I could see a few people loading their cars before joining the mayhem.  I could feel the tension in the air.

I pulled onto our road, which was just a few hundred meters long and ended in a cul-de-sac.  It was a nice street.  I didn’t talk to too many of my neighbors, and we never had loud music or police called on our road.  Most people just kept to themselves.

After I parked in my driveway, I tried to call Trinity again.  The lines were still busy and I hadn’t received a text back from her yet.  If she tried to reach me, she probably had the same trouble getting through.  I tried my mom and dad’s phones as I made my way to the front door, but no luck there either. 

I noticed a few popping noises off in the distance.  I wasn’t sure in which direction, but it could have only been a few streets down.  My first thought was fireworks, but I think I knew in the back of my mind what they really were.

There was an eerie silence when I opened the door.  Usually when Dave or I was home, a TV would be on with some movie or TV show streaming, even if we were not paying attention to it.  All of the lights were still off, and Dave’s school backpack was still by the front door. 

Movement in the dark caught my attention.  It was my friend, still lying on the couch, curled up in a ball and wrapped in my blanket.  A slight wheeze, followed by a cough broke the silence and I saw his head lift slightly.

“Home so early?” he croaked.

“Yeah,” I replied as I turned on the light and shut the door behind me.  “You look worse now than when I left.”

Dave had this gaunt look to him, like he hadn’t eaten in days and was dehydrated.  His skin was paler than before, and his eyes were surrounded with purple bruising.

“Damn man,” I said sincerely, “You look like you’ve been in a fight.  Want me to call your dad or something?  Maybe run you to the ER?”

“Naw,” he managed with a cough.  “Talked to my dad earlier.  Said the hospitals are packed.”  He struggled as he sat up.  “It’ll pass.  Just need to rest. Gonna go to bed.”

Dave was not a weak man.  He was tough and would never ask for help.  But watching him struggle just to sit up, then fail trying to stand, I rushed over and grabbed him by the arm. 

I wanted to argue with him and take him to the hospital anyway, but he was right.  From what the news and Becky were saying, I wouldn’t even make it through the ER doors.  So I helped him to his room and put him to bed. 

I walked back into the living room and heard back-to-back popping sounds outside again.  As anxiety set in, my stomach began to churn, like two hamsters twisting my guts into a knot.  The last time I felt this way, I was in a war zone.  I hated that feeling.  When I was overseas, there was no way to get rid of it. But here, back in the States, I knew exactly how to deal with that feeling.

I poured myself a tall glass of rum and added a small splash of cola.  Alcohol was better than any pill the VA could prescribe.  After that, I threw my blanket and pillow in the laundry room, and grabbed fresh linens from the closet and tossed them on the couch.

I turned on the television and started watching some documentary on crazy people who kept tigers as pets.  I downed the glass of rum and burrowed into the couch.  With the beers I had earlier, I was definitely buzzing.  Within moments, I was fast asleep.

Chapter 2

Awakening

March 20
th
  Morning

A muffled bang brought me out of my alcohol-induced coma the next morning. It took me a couple of seconds to remember where I was. I wasn’t that drunk the night before, but it was enough to give me a mild headache and make me feel a bit groggy.

I stood up and stretched. There was an odd smell in the air, like the time I had left raw chicken in the trash for two days.  I heard cracks and pops outside as well. They weren’t close, but it sounded like someone was shooting off more fireworks in the distance like the night before.  I guess I still hadn’t come to terms with the apocalypse that was stirring around me.  It’s not like the sound of gunfire was unfamiliar.

I made my way to the kitchen to grab something cold to drink.  The light was off when I opened the fridge and it wasn’t blowing cold air. The little bit of food that was inside still seemed cold, so I shut the door.  The electricity must have gone out, and I knew from going through a few hurricanes that if I kept the refrigerator and freezer shut, I could save most of the goods for a few days. I thought perhaps the loud noise that woke me may have been a transformer blowing.

I started feeling butterflies in my stomach and I wasn’t sure why. I don’t believe in people being psychic or anything, but I do think the subconscious picks up on things our consciousness likes to ignore.  Like when someone says, “I have a bad feeling about this”. 

Other noises started making their way to my senses as my brain woke up. A car alarm could be heard along with the random bursts of what I started to think was gunfire. I walked toward the front door to see what was going on. News from the night before, along with all the pandemonium in the streets, started to push its way through the fog in my head as I opened the door and took a step outside.

The bright sun was piercing through sporadic clouds. It was still cool for a Florida spring, at around seventy-five degrees. By noon it was sure to be in the eighties. The weather was one of the many reasons why I chose to come back here after my time in the service. I hated snow.

The popping noises were more regular, mostly off in the distance. There was no mistaking it anymore.  That was gunfire I heard, not fireworks. There was no more lying to myself.  I had heard enough in the military to recognize it. The car alarm seemed to be coming from a couple of streets away. I smelled smoke, but didn’t see any plumes from where I was standing.

I heard another boom, like the one that woke me up. It came from down the road and, this time, was accompanied by a scream. It was an unnerving, horrific shriek. The noise came from the same direction of the bang, just a few houses away. The scream continued for nearly a minute before it was violently cut off, sending a shiver down my spine.

According to the news, people were rioting.  Then, there was the random gunfire and screaming.  I came to the conclusion that all the commotion I was hearing was due to looters in the area.  People couldn’t find any more food at the stores and they were getting desperate.  I started to panic, thinking our house could be next.

The first thought I had after I went back inside and locked the door was that I had to wake Dave up. He had guns to help defend the house and, well, he was better at this kind of stuff than I was.

I was nervous, scared, and could feel dread starting to creep up in my chest. Hollywood usually portrayed soldiers and veterans as fearless people of action. This isn’t a knock on service men and women.  A uniform doesn’t make you a hero.  It sure as hell didn’t make me one.  Dave was a different story, though.  Even though he was pretty ill, I was sure he would be ready to take on the world. After all, he had been preparing for a moment like this for the past two years.

I was worried Dave wouldn’t like my idea of holing up in the living room, waiting to see if anyone tried to break in. He would probably want to sit on the roof with one of his AR-15 rifles so he could give warning shots. Or worse, shots without warnings. I would be damned if I was going to go through this alone.

I opened Dave’s door. The smell hit me before I actually saw anything. That odor I was inhaling since I woke up was amplified a hundred times and I had to choke back to stop myself from throwing up.

Dave was lying on his stomach, his head lay facing toward me and his arm was slung over the bed. His skin was a rustic gray color and his eyes were partially open, blankly staring in my direction. They were heavily glazed over with purple veins covering the whites of his eyes. There was no question in my mind that he was dead. No more wheezing or coughing. No movement from his back to show he was still breathing.

I froze. I’m not sure how long I stood there, but it couldn’t have been over three minutes because I didn’t breathe the entire time.

A screech from a car not far off brought me out of shock. I exhaled and took a deep breath which made me gag. I wasn’t sure if I threw up because my best friend was dead or because I inhaled the noxious fumes of decay, but at least I turned around and didn’t have to look at his face staring at me.

I composed myself and took a second look. I had to make sure. I walked into the room holding my breath, wincing at the scene the whole time.  There was vomit near his head and a damp stain on the sheets around his body.

Reaching down, I pulled his arm up and checked for a pulse. There wasn’t any need to because he was cold to the touch.  Nevertheless, I didn’t feel a heartbeat.  I thought it was weird that his body wasn’t stiff, though.  I wasn’t an expert on how long it took for a dead body to harden up, but I thought for sure he had been dead long enough from the smell that filled the house.

Dropping his limp arm, I turned to go find my phone. Halfway to the couch I remembered I never took it out of my pocket after I tried to call my parents the night before.

I pulled my phone out and cursed. There was only fifteen percent battery left. I had received another message from Trinity, but ignored it and tried dialing 911. There was an instant beep. The call wasn’t even connecting which meant that, just like the electricity, the towers were not in operation.

I heard more gunfire, probably only a street away. Panic was starting to ensue. My best friend was dead in the other room, looters were running wild in the streets, and I couldn’t even call for an ambulance or the police.

I remembered one time when a hurricane was threatening our coast, Dave stocked up on some food and weapons, along with other survival gear. “Dave,” I said, “you’re being ridiculous. What a waste of money.”

“Christian, man, did you see what happened in New Orleans?” he said back. “Katrina fucked that city up. People were fighting over water. I even heard that some cops were looting. We are a bulls-eye for hurricanes. What are you going to do when 911 doesn’t answer?”

I rolled my eyes at him and called him nuts. Nuts... I felt like I was going nuts. Everything seemed so crazy. I would love to say my military training started to kick in at this point, but that would be a lie. I may have trained, but I hated it.  I usually did my best to get out of it. I was what many would call a ‘sham artist’, always doing my best to get out of work.  That is why I needed Dave. 

Thinking about him wasn’t helping, nor was the smell coming from his room. I went back and, without looking at him, shut his door. The smell was still ripe in the house, but I would be damned if I would open any windows. My thinking was that open windows may just be an invitation to whoever was looting.  I sat down on the couch and tried to calm down. It took a few moments, but I finally started breathing easier.

I remembered my sister had messaged me, so I checked the message. It was short and just said that mom wasn’t doing much better and dad was going to stay with her overnight at the hospital.

I wondered if my mother was going to die too. That thought, along with the rest of the nightmare I was going through, finally got to me. My chest started shaking, along with just about every part of my body. Then the tears came. I wasn’t balling like a baby, but it was a good, long cry that lasted five or so minutes.

Looking back over the message, thinking I might have missed something, reminded me that my phone was dying. I had to charge it, but there was no power. I could always use my car, but that would mean going outside, and my balls were not that big yet. I thought about the looters outside and how I was defenseless. In a state like Florida, there was a good chance they would be armed. Desperate people did desperate things.

This is where my spinelessness really shined. There was a Glock 9mm sitting on Dave’s nightstand and I couldn’t get up the nerve to go into his room and get it. I was scared of a dead body, just like when I was in Afghanistan.

That’s when I heard the croaking moan from Dave’s room followed by a loud thump, like someone had just dropped a sack of potatoes on the floor.

My first thought was I was wrong. Dave must have had a faint heartbeat, and was just cold from being sick. I reassured myself, remembering that his body wasn’t stiff and was confident that I made a mistake.  I got off the couch and headed to his room.

I could hear grunting, along with the slight commotion of someone trying to stand up. Right before I reached for the door handle, a second thought occurred to me. What if a looter broke in through his bedroom window? I shook the thought. Why do that when they can just barge through the front door.  They had to know people couldn’t call the cops and they most certainly would have weapons.

I grabbed the handle and flung open the door just as Dave staggered to his feet. He was still pale as hell and didn’t look any better than when I left him lying in his bed. He stumbled to the side, bumping into his nightstand, and wrenched his head in my direction.

“My God Dave, are you okay?” was all I managed to get out before he started toward me. His arms were outstretched and his hands opened as if to grab onto me for support. His eyes were still glazed and riddled with those odd, purplish veins. I wasn’t sure if he truly saw me or was just coming toward my voice. His guttural moan started getting louder as he crashed into me, sending me back into our small hallway.

My back hit the bathroom door, and I heard a crack as the wood splintered and a pain shot up my spine. His right hand was locked on my shoulder, with his left arm swinging around, violently attempting to get a hold of me.

The grip he held was tremendous. I knew he was a strong SOB, but not like this. I could feel the skin on my shoulder start to give way under his hold, and it felt like my muscles were being torn apart.

I had my left forearm under his neck, which probably ended up saving my life. His teeth were chomping as his face got closer and closer to mine, like I was his breakfast. His breath smelled like rotten fish and I could see his teeth were coated in blackish, thick blood. It clicked in my brain that this wasn’t normal and I was in danger. I didn’t know what kind of danger, but it was enough to force me into action.

As strong as he was, he was surprisingly uncoordinated. Normally, Dave could whip my ass up and down the street.  I guessed at the time that his being sick had made him a lumbering klutz.

I used his weight against him. He easily had thirty pounds on my skinny ass.  Twisting, I tripped him up, sending him crashing face first into a small table in the hallway.  A vase that had been his late grandmother’s shattered on impact.

The whole time I was screaming, “Dave, what the hell? What are you doing? Have you gone mad?” His only response was a snarling, guttural moan.

Unfortunately, the impact positioned him between me and the only exit. My door, which was right next to his, was still closed. Dave never quit moving toward me, even as he slammed to the floor. He was immediately reaching up at me again before he got up. I had no desire to get into another wrestling match with him, and I definitely wanted to avoid his death grip.

I jumped into his room, barely missing his hand grasping at my pant leg, and shut his door. Within seconds he was slowly, but methodically, pounding on it. At the time I was surprised he wasn’t trying the door knob.  Even so, I quickly locked it.

It’s funny how things like doors didn’t mean much until after the Awakening. This is where I learned one of my first big lessons. Years before dear old grandma kicked the bucket, her dog chewed a big hole in the door and Dave replaced it when we moved in. Doors in the Sixties were much sturdier than the crap they made in our time. In my room, he may have never even cracked the wood, though I’m sure the door hinges would have given way eventually.  But I wasn’t in my room. I was behind a flimsy piece of shit.

It was probably the third or fourth hit when the middle of the door splintered. The gap was only an inch or two wide, but it was enough for him to put his hand through. It only took a few seconds for him to rip a foot wide opening and stick his head through the hole.

His face must have taken some punishment when it hit the table and vase in the hallway. A flap of skin on his left cheek bone was dripping with dark red blood. His hands were also paying a price as they ripped at the razor sharp edges of the cheap wood, shredding the skin on his fingers.             

I unconsciously backed up and fell onto Dave’s bed. My right hand was definitely in a spot that he had pissed in, and I’m sure I was sitting in his throw up. Of course, my brain refused to process any of that. I was more worried about my best friend trying to chomp on my face.