The Nameless Survivor (Valkyrie) (10 page)

             
This went on for a long while before he became tired and flopped himself down into his chair, and continued to cry even harder. I walked up to him and gently ran my hands through his curly hair, he just closed his eyes, not willing to look at me. There was an awkward moment of silence, at least for me, which went on far too long.

             
“It's okay Ol' Ben.” I said.

             
“You’re a sweet girl.” He finally said as he opened his eyes and stared back at me. Gently he ran his fingers over my cheek, his skin was like sand against my own. He pulled me close and kissed me on the lips again, but this time it was much harder than before. His mouth was open and he kept pushing his tongue between my lips and into my mouth, I didn't know what to do. His breath smelled really bad and tasted even worse, but I quickly forgot about it when his hand moved around me and squeeze my butt so very hard.

             
It hurt and I wanted to pull away, but instead I just let him do it, I didn't want him crying anymore. But like before, he soon pushed me away and looked off as if embarrassed. Maybe it was me who was doing something wrong. I wasn't exactly sure. But, soon he spoke again, this time in a quiet raspy voice.

             
“I'm sorry, Mia, I'm so sorry.” he said as he stood up and walked outside. I didn't follow him, I figured he wanted to be alone, so I just sat there for a moment, thinking about what just happened. I had walked in on my parents making love once, but it was at night and I did not see much, so I was not sure what I should have done. “Maybe he just wanted me to squeeze his butt too,” I had thought.

             
Soon I moved off to the kitchen to get a drink of water to wash out the bad taste from my mouth. I definitely did not understand how he could drink that Happy Juice, the taste made me want to throw up. Maybe it’s like cough-syrup, that stuff always made me gag but also made me feel better.

             
A sudden crack of thunder made me jumped back, dropping the glass of water which shattered across the floor like diamonds glistening in the fire-light. But it wasn't thunder, I was sure of it, it was a gunshot. I quickly ran outside to see what he was doing, but unfortunately it was too dark and I could not see a darn thing.

             
“Ol' Ben!” I called out, but there was no answer. He liked to night-hunt, so I went back inside and sat down on his chair, waiting for him to come back with a nice rabbit or even a raccoon. Or maybe he shot one of them thieving coyotes, or even a scary Hungry.

             
Before I knew it, I was asleep, and I opened my eyes to the sun already up and the robins chirping gingerly outside. Immediately I rushed and checked Old Ben's bed, but he was not there. So I walked outside thinking that maybe he was stacking more wood, or cutting up last night’s kill.

             
He was not, I found him laying bloody and motionless next his wife and son's graves. He must of gotten sick too because he used his big gun to put himself down. He looked peaceful though, almost happy, even with all that blood. He was with his family now, and with Jesus. I wished he hadn't left me alone though, but I knew he was better off this way, better off with them.

             
Over the next couple of days I dug a grave for him, right next to his wife and son. Pushing him into the hole took forever, he was quite large, but I finally got him in. I crossed his arms over his chest, just like I'd seen on TV one time. Then I gently covered him with his blanket, to keep him warm, as well as placing a couple bottles of his happy juice beside him. I wasn't going to drink it so I figured he'd want some in heaven.

             
After burying him I made a nice grave stone out of a big flat rock I had found outside. I gathered a few crayons I had seen in the house and decorated it with flowers, and in the center I wrote;

             
“OLD BEN, A VERY NICE BLACK MAN.” He would have liked that.

             
When it was finished, I said a quick prayer, something simple I made up since I don't remember any from church. I only cried for a moment, just enough to let go of a good friend. Then, I walked away as the sound of a lone loon cried out from the falling dusk, a peaceful farewell to Old Ben.

supplemental;

              It was sad to think that a grown man, a man with so much good in him, was so stricken with isolation that he had almost taken advantage of this poor little girl. Even worse is that this girl, so innocent and naive, knew not what he was doing. It was probably best for her that he ended his own life.

             
After she buried her own savior she would soon be forced to leave that house. The dead had begun to gather nearby, and she feared that they would soon find her. So she moved on, seeking shelter and food wherever she could. Cautiously she traveled from one small town to the next, searching for any living to take her in.

             
She has yet to speak of the events that led up to me finding her in the forest that day, or to even explain the scars on her body. I assume she spent a good year wondering the roads alone, sleeping in abandoned buildings and cars, and trying to find food where ever she could. Maybe she was just lucky, but her unknowing will to survive still surprises me.

             
Recording Mia's experiences has made me realize that I have yet to transcribe my own accounts of those events during The Great Outbreak. My own will to survive. So now it only seems fitting to jot down my own bleak plunge into this New World Disorder. These are just some of the few memories that I can account for, after all these years it seems that memory has faded, which is for the best. They are my memories of the fall, memories that will serve no purpose, except for the undying curiosity of a lost little girl.

              Before the fall of man, some would have claimed that the idea of a corpse walking on its own was outlandish and absurd. And yet, to these same people, a man walking on water made perfect sense. Least to say, this same man died, then allegedly walked on his own. I do not call myself a religious man, and God and I have had our differences, yet the similarity between the world’s demise and the words of an ancient people have not gone unnoticed. The fact still remains that the human race, aside from their faults, are an intuitive species. Foreseeing the future is only a matter of exploring our own imaginations with an open state of mind. If man can imagine it, then chances are it can and will happen. Most would have scoffed at this, the thought that the Bible, or any other religious text, could be nothing more than an imagination running untethered. However, even at the height of our civilization there were signs of this phenomena everywhere.

             
A perfect example came from the fantasy television show Star-Trek.  After the first airing, its reviews were quiet poor. Being called an Outrageous Farce of Godless Fantasy. Just forty years later and the imaginations of one man had begun to unfold before us. Computers, so smart that they could fly vessels on their own and some could even talk. Wireless communications devices that allowed you to stay in contact with everyone, everywhere. And to think we were only on the verge of advanced robotics.

             
Now that was Star Trek, which I myself was a big fan, but an even bigger fan of Romero's Dawn of the Dead. I, and few others, saw this fictitious entertainment as an imminent possibility, and not because of the words in some old book. As did ancient man, we could see the signs that everyone else ignored. But unlike ancient man, we did not foresee this as the penance enforced by an all-powerful being, rationally we foresaw it simply as the blunder of man.

             
The first real indications of the outbreak began as a well contrived Government farce, a cover-up as some would call it. Just a few unusual reports on the nightly news over the course of a few months. Incidents mentioned only once, and then never followed up on. It was as if these odd news-bits had fallen through some temporal crack, but obviously, it was more conceivable that they were unjustly censored by the goons of government.

             
One report was of an unusual flesh-eating bacteria, spreading with concern up and down the east-coast. Then revised to be nothing more than an isolated incident, thus soon forgotten. Eventually reports of random attacks by deranged criminals, criminals so out of their own minds that they would tear the flesh from their victims. Questions were even raised that local law-enforcement had used excessive force, inflicting multiple gun-shot wounds to stop these mad-men. The government simply attributed it to a new street-drug, aptly named Big-Betty, which was sweeping the nation. Just one example of the many, many, cover-ups. It was understandable that drugs can make one more violent, and seemingly stronger, but not bullet resistant.

             
The CDC even released a mock PSA on how to prepare and survive a zombie-apocalypse, which they posed as a fictional worst-case-scenario. However, with a hush-hush executive order, the page was removed from public access. The media clowned around with the idea, referring to it as the Walking-Dead Craze, just an idiotic new fad. No one, aside from a select few, took any of it seriously. And our beloved President, with an atypical attempt to cool the media frenzy, addressed the nation to steer everyone's attention to more trivial matters.

             
“There is no Zombie Outbreak!” He exclaimed.

             
In conformation, the hype quickly subsided, and the media also became hush-hush in regards to subject. The sheep continued on with their lives, oblivious to what was about to come. Although there was still the occasional report within online blogs, as well as Twitter and even Face-book, but most saw it as commonplace internet crock. Tall Tales, such as anarchy in the streets of foreign cities, public cannibalism and complete social break down. Countries like; Egypt, Germany, France and even the UK, had quietly declare Martial Law. Even the obliteration of Hong Kong by a strategic nuclear strike, a last-ditch effort of the Chinese government. Unfathomable events, never once mention in the Main-Stream media, which proved just how much pull governments had on our own strings.

             
At first, I too was guilty of ignoring the signs, but there was always this inkling that something big was about to happen. And when it did, I wasn't truly taken by surprise. To be honest, for years I had longed the day that I'd watched the world burn. For Nature to reclaim her rightful place as queen of the Earth. A piece of me is still emotionally attached to this new world, and yet, there's something else in me that regrets my selfish aspirations.

             
It was May, maybe April. I had just finished given a lecture at Cambridge, Native American vs. Australian Aborigine; a Comparative of Ancient Civilizations. Sounds boring enough, however the history of our ancestors has always fascinated me. How they lived and survived in a technology deprived and hostile world, but more enticing was their belief systems. The patterns of human assumptions which fed the evolution of faith are openly displayed throughout history, it only takes an unclouded mind to see them.

             
Not far from that lecture hall, at Mag's Diner, I was elbows deep in a big greasy plate of steak-tips smothered with onions, peppers and mushrooms. It was my last meal, to be overly dramatic, and one that I shall never forget nor ever enjoy again. As I sucked down the rest of my beer, I paid no attention to the other patrons, but instead to a loud commotion building up from outside the diner. Ominous shouts and screams from up the street, just out of sight of the diner's dirty windows. Other patrons heard it too, their curiosity overcoming them as they rushed to the windows to see what was amiss.

             
The traffic outside had stopped in place, drivers were becoming increasingly agitated, honking their horns and pounding on the roofs. Left and right obscenities rose above the racket and crude hand gestures flew up into the air. Boston had always been lewd at times, but never like this.

             
Without warning, one of the drivers dropped his shifter into reverse, violently smashing into the taxi behind him. Then, without hesitation, he shifted back into drive and slammed into the van in front of him. Frantically he repeated, to and fro, maneuvering unsuccessfully into the opposite direction. He was adamant about his cause, but there were just too many vehicles, bumper-to-bumper. His feeble attempts to flee the jam only created more panic and chaos, choking the street into an inevitable deadlock.

             
“RUN!” Shrieked a woman as she dashed past the window.

             
Then a few others fearfully sprinted by, along with small boy trying keep up with his selfish father who fled without once looking back. Soon more and more began to charge down the road, as drivers began to abandon their immobile steel cages to join the stampede of the condemned. My fellow patrons soon began to funnel out the diner doors and in pursuit of the others. Regretfully a few were unable to keep afoot, and quickly toppled to the cobblestone. They endured a long and agonizing death beneath the feet of their fellow citizens, and yet, it was truly a better way to go.

             
Lastly, the grill-cook impetuously shoved his way through the door, following behind all those poor little lemmings. His brute girth gave him the strength to withstand the pressure of the crowd, but to no end. A badly injured passerby, his arm profusely gushing blood, grabbed hold of the cook’s shoulders with a fierce grip. Before the cook could react, the man viciously masticated the grease-cooks throat. His teeth tore through muscle and tendon as buckets of blood sprayed back upon his face. Not once did the cook scream, or attempt to escape, he was overcome with shock and ultimately fell beneath the panic in the street. Beneath a running of the dead festival.

             
I too was in shock, frozen to my seat, staring out at the carnage that was unfolding before me. But within moments, I came to my senses. My moment of fear and sympathy washed away in an instant, as if I had all but expected this. It was once said that I possessed a certain ethical neutrality that is nonexistent in most. Where the woes of others neither concerned nor delighted me. There was no plan, no thought process involved. I just reacted and rushed towards the back of the empty diner and away from the stampeding fools. Quickly I scurried past the sizzling grill just as a single flame burst over a blackened foot-long. The smell of that scorched processed meat will always be remembered, one of my last sensations of a disintegrating world.

             
The alley behind the diner was dark and thankfully empty, but the street beyond was flooded with an uncontrollable mob. A few loud pops rung out from the streets, gun-fire, or maybe just idling automobiles backfiring. Either way, I wasn't hanging around to find out. Sticking to the alleys as much as possible I made my way back to my apartment. The haul was fast and arduous, mostly a blur of people, lights and darkness. Only the pounding of my heart as it rigorously pumped mind clouding adrenaline throughout my body can truly be recalled. I'm not even sure how I crossed the panic ridden streets at the end of every alley, but somehow, I made it through it all.

             
Within my cramped studio apartment, I made sure to lock the door and closed all the lights as well as the shades. I was still oblivious to what I was really hiding from. The significance of the current pandemonium still eluded me, and yet, I somehow knew that this, whatever it was, would not blow over any time soon. I needed answers, I needed to know what was truly going on before I made my next move. My first rule of survival; understand the situation. So I flicked on the television set, hoping that one of those shady news networks could provide some insight into the current blood-bath.

             
An emergency broadcast was already in session. “The current outbreak, a flesh-eating bacteria,” this again? “Is spreading like wildfire throughout Boston and its suburbs. Stay in your homes and at all cost avoid contact with others.” It must be a joke? Like Orson Welles's War of the Worlds, just a well contrived hoax. “This just in, live footage from the streets of Boston.” The pandemic was now unfolding too rapidly for the government to contain the media, but the truth was now merely incidental.

             
The footage of anarchy that displayed next was from that very same street I had just escaped. Shaky and choppy images from a cheap cell-phone, the video was hard to follow but before long, there they were. Stumbling across my television screen as if out of some old horror film, a city of the damned. It was all clear now, it all made sense, this was the apocalypse. However, my giddiness was overshadowed by my own increasing panic.

             
Growing up, my father taught me to prepare for the inevitable, for the fall of man-kind. He spoke of nuclear war, meteors falling from the sky, and even a world-wide pandemic. I would always joke to my friends that he was just a paranoid old man, but he knew, he knew our world could never last. And he drilled his survivalist mentality deep and hard into my brain. However, I had not kept up with those survival skills over my adult years. In fact the last adventure I went on with my father was the year I got my driver’s license, sixteen years old. After that, I had little care of survival or the fall of society. The world was ahead of me, and with a car I was determined to catch up.

             
Three years before the outbreak, my father invited me on one of those trips. His way of trying to get back to those Father-Son traditions before his time was done. I bailed on him at the last minute, using work as an excuse, when in truth it was a woman. Still to this day, I regret and kick myself in the ass for that. The week after my carnal soiree I received a package, a large box with no return address. Inside I found all of my father’s old survival gear, tools he had used since he was a kid, tools his father had given him. An assortment of compasses, canteens, pocket knives as well as flint and steel. There were even a few MRE's still perfectly sealed in their foil package.

             
Again, my life came first and I went about my daily routine without a single call to thank him. Three days after that delivery I received message from Aunt Lucille back home. My father had passed away, a self-inflicted gunshot to the head. He didn't cope well after mom had passed, and in the end, my drift from him had become too much to bare. His finally words came from his suicide note, which was but one sentence and only addressed to me.

             
“To my beloved son and best friend, Keep on Surviving.”

             
I've never forgiven myself for moving away, for losing that friendship which few sons share with their fathers. At least I never had to see this affliction fall upon him, or he see it upon myself. Although, if this had all happened twenty years prior, then him and I would be living in glory.  In his memory I have held on to all those survival tools, they are the only heirlooms I have, my only connections to my past.

             
I'm unsure why, but I never really mourned his death, nor did I attend his funeral. After his passing I completely cut myself off from the rest of the family, and buried them underneath a fog of memories.  The corpses and tombs of the ancient world had become more important to me than my own blood. But now, watching his prophecy unravel, my emotions broke free. I fell to my knees before the television and for the first time I cried. Not because of everyone else's ensuing death, but as a result of my fathers.  And, like a child who scraped his knee, I called for him. I called for him like I should of so many years ago, and deservingly I received no comfort.