Lee pulled on a new pair of MultiCam combat pants. His boots were drying in the shower stall, still soaking wet from his hasty decontamination. Wet boots were a curse, and he wasn’t going to be putting in any miles in the outside world until they were dry.
That was his excuse, anyway.
He kept replaying the image of the girl coming out from behind the stairs. The spidery way she scuttled toward him on all fours, the thin arms, only skin and bones but shockingly powerful. It reminded him of how a person on drugs or who was mentally deranged could display extreme amounts of physical strength and stamina. He figured that it might have something to do with her frontal lobe looking like Swiss cheese.
Was she just an example of how the rest of the world had become?
He pictured crowds, riotous mobs entirely peopled by sick, violent, and superhumanly strong mental patients waving sharp kitchen implements, lead pipes, and other weapons of opportunity.
He tried to remember what the girl’s face looked like, but all he could remember was her wild, tangled hair and those strange, demented eyes. He wondered if he knew the girl. Surely she had to live around here somewhere. Were her parents still alive and sane?
And he kept thinking about the Petersons. Jason and his wife, Marla, and their four-year-old girl, Stephanie. Jason was a smart guy and tough as nails, but Lee didn’t know if he would’ve been ready for something like this. Toughness only went so far. He hoped that people had been able to get help from the FEMA camps. He hoped the Petersons were safe somewhere.
Lee made up his mind then and there to check on the Petersons. Tomorrow. Holing up in his bunker had become counterproductive. It was no longer an option. In another two weeks, things could only be worse. If the Petersons had secured their residence and were waiting for rescue, Lee might be their only chance.
Besides, rendering aid was his primary objective.
I am Captain Lee Harden of the United States Army. The US government has sent me to help you.
That was the script Lee was required to say when rescuing people. Project Hometown existed so people would know that no matter how bad things got, the United States government was still there, still fighting for them. In the front pocket of Lee’s go-to-hell pack he had a laminated card that read those very same words in five different languages.
After that, the Petersons were all Lee could think about.
* * *
Lee slept poorly that night.
After cleaning his MK23 and topping off the magazine, he drank a few bottles of water and cooked a freeze-dried meal of spaghetti and meat sauce, since all the fresh food had been used. He barely tasted the food and didn’t feel like eating it, but he crammed it down anyway because he knew he needed to eat something.
The knife wound began to feel itchy, which immediately made Lee think of infection, though it was unlikely that infection would have set in so fast. Every time he thought of the plague spreading through his brain, his stomach curdled with anxiety.
What a shitty way to go.
Late into the evening he lay on his bed, felt his forehead for a fever, and cleared his throat to see if he were developing a cough. He had no appetite, but that was not surprising given what he’d done to the girl.
Frank had said infected subjects were asymptomatic for up to seventy-two hours, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen faster. Catching through saliva would always take longer to metastasize than being direct-injected into his bloodstream from a filthy, plague-infected knife.
He slept in his combat pants, on top of the covers, with his M4 locked and loaded and tucked in close to his body. Tango lay on the floor to the side of the bed. Lee woke several times in the night to find Tango staring at the bunker door with his ears fully erect. Occasionally, he would emit a low growl, deep in his throat. The dog’s attention to the door made the hairs stand up on the back of Lee’s neck.
Each time it happened, Lee’s pulse would pound in his head so hard it seemed to make the room shake, and he would think to himself that there was no way he was going to be able to fall back asleep. But each time, he would stare at the door, and find his thoughts wandering and his heart rate cooling down, and then his eyes would grow heavy once more.
* * *
By 0500 hours he decided to get up.
He’d been awake, hugging his M4 and staring at the clock, for the past half hour and when it turned, he immediately sat up. He didn’t switch on the lights because it would still be dark outside and he didn’t want to ruin his natural night vision. He went to the bathroom and leaned the rifle against the bathroom counter while he relieved himself. While he had his pants undone, he pulled them down far enough to inspect the bandage on his wound. There was only a small spot of blood that had soaked through, but he changed the bandage anyway and applied a fresh coat of ointment. The wound wasn’t red, swollen, or itchy. If it were going to get infected, it would have most likely begun to show signs.
After pulling his pants back up, he threw on his combat shirt, pistol belt, and drop-leg holster. He checked that the magazine of his MK23 was topped off, seated securely in the magazine well, and that there was a round in the chamber, then holstered the weapon. His boots were still a little damp on the inside, but he felt like a few hours of body heat would take care of it.
He pulled on his chest rig, which held six double-magazine pouches (twelve magazines total) for his M4. The thirteenth magazine was already loaded in his rifle. He adjusted the straps on the rig until he was comfortable with the weight distribution, then double-checked each of the magazines to ensure they were all fully loaded.
He doubted he would need this much ammunition for his incursion to the Petersons’ house, but then again, he had doubted yesterday that a crazed fifteen-year-old girl would jump out from underneath his front steps and stab him in the leg. He realized that his complacency had nearly killed him, just as he had warned that young lieutenant in Iraq. His attitude had transformed overnight, from skeptical to vigilant. He was going to expect and prepare for the absolute worst. His mind had been full of doubts yesterday. He didn’t want to believe that the world was spiraling out of control or that it was already in ruins. The extent of the damage to American civilization was as yet unknown. What he did know was that he would have to err on the side of caution. If it had been a full-grown man who had attacked him yesterday, he wasn’t sure he would be alive. Mistakes in this new reality would be far more costly than Lee could afford.
On a positive note, he was still asymptomatic.
He didn’t feel like bothering with dehydrated scrambled eggs, so he grabbed a handful of PowerBars, shoving one into his mouth and the remaining three into his pack. He washed it down with a hastily mixed “Orange beverage” that came in a small single-serving packet. It had plenty of vitamin C and carbohydrates for immediate energy. Like energy for running and fighting. Energy he hoped he wouldn’t need but had the jumpy feeling that he would.
After his quick breakfast, he shouldered his go-to-hell pack, then slipped on his singlepoint sling and connected it to his M4. He was going out without the MOPP suit, as he felt that its noise and encumbrance outweighed the benefit of the very little good it would do to protect against a bacterial infection. He was, however, going to wear his gas mask. He just wished he’d received more information from Frank about the plague. Perhaps Abe would know. He would e-mail him about it when he got back.
After masking up and checking the seal, he pulled the charging handle of his M4 back halfway, noted the glint of brass waiting in the chamber, and let it slide forward and lock. He flipped the safety off. That was what trigger fingers were for.
“Tango.” Lee pointed to a spot next to his foot. “Heel.”
Tango’s ears perked and he came running over, excited. It was time to work, which, for him, meant fun, fun, fun. He had no idea what was going on in the world, and that was excellent. Dogs never realized the horrible situations they were in. That’s why police K9s wag their tails while attacking armed gunmen. Even one traumatic incident resulting in a negative experience for the dog doing what he was trained to do could ruin it.
It was good that Tango was happy to go outside. But Lee sure as hell wasn’t. He looked at his dog, standing by his right side and looking up at his master expectantly. “Tango, sneak.”
This wasn’t a normal command, but Lee had taught Tango a few tricks outside of the usual Schutzhund training. Tango immediately pulled in his lolling tongue and his head lowered ever so slightly, his shoulders hunching a bit, giving him the appearance of a wolf stalking its prey. As long as Lee kept reminding Tango to “sneak,” the dog would keep low to the ground and wouldn’t make a sound. It was almost unnerving for Lee to watch his canine friend revert back to his feral roots.
Lee reached forward and opened the bunker door.
The red-bathed tunnel stretched out before him. It looked empty. He felt a bit of relief and supposed he had been expecting the crazed girl from yesterday to be standing there, waiting for him.
Surely she was dead. No one could survive that many shots to the chest.
Lee and Tango made their way down the tunnel, both moving silently. While moving, Lee quietly but with an excited tone told Tango “Good,” earning a wag of the tail. He reminded the dog to “sneak,” and Tango went back to sneaking. Lee did this without even thinking. The cycle of command, obedience, and reinforcement was second nature to Lee, and when possible, he would reward the dog with something. He kept an old chewed-up rope in his cargo pocket, a toy that Tango was particularly fond of. It was Tango’s treat for a job well done.
At the stairs, Lee went up first to unlock the hatch. He pushed it open and surveyed the basement, much as he had done the previous day. All clear. He clicked his tongue and Tango quickly climbed the stairs and edged around his legs and into the basement. Lee pushed the hatch closed behind him and punched in the code to lock it. He waited until he heard the click, then turned toward the stairs.
In his flight the previous day, he had left the door from the basement into the kitchen standing open. The ambient light coming from upstairs was enough for Lee’s adjusted eyes to see the staircase clearly, and that no one stood in the doorway to the kitchen.
He kept the M4 at a low ready as he moved toward the stairs, with his non-trigger hand patting Tango. “Stay.” Tango sat, ears forward, eyes locked on the doorway up the stairs.
Normally the dog would go first and seek out the threats to prevent harm to the human counterpart. In this situation, with Tango as his only partner and not knowing whether the virus was transmittable from humans to animals, Lee did not want Tango biting any infected people unnecessarily.
Lee made his way up the stairs and cleared the house, the knot in his gut that was always there before shit hit the fan starting to abate as he went through the motions. Each time he prepared to enter a room, the anxiety would flare, then dissipate as he moved. It reminded him of Fallujah, fighting house to house. At the beginning of those long nights he would be sick to his stomach and his hands would be shaking. Then after they breached the first door, the nerves would begin to fade. By the time they were on their third house of the night, he would feel relatively normal.
On edge, as he was now, but normal. After clearing the house, he went to the kitchen and found that Tango’s curiosity had gotten the best of him and he’d made his way to the top of the stairs and was peering into the kitchen, his nose working the air. Lee held back admonition. Good working dogs were sometimes hard to control.
“Come on.” Lee tapped his thigh and Tango padded into the room. “Sneak,” he reminded Tango.
He made his way to the front door. It still stood intact. The sick feeling made a comeback. He edged over to the sidelight and angled his vision around the front porch. A pale foot lay there, stretched out away from the front door, toes pointed down. The foot was small, petite, even. The girl from yesterday, he knew, and fought acid rising in the back of his throat. He stared, though he couldn’t see anything above the calf. The skin was gray and waxy-looking. It was covered in scrapes and harsh bruising, as though she’d run recklessly through a patch of briars.
The logical part of Lee’s brain told him that she had to be dead. But something else inside of him cringed, expecting the worst. Lee angled his body and pointed his rifle in the approximate location that he felt her head would be. For a moment, the gun felt heavy and awkward in his hands. For someone who had grown up around firearms, Lee felt that brief feeling crumpling his already shaky confidence. He could taste his half-digested PowerBar creeping up into his mouth. He didn’t want to shoot this girl again. He reached forward and touched the cool metal of the doorknob. The door swung open.
Her hand came down, still holding that small knife.
Lee jumped back and only just kept himself from firing a round. The girl lay dead, but her arm had been propped against the door and had fallen when he’d opened it. She was no longer a threat.
Tango rushed in, fascinated and wanting to stick his nose in it. Lee shoved the dog away with his leg and stated in a stern voice, “No! Leave it.… Leave it.”
Tango pressed at his leg until Lee gave him a good jab in the ribs with his knee and repeated the command. Finally Tango stood back, but he let out a pitiful whine and stared at the dead girl, transfixed.
The door was covered in smeared blood and pocked with tiny dents made with the point of her knife. She had somehow managed to crawl onto his porch after being shot several times in the chest with a .45-caliber bullet, and had obviously spent some time pounding on the door, whether in rage, or desperation, or perhaps a bit of both.
The front mat was entirely soaked in blood. The sight of blood in large quantities never ceased to turn Lee’s stomach. There was something so… not Hollywood about it. Artificial blood looked artful and pretty. The splatters were perfect, the pools were all one homogenous color. Paint by Numbers gore. In reality, the aftermath of a traumatic wound was chaotic and disgusting. There was always some strange chunk of anatomy that came out with the blood flow that made you lean in closer and say to yourself, What the fuck is that?
These images also had a cumulative effect. Lee found them harder to bear now than when he’d been a younger man. Looking from the dead girl to the pockmarks on the door, he noticed the piece of paper he had not had time to read the day before. It was lined and clearly torn from a spiral notebook. It was held to the door with a single bit of clear tape. The words were handwritten and short.
Lee reached up and plucked it off the door, eyeing the dead girl while he did it. Her failure to die when most others would have made him highly uneasy and he kept thinking about her getting up, even now, and cutting into him with that knife. Before diverting his attention to the note, he kicked the knife away from her hand. Tango tracked it with his eyes as it skittered across the foyer, but he didn’t make a move for it.
The note was from Marla Peterson.
Lee,
Jason did not come home from work today and didn’t call. We thought maybe he was with you. If you find this note, FEMA is evacuating us at 1 PM today to a camp in Sanford. Please tell Jason to find us as soon as he can and tell him I love him. We will wait for him in Sanford as long as we can.
Marla
The note was dated 7/05.
Lee felt somehow responsible for this, though he couldn’t tell why. Sanford was a small city about fifty miles southwest of Raleigh. It seemed like an unlikely and out-of-the-way place to put a FEMA camp, but then again, in a viral outbreak, you would want the safe zones to be a significant distance from major population centers.
Where Lee stood now was about thirty miles directly east of Sanford, outside the small town of Angier. He could make the trip in two days, three at the most. Of course his pickup truck was parked in his garage with a full tank and would theoretically get him there within an hour, but in a social collapse, without the threat of force from police officers and highway patrol, thugs and psychopaths reclaimed the streets and made them the most dangerous place to be.
Driving was out of the question for now. He would stick to cross-country hiking. And then there was the question of Jason and his whereabouts.
Obviously, he had not been with Lee. As a police officer, he was probably one of the last to be able to run with his family. Lee saw four likely possibilities. Either Jason was already with his family, was trying to make his way to his family, was holed up in his house waiting for help, or he was dead.
In any case, Lee’s objective remained the same. He folded the note carefully and placed it in his pants pocket. Attention back on the girl splayed out on the welcome mat, Lee gingerly poked the body with the toe of his boot, not sure why he still felt that he would garner a response. They say the less distance there is between you and the person you kill, the more traumatizing it can be. In Iraq, he knew he’d killed people, but mostly it was shooting at muzzle flashes in windows. Only once did he gun a man down while clearing a house. In that instance, the man had been about twenty feet away, reaching for the AK next to him. Through the night-vision device Lee had been wearing, the man had appeared expressionless, emotionless. Just a green specter.
Barely even human.
In the girl’s case he had looked her in the eye, as demented as those eyes might have been, and shot her at point-blank range. Then he’d stood up and shot her again. Finally, he’d left her to wallow in a crazy rage as she tried to stab his door and eventually bled to death.
He prayed to God for forgiveness and refused to think about it anymore.
When he was satisfied that the girl was dead, he stepped over her body and, with gloved hands, pulled her by the ankles off of his welcome mat to clear the doorway. He had first intended to pull her off the porch completely, but after yesterday’s surprise attack, he didn’t feel comfortable backing his way down the stairs. Besides that, it was still dark, and Lee wanted to check his perimeter before he left for the Petersons’ house.
He pulled the girl as quietly as he could to the left of the door so she was out of the way. He would dispose of the body when it was light out and he knew his perimeter was secure. While dragging her he noticed rather detachedly that she’d defecated on herself, though he wasn’t sure whether this was during her death or whether the infected insane were unaware of their bowel movements.
Loss of muscle control was a symptom of late-stage infection; however, she’d seemed quite in control of her muscles the previous day and had even talked, though it was only one word. He felt that most likely, she was in the early stages of infection and that self-defecation was a by-product of her loss of sanity.
Once he had her moved, he patted his leg, getting Tango’s attention. “Come on. Sneak.”
They left the porch, taking the stairs very carefully this time. Every shadow held a ghost and every grass blade that blew in the soft breeze drew his attention. They made a circle around the house, checking all the nooks and crannies, and found everything secure. Whoever the girl was, she had been there alone.
Died alone. Covered in blood and shit.
By the time Lee had checked the perimeter of his house, the horizon to the east was getting gray, and the cacophony of early morning birds had begun. He also found himself sweating, and noted that it was already warm and humid out. Today was going to be a scorching North Carolina summer day. One of those “jungle days,” where you got more moisture than air in each breath.
They’d completed a clockwise circle around the house, checking the garage and the crawl spaces underneath the house. Tango never alerted or growled. Just kept his head down and stalked along Lee’s side. Lee felt more secure with the dog there, and with his keen nose and guarding instincts, he would serve as an early warning of any human activity in the area—good or bad.
Back where they started, at the northeastern corner of the house, Lee veered off toward the edge of his yard, where his once-manicured lawn turned abruptly into woods. Heading directly north for a little less than two hundred yards would land him in the Petersons’ backyard.
He moved slowly through the woods. The light of dawn on the gray trees gave everything a monochromatic look. Each new section of woods looked exactly like the last. The damp air and the dew covering the forest floor made movement quiet and limited the crunch of the leaves he stepped on. Aside from his own breath rattling in the gas mask, the woods were silent.
Finally, the woods opened up into a clearing.
He was at the bottom of a steep hill, over the top of which he could just make out the roofline of the Petersons’ house. To his left was a shallow gully with a stream passing through it. Making his way through the woods, he felt that it was less and less likely that he would find anyone in the house. There was no reason for Jason to be there if his family was gone. He was a good guy and a family man, and he wouldn’t let Marla and Stephanie sit in some FEMA camp alone. If he hadn’t made the evacuation, he’d be making his way across country to them.
Still…
He wanted to know that the Petersons had made it out. The thought of them in safety gave him a bit of hope, a positive feeling.
He and Tango made their way up the hill. More of the house came into view as they gained elevation. Unsure who—or what—might be in or around the house, Lee approached with caution, using trees as cover and concealment as he got closer to the house. Between stands of trees, he ran at a half crouch, keeping his eyes on the shadows.
He noted only one thing as he got closer: An upstairs light was on, causing a single window to glow with muted yellow light.
This meant a few things to Lee. He knew that the Petersons, not being survival-minded people, had not rigged their house for off-grid electricity as he had. If there was a light burning in the house, it meant that the grid was still up. He only assumed that with all the evacuations in the surrounding area, the power plant employees would have also left, but perhaps the National Guard had replaced them or perhaps the power plants were on an automated system.
It wasn’t long into this thought that he noticed the light flicker. It was a candle. This told him something completely different. A candle did not burn indefinitely. If a candle was burning inside the house it meant that someone was there now or had been there very recently. Jason? Or a squatter.
Lee still held firm to his opinion that Jason would not stick around when his family was elsewhere. Which meant someone was in the house who didn’t belong there. Lee considered how he would approach this situation.
On the one hand, breaking and entering became less of a criminal act and more of a necessity during times of social collapse, when finding shelter was tantamount to surviving the night.
On the other hand, it was his friends’ house and he felt a responsibility to keep it secure until they returned. Who knew when the crisis would be over and people would be returning home? He wouldn’t want the Petersons finding their home and belongings ransacked and stolen in the name of some hobo’s “survival.”
It was a gray area.
He would have to feel out the situation. The squatters could be shitbags, using the house as a base to set up roadblocks or store whatever they stole. Or it could be a family traveling on foot, trying to find a safe place to spend the night.
Lee moved to the back of the house, Tango following at a trot. He kept his rifle trained on the windows, in case a lookout spotted them. The Aimpoint sight mounted on his M4 was dialed low so the red dot was not overpowering in the dim morning light.
At the back of the house, he moved left toward a set of wooden stairs leading to a large back deck, lifted up on stilts. The house was built into the hill so that the ground floor when looking at the front was the second floor when looking at the back.
The stairs creaked treacherously as Lee made his way up to the deck. He kept his eyes locked on the dark patio doors. They were sliding glass with no curtain covering them. Anyone inside was shrouded in the darkness and would see Lee long before he could see them. He moved quickly across the fatal funnel and posted on the left side of the sliding glass doors. Closer to the glass he could see inside.
The doors led into the living room, which appeared mostly undisturbed. There was a TV, a coffee table with some magazines on it, two couches, and a leather recliner that Lee could picture Jason sitting on every Sunday, watching football with a cold one in his hand. To the left of the room was a long hallway that led to the front door.
He tested the patio doors and found them locked. Shit.
He thought about his options. He could break the glass or try to find another entry point. Both had their risks. Whoever was in the house would almost definitely hear the glass break. Depending on how many were inside, and if they were armed or not, it could be a problem.
Lee was about to move away from the doors when he noticed someone was lying on the couch. It was a girl, young. He saw the dark, curly hair. He had missed her at first because she was lying with her back to the door, and in the half light, she blended in with all the pillows lying there.
Stephanie.
Lee wanted to get her attention, but he knew she would be scared and not recognize him in his gas mask. He made a quick decision and pulled off the mask, clipping one of the straps to a carabiner on his chest rig. He thumped the window with a gloved knuckle and whispered: “Steph! Steph!”
She didn’t respond.
He was about to knock again when he saw a dark figure standing in the hallway, watching him.
“Fuck,” he whispered and backed up a bit, leveling his rifle.
The figure wasn’t concerned with his rifle. It hobbled forward with an awkward gait. It seemed like its legs and arms were stiff. Twice it almost fell, but recovered. Clutched in its right hand was what Lee thought might be a meat cleaver.
Stephanie still hadn’t moved. The concept hit him like a punch in the gut. Stephanie wasn’t sleeping. She was dead. And the lunatic with the meat cleaver was the one who had killed her. Lee stepped back another foot as the man inside hobbled around the kitchen counter and raised the meat cleaver as though he didn’t realize the glass door was between them. Who the fuck was this guy and why was he in the Petersons’ house? Lee had never killed anyone in anger before, but now it seemed like an easy thing to do.
He lifted the rifle and put the red dot on the man’s chest, then pulled the trigger. The stillness of the morning was shattered, the bark of rifle fire jabbing fiercely at Lee’s eardrums. The glass exploded inward, and through the shower of glittering shards, he saw the man still coming forward, meat cleaver raised.
Lee’s brain sent the signal to his finger: Don’t stop!
As Lee pulled the trigger repeatedly, watching the man’s chest lurch with each recoil, he saw the man’s demented eyes, saw his face, and, for a split second, thought he knew him. Then a round caught the man’s jaw and ripped it off, and the following round caved in the front of his skull.
The body dropped face-first into the broken glass but was still twitching erratically. Then Lee realized he was still firing and pulled his finger off the trigger.
Lee didn’t even look at Stephanie. In the back of his mind, he registered that she had not moved through the gunfire. He knew she was dead. Instead, his eyes were locked on the body lying before him. Something was wrong but in the moment he couldn’t think of it. He wanted to take the time to inspect the body, knew he had recognized that person, but also knew there could be other hostiles in the house.
Lee moved quickly into the living room and surveyed the scene as detachedly as possible. After giving Stephanie a cursory glance, he saw that her throat had been cut and that she had been dead for some time. The stench of decay in the room was suddenly overwhelming. In the kitchen, which he could see from where he stood in the living room, he observed another body. He immediately knew it was Marla. He moved in closer and looked at her face, confirming his fear. Though bloating and decay had robbed her of her kind and caring face, he knew it was her. Someone had hacked away most of her midsection. The kitchen was covered in blood spatter, obscenely reminding Lee of a Jackson Pollock painting.
The wrongness of the man with the meat cleaver finally swam to the surface of his mind. The duty belt. He was wearing a patent leather duty belt.
Lee stepped over to the body, keeping himself angled toward the hallway that led to the rest of the house, in case any other attacker came at him. He pushed hard with his foot, rolling the body onto its back.
Jason stared up at him with blank, dead eyes. Deep cuts scoured his face. Had he done that to himself? His hair had either fallen out in chunks or he had ripped it out. What was left of his face to recognize him by was sunken and sallow. The whole bottom half of his face and neck was covered in dried bloodstains. Like he had been eating the others.
Lee knelt down and sat back on his heels. He waited for emotion to overcome him, but it didn’t. He knew this was just how his brain worked. He would feel it later, in the cold quiet of the night, as he was trying to sleep. The bad memories always waited until the water was calm before they floated back to the surface.
He whispered into his closed fist, “What did you do, Jason?” Jason would never answer. Nor would his family. Tango stood at the door and chuffed, as though trying to get Lee’s attention. Lee gave Jason one last look and then stood. “Stay, Tango.” He didn’t want the dog walking through the broken glass. Chances were he’d be fine, but Lee didn’t have access to a vet or vet supplies if Tango got injured. Lee grabbed a throw blanket from over the top of the leather recliner that Jason would never use again. He tossed the blanket over the broken glass. “Come on.” He clicked his tongue.
Lee didn’t want to search the house. He didn’t want to be anywhere near it anymore. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to leave. But he pressed on, feeling dazed. He still had a job to do. He had to clear this place. Marla and Stephanie deserved to be laid to rest. He could do that much for them.
Tango walked carefully over the blanket. Lee led the way through the kitchen to the hallway. Tango was less interested in these bodies than he was in the girl lying on their front porch, but Lee told him to “leave it” anyway. He wasn’t sure whether Stephanie and Marla had been infected prior to being killed.
He made his way down the hall, the morning light just illuminating family photos that hung on the walls. Lee took down a recent one. All three of them close together, smiling. He didn’t hang the picture back up but laid it on the ground, propped against the wall.
He checked the living room, which was clear, and then headed up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, in the master bedroom, Lee found where Jason had been hiding, rotting in his insanity, his brain eaten away to only the most basic life functions. The candle Lee had seen flickering from outside still sat on a nightstand, burning with barely two inches of candle left jutting out of a pool of melted and rehardened wax.
The bedsheets were smeared in blood. Lee wasn’t sure whether it was from one of the girls or from the apparent self-inflicted wounds to Jason’s face. Lee steered clear of it.
In the master bathroom, he discovered something else.
On the large mirror over the double sinks, I’M SORRY was written in blood, over and over. It was also written on the walls and on the countertops. Lee thought that perhaps Jason had managed a moment of clarity amongst all the violent, insane urges that took the lives of his family and had realized what he had done. Lee pictured him there, staring at his reflection in hatred, cutting his face with the meat cleaver and using the blood that seeped out to write his message on the walls. He wondered how long that moment of understanding had lasted before he slipped back into madness and was merely writing the words out of repetition, not comprehending what they meant or what he’d done.
Lee left the bedroom, feeling light-headed. He checked on the bodies to make sure none had moved, which, of course, they hadn’t. Then he made his way to the basement, and from there to the garage. He took a shovel and tossed it out the garage door into the backyard. He then went back upstairs. He took Stephanie first, cradling her very carefully in his arms, as though he didn’t want to wake her. If he held the head up so the chin nearly touched the chest, he could barely see the gaping neck wound.
Even through the gas mask, the stench made him retch several times. He laid her down in a flat spot in the backyard, just before the yard sloped off. He then took Marla’s body out, dragging this one by hooking his fingers under her arms. He laid her down next to her daughter.
Then he stood there and thought for several long moments about whether or not to bury Jason with them. He must have come home before they left for the FEMA camp. It wouldn’t make sense for them to stick around once he’d come home, so he would’ve had to be already infected and symptomatic. He knew Jason worked twelve-hour shifts, but perhaps, in the emergency, they had kept everyone on for twenty-four hours. He had either become infected a few days before somehow finding his way home, or he had been grossly exposed, causing the plague to metastasize faster and mentally crippling him far sooner than he had thought it would.
Lee decided the plague was to blame, not the man.
If there was a heaven, Jason was in it for the things he’d done in his life, not for the things he had done while his brain was halfway eaten away. He deserved to be buried next to his family. He had loved them both immensely, and Jason the man would not have been capable of harming them.
Lee made his way back up to the house and knelt over the body of the man who had once been Jason. He noted that he was still in full uniform. Jason would have known he was infected, either through trauma resulting in gross exposure or due to the presence of symptoms. In either case, Lee felt that Jason had returned to see his family one last time before dying, not realizing that FURY was about to turn him against them.
Lee went through the two front uniform pockets, finding a crumpled note. The handwriting was shaky at best, scrawled in black ink.
If I am dead, please give this note to Marla and Stephanie Peterson at 110 Morrison Street. Steph and Marla, I was bitten in the arm by someone infected with the plague. This was earlier today and already I am showing symptoms. I tried to get home to see you both one last time, but I guess I didn’t make it. Please know that I love you both and if I knew that I would end up leaving you forever, I would have never left the house to go to work. I’m so sorry.
Your husband and father
Lee rolled up Jason’s sleeve. The right arm seemed fine, but there was a thick bandage on the left. He peeled it back and revealed a deep bite mark in the forearm, just above the wrist.
In his death, Jason had proven himself useful again, providing Lee with an invaluable piece of information: Gross exposure would result in becoming symptomatic within hours, and “turning” presumably soon after that. In a way, Lee felt relieved. If FURY bacteria had been on the knife the girl had used to stab him with the previous day, he would have been grossly exposed and already showing symptoms.
After folding the note and putting it back in Jason’s shirt pocket, he grabbed him by the feet because it was the least bloody part, and then dragged him outside. What was left of Jason’s head unceremoniously bounced down the stairs. Lee would have liked to give him more dignity, but under the circumstances, he felt that burying the bodies was the most dignity he could provide.