Authors: Chris Philbrook
Brian dropped the bag of weapons right next to the door leading to the intake area and checked on his family. His mother was entertaining his daughter and all seemed well. He ran across the indoor garage to the opposite side, and swiped his card on the access door for the fire station side. He tugged that door open and walked in. Immediately his foot slid out from under him on a slick spot on the linoleum floor. He reached out and grabbed the walls to prevent a horrible split that could’ve wrecked any chance he had for increasing the size of his family in the future.
“Jumping Jesu-” Brian looked down at the floor and saw the enormous congealed pool of blood. It had formed a thick skin but when his foot planted in it, the skin had torn and revealed the dark red grease below. He’d nearly gone down in literal bloodbath. That amount of blood meant a dead body. No one could bleed a patch that big and make it. Brian steadied himself and slid his Glock 21 out of its holster again.
He took a few slow steps down the hallway leading into the fire station’s lunchroom before he announced himself, “Police! Anyone in this building needs to identify themselves immediately!”
He waited a few seconds and listened, his finger poised like a snake stretched out next to the trigger. It was a few seconds before he heard the scuffing of feet being dragged on the floor from somewhere ahead of him. It was dark in the fire house. No windows reached this interior room, and only a few small fluorescent bulbs shed any light. The noise was coming from one of the gear rooms he had intended to get inside of. He had come for medical supplies, and they were in the room the noise was coming from.
Brian barked again, “This is Chief Moore! Show me hands or you will be shot!”
No response, just a few more scuffs on the floor. His heart skipped a beat when he heard a tremendous crash to the floor from the room. The noise forced his hand, and without waiting any longer he strode into the kitchen and rounded the corner to the left to see what was happening in the room.
He took the corner tight, showing the muzzle of his .45 caliber pistol to the noise before he walked out into the open. He took a half step to the side and was immediately hit by a raw, visceral odor that made his stomach and bowels turn inside out. His brain didn’t have the time to register the man standing in front of him before he was forced to dry heave. Instinctively Brian backpedaled in the nick of time as the man lunged at him. Fortunately Brian had the presence of mind to double tap his trigger finger, sending two heavy slugs into the form coming his way. The two gunshots were louder than he could’ve imagined in the concrete room as his back hit the hallway wall and his brain caught up to what was happening.
His two gunshots had sent the man coming at him backwards several feet into the wall of the kitchen. Brian knew immediately it was Carl, one of the lifer firemen in town. He was pushing 50, and was a solid concrete block worth of belly fat overweight, but the man was a good fireman, and knew his shit. Without even realizing what was going on Brian started talking out loud to Carl.
“Carl what the fuck man?!” And then he saw what had happened to Carl. Carl’s copious Pabst Blue Ribbon fed beer belly had been slashed open somehow leaving a hole that resembled a twisted grin. From hip to hip he had ragged opening that had set free his innards. Carl was pushing himself off the wall towards Brian awkwardly as his feet stepped directly onto ropes of his own intestines. The pink and purple guts snapped and popped open under his girth and spewed all manner of food and fecal matter onto the smooth floor. Brian’s whole world came to an abrupt stop as his rational mind tried to find an explanation for how Carl was still upright after not only being mysteriously gutted, but after having taken two pistol rounds directly to the sternum.
Carl’s eyes were glossed over and turning a hazy white color. His lips curled back in a silent snarl and he took another awkward, crushing step on his own guts toward the Chief. Brian shook his head quickly, raised the Glock and squeezed one more round off, smashing Carl’s forehead inward, and sending the contents of his skull all over the white concrete blocks behind him. His lifeless body collapsed down onto its knee’s further crushing his own insides into a wretched paste.
Brian emptied the contents of his own stomach onto the table in the middle of the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten much that day, but the half dozen cups of coffee came out as forceful bile, knocking paper plates and cups off the table and onto the floor. After a dozen convulsions his stomach tapped out, and he wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
The world had come undone.
He held his breath and stepped around Carl into the stockroom. He grabbed one of the bright red paramedic bags that was already stocked up and ready to go. He snagged an empty red bag off a shelf and stuffed it with as many first aid supplies as he could. There was a surprising amount of usable medical supplies, and he didn’t want to risk visiting a hospital after hearing the boy’s story at his father’s gun store earlier that day. The little boy had lost his whole family at a hospital to this madness, and Brian didn’t want to be anywhere near sick people.
Once he’d stuffed the second bag as full as he could get it, he exited the room and quietly let himself out of the fire station and into the indoor garage. His mother was standing outside the cruiser, shaking, staring at the door he’d just come through.
“Mom, are you okay?” Brian asked her as he used his keys to pop the cruiser’s trunk.
“I… I heard… shooting. I thought you might’ve been hurt.” She had that napkin again, and her eyes were flush with redness. She’d been crying again.
Brian loaded the two paramedic bags into the trunk and walked over to the police station door to retrieve the bag filled with weapons and ammo. “There was another sick person in the firehouse mom. I had to shoot them after they tried to hurt me.” He tried to say it in as neutral a tone as possible. He wanted to dismiss the notion of the true danger.
“Are they dead Brian? Did you kill them?” Her voice wavered as she asked.
Brian dropped the heavy gun bag into the trunk and stopped to think about his answer. After a long pause he finally replied to her, “Mom, I’m not sure how to answer you. I think they were already dead when I shot them, but they were still moving around.” He shook his head in amazement at what he was saying.
Brian’s mother cocked her head to the side, clearly not quite understanding him. But she was used to not understanding policemen. They never told the whole story, even if you asked for it. She nodded thoughtfully and conceded the debate. She was happy her son was still alive.
“Let’s get moving. If we head to Stacey and I’s place we can get inside and lay low while all this blows over. After a day or two we can head north in the truck and maybe hit Uncle Mike’s place up. That cabin of his is pretty secluded and he has those solar panels if the electricity winds up dying out.” Brian walked around to the front door of the cruiser as he talked to his mom. She opened the back door and got in, sitting next to little Sarah, who had fallen fast asleep, despite the noise from Brian’s gun play.
With a twist of the wrist the cruiser’s powerful interceptor engine roared to life. Brian looked into the backseat and saw his daughter’s angelic little face. She was just four years old, and he desperately wanted to protect her from the horror that he knew was right outside, right around the corner. Brian hit the garage door opener and backed the cruiser out. It was clear of danger in the parking lot of the municipal building, and he spun the car around and headed out. When he exited the lot on the other side of the building he saw one of the town’s ambulances parked half on the grass. He looked at the plate and did some memory retrieval.
The ambulance was likely the one Carl had been assigned to for the day. The driver’s side door was wide open and Brian could see streaks of the brownish red blood leading all the way from the van straight up the sidewalk and into the fire station’s front door. Carl must’ve been hurt somewhere else, and came back here to try and fix himself up or get help. Shitty way to go, Brian realized, bleeding out after getting gutted. Poor bastard he thought.
Brian pulled the cruiser out into the street and drove with the emergency blue lights on. He kept his finger on the tab for the siren should he need it. Cars whipped by at dangerous speeds on the side streets as he made his way towards Main Street to head to his house. He only had maybe a two mile drive, but it felt like he was driving through a terrible dream.
More houses all boarded up everywhere he looked. Those homes that were not boarded up had cars frantically being packed in their yards. People carrying out suitcases of clothes, and boxes filled with food. Picture frames, books, and lockboxes filled with important paperwork were all being taken. Brian couldn’t help to wonder how the mob mentality would ruin everyone’s chances at a safe escape to more rural areas. Shit, this town was pretty rural, you couldn’t much more rural.
As he drove into the more commercial area of Main Street he saw a complete nightmare at the grocery store. Cars parked in total disarray, blocking all the fire lanes. He saw people running in both directions in the parking lot. People running into the store to get whatever was left, and people running out of the store with carts filled with likely stolen food. The cop inside the Chief’s head had to fight an epic battle with his paternal instinct to not drive into the lot with his siren blaring to establish law and order.
But he knew it was too late for that. With just one body he’d get shot by some desperate asshole, or beaten to death by a mob of people panicking, trying to get what they thought would be their last meal. He had no support from the state police either. His only option at this point was to make his family safe, and wait for the government to sort this out. Once he had reinforcements, he’d worry about enforcing the laws on the books. Brian shook his head in utter disbelief and made the right hand turn towards his house.
He drove the two miles up the hill on Dove Street at a good magazine, keeping constant watch for the erratic drivers going in both ways. One of the cars passing him flashed their lights at him, and he slowed to a stop as they flagged him down. Brian thumbed the catch on his pistol’s holster as he powered down his driver’s side window. The man in the midsize sedan looked like he’d seen a ghost when Brian got close.
“Chief there’s a terrible accident ahead. Head on collision between a truck and an SUV. I think some of the folks didn’t make it.” He shook his head the whole time back and forth; enhancing the negativity and shock he was feeling.
Brian’s stomach lurched when he registered what the man said. His wife drove an SUV. “Sir you recall the makes or colors of the vehicles?” Brian asked as straight faced as he could, trying to hide his growing fear.
The driver took a deep, pained breath and thought hard before he replied, “I think the truck was a big green import, and the SUV was a Ford or something. Red I think.”
Brian swallowed. His wife drove a burgundy Ford Escape. He couldn’t manage any words and just nodded at the man and punched the accelerator. He hit the siren and they screamed up the rest of the hill on Dove Street until they came to the intersection where he came up on the accident. He didn’t need to get close to know it was her car.
“Oh God dear…” His mother could see the vehicle ahead, and knew instantly who it belonged to. She reached up and rested her hand reassuringly on Brian’s shoulder. Her touch helped calm him some, but he had a knot in his stomach made of anxiety and nothing she could do would make it go away.
Brian killed the siren and pulled his cruiser over, stopping a good 20 feet behind his wife’s wrecked car. He sat with both hands on the steering wheel, building up the courage to get out of the cruiser and go look at what he had to see with his own eyes. From the backseat he heard the soft whimper that indicated his little girl Sarah was about to start crying. He turned instantly and looked at her. Her big blue eyes looked at him in confusion and fear. She had been watching him and knew he was scared. When daddy was scared, little Sarah was scared. He felt guilty that his fear had scared his daughter. He reached into the back and put a smile on his face. He reassured her and rubbed her little leg and his mother wrapped an arm around her.
“Baby girl don’t be afraid. Daddy is just a little scared that someone got hurt in the accident okay?” His lip trembled into a near sob as he finished. His words helped her though. Sarah nodded emphatically in agreement. Brian thought she did it to fight away the scary feelings. Brian smiled again and gave his mother a knowing look. She knew what he had to do.
Brian turned himself around and got out of the car. He looked both ways up and down the residential street and saw it was clear. He shut the door of the cruiser and slid his handgun out of the holster. Impulsively he dropped the magazine into his hand and made sure he had at least 5 or 6 bullets in it, which he did. He clicked the magazine back into the pistol and walked slowly to the driver’s side of his wife’s vehicle.
When he got five feet away he could see the bumper of the giant green truck had hit the top of the hood of his wife’s car, driving it backwards into the dashboard. The front crumple zones had collapsed entirely, and the driver’s side door was wrenched partially off the hinges, hanging down to the ground, wide open. He could see inside the car on the grey upholstery streaks of blood. Thick, long streaks of blood that meant a bad injury had occurred. An injury to his wife Stacey.
Brain took a bit of a wide circle to approach her door. A few more steps showed him his wife was gone, which gave him a surge of hope. Perhaps she’d gotten Tommy out of the back seat and walked home? Maybe she just had a cut on her head and it bled a lot? Brian moved into the door of the SUV and heard a pleading yelp from the backseat. He’d heard it a hundred times before. It was his son Tommy.
Without a moment’s hesitation the chief launched himself at the rear driver’s side door and ripped it open. Inside on the child’s seat was his six year old boy Tommy. Tommy was mostly asleep, or in a daze, but he was alive, and didn’t look injured. Tommy was more scared at his father’s desperate hugs than he was at the situation he was in. Brian went head to toe on his son checking for injuries but found none. He planted a massive kiss on his boy’s forehead and looked him in the eye with more sincere love than he ever had.