The Nameless Survivor (Valkyrie) (11 page)

             
Struggling, I suppressed my emotions and began to pack, fast and sloppy. Snatching up all the survival gear he had left me, as well as some dried and canned food. Most importantly weapons, also left to me by my father; a bowie knife, shotgun, a recurve-bow and an old forty-five revolver – already loaded. However ammo would be one of my top priorities on my journey, I had little off it, and I knew that looting had already begun.

             
Getting out of the city had been distant in my thoughts, up until I took that first step back out into street and once again lay eyes on the ensuing apocalypse. The anarchy had only worsened, no one was safe, and no one was innocent. Cops killed without discretion, civilians killed cops in malevolence. And, of course, the infected killed all without prejudice. So soon after infection, one could not really distinguish the dead over the living, their wounds were the only clues. There was no possible way I would make it through those streets, not with police and citizen taking random shots at both the demons and the sheep. So I did what any upstanding Boston citizen would do and plunged myself beneath the streets and into the dark and rancid sewers.

             
That maze of stench became my own personal underground railroad to freedom. An unholy path towards the outskirts of the city, towards my own redemption. My mag-light and compass became useful in those catacombs as I stumbled further into the twists and turns of Lower Boston. Eerie noises rose from rank darkness, roaring over my own heavy breathing. The drips and drops of water, random echoes, and the occasional scream or snarl. There were others down here with me, friend or foe, I did not know. But, I pushed on, adjusting my course with every hair-raising sound, trying to avoid them at all cost. Thankfully I never crossed paths with anyone or anything within the rankness of Bean-Towns bowels.

             
It was when the muffled screams and gun fire from the above streets faded that I rose from the putrid depths of the underworld. It felt as though I traveled for hours, but had only made it out of Cambridge and into Watertown. It appeared that hell had yet to spill into the area, and for a moment I was relieved for that. Looking back at that fallen city that I had once loved, I could see multiple buildings had been engulfed in flames as large clouds of ash billowed up into the sky. The faint pitter-patter of gunfire reverberated off the tall buildings and screams haunted the air like wraiths in the night. It was so surreal, like a fiendish night-terror, it was the Fiction that had become the Non.

             
Without guilt or regret, just fear and the will to survive, I pushed on out of the city and further into the cloak of the forests. North-West, towards the mountains. I knew where I was going, an area far north and almost untouched by man... Almost. It was the same area that I learned most of my hunting and survival skills. This is where I would seek refuge, within the comforts of my past, within the memories of my father.

2nd Day, 1st Outbreak Moon;

              Just before sunrise, when the night is at its darkest, I came out onto interstate ninety-three. Only this night was even darker than any other ever before. It was the curtain just before the Act-Change, and I knew that when it dropped, the scenery, the world, would never be the same. I was in the midst of an immediate evolutionary decline, and the refugees along the highway were the unfortunate evidence to this.

             
The interstate was jam-packed, bumper to bumper, no one was going anywhere. Desperately the sheep attempted to escape the city, and sadly their own selfish preservation was bringing out the savageness within them. Most remained locked in their fuel starved vehicles, yet others used the opportunity to steal and loot what they could from both the abandoned, as well as occupied vehicles.

             
Rushing across the crowded highway, my attention quickly turned towards a large bald man as he wielded a bat and bashed in the heads of a poor elderly couple without remorse. Their young grandchildren sat fearfully within an old blue station-wagon; watching, helpless, and crying. The murderous batter paid them no mind as he snatched a gold watch from the old man and jewelry from his departed wife. Valuable items of yesterday, and if he had only known, then just maybe he would have spared the couples lives.

             
It had only been six hours since the city began to fall, only six hours for humanity to lose itself. It made me wonder how our species had survived so long, how we had overcome every obstacle set before us, and yet, after a few tragic hours we had lost the very things that had made us human. Generosity and compassion for our fellow man. Maybe we never really had it, maybe it is just something we faked, like so many of our other behaviors.

             
Pushing my astonishment aside, I pressed on, and the hairless-beast turned his attention down the road. Deranged and pumped-up, he searched for his next victims, callously forsaking those orphaned children to helplessly watch the blood of their grandparents collect upon the pavement. It yanked at my heart, and a natural instinct to help had overcome me, but only for a moment. “Keep moving!” I said to myself and with haste made my way through the maze of cars on both the north and south bound lanes, and eagerly back into the cover of the forest. I forced myself not to look back, there was nothing I could do, and taking those children was not an option. Sadly, it was every man, woman - and child, for themselves.

supplemental;

              For day's I continued to walk north, avoiding any form of civilization that I wandered by. Which is not as easy as one would think. There were a few small towns that I was forced to enter, communities which seemed almost oblivious to the hell that was occurring just miles away. Towns-folk going about their simple daily lives without a care in the world. For a while, I thought maybe the outbreak was just a moment of social hysteria that quickly resolved itself. However, a newspaper I snagged from out front of a house soon vanquished those thoughts and dreams. The articles were all about the viral-outbreak sweeping across the country like a swarm of locusts. Cities were deemed lost, quarantined and in the process of decontamination. The military strategically delivering healthy doses of chemical napalm with extreme prejudice in hopes to incinerate any trace of the virus.

             
If my memory serves me, unlucky cities that had thus far fallen to this plague; Washington, New York, Atlanta, Seattle, Los Angeles and of course Boston. These iconic cities were swiftly overwhelmed and the infestation soon began to spill out from their borders. Aside from the futile napalm strikes, it was reported that the U.S. military did enforce two nuclear strikes, Miami and Las Vegas, which had done little to slow the spread.

             
The papers also mentioned that the Government's efforts to medically understand this virus had come to a standstill. There was no pattern to the infection, no consistency. No one even knew where it came from, let alone on how to kill it. But of course, these were just stories from the media, in truth, I am sure the world governments knew much more than they led us to believe. Their pleas of ignorance had rung true to those outside of the major cities. Those poor innocents, still ignoring the warning, still assuming all was under control.

             
I did not bother to make contact with the locals, to stress what I had seen with my own eyes. One man cannot persuade the stubborn, nor more can he force one to change their own beliefs. So I moved on, making my way further north and into the mountains. I still had a long hike before me, it would be at least four exhausting weeks before I would make it to my destination. I just prayed that I could hold out that long, prayed that I was not making one big mistake.

Day 6, 1st Outbreak;

              Over the next week or so I changed my tactics, keeping to the mountains and forests by day, and venturing into communities by night. I found myself looting like the thugs on the highway, however I was a bit more humane about it. I broke into gun-shops to steal ammo, grocery stores to steal canned food, and I even syphoned a couple gallons of gas from random vehicles and stored it in old milk jugs tied at my waste. I only took what I needed and could carry, leaving the rest for the others. During the warm afternoons I rested, walking mostly at night and sticking to the mountain trails and vacant rural roads. Out of site and away from both the living and the infected was key to lasting as long as I have. Upstanding citizens were dwindling, there were no more friendly neighbors, no more families.

             
During my moments of rest, I organized my supplies and manufactured different tools that would come in handy. One of my first tools was fashioned from a rusted steel barn-spike and secured to the bottom of a long sturdy branch. It made a dependable walking staff for the treacherous landscape, as well as a close-combat weapon.  Other items included fishing hooks from the tabs of old soda cans, and a small satchel for a few home-made Molotov cocktails. I reminded myself of MacGyver, although I am sure that Richard Dean Anderson was not as self-sufficient as his character. Most likely, he too wanders mindlessly through this world.

             
The Molotov Cocktails has been one of my biggest failures and only used but one time, which was maybe only a day or two after their construction. I can't be too sure, time during that period is all but a blur. Some events seem imaginary, as if they never actually happened. But, those fiery cocktails were most definitely real, one does not forget their first kill. Infected or not.

             
An old orphanage, somewhere in east bum-fuck, seemed to be perfectly deserted and unthreatened. I assumed they must have evacuated soon after the news hit the airwaves. It was once a Catholic Orphanage, renowned nationwide for the physically abusive nun's, and later State-Run after allegations of sexual abuse arose. St. Mary's Orphanage became New England's Little Wanderer's and now the Devil's Orchard. My instincts kicked in and I focused on a small shed out behind the main building. Tools is what I needed most of all, food can easily be foraged. My eagerness to rush into a good thing tends to cloud my judgment and bites me in the ass on occasions. For instance this one, one big bite.

             
The latch had been securely tied off with a thick rope, this should have been a fair enough warning, but naively I removed them. It was when I swung the door open that I realized the error of my haste. There before me stood eight, maybe ten children, ages anywhere from five to eighteen. They all seemed to be hopeless, like the pictures that the so called non-profits displayed during their guilt induced “Save the Children” commercials.  Oddly, most of them were pale and freckled redheads, like an eerie scene from some old Stephen King book. I had heard rumors before of gingers being one of the highest percentage of orphans, aside from minorities. It must be true that some feared and shunned them like they were spawns of the devil.

             
The majority of the children were boys, and if my memory serves there was only two or three girls. All clothed in fairly clean and respectable outfits, as if dressed up for an annual barn dance. They stood almost motionless before me, as if waiting for me to gather them up in my arms and haul them off to safety. Cute kids, slightly creepy, but cute nonetheless. Or so I had thought.

             
“Jesus, you kids scared the shit out of me!” I exclaimed.

             
But the only response was a meek snarl from one of the little girls before they all at once lurched forward in unison. Their boney pale hands reaching out to grab hold, gnashing their teeth as bits of foam spat from their dry cracked lips. I backed away as they stumbled out of the shed and into the morning light, revealing the infectious wounds that laid littered across their bodies.

             
“Copperheads!” a fitting name for those children of the damned. It was a term I conjured up soon after being acquainted with this group of evil little bastards. They were young and freshly infected, swift and agile. I found myself running faster than I had ever run before, and like an enraged serpents, they scurried after me with such speed that I could barely gain any ground.

             
In a panic, I fumbled with one of the cocktails, desperately trying to light the wick with my zippo. Each burst of the flame was quickly blown out, yet finally after a few attempts, the wick ignited violently. Wisps of black smoke sailed over my shoulders like soot from an old locomotive at full tilt. Swiftly I darted off to the right, or maybe it was the left, enough to slow them down - but only for a moment. Like a quarter-back passing the ball down-field I turned and chucked the bottle at their feet. It shattered instantly, engulfing a few of the children in a black-cloud of burning fuel. They stopped for a moment, only slightly caught off guard, but completely unaffected by the scorching flames.

             
There were no screams of pain, no cries for help, just a moment of confusion before they were once again in pursuit. I was stunned, thrown off guard, in disbelief that my master plan had collapsed before my zealousness. Instead of the dead chasing after me, I now had burning corpses chasing after me. A mistake I would never make again. The forty-five became my best weapon, “shoot'em in the head,” that's what the newspapers said. With a deep breath I turned slightly and fired, a miss. I veered left again, and the adolescent herd remained in pursuit. Looking back, I fired off another round, a hit! But, just the shoulder, knocking the kid down onto its ass. With little pause, he was on his feet and back in the chase.