Chapter One: Pandora's Box Personified
Strangely, it's the fresh air I miss the most. Not trees or green grass, or even a cloudless
blue sky. Not a freshly cooked steak, a homemade apple pie or a chilled brew on
a muggy summer day, but a single whiff of sweet, stale-free oxygen. Air that doesn't contain the faint scent of
day-old farts, the coppery stench of burnt coffee or
tar and nicotine breath.
Nine months inside a concrete tomb, that's basically what it comes down
to, although this particular mausoleum does hold
considerably more charm than our last extended rest stop, 'The Glow Motel', as
Sergeant Rock had so aptly dubbed it.
Don't believe any of us were ever quite comfortable spending two months
in an abandoned nuke silo. Just didn't have that 'homey' feel, so to
speak.
The 'Hive' isn't exactly the Hilton either, but at least it does contain
a dozen separate walled sections, so there is a semblance of privacy
anyway.
I found the unmarked, unlabeled DVD's at the
bottom of a cardboard box in the rear of the supply room, buried beneath a pile
of yellow pocket folders overstuffed with dry-rotted files from decades
past. The entire room smelled of ancient
rat droppings, despite the obvious impossibilities of such. The place is so
spotless, so strangely sanitized, that it almost makes you lonely for the
occasional roach or dead fly lying about. Not sure why I decided to take an
impromptu inventory of the room after all this time, other than to chalk up
such a fruitless task to extreme boredom.
Despite the camaraderie of the unit, we all desire our moments of
solitude, especially with the impending scenario looming like a dark storm
cloud. Humans crave companionship, true,
but are also a solitary creature at heart.
As a species, we are...were walking, talking contradictions. I never dwelled upon such matters, never had
a reason to actually. Scary how things change, like
that guy from The Eagles once sang, in 'A New York Minute'.
I can hear Lieutenant Lava's shrieking rant through the thick concrete
walls, no doubt railing on Private Brain Dog, who patiently waits, preparing
his hip-hop themed, profanity-laced rebuttal to whatever she's moaning
about. Those two seem to revel in the
art of argument for argument's sake, complete opposites in terms of personality
and general opinion.
Sergeant Rock is always telling them to 'jump between the sheets and get
it over with', a suggestion that never fails to induce a cringe from Father
Pete, despite the fact that everyone knows such a
coupling between the two is old news.
Being the only two females within the unit, both Lieutenant Lava and
Airman Legs willingly accept their unspoken responsibilities to the male
troops, as well as the 'mother figure' roles they assume solely for Kid Cadet,
the only child within our skeletal crew ranks. My admiration and respect for
those two women (especially the good Lieutenant, but more on that later) goes
even beyond that of the Chief, the man most responsible for keeping us alive
the past year and a half.
As I begin to repack the box (a brief time filler at best) after setting
the mystery DVD's aside, I hear the Chief chime in as if on cue, spouting the
now nauseatingly familiar 'Stow it, clowns!" refrain in his deep, husky
tone. Despite his best efforts, however,
it's obvious his bark is decidedly worse than his bark of late. I would think it's rather easy to lose your
authoritative edge when mortality is staring you dead in the face.
They are all gathered about the makeshift monitoring room, no doubt
sipping lukewarm coffee and munching on MRE crackers that are less crisp than
rubbery from decades old packaging. Everyone, save myself and Sergeant Rock,
who I can hear thumping around in the exercise room. I don't have to glare into
a monitor to know what awaits us. I don't have to see or hear them to know
they're out there, swarming like bloated maggots on a rotting corpse. The ad
campaign worked wonders, it seems.
Better than we could ever have hoped. The ruthless hordes know we're
here. Probably smell us, like roasted
wienies propped over a blazing campfire. We are truly the life-source for their
being, serving a double purpose to the future of their survival as a species
while our own has been so cruelly, systemically eradicated. Not that we're one hundred percent positive
that there aren't others like us still out there somewhere, living like moles
instead of humans, but even so, it's a safe bet that the numbers are
frighteningly low. The hordes seem increasingly frantic the past few months,
decidedly more desperate. Hosts are becoming few and far between, and the air
space they occupy is becoming thick with anxiety.
As I depart the supply room for 'sleep bay', the largest of the Hives'
compartments, I hear The Chief instruct Corporal Chatty to up the amps on the
outside speakers. The vibrations are whipping them into a frenzy, like a dinner
bell ringing from some unseen buffet hall.
I kneel onto my sleeping bag, lay back and remove the rubber band which
serves to hold the coupled DVD's together.
The discs are pitch black in color, the
outside cases clear and without markings of any kind. I deduce they must consist of 'Top Secret'
war contingencies or Op Plans, possibly even training films on how to survive a
nuclear holocaust-ravaged earth. Regardless, the utter uselessness of such
drivel strikes me as hilariously ironic as a wide smile creases my usually
stoic visage. Laying back to further
study the stone ceiling overhead, I realize how dramatically I've aged since
the plague, especially in the psychological sense. A twenty-seven year old man housing a
senior-citizen attitude; battle worn and constantly at odds with a level of mental
fatigue he never previously thought possible.
Another loud thump from two rooms down, and I hear Sergeant Rock sigh
loudly. A true creature of habit, is our
Kenneth McKay. Pounds those weights for hours on end, like a man prepping for
Mr. Universe honors. Hits the hard bag until his
fists are raw and his knuckles bleed. I guess we've all developed our own
unique technique to stave off the insanity boiling just below the surface of
our skullcaps. Mine is to journal this
maddening existence as the days drone on, despite the reality of never having
such a dairy read by anyone of my own kind. Everyone's been asked to add
something to the time capsule that Father Pete is putting together. He's packing the objects in a stainless steel
tube he pulled from the silo. Doubtful it will survive the blast, but it's the
symbolism of the deed that counts, not the eventual fate of the object
itself.
Eighteen months of avoiding death's sharp-edged rapier can take their
toll, both mentally and physically. I'm sure all nine of us would be a real
study if such an occupation as psychiatrist still mattered. Incurable head
cases with multiple phobias and remarkable tolerance levels for pain and
anguish. We've all seen more death and destruction in these past several months
than in every ultra-violent movie or TV show ever produced.
I reach over and pull the worn, leather bound journal from my duffel,
careful not to tip over the small makeup stand sitting between my own sleeping
bag and that of Airman Legs. Maintaining her looks is Pam Vincent's vice. I
can't say I don't approve of the effort, however moot. Pam is what society used
to label 'drop dead gorgeous, despite the added battle scars of recent
times.
Flipping to the front of the book, I glance over the initial entries
with an astonishingly diverse mix of feelings, the gist of which include both
pinning nostalgia and gut-wrenching, primal fear.
Some of the names had long since departed our dwindling ranks, and the
attached faces vanished just as quickly from my tattered mind.
The present line-up:
Yours truly, Barry Hooper, AKA 'Private Radar' (for my inexplicable
talent for sensing impending danger.
More curse than godsend, in my humble opinion, but even I cannot
completely deny its usefulness in our plight).
Age: Twenty-seven (last October, when months, days and hours actually meant something)
Physical Description: White male. Five-eight, one-hundred sixty
pounds. Prominent, beak-like nose (a
mark of us Hoopers since my great, great grandad), pasty complexion (never
could hold a tan. Skin would always turn rose red and proceed to roast).
Former occupation: UPS Route Driver, Austin, TX; part time writer of
unpublished fiction.
Family status: Wife (Denise) and five year old son Wallace missing,
presumed deceased (taken three days after the nest was unearthed in Northern
Alabama). You hold out hope for a while, then it slowly fades into reluctant
acceptance. The sour feeling never
leaves my gut, however, whenever their faces enter my dreams.
'Swarm Day' Location: When the city was besieged upon on that steamy hot
Austin summer day, I had driven my route truck towards home like a doped up
lunatic, only to discover the house (actually the
entire street we lived on) ravaged and my loved ones gone. Looked like someone
had rocked our house, as every window was shattered and every door bashed open.
I had been on my way to my parent's place in Fort Worth, the interstates packed
to overflowing and moving at a snail's pace, despite the shoulders on both
sides being used as lanes. The hordes swept down on us from all directions. I
saw several unfortunate individuals pulled from their vehicles and whisked away
like confetti in a funnel cloud. The
idling Greyhound was parked just to the left of my UPS van. Just as one
(several?) of the swarm landed atop my vehicle, I leapt from the truck and
sprinted to the bus. Inexplicably lost the pinkie finger of my right hand in
the process. Hope they choked on it. The
rest, as they say...will soon be history.
***
NCOIC In Charge: Kenneth McKay, AKA 'Sergeant Rock'. Age: Forty
Physical Description: White male, six-feet two, two-hundred twenty
pounds. Strong as an ox and twice as
ornery, his physique seemingly carved in stone from decades of hard work and a
daily weight lifting regimen. Completely bald (riddled with recently obtained
scars) from daily shaving, sports a Fu Manchu mustache
that hangs from the corners of his granite jaw like twin caterpillars.
Disposition: A man of infinite
jest, old Rock Jaw, although he'd never admit such under oath. The equivalent
of a rabid wolverine during combat conditions.
Former Occupation: Warehouse Manager, Selma, Alabama. Served two decades in the National Guard,
where he was once a member of his unit's boxing team.
Family status: Wife and three children (all high school age) missing and
presumed dead (taken in initial attack on southern Alabama just two days after
the unearthing in the northern part of the state). Much like myself, Kenneth
had raced home from work to find his rural, country home torn apart and his
loved ones missing. Witnessed his
elderly neighbors pulled from their home through a
living room picture window and swept airborne, their screams muffled and weak
as they were hauled into the clouds by their ankles. After a frantic but
fruitless search of the besieged township, had immediately drove north to
Birmingham, ditched his own vehicle and caught a
Greyhound bound for his brother's home in Lawton, Oklahoma.
'Swarm Day' Location: Same stretch of interstate as yours truly, already
taking up a seat in the aforementioned Greyhound.
***
Grunt #1: Pamela Vincent, AKA 'Airman Legs' (for obvious reasons. Those slick, impeccably toned bad boys seem
to go on infinitely).
Age: Thirty-one
Physical Description: White female, five-feet nine, approximately
one-hundred twenty-five pounds. Tanned complexion, lengthy straight brown hair,
hazel eyes.
Toned, muscular build without being overly masculine. Legs of a dancer (see former occupation),
face of a Victoria's Secret model. Basically, a woman who stood in the beauty
line more than once when looks were being doled out.
Family Status: Twice divorced, no children.
Disposition: Relatively mild-mannered and even tempered unless alcohol
happens to pass over those ruby, ever- pouting lips, resulting in her wildly
uninhibited evil twin springing forth in a gusher of howling laughter and booze
induced shrieking. The shakiest of the crew when faced with imminent combat,
she always seems on the verge of a complete meltdown.
Former Occupation: Exotic dancer, various locations. Hawthorne, California.
'Swarm Day' Location: Traveling interstate in late model Mustang GT,
abandoned car as attack commenced. Practically dragged into the Greyhound by
force, she continued to scream for at least a half-hour after the battle had
waned. It was weeks before she completely
snapped out of her hysterical daze to begin training as the serviceable (albeit
a bit shaky) soldier she's become.
***
Grunt #2: Clarence Warren, Private Brain Dog (rap music aficionado with
an IQ measured at around one-sixty. Mechanical, as well as electronics
whiz).
Age: Twenty-two.
Physical Description: Black male, six-feet, one hundred seventy pounds.
Sports a thick, uncombed Afro (cultivated over the past eighteen months) he
comically refers to as his 'tribute to the lost bro's of the seventies'.
Family status: Single. Parents reside (d) in Tulsa, Ok.
Disposition: Comically sarcastic; loud and boisterous. Can be standoffish, but usually good-natured.
Calm and collected within the combat zone, he is heavily counted on for his
natural ability to problem solve.
Former Occupation: Student, ITT Technical Institute. A self-taught
electronics whiz. Worked part time stocking groceries.
'Swarm Day' Location: Within the Greyhound that eventually served as our
safe haven, headed to his parents
home in Tulsa from Little Rock, where he was attending ITT classes.
***
Grunt #3: Robert Gonzales, AKA 'Corporal Chatty' (For his less than
vocal persona. A man of precious few words).
Age: Forty-eight.
Physical Description: Hispanic Male. Five-Five, One-sixty to one-sixty
five (down at least thirty pounds in the last year). Thick wavy brown hair that
is graying at the temples but hangs over his forehead
like pasted shingles. Slowly transformed
sagging, pudgy build into rock hard muscle by joining in on Sergeant Rock's
daily work out routine.
Family Status: Watched in muted horror as his wife of twenty-six years
was abducted from their Ford van as they drove south from Chicago to their
son's home in Dallas.
The Chief (more info below) managed to pull Robert onto the bus as he
stood with his back against the door, fighting one off with a tire iron as his
wife was being airlifted into the clouds just a few dozen feet in the
distance. It took three of us,
practically sitting on top of him for almost an hour, to calm him somewhat. He finally passed out from sheer exhaustion.
I sincerely believe the man would have taken on the whole damn
swarm without a moment's hesitation, armed with a can of Raid in one hand and a
flyswatter in the other. Not sure I've ever, or ever will, love anyone that
much, although that particular question has arisen of
late (again, more later as this narrative drones on...)
Disposition: The textbook definition of low-key. Quiet, reserved, soft spoken. Says more with
the least amount of words than anyone I've ever met.
Former Occupation: Owner, G & G Vending, Chicago, IL.
'Swarm Day' Location: See above.
***
Grunt#4: Tia Stephens, AKA 'Lieutenant Lava' (see disposition).
Age: Twenty-Three
Physical Description: Asian female. Five-feet, ninety-five pounds.
Pitch-black straight hair that hangs in a tightly wound pony tail reaching to
the pit of her back. Small, pug nose
gracing a flawlessly sculpted face whose most striking feature are her
piercing, dark-brown eyes. Lithe and wiry; easily the most agile of the unit.
Unofficially second in command of the unit, solely due to her nerves, which
seem welded from the purest of metal alloys.
Family: Legally separated from husband two years earlier.
Parents reside(d) in South Korea.
Disposition: Difficult to narrow down, depending on the minute. Mood
seems to swing like a pendulum blade. Kind and accommodating at times;
foul-tempered and moody the next, hence the nickname. Combat ready at the drop
of an eyelash, Tia seems to invite the rage and harness it as pure adrenaline.
Personal Note: The woman exudes eroticism. I'm literally a walking pile of moist putty
within her intoxicating space. Airman Legs might score more points in the
natural beauty category, but Tia's whimsical charms and raw sex appeal are off
the charts. She's the ultimate temptress; a dragon-lady goddess in tight
leather pants. As much as I despise
myself for saying it, my wife didn't possess half the seductive drawing power
as this woman. Of course, I might just be a tad biased (more on that later, as
time permits).
Former Occupation: Telemarketer/Data Entry, Dayton, Oh.
'Swarm Day' Location: Driving home (the scenic route) from visiting a
friend in Colorado Springs. The Honda Civic she navigated was stationed
directly behind the Greyhound when the attack commenced. Sergeant Rock and I
pulled her into the bus from a rear window (Slamming it shut just as one of the
enemy landed where the relatively narrow opening had been). If Tia had been two
inches taller or her torso a tad wider, this particular
journal entry would not exist.
***
Grunt#5: Peter Wilkes, AKA 'Father Pete'.
Age: Forty-six.
Physical Description: White male. Five-nine, two-hundred twenty pounds
(down twenty pounds since team inception).
Mostly bald except for thick tufts of grayish-white
hair around his jug-like ears. Pointy chin, red-tinted, bulbous nose (typically
observed on heavy drinkers, which Father Pete readily confessed to being
decades earlier). Reminds Sergeant Rock
of the actor who played Lumpy Rutherford's dad on 'Leave it to Beaver'.
Family Status: Divorced in late eighties. No children. Parents deceased.
Disposition: Predictably, Father Pete is kind and helpful. Unpredictably, he shows streaks of unabashed
stubbornness and occasionally gets downright mean when his opinions are
challenged. Does not push his religious beliefs, although he openly objects
(but rarely verbally) to the relationship (agreement?) between the men and
women of the unit regarding carnal activities.
Still, Father Pete provides a calming influence amongst the ever-present
lunacy surrounding us. Former Occupation: Methodist Preacher, Lawton,
Oklahoma. 'Swarm Day' Location:
Within the Greyhound, returning from a weekend visit to his older sister in
Fort Worth. Had debated for days before the trip on whether
or not to take the chance of making the drive in his well-worn Chevy
truck, which had been having transmission problems. Has since chalked up the
decision to 'bus it' to the lord's overall plan for his place within our ranks.
'No squadron is complete without a divine messenger,' Father Pete was apt to
repeat in those early, anxiety-fueled days. Despite
his less than menacing outward appearance, has proven he can hold his own in a
firefight.
***
Grunt#6: Jake Johannsen, AKA 'Kid Cadet'.
Age: Ten and a half (white Male).
Physical Description: Four-feet six, seventy pounds. Bushy blonde hair,
blue eyes, pale complexion.
Family: Parents missing and presumed deceased.
Disposition: Despite the living hell his young eyes have witnessed since
the age of nine, a very level headed and typically carefree kid. His youthful exuberance rubs off on all, just
as the sincere innocence he displays reminds us of the reason we continue to
persevere. Other than the mass extermination of the enemy, we have dedicated
ourselves just as strongly to overseeing his survival.
Former Occupation: 3rd Grader, West Union Elementary, Fort Worth, Texas.
'Swarm Day' Location: Riding to Wichita Falls with his mother to visit
his aunt. Vehicle was overturned beneath
concrete underpass as the enemy descended in never-ending waves of humanity. Jake's mother had just enough time to shove
him into the van's rear compartment before being pulled through the shattered
remains of the driver's side window. Jake had been crawling from the rear door
when the bus bounded by in a wavy lurch, searching for an off-ramp leading away
from the onslaught. Private Brain Dog
pulled him into the bus feet first while Sergeant Rock and I played sentry from
the bus entrance.
***
Team Leader: Conrad Masterson, AKA 'The Chief' (see former occupation
below).
Age: Fifty (Black Male).
Physical Description: Six-two, one-ninety-five. Four words: Lean, mean, fightin' machine.
Family: Lifelong bachelor. Parents deceased.
Disposition: Stern but caring. A disciplinarian from the old school that
follows a single, simple rule of thumb: expect no more from others than you're
willing to contribute yourself.
Former Occupation: Police Officer, City of Houston (hence the 'Chief'
label). Retired as Patrol Sergeant (served a total of twenty-six years). Had
worked as home security advisor for a local Houston security firm for less than
two months when attacks commenced.
'Swarm Day' location: Three vehicles behind Greyhound as assault began.
Exited his Ford Explorer to assist a nearby elderly couple as their own vehicle
fell under siege. Unable to foil their abduction, he fought his way to the bus
entrance and assisted in loading others inside. Spearheaded our 'back roads'
route to the first of many temporary safe havens. As days progressed and
tensions built to a fever pitch, the Chief became our unofficial team leader by
default. He inspired us to turn our pity
into anger, our suicidal depression into motivation to live...live to kill. Kill to live. Simple but effective.
Personal Note: Without the Chief, our existence as a unit would have
never materialized, much less made it this far. I'm fairly
certain this opinion is unanimously shared within the ranks.