The Final Day: Complete Edition Page 3

  Just the cover-up answer I would expect. "So, let me get this straight. You're telling me that no one has a fucking clue what the hell this shit is, but yet you want me to be patient and hold on for a cure?"

  "Michael, I assure you that there are several of the nation's top scientists working on this as we speak. This is not some cut and dried virus that I can pump you full of antibiotics and send you on your way," I can start to hear the frustration growing in his voice. "This condition mimics the traits of several different things, but doesn't entirely match any of them. So, yes, you need to be patient. We will have something, I assure you."

  "This is unbelievable. This shit isn't supposed to happen to real people. Even the sound of it is ridiculous: zombie. I'm becoming a zombie. How fucking stupid does that sound? I guess I don't have much of a choice. That's what's happening, right?"

  Doctor Kinnelson cracks a grin. "We can't say that for sure." Right there, I can see this is as surreal to him as it is to me. "Well, then I can't tell her for sure. I'm not going to tell her until you know - until I know - what the hell's wrong with me. She won't believe it until we have some sort of concrete proof of what it is."

  "Our time is limited. Please continue, Michael."

  Where did we leave off? Oh yeah, like I was saying, I was lying on the couch under three heavy quilts and I was shivering. I knew right then and there that something was wrong. I don't get cold. It could be ten below outside and I would still be wearing shorts.

  Kari asked me where the bite came from and I told her. I didn't tell her the rest of the story. Hell, I wasn't even sure at that point that it was really happening - and I'm still not - so I wasn't about to say anything. She went on to tell me that she had cleaned and dressed the wound while I was unconscious. I could tell by the tone of her voice that there was something nagging at her, something far beyond the origin of my bite. I questioned her; I had no choice. If you would have seen her frazzled expression, you would have too. My wife usually doesn't get this way. She's the calm one; the fearless one. If you knew her, you would see right away that there was something that was definitely wrong.

  At that moment, she told me something that made absolutely no sense whatsoever. When she cleaned the wound, she looked at it really close. There were small lesions forming in the center of the wound, but the entire area around it was clean and clear. The lesion looked like dead tissue, like it was dying from the inside out. Once she saw that, that was it. She was on the computer, looking it up faster than you could say shit. She looked up viruses, infections, all sorts of different diseases. With the state of the lesion, she only saw one thing - what the hell was the name again? - blastomycosis. According to what she was telling me, it's some kind of fungal infection, very rare from what I've been told. Basically, it's just a spore that is inhaled or jumps into an open wound. Lesions begin popping up and it slowly eats you from the inside out. At that point, that was it. Within a minute, she had me in the car and we were on our way to the Emergency Room, here at St. Mary's.

  The ride there was horrific. There were houses in flames. Cars were overturned everywhere. At one point, I saw someone running from their house, completely engulfed in flames. It was ghastly. Everywhere you looked, there was death, bodies littered the ground and people were attacking one another. I saw an old lady get mauled by some guy. He just thrust his head in and tore out her throat. He looked at us with half of her esophagus hanging out of his mouth. It was disgusting.

  The grossest thing I saw, though, was right before we got to the hospital. Right on Twenty-Seventh Street, maybe two blocks from here, there was this kid kneeling on the ground over his dog. I thought the kid's dog got hit by a car 'cause the kid looked upset. I tapped Kari on the shoulder and pointed at the kid. She tapped the brakes. I wish she would have sped up. Just as she slowed down, the kid looked at us with these wild, evil eyes. As soon as I saw them, I knew what was coming. He plunged his face in and bit a huge chunk out of the dog's stomach, pulling its entrails out along with it, then stared at us and chewed the raw flesh with this almost... snarling grin on his face. I threw up in the car right then and there and I thought for a moment that Kari was actually going to follow suit.

  We pulled into the hospital parking lot, but the entire lot was full. She took me to the emergency entrance and parked, then helped me inside. My kids were crying in the backseat. After what we saw on the way here, I don't blame them. I hope they forget all of this someday. No kid should ever have to see something like this. It's funny how kids sneak peeks at horror flicks all the time like it's some kind of forbidden treat. Then they see the shit for real... Anyway, it took all of about a minute for her to come out with four paramedics and a stretcher.

  The next hour was the worst, yet.

  4 PM

  HOUR THREE

  They didn't even keep me in the waiting room. I was scared shitless. They carried me through the front doors and immediately transferred me to a gurney. Within seconds, two guys burst through the double doors wearing Biohazard suits. Another guy in a white lab coat grabbed Kari and pulled her away from me. She tried to shove him away, but he wouldn't let her go. As they ushered me through the doors, I saw Kari crying, fighting that guy. I didn't know what was happening. I asked the guys in the Biohazard suits what they were doing, but neither one of them answered. I soon figured out why.

  They wheeled me through another set of double doors. There was a sign hanging above them that said - something like - "INFECTED: PRE-QUARANTINE." Infected with what? If it was blastomycosis, like my wife had thought, why the hell would they have me in quarantine? It can't be spread through wounds or anything like that; it's not contagious. It's not rabies, either. If it was, they would have just given me the shots and sent me packing. I was freaked out, but it only got worse.

  The sides of the hallways were lined with gurneys. Half the blokes on the slabs must have already died, they had the sheets up over their heads. I saw one guy laid out on the slab in restraints. I'm not talking small nylon straps, either. This guy was bound by thick plastic bands. His arms and legs were bound so tight that the straps were practically embedded deep into his skin, rubbed raw and bleeding. At least he was unconscious.

  Finally, they wheeled me into this examination room. I don't know what kind of room it was, but the walls and floor were stark white and the lights were bright as hell. I couldn't even open my eyes for more than a couple seconds without feeling like my head was going to explode. There was no equipment inside, just wall to wall nothing with one window. Judging by the reflection, I'm sure it was one-way glass, but who knows? When they left, they locked the door behind them. Neither one of them ever said a single word. One minute I was in the lobby, the next minute I'm locked up in a cell. No, it wasn't a cell, but damn, it felt like it.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on what was outside those walls. It sounded like a riot. There were people screaming and crying. I heard unbridled hostility, the likes of which I had never experienced. Medical terms were being flung about with as much frequency as any man's normal conversation. There is definitely something going on that nobody is telling us.

  Dr. Kinnelson shrugs. "We can't tell you what we don't know, Michael."

  I'm losing my cool again. "What is with the whole "pre-quarantine" crap? How can you tell me that there is nothing happening?"

  Dr. Kinnelson throws his hands up, defensively. "Not once, did I say that it was nothing. I just said that we don't know and that's the truth."

  I bury my head in my hands. "I'm scared. What is happening to me? I feel tired, but I can't sleep. I keep getting these cold spells over and over again and they're starting to get worse. I'm flying off the handle for no reason and when I do, I just get more pissed off because I know I'm not like that! I'm not a bad person, Doctor. I'm not."

  I sat in that room and listened to everything that was happening outside the door and I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Every other thing that came out of their mouths - the doctors, I mean - was a
lways something about an "unknown infection" or some type of "combination virus". When the doctor finally came in, I asked him for answers and didn't get shit in return.

  The doctor was cold. I couldn't even tell what he looked like; his face was hidden beneath a surgical mask. He was cold and uncaring. I suppose you have to be in that line of work, especially with something like this, but it was worse than that. I don't think that guy has any feelings at all.

  You know what I felt like? A lab experiment. I felt like a defenseless mouse in cage, awaiting whatever the hell it was that he had planned for me. I felt like I was going to be just another statistic to line the pages of their reports or a thesis from some hotshot college student.

  The doctor went over the basics. My blood pressure turned out fine. It was a little low, but nothing to be alarmed over. Heart rate was normal. The thing that got me though, was my body temperature. Normal temperature is - what - like, ninety-eight or something? Well, the doctor checked my temperature and it was ninety-four. I asked him what that meant and, of course, I didn't get an answer in return.

  He said he wanted to take a tissue sample from the wound on my shoulder. When I asked him why, he backed up what my wife had said about the wound to begin with. I think he was worried about the dead tissue in the center of the wound. If nothing else, that part should have been the part of the wound that would begin to heal, not die. As far as he could see, the tissue looked like it was already beginning to decay.

  All the while he was feeling around the wound, poking and prodding it, I couldn't feel a damn thing. It was like my shoulder was numb, not the normal type of numb you feel like when your foot falls asleep. This was entirely numb, no tingling or anything. He didn't even give me a local anesthetic when he cut the sample out of the wound. I didn't even know he was doing anything, I thought he was just looking at it, until I saw him set the sample in the Petri dish. He had a bloody scalpel in his hand. I didn't feel a damn thing and that's good 'cause I probably would have passed out.

  I asked him about nerve damage, but I already knew what was happening and he was right. The wound itself and the area around it was already starting to die and when I looked at the tissue sample in the Petri dish, it was already starting to decay as well. Scattered throughout the entire sample, there were these little black specks of rot, the same damn way the skin looked on that bastard that bit me.

  The Doc looks up from his clipboard. "You already know what is happening, don't you, Michael?"

  "You’re damn right I know, but I'm not going to say it. Hell, I still don't believe it! This shit doesn't happen in the real world. It just doesn't happen. This is Hollywood-type shit. I've watched all the movies. I've loved all the movies. I have even spent considerable thought on what I would do if something like this would ever happen, but it was all fun and games. My son and I would pretend we were Shaun and Ed from Shaun of the Dead. It was something to pass the time, something to get rid of boredom. It's not supposed to be real. This isn't supposed to be happening!"

  I’m breaking down. The fear rushes me and I can't keep it back; it feels strangulating.

  "I agree with you, Michael. We are working as fast as we possibly can to get rid of it, as well, before it becomes pandemic."

  That word got my attention. I stare straight into his eyes. "It's not contained, is it?"

  "I'm not authorized to say, Michael. I am as in the dark as you are."

  I roll my eyes. "That's a bunch of bullshit. If you don't know anything, then why are you here? Why are you even sitting here with me?"

  "I am here because I am a doctor. That may not mean very much to you. Call me old-fashioned, but I always put my patient's well-being before my own."

  I laugh, unintentionally. "Sorry, Doc, but look at me. There isn't a whole hell of a lot of well-being left."

  Doctor Kinnelson stares at me, silent - solemn.

  I swallow hard. "I don't have much time left, do I?”

  A head shake is my grim affirmation.

  "How long?"

  He rests his hand on my shoulder. "I don't know - maybe twelve hours - two or three days. Who knows?"

  I bury my head. I try like hell to force the onslaught of tears back, but it's no use.

  "Michael," Doctor Kinnelson’s voice is quiet, almost a whisper.

  I try to put on the macho as I sit up and wipe the tears away. "I'm fine. Really."

  Doctor Kinnelson tries to close his notebook, but I stop him.

  "Michael, you don't have to do this anymore. You should go home with your family,” Kinnelson pulls the notebook out of reach.

  "Why? So I can eat them? I'm sorry, but no fucking way!"

  Doctor Kinnelson shakes his head. "You don't have to do this anymore. Take what little time you have. Use it, Michael. Make peace with yourself and your family.”

  "Yes, I do, Doc. If there's even the slightest chance that what we're doing can get a cure for me - or anyone - then I'm game."

  Doctor Kinnelson exhales heavily as he opens the notebook once again, probably against his better judgment.

  The worst part about the whole thing wasn't so much that the doctor was giving me the cold shoulder, it was the fact that I knew that every single word I said - every move I made - was being watched by some educated pencil jockey that saw me as nothing more than a guinea pig - a statistic.

  Anyway, after a moment, the doctor stepped out without a sound, leaving me lying on that slab - half naked and colder than shit - for what seemed like an eternity. I mean, I actually thought I was going to die on that table! That's when the next attack came.

  "Attack?" Doctor Kinnelson stares at me. "It wasn't the kind of attack you're thinking about, it was another dream. This one was much worse... than... the other one. Oh, shit. Shit!"

  I double over in my chair. God, what's happening? I can't breathe – all control over my lungs is lost. I'm hyperventilating.

  “Make it stop! Make it stop!”

  "Michael!" Doctor Kinnelson wraps his arm around my shoulders and shoves my head down to my knees. "Breathe, Michael! Breathe!"

  Oh, God… the burning! My lungs fell like they are on fire! I can't breathe!

  "Dammit, Michael, breathe!"

  My hands are numb - turning blue! I'm going to die.

  "Doc!" Nothing comes out. I can't talk. I... can't... move. I’m... fading.

  "Michael!"

  6:30 PM

  HOUR FIVE

  NOW

  Where am I?

  Shit, it's cold. It's cold... and I can't see a damned thing. I raise my hand up in front of my face, or at least I think I do, and nothing is there. It's all black.

  "Hello!"

  Damn. My voice echoes so loudly, it's like an air horn going off next to my head. Where the hell am I?

  I reach out in front of me and my hands stop dead before I can even extend my arms. It's the same thing at my sides, only worse. I can barely move my arms at all that way.

  My heart is hammering in my chest. It's hard to breathe. Each breath of air burns like hell.

  I slam my fists on the walls around me. The thundering echo is unbearable, like a jackhammer pounding inside my skull.

  "Help me!!"

  I keep pounding my fists but there is no answer.

  Am I dead? Shit, I'm dead. I'm dead and stuck in a

  coffin!

  Your heart is beating, Michael. You're not dead! Don't be

  stupid!

  "Help me, god damn it!!" I start panicking.

  Instinctively, I try to draw a breath and the worst floods over me at this very moment. Whatever air was left in here is gone! I can't breathe!

  I pound furiously on the metal walls surrounding me. Blow after blow, my fists strike the cold steel. The pain is overwhelming. With every hit, I feel a splash on my face and I know its blood. I know it is. I can smell it... and it doesn't bother me one bit. All I care about is getting out of here now. My lungs feel like they're on fire and I can't take much more.

  I force my
self again. "Help me! Somebody, help me, please! I'm not dead!"

  Oh, God. This can't be happening! I'm going to die in here. There's no air and I'm gonna die!

  I scream out one last time with everything I have and... wait! Is that a voice? I concentrate harder and it sounds like a voice, but I can't tell for sure. Dammit, my heart's pounding so hard, I can barely hear anything. Please, let there be someone out there.

  Desperately, I pound on the walls again, as hard as I can. My knuckles crack as a searing pain shoots up my arm. I must have broken something, but I don't give a shit. I want out of here, now!

  A blinding light instantly assaults me as a rush of cold air floods in. The light hits my eyes like a barrage of needles and I wince. But, oh, the air! I draw in a deep breath, deeper than I have ever taken and my lungs feel like they’re going to pop.

  The surface below me begins to move and I can feel my body drawn out of the darkness toward the blinding light. Instinctively, my arms jut up to cover my eyes. The cold is swallowed by a warming air as it envelops my body. Then I confirm the voice I thought I heard seconds ago. It is a woman's voice.