The Infection

She raised her pistol with both hands and aimed it carefully at the windows above her.

“Help me! Please help me!”

A woman ran down the alley in a nightgown, waving her arms.

“Stay right there,” Wendy said raggedly, extending her palm, her nerves raw and electric. Her training kicked in automatically. “What’s the problem?”

“My husband is hurt,” the woman said, her eyes wild. “He’s bleeding.”

“Okay, did you call 911?”

“The lines are all busy.”

“Where do you live, Ma’am?”

“Just over there.”

You can’t do this, she told herself. You need to report what you saw.

Another voice in her head countered: What you saw could not have happened.

“Let’s go, then,” she said.

They entered the house. Wendy felt dizzy. Details in the scene jumped out at her. A pale man dressed in pajamas lying on the floor, bleeding from the head. A table lamp, still on, sitting on its side on the carpet, casting long shadows. Family photos on the wall. A TV with the sound off, showing a worried anchorwoman. A broken pot and the dirt and scattered remains of a plant. A baseball bat.

“Officer, are you okay?”

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the mob run screaming into Patrol.

“Tell me what happened here, Ma’am,” she said mechanically.

“I hit him on the head. You can arrest me if you want. But take care of him first. Please!”

Wendy inspected the wound.

“What’s your name?”

“Lisa.”

“Okay, Lisa, come on over here. He’s got a scalp wound. That type of wound bleeds a lot. I’m going to elevate his head a little so that it is above the heart. There. He’s going to need an ambulance but he should be okay. In the meantime, I want you to sit here and put pressure on it.”

Wendy stood, fighting tears, and tried to call 911. The circuits were jammed. She saw the couch and suddenly wanted to lie down on it for just a minute. Maybe five minutes. Just a little while—

“I had to do it,” Lisa was saying.

“Uh huh,” Wendy said, glancing dazedly at the TV set. The anchorwoman was crying, mascara running down her cheeks in black lines.

“He was threatening our boy—”

“This man—?”

“My husband.”

“You say your husband was attacking your son?”

“Then I stopped him. I heard him wake up and I followed him. When I saw him holding Benjamin down and biting him I grabbed the bat and hit him on the head. I had to do it.”

“Was he one of the people who fell down? One of the SEELS?”

“Yes. It was a miracle. But he must have been confused because he would never hit Benjamin. He loves that boy more than himself.”

Wendy backed away, staring in horror at the sleeping man tangled up in his own limbs. Her hand flickered around the handcuffs on her belt. She unholstered her Glock and flicked off the safety. She frowned, trying to think.

“You can remove your hands now, Lisa. I want you to back away from him slowly.”

Lay off her

“Okay,” Lisa said. “But he’s still bleeding—”

She’s one of us—

The cop raised her gun and fired, the sound of the discharge filling the house. The man’s head exploded and splashed up the wall.

The woman wailed like an animal caught in a steel trap, rushing forward to hug the man’s broken face against her chest.

“You killed Roy!”

Upstairs, a teenage boy was snarling and banging on a bedroom door.

Wendy holstered her gun and walked out the door into the night.

“Why did you do that? Why? Why?”

The woman’s screaming followed her down the street until it became just one of many voices rising up from the city in pain like a demonic choir.

MEMORIES

Todd wakes up in a bed in a warm, windowless hospital room after a long, dreamless sleep. He is still exhausted but his body is telling him he has already overslept. You’re still here, Todd old man, he tells himself. Still truckin’. Wrapping his blanket around his bare shoulders, he shuffles blearily to a bucket in the corner and empties his bladder. His stomach growls. Outside, he finds Paul in the hallway, whistling as he mops the floor with a strong bleach solution. He finds the sight reassuring. He is not used to being alone.

“Hey, Rev,” he says.

“Morning, Kid.”

“Wow, we just got here and they got you mopping floors already. Too bad there isn’t more need for preachers in the post-apocalyptic world.”

Paul pauses in his work, smiling. “On the contrary, son, a true minister is no stranger to working with his hands. It’s a form of prayer. Good for the soul. You ought to try it sometime.”

“Are you trying to turn me into an atheist?”

“Ha,” says Paul.

“Anyhow, my soul needs some coffee or it’s not doing anything today.”

“Go around the corner and look for the lounge. We got it set up as a common room. I’m sure Anne saved you something.”

“Thanks, Rev,” Todd says, his blanket forming a train on the floor behind him.

“Good to have you back, Kid.”

Todd turns and grins. “The Kid abides, Rev. The Kid abides.”

♦