“No, God please no,” a man’s voice screamed. “Please somebody help me!”

Then all was silent. It must have been a dream, he thought, rubbing sleep filled eyes.

Tanner turned his head on the pillow and looked at Mickey staring back at him from the night stand. The mouse’s eyes rocked back and forth in time with the mechanical gears and wheels in its transparent belly. 12:15pm. It was after lunch and he was feeling hungry.

Tanner didn’t remember much after going to bed the night before. He had not felt well so his mother had made him go to bed early. She should have got him up to get ready for school though. Even if she were letting him stay home, which she sometimes did when he didn’t feel well, she should have woke and kissed him goodbye before she went to work.

A lot of things didn’t seem to work the way they usually did anymore.

Tanner sat up and pulled the covers back before slipping out of bed and putting his bare feet on the hardwood floor. It was cold and his bladder jumped with the shock. He really had to pee. Shuffling across to the door, he crossed the darkened hall into the bathroom.

He wished his father were still here.

Mommy said he had gone to live with his hussy in St. Louis. Tanner didn’t know what a hussy was but when she it her forehead wrinkled and her lips pursed downward as if she had eaten something sour. Mommy never said anything about daddy since but some nights Tanner heard her crying in the bathroom or throwing something in the kitchen.

Tanner remembered seeing his father for the last time six months ago. His mom had let him come to the airport that day, which was strange because it was a school day and she didn’t let him miss school unless he was sick.

He had sat in the front seat next to his dad while mom sat in the back staring out the window. Dad had asked him about school and if he thought he might like to play little league next year. All the while, he stole quick glances in the rear view mirror, frowning occasionally, before asking Tanner another question.

When they arrived at the airport, dad took his bags from the trunk while mom fished her car keys from her coat pocket and got into the driver’s seat.

“I have to be gone for a while,” dad had said. “but I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Where are you going?” Tanner asked.

“Just business little buddy,” he replied, ruffling Tanner’s hair.

Then he walked away, never turning back once, and mommy hadn’t said a word the whole drive home.

Tanner flushed the toilet and went back into the hall then downstairs. In the quiet of the empty

house each stair creaked like the whine of deserted, small animal looking for attention.

He padded into the living room and stopped to pick up the remote from the end table. Tanner hit the power button and the screen came alive with color, showing a man in a suit and tie sitting behind a desk. He was talking and his face looked serious but the volume was muted and Tanner could not make out what was being said.

No matter, Tanner thought. It was probably the dumb old news anyway. He would surf for cartoons later.

Tanner dropped the remote in the chair and went into the kitchen where he saw a note on the refrigerator held in place by a bright blue, magnetic T. He walked by the kitchen table and pulled the half sheet of yellow paper down.

Tanner,

Mommy loves

The bottom of the note had a heart and a line of Xs and Os.

Tanner put the note on the table behind him and opened the refrigerator door. He pulled out a loaf of white bread and the jelly then closed the door before reaching up and placing the items on the counter. His nose was just above its lip, high enough to see the cookie jar against the back splash but still too short to make a sandwich.

He pulled one of the chairs from the table across the vinyl floor and stepped up onto the seat to reach for the cupboard where the peanut butter was kept. He was distracted, however, by a succession of pops outside and then the sound of breaking glass.

Quickly, he slid off the chair and ran into the living room. Darting across the braided throw rug, he launched himself onto the sofa before peaking out between the partially closed drapes. He smiled as the springs bounced him gently a couple of times before allowing him to sag between the over stuffed cushions. His mom hated it when he jumped on the furniture.

Tanner stuck his nose to the window, trying to see through the fog and condensation on it. A draft beneath the sill made his arm sprout goose flesh as his gaze panned across the street to his neighbor’s house.

Mr. Fletcher was standing in his front yard pointing something at a woman in a bathrobe who was slowly walking up the slight incline toward him from the sidewalk. A man, shoe less and shirtless, lay face down in the grass at his feet.

Tanner heard the pop sound again and the woman in the bathrobe jerked to the right before gathering herself and lurching forward. Mr. Fletcher pointed the thing at her again but this time nothing happened. He screamed and threw it at the woman before turning to flee towards the house. The woman in the robe stumbled after him, undeterred.

More people wandered around in the street as Tanner backed off the sofa and headed back to the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what was going on. Adults did strange things sometimes. Mommy said some people never grew up or took responsibility for what they did. They just played around with their lives and the lives of others. Maybe that was what Mr. Fletcher was doing, playing some sort of game with those people.

Tanner decided when he grew up that was the kind of person he would be. The kind of person

who got to play games. Mom talked a lot about responsibility. He didn’t like responsibility. It only seemed to make people unhappy.

As he walked into the kitchen, he glanced at the television again. The man in the suit and tie was still talking and behind him was a grainy picture of a street with several burning houses and a crowd of people stumbling through some smoking canisters on the ground. Other people seemed to be running from the crowd and their mouths were open as if screaming.

Tanner’s brow furrowed. He didn’t like this show. When he finished making his sandwich he would definitely watch something else.

Back in the kitchen, Tanner carefully spread the peanut butter and jelly over the two slices of bread with a butter knife. He wasn’t allowed to use the sharp knives. Even if his mother wasn’t home, she would hit the roof if she found a dirty one in the dishwasher.

He pulled a paper towel from the spindle and then hopped off the chair with the sandwich wrapped inside before heading back to the living room. Just as he reached for the remote to change the channel, something hit the front door hard. Tanner heard a wobbling sound from the foyer and dropped the remote to see what was going on. His mother kept a vase with flowers on a small table and if the door was closed too hard it would shake and fall off. As he reached the hall, his face reddened with the memory that this was not the first such vase to occupy that table.

The door shuddered in its frame and the vase danced across the table top. A groaning sound, like someone yawning when they first woke up, came from outside and then the door shuddered again.

Tanner stepped back. He wasn’t supposed to answer the door when mommy wasn’t home. He didn’t know what was the matter. The mailman usually just left packages at the door. Mommy and Miss Larkin had keys.

The door banged in the frame and a wailing sound rose up from outside. The vase tipped over and fell to the floor, shattering. Then there was silence except for the distant cry of sirens.

Tanner heard a snuffing sound, like that of the neighbor’s dog when it was poking around the bottom of the backyard fence. Tanner backed up until his heels touched the bottom of the stairs. The sandwich was forgotten in his hand and his hunger was replaced with fear. He wished his dad was here. He wished his mom had not gone to work. They said they would come back but. . .

Something struck the door again and this time there was a rending sound as the frame began to split. Tanner turned and ran up the stairs as a moaning howl followed after him. He staggered up the final stair, squeezing the jelly from his sandwich like blood congealing from a wound.

The front door exploded inward and slammed against the wall. Tanner yelped in fear and scurried into his room, closing the door behind him. He fumbled for the lock before remembering his father had removed it. Mommy had always worried that he would accidentally lock himself in and hurt himself. Now none of the inside doors had locks.

Tanner swallowed hard and slowly backed across the room. He heard the sound of things breaking and furniture being over turned. Whoever was down there was very angry, he thought.

Once, a few months before he had gone to the airport with his parents, Tanner had awoke to the sound of screaming and something hitting the wall. Then the door had slammed closed hard enough to shake the wall and knock the vase from the table in the hall. Mommy had found him in the closet the next morning and they had cried together for a long time. Then she took him downstairs and they made pancakes with maple syrup. Comfort food was what she had called it.

Tanner heard the snuffing sound again and the first foot falls on the stairs. He turned to the closet and winced as the hinges squawked when he opened it. As the snuffing sound reached his room, he slipped through the crack and closed the closet door behind him.

The bedroom door rattled and he ducked back behind the hanging coats and pants, curling his knees to his chest, against the back wall. Tanner held his breath and took a bite of the mangled sandwich.

The door shook again and a low growl rolled out from the hall. Tanner bit another small piece of the sandwich and choked back a tear. He hoped his mother came home soon. He hoped they could make some pancakes…

The florescent light above him flickered, went black for a moment, and then came to life.

Dr. Eckhardt exhaled, then turned his attention to the file before him. At least the power had not gone out. Again. He flipped through the pages, initialing them as he went, then closed the file and placed it on the stack in his out box.

The swinging doors behind him opened and he swiveled around on his stool.

“Good afternoon,” Dr. Eckhardt, the man in a lab coat and surgical cap said.

“Dr. Bannerman,” Eckhardt replied.

Dr. Bannerman wove through the maze of surgical tables and wheeled gurneys until he stood beside his co-worker. “Breakfast I see,” he said with distaste.

Eckhardt looked to his left and saw the half empty paper cup of coffee and the balled up Nutrition bar wrapper. “likely dinner as well,” he replied.

“Well its not as if we have much time for eating,” Bannerman said turning back to the room and its contents.”

“That’s true,” Eckhardt replied standing and stretching his back again. He was nearly a head taller than his companion. “though they aren’t leaving very fast. I haven’t seen Williams for two days now.”

Bannerman nodded and reached into his pocket pulling out a pair of latex gloves.

“Dr. Peterson has not been in for nearly a week,” Bannerman said with a hint of consternation. “Dr. Johnson did not show yesterday either,”

Eckhardt shook his head and pulled the last pair of gloves from a dented, cardboard box on his desk.. He frowned. Without another word, he joined Bannerman at a gurney near the center of the room. The doctor was already sifting through the stained metal tray of surgical instruments.

“The autoclave’s been down since Tuesday,” Eckhardt said in response to the querying look on Bannerman’s face.

With a purse of his lips, Bannerman dropped one of the surgical knives and pulled up his surgical mask. “Its worse than the dark ages,” he muttered.

Eckhardt drew back the sheet on the gurney revealing a nude male strapped firmly to the sides of the table with wrist and ankle restraints. It did not make a sound but bloodshot eyes tracked both the men’s movements.

Bannerman reached up and pulled on a microphone hanging down several feet from the ceiling.

The thin black cord played out until it was about level with his forehead. He flicked a switch and then began speaking. “Today is April 20th , 1991. Case number is 030166. Subject is a white male. Six feet two inches tall and approximately one hundred and ninety pounds.”

Eckhardt’s mind wandered as Bannerman continued his initial case entries. He scanned the room. One of every two florescent lights was out in the ceiling. The once white tiles on the wall were now stained a tobacco yellow hue and the floor… he didn’t even want to think about the floor. It all reminded him of a rundown auto garage.

For six months they had worked day and night amassing data, reviewing charts and performing necropsies. He could taste decay with every bite of food he ate and his eyes were perpetually red rimmed from lack of sleep and exposure to the various chemicals they worked with.

“Stage four, wouldn’t you say,” Bannerman said bending over the body and flashing a pen light in its eyes.

Eckhardt looked down. The skin was a grayish-white, the eyes sunken and bloodshot. The pupils showed little reaction to the pen light and tracked it very slowly as if the subject where on a sedative. He reached down and touched the forearm closest to him. It was clammy and cold to the touch.. The head moved slowly as the body tried to see what was touching it. He also noted the deep wound in the neck. Various scrapes on the knees, shins, hands and arms were present as well, likely the result of greatly reduced motor coordination.

“Yes,” he said, blinking rapidly to get his eyes to refocus. “Stage four.”

“External examination is completed,” Bannerman said before clicking off the microphone.

“Do you think we’ll find a cure,” Eckhardt said as Bannerman moved around to the head of the gurney.

“I should hope so,” Bannerman replied matter of factly. “otherwise this has all been a colossal waste of time.”

Eckhardt walked to the head of the gurney and knelt down, helping Bannerman untangle one of the worn leather belt straps secured to the underside of the table. It was about the width of a person’s forehead. They stood up and Bannerman grabbed both lengths of leather, threading one through the other and pulling it tight before securing it in place. This illicited a grunt from the body on the table..

“Its been nearly a year since the first outbreaks,” Eckhardt continued.

Bannerman looked at the body, watched it try to move its head and fail. Satisfied, he walked back around to his position at the side of the gurney. “We’ll need the drill and a 3/4 inch bit,” he said.

Eckhardt nodded and walked back to a long stainless steel table bolted to the tile wall. On it were a number of tools too large to be placed on the small trays. He selected a drill and thumbed through a box next to it for the correct size bit.

“Science moves at its own slow, measured pace,” Bannerman said as he returned to the table.

Taking the drill and bit from Eckhardt, he began assembling them. “There are still vast areas of Central America and places in Africa and Asia we have not fully explored or catalogued. And the oceans? We know more about the moon than what lives at the bottom of the Atlantic. It should be no surprise that we failed to see this coming.”

Eckhardt nodded as Bannerman twisted a knob on the bottom of the drill and it whirred to life briefly before he shut it off again. He just hoped that once the “slow, measured pace” of science found a cure there were still some people left to benefit from it. Necrosis agitatus ran a very predictable course. It was always fatal. Worse, the afflicted always seemed to take a few others with them.

“A 3/4 inch hole will now be entered into the cranium and a tissue sample from the brain extracted for further study,” Bannerman said into the microphone. “Are we ready Dr. Eckhardt?”

Eckhardt nodded and moved to the side as Bannerman walked to the head of the body removing a pair of electric clippers from the table as he did so. He pressed the clippers to the body’s scalp and flicked them on. The blades cleared a patch of skin on the top of it’s head. He handed the clippers to Eckhardt who absently placed them in his pocket. Without hesitation, Bannerman turned the drill on and placed it firmly against the now bare patch of scalp..

Anesthetics were no longer used in these procedures. They, like other medicines, food and water were heavily rationed. Victims of Necrosis agitatus were considered dead. No discernible pulse and no, measurable, higher brain function.

The body twisted slightly in its bonds. The ruined lips were pulled back over chipped and broken teeth in a silent cry. Fortunately, this one’s tongue was gone, Eckhardt thought as Bannerman eased the drill bit back out.

It was worse when they screamed.

Timothy knew he would likely get in trouble. His mother had told him to be careful and not get burned. However, when his parents said he could go play ball at the park with his brother all caution had disappeared. The same way Randy’s home run ball apparently had.

His friends voices were growing distant and he doubted any of the others had come out to look.

They were probably eating jerky sticks and tossing pebbles while calling him a “goober” or a “dork”. At eleven, he was the youngest of the boys by far. Which meant he was the designated “run and fetch” boy and the butt of every lame joke or prank. Timothy didn’t care.

This was the first time in over a year that he and his older bother had been allowed to go outside. The first time any of the boys had been out. Mom had said there was a sickness and they all had to stay inside and away from other people. Dad had not even gone into Pineville to work.

He remembered that some people had been take by National Guard troops and others he had just not seen again. His dad said that some of the roads out of town had been blocked. Some nights he had heard his mother cry after he and his brother had gone to bed. Sometimes the electricity had not worked and the television, when it worked at all, was just boring public service announcements.

In the hot, blinding rays of the sun, however, this was nearly forgotten.

Timothy glanced back and could just make out the chain link fence of the ball field. He had walked a long way. Likely, he was further than even Randy could hit the ball. The grasses thinned out ahead just as he planted his sneaker in a wet, soggy patch of earth.

“Oh F–” he began as he stepped back and shook his shoe. He was at the creek. No way the ball had gone this far. He could smell the moist damp soil and he craned his neck forward to see. The water was just a foot or so in front of him. No more than a half a foot deep and stagnant. Patches of gray- green muck floated here and there. Underneath was a deep layer of warm muddy silt.

Timothy remembered this from playing there a couple of years before. While running after his brother he had stepped into the creek, loosing his shoe to the inoffensive looking mud. He had cried until his brother came back and got his shoe back. Then he had cried all the way home while his brother had made fun of him. His face burned at the recollection.

He was just about to turn and head back when he saw something gently waving back and forth in the mud about twenty or so feet ahead. He thought it was strange since there was no breeze and the water itself was unmoving. Timothy pushed through the reeds and grasses along the creek bank trying to stay on the dry patches.

Closer now, he could see it was covered in the muck of the creek bottom. Timothy could probably touch it if he knelt down and reached out. He turned back towards the ball field. He really should be getting back. If his brother had to come and get him he would get a “dead arm” for sure. He glanced back at the object in the creek, fully intending to turn back. It was then that the object twitched back and forth again, muddying the water with its movements. On impulse, Timothy tossed his mitt to the bed of wet grass and dirt in front of him and knelt down on it. He could smell the damp, decay of the creek bed as he slowly reached out towards the now still object. The mitt was sinking into the wet earth and slowly tipping him forward as his hand touched the top of it. His hand slid off the top and down the side dragging a layer of warm, soft muck with it.

Timothy leaned back on the mitt righting his position before wiping the mess off on the long grasses beside him. His brow furrowed when he looked back at the object. Where his hand had slipped was now a large swath of yellow and along the side where ridges. The object twitched again, but with more force than before.

“It’s a boot,” he said out loud. “a rain boot.”

The boot wiggled a few more times and then went still. By now the water all around it was dirty and cloudy. Maybe a fish or a frog was caught inside, he thought with glee. That would be cool.

Timothy leaned forward again and, reaching out, grasping the boot firmly in his right hand. He ignored the slick slime that gave way as he tried to drag the boot towards him. Something thudded against the inside of the boot vibrating his hand.

“Geez,” he muttered as sweat formed on his forehead. It seemed really stuck. Timothy leaned out a bit further and put his other hand on the boot. As he began to pull, a soft, wet sucking sound came up from the creek bed.. He looked under his arm. A branch had raised up from the muck and was laying on the water’s surface. As Timothy looked at it the muck covered limb wriggled, freeing five root like appendages. The boot in his hands kicked out releasing a burst decaying, rotted gas.

Timothy raised up to pull back, feeling the bile in his stomach rise. He heard the wet slap on his forearm and looked down to see the branch had slipped onto his arm and the roots had grasped him.

He choked back a cry and pulled back. The mitt shifted underneath him and he tipped forward landing face forward in the mud just to the right of the wiggling boot.

Timothy’s heart beat wildly as he tried to get up out of the muck of the creek bed. His left arm pushed down to the elbow before he found something solid. In a panic, he pushed up and felt the solid object shift beneath him. His chest and face cleared the mud and he drew a rasping breath. He gathered his knees as he felt the pressure increase on his right arm. Something moved below in the mire where his left hand was buried. Before he could react, Timothy felt something grasp his left hand.

Tears formed in his eyes and his breath was short and ragged. Not limbs and roots, his mind raced. Arms and fingers!

Timothy was suddenly wrenched forward by both arms. Caught off guard, he opened his mouth to scream but got a mouthful of the creek muck instead. He thrashed in the creek covering his shirt, head and pants in the sticky, organic mire. Shortly, the movement stopped and Timothy slowly sank into the creek bed’s cool embrace. The thin arm moved blindly across the surface of the water before sinking down on top of him.

A snake coiled out from the tall grass and slithered over the worn, light blue baseball glove lying in the damp grass at the edge of the creek. Flies hovered back and forth over the cloudy water while a bird chirped in the distance and the sun beat down down bright and indifferent from a clear blue sky.